“Gender equality, equality between men and women, entails the concept that all human beings, both men and women, are free to develop their personal abilities and make choices without the limitations set by stereotypes, rigid gender roles and prejudices. Gender equality means that the different behaviour, aspirations and needs of women and men are considered, valued and favoured equally. It does not mean that women and men have to become the same, but that their rights, responsibilities and opportunities will not depend on whether they are born male or female. Gender equity means fairness of treatment for women and men, according to their respective needs. This may include equal treatment or treatment that is different but which is considered equivalent in terms of rights, benefits, obligations and opportunities.” ABC Of Women Worker’s Rights And Gender Equality, ILO, 2000. p. 48.
The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, I Am the Answer, May 15 was a call to write about the need for girls and women to be treated as fully human with the same rights, responsibilities, and opportunities as men. We have dramatic examples throughout the world of how whole families are pulled out of poverty when women are educated, treated with respect, and not forced into marriage and how boys and men benefit as well as girls.
mm brazfield, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Renee Espriu, Jen Goldie, and Anjum Wasim Dar, share their observations, experiences, and pain. The ironies will not be lost on anyone, most profoundly so in mm brazfield’s poem only her and in Paul Brookes poem Liberty.
Thanks to all these poets and special thanks to Irma, Renee, and Anjum for the added value of their illustrations. Anjum has also gifted us with the poem Lament by the Indian Poet Sahir Ludhianvi via video in Urdu. You’ll find the English translation below the video.
Readers will note links to sites if available are included that you might visit these stellar poets. The links for contributors are always connected to their blogs or websites NOT to specific poems.
Do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, whether you are a beginning poet, emerging or pro. All are welcome – encouraged – to come out and play and to share your poems on theme.
No longer cut
and shaped by knives.
between her legs
Her voice not silenced.
Her opinions not downplayed
as over emotional, unreasonable.
Sometimes she does not feel
in charge of her own body
as it changes, but reminds herself
she knows how to find the answer
to the questions her body asks.
the iron
over bedsheets, his shirts,
as she stands three hours
hot poker of pain
in the small of her back,
lists what else to do,
take down window nets,
wash and iron,
vax front room,
lug it upstairs for bedroom,
carpets,
hoover front room,
lug it upstairs for bedroom
carpets,
clean windows inside
to and fro,
to and fro
polish beneath knick knacks
bought on holiday,
to and fro
strip and remake beds,
make his tea,
always meat and two veg
He arrives home and says,
“What have you ever done for me?”
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.
Born into this female body
So sweet was my first cry
I should have screamed like a banshee
For no princess was I
It may not seem my role in life
But fate has lead me to this strife
It may not seem
It may not seem
My strength and persistence is rife
Born into this female body
But told it’s not my own
I primp and starve and stare blankly
And let your seed be sown
I know you think I chose this role
But I hate not having control
I know you think
I know you think
But you don’t know what’s in my soul
Born into this female body
I vote for my free will
I am more than breast, womb, booty
My voice is loud and shrill
Listen to me – I’ll not abide
It is your turn to be denied
Listen to me
Listen to me
I won’t let you push me aside
Jamie Dedes at The Poet By Day, inspired the topic for this Trijan Refrain. Her challenge was to write a poem about what it would be like if women and girls were seen everywhere as “being fully human”. I don’t know if I have fully captured the scope of this challenge. I do know that women are needed to use their voices and their votes to stop the reversal of rights and advances that our foremothers worked so hard to secure for us in the United States. I also believe, that around the world, uplifting women improves their lives as well as that of their families and communities.
I have often wondered what the world would be like if women did truly rule the world, on their terms, not those stipulated by our current patriarchal society. The role of women have been erased throughout history and today, women have been reduced to the role of hidden helper, silent supporter or thing-to-be-objectified. Is it because they are afraid if we regain our power, we will show how brightly we shine and fear getting burned with our brilliance?
Had you been boy we’d have called
you Jeff. I was sorry for the theft
that resulted in a nest, while her past
desires, the freedom, the joy, the
dancing, all arrested by not so gentle
a man’s theft, and repeatedly attested
to, while unpaid, unearned damages left,
a girl’s desire not to conspire to the same
mistakes, yet though a mark was left.
