wobbly sobby. . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Pare down to the essence, but don’t remove the poetry.”  Leonard Koren, Wabi-Sabi: For Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers [recommended reading]



This week we bring you poems of on the perfection in imperfection in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Wabi Sabi, November 13. This wasn’t an easy prompt because the philosophy was new to many.

“In traditional Japanese aesthetics, Wabi-Sabi is a world view centered on the acceptance of transience and imperfection. The aesthetic is sometimes described as one of beauty that is “imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete.”  . . . Characteristics of the wabi-sabi aesthetic include asymmetry, roughness, simplicity, economy, austerity, modesty, intimacy, and appreciation of the ingenuous integrity of natural objects and processes.” Wikipedia MORE

As always, all poets have come through beautifully for us, putting their own creative mark on Wabi Sabi.

Thanks for this collection go to: Gary W. Bowers, Anjum Wasim Dar,  Urmila Mahajan, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Eric Nicholson, Pali Raj, and Leela Soma. Enjoy! and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome to join in: novice, emerging, or pro.


wobbly sobby

on the potter’s wheel is an opportunity
to fail. the future potter rarely raises a cylinder
the first time, nor times two through ten.
getting good at wheel-throwing takes a
determination shared by marathoners
and golfers and ballroom dancers. meanwhile,
the future potter uses his wire tool
to cut heap after heap of wobbly, wet clay
from the wheelhead or the batt. when at last
a cylinder is up, there are almost always
many things wrong with it.

here is a still-future potter
and his new creation. it slumps
slightly. it wobbles
when the wheel is brought up
to trimming speed. the hat
drawn by dr. seuss for his cat
has a similar shape.

the still-future potter doesn’t care. he sobs,
but not out loud, for joy. he will never
feel as though raising a cylinder
is out of his reach. that it took
so many times, and wobbles, and sobs,
only reinforces the bedrock
of his foundation
of his becoming.

© 2019, Gary W. Bowers

Gary’s site is: One with Clay, Image and Text


A Perceptive Romance

crimson gold,shaded cool sunset
so deeply loved,fills empty souls
what hate prevails in daylight-
A perceptive romance

beloved sheep with precious wool
sheered to the skin, undressed
sacrificed goaded roasted
bleating is no music

water mirror like, ivory silver
smiled at, caressed , hated in
stagnant filthy swamps
its loss, mourned.

love the creative spirit in non
creativity, like lotus in muddy pond
tree valued green or brown-
body and soul, split in bond

embrace all,cool or hot
all here will be soon, gone
circle will come full circle
imperfection, – the mortal round

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum-ji’s sites are:


Dewdrop

Every life is an intake of breath
in the corridors of humanity
The spirit of the past
unfolds within
A stirring that

churns the present
Every moment is splendid
with the awareness
that like a drop of dew
I can only be certain
I am here now

© 2019, Urmila Mahajan

Urmila’s site is: Drops of Dew


. skin imperfect.

some of you is gone, halfed,

precious skin.

the dress

hanging black

is photographed

as if you have no memory.

may be

more soothing,

than remembering.

touch the surface.

water.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

:: mole hillls & broken plates ::

we discussed the hardness of the ground,
it is still quite cold. yet we found that moles
make soft places for planting.

dig up buried crocks for saving.

old photographs spur us on, to
care and treasure, to sweep and clean.

so wash and mend your broken plates
my friends, become a gentler way,
make a pleasant day.

look for mole hills, and old photographs.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Days and days

Philip Larkin told us Days
bring the priest and doctor
running over the fields.
On this rainy day I’m pressed
into the Day’s four walls, the cold
seeping into my bones. Restless
I’m too aware the Day doesn’t fit me;
it’s like an oversized overcoat.

My brother texts me and I reply,
Winter isn’t my favourite time,
Ditto, he replies. Afterwards
I resist thinking of summer sun
and wish I could wear each day
like a well-tailored suit.

© 2019, Eric Nicholson

Eric Nicholson is a retired art teacher and lives in the NE of England. Eric’s site is: https://erikleo.wordpress.com


For a long long time
I couldn’t figure it out
Who I am?

I went to school
Asked a teacher
She said, ‘I’ll talk to your father’.

