Poetry Dispatch No. 21 | November 4, 2005
Poets are born old;
with the passing of the years
we make ourselves into children.
by Humberto Ak’abal (Guatamalan Poet, trans by Miguel Rivera)
« margaret atwood | elegy for the giant tortoises don olsen | a day like all days »
This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.
Marilyn Monroe… on james joyce | molly bloom… | |
toby rafelson on jorge luis borges | the destin… | |
Episode 89 – T… on jorge luis borges | the j… | |
POCKETS: AN INTIMATE… on james joyce | molly bloom… | |
Paula Kosin on Life is for the Living…… | |
Andrew Hidas on Life is for the Living…… | |
Dove si parla di cri… on john harvey | chet baker | |
Janie on susan o’leary | in and… | |
priscampbell on henry denander | 6 poems on wr… | |
Alison Bechdel’s Fun… on james joyce | molly bloom… | |
Alice DAlessio on NORBERT BLEI | |
jackiella on NORBERT BLEI | |
David Langwallner: T… on james joyce | molly bloom… | |
Paula K on Blei Scholarship Named | |
Jude Genereaux on Blei Scholarship Named |
Leave a comment