“Colorful demonstrations and weekend marches are vital but alone are not powerful enough to stop wars. Wars will be stopped only when soldiers refuse to fight, when workers refuse to load weapons onto ships and aircraft, when people boycott the economic outposts of Empire that are strung across the globe. ”
― Arundhati Roy, Public Power in the Age of Empire
The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, May 16, Baruch, The Baker, was about genocide, unfortunately as prevalent in these modern times as any other in history. The count is 24 currently, including – and ironically – Gaza. Here are the sometimes intuitive, sometimes angry, always well-considered works of poets with a strong sense of social justice and injustice. A collection for serious thought.
Thanks to intrepid and talented poets: Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Frank McMahan, Sonja Benskin Mesher and Marta Pombo Sallés. Bravo! And thank you to Sonja and Marta for sharing their illustrative art.
Please join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged: beginner, emerging or pro. It’s about community, sharing, getting to know poets who may be new to you. Each poet’s site (if they have one) is linked below to facilitate visits. If they don’t have a site, chances are you can connect with them on Facebook or Twitter.
child rulebook
all conquerors
learned all they needed
from the child rulebook.
of course, it being
a CHILD’s rulebook,
some rules contradict others.
“i was here first”
will fall before
“my army can beat up your army.”
“i’m gonna tell on you”
derives from
“you will get it if mom finds out”
but is so often outmatched
by “now look what you made me do”
which is a corollary of
“it’s all your fault.”
the Standard Oil Company,
a conqueror from its inception,
practiced
“kick their ass/get their gas”
long before those words
we’re found on t-shirts.
in 1979
after a puppet government
set up by the US
was deposed,
and hostages were taken
at the American embassy,
Mickey Mouse
appeared on a T-shirt
flipping a bird and saying,
“Hey, Iran!”
now our roost is presided over
seemingly by a turgid towhead
with the impulse control
of an otter
and a sense of entitlement
derived from a lifetime
of always getting
all the toys
he wants.
dark forces pull his strings.
the human population
of Citizens United
is zero,
as is
its regard
for humanity.
removes unsightly
grease and dirt of people
who spoil your landscape.
Cleans as it polishes, replaces
their awful smell with fresh fragrances.
their profane beliefs with fresh air.
their noisy children with heavenly quiet.
our history with revised pages.
Preserves our pure culture.
They are an infection to be eradicated.
Their unmarked graves forgotten.
Ethnic cleanser for a cleaner society.
Buy into this great product.
Popularly known as genocide.
Find the glass window set in the cobbles
outside Humboldt’s University. You’ll
need to angle your view and wait until
the light reveals the whiteness of the empty
shelves,a void in Europe’s heart.
Judischen, entartate. This is where
they began the burning of the books,
flames and sparks, yellow like stars,lighting the way
to ghettos, wagons, lines of wire, ashes, bones.
Ghosts gather, tug at your sleeve politely,
plead that you read the Book of the Dead.
Its opening page lies at your feet. Descend
to lamentation’s rainbow.
Shoes, pointing in all directions
as if they could not decide which
way to go. Ahead the river,
wide and fast, its shore empty of
boats.And people.The shoes, fissured,
soiled, heels broken; children’s clogs.As
they stood in their final sunlight:
prayers? Huddles of comfort? Piss and
shit leaking onto ancient leather.
Hurled backwards, no funeral flowers
save the smoke curling from the guns,
downwards, where the Duna receives
them, cold, reddening as it flows,
mere dross and cargo. A flask of
spirits opened, a cigarette
lit, safety catches on, the world
more Judenfrei.
Shoes, now again
pointing in all directions.
Spring anticipation in the air
Orange reddened sun
Gets ready to hide its rays
Behind the lowest of all mountains
Mirroring itself on the lake.
Vanity at its highest level.
Yet the picture turns out different
In a mixture of yellow and blue
Of greed and sadness a faithful clue.
“You’re so vain,
You probably think
This march is about
You…”
Reads the banner
At the Women’s March
January 21, 2017.
Millions came together
Across the globe
To raise their voices
Against your choices
Mr. Trump.
Your misogyny,
Racism,
Xenophobia,
Your greed and your lies
Are most unwelcome
Because it is your vanity
That makes you lie.
Where’s the first media-built man
That promised jobs for the working-class
To make America First and great again
When all you bring is constant pain
Erasing truths and liberties from earth.
The second man’s now on the surface,
Two sides of the same coin,
And the reddened sun sets down
While Vanity School runs high
For Marine Le Pen, Geert Wilders,
Frauke Petry, Beppe Grillo…
And the like.
Even Spain’s Rajoy’s a little Trump,
Profound ignorant and clown,
Who drains the fund backing pensions
With an air smell of corruption.
