: Publicity poster original artwork for the documentary film Night Mail by the GPO Film Unit Date 1936, Public Domain
“It’s not that we have to quit this life one day, but it’s how many things we have to quit all at once: music, laughter,the physics of falling leaves, automobiles, holding hands,the scent of rain, the concept of subway trains… if only one could leave this life slowly!” ― Roman Payne, Rooftop Soliloquy
I love trains but it isn’t the love of trains that inspired this post. The current United States Post Office debacle made me think of Auden’s Night Mail, which made me think of Stevenson’s From a Railway Carriage. These two are my fave railway poems. I suppose I should write one myself one of these days. We’ll see … Meanwhile, enjoy these …
Night Mail
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers’ declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart’s outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston’s or Crawford’s:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman’s knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
– W. H. Auden
From A Railway Carriage
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!
Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.
Poetry rocks the world!
“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.
“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”
Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
The delay in getting this posted for you and the reason for it being the final Wednesday Writing Prompt: I was rushed to the Emergency Department few weeks ago and was not expected to make it through that first night. My wonderful pulmonary team pulled me through. After about two weeks or so of trying various medical protocols, I was released from the hospital and into in-home hospice care, which is where I am right now. I will keep The Poet by Day open so that you can reach for things that you might find helpful and inspiring. I may post periodically if I am up to it and have something worthy to say or news I believe people might find helpful. Family may post periodically as well. Meanwhile, my affection and gratitude to all of you who have been so very supportive and helpful and such a valued part of my life. You cannot know the joy you’ve gifted as I watch so many – including me – grow through these years. You and your work are valued.
Posted here today – belatedly but with love and appreciation – are poems in response to the last and final Wednesday Writing Prompt, With Twice Found Hope and Tender Love, June 24 . Thanks to Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Frank McMahon, Mahfuz Rahman (new to our pages and warmly welcome), and Adrian Slonaker. Enjoy! … and poem on all …
In the spirit of peace, love (respect), and community, Jamie
Spirit Incarnate
I believe I am an spirit incarnate,
Landed from the skies above, on
a plate without a parachute, I
survived, though for many years
of childhood I had a wobbly walk,
would often fall from just anywhere,
and everyone started calling me,
“now what” and “ what next, where?”
Was a runner, everywhere, never hungry
loved the open air, loved books, all fair
life was joyful, life was free but in the
lawn, up the tree, under a watchful eye.
of some one elderly, unaware of witches
dangers, rapists, life had lots of company.
The air was clean, water was plenty, fruit
abundant, home was home not a house
less toys to playwith more books to read
there never was a sad time or an urgent need,
many now say “you had a good childhood”-
16mm screen movies funny films to see
every Sunday a picnic on the hills, must be-
out of war zone safely in peace, I thought
life was fun and love , no care or any worry,
but soon in teens the world all changed, war
came in with blackouts disturbed home-
curfew isolation restrictions all set in-since
1960s war has not stopped, terrorism spread
no place was safe, of race religion or creed
who was the enemy no one recognized- war
was for another’s cause, schools closed and
remained closed, danger at every step outside
what will the future be what will government
decide, uncertainty reigned over country-
peace came in bits and pieces, life was now
a cautionary tale, picnics died, inside, inside
eat homemade inside, where to run? Hardly
space for a short walk in the lane, but come
let’s walk. Let’s practice patience, as parents
became ill, life now is at a standstill, no parents
no kids, no jobs, no travel, no picnics, just press
the button –and plug in the wire life- switch on
the TV, watch the news, how many killed –stress
no, stay clean, wash hands, eat that is healthy
look in silence, other kids are playing in the lane
they do not know yet the pain or gain or war
they have not gone far, nor seen any real war
they fly simple kites, dream of ice cream cones
they look weak, almost skin and bones
life is calm now, to be grateful, and I dream of
flying up to the stars, my home is there in the
Milky way will I be alone ? No, friends will be
there, shining stars all the way, Life at times
makes me dance and I secretly do a few steps
you may laugh if you see me, but the best is yet
I believe I am an spirit incarnate,
Landed from the skies above, on
a plate without a parachute, I
survived, though for many years
of childhood I had a wobbly walk,
would often fall from just anywhere,
and everyone started calling me,
“now what” and “ what next, where?”
