“Poets are shameless with their experiences: they exploit them.” Friedrich Nietzsche
January Is On the Wane
after Sor Juan Inés de la Cruz
January is on the wane leaving behind early dark
and champagne hopes for the genus Rosa.
Garden roses want pruning now, solicitous cultivation.
Layer shorter under taller, drape on trellises
and over pergolas, the promise of color and scent,
climbers retelling their stories in a ballet up stone walls,
an heirloom lace of tea roses, a voluptuous panorama
rhymed with shrubs and rock roses in poetic repetition.
Feminine pulchritude: their majesties in royal reds
or sometimes subdued in pink or purple gentility,
a cadmium-yellow civil sensibility, their haute couture.
Is it the thorny rose we love or the way it mirrors us
in our own beauty and barbarism, our flow into decrepitude?
They remind of our mortality with blooms, ebbs, and bows
to destiny. A noble life, by fate transformed in season.
Divinely fulsome, that genus Rosa, sun-lighted, reflexed. And January? January is ever on the wane.
A Una Rosa
Rosa divina que en gentil cultura
eres, con tu fragrante sutileza,
magisterio purpureo en la belleza,
enseñanza nevada a la hermosura.
Amago de la humana arquitectura,
ejemplo de la vana gentileza,
en cuyo ser unió naturaleza
la cuna alegre y triste sepultura.
¡Cuán altiva en tu pompa, presumida,
soberbia, el riesgo de morir desdeñas,
y luego desmayada y encogida
de tu caduco ser das mustias señas,
con que con docta muerte y necia vida,
viviendo engañas y muriendo enseñas!
– Sor Juan Inés de la Cruz (Juana Inés de Asbaje y Ramírez de Santillana)
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
I thought we’d do something a bit different this week. I hope it’s something everyone will enjoy. Instead of a theme, write a poem in the spirit of one that you love and was written by someone else. Put your poem in the comments section and reference the poem you’re working off of.
please submit your poem/s by pasting them into the comments section and not by sharing a link
please submit poems only, no photos, illustrations, essays, stories, or other prose
PLEASE NOTE:
Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published.
IF this is your first time joining us for The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a brief bio and photo to me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com to introduce yourself to the community … and to me :-). These are partnered with your poem/s on first publication.
PLEASE send the bio ONLY if you are with us on this for the first time AND only if you have posted a poem (or a link to one of yours) on theme in the comments section below.
Deadline: Monday, September 23 by 8 pm Pacific Time. If you are unsure when that would be in your time zone, check The Time Zone Converter.
Anyone may take part Wednesday Writing Prompt, no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about exercising the poetic muscle, showcasing your work, and getting to know other poets who might be new to you.
You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.
Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZineand its associated activities and The Poet by Dayjamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights. Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.
Hello Jamie! I’m feeling a bit rusty as I get back on the bandwagon. If this doesn’t fit this week’s bill, feel free to disregard. I had fun thinking about it and writing it though!
This is inspired by one of my favorite poets, Rupi Kaur from her book “milk and honey”, the poem on page 71
you wrap your fingers
around the sponge
scrubbing
until the sink is empty
this
is how you make
me change into my lace thong
you brush his teeth
and read his favorite bedtime story
twice
while making the voices of the characters
this
is how you make
me light the scented candles
you quiz her in spelling
and listen to how another girl stole her idea for her science project
you come up with a better science project idea
and promise to help her with it on the weekend
this
is how you make
me lie in bed
skin puckered
in love
in anticipation
thinking i am the luckiest woman in the world
Inspired By Respected G Jamie Dedes’s touching poem for Syrian Refugees
THE DOVES HAVE FLOWN
what must it be like for you in your part of the world?
there is only silence, i don’t know your name, i know only
that the fire of Life makes us one in this, the human journey,
trudging through mud, by land and by sea, reaching for the sun
like entering a ritual river without a blessing or a prayer
on the street where you lived, your friends are all gone
the houses are crushed and the doves have flown
there is only silence, no children playing, no laughter
here and there a light remains to speak to us of loneliness,
yet our eyes meet in secret, our hearts open on the fringe,
one breath and the wind blows, one tear and the seas rise,
your tears drip from my eyes and i tremble with your fear-
The following Lines for ~ G Jamie Ji…
The Besieged People of Occupied Kashmir.
Chinar Leaves Have Withered
chinar leaves have withered,
willows weeping, bend low with grief, still are the ripples in the Dal Lake, silent deserted citadels, not a tiptoe on the wooden floors- how many are alive inside, maybe none-
chinar leaves have withered
rustic orange clusters merging with green foliage, quivering with joy,sensing the cool caresses of approaching fall, but not this year,they descend one by one, remain soaked in blood of young and old,
chinar leaves have withered
who is blinded today? whose body draped in green and white, dumped in the ugly pit, ‘what is the cry ‘freedom ‘ for, freedom from death, to death’ ?locked in a living grave
chinar leaves have withered
silence of terror, on snow peaks frozen, empty streets filled with fear armed, prisoners
in perils of forced captivity, what horror humans can do with humans.
chinar leaves have withered
helpless am I in fetters, in action enchained , in emotions pained, I weep like the willows
in spiritual agony grieve , for mercy I pray , I die with each passing day…
Great poems, everyone !Mine is inspired by Robert Hayden’s Those Winter Sundays.
