“Do not ask your children to strive for extraordinary lives. Such striving may seem admirable, but it is the way of foolishness. Help them instead to find the wonder and the marvel of an ordinary life. Show them the joy of tasting tomatoes, apples and pears. Show them how to cry when pets and people die. Show them the infinite pleasure in the touch of a hand. And make the ordinary come alive for them. The extraordinary will take care of itself.”
These are responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Zero At Bone and Marrow, November 28, in which I asked folks to write about their children. These poems bare in common the light of love and joy and underpinnings of wisdom, but some are marked by extraordinary pain and courage. It brings to mind one of my preferred reminder quotations from Lucille Clifton“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.”
Kudos and thanks to Billy Antonio, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Deb y Felio (Debbie Felio), Sheila Jacob, Mike Stone, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Anjum Wasim Dar.
In addition to their words, I’ve included links to blogs or websites where available. I hope you’ll visit these poets and get to know their work better. It is likely you can catch up with others via Facebook.
Enjoy! … and do come out to play tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.
3 Haiku and a Tanka
ordinary day
the slow unfolding
of butterfly wings
—
the nest
louder than usual
youngest child
—
11th birthday
the tenderness
of a sapling
—
unwrapping
the day
with laughter
my child
turns two
Billy Antonio
Laoac, Philippines
Why So So Hard
Mam?
– I were brung up with pillows
– Pillows are soft Mam.
– Not held over your mouth, love.
– I were given cake.
– Cake’s sweet, Mam.
– Not made of seasalt and road grit, love.
– I were cuddled.
– That’s what I like, Mam
– Till I couldn’t breathe, love.
– I were bring up reight.
– You’re bleeding me, Mam.
– How it should be, love.
Before I get taken to play at my soft playcentre,
my one year granddaughter toddles with her zimmer frame.
Later we will take her to the memory cafe
where she’ll remember her past lives.
“Hard”, of before dawn and midnight hours:
A welder in the Clyde shipyard, 1942.
“Stinks that,” she says of the steel shavings, and Swarfega.
“Heavy”, of the hammer…
A kitchen servant in a big house.
“Hurts”, of calloused pestle and mortared deferment…
I’m all giddy at tumble down
slides, scramble nets and ballpools.
FYI: Paul Brookes, a stalwart participant in The Poet by Day Wednesday Writing Prompt, is running an ongoing series on poets, Wombwell Rainbow Interviews. Connect with Paul if you’d like to be considered for an interview. Visit him, enjoy the interviews, get introduced to some poets who may be new to you, and learn a few things.
I have mentioned in the past about losing my twins, Larissa and Lucas, who were born too early at twenty-three weeks. This Quadrille and the next poem are dedicated to them. They are still and will always be children in my life – their song lives in my heart forever.
Moonlight Sonata: Quasi Una Fantasia
Sitting at the instrument
Of lament and longing
Listening to the moonlight
Touch my eyelids
Willing for this to be fantasy
For you to hear the harmony
Of safety and love
Bookmarking this time and place
So our stardust can, one night, embrace again
This poem is a companion to the Quadrille written for Hélène Vaillant’s and Jamie Dedes’prompts for this past week. It’s a beautiful gift when inspiration strikes twice.
This secondary title of this poem, Quasi Una Fantasia, means “almost a fantasy” and comes from this essay on Beethoven’s famous Moonlight Sonata. I do not listen to a lot of classical music, however this piece I am familiar with since I shed many tears listening to the First Movement after my twins died. That phrase, “almost a fantasy” describes the surreal feelings and thoughts I experienced after I got home from the hospital without my babies in my arms. It also describes the “what if’s”, “if only’s”, and “I should have’s” of the grief experience, as well as the hope that eventually leads to healing.
I carried him for nine months and strangers said
‘It will be over before you know it’-
the bulge that kept me slightly off
balance for the last trudging month
until labor started with the pangs and contractions –
but nothing short in that process even
as nurses assured
‘it will be over before you know it’.
Wrapped him in blankets of blue and pink stripes
and then the going home outfit of white and blue,
to begin real motherhood
of crying afternoons
and sleepless nights,
well meaning friends who assured
‘this will be over before you know it’.
Wet diapers, wet beds and my wet shirts,
and those who had been here ahead whispering
‘It will be over before you know it’.