Won’t you grant us, Catalans,
Once for all that referendum
Any democratic state would offer
To a stateless people to decide:
The right to self-determination.
No, instead, you’re blurring powers
Just exactly as Donald Trump
Judicializing politics and sending
The very democrats to court
For organizing a participatory process
In Catalonia, November 9, 2014.
Vanity School expands its limits
And buys a handful Orwell’s 1984
While the sea has just began to weep:
Mare Nostrum, Mare Mortum,
In 2016 almost 5.000 people
Drowned and died
From 2000 till now 30.000 dead!
With Barcelona’s pro-refugee rally,
The largest in Europe and perhaps
In the entire world till now,
We will surely not have enough
To eradicate our human misery.
The red sun has just hidden
Behind the lowest mountain
And as darkness unfolds
The picture changes colors:
Grayish blues carrying their shadows
On a rippled lake obscured
Where birds and ducks move
Swiftly countercurrent.
I was sitting on a meadow one day
A book in my hands, how long I can’t say.
Three hens came close to me and showed no fear
I was most surprised as they came so near.
Was it my presence, so benevolent,
What made them approach me so confident?
They just trusted me and I did the same,
Collective confidence was here the game.
Animals, humans, need it in our lives,
To trust others instead of carrying knives.
Another day, walking in the city
I sensed there was no aggressivity.
On a street, a gay couple holding hands
Perhaps Barcelona now understands.
One person was black and the other white,
They were no longer a most dreadful sight.
Collective confidence was there again
Let’s hope this new tolerance will remain.
In Germany the principle of trust
Seems to be essential, it is a must.
I walk along one of its widest streets
It’s a frequent place where everyone meets.
Then I see a bookcase on a corner
It is public and with books, I wonder.
Books placed in the middle of a street
How pleasant it is to read so sweet
No one thinks to set them on fire
People read for pure desire.
Books travel, they come and go
The shelves have something to show.
No shelf becomes ever empty
For books there are always plenty.
Again collective confidence
Makes possible such a tendence.
Yet confidence remains shadowed
Too much the Germans have swallowed.
As Martí Anglada (1) once said
Their excessive confidence led
To the horrors of the genocide
Did they all ignore what was inside?
Heidegger was controversial
Did he think it was so special?
The Nazi regime would be the best tool
To reform university, how fool!
Essen celebrated Love Parade
Look at all the mess some people made
Beer bottles rolling on the floor
Of that crowded train, I want no more.
On railtracks drunken people walking
The train driver gave us a warning.
Nothing happened, yet soon after
There was more than one disaster:
The Duisburg tunnel, the Germanwings flight
Excess of confidence, a loss of sight.
Then came the Volkswagen case, a new shame,
Where again just too much trust is to blame.
Which country in the world, never mind
Each place carries such cases behind.
If the excess of confidence is no good,
Will we ever learn to act the way we should?
Martí Anglada is a Catalan journalist and the author of the book La via alemanya (The German Way), Brau 2014.
Here we are! Tuesday again and this is a fave day for many readers who so enjoy the variety of responses to each week’s prompt. Today we welcome the poetry of Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Marta Pombo Sallés, Frank McMahan, and Sonja Benskin Mesher in response to the last writing writing prompt, May 9, Autumn Promises, which was to write about a favorite season. Why is it a fave? How does it move your heart or inspire your thoughts? So, enjoy these and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt – tomorrow.
You’ll notice that I always include a link to each poet’s blog or website to facilitate getting to know new to you poets. That’s what this exercise is primarily about. So do connect. If there’s no site, you can probably link-up on Facebook.
All are welcome to join us for Wednesday Writing Prompts, no matter the status of career: novice, emerging or pro. Come, be a part of our poetry community.
Please note: Folks have sent me emails for Wednesday Writing Prompt with their photo and bio, which I don’t post unless there is a reason to do so… That is, you won’t see your photo and bio go up unless you share a poem on Wednesday in response to the prompt … and it’s your first time participating. It’s by way of intro to everyone. Thank you for your interest. I look forward to your future a participation.
Thanks to those who contributed today’s delights and to all who take the time to read their work and travel on to visit their blogs or websites. Bravo!
the longhot
in 1990 the Valley
of the Sun served up
a 122 degree day
on the 26th of june
then
i was a long distance runner
of the mind
that i could not miss a day
i had to run
at least a mile
every
single
day and so
i ran in the predawn
and it was already pushing a hundred
and fifteen minutes was all i had
but it scratched the itch
but not enough
so after sundown a friend of mine and i
ran again
briefly
he was soon wiped
but i was full
of essence of beenthere
and extract of donethat
and was oddly energized
when he asked if we could stop
and when we drew in heated air
i felt like a furnace being stoked
years later i was on a golf course
in july
had the course practically to myself
but for one or two twosomes
riding in carts
while i walked and carried my bag
at the twelfth hole
on the fairway
a worried ranger told me
i didn’t “look so good, partner
why don’t you sit down for a while?”
