Poets, Poetry, News, Reviews, Readings, Resources & Opportunities for Poets and Writers
Author: Jamie Dedes
Jamie Dedes is a Lebanese-American poet and free-lance writer. She is the founder and curator of The Poet by Day, info hub for poets and writers, and the founder of The Bardo Group, publishers of The BeZine, of which she was the founding editor and currently a co-manager editor with Michael Dickel. Ms. Dedes is the Poet Laureate of Womawords Press 2020 and U.S associate to that press as well. Her debut collection, "The Damask Garden," is due out fall 2020 from Blue Dolphin Press.
“There have been so many days that we shared the same stages, platforms with you, our intellectual and artist friends. With those we couldn’t share the same stage, we had the honor of making art for a more fair and livable world. We have also experienced the oppression of the dominant powers who are fed by people’s remaining ignorant and unorganized . . . ” excerpt from İbrahim Gökçek’s letter of April 30.
We join with PEN America and other organizations that support free speech and freedom of artistic expression in our relief to learn that Turkish musician İbrahim Gökçek, a member of the music collective Grup Yorum, suspended his hunger strike as of Wednesday. Mr.Gökçek is receiving medical treatment. This news comes a day after it was announced that his health had reached a crisis point. İbrahim Gökçek started his hunger strike 323 days ago to protest his imprisonment and that of eight other band members in 2019.
Gökçek decided to suspend his hunger strike after Dr. Sebnem Korur Fincanci, president of the Human Rights Foundation of Turkey, and a group of lawmakers vouched for Grup Yorum and declared they would fight for the release of the imprisoned band members. Gökçek had turned his hunger strike into a “death fast”—intending to pursue the strike until his own death—in January. Released February 24 because of his health condition, he and fellow group member Helin Bölek were hospitalized against their wishes on March 11. Helin Bölek died April 3. Weeks later, on April 24, Mustafa Koçak, not a member of the band but also unjustly imprisoned, died after a 297-day hunger strike. Gökçek had continued his hunger strike, calling for the release of all band members, a fair trial, the right to hold concerts again, and the cessation of raids on their cultural center.
“We are relieved to hear İbrahim Gökçek’s decision to break his death fast. But he and other Grup Yorum members should not have to resort to a hunger strike in the first place to be able to share their music, and the Turkish authorities’ grievous attempts to silence their voices is abominable,” said Julie Trebault, director of the Artists at Risk Connection (ARC) at PEN America. “Grup Yorum members have continued to experience repression and harassment at the hands of the Turkish government for over three decades, including arrest, reports of abuse against detained members, banned concerts, and even the detention of their audience members. Their struggle is not over yet. Band members, including Gökçek’s wife Sultan, remain imprisoned, and the government still has not allowed the band to hold a concert. We condemn these ongoing attacks on free expression by the Turkish government, both against Grup Yorum members as well as any artist, writer, or activist who dares to speak out against injustice. Artists should be allowed to live and work without fear, and they should not have to deprive themselves of their life and wellbeing in order to do so.”
In an open letter Mr. Gökçek calls for the release of all members of Grup Yorum, decries the “lies and demagoguery” about the Group, and calls for support from other artists and intellectuals for his demands and that of all Grup Yorum.
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Poetry rocks the world!
FEEL THE BERN
For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice
Maintain the movement.
“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
“Plaudite, amici, comedia finita est.” Ludwig van Beethoven
Looking back and waving good-bye to
Those East Coast blue velvet nights,
The Jersey Palisades, the clear wind
Singing its way through fall foliage as
Long-lost big sis Teresa and me drive to
I don’t remember where but with the
Child’s clear sight radiant visions came
Of early residents cooking over campfire
Warming themselves in caves and tents,
Smiling at the same stars shining light on
All those giant trees, dendrochronology!
