MARINA GIPPS

Rookie (Chicago, Illinois)

MARINA GIPPS Poems

1. The Beginning Of Our Picture 11/13/2005
2. Scapegoat 11/13/2005
3. Digging Up A Beehive 3/5/2006
4. December 31st 3/5/2006
5. Terrestrial Effect 3/5/2006
6. Atlantic Ashes, Petty Thievery 3/8/2006
7. Old Town Theatre 3/13/2006
8. Doctor Death 3/13/2006
9. Waiting To Read 3/14/2006
10. Symbiosis 4/4/2006
11. Fragments Of A Bird In The Sky 4/4/2006
12. A Face 9/19/2006
13. Crimson Solitaire 9/24/2006
14. Hell 9/26/2006
15. Eclipse (In Memory Of William Harrold) 9/26/2006
16. The Hackeyed Road Narrows 9/26/2006
17. Waterclock 3/5/2006
18. Circus Of The Impossible 3/5/2006
19. Professor In The Mirror 3/5/2006
20. Departure 3/5/2006
21. Corncob 3/5/2006
22. Oak Park 3/5/2006
23. Little Shrine For The Disbelievers 3/5/2006
24. To A Fallen Oak 3/5/2006
25. Hellhole Winter 3/5/2006
26. Truth 3/5/2006
27. The Abortion 3/5/2006
28. Blood Fever 3/5/2006
29. Semi-Automatic Assault Rifle 3/5/2006
30. First Fall 3/5/2006
31. Revised: Hellhole Winter 3/5/2006
32. Rainfall 3/3/2006
33. Madhouse Enormity 3/3/2006
34. A Prophesy 3/3/2006
35. Unrequited Water Blooms 3/3/2006
36. Drowse Note 3/3/2006
37. As If 3/3/2006
38. Down Hidden Drive 3/3/2006
39. At The Altar 3/3/2006
40. Hitchhiking To Peru 3/5/2006
Best Poem of MARINA GIPPS

A Day At The Pink Beach

An umbrella being dragged at the day's end.

A seagull churns its wings,
avoiding sunlight,
the hard flight of Icarus.

Pink swimsuits blown in the wind,
in search of due course.

Time is needy, a bronzed babe walks by, a regular
statue of Liberty, her flesh turning to
green palor as the water cools.

In this empty beach dream of deepening sky,
the wet Kremlin and White House

are eroded as our childless hopes.

An old woman collects
seashells-caverns of poverty
to be sold to our deaf ears.
The ocean roars of stolen property.

Read the full of A Day At The Pink Beach

December 31st

Black glove at my neck- the end of the year.
Those lovers were soldiers, bed spies,
bombs of leg losing, the mind dropping in one blow.

Masters of bullets, sacred sabotage, reasons why
I listened to the radio blaring the sweet song
of someone else's bad news.

Voices of valleys in the distance,

[Hata Bildir]