Was a runner, everywhere, never hungry
loved the open air, loved books, all fair
life was joyful, life was free but in the
lawn, up the tree, under a watchful eye.
of some one elderly, unaware of witches
dangers, rapists, life had lots of company.
The air was clean, water was plenty, fruit
abundant, home was home not a house
less toys to playwith more books to read
there never was a sad time or an urgent need,
many now say “you had a good childhood”-
16mm screen movies funny films to see
every Sunday a picnic on the hills, must be-
out of war zone safely in peace, I thought
life was fun and love , no care or any worry,
but soon in teens the world all changed, war
came in with blackouts disturbed home-
curfew isolation restrictions all set in-since
1960s war has not stopped, terrorism spread
no place was safe, of race religion or creed
who was the enemy no one recognized- war
was for another’s cause, schools closed and
remained closed, danger at every step outside
what will the future be what will government
decide, uncertainty reigned over country-
peace came in bits and pieces, life was now
a cautionary tale, picnics died, inside, inside
eat homemade inside, where to run? Hardly
space for a short walk in the lane, but come
let’s walk. Let’s practice patience, as parents
became ill, life now is at a standstill, no parents
no kids, no jobs, no travel, no picnics, just press
the button –and plug in the wire life- switch on
the TV, watch the news, how many killed –stress
no, stay clean, wash hands, eat that is healthy
look in silence, other kids are playing in the lane
they do not know yet the pain or gain or war
they have not gone far, nor seen any real war
they fly simple kites, dream of ice cream cones
they look weak, almost skin and bones
life is calm now, to be grateful, and I dream of
flying up to the stars, my home is there in the
Milky way will I be alone ? No, friends will be
there, shining stars all the way, Life at times
makes me dance and I secretly do a few steps
you may laugh if you see me, but the best is yet
“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
A Shining Moment
I am drinking hot coffee despite the 90 degree weather, the sweet creamy liquid warming my nostrils before I take a sip. I hold it for a moment, savoring it’s decadence before swallowing, while watching my children run through the sprinkler. The sunlight glistens off the water droplets hanging onto their dark hair and tan skin. These diamonds sparkle and glisten before being flung into the air echoing the sound of their laughter. I drink my coffee and commit this happy, shining moment to memory.
Growing up, my sprinkler was the fire hydrant in front of my neighbor’s house. Instead of soft, squishy grass underfoot, we had pavement that left our feet raw from scrapes on the unyielding surface. Our laughter gurgled like the fire hydrant while our screams matched the siren wail of the police – a warning that our water play time would soon come to an end. My mother would drink black coffee and watch us from the stoop, her worries emanating from the lines between her eyes, like the sun’s rays burning our already darkened skin.
On this summer day, I drink my coffee, leaning against my marble countertop while looking at my children through the panoramic kitchen window and toast myself for not having wrinkles between my eyes.
Sunshine rewarding
Generations of hard work –
Suburban sprinkler
“I lost my heart in an English garden”.
My voice was a boat on a turquoise river,
the banks clustered with large red blossoms
framed by dark green leaves. I could warble then,
stretched out in the bath, Ave Marias
and such-like, could follow notes on staves
in the school-boy choir.
Something broke,
the song mid-flow as three girls turned
the corner, giggled and sneered. Later the boat
pitched and yawed, lost its bearings,
timbers creaking, barnacled.
Black on white, phrases tacking between
major, minor and older modes, singing
from heart and page,
no longer lost in a quiet street.
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.)
Time flies and we move forward
It may take just a blink of eyes or a short span of time and everything happens.
Life has variations, however it changes.
Our little child body growing old someday.
Look, when I was a child,
was used to siting beside my mom.
Nowadays, I used to sit beside my beloved gal, but do miss that caress and softness.
Now, I sit alongside the river each and everyday, I look at the serene water. But this water can not extinguish my agonies because my heart is burning for a long since and became a volcano. It has already been broken down and became an ocean of catastrophic storms.
Still, I sit under that bunyan tree but I do miss those days when I was used to playing with my mates; was used to passing my good afternoons under its green shade.
I feel shy to go to under the neighbours tarmarind tree what was once my daily routine to pick up tarmarind.
At present, I write my pains with pen, do write all of the missing times and things.
Am turned young by courses of time, not more than a gradually developed materialistic worm,
Aged a score plus seven.
