“No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your knowledge.
“The teacher who walks in the shadow of the temple, among his followers, gives not of his wisdom but rather of his faith and his lovingness.
“If he is indeed wise he does not bid you enter the house of his wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind.” Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
The theme for Wednesday Writing Prompt, awakening on our rockey rebel road, June 6, 2018, was to share with us the poet in non-ordinary reality, the doorways that lead from the physical to the spiritual. This was perhaps not the easiest of prompts but these poets rose to the occasion with depth and panache. Lovely!
Thank you Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Bozhidar Pangelov and Anjum Wasim Dar. Bravo!
A warm welcome to poet, writer and educator, Michele Stepto, new to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt. I included a link below to her book, which looks fascinating. It’s on my reading list.
Enjoy this fine collection with its profound delights and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. Links to each poet’s site are included below so that you can visit, read more of their work, and get to know them.
Fog
She received as a gift a carpet
with fog in it and moved
the furniture and rolled
the carpet out in the middle
of the room and found
that fog was rising out of it
in little wisps
and that when she stood
at the edge of it it
was just like standing at the edge of a cliff
high up over the ocean in the evening
when the fog is coming in
She moved the furniture back
and it did not
fall through the carpet
it did not disappear
she sat down in her old
armchair next to the lamp
and thought
she was floating in mid-air
on a foggy day
or flying a plane in the fog
everything feeling pleasantly
cold and damp as she closed her eyes
She sat there for a long while
dreaming about trees seen in fog
and things coming toward you
out of the fog small birds
who stayed put and didn’t fly in the fog
as she was staying put
now in her chair
their heads tucked
under their wings and dreaming
as she was of paradise
of their own Shambhala
high in the mountains
girdled in fog
or clouds
it hardly
mattered
© 2018, Michele Stepto
MICHELE STEPTO: I have taught literature and writing at Yale University for many years, and recently at the Bread Loaf School of English in Vermont. My work has appeared online at Verse-Virtual, What Rough Beast (at Indolentbooks.com), Ekphrastic Review, NatureWriting, Mirror Dance, Lacuna Journal, and One Sentence Poems, which nominated “The Unfinished Poem” for a Pushcart Prize this year. Along with my son Gabriel, I translated from the original Spanish Lieutenant Nun: Memoir of a Basque Transvestite in the New World.
„Убийството на Марат“, Бодри, (1868)
“Miss Corde was reading Plutarch by night the books then used to be taken seriously” Zbigniew Herbert
(Adam Lux – Meditations)
Miss (or already, why not, Missis)
is reading.
So did she before getting married. The revolution of 1960s All is Love is over.
She used to sleep in tents. Why not?
The freedom has to be defended.
Drums, fires, the screams:
“Down with! Who doesn’t jump is.”
Rumble behind the walls. Marat is. Alive? Death? Used to live?
The time is traveling. The crown’s refined hat.
The hair short. With all the colors.
“In a dress like a blue rock.”
Obelisk? Yes! of passing from
necessity to
necessity (for survival).
Mrs. Corde, is reading. The Game of …
She’s dreaming. “All is love”.
The day is the most usual.
Charlotte?
She administrated justice.
The falling stars are glowing.
Democratic changes in Bulgaria started after the Berlin Wall in 1989 Jean Paul Marat, a prominent French Revolution. Charlotte Conde is his murderer. https://shortprose.blog
© 2018, bogpan [Bozhidar Pangelov] (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия блог за авторска поезия)
REALM
Sleep deprivation
May lead to conversation
That you wake up inthemiddleof
Even though it is you who is talking.
The Goddess of Sleeplessness
In that other underworld
Has made you an emissary of her
Realm,
And conferred on you
The demigod’s trick
Of creating monsters.
Taillights
Become eyes…
© 2018, Gary W. Bowers (One With Clay, Image and Text)
A Smooth Skin
is ugly. Trace beauty
in bloody edges of scars.
Tattoo your face and hands
with raw wounds. Glow.
Bruises brighten your looks.
Pimples and spots mark sexiness.
Wrinkles entice awe.
The look is all in scabs.
Containers
do not contain. Vacuum
is packed with it all.
I wish you were more obtuse.
I can’t understand this clarity.
All is tightly enclosed in open space.
All is nebulous.
Please talk in riddles. Plain
Sentences confuse my head.
Exactitude is imprecise.
Clarity is obscurity.
Distance is not a measure.
I need you to be woolly with words.
Only The
incompetent do their jobs properly.
Ensure you are only partly trained.
Half skilled emergency services save lives.
It’s what you don’t know that counts.
Amateurs are the only professionals.
Fully trained and experienced cause accidents.
Complete competency leads to lack of trust.
Once experienced you are useless to society.
Successful people are always trainees.
They are oil in the cogs, ensure smooth running.
Mistakes ensure a job is done thoroughly.
They ensure society is rectified.
Be Promising
There are no promises.
Money does not exist.
Nothing to breach.
No agreements or vows.
One can never be broken.
You can never be on one.
No laws, no lines can’t be crossed.
