Blue suede clues: Malabar Whistling Thrush

I don't think we write poetry. We merely discover it. Poetry is everywhere; nude, unpredictable and evocative. We run around in circles, with hand mirrors pressed against our chests. We don't create it from scratch. Breathe life into words. Or dig deeper within ourselves, past the festering muck of human drama, to find serenity in language. Poetry sniffs us out. Then it hunts us... Continue Reading →

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