I can’t escape the present. What I can is to ruminate the bygones; am overall a reminiscient.
Thousands of days have been flied over
Millions of memories have been engraved with.
Mahfuz Rahman is from Bangladesh. He writes poems and short stories. His work is featured in Tuck Magazine, Persian Sugar in English Tea, and Gideon Poetry Review.
Quand J’étais Petit
Quand j’étais petit,
I preferred pink to blue
and flowers to football.
I longed to learn languages and
relished the garish gooseflesh
inflicted by ghost stories
and pizza after swims on
sweltering July afternoons with the
girl on Sunset Avenue I dreamt of
sharing a purple house with.
Maintenant que je suis grand,
complications have cropped up;
celeste bests salmon, but
bubblegum beats cobalt.
I still delight in deep-dish
and cool dips in the pool
and fancy a fistful of forget-me-nots,
but pigskin takes priority on
Super Bowl Sunday, and
I survive on my own in
an ivory building,
ruffled and flushed by
at a life far more real than the
showy shocks of
any Gothic thriller.
Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.
Poetry rocks the world!
“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.
“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren’t trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.” Umberto Eco, Foucault’s Pendulum
And this being Tuesday, it’s time to share the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Hello Nazim . . . Hello, June 10, which invited poets to share memories and thoughts on their fathers. Some share good stories and some share sad experiences, not unlike the world’s populations writ large. Thanks to Benedicta (Akosua) Boamah, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Irene Emanuel, Joan Leotta, Frank McMahon, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Nancy Ndeke, and Adrian Slonaker for this distinctive and relatable collection Enjoy! . . .
. . . and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome: beginning, emerging, and pro poets. This is a safe place to exercise your poetic muscle, to introduce yourself to our community, and to meet other poets who may be new to you.
a stern look
the outer resilence
of a man who instills discipline.
2020, Benedicta (Akosua) Boamah
You can read more of Benedicta’s poetry using the search engine on this site.
Dear Father, if you were alive today
Life would have been so different, I would
have spent a day with you, served you hot tea,
Discussed some aspect of English Language
then played an exciting game of Scrabble with you.
You inspired us all, by your elegant professionalism
I admired you in uniform you honored it so rightly.
Up early getting ready for office, I remember the
sweet smell of lather, the small foamy shaving brush
You would lovingly tease me by touching my cheek
with it, your silver table mirror swinging back from
time to time, and had to be adjusted again and again,
the small mug of warm soapy water, I watched in awe
when you changed the blade after shaving the cheeks
a bit of chin, you respected the beard but never kept it.
I remember the brand name Treet, sharp metallic cutter,
wrapped in yellow and purple, while music played on
Radio Ceylon,Triple 5 cigarette tin stood at attention,
uniform clean pressed stiff, brass pips shining, awaited you
How lovingly and expertly you would treat us in times when
we injured ourselves running and falling, or getting fever,
Your love of music always surprised us in joyful suspense
till the needle of Grundig touched the HMV 75 rpm record,
this reflected the musical moods of the Renaissance. The best
collection was of books,every month from England
“The Companion Book Club”classics arrived. I know all that
reading created the writer in me. Thank you Father, I love you,
miss you, I could write so much more, as there is so much more,
with you in heaven, then I talk to you in silent prayers,
I am fortunate to receive so much affection, care, teachings of
true values of life in this world. Your best lesson was:
“Have a big heart, forgive and relax, always try to do good with
patience and courage, to be alive is a blessing”.
Father, You were a true soldier, served actively in Burma and Java, experienced a brush with death against the Japanese, a healing doctor of humanity, veteran of WW II, awarded the Burma Star, King George the 6th Queen’s Medal 1950, Royal British Indian Medical Service Medal and Pakistan Armed Forces Medical Service and Indo-Pak War Medal 1965.
“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
Details
I zero in
On the cracks in the walls
The spaces between the tile and grout
The layer of dust on the grand piano
The peeling Formica under 80’s sought after giveaway cups
The places where your innovative nature took precedence over getting the job done right.
I zero in
On the grays in your hair
And the spots on your hands
The slowness in your cane aided walk
Your mouth agape during your afternoon nap
The hand me up shirt you’ve been wearing for decades because it still fits
I zoom out
And see the humor and kindness in your eyes
The hands that lovingly prepare my favorite meal
The 20 year old bed that fits generations
The clock where time has stopped but happiness lives on
The struggle of remembering and honoring and forgetting and accepting.