You promise not to promise.
© 2018, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)
This Poem Must Be Taken Literally
My body is a rainbow
My blood is an explosion
My heart is a rusty cage
These are not metaphors
Please take this literally
That cloud is my opinion
That road is an orange
That wish is my house
That burnt toast is my belonging
These are not metaphors
This hand is a metal spade
This foot is a knife edge
This mouth is a dark valley
These words are made of light
This is not a poem
This is the ultimate answer.
This tells you how to live
This tells you the only truth
This Mop And Bucket
are poetry to me.
My pen is a mop
I stick in a bucket
of disinfectant floor cleaner
pull out mop sodden
with words and splash
them backwards and forwards
slop lines one after the other
Until the floor fair shines,
My mop is dry, needs another dip.
I squeeze out the gunk
back into the bucket.
More the floor shines,
dirtier the bucketful gets.
A good poem is a clean floor.
© 2018, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)
. reading for anna .
carrying the book, gently,
i find that jesus
is off the wall again.
breeze from the doors
blows him and cobwebbed minds
away,
as i write the small book,
on black keys of words.
gentle here this morning,
sun dreams in,
quiet in all the rooms,
and arms held high,
i come into the morning,
with string and sealing wax.
sbm.
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher
.valley of the widow.
grey day, rain.
squeaky bath taps.
this is the valley
of the widow.
this is the day.
writing the wall,
trees stand tall.
yellow flags, the route,
to another place
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher
There Is Someone
There is someone who talks to me
And keeps me waiting-
If only I could see The Spirit
Which I feel close by, yet so far
A bar on thoughts and actions,
I cannot think because my mind is quiet
And not moving or stirring
Lest the sweet words of The Spirit
May not find their way in-
And I may crush the tender layer thin
In between which keeps us bound,
I cannot let go the joy
I have found in my heart
at hearing the mellifluous melody
of the affectionate aura around,
which seeps into my soul to make peace
and washes smoothly away the tears
and the fears so deep,
I can now sleep with ease
For I cannot speak of the
Good Night Prayer
That descends in time so rare
my soul, to repair
And I cannot say that if I wake
Life may be like a snow flake
White and pure and sure, as
The Angels will come to Heaven, take.
© 2018, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)
“I am fated to journey hand in hand with my strange heroes and to survey the surging immensity of life, to survey it through the laughter that all can see and through the tears unseen and unknown by anyone.” Nikolai Gogol
The heartening responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, the hanged man, May 30, which asked what people – well-known or not – inspire us. Thanks to poets Lisa Ashley, Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Sheila Jacobs, Sonja Benskin Mesher and Marta Pombo Sallés responded with work that is both beautiful and heartfelt. Thanks to Sonja and Marta for also sharing their illustrations.
Welcome to the multi-talented Clarissa Simmens, making her debut here with Austisophobia.
I must also draw your attention to John Anstie’s homage to his stepmom, One of a Kind. Read it HERE.
Enjoy! … and don’t forget to visit these poets and get to know them and to join with us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged to share their work on theme.
AUTISOPHOBIA
Most people fear me
Now that I’ve confessed
My autism
Despite the internet
And other fonts of info
They think we all melt down
And want to commit violence
On anyone blocking our path
Even if we only know them virtually
When the main thing
We on the spectrum share
Is our despair
That we are unlovable
To others
Merely because
We don’t know
The right words to say
Or the correct facial expression
When we are thinking of what was said
And what we’d like to convey
I dislike pity
So when things get sad
I go into Warrior Mode
A secret code
That bids me to lift my head
Love myself
And most days (and nights) I do
But there are times
When I watch as others
Shower kudos on their
Sisters and Brothers
The Neurotypical
Who fit in
While the Neurodiverse
Like me
Suffer the penalty
Of being different…
(c) 2018 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja) (Poeturja)
CLARISSA SIMMENS (Poeturja) Clarissa Simmens is an Independent poet; Romani drabarni (herbalist/advisor); ukulele and guitar player; wannabe song writer; and music addict. Her poetry is written simply, striving to compose musically, including talking blues, folktales, and memoirs of life. Facebook and Amazon. (photo © Clarrissa Simmens)
I have health and body challenges. This simply written narrative “homage” is trying to capture how it might be for my “Swim Buddy” and the thoughts that cross my mind about him as I swim and work out in the water. I hold nothing but admiration for him.
Swim Buddy
One random day he fell off a ladder.
Paralyzed on impact
never to walk again, they said.
What year ago did he appear
young man in a wheelchair
rolling into the water?
How many hours has he fought
his struggles unknown
to the likes of you and me?
What year did he appear one day,
legs booted and braced,
swaying from side to side?
He swims laps beside me most days now,
offers to loan his special chair—
my surgery is coming soon.
Some months with walker & cane for me,
sticks & braces for him forever,
we park side by side in the disabled spots.
We cross paths in the grocery aisle
sneaking looks at what we’ve chosen,
both leaning on our carts, canes tucked in.
He is greeted by many, a strange notoriety,
his story known on the island.
