“Only in art will the lion lie down with the lamb, and the rose grow without the thorn.” Martin Amis
if my voice was an angel voice
i’d sing you into ecstasy
if my hand was a healing hand
i’d touch you into grace
would that i could measure poems
to turn tears into light
to put dance in your feet
if i knew my own soul, i could
touch the tarnished silver of yours
and bring your smiles back again
Write a poem about what you would do or what you would like to do in the hope of healing someone else’s pain. When you are done and if you feel comfortable, leave the URL to your poem in the comments section below so I and others might read it.
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Silent, but for cunning Corvidae, they
of song, sub-song, caw, click and rattle
On ghostly air currents they levitate
high above the quiet fragrant turf
And all the while the heart spins
on the rose garden’s pulsing colors,
kindling fancy into inspiration
A fabled coalition of migrant birds
arrives to sit a spell, to catch a breath of
white jasmine on a breeze that speaks
the tongue of Aleppo, while under the ginkgo
words are braided into narrative thread,
yarns pulled from earthy green waves
and that blue echo of peace called sky
it must be painful for them to write, those poets in tough-times and hard places
where blood and tears and poverty contaminate the air, stain the sidewalks, and consume the people
the blood must be soul-sick and rusted and tasting of acid, not salt,
and the poems meant to heal the writer and stroke the cheeks of the wounded,
to dry their eyes and gently kiss their gray heads
to poem in such places must be like walking shoeless on glass shards
perhaps the most sacred thing in the dream-time meadow of poets’ desire is Light ~
can you awaken to meet the Divine on the battlefield, in the camps, in government housing or in the ghettos?
if so, you are a saint, not simply an artist
2.
in my small world, my civilized world, people fall asleep reading or after making love or playing in the yard with their children
if they wander, it is through books or planned travel
there are luxuries
there is food
there is cleanliness and paper on which to write
no bombs are dropping to scorch and scar the Earth
there is a certain dignity
3.
in San Francisco we walk along the beach at night, near the Cliff House
we walk to the sound of the waves, the song of the Earth chanting its joys
our feet are bare and relish the comfort of cool sand
the air is clear and cold and easy to breathe, tasting of salt and smelling of sea life ~ here is a pristine moment of peace
i want to bequeath this peace to you, to everyone,
as though it were a cherished heirloom
it is really a birthright
i want to plunge into the waters and gather the ocean in my cupped hands, to offer it to you as sacramental wine
i want to form seaweed into garlands for all of us to wear, to hang over our hearts, a symbol of affection
i want to collect pine cones from the trees that congregate along the coast and feed them to the children to remind them to cherish this Earth and all its creatures, themselves included, and to say …
do not make war in your heart or upon your mother’s body
you thrive on fear,
but i slow you, stay you, sink my nails into you
as i sink my nails into the moon
knock if you must, but i have barred the door
i have hung a magic amulet from the rafters
my screams rise silent as a roar, black as a sun
they rise from a living heart, pierce the numb sky
my laugh is a cackle scratching your yellow eyes
i grow tired but spring back again,
a wilting rose newly watered
night done and i’ve won battle over
the puce and putrid that filled my lungs – i breath, i breath and tenderly i poem
as if there would ever and always be another sun
i am here to race and tear, to rail and gag
still i laugh, still i love
come you must at close of day, but
your soul is prose and mine is poem,
triumph belongs to the Eternal in me …..victory is mine
– Jamie Dedes
Holy Sonnet X
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and souls deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better than thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, Death, thou shalt die.
– John Donne (1572-1631)
O death, where is they sting? O grave, where is they victory?” St. Paul, 1 Corinthians 15:55
The Wordplay Shop offers a special selection of books to inspire beginning and emerging writers as well as recommended poetry collections and other books or materials of interest to poets, writers and readers.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 