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Tess Kincaid apparently had a dream that Yul Brynner might possibly have been her father. So she wrote a poem about it.

I dreamed
he was my father;

that I came
from hard water
tucked in his timeline
between New York
and Hollywood,

a summer
of root crops
and soy beans,
wild oats sown
in a Hoosier farm girl.

I craved a king,
some kind of Ramses
from heaven,
to strut clean,
make good the role.

Maybe I understood
the Mongol,
the far-off Tartar,
as not so magnificent
a number as seven.

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Black Dogs Defined

This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved and hated, like another: my life was as the vapour and is not; but this I saw and knew; this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.

(John Ruskin, Sesame and Lilies)

Whatever people say I am, that’s what I’m not.

(Alan Sillitoe, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning)

This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me.

(Emily Dickinson, This is my letter to the world)

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

(Edna St. Vincent Millay, Second Fig)

R.A.D. Stainforth

I was born before The Beatles’ first LP and brought up in the reeking slums of Jericho. I am in love with a woman called Hazel and in love with her daughter, also called Hazel, both of whom I met at Alcoholics Anonymous.

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