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Chuck
Levenstein
Arguments
for Sending
a Poet to Camp
I.
Is
poetry an over-heated room,
New
York apartment always steaming,
Bikram
yoga, drinking water forbidden
lest
you lower body heat -
It's
August for God's sake!
Why
can't poems be Nantucket breeze
before
the sun comes up?
Why
can't poems be ice,
save
the butter,
chill
the gin,
save
mind from dissolving
in a
Galician trance?
II.
The
pleasure of an August morning lies
not
in bells nor B-flat mass; the light
is
humid green, sky hints of hurricane.
Sun
flowers and dahlias, red-rose bushes,
wild
purple lustrife: in the lush New England
jungle,
no humility, only display.
Nature
does what it can, lets Adam
worry
about the supernatural.
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