I was a kid. A little kid.
I had to learn
How to kiss?

I returned to the book
Flipped about twenty pages
I kinda need help

For a long long time
I couldn’t figure it out
Who I am?

I went to a bar
Asked the bartender
He said, ‘I’ll make you cocktail’

I had a peg. A little peg.
I had to learn
How to introduce myself?

I took a sip.
Spoke a few English words.
Genius. Lover. Coward. Drinker.
I’m kinda happy whoever I am.
I was drunk.

For a long long time
I couldn’t figure it out
Who I am?

© 2019, Pali Raj


Nature’s music

Morning dew like jewels on spring green grass
crystals shimmering in the glow of a dawn sunrise,

drip, drip of tiny of raindrops, a soft chord
Or drizzle from heaven brushing soft on my eyelids
mist, layers of mist over rivers that flow ever so gently
Silver spray, sea foam caressing my ankle on the shore
Rippling, the swash, the crest white returning to the blue

trees swaying fiercely as autumn winds denude them
Music of orphaned leaves lying uncared for like
carpets of gold, brown and red over grey pavements
Scrunching sounds under foot, like a beat to
the hailstones falling on the roof tiles. Cold

frost and ice a chilling serape of winter hibernation
snow-sprinkled homes with a soft light in the window
nature’s notes, musical score, a beautiful symphony.

© 2019, Leela Soma

Leela’s site is: Leela Soma, Scottish Writer and Poet


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 and encourages activist poetry.  Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.

About / Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook / Medium

Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications Poets Advocate for Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, G Jamie Dedes, Versifier of Truth, Woma Words Literary Press, November 19, How 100,000 Poets Are Fostering Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, YOPP! * The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice, August 11, 2019 / This short story is dedicated to all refugees. That would be one in every 113 people. * Five poems, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019 * From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems), July 2019 * Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review, July 2019 * Three poems, Our Poetry Archive, September 2019


“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.”  Lucille Clifton

In Support of Dissident Poets and Poetry, Responses to last Wednesday’s Prompt sponsored by Poet-in-Exhile, Mbizo Chirasha

 

Mbizo Chirasha

“In my works on African culture, I am not against races or tribes, but systems that betray Africa. People must stop being stooges and writers must write against second and third colonialistic winds.” Mbizo Chirasha in an interview with The Herald HERE.



Mbizo Chirasha

We did something unusual with the last Wednesday Writing Prompt.  We asked poets to respond specifically to the situation of Zimbabwean Poet-in-Exile, Mbizo Chirasha. (Not all the poets actually responded on theme, but they did respond on related issues that concern them and so we included their poems in this collection.) The purpose of the theme is to help us create awareness of the plight of our fellow poets like Mbizo and other writers, artists and activists who are directly fighting authoritarianism, despotism and kleptocracy on the front lines and putting their general welfare and even their lives at risk in doing so. These are socially-engaged creatives who are in danger from amoral govenments in their own beloved countries. We appreciate your participation as writers, readers and humanitarians in this week’s unusual and important prompt.

Mbizo writes in response to the submissions:

Great poets around the world, readers of poetry, esteemed audience of  The Poet by Day: I salute you with my sincere gratitude for timeous creative support. You are word revolutionaries fighting with me in trenches for the attainment of social justice, human rights, and  freedom of expression.  This is as it should be. Writers should be first to shoot words, sling metaphors, and pose readily in the artistic armour to wage a resilient, creative and nonviolent war.

I am heartily touched by the amount of  commitment, depth and detail in these submissions. We should remain resilient, focused strong and creative in the quest for national harmony, regional peace, and global sanity. Writers must write and continue to write to mitigate bad governance, corruption, injustice, hegemony, dictatorship, political violence, and social malaise.

Aluta continua!
Mbizo Chirasha

Our thanks to Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Mike Stone, Pali Raj, and Sonja Benskin Mesher for the richness of this collection. Countries represented in the post are: England, Kashmir, India, Israel, Pakistan, United States, and Zimbabwe.

We’ll return to the traditionally prompt response layout and inclusions next week. We’ve modified it this week out of respect for the occasion. Thank you for understanding. A brief update on Mbizo’s status (not good) closes this post.



artivist artifice artemis bolt

artivist artifice artemis bolt
wring out a dream and give despots a jolt.
artemis arm&fist activist strike
shake out a mindset and shore up a dyke.
artifice artdoesthis anarchist grow
muralize justice for over and throw.
antidote anecdote anthemnote strive
make visitations of souls kept alive.