I am Woman, I am Strong, my mind
and body my own, lessons learned
from the nest. I harken, to my own drum,
unlike others like our mother’s, that we
will never forget, and that singularly
innocent, yet flippant remark,
“Had you been a boy.”
It’s a girl,
O’hurry put her beneath the sand
Oh, no one can stand or understand
this creature, soft and tender
I wonder why ?
when life is so grand.
Girls ,mothers daughters
sisters and wives,
Can life move on without these five?
The land of Faith The land of oil
Did they really bury their daughters
alive?
Girls are the lively spirits
of a home or castles at heights
girls are Goldilocks Cinderellas
and Snow Whites
They are Queens Ranis and First ladies
blacks or whites-
When girls are born moods are forlorn
bringing up a burden in a teacup , a storm,
Then sold tortured and finally given away
Where is a girl’s real home, to stay?
Born buried and barred,
are they really so bad
and scarred?
Girls are sweet loving and kind
I wish we would be soft tender
and caring for them in
our hearts and mind.
کویؑ مسکراہٹ نہ رہی باقی چہرے مردہ خاموشی سے تکنے لگے
لڑکا نہیں لڑکی ھے کیوں کویؑ خوشی نہ رہی باقی
چھپا دو کہیں بھی ان نفرتوں کے ڈھیر کو
پیار کیا کرنے کو اب کچھ محبت ہی نہ رہی باقی
زات عقیدہ رنگ و نسل کے فرق کی باتنہیں اب تو خواہش اولاد ہی نہ رہی باقی
اک سر جو راگ سے کٹ گیا نغمہ فزا میں بکھر گیا گیت بنے گا کیسے کہ دھن ہی نہ رہی باقی
انصاف نہیں غفلت و تشدد و دامن داغدار رھے جینا ایسے تو کیا جینا جینے کی تمنہ ہی نہ رہی باقی
بچپن رک گیا بڑھاپے سے زبردستی جڑ گیا اینٹیں اٹھاوؑ گھاس کاٹو اپنا گھر اپنی باغبانی ہی نہ رہی باقی
کس کی چاہت کیسی عزت کیسی رکھوالی زنجیر ہی پڑے گی پاوؑں میں غلامی لکھی ھے آ زادی نہ رہی باقی
کون کاٹے گا یہ نفرت کی بیڑیاں سب کچھ تو جل گیا الاہ کا قانون یاد نہیں کوؑلہ بنی ھے ، چمک ہی نہ رہی باقی
سوال ہیہ ھے ،یہ ظلم کیوں گناہ کیوں عزت کیوں نہیں ماں بیٹی بہن بیوی کا مقدس رشتہ کہاں ؟ عقیدت ہی نہ رہی باقی
Lament
Woman gave birth to men
And men gave her the marketplace
To crush and trample at will
To reject and cast off at will
Woman gave birth to men…
She is weighed somewhere in dinars
And sold somewhere in bazaars
She is made to dance naked
In the courts of the debauched
She is that dishonored creature
Who is shared out between the honorable
Woman gave birth to men…..)
For men, every torment is acceptable
For a woman, even weeping is a crime
For men, there are a million beds
For a woman, there is just one pyre
For men, there is a right to every depravity
For a woman, even to live is a punishment
Woman gave birth to men……)
The customs that men created
Were given the name of rights
The burning alive of a woman
Was decreed to be sacrifice
In return for purity she was given bread
And even that was called a favour
Woman gave birth to men…..)
Woman is the destiny of the world
But she is still the one abased by fate
She bears reincarnations and prophets
But she is still the Devil’s daughter
Woman gave birth to men…..)
Poet and writer, I am a former 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. 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.
Once upon a time at the San Mateo Country Fair Grounds
Who Has Seen the Wind?
Who has seen the wind:
Neither I nor you.
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I.
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Foraging for Blackberries, May 8 was a call to write about observations of climate change. It’s a timely topic in a sadly constant way. Gary W. Bowers, mm brazfield, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, deb y felio (Deb Felio), Jen Goldie, and Sonja Benskin Mesher have risen to the occasion and deliver a conscious compilation.
