Going forth to faire free, the ninth poem in Linda Chown’s Ten-Part William Blake Series

 

Angel of the Divine Presence Bringing
Eve to Adam, William Blake
(The Creation of Eve and She shall be Called Woman), Ca.1803 Courtesy of the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art / public domain

“The soul of sweet delight, can never be defiled.” The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, William Blake



William Blake painted lots of men with burly thighs
He painted endings & impasses, full of weepings, warrings and sighs,
Showed us discontent and turbulence much, often, and more.
Because, as he knew of himself, ‘for double the vision my Eyes do see
And a double vision is always with me.’ As one does, he gets stuck in that place of mourning, like we do.
But he came forth back. To beginnings. Painting his “The Nativity,”
his baby Jesus spun flew out of birth through the air, arms stretched open wide,
Here in this balanced bringing Eve here, the birth-hood of woman.
No angry stretched fight-ready faces, no muscled thighs on the ready.

What a field of eyes, an effusion of gentle, this place of peaceful,
so fresh it looks transparent. Nothing weighed this down.
No rib mangling or second best. This is just fresh air.
Adam in some boyish expectation and Eve coming down curly,
Her heart and body sweet singing naked.
Down down down is up up up, it seems, a way forward to.
Birds beaked colors that faded gentle blue.
And Blake knew of misogyny and androgyny
But he let himself paint here a new equality story:
“Love and harmony combine,
And around our souls combine.”
And he turns open nakedness into a blessing
Natural and sacred. Sweet sweet sweet.

© 2019, Linda Chown

The other poems in Linda’s ongoing Blake-poem series:

  1. Refections into William Blake’s “Brutus and Caesar’s Ghost,” Linda Chown
  2. Cohering Clashes: Wiliam Blake’s “The Red Dragon and The Woman Clothed in the Sun,” Linda Chown
  3. This New Ending of the Beginning: William Blake’s “The Body of Abel Found by Adam and Eve,” Linda Chown
  4. Looking Up High: “The Wood of the Self-Murderers: The Harpies, and The Suicides,”Linda Chown
  5. Double Trouble: Lamech and His Two Wives, Linda Chown
  6. The Sun in His Wrath, Linda Chown
  7. Touching Without Holding, Linda Chown
  8. The Sun Has Left His Blackness, Linda Chown


I am delighted to let you know that Linda Chown’s Narrative Authority and Homeostasis in the Novels of Doris Lessing and Carmen Martín Gaite (Routledge Library Editions: Modern Fiction) is now available through Amazon in hardcover and Kindle. Linda tells me a budget-wise paperback edition will be available in six-to-eight months.

This study, originally published in 1990, assesses a shift in the presentation of self-consciousness in two pairs of novels by Doris Lessing and Carmen Martín Gaite: 1) Lessing’s The Summer Before the Dark(1973) and Martín Gaite’s Retahílas (1974) and 2) Lessing’s The Memoirs of a Survivor (1974) and Martín Gaite’s The Back Room (1978). Three major structural divisions facilitate examining implications of the novels for 1) feminism 2) literary narrative and 3) the lives of people-at-large. / J.D.

Linda’s Amazon Page is HERE.

LInda E. Chown

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 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: Five by Jamie Dedes on The World Literature Blog,  Jamie Dedes, Versifier of Truth, Womawords 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

“I am not a silent poet,” this Wednesday Writing Prompt in honor of Reuben Woolley

c estate of Reuben Woolley

“I have been seeing such increasing evidence of abuse recently that I felt it was time to do something. I am not a silent poet looks for poems about abuse in any of its forms, colour, gender, disability, the dismantlement of the care services, the privatisation of the NHS, the rape culture are just the examples that come to mind at the moment. It is not a site for rants which, if they are well written are welcome here [i.e. Facebook]. My idea for this group is for discussion about abuse and what we can do about it. There is room here, of course for poetry. I just felt it was time for me to get off my arse and try to do something.” Reuben Woolley, publisher of the webzine I Am Not A Silent Poet, A magazine for poetry and artwork protesting against abuse in any of its forms



Reuben Woolley died last week and so many of us are feeling the loss of this man who shared our ideals, wrote poems of protest and resistance, and published “quality poems of protest” on his webzine site as well as poetry and information on his Facebook discussion page. His most recent book. This Hall of Tortures, was published in April 2019.  He recently sent me a copy for review. I was waiting until he got out of the hospital to send my interview questions.