Then rocking and hugging and sweet times
and grandmas saying ‘hold on to this,
it will be over before you know it’.
Crawling, climbing, chewing everything
walking, talking, playing,
toddler to young boy
preschool to kindergarten
‘Help me’ turns to ‘I can do it’
‘Pick me up’ to ‘Let me down’
‘Come with me’ to ‘You stay here’
‘Look at me’ to ‘Leave me alone’.
And he walks away with his backpack loaded
so self assured
and boards the bus
Turning to wave and happy to go
to first grade, then middle school, then
high school
Then driving himself off to college and a future.
I watch and wonder why someone
didn’t tell me
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.)
The moon slid down through my open window
On a slippery ramp of pale light
Strangely silent for a child
Falling toward his father’s arms
But then the moon was not a child,
The child had grown older,
And I am just an old man
Rocking in the moonlight.
Words when they have no ears waiting for them
When they are not the words that wanted to be heard
Are swallowed by the vast silence
Like drowned sailors
But your words would have had my ears
And the world I’d have given to hear them.
My suitcase is in the trunk of the cab
You hug me hard
I kiss your forehead and tell you to write
But you’re too young to know the value of words,
You only know the value of grace and loveliness.
Don’t have much history,
I’m only four days old.
To most of you my name’s a mystery.
I’m the promise of the Promised Land,
I’m the crown on top the tree
Whose roots embrace the sea and sand.
I’m the fullness which you’ll never faze,
There’s nothing you can add or yearn,
These are all the things my name conveys
In a tongue I’ve yet to learn.
My face will launch a thousand rhymes
And maybe I’ll write some of them myself.
My future’s bright-eyed, ‘tween the lines.
If my riddle makes you kneel
Don’t lose heart,
My name is Klil.
He felt ambiguated
Yes, he thought, that might be the word.
His unbounded happiness had saddened him.
After all, it was bounded
By the foreshortening of his life
From his perspective.
His wide unwieldy wings ached
To enfold his young granddaughter
Whose hair smelt of fresh wheat on a summer hillock.
He wanted to take her in his arms,
His heavy wings thrumping the air
Until slowly rising above the treetops
One with the cobalt sky
They’d soar and swoop
Over quilted fields and shadowed valleys,
Then back for tea and hoops
And lessons.
Back at home
Sometime during the night,
Or was it when he woke?
His wings were gone
But the ache remained
Like phantom limbs.
You sit on my shoulders
And I hold your chubby legs
In my calloused hands.
“Look, Saba, a flag!”
“Take care, Oriki, the branches are low,”
I say. He ducks his head
And I duck my knees.
“Look, Saba, the moon!”
And I think my light is weightless
On my shoulders
Like walking on the moon.
Notes: 1. “Saba” means “Grampa” in Hebrew. 2. “Ori” is a name meaning “my light” in Hebrew and “Oriki” is a diminutive of “Ori”.
I cupped my hands around your little flame
Protecting it from susurrating air
So finite against the infinity of night
Until you rise above the eastern mountains
And light the skies with your burnished rays.
Just five days old such big hopes
Rest on such tiny shoulders,
Little Ellah, are you a goddess
Or a terebinth tree?
Your name means both these things.
Maybe you’re the goddess of the terebinth,
The holy seed foretold in Isaiah’s prophecy:
No matter what befalls us,
Like a terebinth that has been felled
Above its grounded roots
We shall grow back,
Stronger
Taller
Sweeter.
I never felt the distance before
Nor sensed the silence in the room,
I never missed the familiar footstep
Nor the clutching click of the door;
Now often I think I hear
The soft burr of your bike
Rolling, whirring in the lane
The lifting flick of the gate way latch
And the ‘tick tick’ on the window pane;
At times I see you on the prayer mat
Or in your writing chair;
Where you would sit for hours on end
To read and write and note and plan,
And from time to time
Would turn around, to exchange
A friendly chat;
And now I know why God made sons
Why faith and peace is strong,
When love is true and distances long,
No absence can ever break the bond;
And now I know
How one so close, can be so far away,
No one can show, no one can wait
To stop and pat and wipe your tears away;
My son my dear, in distant land
You are with me, each day
As when I first held your hand
You first opened your eyes,
And tried to say….”Aye”
Time moved on and time moves on
Time is just fair
My son My dear, in another land,
You are not here ….