Mountains that never bow down, and
Roads that offer hard walks and unclear
Boundaries, prehistoric hand stencils
Make the eyes smile, the mind wonder
And wander on West Coast hikes, and
Those roosters fleeing my driving
Lessons in Maynard, Iowa, Professor
Dad-in-Law coaching, hard to get this
Short dark Brooklyn girl, whose speech
Odd and religion odder still, she found the
Air in San Francisco different from that in
Manhattan, the preponderance of cars,
The values struggling with the received
Ambitions and material concerns when
She’d rather be home with the baby, the
Toddler, the youth, the young adult, the
Man grown, see the dazzle in his eyes and
Hear the soul in his laughter, the simple joy in
Midnight snacks and Creature Features, in
Books, theatre, movies, the CitySon Philospher
Walked along Crown Beach, his love of nature,
Of critters and his willing get-away to Crab Cove
With all its secrets, the man he is now gets the
Poetry and the dreams and life’s subtilities . . . Oh, yes! Waving goodbye with gratitude and with
Sadness too, for the father largely unknow, the
Mother silent, abused and abusive, the grandmother
Who shut the door on us, the grandfather who
Escaped to So Cal, now all gathering round
To begin another adventure with another
Theme and they seem benign floating in
On my dreams, whispering in my ear, calling
My name, almost time to come home, dear . . .
If you were looking death in the face, what would you remember with joy? Who would you think of fondly? What would you remember sadly? Tells us in your own way through your own poem/s and . . .
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 on theme in the comments section here will be published in next Tuesday’s collection. Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published. If you are new to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, be sure to include a link to your website, blog, and/or Amazon page to be published along with your poem. Thank you!
Deadline: Monday, May 11th 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.
Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.
Poetry rocks the world!
FEEL THE BERN
For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice
Maintain the movement.
“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
“if i knew what the artist knows,
i would surely respond soul and body
to the echo of the Ineffable in rough earthy things
i would not fear decay or work left undone
i would travel like the river through its rugged, irregular channels
comfortable with this life; imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete” Wabi Sabi, Jamie Dedes (inspired by Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers by Leonard Koren
And this being Tuesday, here are the wonderful, inspired, and through-provoking poems from the poets who came out to play in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt and poem, The Art of Reinvention, April 29. I have no doubt that you will enjoy these poems by Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Frank McMahon, Sandra Benskin Mesher, Ben Naga, Nancy Ndeke, Eric Nicholson, Adrian Slonaker, and Mike Stone.
Do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome: beginning, emerging, and pro poets.
She said…
My birth was a reinvention, nature’s just intervention,
against worldly desirous selfish, the spirits conspired.
Ever since I opened my eyes and saw Land Ahoy’
my caretaker’s faces fell, Oh it’s a girl, not a boy’
O boy, O boy, how I lost all attention, in the newly
found dimension, and to adapt to the Earthly code
I was reinvented from a ‘star’ to the human mode,
Life was all peaceful joy, lots of frolic and fun
Books pens and colors, my best teacher was a nun,
all good till I grew a bit, life then pointed a loaded gun
Not a golden buttercup, nor a bed of red roses, life was
a journey with hypertension and little comprehension
Flashes of love, commands, reprimands, and countless
demands, as ‘you girl, stop romping like a tomboy, restless’
Reinvention began early in skin and bone , a change enforced
had to leave and move away from the personal comfort zone.
Repeated bouts of illness drenched me in sweat and pain
I came under the surgeon’s knife again and again and again.
So she said
Destined to shine in a constellation up high, for a purpose,
sacredly pure, nature tested experimented me for sure
Called ‘short’ in height and low on the scales, actively smart
at home with three sisters I became ‘The prince of Wales.’
The young carefree part was over too soon, reinvention
returned to transform me into a bride, wife and mother.
What people saw was a lucky lady, sari clad laden with gold
what my inner self felt was a commodity invented, and sold.
Reinvention did not stop, as roles and health kept changing
from bride to wife, to mother cook , a total maid in the making.
‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on’, all revels will end,
Earth’s surface is emptied, humanity to isolated lock down, sent.
People are reinventing a whole new digital life, a fresh slice,
but this time a tube a mask a cane or wheelchair may not suffice.
So she said
Reinvention is the art, part of life, it is in nature from the start
For all in this world, a role to play, a duty, before we depart.
I am but a label in a category
of diverse species, of humanity
surrounded by crows, chicken
and cats,visited by cows, in
company with a grey African parrot,
Sun’s changed position gives light
moon sometimes peeps through the
window at night,silence distorted by
barking dogs, wonder they are angry
or happy at humans locked down.