I zoom out
And notice what you do without
What you’ve sacrificed
What you’ve preserved
What you’ve done with love
What you’ve done for love.
My heart’s bereft
now you have left this Earth.
Just thoughts of you
to see me through the years.
When last did I
see eye to eye with you?
Your World and mine,
by age and time, were different.
As memories come creeping in,
why, only now, do I begin to see your worth?
How dumb and blind;
how closed my mind to everything of you.
You tried your best,
why did I test your love?
Love and warmth were always there,
I just never gave my share to you.
And now you lie beneath the ground,
my words of love are tightly bound inside me.
So all the times I ever had
to say ” I love you, Dad,” are gone forever.
Too late I’ve woken,
the words unspoken remain unheard.
Why did you go
before I let you know
how much I loved you?
He was otherworld;
othertime, otherplace;
he was othertongue;
otherman, otherface.
He was a Polishman;
strongman; bright and aware;
wiseman, everybody’s friend,
busyman, goodman, always there.
He was a workman;
kindman; animal lover.
He was caring and gentle,
adored his kids, worshipped our mother.
He was a sickman;
weakman, fading away,
he lingered on until he died
one glorious bluesky day.
He was Polish Henek, English Henry,
different names and time—–
for me, he was my fatherman,
my dearest Daddy, mine.
You may read more of Irene’s poems by using the search engine on this site.
Dreaming Across the Styx
My father walks into my view.
He is in a long, narrow room,
wearing his tan trench coat.
A finely blocked felt hat
tops his jet-black, wavy hair.
He tamps down the tobacco
in his cherry wood pipe, then turns
to me, his brown eyes twinkling.
He steps back into
a poorly lit hallway I do not recognize.
Dad removes his coat and
sits in an orange plastic chair.
Coat on his lap,
he draws softly on the pipe and
nods toward me .
Cherry -flavored tobacco smoke
soothes me.
Dad is waiting for me,
as always.
Through theatre classes
piano lessons, dance lessons.
Patiently enmeshed in his own thoughts,
he waits without complaint.
Suddenly I wake.
I’m at home.
No hallway. No chair.
No cherry tobacco.
Only the smell of coffee.
My father smiles from his photo.
Some say dreaming across the Styx means
Ferryman Charon will soon arrive.
Not for me.
Instead of Charon,
my own beloved father
waits, patiently, to
ferry me across the Styx
in his white 1960 Thunderbird.
First published, Red Wolf Journal, Summer 2014, this is an excerpt from Joan’s collection Languid Lusciousness with Lemon
R166216
Lost, replaced, now traced at last,
my father’s.
Neat cursive script in different hands,
no wasted words:
ships, dates, evaluations,
a carpenter in a world
of steel and water.
Winnipeg2/ chartered once by Pablo Neruda/ to take from France/ Spanish refugees/ and carry them to Chile/ “The critics may erase all of my poetry if they want/ But this poem, that today I remember, nobody will be able to erase”/
Convoy ON-139
A line of life stretched taut
and fear haunts each keel.
Curse/ bless the storm pounding
against the knuckled rivets;
pray that the head grinding
down against the crushing walls,
pray that the head will rise and breathe,
pray that the engines will not fail,
pray you will not be lost
in the ocean’s wrack.
22/10/1942
U-443, Wolf Pack Puma.
This line of life, men and cargo,
war, time and water intersect.
49°,51’ North, 27°,58’West
Two sudden blows.
The pictures show a ship in a gentle ocean,
scuppers nearly under water, men in lifeboats.
I magnify and peer, hoping I will see him.
21.48. The line of life, a shipmate
who saw he wasn’t there,
who went below, hefted him
over his shoulder. Four days unconscious.
Only once he talked about what he had seen and heard,
annihilating seas and storms, men burning in oil.
A father discharged from life
with honour.
