Weekly Contest

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Classic poem of the day

Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?

What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog
What images return
O my daughter.

Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Those who sit in the stye of contentment, meaning
Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning

Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place

What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger —
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye
Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.


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member poem of the day

A new born baby is a tender flower;
She is like a lamb without any power.
One day perchance I should tell you now;
What I did if only you would allow.
Alas, I tried to groom little Gracy’s nails;
Her fingers were tender, her nails frail;
But I was as sure as a farmer with a yoke;
And cut across the top with a single stroke.
She opened her mouth and shrieked in pain;
And blood started flowing as sheets of rain.
An arrow goes forward when the string is released;
Every minute she suffered, my sufferings too increased.
She was crying hard as she was in much pain;
I cannot express but only lament in my refrain.
Soon the cut was healed and now she is fine;
Please forgive me God as the fault was only mine.