How many times must the NKVD knock
on the door? Snap to attention, boot heels
clicking, the brass knuckles of their belts glint
on the polished oak floor? The china quivers,
...
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what can I possibly say to revere the quality of poems about the great Russian poets under Stalin that breathe like a resurrection of those terrible events almost in the very syllables of their stricken hearts. Nothing to add to them. Just a prayer that the person writing poems like these can live to be 200 and write eveyrthing in her heart and never stop and publish everything unto immortality.
Mary Angela Douglas
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what can I possibly say to revere the quality of poems about the great Russian poets under Stalin that breathe like a resurrection of those terrible events almost in the very syllables of their stricken hearts. Nothing to add to them. Just a prayer that the person writing poems like these can live to be 200 and write eveyrthing in her heart and never stop and publish everything unto immortality. Mary Angela Douglas