© 2019, Gary W. Bowers

How To Be Corrupt And Be Seen As Honest.

Here is the syllabus. This will be a tough course.

Introduction will focus on the psychopathology of hard business and unwavering pursuit of profit.
We will teach you how to see people as things. Your mother and father will be unrecognisable to you, as will your kids and spouse. They are merely objects to be maneouvred.

Main course content.

1. How to steal money from public coffers, whilst supporting charitable causes. How to steal food from babies mouths, how to watch the poorer become poorer.
2. How to store stolen money in off shore accounts, defended by laws not available in your home country.
3. How to employ PR to defend your reputation, white wash your actions.

Good luck on the course.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

In Response to Mbizo Chirasha Freedom Poetry

For I sang the freedom song for years
in vain, in pain,
One day I will return
O my homeland ,my heaven, land of
pure peace,

I am the native child, born in captivity
my feet never touched my beloved soil
I breathed but for a while in mother’s
lap,
In sleep, led away, far away, to refuge
One day I will return, I sang my song-

It is a nightmare
futile dream of the happy return
my earth oozes martyrs’ blood spills
resounds with raped women’s screams
burns with saffron spreads in wide fields
weeps with weeping willows in the streams
One day I will return, and I sang my song,
in vain, in pain

I am the houseboat abandoned
I am the ‘shikara’ floating,empty
I am the moaning water of Dal
I am the aroma of sweet apples
I am the snow of mountain tops
I am the color of pansies and lotus
I am the music of the ‘rubaab’
I am the child of a captive state

One day I will return I sang my song
in vain, in pain

But now my heart is silent,my voice
stilled, my feet in fetters, my home
locked, my road blocked, guarded
I am tired of pellets bullets and gas,

I am cold like a stone, no ‘Kangarri’
I carry , no greens or beans I cook
I am but a listed item, a numberless
number, a lost identity, snatched
wrenched annexed conquered

My song of freedom rings aloud
but can anyone hear? Will anyone
come? Will anyone cry for me? Or
my land, to set free? Perhaps one day,

if the music sails on, reaches the stars
Showers the rain which pours free
and washes away the mud of captivity
breaks the chains lifts the barriers and
calls-
Come Your land is yours, gone is the
enemy- but I woke up again, in pain
in vain,
I hear the fearful scream-heavy boots
shaking the soil, tearing up roots
I do not wish to sing, but pray, hope
It is all a dream-
In vain I sing, in pain I try to-sleep

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

To The Defenders of Freedom

When peaceful protest fails
and protesters are put in jails
then forces must stand
bravely to defend the land-

In attack
outnumbered ten to one
crawled under enemy tank
martyred to glory, sank in
body, blood in native sand

In loyalty
you saved the land
blasting enemy tanks
with bravery supreme
grenades in hands

In honor
you remain for ever you live
those who die a life they give
and repel the enemy aggressive.

And now I say and know
battles have been fought
public protests prevail
as Freedom must be saved
at all cost-

or else, all is forever lost

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

In Freedom

In Freedom There is Fear
When a close and dear
one, is no more,

In Freedom there is blood
When all you made in life
Is washed away in flood;

In freedom there is sacrifice
When all you claim and own
Is taken away without a price;

In freedom there is liberty
For many just a statue
fights, no rights, nor equality;

In Freedom there are letters
promises and false hopes
soon you are in iron fetters;

In Freedom I was born
I never saw my land
I long for its beauty
In dewdrops shining
In the morn;

In Freedom there is a gift
treasure not and you find
it floating by and adrift;

In Freedom there is ease
calm and harmony, hold
it strong for eternal peace

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Do Not Make War

1.

it must be painful for them to write, those poets in tough-times and hard places
where blood and tears and poverty contaminate the air, stain the sidewalks, and consume the people

the blood must be soul-sick and rusted and tasting of acid, not salt,
and the poems meant to heal the writer and stroke the cheeks of the wounded,
to dry their eyes and gently kiss their gray heads

to poem in such places must be like walking shoeless on glass shards

perhaps the most sacred thing in the dream-time meadow of poets’ desire is Light ~

can you awaken to meet the Divine when you are on the run, in hiding, on the battlefield, in the camps, in government housing or in the ghettos?