You left the footsteps in the sand;
I know… I wake up with a start,
You are forever in my heart;
Your helmet heavy in your hand,
I see you, standing there.
“Let us all strive for peace on Earth for all. Let us make a better world. Write to make peace prevail.” Anjum Wasim Dar, Pakistani poet, writer, artist, educator, and parent.
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. I currently run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers. My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. My poetry was recently read byNorthern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. I was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where I was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”
“What if our religion was each other. If our practice was our life. If prayer, our words. What if the temple was the Earth. If forests were our church. If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean. What if meditation was our relationships. If the teacher was life. If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being.” Ganga White, teacher and exponent of Yoga and founder of White Lotus, a Yoga center and retreat house in Santa Barbara, CA
“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.
All of the interviews on Paul’s blog – The Wombwell Rainbow – are interesting and worth your time. Paul’s doing a fabulous job. I have selected Bozhidar Pangelov’s interview to feature today because it includes a tidbit of a reference about what it is like to be a writer and lover of literature in times and places of repression. Though those of us who came of age during the Cold War are conscious of this, I often wonder about younger people. Perhaps I’m just out of touch. Bozhidar also shares some thoughts on authenticity that I appreciate as well as his practical perspective on the poet as professional.
At any rate, many of you are familiar with Bozhidar’s work since he is a frequent contributor to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt (as is Paul) and he has also been featured on this site before.
My thanks to both Paul and Bozhidar for permission to share this interview with you here today. And thanks to Paul for doing this series. I think it’s a real contribution. / J.D.
Prolific Yorkshire Poet, Paul Brookes
PAUL BROOKES (The Wombwell Rainbow): “I am honoured and privileged that . . . poets, local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.
“The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too…”
Bozhidar Pangelov
BOZHIDAR PANGELOV (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия блог за авторска поезия ) was born in the soft month of October in the city of the chestnut trees, Sofia, Bulgaria, where he lives and works. He likes joking that the only authorship which he acknowledges are his three children and the job-hobby in the sphere of the business services. His first book Four Cycles was written entirely with an unknown author but in a complete synchronicity on motifs of the Hellenic legends and mythos. The coauthor (Vanja Konstantinova) is the editor of his next book Delta. She is the woman to whom The Girl Who… is dedicated. Bozhidar’s last (so far) book is The Man Who. A bilingual poetry book A Feather of Fujiama is being published on Amazon as a Kindle edition.
Some of Bozhidar’s poems are translated in Italian, German, Polish, Russian,Chinese, Turkish, Arabic, Romanian, Portuguese and English languages and are published on poetry sites as well as in anthologies and some periodicals all over the world. Bozhidar Pangelov is on of the German project Europe .. takes Europa ein Gedicht. Castrop Rauxel ein Gedicht RUHR 2010 and the project SPRING POETRY RAIN 2012, Cyprus.
Bozhidar’s pen name “bogpan” means “god Pan” – in Greek religion and mythology.
The Fourth Century St. George Rotunda is considered the oldest building in Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, the city in which Bozhidar was born and lives. Photo courtesy of Sveti Georgi underCC BY 2.0 license.
The Interview
What were the circumstances under which you began to write poetry?
I have the feeling that I have always written poetry. At home we used to have quite rich book library. Throughout my awkward past the (the political system), reading was a way of having a life in another worlds. Can you imagine that there used to be long queues for each translated book from a foreign author! Well, eventually the cause of writing my first poem was quite funny. Me and a friend of mine used to be in love with the same girl. The conflict about who is going to meet her was resolved after each of us wrote a poem. Romantics of the youth.
2. Who introduced you to poetry?
To answer this question I would like to make some clarifications concerning the educational system in my country. In that system literature is considered as a compulsory subject and leads to serious exams that allow you to apply for a higher educational degree. In the study books are included national as well as international authors. In that aspect, if you like literature you just start writing.
3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?
During the time when I was young, the government used to dictate names of poets, but I have always been a rebel and that’s why I never accepted any names. Later on, when the political system changed what remained was my love and amusement by the great worldwide poets.
4. What is your daily writing routine?
I am not a professional poet and I don’t need to write every day to earn my living. Certainly I don’t trust poems written by professional poets because in most of the cases these poems have unclear aesthetic values and are there to satisfy the popular reader’s taste.