How many times a day does he say, I’m okay?
We speak hello by the locker room
noting the weather, he’s finished early today.
I don’t ask. We go our separate ways,
he to his truck, me to the water.
© 2018, Lisa Ashley
vincent van gone
john wayne took
kirk douglas to task
for playing vincent van gogh
“play real men, not queers”
is only lightly edited for conciseness
but vincent was a real man
not a very pleasant man
but none can deny that fierce passion
that took him to the coal mines as a lay preacher
and gave him to live as the miners did
In the wretchedest of poverty
(he was soon fired, of course,
for misrepresentation of a proper preacher)
humiliation and scorn were his daily lot
the townsfolk called him “crazy red”
and he lived squalidly
but he was a dreamer alchemist
and he distilled an elixir
of hurtsoul and seethy seeing
from his churning core
and spread the elixir on canvases
he is gone but not
rectangles of his psyche remain
© 2018, Gary W. Bowers (One with Clay, Image and Text)
I see the unexpected generosity of so called “ordinary people” as remarkable:
Caravan (Please Take Change)
Three women in the queue
The first empties her packed trolley.
Do you need any carrier bags?
I ask.
Three to start with. I have to sort out
What we’re taking in the caravan.
Why did I buy so much?
Help packing?
Yes please while I empty this.
We’ll do it for you offers one of the other women.
We’d love a caravan holiday. Don’t take up much space.
Five carrier bags full later she says. I’ll have to fetch my car round. I’ll never carry all this.
We’ll carry it for you. We’ve only got these odd goods propose the other two women.
I can’t have you doing that.
Yes you can.
A caravan of women carry bags
out the door.
© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)
“Don’t let it get away!”
my sister shouts as my Dad’s hot air
wrapped in rubber flaps up
over the ocean
in a cross gust.
We both climb in to steady it.
“We’re going out too far!
“I can’t see mum and dad.”
She shouts clambering back out.
She grasps the rope to pull
it forward but gust is too strong.
She lets rope go. “I’m going
back.” she shouts and swims away.
I try to paddle but gust is against me.
I get out, grab the rope, try to haul,
the current is against me. I climb
back in. Watch the beach, and mum
and dad disappear, till there is only
the gusted, grey green waves.
It is cold. In my trunks I curl
into a question mark
in the rubber dinghy.
Suddenly, a shout. A huge hand
gathers me and dinghy up.
I rise into air. Lifted
into a smelly fishing boat.
“Thought tha wa lost their lad.”
the sea god says.
© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)
Pied Wagtail
As I pack another’s bag
He says ” I were a packer
down pit. Tha’d have made
a good packer.”
I set each odd shaped stone
in place to hold back debris
hold up the pit roof so others
may have space to work.
As I pack her bag
She says “Aren’t they beautiful.
The pied wagtails”
She watches their skitter
and bob outside the shop
window. “My dad was
a blacksmith in the pits.
Well, he was a farrier,
But when they got rid
of the ponies he became
a blacksmith. He allus
told me Pied Wagtails
nested in pit prop piles
stacked outside the pit.”
My pit prop holds up
the roof that others
may safely work.
The pits are all closed
their memories are all open,
a black and white skitter and bob.
Packer:
Pack – Roof support made of stone. Large stones at the front, built up like a dry stone wall.
Packer (1) – One deployed to build the pack walls and fill behind with debris.
Packer (2) – A big piece of stone to use in the pack wall.
Packing – Act of building a pack wall and filling a void.
Packhole – Void at coal face to stow dirt either or both sides of the gate from the ripping lip.
© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)
Showing them
i.m.Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis 1929-1993
They discussed her wardrobe for Texas.
Simple, elegant outfits, Jack suggested
especially on the Dallas trip – to show
those fur-hugging diamond -dripping
dowagers what good taste really was.
She showed them: chose a pink Chanel
suit, navy blouse and matching pill box
hat laid out the night before, accessories
hidden while she smiled to crowds along
Elm Street, waved a white-gloved hand.
When he frowned,suddenly,slumped
forward in the heat’s glare she hunkered
down, cradled his broken head in her lap,
scrambled across the limousine’s trunk
with white kid gloves polka-dotted red.
She lay on the back seat, her body draped
over his, wouldn’t let go until she reached
the Trauma Room of Parkland Hospital;
sat outside,refused to remove her gloves,
relinquish any more of him to strangers.
She showed them, showed the world as
L.B.J.swore the Oath of Allegiance on Air
Force One and she stood at his side, wore
blood-stained stockings and snags of dried
grey matter on her shocking-pink suit.
© 2018, Sheila Jacob
i read Glyn Hughes, sometimes.
sometimes, i look at the photograph,
and wonder how it was that last year;
think of
how you wrote to me, sent
me your book
with a private inscription.
© 2018, poem and illustrations (below), Sonja Benskin Mesher
jon lord
the words came clearly, shining,
by the kettle early. knowing
i must write,.disappearance on
the stairs, may they drift in later
like a moth, soft and quietning.
now i write nothing, just
the shapes and patterns,
the notes on keys, tapping.
usually the same each morning,
until the differences,
show, and we are challenged.
john lord is gone, his words and sounds
remain.