if so, you are a saint, not simply an artist

2.

in my small world, my civilized world, people fall asleep reading or after making love or playing in the yard with their children

if they wander, it is through books or planned travel

there are luxuries
there is food
there is cleanliness and paper on which to write
no bombs are dropping to scorch and scar the Earth
no government thugs stalk us with ill intent
there is a certain dignity

3.

in San Francisco we walk along the beach at night, near the Cliff House
we walk to the sound of the waves, the song of the Earth chanting its joys
our feet are bare and relish the comfort of cool sand

the air is clear and cold and easy to breathe, tasting of salt and smelling of sea life ~
here is a pristine moment of peace

i want to bequeath this peace to you, to everyone,
as though it were a cherished heirloom
it is really a birthright

i want to plunge into the waters and gather the ocean in my cupped hands, to offer it to you as sacramental wine

i want to form seaweed into garlands for all of us to wear, to hang over our hearts, a symbol of affection

i want to collect pine cones from the trees that congregate along the coast and feed them to the children to remind them to cherish this Earth and all its creatures, themselves included, and to say …

do not make war in your heart or upon your mother’s body

© 2016, Jamie Dedes

Silent, poor, innocent, youth
They witness democratic loot
Corruption rise,
And businessmen fight when
Economic slowdown
They are blown into religious fight
They seek a person with opposite ions
When their grief rise
You call me activist, but
I must also sleep the long night
Well, activism
I haven’t wished for it, nor consented to it
I only love my nation.

© 2019, Pali Raj

Then as Now

The sweet pungency of rose and violets
Floats on the gentle breezes
And down the road a ways the church bells toll
As they did then.

At the shooting range, you still see bullet holes
But they buried all the targets in mass graves,
Not helter-skelter like some graveyards,
But very orderly as they were then.

The tall poplar trees surround electric fences,
They seem inviting, leaves rustling in the breeze,
A nightmare inside a blonde and blue-eyed dream,
As it was then.

They scrub the showers, ovens, and the smokestacks,
The red brick raw and spotless.
A pile of shoes stands in silent accusation
But no one hears, then as now.

© 2019, Mike Stone

Hatred

And the prophet stood among a few people.
In the marketplace of ideas, there were many prophets
But this prophet spoke quietly. He said
Hatred is not a state of mind
That one can enter and leave at will;
It is a road that starts in innocence
Leading ever downhill
And ends in unplumbed evil.
I don’t tell you turn the other cheek
When struck, as another prophet said,
But I say don’t answer hatred with hatred.
Hatred comes from ignorance of others,
Thinking they are not like us,
That they don’t love their children
Or honor their parents
Or fear for their future as we do.
Why not answer hatred with hatred?
Because it creates a circle without exit or break
And perhaps their hatred comes from
Honoring their past or fearing their future.
What should you do?
When you understand those whom you call “other”
You will know what to do, and hate
Will wither like dry tumbleweed in the desert
Because there is no other,
There is only us.

© 2019, Mike Stone

Blessed Are the Rich

Blessed are the rich
For they shall inherit the meek
And enslave them.
Blessed are the rich
Who will inherit new worlds to suck dry
After they have sucked dry our only world.
Blessed are the rich
Who make their own blessings
And the gods to bless them.
Cursed are the poor
Who bow down to worship
The gods of the rich,
Who count the blessings of the rich
Who are sucked dry by the rich
Who are enslaved by the rich.
Cursed are the poor
Who bless the curse of meekness
For their children to inherit.

® 2019, Mike Stone

Birdsong

A small bird landed on the branch of an old tree
Where other loudly chirping birds were perched.
The other birds on this branch twittered critically
And decided she was not one of them.

If you want to perch on our branch, they said to her,
You’ll have to cut off your right wing like all of us
And the little bird saw that the other birds
Had only their left wings. But how do you fly, she asked.

One of the birds responded by jumping off the branch,
Flapping his left wing and spiraling downward
Until he crashed beak first into a rock.
To each bird, according to its needs, the other birds tweeted.