Unseen ecosystems decaying or
surviving, green or brown,one moment
wood, the next misunderstood, sprayed
netted drowned in fathoms bottomless,
nature changes forms, reinvents, recreates
all terrestrial on Earthly plane, all celestial
in the Milky Way-
and I say
‘All life is forever to be-
O Lord Thou hast made me-
shall thy work decay?’
“POETRY PEACE and REFORM Go Together -Let Us All Strive for PEACE on EARTH for ALL -Let Us Make a Better World -WRITE To Make PEACE PREVAIL.” Anjum Wasim Dar
Red Cup Revisited
The red cup – a fixture in pictures
My focus yet blurred in my mind
Strong and sweet – the fake message
Scared and silenced – the truth
It matched everything
Or so I thought
Remember?
I can
Not
Stop
Drinking
Toss the cup
Where can I drown
This fear of living
Who can I reinvent?
Lost for so long in the mix
I need to climb out of the rocks
Where is the hand holding the red cup?
Desperate to avoid reality’s sharp spears,
the walls of his world closing in,
he thought he’d apply for the role
of Schrodinger’s cat. He’d read a bit
about it, liked the idea of being at the same time
somewhere and nowhere.
He thought he’d seen an advert inviting
applications, in a paper or on-line,
he wasn’t sure. He dug around
on the world-wide web, learned that Schrodinger
had died. Or so it said. But how could they be sure?
To be a cat, sure of its identity,
pampered master of the household!
To have nine lives! He’d need those, or one
at least if they sealed him in the steel-
walled chamber, give him for company
an atom, which might decay or then
again might not. And if it did go off, triggering
the deadly charge of cyanide or bomb,
then his other self would be elsewhere
outside the chamber, observing the scientists
or safely ensconced in Harrogate.
He dreamed of this happy feline state.
To be and not to be, that indeed
was the question, inside reality
and outside. It might lead on, perhaps,
to a part in Cats: Eric, the quantum cat.
He fell asleep, humming the Great Escape,
replete with dreams. Until a worm
of doubt began to slither and ruffle
his grey, drowsing cells, led him, nearly,
to the edge of a fundamental question.
Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
Shall I compare thee to a pile of dung
Left, still warm and steaming, by my horse?
So graceful, so well groomed, so well hung.
I describe the creature not myself of course
And pray my words may not, my darling, cause dismay.
Oh forgive a fool whose ardour outruns his tongue.
Should my simple similes offend thee what can I say
But that ’tis from untrimm’d spontaneity they’ve sprung.
If thou wrinkle thy nose at the smell, even sight
Of manure let my lips bid you reconsider the conceit.
Coming upon such ordure to the gardener is a delight
To be shovelled up and carried away tout de suite
For forking it into a bed is surely only but meet.
Without such sustenance would a rose smell so sweet?
Names define, like locales and culinary delights,
Faith’s too and the practices demanded,
Routines set, manners and etiquettes,
Arriving at ports of who the outside says we are,
See how the tides disagree,
With the silent wind howling and sweeping,
Knocking sense of old forts down,
Hear the rhythm of anxiety drive leaders to tears,
See the rise of questions over old biases,
Notice the flattening of hills of divisions,
Depths are shallowing with new eyes,
Everywhere a new dawn speaks,
Deference is no longer business as usual,
Indifference is learning a new thing,
Every truism is called for re-evaluation,
Hearts are matching with a light lense,
One not trained to pay allegiance to differentiate,
Reprograming the senses to acknowledge more,
We are back at the drawing board of humanity,
And shocking results bear witness,
That all we held prestigious is hollow,
And those we thought minions are angels,
And that material can be so valueless in times of need,
And that humanity needs a higher power to pull it out of it’s own mess,
Leading fact being,
It’s taken a tempest to teach us to be human again,
Harshness has sent us to observe,
Ever so carefully,
That either,
We reinvent our collective treatment of Earth and earthlings,
Or, tragically,
Man walks the dinosaur road.
Everything teaches.
Let agony teach us repentance ,
Forgiveness and fair play.
Respecting life and it’s sustainer.
In the garden
daffodils wilt; blossom falls.
Some may see today repeating
like a wind-up toy, while
what may seem hum drum,
the hum of the fridge,
a ticking clock,
the science fiction silence outside,
is the world renewing itself
in each dying moment.