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher
I do not have any poem specially dedicated to a famous person for their courage, wisdom or whatever other qualities to admire, but I have a homage to some anonymous people that unfortunately are no longer among us:
Time
cannot be changed
or escaped.
Time is a thief,
a friend to no one
and every day is
a gift.
You cannot change time
or travel back
to reverse those things which
should never have taken place.
People killed for no reason
or
is there ever a reason
to kill other human beings?
Those people did not get lost.
When you’re lost you’ll sooner or later
find the way back.
Or perhaps not.
But you’re not erased from Earth.
Those people were killed,
just a few compared to other countries
in our world.
None of them will ever return
to the world as we know it.
They’ve just been removed too soon,
swept away by the cruelty of others:
white supremacists, Muslim terrorists …
But which governments are orchestrating
such massacres in our world?
Who’s feeding the monsters
is equally a monster.
Let’s tackle the root of the problem.
Only this way we’ll be able to say:
I am not afraid!
Time and human cruelty
are friends to no one:
Charlottesville, Barcelona, Cambrils
and many more.
The outcome is always the same.
© 2018, poem and illustration, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)
2nd poem: A tribute to a Catalan allegorical figure, the Pescallunes, a moon fisherboy, and to those anonymous people following his example:
Someone unplugged and unscrewed
the moon and the stars.
They were stolen away from us
and we were left with a dark blanket,
covering the surface of the Earth,
under which we must live our lives.
Amid the darkness, in the sky
of a salted night, some of us
sit by the same old sea,
or mountain, or field, or by that river,
where once a sickle moon reflected itself.
Soft wind combs the lonely fields
of broken dreams.
Some of us search for the lost moon and stars,
electricians looking for some spare parts
to screw and plug in again in our hearts,
in the sky of illusions.
Some of us have brushes in our hands
starting the repair job,
painting a new landscape.
Someone plugs in the sun
and when the night comes again
stars and moon begin to shine anew.
The mirror of the sickle moon
reappears on the river waters.
As the ancient legend tells
a fisherboy wants to fish the moon
and put it in his bucket.
Someone laughs at him
and at the impossibility.
But deep inside the boy knows
he is a pescallunes,
a moon fisherboy,
like any other inhabitant
of that small Catalan village.
The fisherboy knows deep inside
our world needs more moon catchers
like you and me,
people with plenty of illusions,
dreams and projects.
© 2018, poem and illustration, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)
And the 3r poem is again an allegory or personification:
A long time ago
I got used to living with
My open wounds,
The last withered while
I was staring at the sunset
In the middle of the fog.
Yes, you told me so many times
About your suffering,
How your heart shrunk
Fisted in bleeding red
While your eyes tasted
The salt of the ocean waves
And cristal pearls were running
Down your cheeks.
On that plane you felt
The freezing coldness
Where just one thing
Would not freeze:
The fountain of your tears.
Yes, indeed I remember
All the pain on that plane.
You sent me back to the
Land of rejection.
Yet I am a resilient rock
With my withered wounds
That I carry since ancient times
On this eroded earth.
But to exist is to resist
And so I dwell in human hearts
Who care for each other.
And may I receive your boasting waves
Crashing on my shores
Those hearts will restore me again
For I am silent love and not vain.
© 2018, poem and illustration, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)
“Whereas story is processed in the mind in a straightforward manner, poetry bypasses rational thought and goes straight to the limbic system and lights it up like a brushfire. It’s the crack cocaine of the literary world.” Jasper Fforde, First Among Sequels
Where does your poetry come from? How do you receive it? That was the essential prompt for last Wednesday, The Witching Hour, May 23, 2018. What a fun and fine response. Clearly almost all of us think there is something rather magical or mystical happening. So here today, I’m delighted to share the work of old and new friends with their old and new poems, sometimes connected to the theme by a slight silken thread and that’s okay. All good. I know you’ll enjoy yourselves as much as I have.
Thanks to poets John Anstie, Paul Brookes, Marta Pombo Sallés, Frank McMahan and Anjum Wasim Dar and a warm welcome to Neeldip. Be sure to visit these poets and get to know them. Links to their sites are included. If they have no blog or website, you might catch up with them on Facebook. Congrats to our prolific Paul who keeps those chapbooks and collections coming at a breathless rate. Bravo!
Please do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.
A Fairy in Disguise
Meadows turned to mist even the azure’s smiled,
lights were blinded till a distant mile,
when she walked down the morning aisle.
Fireflies were her companion when she sang along nightangles,
Moonlight was her curtain,
As she strolled through the shrouded forest,
Midst the starry fountain.
