tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760986403290352152.post5871236706684119153..comments2024-01-23T03:58:02.422-08:00Comments on oriana-poetry: CONNECTIONSUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760986403290352152.post-45266806752312372192010-07-09T18:04:12.702-07:002010-07-09T18:04:12.702-07:00Thank you.
I love the images in your poem. A woo...Thank you. <br /><br />I love the images in your poem. A wooden comb! I don't think I ever saw one . . . A wonderful detail. And "we were as poor as mud" -- and the surprise of "to forget our dead." Or perhaps to remember them only as happy, in their happy moments. Not to drink so much tragedy, the worst kind of alcohol.orianahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04209366167129773052noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7760986403290352152.post-23429330241378986182010-07-09T16:27:44.696-07:002010-07-09T16:27:44.696-07:00The next to the last stanza is perfect, brings bac...The next to the last stanza is perfect, brings back my childhood and the lives of those I lived among, the refugees and DPs in Chicago. <br /><br />Here's a piece of a poem I wrote about that time:<br /><br />When I ask my mother now<br />what we had when we came,<br />she shrugs and starts the list:<br />some plates, a wooden comb,<br />some barley bread, a crucifix. <br /><br />We were as poor as mud,<br />she says,and prayed for little:<br />to find a sister she lost, <br />to work,to forget our dead,<br />to live without anger or fear.John Guzlowskihttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com