5. What motivates you to write?
The emotions. Despite the fact that everybody feels the defined emotions as love,pain and etc., each person senses them in their own unique way. The thought that inevitably exists in a poem rests between the conscious and unconscious. I think that a poem written only by the conscious effort of one’s mind is rather a short essay or a short novel. Still there should be a cross point between poetry and prose and for me that’s the emotions.
6. What is your work ethic?
George Seferis [Georgios Seferiades] (1900 – 1971). One of the most important Greek poets of the last century, a diplomat and a Nobel laureate.I understand this question as related to writing. Ethic for me means to write a “real” poem. Now I sense the forthcoming question which would be what is the criteria or how would you determine what “real” is. A possible answer to this question is the one of the Nobel winner of Greek origin Georgius Seferis, who answers to a similar question in the following way: “But he must somehow have an instinct—a guiding instinct—which says to him: ‘My dear boy, my dear chap, be careful; you are going to fall. You are exaggerating at this moment.'” In this sense my instinct tells me that it’s an absurdity to expect everybody to understand poetry. Whoever wants to understand everything can read newspapers or magazine news. Still it’s uncertain that one will understand everything. At that point I would like to remind the following thought of T.S. Eliot: “Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.“
7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?
Youngsters, who tend to get highly impressed after reading an author who relates to their inner self remember this artwork and this author which remains forever in their subconscious no matter if they are aware of it or not. That’s how the model works, which we reproduce in our own way. A poem doesn’t emerge from the nowhere.
8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?
Considering my experience and age it’s hard for me to get impressed. I just get extremely happy when I come across with an author, who has his/her own unique style, who is distinguishable from the majority. I would like to point at one single name, so I don’t miss out on some of my favourite authors. Stefan Goncharov – a young poet, who established his presence in a quite powerful and mature way just within few months time and having in mind that these were his first poems! As I can say – this man was born a poet.
9. Why do you write?
With writing I’m trying to express the inexpressible.
10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?
In case that your question is – how can I become a professional writer, I can’t reply. I guess that this is something you can learn at the creative writing courses. For me this question has never been important. I just write. I think that if one wants to become a good writer, not only many books need to be read, but that person at a certain point needs to forget about all the knowledge and without a fear start writing in the way of expressing his/her own thoughts and feelings. To be honest with himself/herself and without thinking how to be liked by the readers. There isn’t an ultimate audience of readers that is there to like your writing. Here I would give a longer quote from the interview with Georgius Seferis – Henri Michaux “You know, my dear, a man who has only one reader is not a writer. A man who has two readers is not a writer, either. But a man who has three readers”—and he pronounced “three readers” as though they were three million—“that man is really a writer.”
11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.
At the moment I don’t run my own projects. I’m engaged as an editor of the monthly magazine, New Asocial Poetry. We are preparing surprises for the published authors and new sections. There is already a new section for translations from mostly English language. At this point I would like to say that most of the young people know English, but unfortunately only few people for whom English is their mother tongue know my language. Maybe the reason for that the Cyrillic alphabet is mistaken for the Russian alphabet. Historically is exactly the opposite. Translations require hard work, especially when the literature is created in another language. For that reason we came up with the idea of having a new section for foreign literature dedicated to foreign authors who are a living example for language’s application and usage. All the authors, who are interested in participating in such project can read more about it HERE. .Whoever wants to learn more about the publishing requirements is kindly invited to apply with his/her literature by contacting me at newasocialpoetry@gmail.com.
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers.
My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
The urban poor buy water from water vendors for, on average, about five to 16 times the metered price. Photo courtesy of Oxfam East Africa under CC BY 2.0
“Wealth does not trickle down to the poor. Oxfam knows this, the IMF knows this, the World Bank knows this. Poor people have always known this.” Winnie Byanyima, Oxfam International Executive Director
These responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, which was “poverty,” September 19th demonstrate sensitivity, observation, conscience, compassion and skill. Clearly, these are more than good poets. They are the most decent human beings. Thanks Irene Emanuel, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Marta Pombo Sallés and bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov). Also with appreciation for participating and sharing their fine work, a warm welcome Wendy Bourke and Alethea Kehas.
