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This is one poem only. I'm Maggie Devers. On Sundays we gather the weeks poems and
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listen once more. This April is National Poetry Month and one poem only is doing
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something special. It's called Right After. Listen to the daily poem then write
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your own in response. Share it using hashtag right after OPO. I'll be featuring
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selected poems on the podcast in June. I can't wait to write with you. In warmth how
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many parts of tea have we forgotten to drink? Have we left sitting calmly on
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the counter going from hot to warm, warm to cool, noiselessly with no
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protest? As if our neglect was nothing to the brew, our forgetfulness marked by
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indifference. But more is wasted than the tea, the chance to pause to commune, to
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let the warm sweetness envelop us slowly, like IV covering a building, sometimes
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taking years to grow. But slowly, slowly spreading to touch every cell to
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remind us to protect our warmth. So we remember to shout when we are left alone
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to grow cold, by Maggie Devers. Plotocracy and kitchens drops will drip each
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brown in hue. A mother will keep her son from the truth. The Senate will swear
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there's nothing to do. Though they tout their care for the nation's youth, a man
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will cast his vote at 10 to noon. His ballot broken down in only two. He lives
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inside a fading honeymoon with good intentions, having not a clue. Disease
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inside him ticks just like a bomb. One year from now the hospital will close. He'll
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find a plot to rest beside his mom. If only Congress told him how it goes. The
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women's bodies know not rights of men. Thank God the rich can clutch their wealth
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again. Bailesha Swain. Tony and or Tony. The Y is a hook, a barb in the
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ground, a heavy-setched anchor, a masculine sound. It carries the dust of the
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fathers and sons, my father and his son. The weight of the Tony who follows,
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who runs. A name like a suit that is tailored to tight. Designed for the son yet
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afraid of the light, to them it's a letter, to me it's a wall, a clinking
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vibration that makes me feel small. But look at the ease, how they mirror, how
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they gleam, a twin of silver, a space in between. Tony is a lift, a soft
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rising key. The E is the breath of the person. It isn't a label, it isn't a
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chore. It's the clicking of locks on the opening door. How do I tell them the
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why is a ghost? A version of me that I've long demoted. How do I tell them the
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E is the spark? The fun and the fire who glow in the dark? It's not just a
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spelling, a quirk or a claim. It's the pulse in my throat. It's my name. It's my
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name. By one men tree, Tony. Snail. In your spiral shell you hold the answer,
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slowness is radical. From the ash pile of my burnout I see you everywhere, clinging
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to walls, meandering through moss, criss-crossing my path, reaching unbelievable
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heights and speeds that will win no medals. Just savoury in the silvery slowness of
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your trail. In your spiral shell you hold the answer, softness is strength,
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inching forward on vulnerable ripples, retreating when the world is harsh,
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rebuilding your shell with self-made cold. In your spiral shell you hold the answer,
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I too can change. My soft body thriving in gentleness, kintsugi shell gleaming in the light of
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spring, as I carve my curling silver, life trail, slowly, steadily, softly, at my own snails,
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pace. By Lizzie Elliott Klein, intuition, pattern recognition as a cognitive discipline,
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congenitally decided for most, congested with emotion. Not a boast, but I'm a fucking psychic,
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functioning on fumes and faint traces of a beauty who previously inhabited this body,
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this brain, I'm mainline cues, it's smooth, yet dangerous, and almost cancerous paranoia.
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Sometimes wildly, the past is a tool used primarily, utilize your history.
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Intuition powerfully promotes fruition passionately, if tempted. Trust in the process prompted by your
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progress. Byrism. Reduced. Easy winter option, ideal for layering over your favorite outfits,
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regular fit, timeless crew neckline. The glory of a full price item chosen in the hot bloom of
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the season, my size, my length, I take time to choose, plan ahead, create, build a look,
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an image, or someone else's. The one I want to lay on me, the one that speaks loud what I want
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it to say. A gift card redeems me and I walk like a cat away. Long sleeves feature subtle
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fluting at the cuffs for a stylish finish, a staple for your occasion wardrobe.
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Not every occasion has a desirable, describable outfit. January watches and waits to launch and
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throw its missile attacks on a cratered high street, and I remember the decorum of the time before.
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Arms reach and grab the crunch of hangars underfoot. The cruel mixture of trousers and skirts,
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fighting colors, jumble sale, disordered sizes, line labels,
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sale stickers skewer in helpless synthetics. I feel the loss, rubbing between finger and
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thumb the fading image of careless success. I mourn the season of choice and purchase,
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the easy accumulation, the beautiful utility of seamless day to night.
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Poutine has become brick-a-brack. I battle, eye sharp for rivals at the end of the line.
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Cropged length with belt to cinch you in, sharp, refined silhouette, a contemporary tailored cut.
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By Roslyn Davies. A batat on a tyrant. Perfection of a kind was what he was after.
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And the poetry he invented was easy to understand. He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
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and was greatly interested in armies and fleets. When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter.
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And when he cried, the little children died in the streets.
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By W.H. Auden. Thank you for listening poetry lover.
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If you'd like a poem each day in your inbox, subscribe on sub-stack and patreon to get a copy of
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my book plus episodes from my audiobook.