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Likestarlings is a place for talking in poems. We pair poets with poets and they write a sequence of six new works by responding in turn to one another. Our palaver blog goes beyond poetry to discuss collaboration in theory and in practice. Please take a look, and feel free to add comments, opinions and suggestions here. Read poems here
 

 


No such August afternoon, and no
clothes stood up in.      Is your memory of the river
also like mine. The river in August dropping
below the stones of its bed. The truth is
I don't know if it can still be called a river,
underground. Truth is, the places
built and rivers remembered are never
impregnable: children, the truth is, are never ruptured
beneath the clothes never stood up in.

Is it worth documenting this loss.
For no one to remember anything, and I'm ashamed to say
I can't stop being happy. The plains
contracting with the ruptured mountain.
Volcano, says the boy, of the smashed
dragon. The boy of whom the earth--
do we have to love what we have done?--
has no such memory.