“Most species do their own evolving, making it up as they go along, which is the way Nature intended. And this is all very natural and organic and in tune with mysterious cycles of the cosmos, which believes that there’s nothing like millions of years of really frustrating trial and error to give a species moral fiber and, in some cases, backbone.” Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man
out of the womb of Time they slide
peasants and kings, artisans and queens
murders, warriors, healers, peacemakers
the grandfathers and grandmothers
on whose shoulders we stand
they are with us, their spirits sensed
. . . . though unseen
their hearts are in our mouths
as they guard and guide
feet rooted in the mud of Earth
we drink the wine, eat the roots
and sing the songs we inherited
their sayings are our sayings
their voices are our voices
carried on breezes
like the music of cathedral bells
like the call of the muezzin
they chime and summon
they sum what came before
from their gnosis
whispered in the ear of silence
we learn: we are nameless but not lost
we too shall echo
shall be the shoulders
shall be the great progenitors
shall hold the Vision and the Light
along the path . . .
. . . . beckoning
This was making its way around Facebook a week or so ago and it reminded me of the above poem. All of us, no matter what our immediate family history, have heroes in our family line. That’s how we’ve come to be. A cause for gratitude and celebration and perhaps a sense of responsibility too.
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!
“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.
: Publicity poster original artwork for the documentary film Night Mail by the GPO Film Unit Date 1936, Public Domain
“It’s not that we have to quit this life one day, but it’s how many things we have to quit all at once: music, laughter,the physics of falling leaves, automobiles, holding hands,the scent of rain, the concept of subway trains… if only one could leave this life slowly!” ― Roman Payne, Rooftop Soliloquy
I love trains but it isn’t the love of trains that inspired this post. The current United States Post Office debacle made me think of Auden’s Night Mail, which made me think of Stevenson’s From a Railway Carriage. These two are my fave railway poems. I suppose I should write one myself one of these days. We’ll see … Meanwhile, enjoy these …
Night Mail
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers’ declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart’s outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston’s or Crawford’s:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman’s knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
– W. H. Auden
From A Railway Carriage
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!
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!
“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.
“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”
Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
The delay in getting this posted for you and the reason for it being the final Wednesday Writing Prompt: I was rushed to the Emergency Department few weeks ago and was not expected to make it through that first night. My wonderful pulmonary team pulled me through. After about two weeks or so of trying various medical protocols, I was released from the hospital and into in-home hospice care, which is where I am right now. I will keep The Poet by Day open so that you can reach for things that you might find helpful and inspiring. I may post periodically if I am up to it and have something worthy to say or news I believe people might find helpful. Family may post periodically as well. Meanwhile, my affection and gratitude to all of you who have been so very supportive and helpful and such a valued part of my life. You cannot know the joy you’ve gifted as I watch so many – including me – grow through these years. You and your work are valued.
Posted here today – belatedly but with love and appreciation – are poems in response to the last and final Wednesday Writing Prompt, With Twice Found Hope and Tender Love, June 24 . Thanks to Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Frank McMahon, Mahfuz Rahman (new to our pages and warmly welcome), and Adrian Slonaker. Enjoy! … and poem on all …
In the spirit of peace, love (respect), and community, Jamie
Spirit Incarnate
I believe I am an spirit incarnate,
Landed from the skies above, on
a plate without a parachute, I
survived, though for many years
of childhood I had a wobbly walk,
would often fall from just anywhere,
and everyone started calling me,
“now what” and “ what next, where?”
Was a runner, everywhere, never hungry
loved the open air, loved books, all fair
life was joyful, life was free but in the
lawn, up the tree, under a watchful eye.
of some one elderly, unaware of witches
dangers, rapists, life had lots of company.