This is an except from Frank’s debut collection, At the Storm’s Edge, (Palewell Press, London, January 2020)
Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
The name that is also a thing,
What a story in the history of a man,
The man who give me his love wrapped in a name,
Ndeke; loosely translates to Aeroplane,
A bird too, both creatures of flight,
A man married to the soil of his land before a wife,
A man true to the seasons,
Now, firmly rested in the very soil that so amazed his hands,
Every cup of coffee bears memories of this man,
Every bird, every jet and chopper,
A poet melting metaphors of the crops and sweat,
A boon to his brood and provisions,
A legacy of tireless endeavors,
Laughter was a short affair in a grunt,
Discipline came with a stern look and a wave of the head,
When he pointed a finger in admonishment, raised remorseful regret spoke,
For this rough and refined figure of my father,
Led the example with his own ways,
School meant much to him, and rebuke came by way of sample failures,
Never heard a single ” I love you child ” from his tongue,
Yet, never doubted this love withheld verbally,
Only once in my life,
Did I hold my father close to my heart,
A hard time fell on his son,
And age added to great sorrow,
Brought my father to my bossom,
He said nothing, but said everything in that moment,
A year later, he went his sky way,
Now, he lives in my name and bones,
And the wonder of his efforts,
That’s a testimony to this verse.
May all father’s leave something to hold for their children.
I have a name.
And a legacy too.
In a burgundy Buick LeSabre
stopped before a storefront
stammering “Records! Records! Records!”
waited a professor
with salt-and-pepper hair,
puffing on a pipe
packed with Dutch Masters tobacco,
on a break from weekend yardwork
while his bespectacled kid with brackety braces
lingered inside,
fingering forty-fives and albums and
mulling over which artistes
merited his allowance
and the privilege of spinning on
the stereo supplied
by the chap in the car
watched through a window
by an incredulous clerk who
clucked, “That must be
the world’s most patient man.”
Blushing with shame,
the teen high-tailed it to the till,
swapped crumpled banknotes for
rock ‘n’ roll and
rushed to shower his chauffeur
with contrition and thanks.
Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.
Poetry rocks the world!
FEEL THE BERN
For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice
Maintain the movement.
“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders
“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.
Let’s give the world to the children just for one day
like a balloon in bright and striking colours to play with
let them play singing among the stars
let’s give the world to the children
like a huge apple like a warm loaf of bread
at least for one day let them have enough
let’s give the world to the children
at least for one day let the world learn friendship
children will get the world from our hands
they’ll plant immortal trees
– Nazim Hikmet
After Nazim Hikmet
What happiness that today
I can be “open and confident”
Though normally I would hide
in the safety of feigned ignorance,
feign joy, pretend
that I can see my clear sky
in spite of his clouds
Respectfully, I provide the detail requested …
The year is 2016
The month, January
This the first Wednesday
The hour is 6 a.m.
now that i am getting to know you,
now that i am chest-high in your poesy
it’s your time that interests me ……….1902 ~
You were birthday twins, Nazim,
You and my mysterious father,
born the same year, into the same culture,
spent your youth in that turmoil
If I study you, Nazim, will I find him, my diffident father,
in the dissident roots of your Turkish sensibility ~
they said he left with a price on his head
only to be caught, chained, imprisoned
in America, between a lover and a wife, ……….strong women . . . ………………..well, at least stronger than he
Hello Nazim!
I say “Hello!” gleefully ……….without a wink
I think we could have been perfect friends
that we might have understood each other ……….Hello! to you and your poetry ……………….Hello Nazim, Hello!
Note: My father and Nazim Hikmet would have come of age just as WW I (1914-1918) was ending and the Turkish War of Independence (1919-1923) was beginning. Hikmet (1902-1963) was a renown poet, playwright and novelist, a communist and a revolutionary who spent his life in and out of jail. He won the International Peace Prize in 1950. My father (1902-1977) was a furrier. I didn’t know him well and saw him only two or three times a year, always at his office, never his home. This poem is after Hikmet’s Hello Everybody from Things I Didn’t Know I Loved. I appreciate his poetry for many reasons, but not the least as one way to get to know the world of my father’s childhood and youth..
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
June 21 is Father’s Day in the U.S., where I live. In honor of fathers everywhere, please share poem/s about your father or about something that reminds you of your father or makes you feel connected to him and ..
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 on theme in the comments section here will be published in next Tuesday’s collection. Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published. If you are new to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, be sure to include a link to your website, blog, and/or Amazon page to be published along with your poem. Thank you!
Deadline: Monday, June 15 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 and befriend 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.
Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.
Poetry rocks the world!
FEEL THE BERN
For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice
Maintain the movement.
“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders
“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.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 