The little bird flew to another branch on the old tree.

If you want to perch on our branch, they said to her,
You’ll have to cut off your left wing like all of us
And the little bird saw that the other birds
Had only their right wings. But how do you fly, she asked.

One of the birds responded by jumping off the branch,
Flapping his right wing and spiraling downward
Until he crashed beak first into the hard tree root.
To each bird, according to its capabilities, the other birds chirped.

The little bird flew to another branch on the old tree.

If you want to perch on our branch, they said to her,
You’ll have to cut off both your wings like all of us
And the little bird saw that the other birds
Had no wings. But how do you fly, she asked.

One of the birds responded by jumping off the branch,
But having nothing to flap, plummeted down
Until he crashed beak first into the hard ground.
We are neither left nor right, the other birds sang.

The little bird flew to another tree
And sang a two-wing song for you and me.

© 2019, Mike Stone  

What Use Is Beauty?

What use is beauty
If it merely masks an inner ugliness,
If it just confuses us
Like too much wine
Making us think we’re gods?
What good is truth
If falsehood is far more useful
For getting what you need or want
And easier to believe by far
Besides, who has time for truth?
What purpose does freedom serve
If it only starves us
or makes us lonely?
Most prefer a bond or two
To a mindless multitude.
What’s the point of words
If they are not the right words,
The precise ones that we think
Or those that others want to hear?

© 2019, Mike Stone

The Emperor’s New Changes

Raanana, September 11, 2016

A hundred thousand poets for change
That’s us.
That’s what we called ourselves last year
And the year before.
So they’ve stopped lynching the poets in Arabia?
They’ve stopped stoning the raped women in Kabul?
What about the mutilation of genitals of young girls?
So they’ve stopped burning down Black churches in Bama?
Stopped desecrating the lands of our Sioux brothers?
How about the carbon they’ve dumped in the atmosphere?
Did they stop that?
Do they believe now the earth is too warm to live on?
Are philosophers kings yet?
Are kings philosophers?
I don’t mean to be cynical
But it doesn’t seem like much has changed since last year.
We’ve read a few poems,
That’s all.
Come to think of it,
Have we really changed,
Except for getting a year older?
If that’s change
Then we better change change
So that it’s palpable
So that we can feed people with it
So that people can walk tall from it
So that people can protect themselves with it
So that people can make love to it
Until change is done changing
And the world is all the Republic we need.

© 2019, Mike Stone

:: exiles ::

i heard on the radio.

they decided to walk.

he asked her what she had..

nothing she said, nothing.

money? nothing, nothing,
nothing. nothing.nothing.

nothing left except my girls.

i have not lost them, we hold hands,
hold hands, hold hands.

we have nothing.nothing. nothing left.

they decided to walk.holding hands

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher



A Brief Status Update on Mbizo*

Mbizo Chirasha

We’re still $295 short of the Go-Fund-Me goal. Mbizo is in hiding, without any regular source of food or access to a computer, which would facilitate his radio interview and preparing his applications for asylum and other assistance. You are able to donate anonymously through go-fund-me. Even a few dollars will help us reach goal. This effort is hosted by an organizer from International Human Rights Art Festival.  If you can help in some other way, please connect with Mbizo at girlchildcreativity@gmail.com.Thank you!

*
RELATED

“We remain resilient in the quest for justice, freedom of expression and upholding of human rights through Literary Activism and Artivism. ALUTA CONTINUA.” Mbizo Chirasha



 

Three poems including “Poetry” by Marianne Moore

Photograph by George Platt Lynes (1935) from the United States Library of Congress’s Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3c01955 / Public Domain

” . . . Moore wrote without regard to labels. She was a Modernist who used a precise syllabic form and rhymes. She was a defender of the underdog, an early white champion of civil rights and of black artists and athletes who also voted Republican and defended LBJ’s continuing the Vietnam War, the latter mainly so as not to abandon the South Vietnamese. She wrote “advertising” verse and patriotic poems during WWII. She was raised by lesbians and then denigrated by second wave feminists.