And we too, while honouring
the bitter taste of each
remembered mistake
can fall apart again and again.
Barely cognizant of the college town
just clinging to the jagged western edge
of Big Sky Country
the way a hostage hangs on to hope,
I’d never been to Missoula.
But at three-thirty a.m. last Thursday,
inspired by filtered internet images
and a kind wrestler in a cowboy hat
raised in the region,
I bought a one-way ticket,
concluding that this
must be a place capable of
incubating a fugitive from
stultifying status quos
who’s ghosted
his foot-gazing gait
and pizza-packed paunch,
swapping them for tight-fitting togs
and a swagger that surfaced
once he split from
toxic sap staining a family tree
and a metropolitan apartment
polluted with the vibrations of
vicious self-vilification.
So I spend the plane’s descent
placing a faded denim jacket
over broad, bony kneecaps,
extracting a pocket spiral notebook
adorned with the address of a
hotel-turned-home,
and noting down a new name
that spontaneously becomes
my own.
Use the search feature on this site and on The BeZine to read more of Adrian’s poetry. Worth your time.
Body and Soul
All things physical were once naught,
Became, changed, continued changing,
And will be naught once more,
Whether it is a living breathing thing,
A skyscraper or a star,
And if it was once beautiful
That will also change,
But Plato spoke of ideals,
Perfect and so unchanging,
Untouched by the experience of time,
So impossible in the world of physicality
Yet so real as only souls can be
Where time never was nor will be
And if a soul is beautiful
Then beautiful it will always be.
There are but two futures to portend:
Hope is one, despair the other.
Despair comes to you from the western horizon
Bearing a large sack on his hunched back
And kerplatzes his fat tuches on your chest,
Plucking reasons why you can’t or shouldn’t
From his heavy sack.
Hope is not a safety net to catch you if you fall
Unless first you put one under you.
Hope comes to you from the east
Bearing nothing but her thin light
To dispel the western darkness.
Hope softly persuades you to change
What you can and must.
She gently pushes you over your nest’s edge
Impossibly high off the ground
So that you may fly
Or die.
I had a thought one day:
Why not create a special language?
After all, it has been said that
Languages shape the way we think
And likely what we think,
And since we can do whatever we do want,
I would like to change our language.
I would start by getting rid of certain words,
The hateful, hurtful, shameful ones,
The ones we wish we’d never said or heard:
Killing, hurting, raping, stealing,
Cheating, lying, disrespecting,
Boasting, pointing fingers,
Singing na-na na-na,
Warfare, torture, threats, and frightening,
Anger and self-righteousness.
There’s probably more, I’ll let you know
When I think of them.
I wouldn’t get rid of sad words
Since sadness is the other side of happiness
And nothing has just one side.
Then I’d add some brand-new words,
Some words we wished we had but didn’t:
Words that tell you how I really feel,
Rainbow words with all the gradients of feeling,
Like different grades of love,
Powerful words that can do what they say,
Single words that say everything,
Words that make you lift your head to hear them,
Different lengths of silence, like rests in music;
These are words I’d like to add.
To survive in a haphazard world
In which good and evil are meaningless words
To understand what is happening all around
What has happened and what might happen or not
To feel what is good or evil to oneself and others
To think of what one’s done and not done
What one might do and what one must
To believe what one can’t think through
And to doubt those beliefs when doubts arise
To act when there’s no more time to think
But to stop that action when there’s time to think
Or it’s no longer needed,
These are what a mind is for.
Call of the Whippoorwill is Mike Stone’s fourth book of poetry, It contains all new poems covering the years from 2017 to 2019. The poetry in this book reflects the unique perspectives and experiences of an American in Israel. The book is a smorgasbord of descriptions, empathies, wonderings, and questionings. It is available on Kindle and if you have Kindle Unlimited you can download it as part of your membership. I did. Recommended. / J.D
Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.
Poetry rocks the world!
FEEL THE BERN
For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice
Maintain the movement.