Read on, enjoy, be inspired and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt tomorrow. All are encourage: novice, emerging and pro.
souls and human beings
she walked down the street median … passed the row
of idling cars that would have raced by her,
but for, the bright red orb that signalled: stop
she held a cardboard sign ‘pregnant – need money for food’ …
I could not tell, if the gloom upon her old young face
reflected anger or hate or sadness or pain or all of it
it is impossible to move around this manic city without anguish …
without words like ‘souls’ and ‘human beings’ tumbling
across your mind, like tosses of dice in a game of craps
she caught me … staring at her through the window …
and I sheepishly cast my eyes down – for I knew the look I wore
expressed my shock and frightened thoughts of the fate
that awaited the unborn child … if there was an unborn child
she came up to my car door, as if she’d been summoned
and, rolling down the window, I pressed a blue five bucks
into a limp and grimy hand … wondering … if I’d just been played …
as if such speculations have a place … where human beings beg
WENDY BOURKE lives in Vancouver, Canada where she writes, goes on long rambling walks gathering photos and inspiration – and hangs out with family and friends. After a life loving words and scribbling poetry lines on pizza boxes and used envelopes, Wendy finally got down to writing ‘in earnest’ seven years ago. Her work has appeared in over 100 poetry anthologies and journals.
Bloated Bellies
I wasn’t poor for long,
At least that’s what I chose to believe
My grandmother tells me the story of our return
From the Hare Krishnas
Faces the color of ashes, bellies bloated
Over skinny legs
I was too young to remember
But the ache has become
A troublesome cyst
I refuse to extract
Inside a place to dark and deep
For life. Like the hole in our outhouse
I don’t remember walking in the night
But I remember shame folded
Into second-hand clothes
And the pink satin nightgown
Never worn by another child
All that was missing was a crown
When she was two, ALETHEA KEHAS spent several months in hiding with the Hare Krishnas from a father she chose to believe was a villain until she reunited with him at the age of thirty-six. Alethea’s story is told in her memoir, A Girl Named Truth. She is also the author of The Labyrinth, Book 1 in the Warriors of Light fantasy series for children of all ages, but especially those who feel a little different on the inside and outside. Alethea’s Amazon page is HERE.
A Penny Drop
must never happen.
We must always be misunderstood
to communicate clearly and cogently.
Wrong end of the stick grasped firmly.
Vagueness is clarity.
If you let the penny drop confusion
and disillusion will result.
As many of you know, Paul launched a series of interviews a few weeks ago. HERE is the link to the most recent. It’s with Deborah Alma, one of my faves. She was also featured on The Poet by Day and in The BeZine regarding #Me Too a women’s poetry anthology. She is England’s “Emergency Poet.”
HERE is the link to Paul’s U.S. Amazon page. HERE is the link to Paul’s U.K. Amazon page.
Togetherness
They’re there;
hollowed into make-shift sponge-foam beds,
tight-curled into malodorous rag-blankets
and plastic of dubious origin.
They’re there;
the shadow-ghost people
of no fixed abode,
gathered loosely together
in cohesive misery.
They’re there;
existing on society’s fringe,
sustained by the government’s pandering promises;
sharing glue-highs and garbage rot.
They’re there;
old children, dying people,
together in perpetual poverty.
They’re there;
trampled contours on grass verges,
silhouettes on street corners,
robotic vendors with nothing to sell but themselves.
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.)
Spring anticipation in the air
Orange reddened sun
Gets ready to hide its rays
Behind the lowest of all mountains
Mirroring itself on the lake.
Vanity at its highest level.
Yet the picture turns out different
In a mixture of yellow and blue
Of greed and sadness a faithful clue.
“You’re so vain,
You probably think
This march is about
You…”
Reads the banner
At the Women’s March
January 21, 2017.
Millions came together
Across the globe
To raise their voices
Against your choices
Mr. Trump.
Your misogyny,
Racism,
Xenophobia,
Your greed and your lies
Are most unwelcome
Because it is your vanity
That makes you lie.
Where’s the first media-built man
That promised jobs for the working-class
To make America First and great again
When all you bring is constant pain
Erasing truths and liberties from earth.
The second man’s now on the surface,
Two sides of the same coin,
And the reddened sun sets down
While Vanity School runs high
For Marine Le Pen, Geert Wilders,
Frauke Petry, Beppe Grillo…
And the like.
Even Spain’s Rajoy’s a little Trump,
Profound ignorant and clown,
Who drains the fund backing pensions
With an air smell of corruption.