“Her poetry must be read and dealt with if you care about American poetry. Her carefully controlled poems were often described as emotionless and overly intellectual. In truth, she was able to contain deep emotion and thought in precise verse, a skill and aesthetic often not practiced or appreciated since the Confessionals came along.” excerpt from July 25, 2017 Library Thing Review of Linda Leavell’s Holding On Upside Down: The Life and Work of Marianne Moore



An Egyptian Pulled Glass Bottle In The Shape Of A Fish

Here we have thirst
and patience, from the first,
and art, as in a wave held up for us to see
in its essential perpendicularity;

Not brittle but
intense–the spectrum, that
spectacular and humble animal the fish,
whose scales turn aside the sun’s sword with their polish.

Poetry

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important
beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it,
one discovers that there is in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not be-
cause a

high sounding interpretation can be put upon them
but because they are
useful; when they become so derivative as to
become unintelligible, the
same thing may be said for all of us – that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand. The bat,
holding on upside down or in quest of some-
thing to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll,
a tireless wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a
horse that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician – case after case
could be cited did
one wish it; nor is it valid
to discriminate against “business documents
and

school-books”; all these phenomena are important.
One must make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half
poets,
the result is not poetry,
nor till the autocrats among us can be
“literalists of
the imagination” – above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads
in them, shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on one hand,
in defiance of their opinion –
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness, and
that which is on the other hand,
genuine, then you are interested in poetry.

A Grave

Man looking into the sea,
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have to yourself,
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,
but you cannot stand in the middle of this;
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-foot at the top,
reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look—
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate them
for their bones have not lasted:
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away—the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such thing as death.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx—beautiful under networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed;
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore—
the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them;
and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of bellbuoys,
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink—
in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.

– Marianne Moore

Editor’s Note: The layout of Ms. Moore’s poems here are not consistent with the original.  I was unable to manage that in this WordPress theme. I believe all her poems are in the public domain at this point.  Her Amazon Page is HERE.  If you haven’t made a study of her, there’s no time like the present.

Marianne Moore (1948 by Carl Van Vechten, Van Vechten Collection at Library of Congress / Public Domain

MARIANNE MOORE (1887 – 1972) was a  premier American modernist poet, critic, translator, and editor. Her poetry is notable for formal innovation, precise diction, irony and wit. Poetry may be her most famous poem, followed by The Grave.

Poetry expresses Ms. Moore’s hope for poets who can produce “imaginary gardens with real toads in them”. It also expressed her idea that meter, or anything else that claims the exclusive title “poetry”, is not as important as the delight in language and precise, heartfelt expression in any form. Moore’s meter was radically separate from the English tradition. She wrote her syllabic poems after the advent of free verse, which encouraged to try previously unusual meters.

 

Marianne Moore credited the poetry of Dame Edith Sitwell as “intensifying her interest in rhythm and encouraging her rhythmic eccentricities” In response to a biographical sketch in 1935, Moore indicated “a liking for unaccented rhyme, the movement of the poem musically is more important than the conventional look of lines upon the page, and the stanza as the unit of composition rather than the line.” Later in her Selected Poems of 1969, she also commented in regard to her poetic form, that “in anything I have written, there have been lines in which the chief interest is borrowed, and I have not yet been able to outgrow this hybrid method of composition”.

Moore often composed her poetry in syllabics, she used stanzas with a predetermined number of syllables as her “unit of sense”, with indentation underlining the parallels, the shape of the stanza indicating the syllabic disposition, and her reading voice conveying the syntactical line. Her syllabic lines from Poetry illustrate her position: poetry is a matter of skill and honesty in any form whatsoever, while anything written poorly, although in perfect form, cannot be poetry.


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 and encourages activist poetry.  Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.

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Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications Poets Advocate for Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, How 100,000 Poets Are Fostering Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, YOPP! * The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice, August 11, 2019 / This short story is dedicated to all refugees. That would be one in every 113 people. * Five poems, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019 * From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems), July 2019 * Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review, July 2019 * Three poems, Our Poetry Archive, September 2019


“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.”  Lucille Clifton

“Hope Spoke” . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
Emily Dickinson


This week we bring you poems of hope in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, At a Peace Reading, October 30. As always, all poets have come through beautifully for us, examining hope from several angles. Further some have gifted us with sorely needed salve for these days bad news, unrelieved.

