It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
– Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Text courtesy of Sparknotes
Illustration: Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) englischer Schriftsteller. CDV-Foto 6,0 x 8,4 cm nach einem Gemälde von P.Krämer herausgegeben von Friedrich Bruckmann Verlag München Berlin. (public domain)
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. I currently run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers. My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. My poetry was recently read byNorthern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. I was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where I was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”
“What if our religion was each other. If our practice was our life. If prayer, our words. What if the temple was the Earth. If forests were our church. If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean. What if meditation was our relationships. If the teacher was life. If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being.” Ganga White, teacher and exponent of Yoga and founder of White Lotus, a Yoga center and retreat house in Santa Barbara, CA
“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.
“Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.” Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook
Thank you to Paul Brookes, Renee Espiru, Debbie Felio, Sheila Jacob, Carol Mikoda, Anne G. Myles, Marta Pombo Sallés, Sonja Benskin Mesher and to newcomers DeWitt Clinton (whose new collection will be out soon), Vageesh Dwivedi (a novice showing much promise), and Taman Tracy Moncur (an activist poet and Brooklyn girl like me, I suspect). The work of these poets certainly enriches the day for all of us.
Contributor websites/blogs are added so that you may visit and get to know one another. I hope you do. Some don’t have sites but you can probably catch up with them on Facebook.
Enjoy! … and do join us tomorrow for the next The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome: novice, emerging and pro.
After Reading How Poets Often Die, I Do Hesitate to Read Ou Yang Hsiu’s “Reading the Poems of an Absent Friend”
Some old poet friends are not dead
Yet. One even lives exiled in far
Away Japan. Perhaps I’ll disappear
As I’m too old to be discovered
By any up and coming new
Lit clique. What part of friends
Stays in the sublime end of my
Old mind? Sometimes when I read
They’ve died I’d just as soon
Close the blinds and stay reclined.
Most all stayed up all night
Just to finish their new lines.
Now they’ve got their good books.
I do hate reading what they’ve
Spent their whole lives on
And I hate it that they’re gone.
Sometimes I have not written all
Year and when I do I know it’s
Nothing more than old oatmeal.
It’s incredible how long I’ve
Been drawn to this poetry life
And how often I can’t even
Find a word or two to make
Anew, and wonder, who turned
My brain into yummy worms?
Once I found an old Pole’s
Book of lines, left the day
For nothing else except to turn
More pages all the way to night.
I never am too keen to
Reread some old medieval
Gore but I could pick out
Any poem and think it’s
Something quite new. I wish
I knew what poets do.
Most men wouldn’t be caught
Dead writing with short lines
Would rather count the scores
Of grown men running plays.
I told my wife the other day
How long I’ve been devoted
To this quiet task of digging
Through what I already knew.
So if I could I’d just sit
Right here in our red room
And gaze outside to find
What brings such joy inside.
In fact I’d take my old dead
poet friends, and a few lines
made last night, catch the next
starry ride right out of here.
DeWitt tells us, “This poem is one of 114 I’ve adapted from Kenneth Rexroth’s One Hundred Poems from the Chinese and the entire collection is forthcoming from Michael Dickel’s is a rose press.
DeWitt Clinton
DeWITT CLINTON is Emeritus Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin–Whitewater, USA. Recent poems of his have appeared in the Santa Fe Literary Review, Verse-Virtual, Peacock Journal, Ekphrastic Review,Diaphanous Press, Meta/Phor(e)Play, and The Arabesques Review. He has a new collection forthcoming from Kelsay Books. He lives in Shorewood, Wisconsin.
Again
With bewitching beauty you walked again,
And the years of temperance, was all in vain.
The whisper’s melody was still the same,
And the longing ears ,were in heaven to acclaim.
Neither tequila nor the weed,
Your addictive eyes quenched the need.
Pattern of your long braided hair was well acquainted,
As if the steps were learned yesterday,that my fingers repeated.
It felt like the time stood still,
Unpacking each and every dimensions of my will.
And then came into play, My futile fate,
Rushing wildly through my window, as if it was in haste.
