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Post by shayepoet on Oct 14, 2008 9:04:02 GMT 2
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Post by katebb on Nov 4, 2008 20:16:24 GMT 2
Amnion, amnion .... this is our time, little lobster. The womb releases a spate and the flesh, sweat and the ducts, tears.
Wet thing, salt thing, used and shaken. Some goddess is having her way with us-- a minor goddess, far from Olympus and bored by all this drudgery.
There are protocols but no recipes in her eternal kitchen.
There will be a baby. It may be a lovely baby, a 12-fingered baby, a long, short, hooked, plump, emaciated baby or a baby with skin red as the womb itself, red as a burning heart, a baby marked by forgotten fire.
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evie
New Member
Posts: 14
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Post by evie on Nov 5, 2008 22:41:13 GMT 2
Kate,
You had me from "little lobster"! I think your poem captures something essential about the painting -- something of that take on motherhood that is a branch of the line descending from Shelley's Frankenstein...
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Post by batsword on Nov 6, 2008 2:18:31 GMT 2
g'day Kate
a rich red poem indeed.
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Post by katebb on Nov 6, 2008 15:53:41 GMT 2
That's one red baby, isn't it. Tandoori baby....
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