Readers will note links to sites if available are included that you might visit these stellar poets. The links for contributors are always connected to their blogs or websites NOT to specific poems. If the poets have no sites, there’s a good chance you can connect with them on Facebook.
Do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, whether you are a beginning poet, emerging or pro. All are welcome – encouraged – to come out and play and to share your poems on theme. All poems on theme will be published here on the following Tuesday. You are also encouraged to share your work in your first language, but it must be accompanied by an English translation.
fickler
weather fickler
than a fratboy
teaser tickler
doff yer hatboy
pack maniacal
if you’d venture
through varietal
storm’s indenture
witch by threesome
micro coven
preheat gleesome
solar oven
then go breezy
cool and steady
due to easy
whorly eddy
species halving
oceans rising
ice sheets calving
ill advising
earth the icebox
earth the griddle
close the spice box
solve the riddle
As some of you know, Gary is multi-talented, combing visual art with poetry or prose narrative. He is also a potter. A sample of his work is pictured here. Gary’s pottery is available for purchase. Further details HERE. Note the business care. We appreciate Gary’s wry humor.ter. A sample of his work is pictured below. Gary’s pottery is available for purchase. Further details HERE. Note the business card. We appreciate Gary’s wry humor.
Werdin Alley
cold
concrete
the walls
are brick and
yet have witnessed many things
the stains of age are in the page
of the city’s palm the angels speak and demons kick out in laughter
i walk on thorns the books are long and i can’t see anything that breaks the spell of misery’s iron grasp
the worried sunrise comes and shines a light that fades into the cracks of time in the monuments to lethargic progress and flowers bloom in screens of doom and shots are too quickly taken
unlike Tokpella this alley way has finite space and we all walk in crippling slumber John Wayne won’t get me here
amongst this man made thunder the blood is thin and made of ashes
Is the thing I miss most.
A buzz of irritation landing
Like a single tickle
On the skin,
Not even a continuous tickle
Then the awful thought of where
It landed last where it accumulated
Potential disease so you swat,
And it returns and returns
Till now when it never returns.
And spiders die, birds die.
Never to return. The annoyance
Of things that will never return.
“We are as gods and might as well get good at it.”
as Stewart Brand said, and you agreed.
O, your presumption did not account
for the delicacy of flesh and bone,
the death wish of the human soul,
even in this supposed transhuman age.
You had an impact on my future,
I’m not sure I forgive you.
There is your clear signature
in the fossil record , an observable
sudden decline
in the abundance and diversity of plant
and animal life. Perhaps we should
define your time from here.
Did it start when we traced your pulse
at the start of the Industrial Revolution?
Your carbon-dioxide pulse that underlay
what you thought was global warming.
O, your dreams to guide mankind towards global,
sustainable, environmental management.
How could you see
the juggernaut was unstoppable?
And as we move our minds
from this body to that,
we do not lose the terrors of being lost,
the night sweats of our own death.
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.
Animals dying
Habitats going
To pot
The ice is melting
Oceans are rising
It’s hot
Countries are drowning
Yet people thirsting
For what?
Science believing
Your eyes deceiving?
It’s not
Deniers lying
Oh so frustrating
The lot
Stories need sleuthing
Do some researching
A thought!
Our earth is crying
Who here is trying
To stop
Cars keep polluting
Factories spewing
The rot
More than recycling
Money resolving
Boycott
Now what’s our ending?
The land needs tending
We ought
Who are we saving?
People not caring
They’re taught
World’s for the taking
No one is sharing
Distraught
Another Lai Poem, this one written for Jamie’s Wednesday Writing Prompt at The Poet by Day. Her request: What are your everyday observations of the fallout from climate change. Or, maybe you don’t think climate change is for real. Tell us why.
I believe that climate change is happening at an alarmingly fast rate due to the negative impact of human consumption and disregard for conservation of our natural resources. We try to do our part to lessen our carbon footprint, however we can only do so much within the systems that don’t support this mission. For example, where we live they have stopped recycling paper except for cardboard, stopped recycling plastics and only recycle glass and metal. These recent changes have been due to China’s refusal to take garbage from the United States (read about it here, here, here and here).