“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
“Once, a long time ago, Before Corona, People sat together Talking in soft voices That only they could hear Heads almost touching . . . “ Before Corona, Mike Stone
Perhaps
Morning gives to afternoon
Time to tuck away dreams, desire, inner being
Corporeal gravity of transparent routines, anemic rituals
Rain, Spring returns from exile
Sucks on Aprils nipples
Thunder claps, falling waters
Herd us against each other
Repelling most in hurried flight for home
Where we are absolutely safe
From nothing
Witness those drowning
In the empty vessels of themselves
Oh this day would be dull, boring
Were it not for the occasional flash
Of bright umbrellas
One, the color red
To remind us
We are
My umbrella is a tent
I a nomad
Wandering through this village
Not quite sure of how to conduct myself
By chance, design?
We come upon each other
Relief
The solitude of two
Too soon it is time
You must go
I shall wait
Beauty is stubborn
Paris calling. Week 4 or 5? Not sure. French president Macron announced the prolongation of the lock down to May 11. He says by that date we shall have test kits and an adequate supply of masks. Aping the U.S.,, France manufactures millions of bullets weekly but is at a loss to readily supply its citizens with protective gear. Yes, like the US., France can manufacture goods that end life but not so well that which will save lives. I’m a socially active guy so this lock down is quite challenging. I have a dog Bertha. I’m allowed to walk her twice a day. Like other cities the air here is now clear. Flowers and green things spring and bud pallets of colors more vividly than in past seasons. Flora blooms larger than usual. My life is smaller. The change in surroundings and social climate affect Bertha as well. She moves casually, in step with me in no need of prompting. We hear several species of birds as we’ve not heard before. Birds make music and speech, comforting. Put down the dictionary, wake up the ears. I have a g-o-d- Great Out Doors, manifest as atmosphere, stratosphere, ionosphere, beyond where I cannot ascend to reach. Truly beyond my comprehension, nonetheless marvelous to marvel at, outside and in. I’ve been commissioned to write two books, poetry and short stories just prior to the quarantine. The quarantine is writing me. There are moments, unsettling in the deep drifting night when this isolation seeds a solitude I’m barely prepared to wade in. My gallery of dreams resonate a consciousness, feelings ominous. I wake with urgent need to love; they whom I hold in my heart, to care for those I’ve callously dismissed for petite self serving motives. Wake up is a mercurial meditation. I’m a spectator of my inner self. Yes I latch onto social media, relieving my anxieties by viewing yours, heartened when expressing my sympathy for you and yours. Oftimes Facebook is Death book. Times I lapse into a list of those who must not perish, for their sake, for mine. I have witnessed parents, mothers, my own burying her own children. Then gladdened with news that someone, others have survived a dance with death. And I know we’re in this together. willfully or not. Fear of mortality invokes frenzied vitality. With all my impotent indignation and rage I indict those governors of politics and fortunes, the immune by privilege, for their indefensible manipulations and greed driven exploitation of us Us, we are everybody by virtue of our common humanity. You might expect that the poet I am would center me, magnetize my focus onto language. Truth be told it’s a song, a song from any number of periods and styles. A piece of music, be it of voice or instruments, both, that unearth the sadness, the joys, the will… against the odds we stay in the game. No one to witness me shed bitter sweet tears and laughter. I dance to the notice of my dog Bertha. She sits calmly, quizzically. Good for her. The day is made.
MOE SEAGER (Moe Seager- Paris Calling) is a poet and jazz & blues vocalist who sings his poems on stages in Paris, New York and elsewhere and has recorded 2 jazz-poetry c.d.s. Seager founded and hosts Angora Poets (Paris) World Caffé, 100 Thousand Poets for Change, Paris and is one of the coordinators for le Fédération des Poètes paris. He has 5 collections of poetry and currently publishes published with Onslaught press, Oxford, U.K. Other poetry collections are issued from the French Ministry of Culture – Dream Bearers,1990. One World, Cairo Press – in Arabic translation, 2004. We Want Everything in French translation, les Temps des Cirises, Paris, 1994. Perhaps, La Maison de la Poesie, Grenoble, France, 2006. Fishermen and Pool Sharks Busking editions, London, 1992. Additionally Seager won a Golden Quill Award (USA) for investigative journalism, 1989 and received an International Human Rights award from the Zepp foundation, 1990. He teaches writing in Paris.
Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.
Poetry rocks the world!
FEEL THE BERN
For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice
Maintain the movement.
“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 