Those Washday Mondays
After Robert Hayden
By the time I came downstairs
Dad’s shirts were washed
and pegged on the garden line.
Mum lifted the boiler lid.
Steam rose from a hissing cauldron
and she grabbed scalding sheets
with a pair of wooden tongs.
Her hands were red and damp
and sweat darkened her armpits
as she passed me my breakfast.
I closed the kitchen door and ate
in the front room but still heard
the mangle’s cranky wheel
and squeak of its rubber rollers.
Mum wouldn’t buy a spin dryer
even on monthly instalments.
I turned up the music on my radio
and finished my bacon sandwiches.
What did I know about scrimping
and denying; about the sacrifices
she’d made in love’s unsung name?
Respected Jamie Ji
The lines I share in response are inspired by your poem ‘January is on the Wane’
O’ Beautiful Rose
O’ Dear Flower,
folded in invisible scents
tender covers softly protecting
the unknown,wrapped in curves
like hands,a praying pair
patiently serving in quietude.
O Dear Flower, resting
in a book, placed by love
making the page sacred to the touch,
words that rest,forever silent, till they meet
the eyes,of an unknown, bear the flaps and
caresses, of moving finger tips, as the covers flip,
O Dear Flower, you are a rose of many colors
budding, blooming, on bush and bowers
in sunshine rain or cool summer showers
spread on shrouds, taken to high towers
O’ Dear Flower’ how long can you stay
the fragrance radiate, the presence, comfort
the love share, If only you could, for ever be
and like the words on the page lay for me to see
Life is but a short sweet fragrant dream, the page
is turned , new words appear , new buds yearning to bloom
peace love and blessings from LA this offering is inspired by Bukowski’s “To Weep”
to trip
shivering in the bedroom
trying to find a slightly less mended Chanel
middle aged
anxiety on my tongue
finger nail polished half chewed off
scar tissue protrudes on my left knuckle
the difference in the mosh pits was
we all beat
each other up together
the other morning i went out
to see some band play
they weren’t quite what i remembered
slower thicker grayer
yet still crazy
jacked up rockin
in some of our heads
high on beet juice and weed
when i stand in my room
i don’t want to just be rockin in my head
i should go to the beauty clinic
and laser off this scar
but i’m not ashamed by it
besides i might read Bukowski in the waiting room
and offend some old Barbie
i’d like to be banged by that bass player
and have him pluck on my thing
and then there’s Beck on Mt. Washington
singing Spanish riffs into the mike
the band has never heard of me
but we both know how to twirl and punch
and they have to go home to their wives
standing in my bedroom
my moves are quite as swift
the best band i ever knew went disco
and the new bands lack the rage
i try to start the mosh pit
and give the bass player my number
but they twitter about health
things
yoga things
beet juice recipes
CBD things
i watch the boba settle in my milk tea
i know what my fate is
but it’s too gruesome to process
by 
Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZine and its associated activities and The Poet by Day jamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights. Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 
Hello Jamie! I’m feeling a bit rusty as I get back on the bandwagon. If this doesn’t fit this week’s bill, feel free to disregard. I had fun thinking about it and writing it though!
This is inspired by one of my favorite poets, Rupi Kaur from her book “milk and honey”, the poem on page 71
you wrap your fingers
around the sponge
scrubbing
until the sink is empty
this
is how you make
me change into my lace thong
you brush his teeth
and read his favorite bedtime story
twice
while making the voices of the characters
this
is how you make
me light the scented candles
you quiz her in spelling
and listen to how another girl stole her idea for her science project
you come up with a better science project idea
and promise to help her with it on the weekend
this
is how you make
me lie in bed
skin puckered
in love
in anticipation
thinking i am the luckiest woman in the world
– the best foreplay for husbands
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hi Jamie,
This poem is after Ian McMillan’s “Tempest Avenue”.
Bartholomew Street
Harry 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 microwave I put in our entryway has gone.
Gypsies know a good thing.
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.
(From my new Ebook “As Folk Over Yonder”, Afterworld Books, 2019)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Inspired By Respected G Jamie Dedes’s touching poem for Syrian Refugees
THE DOVES HAVE FLOWN
what must it be like for you in your part of the world?
there is only silence, i don’t know your name, i know only
that the fire of Life makes us one in this, the human journey,
trudging through mud, by land and by sea, reaching for the sun
like entering a ritual river without a blessing or a prayer
on the street where you lived, your friends are all gone
the houses are crushed and the doves have flown
there is only silence, no children playing, no laughter
here and there a light remains to speak to us of loneliness,
yet our eyes meet in secret, our hearts open on the fringe,
one breath and the wind blows, one tear and the seas rise,
your tears drip from my eyes and i tremble with your fear-
The following Lines for ~ G Jamie Ji…
The Besieged People of Occupied Kashmir.