Are we destined to become like the society in the movie “Wall-E”? As a mother, I do worry about the condition of this planet that my children will inherit. You would think that other parents/grandparents would feel similar however the prioritization of profits and a “not my problem” shortsighted attitude seems to derail this concern. At this point, if we don’t actively combat climate change, our future doesn’t seem that great.
Peanuts no longer lure
your cries I used to hear,
I long to see your aquamarine,
your cerulean presence.
It is the time of year, yet
no elder firs, nor ancient
maple lure you back to nest.
Perhaps you’ve found
a cooler place to rest
with your cousin Cardinal.
P.S. they say:
“THE DEADLY EFFECTS OF GLOBAL WARMING HAS BEEN METICULOUSLY RESEARCHED. IT’S STILL NOT TOO LATE BUT THE WINDOW OF OPPORTUNITY IS QUICKLY CLOSING.”
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.)
Say, “Have you considered? If your water drains away, who will bring you pure running water?”
For long, now we hear ‘something is happening
valleys shrinking, rivers running dry, green trees
vanishing, insects dying, snows frozen, melting
sun seems closer, worries of bees and the breeze
who has cut the trees and blocked the waters
and built houses and plazas in every quarter
who has increased the dumps n heaps of waste
now are holding seminars for solutions in haste
The earth seems tired of turning and spinning
making day and night warming and cooling
and now when air is so blackened n thickening
mankind is screaming that climate is changing’
now when I see clouds gathering in the sky
they come rumbling I wonder why they are
grumbling? raising a storm , hue and cry!
are they showing a fire, frowning on a
sinful desire? warning of The Heaven’s Ire?
or to cool the bonfire? I wonder if their thunder
is a song a celestial choir? praising moist sapphire,
dust we see, dust we are yet the particles conspire,
to relieve us from our misery cooling comfort
we do require, I know they come to admire
and blessing us, will soon retire to the ocean
home entire,leaving a message, a purifier !
be at peace and mercy,be not a crier or a liar
be like us without any fuss, a graceful high flyer-
in rain we sing n shout n play but break the law,
then face the bolt, stormy weather is Gods’ Wrath ?
remember the rains and the flood! beware when
deserts will be green, sandy regions will be rivers
Change is ordained Change will come, time and age
make life’s stage, cut short by man or by divine nature
Oh Clouds Gather in the sky ! And I don’t wonder why
they are lonely up in the sky, does it rain or do they cry
they cry when water is not used as it should be, it is not
saved, it is not stored, it is ignored, it is wasted…day by day,
when it is polluted hour by hour, and stolen moment by moment ,
drop by drop and when it is controlled by selfishness and possessed
by power, when allowed to flow away,becoming a cause of quarrels
when used as means of showing aggression and stressing suppression
Clouds cry then, they are on duty for the plants and living beings
to spray water to wash away the filth and clean the atmosphere
to quench the thirst, fill the ponds, make land fresh again, Stop’
I say think and become aware,waste not, the danger lurks near…
Clouds cry for they have fears,
should we try now, to wipe away their tears ?
“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
Poet and writer, I am a former 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. 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.
“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.” Henri Nouwen, Out of Solitude
The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Lost: One Grandpa Bodhisattva, May 1 was a call to write about friends and/or friendship. What you’ll mostly find here in response is how affected we are by the loss of our friends who have meant so much to us and done so much for us. The aching emptiness cannot be filled. The memories are joy and pain. There are a few other notes in these songs of friendship: Irma and the support of her running friends; one of Sonja’s poems puts me in mind of Pooh Bear; Paul writes about the strange intimacy of distance; and Anjum’s poem shows such a deep appreciation for friendship, a flower the scent of which permeates our lives. All these poems are worth your time and thought and will likely trigger a few tears and a few poems of your own. Read on …
Thanks to mm brazfield, Paul Brooks, Irma Do, Jen Goldie, Frank McMahon, Sonja Benskin Mesher and Anjum Wasim Dar for coming out to play this week. Thanks to Irma and Anjum for the added value of their illustrations. And once again, thanks to everyone for your patience with the time it took to get this post published, still Tuesday here but Wednesday already in England (Paul and Sonja) and in Pakistan (Anjum) and Wednesday in the places where a lot of readers live.