Thanks and a warm welcome to two new-to-us poets, Shannon Browne and Oz Forester and thanks to our stalwart poet-heros: Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Frank McMahon, Urmilia Mahajan, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Tamam Tracy Moncur, Ben Naga, and Bishnu Charan Parida.

Enjoy! and do join us tomorrow for the Wednesday Writing Prompt (something a bit different this week). All are welcome to join in: novice, emerging, or pro.



Hope is the way …

Hope is in the way we play
Not just in the words we say
Its through our actions
aspirations and dreams
desires, good fortunes
utopian schemes.
In a world so empty
Anger finds its mark
Matched by sister courage
Intertwined from the start
One without the other

Shannon and her son fighting a cold keeping spirits high

May be pure bliss
What fun would life be
With no manipulation by sis.

© 2019, Shannon Browne

SHANNON BROWNE ((Letters2Mom, Give it a rest) is a wife, and mother of three with an Elementary School teaching degree. Thriving and surviving are her main games at this point in life.  Shannon lost her  grandmother recently and mother some time ago and has been using writing as her outlet.  Finally started blogging and trying to have some fun with her “corky old nature” in a world that’s so unsure.


Hope spoke

Find me, hope said
where headwaters unfurl
and roll across eons of rocks
polished by the playful tumble
of a rumbling stream. I stir belief
in the faintest trace I leave
under layers of a forest bed
the faint murmur of a mountain spring
where the ascent of a desert trail
is more than water
and the curl of a wool blanket
around the thumb of a sleeping child
is more than warmth.

Find me
where daydreams break
and flood the order of days
bridged by that narrow crossing
between duty and yearning. I destroy walls
from the rigid constructs I emerge
from labyrinths of complex reasons
the unwanted changes and the changing wants
where the hunger on the abundant earth
is a promise made
and the bend of the searching sun
under the months of winter snow
is a promise kept.

Find me
where smoke rises
and lifts the ghosts of mourning
entrapped by a constant churn
of candle stubs. I unite breath
under melting symbols I bow
to the church of the desperate fate
the humble faith in the big mistake
where a vow of strange forgiveness
is more than peace
and the prayer for a shamash flame
or the chant to an endless knot
is more than peace.

© 2019, Oz Forestor

OZ FORESTOR is a former journalist. He began writing short fiction, poetry, and essays when he realized the topics that don’t make news are more interesting than news: class struggle, un-planet Pluto, geriatric romance, power psychology, migratory birds, Nazi-era art suppression, trees.  Forestor’s nature-themed poetry chapbook sold out–all three copies- when he was nine. He enjoys hiking, travel, is prone to getting lost, and does not believe in GPS technology.


Reverse Rumi

Always live in regret.
The past is ever present.

There are no new days; you are the same person you were before.

Believe that today will be no better than yesterday. It’s about looking down with despair

and looking backward.

Don’t Look for new opportunities
that the Almighty has planned for you.

Hardship disheartens,
and does not pass away.
All hope is followed by despair;
all sunshine is followed by darkness.

People want you to be sad.
Serve them your pain!
Don’t untie your wings
bind your soul with jealousy,
You and everyone around you
can’t fly like doves.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Hopelessness Is Life

Only the hopeless live.
Only hopelessness makes you smile.

When all hopelessness is gone
then you will grieve at the loss.

There are three streets we can go down,
Faithlessness, Hopelessness and Selfishness

Without one of these the others cannot exist.
There must always be hopelessness

in the best of times. It reminds us of an edge
to life. Surrender to hopelessness

and all will be well. It is the force that drives
all that is worthwhile and good.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

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.

The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jamie Dedes

  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.S. HERE
  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.K. HERE

More poems by Paul at Michael Dickel’s Meta/ Phore(e) /Play


Hope Flying for Peaceful Eternity

After Emily Dickenson

Flying lightly all over
feathers of hope hover
linger, alive, tingle the soul
stay without burden,cover
the spirit, awakening the heart
from time to time, warding away
danger depression sadness cold
storms in the turbulent seas, not
harming even a bird or a gull
but keeping the lull,cajoling Poseidon
for softness soothing mercy, nothing
ever from me asking or the entire humanity
but flying closer to all flying for peaceful eternity

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum-ji’s sites are:

“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


Spiked

He thought it would be great to be
a manic comic, soaring
on dope and steroids, his wit
an acid-tipped stiletto.
But then he knew he couldn’t stand
his own dark hand ripping the heart
out of hope, his veins flooding
with the world’s insanities and evils
and nothing there to pump them out.

