Always Die Before Your Mother: Poems by Patrick Woodcock

By Patrick Woodcock

Deftly relocating from the stifling warmth and politics of the Arabian Peninsula to the darkest corners of South America's rainforest, this number of poetry supplies a searing observation on humanity's many failings. Politics, faith, societal constraints, and familial relationships are all fodder for those pointedly written poems.

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But tonight the burzhuika was low. The luxury called for more fuel. How many years had it taken him to arrest the courage needed to write down his rage? And now the words again would save him. He asked his children to enter the room. After each poem was finished one of his daughters would throw it into the fire. Your mother used to say, As long as we have his books we do not need hot water or heat. As long as we have the books we can live without fear. For there is always a thaw approaching. After his children had fallen asleep, he opened a bottle of vodka and spit into the stove.

All that skin and lustre enjoying the fall of mortality’s uneven feedbag. Sadness and temerity. ” Sadness mumbled under a flower-wilting breath. But in Bogota, I stumbled upon an old woman selling cigarettes, each wrapped in cellophane, with a box of wooden matches. ” She wore a diving mask. ” The man thought, Sidewalks can’t talk, and went to sleep. The sidewalk didn’t want to be greater than it was, so it swallowed him. And then the man became the sidewalk. * A child was taken from her parents then became a parent.

60 THE TUMOUR I first saw the tumour resting on Fifth Avenue. Its host, a pleading vessel for two decades of stubbornness, godlessness and cowardice, admittedly relished the attention it drew to the nervous rattle rattle of his tin can. (Wasn’t a second head proof of an ancestry growing still? ) Skin from without touched the sidewalk everywhere — every hair darkened. He could walk — walk upon the two filaments dangling from his torso — but there was no air, only shadows resting upon a thorax, concave and ribless.

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