Readers will note links to sites are included that you might visit these stellar poets and …
… do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, whether you are a beginning poet, emerging or pro. All are welcome – encouraged – to come out and play and to share their poems on theme, which will be published here the following Tuesday.
sometime in an August
Asa who laid in the Panhandle with me you strung out on love i on wild chemistry from around the Tenderloin Asa who lent me his Walkman for Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters as i stared into the night sky higher than our hangout on Coit Tower Asa who was ecstatic when we shared stories about the boys we kissed at the Trocadero on Wednesday nights as i cried when you told me your fate Asa you with your toothy smile biting my cherry Danish as you took off the shirt from your back to cover all of my track marks when the workers came to take you away to your mother’s place in silence and all i could do for you Asa was stand as the ambulance pulled away
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.
You’re bright!
And lovely!
And beautiful!
I will always
Hold that gift
In my heart.
Because,
The warmth
And joy
Your friendship
Has offered
Will stay with
Me,
Forever.
As I said…a simple poem.
But straight from my heart.
This is a simple poem I wrote many years ago for a true friend I’d known for over 30 years. She has passed now. But I still benefit from her strength and passing wisdom and I will never forget her.
Another Lai Poem for D’Verse. The topic for this one uses the prompt from Patrick’s Pic and a Word #185 – Heavens. I’ve been on a streak with Patrick’s wonderful prompts! Head on over and see the lovely photos and words he uses for his weekly challenge. Patrick’s photos and poems from his recent travels are magnificent!!
While I didn’t get to actually run my seven miles this weekend like I was supposed to (rain and family obligations had me cutting it short), I was very grateful for the women who joined me from my local Moms Run This Town chapter. I was running short intervals while two other mamas were running longer intervals and our speedster mama was just running. We would leapfrog each other on the out and back trail, coming back when we would get too far out.
Even though I was running by myself at my own pace for most of this group run, just knowing my running friends were ahead of me or behind me made me happy and kept my motivation high. That’s running heaven!
You’re bright!
And lovely!
And beautiful!
I will always
Hold that gift
In my heart.
Because,
The warmth
And joy
Your friendship
Has offered
Will stay with
Me,
Forever.
As I said…a simple poem.
But straight from my heart.
This is a simple poem I wrote many years ago for a true friend I’d known for over 30 years. She has passed now. But I still benefit from her strength and passing wisdom and I will never forget her.
You were the King, upbraided in rehearsal
for taking too long to die. “They’ll all miss
the last bus home if you don’t speed this up!”
Even now, your fury reverberates.
Ah, my gracious friend, so many miles walked
upon the links, everything elegant,
even your bon mots in the midst of our
vulgar chaffing. The Schubert Impromptus
as we drove those Norfolk byways, the sun
flecking the chestnut leaves. The Canterbury
Tales in Melton, shared hours of bawdiness
and helpless laughter. You could have graced those boards
making love to the Wife of Bath and who knows else.
Admissions and discharges, blow
after vicious blow, cries of pain filling
the ward, nothing imagined for effect.
In the end, death could not come soon enough.
You slipped away, into the wings, denying
us all one final curtain call. You were
ready, not us, no, palms uplifted, empty.
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.)
Your thoughtful smile makes me stay
a little while more than I really should
lost in space, I am like Icarus, wings burnt
many lessons in life I have now learnt
I would fly over ethereal plain, if I could,
To meet you at this stage of life,
The distances are understood,
Of age culture and traditions,
You’ a flower and me, a piece of wood.
