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Fanny Howe


  • Culture November 12, 2008

  • Poetry January 17, 2002

    Three Poems

    *

    Zero built a nest
    In my navel. Incurable
    Longing. Blood too--

    From violent actions
    It's a nest belonging to one
    But zero uses it
    And its pleasure is its own.

              (from The Quietist)

    *

    The limits have wintered me
    as if white trees were there to be written on.

    It must be purgatory
    there are so many letters and things.

    Faith, hope and charity rise in the night
    like the stations of an accountant.

    And I remember my office, sufficiency.

              (from O'Clock)

    *

    The stains of blackberries near Marx's grave
    do to color what eyes do to everything.
    Help me survive my own presence, open to the elements.

    Fog mist palloring greens, no demarcations,
    but communitarian gravestones.

    Celts lost to Anglo Saxons who endlessly defended marks.
    Guerrilla war, terror:
    the tactics for landless neo-realists.

              (from O'Clock)

    Fanny Howe