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Passions in Poetry

Digital Passions
Poetry Magazine

Digital Passions #6
published November 15, 2000


Editor's Column by Karilea Jungel (Sunshine)
Writer's Resources by Nicole Boyd
Thanksgiving Poetry  Lone Wolf
Interview with Poertree by Christopher Ward
After the Murder of my Wife by Poertree
The Final Word by Poet deVine

* Bonus Features

Beatnik Era by JP Burns
My Creative Writing Class by Deborah Carter
Poetry Readings by Sven

* Bonus Poetry & Prose

Friendship Poetry selected by Elizabeth
Love Poetry selected by Irish Rose
Sad Poetry selected by Karen A.A. Hood
Teen Poetry selected by Krista Knutson
Spiritual Poetry selected by Marge Tindal
Short Fiction selected by Dopey Dope

Read It All (one big page)

Interview with Poertree The Final Word

Philip explains: This is not only a good deal gloomier than most of my efforts so far, but it is written in an entirely different way. Normally, I have a pretty good idea of what I want to say and how I want to say it before I start writing. I then move to a framework or rough draft and then gradually work toward the final version. This poem, in contrast, just "happened" in the sense that the lines just kind of appeared in the order in which you now see them, and the message or "meaning" really didn't feature until after it was written. I had to make a few adjustments to clarify certain parts, but really very few. I'd been reading a tremendous amount of Dylan Thomas just before writing this, so I blame it on him.

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After The Murder Of My Wife
by Philip (Poertree)

And yet, I couldn't really loathe the power that lay beneath
the ravaged torn and shattered mask of my grief,
And time's curdled place beside our throne
fires my turgid breath and blasts my bone.

Violence upon violence heaped, a silvered grain of pain
dibbed deep into translucent flesh and barbed remains
to take the threaded hope of my gassed joy,
coagulate my pasts love-burst destroy.

Ruined rain slides hot upon my chest, whiskering a vapid roll,
So future's dice and spotted mocks my pall,
To tattoo beat a wave of porous hope
upon my empty ribs and parchment coat.

Life; so coppiced in a prime, so hacked and hewn
and rendered over-ripe and blown,
Bleeds and shoots a multitude of Springs
against the frosty cut of death's keen cling.

Yet, I couldn't really loathe the love which lost; grieves me.
Balm my riddled brain with sweet inanity,
Dam and comfrey up my running loss,
That no seep of history leaden my cross.