“I am not a silent poet looks for poems about abuse in any of its forms: colour, gender, disability, the dismantlement of the care services, the privatisation of health services, the rape culture, FGM, our girls in Nigeria are just some of the examples that come to mind at the moment. It is not a site for rants.” 

Reuben was laid to rest on Monday and his daughter writes, “Although he was not a religious man, we decided to do brief ceremony at the Iglesia de los Milagros in Ágreda. In the same place where he and my mother got married 40 years ago, we came today to cry his death and celebrate his life.

“Remembering all our roadtrips around the UK listening to the Rolling Stones’ album “Let it Bleed” , I thought that playing for him “You can’t always get what you want” one last time would be a good way to remember him. Personally, I think he would have got a huge kick out of knowing that he caused a Rolling Stones’ song to be played in this quaint Spanish cemetery. Cheers dad.”

requiescat in extremis

the dark denizens
come forward
in flux
& what i have is
the hole in the picture the
red balloon & a child
follow me this
again
& one time only

here
there is weather a
hindrance & my chair i
sit too much listening
to pure crazy jazz
in this brain my
dangerous habitat

extinguish me now say
a pointless gesture ever & down
load this my stupid requiem

© Reuben Woolley, September 13, 2019

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

In the spirit of I am not a silent poet and in honor of Reuben, please share a protest poem or two – any topic but NO RANTS, per Reuben’s rules.  Comments on and memories of Reuben are welcome also if you’d like and will be published along with your poem/s next Tuesday.

  • 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, December 9 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 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: Five by Jamie Dedes on The World Literature Blog,  Jamie Dedes, Versifier of Truth, Womawords 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

Paradoxical Time, a poem

“To be human is to be whole, but to fail to see this wholeness.”  Thomas Lloyd Qualls, Painted Oxen



We are

koans

poems

riddles

rhymes.

We pass our days in paradoxical time.

© 2019, Jamie Dedes


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: Jamie Dedes, Versifier of Truth, Womawords 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

-cheveux indisciplines- … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

© 1961, Jenny Joseph

Joseph’s best known poem, Warning, was written in 1961, first published in The Listener in 1962, and later included in her 1974 collection Rose In the Afternoon, in The Oxford Book of Twentieth Century English Verse, and in her Selected Poems (1992). Warning was identified as the UK’s “most popular post-war poem” in a 1996 poll by the BBC. The second line was the inspiration for the Red Hat Society. Due to its popularity, an illustrated gift edition of Warning, first published by Souvenir Press Ltd in 1997, has now been reprinted forty-one times.



This week we bring you poems on the joys – or at least the odd or funny things – about aging in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, What’s It to Me?, November 20. In a world gone mad, it’s nice to be able to share a few giggles today.

Thanks for this collection go to: Gary W. Bowers, Olive Branch, mm brazfield, Paul Brooks, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Kakali Das Ghosh, Urmila Mahajan, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Pali Raj, and Clarissa Simmons  Enjoy!

Note: The Poet by Day will be on hiatus for the Thanksgiving holiday here in the States and will return on December 4 with the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

♥ May everyone have much for which to be thankful.


endgame adjustments

it’s easy to have a blast at 65
just don’t do it in your pants
for your once reliable digestive tract
is now a trickster
and sometimes pretends one substance
is another
so be discreet
hie thee to a bathroom stall
and relax
and enjoy
one of life’s unsung pleasures
unless…

your tract reaches into its bag of tricks
and inexplicably delays the countdown
and subsequent blastoff

and then you must wait
r e l a x
pretend you have all
t h e t i m e
i n
t h e w o r l d

except you don’t
and if the parcel is still
on the loading dock five minutes on
it is time to go fishing
with ernest hemingway
marlin fishing
for the extreme rocking motion
papa uses when he has a marlin on the line
sometimes is a sufficient propellent
for the contents of the large intestine to offload
so catch that marlin

but that doesn’t always work
so it’s time for desperate measures
make yourself laugh
cough like a firefighter
find something to sneeze at

still…unmoved?
in this extreme
i must refer you to Project DJT
and ask you to form
the most real image in your mind
of Inauguration Day 2021
and…
(ogodno)
DONALD TRUMP TAKING
THE OATH OF OFFICE!!!!!

now, if that
doesn’t Scare You Shitless,
NOTHING will!

© 2019, Gary W. Bowers

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


Bliss

One summer
night, after
a trip to the
American West,
and comfort in seeing family
and an old
friend,
a contentment
prevailed.

The torch was now passed
to the next generation,
and we’d lived to be
witness to the 30 years
onward that we’d
travelled to arrive at
the current nuptial.