Won’t you grant us, Catalans,
Once for all that referendum
Any democratic state would offer
To a stateless people to decide:
The right to self-determination.
No, instead, you’re blurring powers
Just exactly as Donald Trump
Judicializing politics and sending
The very democrats to court
For organizing a participatory process
In Catalonia, November 9, 2014.
Vanity School expands its limits
And buys a handful Orwell’s 1984
While the sea has just began to weep:
Mare Nostrum, Mare Mortum,
In 2016 almost 5.000 people
Drowned and died
From 2000 till now 30.000 dead!
With Barcelona’s pro-refugee rally,
The largest in Europe and perhaps
In the entire world till now,
We will surely not have enough
To eradicate our human misery.
The red sun has just hidden
Behind the lowest mountain
And as darkness unfolds
The picture changes colors:
Grayish blues carrying their shadows
On a rippled lake obscured
Where birds and ducks move
Swiftly countercurrent.
Marta’s “A tasty lentil soup” served up in both English and Catalan was published in response to another prompt, but we’re going to share it again … Enjoy!
A tasty lentil soup
keeps you warm from the cold.
Coldness outside
speaks of emptiness,
sadness in a cloudy day.
Or is it just the fog all around
that saddens your mind and spirit?
Going through the streets
the walking dead
if they can still walk.
You saw poverty’s face
the system’s decay.
Needles in their hands,
hollow eyes, ailment,
people lost without a second chance.
Is this what you came here for?
But you had your lentil soup
that kept your body warm
while your bleeding heart
sank into the deepest darkness.
You detached it from the body
took it to analyze and
put it on to a microscope
And the bleeding heart spoke up
vomited nothing but the truth
awaiting the other truth that hurts.
You knew it would happen.
The lentil soup eaten
in the Arabian restaurant
and then a sudden sound,
a slight noise on the floor,
something moves near your table.
You raise your eyes and there it is:
A black pigeon inside
walks a few steps toward you
as if he wanted to speak.
“Do we have a new guest?”
The waitress gently guides him
to the main room
near the entrance door.
The bird moves his wings
flies inside the restaurant.
The waitresss, a little scared,
utters an “oh” sound
while the black pigeon
displays his wings, flies away
through the restaurant door.
A sad bird looking
for temporary company,
maybe a friendship
but forever unattainable.
El colom negre
Una saborosa sopa de llenties
t’escalfa del fred.
La fredor a l’exterior
parla de buidor,
tristesa en un dia plujós.
O és només la boira per tot arreu
que t’entristeix la ment i l’esperit?
Anant pel carrer
els morts caminant
si és que encara poden caminar.
Has vist el rostre de la pobresa,
la decadència del sistema.
Agulles a les seves mans,
ulls buits, malaltia,
gent perduda sense una segona oportunitat.
És per això que has vingut aquí?
Però tu et menges la teva sopa de llenties
que t’escalfa el cos
mentre la teva ànima sagnant
s’enfonsa en la més profunda foscor.
La separares del teu cos
i l’agafares per analitzar
posant-la en un microscopi.
I l’ànima sagnant va parlar
vomitant res més que la veritat,
esperant l’altra veritat que fa mal.
Ja sabies que això passaria.
La sopa de llenties menjada
en el restaurant àrab
i llavors, un soroll sobtat,
una remor al terra,
alguna cosa es mou prop la teva taula.
Alces la mirada i és allí:
Un colom negre a dins.
Camina uns passos cap a tu
com si volgués parlar.
– Tenim un nou convidat?
La cambrera el guia gentilment
cap a la sala principal.
L’ocell mou les seves ales,
vola dins del restaurant.
La cambrera, una mica espantada,
deixa anar un “oh!”
mentre el colom negre
desplega les ales, vola lluny
a través de la porta del restaurant.
Un ocell trist, buscant
companyia temporal,
potser una amistat
però per sempre, inabastable.
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers.
My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
“It’s ironic that poets use words to convey what lies beyond words, that poetry becomes most powerful where simple language fails, allowing one to bridge the conscious and unconscious.” – Diane Ackerman, poet and writer
These responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt on parenting and being parented (yes! I coined an ackward word), September 12 are likely to bring you to tears, to awaken forgotten memories or validate ones that are vivid in mind. Thanks to Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Renee Espriu, deb y fell (Debbie Felio), Sonja Benskin Mesher, Tamam Tracy Moncur, and bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov) and a warm welcome to Jennifer Collins. Brave, wise and wonderful poets all.