images formed, are shattered soon
Time like dust ,vanishes over the moon,
You inspire me and give me hope though
as friends for long, I’m scared of the scope,
What lies ahead what tomorrow brings
What, where, now’ I will not think,
See the miracle of hearts and feelings
With all the spaces, no family dealings-
I am hopeful of good and beautiful things
As shared in moments short and precious
Your advice as a poet writer, full and sincere
Given asked and unasked,without fee or fear,
We met as friends as friends should be
Who make life joyful light and easy
I will remember till heartbeats permit
If humans are friends,
Allah’s Blessings are writ۔
اگر دنیا میں ٰانسان دوست مل جایںؑ تو
کچھ امیدیں ابھی باقی ھیں
اس کی مسکراھت میری روح کی رکاوت بنی کچھ ضرورت سے زیادہ رکنے کا احساس ،
خلا کی وسعت میں گم اونچی اڑان سے ،اونچی اڑان سے پر جلا کر سوچ میں محو کچھ سبق سیکھنے ابھی باقی ھیں
ٓٓپھر بھی عمر ا ٓخر میں اس دوست سے ملنے افلاک پہ فظاوںؑ میں اڑتے ھوےؑ فاصلوں کو کاٹتے ھوےؑ ، رسم و رواج کو نظر انداز کرتے ھوےؑ صفر کا آغاز ، سورج کی شعاوں میں ، چاندنی راتوں میں
کچھ راستے طے کرنے ابھی باقی ھیں
اے دوست، یک پھول کی مانند پاوؑن تجھے میں کہ اک لکڑی کا کٹا ھوا تکڑا بے بس تصور جو کیا بکھر گیا ، وقت گزر گیا، بس تمھاری ھمت سے زندہ ھوں سانس باقی ھے
کچھ کام کرنے ابھی باقی ھیں
مجھے نہیں سوچنا کہ کل کیا ھوگا کب کہاں کیسے یہ سب کیسے ھوگا بس احساس کے دلی جزبات کے حیراںکن معجزات کی دعایںؑ ملی ھیں بضشش کی
کچھ رشتے نبھانے ابھی باقی ھیں
اس کی تحریروں پہ ھدایت ملتی رھی لمحہ ببہ لمحہ قیمتی گھڑیوں میں پوچھنے پہ اور پوچھے بغیر بھی،یہ قدریں دوستی میں اب نایاب ھیں سبھی
ابھی کچھ افسانے لکھنے باقی ھیں
دوست بن کے ملے دوست ہی رھیں گے جو زندگی کو پر لطف اور خوشگوار بناےؑ بھلا سکتے نہیں انہیں جو اللاہ کے لیےؑ دلوں میں رہتے ھیں ، اگر ایسا ھو تہ سمجھ لیں
Poet and writer, I am a former 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. 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.
Another collection, eclectic and often magical, in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Oxygen Hunger,March 27, a prompt on the necessities of life. Well done by poets: Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Gen E. Goldie, Frank McMahan, and Anjum Wasim Dar. Thank you! and special thanks to Irma and Anjum for their illustrations and to Anjum for the addition of a music video she found inspiring.
Readers will notice links to sites are included that you might visit these stellar poets.
“scars” – we can’t breath through scarred lung tissue. It’s not permeable so there is no exchange of gases; i.e. oxygen and carbon dioxide
“oxygen hunger” – more commonly call “air hunger” is real. It happens as organs are shutting down during the dying process, when it is treated with morphine and sometimes supplemental oxygen. When people suffer from oxygen hunger due to lung and heart issues but are not yet tripping over the door to Eternity, oxygen hunger is then treated with supplemental oxygen and other medications to slow the processes of deterioration and provide comfort and functionality.
Enjoy this collection. It just might inspire some more of your own poetry. The Poet by Day will be on hiatus for a Spring and Easter break and the next Wednesday Writing Prompt will post on April 24. All are invited to come out to play, beginning, emerging or pro poet.