The air was clean, water was plenty, fruit
abundant, home was home not a house
less toys to playwith more books to read
there never was a sad time or an urgent need,
many now say “you had a good childhood”-
16mm screen movies funny films to see
every Sunday a picnic on the hills, must be-
out of war zone safely in peace, I thought
life was fun and love , no care or any worry,
but soon in teens the world all changed, war
came in with blackouts disturbed home-
curfew isolation restrictions all set in-since
1960s war has not stopped, terrorism spread
no place was safe, of race religion or creed
who was the enemy no one recognized- war
was for another’s cause, schools closed and
remained closed, danger at every step outside
what will the future be what will government
decide, uncertainty reigned over country-
peace came in bits and pieces, life was now
a cautionary tale, picnics died, inside, inside
eat homemade inside, where to run? Hardly
space for a short walk in the lane, but come
let’s walk. Let’s practice patience, as parents
became ill, life now is at a standstill, no parents
no kids, no jobs, no travel, no picnics, just press
the button –and plug in the wire life- switch on
the TV, watch the news, how many killed –stress
no, stay clean, wash hands, eat that is healthy
look in silence, other kids are playing in the lane
they do not know yet the pain or gain or war
they have not gone far, nor seen any real war
they fly simple kites, dream of ice cream cones
they look weak, almost skin and bones
life is calm now, to be grateful, and I dream of
flying up to the stars, my home is there in the
Milky way will I be alone ? No, friends will be
there, shining stars all the way, Life at times
makes me dance and I secretly do a few steps
you may laugh if you see me, but the best is yet
I believe I am an spirit incarnate,
Landed from the skies above, on
a plate without a parachute, I
survived, though for many years
of childhood I had a wobbly walk,
would often fall from just anywhere,
and everyone started calling me,
“now what” and “ what next, where?”
Was a runner, everywhere, never hungry
loved the open air, loved books, all fair
life was joyful, life was free but in the
lawn, up the tree, under a watchful eye.
of some one elderly, unaware of witches
dangers, rapists, life had lots of company.
The air was clean, water was plenty, fruit
abundant, home was home not a house
less toys to playwith more books to read
there never was a sad time or an urgent need,
many now say “you had a good childhood”-
16mm screen movies funny films to see
every Sunday a picnic on the hills, must be-
out of war zone safely in peace, I thought
life was fun and love , no care or any worry,
but soon in teens the world all changed, war
came in with blackouts disturbed home-
curfew isolation restrictions all set in-since
1960s war has not stopped, terrorism spread
no place was safe, of race religion or creed
who was the enemy no one recognized- war
was for another’s cause, schools closed and
remained closed, danger at every step outside
what will the future be what will government
decide, uncertainty reigned over country-
peace came in bits and pieces, life was now
a cautionary tale, picnics died, inside, inside
eat homemade inside, where to run? Hardly
space for a short walk in the lane, but come
let’s walk. Let’s practice patience, as parents
became ill, life now is at a standstill, no parents
no kids, no jobs, no travel, no picnics, just press
the button –and plug in the wire life- switch on
the TV, watch the news, how many killed –stress
no, stay clean, wash hands, eat that is healthy
look in silence, other kids are playing in the lane
they do not know yet the pain or gain or war
they have not gone far, nor seen any real war
they fly simple kites, dream of ice cream cones
they look weak, almost skin and bones
life is calm now, to be grateful, and I dream of
flying up to the stars, my home is there in the
Milky way will I be alone ? No, friends will be
there, shining stars all the way, Life at times
makes me dance and I secretly do a few steps
you may laugh if you see me, but the best is yet
“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
A Shining Moment
I am drinking hot coffee despite the 90 degree weather, the sweet creamy liquid warming my nostrils before I take a sip. I hold it for a moment, savoring it’s decadence before swallowing, while watching my children run through the sprinkler. The sunlight glistens off the water droplets hanging onto their dark hair and tan skin. These diamonds sparkle and glisten before being flung into the air echoing the sound of their laughter. I drink my coffee and commit this happy, shining moment to memory.
Growing up, my sprinkler was the fire hydrant in front of my neighbor’s house. Instead of soft, squishy grass underfoot, we had pavement that left our feet raw from scrapes on the unyielding surface. Our laughter gurgled like the fire hydrant while our screams matched the siren wail of the police – a warning that our water play time would soon come to an end. My mother would drink black coffee and watch us from the stoop, her worries emanating from the lines between her eyes, like the sun’s rays burning our already darkened skin.