© 2018, Neeldip (Neeldip1998)
Neeldip has sent a bio yet, but when he does, I will post it. Meanwhile he was invited in by Mart Pombo Salés. She said to him, “Beautifully written. Love how you recreate this mysterious atmosphere in the world of fairies and goblins. This is also the world of the Muse that whispers something in the poet’s ear. Is this why you say “A Fairy In Disguise”? Your poem carries something similar to a mystical experience. The ending is very powerful with the “starry fountain”. Isn’t that the fountain of life and inspiration? I think it would be perfect for the next Wednesday Prompt … ”
The Dream of a Poet
I woke up with a start some time ago;
A very familiar path;
from sleep infused, in semiconscious state,
with dreams of the unpleasant,
into a slow and rude awakening.
Was it a mystery magician or
con artist, the evil one,
who managed to deprive me of my freedom;
usurp my own free will;
transport me where I never want to go.
And then, somehow it dawned on me that I,
apropos my own illusion,
had written words that weren’t exactly true?
I’m not sure how this is…
But missive written. For poets. How to write!
Astonishing!
The anti-hero in my fated dream
insisted I capitulate
and turn my trade to more constructive end
by which it sought the truth
of why I wish to make my dreams come true.
It asked me who I thought I was and then,
without so much as by
your leave, it pulled me back into oblivion.
It also didn’t hear me
when my stentorian protest made no sound.
It was a vision; a reverie that spoke
of fantasies; woolgathering.
It is, in truth, as truth is meant to be
none other than my conscience,
speaking of the will to write and dream.
If answer there is one, I do not know;
so often out of our control.
The only thing I have to say is this:
it’s always up to you.
Only you can judge what’s best… for you.
By your own best devices, you don’t need
to take advice from where
there is no guidance better than your own
…save rules, and even they
can be ignored once you have mastered them.
© 2012, John Anstie (My Poetry Library)
Ash And Paper
summer mornings my fire snuffed.
No flaming voice.
Only a word in your head.
Dream of spelt and salt cake I fire for you, and before you can seek future from way I burn clean my fireplace, clear your head.
Old ash and cinders block gust makes for poor-burning, makes for poor-thinking prepare my gob for my tongues my gob packed with ash piled ash in my grate piled ash in my head crumbles like walls from incendiaried homes
stop wandering off when I’m talking to you!
ash up against my fire-bars makes them overheat makes you overthink
so they sag and “burn through” make me virginal something to focus on something for focus recall collecting ears of spelt in reaper’s baskets
I said stop wandering!
rake remains of my last fire the last fire between my temples so ash falls through my grate train steam in your nostrils pick-off the cinders for re-use.
My lightweight dark lumps, not my powdery un-burnable pieces of roasted shale my exhausted voice.
Clear my fire-bars of small cinders, clear all my ash, clear all the dead, dry bones out of my head recall the crush, grind
then roast the ears of spelt, yeasty like a pint of beer
Concentrate! You are lighting me fill my gob
with dry, unfinished paper cheap-newsprint not glossy magazine-print.
screw sheets into rough balls packed into this brain space not too tight, but not too loose.
Keep the paper open & crinkly don’t pack paper into hard nuggets, make them roughly spherical.
Should cover my grate with plenty of space to allow gust to blow away, focus these eyes, only one layer, as my tongues lick paper down everything on top will drop, roof falling in around my ears leave it at a couple of inches. Recall salt prepared pound crystals from brine
from a salt pan in a mortar, pack and inhale seafret. Cut lump with an iron saw.
I’ll not tell you again!
paper is to ignite the wood (next)
the next thought only enough, too much will clog fire-bars cause stack-collapse as your paper doesn’t burn well, stuff a loose sheet under my grate under my thoughts light it let my little tongues loose stuff sheets underneath burn them recall forbidden reading, books in flame, memories of things not spoken discarded ideas
I can be dangerous!
break up my ash with a poker. Recall stir of salt and spelt into carried spring water pure never touched the ground into meal that must be rested my pulped treeflesh.
I will lick away a support for my woodflesh. I lick away a flicker of an idea, a first layer
of contemplation.
(From “The Headpoke And Firewedding”, (Alien Buddha Press, 2017)
© 2017, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)
Wood
my thought needs substance crouched supplicant
to our hearthmind layer my gob can’t light my coal with paper my wood layer is for coal as my paper is for wood layer on my paper small pieces of wood (kindling) watch for splinters embed in your fingers for all day pain or a heated steel pin to remove. Carefully make a wooden pallet a raft of images on balled up paperwaves support my coal so imagination flares as I burn to speak.
Pray raft holds. Criss-cross wood, a cohesive structure.
You’re making my fireplace,
My head layered.
My gob layered.
Geology reversed.
Paper from trees. Dead trees made coal graduations of image, thought and idea.
When paper gone hold stays, mixture of thick and thin considerations.
Thin ideas burn easily, produce heat, thick sustains in depth delights my imaginations coal
(From “The Headpoke And Firewedding, Alien Buddha Press, 2017)
© 2017, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)
Coal
like wood is my imagination solidified sunblaze trapped voices, stories trapped build a pile of imagination on top of my wood-raft stuffed into my gob have a nice pile in middle.
Concentrate!