Read on and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt tomorrow. All are encourage: novice, emerging and pro.
The long road home
The umbilical cord between us,
Invisible to the naked eye,
Has a life of its own.
No matter how hard I try,
To pull away, even at my age,
It has an elastic snap
And cuts me short, then bounces
Me back to you.
I wonder how long it spans,
Even as you get carted away,
Across highways,
Somewhere upstate,
I know I will feel the internal tug,
Pull and tug and pull,
Till the pain brings tears to my eyes
And I run to the kitchen to grab hold
Of the scissors to cut and cut and cut
Me away from you.
But no matter how hard I try,
The damn thing finds its way back
And re-attaches itself to my heart,
To my gut- to your beating belly center
From which it was born.
JENNIFER COLLINS: I’m a writer, yoga instructor, social worker, wife and mom. I live on long Island. Writing for me has always been an outlet and a way to navigate and understand the world and my experiences. It is my compass, guiding me through the rough and quiet waters of my life.
toughish love
dad had a note he would send
one of the three of us brothers
to the store with: “please sell my son
2 packs of pall malls”
i didn’t like to do it
i never liked to do it
one day i refused.
i had to not lie.
“dad. i’m not going to do this
any more.”
i looked at him
and made my eyes say You
Want Me To Help Kill You.
in his eyes
was a question.
Do I Let You Defy Me?
Then there was an answer:
Ah, Well,
It’s Because He Loves Me.
dad said, “okay,”
and i never bought him cigarettes again.
i was twelve,
he was thirty-three,
but i was the parent that day.
My sons eyes are cold.
I have seen this look before.
He lugs my dog Sheba by her mane,
hauls her along the floor
a piece of meat, slopping over gunnels
in an abattoir, blood down the drains.
Her paws scratch and scrape
he dumps her at my feet.
“Bite its ear!”
I shake my head.
“If it’s done wrong, and it has
bite its ear.” I shake my head
mumble
“Done nothing wrong.”
“Eh! Speak up woman!”
“It ‘aint done nothing wrong. Jack!”
Fine rain falls through grey skies
in the pub yard, and a yellow
fluid flows out from under the dog.
“Dirty bitch!”
He kicks Sheba in her side.
She whimpers, puts her head
pleadingly on the black shiny
surface of my court shoes.
“I’ll do it then!”
Snatches her up
by the scruff
“Getting a dog
and not bringing it up right.
Stupid cow!”
He snaps at the silk of her ear.
She yelps. I cry.
“Stupid sodding cow!”
He slaps me hard
across my face. I feel
his gold rings on my cheek.
“Stop whimpering!”
Pushes me up against
the wet wall. His cold eyes
up close make me shiver.
One hand on my throat,
the other points at her. I mumble.
“Not again Jack. Please!”
My legs have gone.
“Treat the bitch right
and it’ll treat you right.”
Sheba inches against the wall,
low and hung back like the grey clouds.
Jack lets me fall. The pub door slams
Sheba, up on her legs again,
licks my face, lays down by my side
puts her head on my black court shoes.
Her neck is warm. My back hurts.
They call the rain the “Tears of God”
Originally published in Degenerate Literature, Domestic Violence Edition, Weasel Press
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.)
Substances infuse the brain
No pain
Worries…anxieties flee
Mocking reality
Illusions of joy
Permeate the atmosphere
No fear
Confidence in abundance
Eradicates the twins
Insecurity and timidity
Crack cocaine dances with heroin
Down opioid lane
The life of the party has been born
Sworn in only to begin
The cycle over and over again
The belle of the ball
Begins to fall
Tumbling…tumbling…tumbling
Into the depths of despair
Where even love-starved children
Cannot pierce the fierce
Grasp of addiction
Brokenhearted families
Succumb to the numbness
Of a devastating madness
Found in pipes…pills…powders
In the streets…prescriptions
over the counters
living death destroying
the fabric of love…
Is that the season?
The leaves are hitting the silent windows
and some roots of trees are creaking,
but I am a dream.
I do not recognize the colors,
when the sun of that town
without time shelters me like Mum.
Which flowers shall I gift to you?
I am not a saint – I cannot revive you.
I cannot even grieve
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers.
My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 