YURI DURAAN

Rookie - 57 Points (29 September 1970 / South Africa)

YURI DURAAN Poems

1. Lost In Translation 12/2/2007
2. Sister 12/2/2007
3. Ribbon 12/2/2007
4. Seperation 1/2/2008
5. The Day Has Come 1/2/2008
6. Light And Darkness 1/3/2008
7. Hide And Seek 1/10/2008
8. Star Cross Event 1/10/2008
9. Tell Me The Story Of Us 1/10/2008
10. To My Ex-Muse 1/18/2008
11. Melancholy 1/18/2008
12. Take Me For A Drive In Your Big Fancy Car 1/18/2008
13. The Love Goddess 1/20/2008
14. The Man Who Has Your Name 1/4/2008
15. Saudade 1/10/2008
16. The Light Giver 1/25/2008
17. Unraveled 1/25/2008
18. Potential Beauty 2/7/2008
19. Red Shoes 3/5/2008
20. Monday Morning 3/5/2008
21. This Dog Has A Name! 3/5/2008
22. Will I Look Like My Mother When I'M Old? 3/11/2008
23. X.Vir My Suster, Danette 3/14/2008
24. X.Vraag En Antwoord 3/14/2008
25. X.Spieëlbeeld 3/14/2008
26. Thieves 3/15/2008
27. Miscarriage 3/15/2008
28. Wearing James Dean 3/16/2008
29. The Garden Of Words 3/18/2008
30. X.Diva 3/21/2008
31. You Cannot Have Your Chips And Eat It! 3/23/2008
32. You Have 43 New Voice Messages 3/23/2008
33. Lipstick Smear 3/23/2008
34. Inexplicable 3/31/2008
35. I Love The Mockingbird 4/11/2008
36. To Tame A Mockingbird 4/12/2008
37. Life In A Bucket 4/13/2008
38. Scratching At My Wounds 4/13/2008
39. I Am Having Fun 4/13/2008
40. The Plea Of Lot's Wife 4/20/2008
Best Poem of YURI DURAAN

Anyone Can Write About Sex

Anyone can write about sex...

It is like writing about the rain -
only being able to aptly describe it
if you have walked naked in a flood
with the rain beating down on you...
following the sensual flow of the water
down the road... down... down
and feeling the velvet drops on your skin
when you open your mouth to take the
water in... to feel the surge of it
taste it
swallow it
wade through it with your body
your senses alerted to every change of
temperature where the imaginary stream
takes you
looking up and seeing nothing but ...

Read the full of Anyone Can Write About Sex

Man Eating

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...

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