Biography of YURI DURAAN
'On the distant fields, on the bird's wide wing, on the whirlwind dark... I write your name' -Eluard' poet of the French Resistance. - - it was these few lines that captured me as a young girl... it put me in a different state of mind. I have always loved words and made up phrases in my head... what you read here is the outflow.
YURI DURAAN Poems
Anyone Can Write About Sex
Anyone can write about sex... It is like writing about the rain - only being able to aptly describe it
I woke up one night because I heard you call... I answered the night but the night was still
.today Is Not A Day For Poetry
Today is not a day for poetry... it is a day for sketching - I shall take a blank page and
Blood Orange Moon
The moon hangs low tonight over the city the colour of a blood orange a portent of hate, the same colour as the flames
I find it easy to pray for other people - to wish them happiness safety
She waits on the steps of his building, sitting daintily, so not to crease her dress checking and rechecking her appearance in a silver-plated compact mirror
I sit in the bath letting the water run out not moving my body glistening from the
.earth To Me...
I am unreachable floating amongst the stars removed from all things mundane - no soil on my hands
And So I Say Goodnight!
The stage is empty now, having been swept for the repeat performance... the used styrofoam cups
.flowers From My Hands
When is a flower more beautiful? Is it when it has grown from a seed,
If I were a tiny sprout of grass in the Garden of Eden, would God have noticed me and mentioned to the Angels how He admired my smooth stem and the emerald green of my blade?
It is not in the goodbye where my pain lies... the hurt of the anticipated parting lives in the sweet agony of
In the early hours I whisper my secrets to you my lips against your temples
A Feather In The Grass
I found it A lone feather on the lawn... the evidence that a greay dove was here, earlier
I am watching a man eating
at a restaurant.
He eats daintily,
carefully selecting his portions,
like an artist choosing his colours
before using it on canvas.
He does not see me watching him,
or knows that his eating inspires poetry...