Man With the Oxen (And Other Poetic Prose Poems)
1) Man with the Oxen Dim brown was the bulls heading down the earthy colored street in Port du Prince, Haiti, by the halfway house (in July of 1986); and browner the stows away on the bulls as it extended in reverse, yet the long thick horns, pale white! Driven and worked, drained and worn were the bulls, mixing into the natural earthy colors! They mixed into the earth, seeping into the dim brown-dark Ox-man's tissue with pale rose cooled lips, soaked in sweat from the flares of the sun-his shoulders overcooked: burned! He strolled close by, adjacent to them, behind them, in the middle of them, any place he should have been in the beaded sand, with his long brown slanted and retribution tree limb he utilized as a whip ((he truly looked, incredible soul! His forehead consumed, skewed back, jaw solidified; with pinnacles of corn poles in the blazing far distance, in a hidden apparition) (and however I stood watching in single quietness, he not even once seen my honorably scratching and my incensed yellow sparkle all over watching this scene of humankind, hung in the mid-evening heat, as it was every one of the somewhat hotter between eleven o'clock, and three): dim brown were his eyes, eyes Vietnam trending  with the light smothered; dim brown, with dark sprinkles was his hair The wild tall pole looking corn in the adjoining farmland, was green, for certain frump browns yet neither dark nor olive His oxcart-brown woodened outlined, was loaded up with tans and greens overshadowing his head a pale earthy colored straw-cap, as he strolled in the middle of Old elastic tires, worn pivot, dull blacks, mixing into every one of the browns Bowls of earthy colored air-wound residue and earth, they came (the entire earth becoming brown for them) The shinning look of the bull man's shirt was neither brown nor green, yet pale blue green as the ocean Over the stone earthy colored street they came, and surprisingly the ocean behind them-had, had he looked in reverse transformed into a color of brown (residue and soil, sediment and soil all mixing into the air); it appeared at the time-his life, - would consistently unlatch for me, patches of tans and blacks and pale greens... what breaks among him and the bull? Save he is made in God's picture He is no Plato nor Socrates, nor could he be-He is no rose from the rosebush not one or the other: nor could he be He is regardless, time's misfortune, sold out by the world, by his own time, his own sort... furthermore I thought at that point: that they are so near life, how hard the life is, for the bulls and for the man without fail later day: sun striking downward on their heads, their shoulders and hands, contacting the body, the foundation of the spirit, for the man the gravely arranged, and a close to similarity to the expansive back of the bulls And how the evening birds stowed away from the unrefined daylight yet not him, them, not the man nor the bulls, and accordingly, pity that is real falls over my face, in light of the fact that so forlorn they appear, desolate in the spirit, in my time-This thing in itself, made explicitly for me by my spirit, I would never follow those strides, all who have never known proved unable, all who have neglected proved unable, just the individuals who have adored everything for themselves In such cases the spirit follows aimlessly, always, evermore, in search, dreaming, as the body is left dreaming, of the other world, that likewise isn't his, and unquestionably not the bulls' thus I thought at that point: 'Where have they concealed each of nature's splendid shadings in this land, other than tans and blacks, and watery greens, and greens from the ocean? What's more even at dusk, almost a sparkle, more compare to a rusted-red-iron, with colors of yellowish brown, dull orange: almost as the day was long, brown and dark, with patches of green, no more (or maybe, perchance, conceivable, I just didn't see those glimmering splendid shadings, nature's gift to humankind I was looking excessively close at the man and his bulls) this land then, at that point, was to me, an island, preferably alone, with a wellspring of earthy colors, ageless happiness, ceaseless grins among individuals, tropical pale like nurseries, with tremendous permanent streams and hills of damp fertilizer, brown gigantic burrowed stacks, flies clearing around sugarcane, cuts of food eaten to a great extent by brown and dark unusual countenances, apparently scarcely conscious, in the unrefined evening moonlight, streetlights practically out, a peculiar assortment of individuals! The entire day, driving into the dismal evening, as dark wizardry, quieted, inside those sounding voodoo drums, reverberating close by those Christian ringers, consistently there is space for hasty life what's more I felt at that point, and time again, I actually feel as of now, let everybody let me be to compose this sonnet, a sonnet I would never have composed however presently, before to-morrow's dawn, for my brain won't ever flood, nor downpour like this again-as it has now accomplished for this land and for the Man with the Haitian bulls; consequently, it has been an unfilled rooftop above, yet not today, not today, today an amazing light of unpleasant life I, gracious yes I should recall the harmony and the fragile serenities, the browns that fell like snow upon the ground that inundated this island and me: this, assuming there is any chance of this happening this world stowed away from humankind, in isolation. #3886 (4-27-2013) 2) The Dog's Longing ((Lovely Prose) (a sonnet out of Lima)) I don't have the foggiest idea why the immense dim mutt dozes in the road by our home, as though watching us, and our two neighbors, sitting tight for a trespasser, interloper or one more mutt to intrude (just God knows without a doubt). However, there he is in any case with his weighty tail swaying forward and backward, his huge head hanging low, what's his cerebrum thinking, his mind not reasoning? That in some odd manner he is securing the picture of God? Or then again perchance, he simply loves the chicken and turkey bones my significant other accommodates him. The eyes of the mutt shines when my better half feeds him; to him she resembles an attractive minister, I assume. I composed this sonnet with the Holy Spirit cheerful in me-I surmise that implies I'm having a glorious morning. #3844 (4-14-2013) Note: Poetic Prose and the sonnet: first, fundamentally the graceful exposition sonnet is a brief tale, I accept. Second, a picture fixated on an article: communicated in layers, for this situation, a canine. Third, the brain doesn't leave the subject, as you can see by perusing "The Dog's Longing" and forward, the tone is set in the primary sentence: "... the tremendous dim mutt... ". One should bear in mind, it isn't the refrain, however the sentence we take a gander at. The creator additionally involves metonymy in this sonnet, mutt, for canine, for example. 3) The Old Poet ((Robert Bly-a Minnesota Poem) (Poetic Prose)) Passing tosses a shadow on the old Poet, Robert Bly-who experienced his fantasy of verse, unevenly, per close to a century. He's a stone turning sand, similar to every elderly person: presently with empty legs, and arms like bacon. At the point when he is gone, the trees and the leaves and the grass and the breeze that stirs through his old farmlands, will discuss his verse: and every last bit of him that will be left will be those old caution out ways, he once strolled. That will be his heritage like a chimney stack with no smoke.

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