On this summer day, I drink my coffee, leaning against my marble countertop while looking at my children through the panoramic kitchen window and toast myself for not having wrinkles between my eyes.
Sunshine rewarding
Generations of hard work –
Suburban sprinkler
“I lost my heart in an English garden”.
My voice was a boat on a turquoise river,
the banks clustered with large red blossoms
framed by dark green leaves. I could warble then,
stretched out in the bath, Ave Marias
and such-like, could follow notes on staves
in the school-boy choir.
Something broke,
the song mid-flow as three girls turned
the corner, giggled and sneered. Later the boat
pitched and yawed, lost its bearings,
timbers creaking, barnacled.
Black on white, phrases tacking between
major, minor and older modes, singing
from heart and page,
no longer lost in a quiet street.
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.)
Time flies and we move forward
It may take just a blink of eyes or a short span of time and everything happens.
Life has variations, however it changes.
Our little child body growing old someday.
Look, when I was a child,
was used to siting beside my mom.
Nowadays, I used to sit beside my beloved gal, but do miss that caress and softness.
Now, I sit alongside the river each and everyday, I look at the serene water. But this water can not extinguish my agonies because my heart is burning for a long since and became a volcano. It has already been broken down and became an ocean of catastrophic storms.
Still, I sit under that bunyan tree but I do miss those days when I was used to playing with my mates; was used to passing my good afternoons under its green shade.
I feel shy to go to under the neighbours tarmarind tree what was once my daily routine to pick up tarmarind.
At present, I write my pains with pen, do write all of the missing times and things.
Am turned young by courses of time, not more than a gradually developed materialistic worm,
Aged a score plus seven.
I can’t escape the present. What I can is to ruminate the bygones; am overall a reminiscient.
Thousands of days have been flied over
Millions of memories have been engraved with.
Mahfuz Rahman is from Bangladesh. He writes poems and short stories. His work is featured in Tuck Magazine, Persian Sugar in English Tea, and Gideon Poetry Review.
Quand J’étais Petit
Quand j’étais petit,
I preferred pink to blue
and flowers to football.
I longed to learn languages and
relished the garish gooseflesh
inflicted by ghost stories
and pizza after swims on
sweltering July afternoons with the
girl on Sunset Avenue I dreamt of
sharing a purple house with.
Maintenant que je suis grand,
complications have cropped up;
celeste bests salmon, but
bubblegum beats cobalt.
I still delight in deep-dish
and cool dips in the pool
and fancy a fistful of forget-me-nots,
but pigskin takes priority on
Super Bowl Sunday, and
I survive on my own in
an ivory building,
ruffled and flushed by
at a life far more real than the
showy shocks of
any Gothic thriller.
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!
“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.
We four, we fumbled our pas de quatre on river rocks in
a faraway place of raging Hudson and an antique cloister.
No escape from mutilation but for books and theater,
old stories reborn, told in graceful moves and music made
for those with better breeding, more cultivated minds.
Home, our home, a place of first loves, unfounded hope
where simmering, Sidto* served soup to my sister,
a dark-olive girl-fugue in tar black and char dust.
In that place whirling with church spires and myrtle trees,
grimacing and breathless, we spun along twisted shores.
The mothers buried anger in silence. Cold bile leaked. I
slipped, broke my ballerina legs in a premature grand jeté.
I failed to heal those fissured old hearts.
We were lost, our frenzied dabke* danced in crazy time,
passing green humid summers and silver crisp winters,
swinging the stone shackles of the earth-bound. Home . . .
At home, such a tangled skein of love and lies and ties where,
by the bogey breeze, tripping on river rocks, hysterical
imaginings, one stepped lively in schadenfreude.
Solitary now
Alone above rainforest layers of a lyrical mind, I dance
triumphant, a pas marché on rain clouds, plumbed, bursting
with hard-won poems in roses, willow greens, and light.
With twice-found hope and tender love, I dance for them.
*Sidto (Arabic) – grandmother; Dabke (Arabic) – folk dance of the Levantine peoples
This week’s challenge is to juxtapose your life as a child against your life now as an adult. Share your poem/s on theme 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, June 29 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 and befriend 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.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 