“nah, i’m ok,” i replied
plastering on a grin
i didn’t feel
because my focus was derailed
“you shouldn’t do this by yourself”
“i’m drinkin a lotta water
i’m ok thanks”
and i touched that with asperity
and he left
more worried than ever
but he need not have been
this was my sweat lodge
this was my forge
this was the longhot and my home
it makes cold water taste sublime
it cleanses it cures
it defines
When I am hot and fevered, bring
me from a cold, clear spring, water
in earthenware pitchers. Lave
my limbs indulgently. Let
the drops on my brow fall softly.
Carry me then on a litter,
in cotton covered, smooth and cool,
to the shingle shore where the
breeze, the merest breeze can glide,slow
across the contours of my skin,
sloughing away this burning. Let
the tide’s murmuring bring a slow
descent through slumber into sleep,
weightless, dream-less, floating.
The autumns of our lives
Unfold in harsh winters
Still nature turns the page
In the book of seasons
That trembles now and then
With echoes of climate change.
A new spring reminds us
There’s hope to carry on.
Past glories and stories
Can never be erased.
Once the seeds are planted
Smiles begin to flourish.
One autumn father died,
Another we voted.
What seemed impossible
Under such repression
Became a hero’s act
For our democracy.
Wishes held in fingers
Jolly voices strangled
By repressive police.
Our hearts froze with fear.
Yet we’re no criminals,
We just wanted to vote.
That autumn was half-won
With promise unfulfilled.
All masks were now fallen
And everything had changed.
In most uncertainty
Untrodden way to go.
Monster decay with clay
Planted so many fears.
Imprisonments began
Freedom of speech attacked
Democracy at stake
Our claim remains awake.
That was just one more fall
In the book of seasons
Where revolutions find
Their own written pages.
Ours will have its place
Within nonviolent fight.
I have found flowers
I have found flowers,
And the cool winds feel softer
Dry leaves are lifted
Waves are visible in the grass
And I know
That Nature with her sensitive ear
Hears the tender touches of, the velvet
tiptoes of Spring-
Evergreens sway to welcome, in
Murmuring whispers of youthful sprouts
Rippling away invisible woes , and I find
More flowers as loneliness fades away-
Comfort engulfs the soul and spirit as
The mind drifts away to memories
When families were together to stay-
All seasons were loved December or May
And now I find flowers but not the family
All seasons seem the same ,as joyful memory
In summer heat cool raindrops or autumnal
Falls, touches my soul, inspires the spirit-
“There is only one law in the universe that never changes– that all things change, and that all things are impermanent.” Sogyal Rinpoche, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying
The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, A Hunger For Bone, May 2, was on living with dying. We’re often in denial about this constant in our lives. The reality may hit us with the death of a friend, a sibling, a parent, a school mate. Today seven poets share their experiences and observations in writing that is honest, intimate and moving. You may find you need a tissue or two.
You will not fail to be touched by the sincerity of newcomers Sharmila Pupu Mitra and Marta Pombo Sallés (a warm welcome to both) and with the work of our “old timers” Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Kakali Das Gosh, Shiela Jacob and Sonja Benskin Mesher. Thanks to each for their willingness to touch our hearts and share their work.
Join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about the love of reading and writing poetry, sharing your work, exercising the writing muscle and getting to know poets who may be new to you.
SHARMILA MITRA aka SHARMILA PUPU MITRA was born in the beautiful small town, Jalpaiguri, in North of West Bengal, India. She teaches English and is a poet. She tells us she is in love with words, and spends her time thinking how to use words to express her most intimately felt experiences. Her journey has been rough. Sharmila lives in her ancestral home in Kolkata, with her elderly mother and her rescued fur children. Life is a kaleidoscope to her.
Last Moments
Last moments together
peace of mind and spirit
magic energy flowing
my hand holding yours.
The pain has vanished
now sleep peacefully
take in all this love
I am giving you.
No grass in the park
no plants in the lake
though colorful flowers
give hope for your leaving.
The sculpture remains,
see the confident gaze
how she stands resolute
how she tells life to go on.
MARTA POMBO SALLÉS is a German and English teacher working in a high school near Barcelona. Marta has taught both languages since 1990. She says that at work and in her free time she feels the need to create things.
Marta was also featured on The Poet by Day yesterday in the postPoets Helping Poets.