© 2019, Frank McMahon


Obituary – Shivpuri September 2019

Far from it that we skip the
stony ground of reality
and shroud unpalatable
truth under precarious wings
for two unprivileged children
who lost out through no fault of
their own
like countless others
whose flag is a small white bird of
hope singing from here to eternity

© 2019, Urmila Mahajan

Urmila’s site is: Drops of Dew


.a place of hope.

we find it when the rain stops,

light comes through. yesterday morning

looked nice.

find it in the leaves scattered in piles witing for the wind

to scatter

hope in the plane flying over

run out to see

i found hope in the mountains here

a home, a refuge plain

and simple things, the ordinary

become as sacred in our life

and brings a sort of hope

we can hold onto

cherish inside of us

without

there may be

nothing……..

small birds sing

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

hoping.

i found you stranded.

held you , hugged you.

felt the weight of your body.

felt your fin.

there.

i took you to the water

and lay there with you

hoping it would save your life.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


The Desert of Existence

Hope rises every morning coloring the sky with messages of love declaring peace despite the ratta-tat-tat of gun violence violating innocence.

Hope stands strong in vast rock mountains symbolizing strength…the strength to continue on along this narrow nebulous pathway into the future.

Hope is spring summer fall winter blanketing earth’s atmosphere in splendor…rain washing away tears…the sun shining away fears…falling leaves capturing pain…the snow white in its purity covering shame.

Hope rides on the waves of the ocean in glory and power diving into unfathomable depths seeking fellowship in the dark murky waters.

Hope flies through forests over rolling green hills across rivers into the desert of existence…the highs…the lows…the joy…the heartache…the caring…the callous.…the sharing…the selfish.

Hope unites hearts in just causes lighting fires of indignation flames ablaze burning up hate… subjugation…racism… fanaticism…exploitation…sending sparks of the evidence of faith into the heavens.

Hope internalized is belief in “Somebody Bigger than You and I”

© 2019, Tamam Tracy Moncur

Tamam Tracy Moncur probes  the reality of teaching in our inner city school systems as seen from the front line in her book, Diary of an Inner City Teacher. Over two decades in the trenches, Tamam exposes through her personal journal the plights, the highlights, the sadness, and the joys she has experienced as a teacher. Our children’s very existence is at stake! Laugh, cry, and become informed as you embrace the accounts of an inner city teacher.


She Seats Herself to Write

She seats herself to write

Half fearing her writing
Will drive her mad while
Half hopes it will cure her

In two minds – Ah, if only
Thinks were so simple
Turmoil turmoil turmoil

Enough! Dismisses them all
And seats herself to write

© 2019, Ben Naga

Ben Naga’s site is: Ben Naga, Gifts from the Musey Lady and Me. “Laissez-moi vous recanter ma vraie histoire.”


Hope

Hope is that flickering light,
Showing us the path
All throughout a darkened tunnel

Hope is in the little stars
Twinkling in a moonless sky,
As we watch them smiling

When a deadly night ends,
With sun rays dispelling the darkness
Hope wakes up in us, consoling

When for us everything is lost
As we bemoan, hope pats on our back,
Encouraging

For beggars on the street
With no food, no shelter
Hope lies straight as a road to walk over, on and on, ahead

© 2019, Bishnu Charan Parida

Bishnu-ji’s site is: Bishnu’s Universe Bishnu is just getting his blog started. We wish him much joy in this creative effort.




“Listen to the mustn’ts, child. Listen to the don’ts. Listen to the shouldn’ts, the impossibles, the won’ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me… Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.” Shel Silverstein




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 and encourages activist poetry.  Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.

About / Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook / Medium

Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications Poets Advocate for Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, How 100,000 Poets Are Fostering Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, YOPP! * The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice, August 11, 2019 / This short story is dedicated to all refugees. That would be one in every 113 people. * Five poems, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019 * From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems), July 2019 * Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review, July 2019 * Three poems, Our Poetry Archive, September 2019


“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.”  Lucille Clifton