Choose pieces too small air-flow round my head restrict visuals. I cannot breathe. Choose pieces too big don’t get enough licking heat from the wood. Ignite my images , ensure fire-front removed for maximum air-flow, ignite the paper from underneath, ignite heads images underneath.
Focus!
in multiple places – get as much litlick quickly as possible, heat feeds between ignition points
if you will not put your mind on me I’ll burn your house down my water in the wood coal makes sulphuric acid lick surface off your brick funnel .
Images sear . Imagination needs time, fire blaze, cornfield stubble, while wood and paper left, this cellulosefuel heats imagination -fire to self-sustain your hard images buried deep, pressured become harder, blacker used in locomotives, steam ships, pitsweat, minehacked proppedimages your soft images nearer surface browner nostalgic soft focus biscuit tin tender.
Imagination produces smoke and tar when heated only,
when “dried out” get red-hot carbon fire makes imagination so hot. Recall tar melting on roads in sunblaze, sticks to soles coal tar soap photosynthesizes calls back its days as a plant.
I can be dangerous!
once my fire lit poke gently, release ash, break-up images stuck together by tar sticky mind coagulate.
Arrange cinders around the edge, add more images around fires periphery around
minds periphery. Don’t throw a bucket of imagination on my flametongue.
Always put a bit at edges or in middle. Images poked.
Poke my licking.
so ash falls through firebars so ash fall through the head.
Lift my burning images, ensure ash removed from under fire bars.
Imagination needs time to warm up.
Don’t smother with cold-images.
Kill lovely heat.
Longer to burn up. Pile it up around the edges, when it starts burning: poke and rake it into centre gradually.
When lit you give me a voice, a gob and tongues. Listen to my stories, record my voices, divine futures from decay of food thrown on me.
How virgin cakes of salt and spelt bake towards decay in heat tongueflicked wild jig of ideas before I ashreturn lose my tongues.
(From “The Headpoke And Firewedding, Alien Buddha Press, 2017)
© 2017, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)
SEVEN SPRINGS
Who knows where they have come from? No
summer rains to fill the limestone
caverns, no spring time residue
and yet the tongues of water spread
in new directions,loosestrife by
the water’s edge; and willow herb.
Across a once-ploughed field,
mineral insinuation
feeding the tangled hedgerows and
forcing the flush of hawthorn’s white.
Folded in dew, summer might bring berries;
fieldfare and redwing on winter’s winds.
(Seven Springs is a real place just north of us which feeds the River Churn that runs past my allotment and through the middle of town. So…)
© 2018, Frank McMahan
I Just Met a Turtle
I just met a turtle in the park.
It was on the way
Not where its mates
Usually are,
Near the lake
Sunbathing.
It was solitary.
I figured out it spoke
To me.
Told me to slow down.
And so I sat
As words began to dance
In flight
Carrying a smell of pine trees,
Rosemary and lavender.
Like butterfly wings
Fluttering in the wind
They intertwined
And slowly began
To land on my paper
One by one.
I pulled my thread,
Took the needle
And began to sow
One after the other.
A word weaver
Just like my friend
Quim
And all the others.
I just met a turtle.
© 2018, poem and illustration, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)
Plurilingual (English and Catalan versions)
ENGLISH:
You throw the words up into the sky,
words are Wörter in German
and the sky is called der Himmel,
while du wirfst means you throw.
So this line in German says:
Du wirfst die Wörter in den Himmel.
Your words float up in the sky
like dancing pearls in the horizon,
which in the Catalan language reads:
Perles dansants en l’horitzó.
Or if you prefer it in Spanish:
Perlas danzantes en el horizonte.
And as the pearls are dancing
there is a new dawn of creation:
Kreation, creació and creación,
in German, Catalan and Spanish.
A new dawn of creation
offers you its magic infinity:
Magische Unendlichkeit.
Màgica infinitud.
Mágica infinitud.
Amid the sea and the wind
you feel the cadence of their swing:
Die Kadenz, la cadència and la cadencia.
Words light the flaming eyes
of your most wanted dreams:
The flaming eyes.
Die flammenden Augen.
Els ulls flamejants.
Los ojos flameantes.
Words fall upon you slowly
like little frozen rain drops
that swirl up in the air:
Die Luft, l’aire and el aire.
With the palms of your hands
you pick as many as needed.
Each word is a most precious pearl:
Perle, perla and perla,
that you gather in silence:
Stille, silenci and silencio.
Like quiet roses they blossom
once all the pearls conform
the puzzle of your necklace:
Halskette, collaret and collar.
From the darkness and shadows
your new poem comes into existence:
Existenz, existència and existencia.
CATALÀ:
Llences les paraules vers el cel,
les paraules són Wörter en alemany
i el cel es diu Der Himmel.
mentre Du wirfst vol dir tu llences.
Així aquesta línia en alemany diu:
Du wirfst die Wörter in den Himmel.
Les teves paraules floten en el cel
com perles dansants en l’horitzó
o si ho prefereixes en castellà:
perlas danzantes en el horizonte.
I a mesura que les perles van dansant
apareix una nova albada de creació:
creation, Kreation i creación,
en anglès, alemany i castellà.