CATALÀ: Hola a tothom, em dic Marta Pombo Sallés i sóc professora d’alemany i d’anglès en un institut a prop de Barcelona. Ensenyo aquestes dues llengües des de l’any 1990. Tant a la meva feina com en el meu temps lliure sento la necessitat de fer coses creatives.
turnstile
as my friend tom
grappled with another uncle’s succumb
to heart diease
he emailed an assertion
i will not forget:
“we’re all chunking up
to the turnstile.”
as my friend jeff
composed his last message,
and anti-seizure medication
did its eldrich thing,
on many screens in many homes
a horribly cheery woman’s voice
told listeners that use of this medication
may lead to suicidal thoughts
or actions.
as another day meets its midnight turnstile
the probability that turnstile day
for me
is imminent
is incrementally higher than it was
24 hours prior,
it took a year for dna confirmation.
there were a scattering of bones
and a skull
missing the lower mandible.
the county called her
and she came down
from the high country
and at her request
they showed her
her son’s remains.
soundlessly weeping, smiling,
she carefully lifted
the bleached brainpan
and looked into the sockets
of the skull of her son.
she ran her finger over
the smooth cool top
and murmured his name.
she kissed her finger
and pressed it gently
against the skull-top.
she wanted the bones as is
but the law of the land said no.
they cremated
the sun-sterilized bones
and gave her the ash-filled urn.
All house mirrors have been removed.
I sit on her soft bed, rest an arm
on a spare pillow. Mum’s pillows
stacked behind her as we watch a
tv placed where her dress mirror stood.
Once she cried as her hair fell out.
She cried as she gained each pound weight
because she takes the chemicals
to stop her dying, stop the spread.
Once she was ‘petite’, now Mum’s fat
jowls, bingo wings slop on the bed.
Together we watch lithe bodies,
sharp muscle tone dash for the end.
Her home is spotless, a show home.
Every day we polish, scrub,
vacuum, she wants it welcoming.
She nods off half way through the
100 metres, I soft clap
the winner as she would have done.
I remember good times, and smile
at her laughter, gleam in her eyes
when she sees another winner
dash over the race finish line.
Meanwhile, she looks forward to Oakwell,
a new fan of Barnsley FC.
I never go as I don’t like
football, regret my selfishness
and time not enjoying her life.
She will sit in her hired wheelchair
yell and clap at their confidence,
vitality, their will to win.
Snowfall churned the wind
Gone through his ashes
I called him
None answered
The ridges through back the echoes
Of his dying footsteps
A balefire lighted in
That heath
Recalled his funeral
His white visage
Shivered fingers
Languid cheeks
Still stare at me
Awaiting for the
Undesirable last breath
On his steadfast .
After paramedics found you
I counted lost hours
you’d spent alone
becoming-so it seemed-
more and more dead
as the sun rose,
curtains stayed closed
and your telephone rang and rang.
A nurse would have seen
blue lips, felt no pulse,
pulled the emergency cord
but you refused another
hospital stay, worn out,
at ninety, by the chafe
of cannulas, sticking plasters,
starched white linen.
You slept, one final night,
in your own double bed;
lay, pyjama-clad,
beneath a brown blanket,
the green quilt
you still called an eiderdown
and pink polyester sheets
blush-bright on your body’s chill.
A refined though modest collection this week in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Fishing Trip (beginner’s luck), April 25. Thanks to intrepid poets: Gary Bowers, Frank McMahan, and Sonja Benskin Mesher for coming out to play. Bravo! and thanks to Sonja for generously sharing her illustrations as well. Enjoy their work and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.
declaration of victory
looks easy i said
to my thuggish older brother and his foppish friend fred
bet I can do better
gimme a try
how much? said the brother
and how much better? said the fred
all I got i replied
twelve cents
and I will hit
not just the tree trunk
but the knot on the left
seven feet up
from twice as far away
they did not want to
but the twelve cents
and curiosity
got them
reluctantly fred handed me the slingshot
and i picked a round little rock
and backed off another ten yards
here is where the quantum multiverse steps in
in one universe i aimed at my brother and hit him in the side
in another i ran off with the slingshot laughing
and there are many others
that would have gotten
the crap beat out of me
by the two thugs
but in this ‘verse
I aimed at the knot
and almost hit it
solidly thwicking the trunk
as i somehow knew i would
and coughed up the twelve cents
two dollars safe in another pocket
and declared victory
I so wanted to try that slingshot
and twelve cents was a small price
for that thrill
and I had done better with my first shot
than they
with all of theirs
An island without water. We rose just
after dawn, this summer of endless sun
and strawberries, unmoored the boat, began
to work the oars. Steady lift splash pull,
lift splash pull,’ till we could drift mid-fjord.
One simple line and spinner. Wait as sweat
dries; salt, silence then sharp tug, resistance
against the filament drawn in. First fish!
squirming black silver grey. And on and on
as mackerel filled the boat around our feet.
Much easier this than working out love’s
complications, shimmer and wonder
lifting me beyond youth’s self-absorptions.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 