living in a redwood forest,
cradling the wild and rocky,
nursing cold creeks
and ancient sequoia
he’s balding and blue-eyed,
steps out in running shoes,
old blue jeans, a white t-shirt
smelling of bleach
he flies high with
wings woven of words,
alchemical words,
philosopher’s stone
© 2013, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Photo credit ~ MorgueFile
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
Write a poem about a poet, writer or artist you know. Capture their essence and, if you feel comfortable, share your work or a link to it in the comments below. All are welcome, emerging or established. Prompt inspired poems will be featured here next Tuesday.
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The poet that was my father
Dedicated to Grisa Gherghei
The poet was my father
He read his poems to our family friends
And all were mesmerized by them
How wise, how deep, how entangled but also bold
In a time of dictatorship
The poet was my hero
Till one day when the feeble man crawl from under his own built effigie
Sad day for me
I became deaf to his words
And started writing my own lines
Lines on my own coin
The poet left
Vaporised in some blond vagina
Only then I have found that was his pattern
Sliding slowly from one black hole to the next vortex
Blond haired and with witchy eyes
The poet and me lost track from one another then
I remained with the one instilled by him in the cells of my soul
Later, decades later
The poet have raised again from his pit
He stands besides his trees
The trees that in one of his poems were craving to see a naked woman for they never been in paradise
Thank you, Jamie!!! Thank you for this opportunity!!!
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My first response Jamie :how lovely your poem is !
# Palping his verses #
Making up his abode in a distant land
Discerning the blue sea
He pierced beside me
Watery moonbeam playing on his visage
Vehicled abruptly his fervid miraculous fingers
Attiring a necklace of words
A mystic film
A palace of jade
I glowered at him except twinkling of my eyes
Surmising his authentic essence
Of a man a spirit or a god
Relating me his volition
to foozle me in his sea beside his mushy windy casuarina arbors
He left
Hurling his words into the blue bay
But nothing finaled
Albeit I recounter ,counsel
and -grope his lustre
Palping eyes of his verses
Savoring his left pages …
Kakali Das Ghosh
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Hi Jamie, Many very good writes here. I do not know any poets, writers or artists in a personal way. I keep thinking about it but not sure if it is doable for me. Social I am not as much as I love art and writing. Love your write as well.
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No worries. There will be something new next week.
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Gobbo!
how you live in my mind!
genius teacher of boys other than myself
(never in your class) so often floating past me
in your ungainly manner
during those severely wounded years
shortly after the period of reciprocal destruction
known peremptorily as World War Two
you had been caught (I have always imagined)
in a random machine gun volley
down some dark & horrible defile
stinking of blood & death
all in the same old idiot cause
returning after great suffering being pieced together
to Kingston Grammar School to amble disjointedly
along its corridors nick-named perhaps brutally
by previous generations of unkind boys to indicate
that they could hardly understand
a single word of yours whether spoken in fluent
Latin Greek Russian French or German
your command of which survived the wounds
of neck & face as well as arms & legs
and who knows what else now grave secrets
but once I heard you solo speaking loud & clear
in Dvorak’s Cello Concerto playing now
on the gramophone – and it’s not Rostropovich
but Gobbo as it might have been weeping for joy
at his survival in spite of all the suffering
this darkening evening in late autumn
*
Jamie – I wrote this just yesterday so it’s on top of my mind. ‘Gobbo’ haunted me from 1948 to 1954 although I never spoke to him nor did he teach me. He was clearly an artist and a role model! I have a photo of him but don’t know if it’s possible to add it here.
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This is a lovely homage, Colin. Well done as always.
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Sorry to be getting after this so late. Yes! I can include the photo. The most might go up before you can get it to me, but I can still add it in. Would you sent it to me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com
Thanks, Colin.
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Gobbo photo just sent!
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Hi Jamie,
Second response:
J. Berger
It must have been a repeat
Must have been.
As “Ways Of Seeing” was on
when I was nine.
I made a choice
to look and listen.
To reciprocate.
I’d never thought looking
had a history.
A artist makes
a list of choices.
What you looked at
had a history.
An artist makes
a testimony.
How you saw
had a history.
A witness out of true
with my world now.
Learnt to look
from different perspectives.
Find the story
in the out of true.
From
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🙂
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Hi Jamie,
First response
“Bartholomew Street” after “Tempest Avenue” by Ian McMillan
Harold half way down collects wood
for his fire, leave it out front.
Leave out anything metal Gypsies at top have sharp eyes,
Stan, two doors down
wants his radiator gone.
Dave next door holds ladder
while I look at roof tiles
and shares homemade ale after.
Our roofers knew man who murdered
a man
at bottom.
I thought someone murdered
at top but our lass swears
he was only badly beaten
Old gent Tommy three doors down
quiet when his wife died last Summer
Put thumbs up when I cleared
his path of Snow last Winter.
Pear tree in back garden bagged
up by them all when ripe
as too much for our lass and me.
http://www.uktouring.org.uk/ian-mcmillan/
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Second response regarding a poet in cornwall.
.norway square.
you said nothing is ever perfect, and
i remember this and why.
reciting, shouting, jumping on walls
laughing.
you sent a book, along
with the money due.
st.ives.
sbm.
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Thanks Jamie- first response.
.the bull box.
i read Glyn Hughes, some times.
sometimes, i look at the photograph,
and wonder how it was that last year;
think of
how you wrote to me, sent
me your book
with a private inscription.
sbm.
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