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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=484868" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Poetry Workshop</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">got invited to this poetry workshop<br>telling me<br>these critics<br>that they like my work, the way i put my words<br>like glass, <br>shiny colored glasses shaped like<br>ballerinas<br>in my cabinet</div><div style="margin:10px 0">a menagerie of sorts like i am a keeper<br>of transparent dreams</div><div style="margin:10px 0">so there i go, on free board and lodging<br>and oh yes, the place is so poetic<br>and i really like the scenery<br>of shrubs and bushes<br>and heights</div><div style="margin:10px 0">on top of a hill where i can see lines<br>of sea and land<br>separated by my<br>kind of imagination<br>the sunset<br>the sunrise</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the cool winds at night the <br>warmer sea breeze during the day<br>the kind of wind<br>that flaps the window making a sound<br>of a slamming door</div><div style="margin:10px 0">i remember then the house<br>of my youth<br>where papa always slams<br>the door before mama<br>and the quarrel so endless<br>and we were not even<br>considered<br>as </div><div style="margin:10px 0">creatures of the house<br>and they all begin<br>to leave<br>one after the other<br>and i remember<br>they all die<br>anyway but that is not the end<br>of the subject of my poetry</div><div style="margin:10px 0">i see everything<br>in the workshop<br>where we eat and drink and discuss<br>my possibilities<br>my potential<br>as a great poet one day</div><div style="margin:10px 0">but it is all in the mind<br>of this critic<br>it is all in my mind<br>until she begins<br>to dissect my poems<br>like a cadaver<br>nerve after nerve<br>muscle after muscle<br>bone connecting<br>to another cartilage<br>to another bone</div><div style="margin:10px 0">until such time that all i see<br>are dead bodies<br>of my poems<br>surrounded by vultures<br>eating each<br>rotten flesh</div><div style="margin:10px 0">i close my eyes and <br>feel the <br>wrong crowd all around me</div><div style="margin:10px 0">what they do not know<br>is</div><div style="margin:10px 0">i believe in myself, i still believe<br>in my<br>way of putting words to feelings<br>colors to blandness<br>scents where the dead are dead<br>and some<br>little dramatics where they are needed</div><div style="margin:10px 0">just to live<br>and just be alone and still imagining believing<br>the beauty in things<br>in people</div><div style="margin:10px 0">in words that flow like a free wind touching my face again<br>fresh like a flower with few dews still sticking <br>glistening<br>till the wee hours of my mourning</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ric+S.+Bastasa">Ric S. Bastasa</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=484868" data-title="A Poetry Workshop de Ric S. Bastasa" data-description="got invited to this poetry workshop
telling me
these critics
that they like my work, the way i put my words
like glass, 
shiny colored glasses shaped like
ballerinas
in my cabinet

a menagerie of sorts like i am a keeper
of transparent dreams

so ..."></div>
</div>
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