Unanticipated and fleeting,
the gladness
when it appears
sometimes in the aftermath,
can be all the more memorable.

© 2019, Olive Branch


-cheveux indisciplines-

i love the color of my hair
brown red and in some places pink
my tired legs and lined filled hands
eyes that stare flat beyond the sky
and a mind that has lost the hard shell
of youthful indulgence and inexperience
i love my lips still round and plump
and the new found freedom
of spouting my own thoughts
that are crafted with the filigree of wisdom
i love my face
oh those expression lines
that will never be usurped by botox
my cheek bones high and tight
to frame a genuine smile at the wind
i love my hair when she gets wild
and i walk the streets of Beverly Hills
stroll in the Rolls Royce isles
worn out Chucks with the strategic tears
where the toes are too tight
salesmen follow me with Lysol cans
and their neat white gloves
that eradicate the traces of the hoi polloi
the hair a right of passage glorious
furious bright riot
reminding me that my agedness
is a catalyst to the third eye lens
from where i can finally see
the dimensions of the world
the good and the bad
and really only give a dam
about the moments that matter

© 2019, mm brazfield

mm’s site is: Words Less Spoken


To Biddy

Scatter radiances of milk
on her icy sod.
Let each brightness warm her earth.

Broadcast flames of oats
on her waters, stoke embers of fish.
Let her waves be ablaze with shoals.

Brush and scrub your home for her visit.
Put her bread and butter on windowsills.
Make her a bed of twigs for her rest.

Waxing light polishes
her crone wrinkles
into maiden’s roundness.

Make her a doll
out of primroses
and snowdrops.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Old Are Young

My wrinkles disappear,
No more crow’s feet.

Knees lack pain when I get up,
or walk stairs. Mind so pin sharp

it hurts. Touch my toes,
cartwheel, run marathons.

I’ve had to throw away my false teeth,
As I’ve grown new ones.

Age means less struggle.
Life should be struggle.

Age means less pain .
Everything should hurt.

I tell my wrinkled grandkids.
Never grow old. Wish it on no one.

Excerpt from Paul’s collection A World Where (Nixes Mate Press, 2017)

© 2019, Paul Brookes

My Decrepit Is Good

Bring on grey hairs turn to silver.
Bring on sharp pain in the knees
as I hobble downstairs.

Bring on memory loss
as I know no different.
Bring me my stick,
my arrow of desire.

Bring it all on, fuzzy brain,
misty sight, zimmer frame,
adult nappy’s, oxygen through
plastic tubes, a knowing.

Bring on wrinkles, laugh lines,
tang of autumn, radical spice
of spring, footskate winter,
wild summer, all natural process.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

My Friction Ridges

Seventeenth week of mam’s pregnancy
my fetus friction ridges fully form
arch, loop and whorl,

My basal layer buckles and folds
in several directions, forces complex shapes.
Not barkskin growth rings
light and dark, a seasonal response.

Rather as if someone thumbs out my face
or mine tbeirs, erase facial recognition
on a photo, stain the image
with sand dune ripples, tropical fish stripes,
convecting fluid patterns,

von Karman vortices, air or liquid currents
move in opposite directions, curl clouds.

Insects speed and manoeuvre
borrow energy from their wing made
von Karman vortices,

this blotted face buckles and folds
with age.

© 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


Something It Is To Me Surely

Something it is to me surely,
something is
my shirt hangs loose and long
from the shoulders, I have no worries
I am smart, silver streaks do not bother
I still wear the ‘jhumka earings’ I can smile
I cover my head, no hairstyle, am free of the
chair and clip in the hair
Wow what freedom has come-

I am free. I have nothing to hold
I am more bold, when cold, I wear socks
as I please,
I am a bit old, not much for
I can sit of the floor, need not reach for
the stick, nor for the bottle ‘on the rocks’
no cigarettes please, just coffee hot
Something it is to me surely
something is

dark glasses help me to see, what I
wish, what fun to be served and waited upon
Old is gold, and Grand and Great Grand
I am soft and stern at the same time
I am there among laughter and hugs
I am a bit old not much
I am just seven with a zero I say
I am fine my wrinkles may show
I am now eight with a zero I say
I still love am loved how lucky I say
Without me, value me-

something it is to me surely something is
It is love and respect as I love all and bow
and I pray and I pray and soon I may not be
If I have been good, I will be young as seven
and I will not grow old again, for I will be in heaven