Una nova albada de creació
t’ofereix la seva màgica infinitud:
Magic infinity.
Magische Unendlichkeit.
Mágica infinitud.
Enmig del mar i del vent
sents la cadència del seu moviment:
The cadence, die Kadenz, i la cadencia.
Les paraules il.luminen els ulls flamejants
dels teus somnis més desitjats:
Els ulls flamejants.
The flaming eyes.
Die flammenden Augen.
Los ojos flameantes.
Les paraules cauen damunt teu lentament
com petites gotes de pluja congelades
que s’arremolinen en l’aire:
The air, die Luft i el aire.
Amb els palmells de les teves mans
n’agafes tantes com en necessites.
Cada paraula és una perla preciosa:
Pearl, Perle i perla,
que reculls en el silenci:
Silence, Stille i silencio.
Com quietes roses floreixen
una vegada que totes composen
el trencaclosques del teu collaret:
Necklace, Halskette i collar.
Des de la foscor i les ombres
el teu nou poema comença una existència:
Existence, Existenz i existencia.
© 2018, poem and illustration, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)
It Comes from the Unseen Force
Words and thoughts felt in transparency, unknown, unseen,
senses benumbed, as vision scans nature’s changing vapors
against a canvas, bordered by shivering trembling green leaves
of stretching, bound, firmly rooted growth, shaping into one
strong trunk…strange is the form yet studded with beauty …
as feather like as water drops, soft, in feeling, a medium,
which passes through, touching the body soul and spirit
breaking the trance to discover, an idea ‘arranging deepening’
in the mind, revealing a song’ or a story’ or poetic drama’
so ‘poetry should be naturally expressed’ though along the way-
‘there are places that beckon us to stop or warn that these lines
are true,these thoughts good, let the words flow’, in early drafts
don’t try to control the poem’, feel free to alter the facts’,yes,it is
easy then, but it is work, hard work, the idea comes from the unseen
it is then from ‘me ‘ to something real outside ‘ in order, to craft’
sometimes it is Light’ spreading gold in the sky on hills and land
cutting darkness to glory divine’ when green goes dark looks grand
mind stirs wonders eyes gather images and thoughts seek words
to amalgamate colors, beauty serene, majestic mystical hills of sand
who made them? how much more beauty must be in His Domain !
a poem can be, just be, it comes in moments, in time, at night
sometimes nothing descends for days, nothing inspires, a lone
still, lifeless object, may strike the soul, yet it all is formed only
when the mind in its richness of language receives the ‘order’
‘a divine gift ‘it is as poets have revealed in the past across ‘border’
Mirza Ghalib wrote’
‘ Aate HaiN Ghaib Se Yeh MazameeN Khayal MeiN
Ghalib Sarir-e Khamah Nava-e Sarosh Hai
When mysteriously topics or subjects come in ones thoughts,
Then the sound made by the pen, resonates like the voice or sound of angles.
and so it is for me…
© 2018, poem and illustrations, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)
“Colorful demonstrations and weekend marches are vital but alone are not powerful enough to stop wars. Wars will be stopped only when soldiers refuse to fight, when workers refuse to load weapons onto ships and aircraft, when people boycott the economic outposts of Empire that are strung across the globe. ”
― Arundhati Roy, Public Power in the Age of Empire
The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, May 16, Baruch, The Baker, was about genocide, unfortunately as prevalent in these modern times as any other in history. The count is 24 currently, including – and ironically – Gaza. Here are the sometimes intuitive, sometimes angry, always well-considered works of poets with a strong sense of social justice and injustice. A collection for serious thought.
Thanks to intrepid and talented poets: Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Frank McMahan, Sonja Benskin Mesher and Marta Pombo Sallés. Bravo! And thank you to Sonja and Marta for sharing their illustrative art.
Please join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged: beginner, emerging or pro. It’s about community, sharing, getting to know poets who may be new to you. Each poet’s site (if they have one) is linked below to facilitate visits. If they don’t have a site, chances are you can connect with them on Facebook or Twitter.
child rulebook
all conquerors
learned all they needed
from the child rulebook.
of course, it being
a CHILD’s rulebook,
some rules contradict others.
“i was here first”
will fall before
“my army can beat up your army.”
“i’m gonna tell on you”
derives from
“you will get it if mom finds out”
but is so often outmatched
by “now look what you made me do”
which is a corollary of
“it’s all your fault.”
the Standard Oil Company,
a conqueror from its inception,
practiced
“kick their ass/get their gas”
long before those words
we’re found on t-shirts.
in 1979
after a puppet government
set up by the US
was deposed,
and hostages were taken
at the American embassy,
Mickey Mouse
appeared on a T-shirt
flipping a bird and saying,
“Hey, Iran!”
now our roost is presided over
seemingly by a turgid towhead
with the impulse control
of an otter
and a sense of entitlement
derived from a lifetime
of always getting
all the toys
he wants.
dark forces pull his strings.
the human population
of Citizens United
is zero,
as is
its regard
for humanity.