Chinar Leaves Have Withered
chinar leaves have withered,
willows weeping, bend low with grief, still are the ripples in the Dal Lake, silent deserted citadels, not a tiptoe on the wooden floors- how many are alive inside, maybe none-
chinar leaves have withered
rustic orange clusters merging with green foliage, quivering with joy,sensing the cool caresses of approaching fall, but not this year,they descend one by one, remain soaked in blood of young and old,
chinar leaves have withered
who is blinded today? whose body draped in green and white, dumped in the ugly pit, ‘what is the cry ‘freedom ‘ for, freedom from death, to death’ ?locked in a living grave
chinar leaves have withered
silence of terror, on snow peaks frozen, empty streets filled with fear armed, prisoners
in perils of forced captivity, what horror humans can do with humans.
chinar leaves have withered
helpless am I in fetters, in action enchained , in emotions pained, I weep like the willows
in spiritual agony grieve , for mercy I pray , I die with each passing day…
as hope with each falling leaf, glissers.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Anjum ji. Honored. xo
LikeLiked by 1 person
Great poems, everyone !Mine is inspired by Robert Hayden’s Those Winter Sundays.
Those Washday Mondays
After Robert Hayden
By the time I came downstairs
Dad’s shirts were washed
and pegged on the garden line.
Mum lifted the boiler lid.
Steam rose from a hissing cauldron
and she grabbed scalding sheets
with a pair of wooden tongs.
Her hands were red and damp
and sweat darkened her armpits
as she passed me my breakfast.
I closed the kitchen door and ate
in the front room but still heard
the mangle’s cranky wheel
and squeak of its rubber rollers.
Mum wouldn’t buy a spin dryer
even on monthly instalments.
I turned up the music on my radio
and finished my bacon sandwiches.
What did I know about scrimping
and denying; about the sacrifices
she’d made in love’s unsung name?
LikeLiked by 4 people
Thank you all for your “likes”.xx
LikeLiked by 1 person
Respected Jamie Ji
The lines I share in response are inspired by your poem ‘January is on the Wane’
O’ Beautiful Rose
O’ Dear Flower,
folded in invisible scents
tender covers softly protecting
the unknown,wrapped in curves
like hands,a praying pair
patiently serving in quietude.
O Dear Flower, resting
in a book, placed by love
making the page sacred to the touch,
words that rest,forever silent, till they meet
the eyes,of an unknown, bear the flaps and
caresses, of moving finger tips, as the covers flip,
O Dear Flower, you are a rose of many colors
budding, blooming, on bush and bowers
in sunshine rain or cool summer showers
spread on shrouds, taken to high towers
O’ Dear Flower’ how long can you stay
the fragrance radiate, the presence, comfort
the love share, If only you could, for ever be
and like the words on the page lay for me to see
Life is but a short sweet fragrant dream, the page
is turned , new words appear , new buds yearning to bloom
LikeLiked by 3 people
Thanks Jamie.
This is insptired by Hardy’s Neutral Tones
..neutered..
oil pond mirrors the darkness the november
day. sun draws white against the grey
this leaf lays on earth
there is no god
not hungry nor otherwise
you look at me straight and ask the past
and briefly I say & say there is no god
you did not smile nor shout you are the deadest thing
dead down . no smiling despite birds gone by
on greasy wings .i remember your look
your face
drawn grey as the mourning dove
that remind
for me there is no god
LikeLiked by 3 people
peace love and blessings from LA this offering is inspired by Bukowski’s “To Weep”
to trip
shivering in the bedroom
trying to find a slightly less mended Chanel
middle aged
anxiety on my tongue
finger nail polished half chewed off
scar tissue protrudes on my left knuckle
the difference in the mosh pits was
we all beat
each other up together
the other morning i went out
to see some band play
they weren’t quite what i remembered
slower thicker grayer
yet still crazy
jacked up rockin
in some of our heads
high on beet juice and weed
when i stand in my room
i don’t want to just be rockin in my head
i should go to the beauty clinic
and laser off this scar
but i’m not ashamed by it
besides i might read Bukowski in the waiting room
and offend some old Barbie
i’d like to be banged by that bass player
and have him pluck on my thing
and then there’s Beck on Mt. Washington
singing Spanish riffs into the mike
the band has never heard of me
but we both know how to twirl and punch
and they have to go home to their wives
standing in my bedroom
my moves are quite as swift
the best band i ever knew went disco
and the new bands lack the rage
i try to start the mosh pit
and give the bass player my number
but they twitter about health
things
yoga things
beet juice recipes
CBD things
i watch the boba settle in my milk tea
i know what my fate is
but it’s too gruesome to process
i won’t land the bassist
LikeLiked by 3 people