© 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


When I Am An Old Woman

I want to be
A old woman
With a squishy tummy
From having babies and eating chocolate chip cookies
I would have wrinkles in all the right places
I would wear my grey hair the same way as I wore it when it was my black hair
I would wear a bright print top
And swingy pants made of linen
I would sit in my rocker
On my front porch
Under a retractable awning
A glass of sweet tea on the table next to me
With a battery powered fan next to it
Just in case it got too hot
I’d have my knitting in a bag
But I wouldn’t take it out
Instead
I would watch the street
I would watch the sidewalk
I would wave to the kids as they walked to school
I would give the stink eye to unfamiliar cars
I would greet the UPS driver and chat up the mail carrier
I would chide the dog owner who didn’t pick up what their dog put down
I would smile to the mama with the sleeping baby
I would listen to the birds and the squirrels, the ambulance and the fire trucks
I would only glance at the air planes overhead
And when the sun is high enough, I would pull back the awning
And let the sun kiss my un-sunscreened face.

© 2019, Irma Do

Irma’s site is: (I Do Run, And I do a few other things too . . .)


Old Eyes

When my old age comes

I”ll not be upset

Thinking I too have to leave this world

Keeping my old eyes on the velvety sky

I will count innumerable stars

I know that this counting will remain incomplete

Though time goes on

There is an impression of events

While counting stars I will remember my left days of past

Then I will come to my mirror

Reflection of sunrays on it will make my existence happy

I will recall my glorious past

And collect a jug of honey

With full of vivacity

Thus I will be a sparkling beauty of innersense .

© 2019, Kakali Das Ghosh


Purple

Noiseless as autumn footfalls,
clematis vines reach higher on
the trellis into the blinding
sun. The season unravels gently

preserving a trail of beliefs from
the echoes of coral jasmine gathered
in two orange-smudged childhood
baskets of burnished brass, reserved
for practising faith with garlands
and incense, to the intrinsic
rituals of coral jasmine itself:
simple beginnings and growth. The
flamboyant carpet of bauhinia petals
below my feet (now past its
prime) coils into rich chains

of understanding, edging unbroken
days and nights towards reflection
on natural systems and those
flashes of purple autumn stillness.

© 2019, Urmilia Mahajan

. yes we come older .

I just copy and paste
the whole thing,
they can take it or leave
it.

i do find that
much does not
matter now,
all that fiddly stuff,
all that desiring
things, when all around us
is ready.

i like the birds
and such like
little things.

glad of the heal.

yes a sensitive soul, when all is quiet,
small sounds, voices interrupt
the day.

is best we listen.

just now the planes fly over, the dog runs out looking up, barking.

it is pleasant here again today,
a piece of mind.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Growing old I enjoy it
WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM
Ah, when I get off my bed I rub my back
You don’t find it annoying
I am too old
I need rest, and medicine ….yeah,
I raised a good, and gentleman
YOU CALL HIM SON
I am old but who are we kidding?
WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM
if only there were just one
I cough with half my mouth
Son, I can’t stay in the air for a long long time
Well, you treat us like we are dying ….yeah
Growing old I enjoy it
WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM
Ah, when I get off my bed I rub my back
You don’t find it annoying
I am too old
I need rest, and medicine

© 2019, Pali Raj


Elliptical

In secret grasses
Wild flowers thrive, watching me
An aging Goth Granny
Freely pedaling
Tiring easily
Suddenly seeing
I’ve become paprika
A shadow of cayenne
O, but the beat
The music thrums
Through overloud speakers
Legs moving faster
Lungs gasping
Singing voice rasping
Sure will pay for it
Tonight when the yard is
Moonlit
But worth every moment…

© 2019, Clarissa Simmens

Unrecognized/Winter Disguised

Following middle of the night
Poetry ideas
Into oblivion
Darkness magics the words
So Stygian
Yet moonlight
Like blankets
Shields and comforts
Transforming a stressed face
Into a softened glow
As the mask melts
Lost in a
Mythology unrecognized
Although semiotically using
Correct signs, symbols and
Elemental scents
Winter disguised
It is the unrecorded that
Fascinates
Separating historically
Asking the clouds rhetorically
Who will I be this decade
Because I certainly don’t know
That other person from the last
And moving back in time
Across an invisible line
Is a very different
Woman
Young adult
Teenager
Child
And I think
To my great surprise
I like this old one best…

© 2019, Clarissa Simmens

Find Clarissa on her Amazon’s Author Page, on her blog, and on Facebook HERE; Clarissa’s books include: Chording the Cards & Other Poems, Plastic Lawn Flamingos & Other Poems, and Blogetressa, Shambolic 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.

About / Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook / Medium

Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications: Jamie Dedes, Versifier of Truth, Womawords 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