© 2018, Gary W. Bowers (One with Clay, Image & Text)
Ethnic Cleanser
removes unsightly
grease and dirt of people
who spoil your landscape.
Cleans as it polishes, replaces
their awful smell with fresh fragrances.
their profane beliefs with fresh air.
their noisy children with heavenly quiet.
our history with revised pages.
Preserves our pure culture.
They are an infection to be eradicated.
Their unmarked graves forgotten.
Ethnic cleanser for a cleaner society.
Buy into this great product.
Popularly known as genocide.
© 2018, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow)
Inhumanity Is Good
Your inhumanity will prove
how human you are.
Neglect one another.
Abuse one another.
Seal each other in homes
until old and weak die.
Run pedestrians down.
Bomb hospitals.
Use the innocent as shields.
Use the knives you carry.
Kill babies, rape mothers.
Prove how human you are.
Defend your inhumanity.
© 2018, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow)
BERLIN 1933
Find the glass window set in the cobbles
outside Humboldt’s University. You’ll
need to angle your view and wait until
the light reveals the whiteness of the empty
shelves,a void in Europe’s heart.
Judischen, entartate. This is where
they began the burning of the books,
flames and sparks, yellow like stars,lighting the way
to ghettos, wagons, lines of wire, ashes, bones.
Ghosts gather, tug at your sleeve politely,
plead that you read the Book of the Dead.
Its opening page lies at your feet. Descend
to lamentation’s rainbow.
© 2018, Frank McMahan
SHOES
Shoes, pointing in all directions
as if they could not decide which
way to go. Ahead the river,
wide and fast, its shore empty of
boats.And people.The shoes, fissured,
soiled, heels broken; children’s clogs.As
they stood in their final sunlight:
prayers? Huddles of comfort? Piss and
shit leaking onto ancient leather.
Hurled backwards, no funeral flowers
save the smoke curling from the guns,
downwards, where the Duna receives
them, cold, reddening as it flows,
mere dross and cargo. A flask of
spirits opened, a cigarette
lit, safety catches on, the world
more Judenfrei.
Shoes, now again
pointing in all directions.
© 2018, Frank McMahan
.the star. b/w.
did i sit quietly thinking,
then place a few
things together. yes.
that was exhausting.
the star.
© 2018, (poem and artwork below) Sonja Benskin Mesher (sonja-benskin-mesher.net; Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings; sonja-benskin-mesher.co.uk; Sonjia’s daily blog (WordPress) is HERE.)
work on paper
installations & photographs- sonja benskin mesher
52.59. 3.
two voices, softly said,
“yes” they cannot
understand the numbers
nor find their families.
© 2018, (poem and artwork below, Sonja Benskin Mesher (sonja-benskin-mesher.net; Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings; sonja-benskin-mesher.co.uk; Sonjia’s daily blog (WordPress) is HERE.)
artwork, Sonja Benskin Mesher
Ode to Trumps Vanity et al
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.
© 2018, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)
The Excess of Confidence
I was sitting on a meadow one day
A book in my hands, how long I can’t say.
Three hens came close to me and showed no fear
I was most surprised as they came so near.
Was it my presence, so benevolent,
What made them approach me so confident?
They just trusted me and I did the same,
Collective confidence was here the game.
Animals, humans, need it in our lives,
To trust others instead of carrying knives.
Another day, walking in the city
I sensed there was no aggressivity.
On a street, a gay couple holding hands
Perhaps Barcelona now understands.
One person was black and the other white,
They were no longer a most dreadful sight.
Collective confidence was there again
Let’s hope this new tolerance will remain.
In Germany the principle of trust
Seems to be essential, it is a must.
I walk along one of its widest streets
It’s a frequent place where everyone meets.
Then I see a bookcase on a corner
It is public and with books, I wonder.
Books placed in the middle of a street
How pleasant it is to read so sweet
No one thinks to set them on fire
People read for pure desire.
Books travel, they come and go
The shelves have something to show.
No shelf becomes ever empty
For books there are always plenty.
Again collective confidence
Makes possible such a tendence.
Yet confidence remains shadowed
Too much the Germans have swallowed.
As Martí Anglada (1) once said
Their excessive confidence led
To the horrors of the genocide
Did they all ignore what was inside?
Heidegger was controversial
Did he think it was so special?
The Nazi regime would be the best tool
To reform university, how fool!
Essen celebrated Love Parade
Look at all the mess some people made
Beer bottles rolling on the floor
Of that crowded train, I want no more.
On railtracks drunken people walking
The train driver gave us a warning.
Nothing happened, yet soon after
There was more than one disaster:
The Duisburg tunnel, the Germanwings flight
Excess of confidence, a loss of sight.
Then came the Volkswagen case, a new shame,
Where again just too much trust is to blame.
Which country in the world, never mind
Each place carries such cases behind.
If the excess of confidence is no good,
Will we ever learn to act the way we should?
Martí Anglada is a Catalan journalist and the author of the book La via alemanya (The German Way), Brau 2014.
© 2018, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)
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