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Showing posts from April, 2013

NaPoWriMo post for April 30, 2013

NaPoWriMo April 30, 2013

NaPoWriMo Post for April 29, 2013 - A Conversation with Erato, my Muse (spoiler alert: she can be a bit direct)

NaPoWriMo April 29, 2013

NaPoWriMo post for April 28, 2013

NaPoWriMo April 28, 2013

NaPoWriMo post for April 27, 2013

NaPoWriMo April 27, 2013

NaPoWriMo post for April 26, 2013

NaPoWriMo April 26th

NaPoWriMo post for April 25, 2013

NaPoWriMo for April 25th

NaPoWriMo Post for April 24, 2013

NaPoWriMo for April 24th

NaPoWriMo post for April 23, 2013

NaPoWriMo for April 23rd

NaPoWriMo post for April 22, 2013

NaPoWriMo April 22nd

NaPoWriMo post for April 21, 2013

NaPoWriMo April 21st

NaPoWriMo post for April 20, 2013

NaPoWriMo for April 20th

NaPoWriMo post for April 19, 2013

NaPoWriMo for April 19th

NaPoWriMo post for April 18, 2013

NaPoWriMo April 18th

NaPoWriMo post for April 17, 2013

NaPoWriMo post for April 17th

NaPoWriMo post for April 16, 2013

NaPoWriMo April 16th

NaPoWriMo post for April 15, 2013

NaPoWriMo April 15th

NaPoWriMo post for April 14, 2013

NaPoWriMo April 14th

NaPoWriMo post for April 13, 2013

NaPoWriMo April 13th

NaPoWriMo Post for April 12, 2013

NaPoWriMo for April 12th

Mar Portugues - Fernando Pessoa

Ó mar salgado, quanto do teu sal São lágrimas de Portugal! Por te cruzarmos, quantas mães choraram, Quantos filhos em vão rezaram! Quantas noivas ficaram por casar Para que fosses nosso, ó mar! Valeu a pena? Tudo vale a pena Se a alma não é pequena. Quem quere passar além do Bojador Tem que passar além da dor. Deus ao mar o perigo e o abismo deu, Mas nele é que espelhou o céu. Fernando Pessoa

NaPoWriMo

We are here!  It's April, National Poetry Writer's Month.  Check out additional links here:   my NaPoWriMo blog Sunday, March 31, 2013 On April 1 Eve So it is Sunday morning and I have a pot of coffee, french-pressed because I love the sludge it leaves at the bottom of the cup.  What will tomorrow bring?  What will April bring?  What rough beast... I am thinking Whitman.  But it won't be "the blab of the pave."  No, more like the whispers of the dirt road, the Southern dirt road.  Tobacco Road.  The me inside, not the mask that I wear.  I am thinking long, pre-dawn walks along the Potomac River.  I am thinking the beauty of the women of my people, and the immortality of the soul, and the indomitability of the human spirit.  All our people.  All our souls.  All our spirits. Perhaps we'll link up in this exercise, me and my ModPo colleagues (you know who you are!).  What I write will certainly be influenced by...