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Deborah Cox Poems
A thin blue line like thunder promising a storm works its slow way under white litmus as the torn
A lecture on form while having a miscarr...
Formlessness is emptiness for words are made of matter: the unmeshed net of an un-made bed
The boatman (in Hiroshige's ‘Evening sho...
Fissures black the deluge pitched from a hooded sky and rush, through water amplified, the washi's weighted lie
Birth certificate: John
The waters break as the words 'writ in water' trace my tongue
19 and pregnant, Durham
The castle walls are falling. One day each brick shall fall - from marbled pink of chapel arch to wood-beamed balcony.
Salt has turned to sand and shelled out silences nerve the synapses to falsify a strand
Colouring glass, green light's unmoving that the green light might pass.
The folds in his neck are sorer, hotter, wetter, and smellier
Michaelangelo's David replies
Nobody traced a sonnet with any other view than the intense one I cast on him I pitied and then slew - that loving mix of mercy with a hint of disgust which is the mark of someone who's marbled out of dust.
Comments about Deborah Cox
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A thin blue line like thunder
promising a storm
works its slow way under
white litmus as the torn
un-feeling buds unfold:
a softer yawn is pinking;
spring-rain falls soft on the wold
as the black of her ink is un-inking.