in solitary refinement
guilty said
the paper the judge read
so the system did a trick
it learned from the cult novel
NORSTRILIA
by cordwainer smith:
they put a thinking cap on her
and it imprisoned her
for eight hours
but due to wireless accelerants
and virtual reality mushware
the eight hours were as eighteen years
for her offense was extreme
and doing her time
was not a walk in the park
no “club fed”
ghosts-or-not mocked her
bribed ghost guards to get her alone
packratted her with hurting things
and she fought back
and ended up in solitary
bread and water only
(plus oxygen)
(plus dreams)
she found though
that virtuality had its virtues
the bread could be any bread
the water any water
and so she feasted
pumpernickel dense as brick
cinnamon toast richly steaming
lavosh pita arrowwheat
and she slaked
smartwater dumbwater sparkling cold
and her oxygen’s purity could be amped
and her dreams could be imagineered
she could dance with Fred
sojourn through oz
change endings
create worlds
so she asked that her term of solitary “confinement”
be extended indefinitely
and the mushware obliged
eighteen seeming years were up
she had learned who she was
what she wanted
and the rudiments of a new trade
she woke
and marvelled at disappearance
of liver spots and despair
she was indeed free
bore no burdens
no grudges
and no guilt
As some of you know, Gary is multi-talented, combing visual art with poetry or prose narrative. He is also a potter. A sample of his work is pictured below. Gary’s pottery is available for purchase. Further details HERE. Note the business care. We appreciate Gary’s wry humor.
The Terminal
Stretched thin
he spits out
of his car door
as I get in,
and we drive out
the short stay
carpark below
the train station.
“What are you
going to do
day I die?”
he asks. I tell him
what I need to know.
“Oxygen tanks are no use
as they don’t
increase surface
of my lungs that
take in oxygen.
Doctors can do no more.”
Dad replies.
My dad collapses into himself
disappears into black hole
in space
of his lungs on
where there is
no oxygen
for his brain
or heart,
only coughs
to loosen phlegm
for the spit bag,
he carefully seals air tight.
(From a forthcoming collection of my late dad’s drawings and paintings and my writings about him, No title as yet)
Christ passes a Bakers shop,
smells new bread,
Says to disciples
” Fetch us a loaf.”
The Baker says
“Thas nowt for free here.
Get him to miracle up his own”
but,
Bakers wife
and six daughters
secretly stuff couple of loaves
in disciples bag.
For this Christ sets them
in spring sky
as Seven Stars
He makes the baker a cuckoo
the Dusty Miller,
who so long as he sings in Spring
St. Turbutius Day to St. Johns
can see his bright wife and daughters
warm the night.
II
Me Mam dies as she gives birth,
to sis and I.
Our new mam murders us.
Feeds our cooked sinew and muscle
to our dad. Separates heart and bones,
crams rest beneath
gables of our home.
Buries our heart and bones
in a hole in a tree,
that coddles us.
Our bones lock our refreshed hearts
in a new cage, so we fledge
in dusty grey feathers.
We fly to local miller’s
pick up a millstone
in our strong beaks
let it fall as we fly
over
our new mother
whose blood and bones
grind beneath its weight.
III
After my sis and I disappear,
Christ knocks on Dad’s door
Says, ” I’m parched mate,
can tha spare a drop
of thee water.”
Our Dad brings stranger
a cup of fresh water.
As he sups Christ says:
“Tha looks badly, cocker.
What’s up with thee?”
Our Dad says ” Me kids
are no where to be seen.
Pain right here says they’re
both dead.
I miss them summat chronic.”
“Aye, it’s a bad going on.
Perhaps, next Spring
from East gables of this place
tha’ll see summat
to buck thee up.”
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.
In my villanelle, I have ranked “dreams” as the number one necessity needed to survive life. Food, water, oxygen are all needed to sustain life, but to survive the hardships of life, to thrive in this sometimes unforgiving environment, we need our dreams, our hopes. To me, it is the difference between living and Being Alive.
Does it have to be like this? My hands trapped
in this ectoplasmic blob. It seemed harm-
less last night when I laid it down to rise.
I really should have picked a simpler task:
making sense of quantum physics, riding
a penny-farthing in a force nine gale.
No use now as I wrestle with this dough,
nay, monster. First proving, I slathered you
in olive oil. Was I too rough as I
pounded and pummelled, stretched, stretched, stretched you out,
a line of white intestine? Entrapment
was your game, yet I have tamed you with my
farinaceous hands, caressed and then reformed
you, laid you in the tin, a baby in its cradle.
Say not that the struggle naught availeth
as the firm, warm bread nestles in my palms.
“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
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.
As some of you know, Gary is multi-talented, combing visual art with poetry or prose narrative. He is also a potter. A sample of his work is pictured here. Gary’s pottery is available for purchase. Further details 
Poet and writer, I am a former 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 
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