“When you see with, not through the eye.” William Blake
[Lamech is the sixth generation descendent of Cain]
Our eyes can be a noose, shutting off all but feeling
when you can only see with.
Blake knows pain’s light’s so fierce
He thus turns it all bright white here unforgettable.
With no hiding in myth or long words,
we see only instant gutted grief everywhere
rolling in eerie-dense earthen white.
Everyone is seeing transitive with their eyes,
not intransitively and freely through.
A tourniquet of frozen seeing freezes word-say
And the three of them alive today only
Horror-see, struck in white trauma.
This painting chants impediment and limit
The very act of looking burns heart-holes with no exit.
This view is split into two larger than life grief crimes:
polygamy on the left and Lamech’s Cain-tinged murder right flat dead
When it gets this bad, everyone sheerly shrieks inside unlooking
No one sees each here. The whole painting a bleached wound.
Blake knew color and looking were dangerous commitments.
“Colours are the wounds of life,” he tellingly said.
Oh say can you see how it feels to be Lamech scorned and doomed
How does it feel at the end of the world when there is nothing to
see, but distance and heartbreak wrapped in “frantic pain”?
Like a fiend in a cloud
With howling woe,
After night I do croud,
And with night will go;
I turn my back to the east,
From whence comforts have increas’d;
For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.
William Blake
The other poems in Linda’s ongoing Blake-poem series:
LINDA E. CHOWN grew up in Berkeley, Ca. in the days of action. Civil Rights arrests at Sheraton Palace and Auto Row. BA UC Berkeley Intellectual History; MA Creative Writing SFSU; PHd Comparative Literature University of Washington. Four books of poetry. Many poems published on line at Numero Cinq, Empty Mirror, The Bezine, Dura, Poet Head and others. Many articles on Oliver Sachs, Doris Lessing, Virginia Woolf, and many others. Twenty years in Spain with friends who lived through the worst of Franco. I was in Spain (Granada, Conil and Cádiz) during Franco’s rule, there the day of his death when people took to the streets in celebration. Interviewed nine major Spanish Women Novelists, including Ana María Matute and Carmen Laforet and Carmen Martín Gaite.
Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZineand its associated activities and The Poet by Dayjamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights. Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.
“morning’s nowhere in sight to wash away with its light the carcasses a night left behind of regrets scattered all over dark alleys of my mind” Silva Zanoyan Merjanian, Uncoil a Night
October drops gift baskets at my door
full of words that fill this evening’s
blithe chalice to the rim
toasting the auspicious rain
soil wet and scented calls for verses
to catch color of leaves
losing their grasp on spring’s promise
smell of burning wood from a distance
tells of flames in a fireplace
watching lovers tangled in post-coital bliss
fall awaits poems, while air lusting for winter
flirts with Maple trees
their elated limbs undressed and arched
reaching for that crisp fall breeze
but that’s not all October brings
there’s a bloodied river
that flows through Aleppo
Kessab, Homs, Damascus
through burning pit of pistachio and olive trees
through a country twisted on its knees
it flows into my cupped hands
I never meant to hold them open to catch their grief
and there’s that last tear hanging from tip
of a continent’s nose, about to drop last sliver
of hope and dress limp prayers in black
October drops gift baskets at my door
full of words that fill this evening’s
blithe chalice to the rim
toasting the auspicious rain
but not a word here about leaves nor the kiss
of fall on winter’s lips
no measured lines about lovers
not a word yet, not on this page
I’m just listening to silence breathe
over contrite indifference trailing children’s bare feet
bleeding on piles of rubble they call home
their shell-shocked faces lost between these blank pages
SILVA ZANOYAN MERJANIAN is a widely published poet of Armenian descent who grew up in Beirut, Lebanon. She moved to Geneva for a few years during the Lebanese civil war and later settled in Southern California with her husband and two sons. Her work is featured in international anthologies and poetry journals. Merjanian has two volumes of poetry, Uncoil a Night (2013) and Rumor (Cold River Press, 2015.). Rumor won the Pinnacle Book Achievement Award Fall 2015 for best poetry book by NABE. Three poems from Rumor were nominated for Pushcart Prize. Silva donates proceeds from both books to charities.
Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZineand its associated activities and The Poet by Dayjamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage activist poets and poetry, good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights. Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.
“Let us give thanks for our shadows for they are there in the first place because of the presence of light.” Kamand Kojouri, The Eternal Dance,
We would be that ancient rose bush
sitting in meditation beside the creek
flowing near the home-place and a
belt of vacant land, wide-awake wood
We would be thorn-and-thistle-free life,
cool soothing fog, silken river-stone, or
a whiff of magnolia traveling through
a dark night on an aquamarine breeze
An old hunger rises in us to rest calm
beside the gentle hum of a rambling rill,
our days written in studied calligraphy,
mind as empty and conscious as a forest
But rose bush and wood endure winter
and the creek its dry-spell, river-stone’s
silken finish is born of a chaffing flow and
old magnolia was felled by the gardener
Chaos and order, surge and decline
The conjugal dance of yang and yin,
without it we could not see,
without it we would not be
Yes! It would seem to me that life is a necessary study in contrasts. Do you agree? Tells us in your poem/s …
please submit your poem/s by pasting them into the comments section and not by sharing a link
please submit poems only, no photos, illustrations, essays, stories, or other prose
PLEASE NOTE:
Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published.
IF this is your first time joining us for The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a brief bio and photo to me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com to introduce yourself to the community … and to me :-). These are partnered with your poem/s on first publication.
PLEASE send the bio ONLY if you are with us on this for the first time AND only if you have posted a poem (or a link to one of yours) on theme in the comments section below.
Deadline: Monday, October 28 by 8 pm Pacific Time. If you are unsure when that would be in your time zone, check The Time Zone Converter.
Anyone may take part Wednesday Writing Prompt, no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about exercising the poetic muscle, showcasing your work, and getting to know other poets who might be new to you.
You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.
Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZineand its associated activities and The Poet by Dayjamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights. Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.
“Your life can end at any time, and it can end more than once. But it can also begin more than once.” Michael R French,The Reconstruction of Wilson Ryder
this is the way …
this is the way, I re-imagine life ……a poem
to put it to rest in black on white
to bury the quick along with the dead
to plant flowers with seeds from my head
to fund the seas with my words well honed
to dust the house but leave cobwebs alone
to remember my ending and forget my start
to let solitude heal that pain in my heart
to turn burning questions into philosopher’s gold
and skillfully repurpose my ragged old soul
Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZineand its associated activities and The Poet by Dayjamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights. Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.
Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZine and its associated activities and The Poet by Day jamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights. Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.
SILVA ZANOYAN MERJANIAN
Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage 
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