The breeze was soothing ,but brought the pain,
And my only lifeline was disconnected again,
Still didn’t open my eyes, struggling to connect again…
Vageesh writes, “Currently I’m doing B.tech from mechanical engineering. I like to write and express. I’m from Uttarpradesh, India.”
The Ultimate Transformation
Seniors captured by time
now prisoners in a body
no longer in sync with the mind…
A body transformed
through ages and stages
forming the persona that resides within…
That persona forever in search of new dominions
living out dreams and schemes
reaching heights of happiness
encompassed by depths of despair…
The body grows weary
eyesight becomes dim and bleary
days flee as hearing fades…
The bones no longer dancing
to the rhythm of the heart…
The bones captivated by a falling star
shoot through the galaxy
with a proclamation
announcing a new soul ready
for the ultimate transformation…
TAMAM TRACY MONCUR says, “I enjoy writing. I write for the sheer pleasure of writing. Writing helps me organize my world and express what matters to me at any given moment in time. I’ve been a Civil Rights activist, taught elementary school for twenty-five years, worked with my husband, Grachan Moncur III arranging musical compositions and performing. In 2008 I self-published a book entitled Diary of an Inner City Teacher, a project that was very close to my heart. I am now a retired teacher, a community activist, and a seasoned senior who still loves to write.”
The Gift
A small dark shape on kitchen tile
Stared at by our cat,
Move closer, it is a sparrow bairn,
Chest balloons out as my sigh releases.
Scooped up, as I take it out to the garden
It stands on the scoop.
Over the fence our neighbour stands hunched
in dark tears “My mam won’t be coming out of hospital”
Working with children is what I said I would do
Eight years of higher education said I was ready
Children from poverty, neglect, abuse
I’d create safety to help calm the unsteady
of their worlds where parents weren’t there –
out searching for something to calm their addictions
leaving the young ones abandoned and scared
easy to make that outcome prediction
I’ll work with the children and not the abusers –
the parents, their friends, whoever committed
these horrible acts – I am the accuser
and judge and jury – against them I’m pitted
’til I heard their stories of their own horror
and I realized abused children grow up
without anyone being their restorer
to sanity and filling their self worth cup
imitating was all they could know
trying to be different had no guide
resulting in return to the old ways, though
reassured them of something to hold on inside
so I’ll work with the children and just their families
but I can’t get involved in all the systems
that confuse and contribute their own brutalities
often retraumatizing rather than helping the victims
But who am I kidding when I say I will not
it’s all so related – system, child, family
there’s no way to separate it all out
that is what I’ve come to see
So whoever you are, whatever’s been done
I know there’s much to your history
No one has to go it alone
who can judge your journey – certainly not me.
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.)
Everything you are made of begins
in a gigantic transition
as universe explodes into being
stardust becomes everything
transformation begets you,
your sister, your cat, the bees,
the tree, stones, water,
so: stop. Cease all striving.
Stop all struggle. Breathe: in, out,
like a butterfly coming and going,
to this flower, that flower.
Rest. Stay in this tender space. Before
you know it, without aid of will or anxiety,
you arrive in a new place
the right place, just the right
place. No harm will come to you
as your divine self
slides gently into that personalized
pocket on the overalls
of The Universe of Now.
Because what can we do but laugh?
Because what can we do but laugh?
Because what can we do?
Because what?
Because?
Be.
At eighteen, I stepped into the other world,
the one that sounds fantastical but is not.
Drainage pond at the bottom of a hill on campus,
behind it a small straggle of winter woods,
beyond that, a path towards the sports fields.
Grass still green in the mild mid-Atlantic,
twiggy dried milkweed standing and fallen.
Plain as plain, just hidden, just waste.
An ordinary afternoon, and I felt surfeited with reading;
walking down the hill, I cast away my mind.
At the water’s edge I looked at the surface;
the water looked back at me. The world had eyes:
perceived me as I perceived it, all the same.
The bare treetops in the distance moved in my arms.
I felt the cawing of the crows that rose inside my chest.
But no crows there, no chest here, only that cawing,
that burning and empty annunciation
of how we too are the shine in the tufts of the cracked pods,
falling and lifted in the wind through everything.
All of this I could see, while I rubbed my eyes,
as if to dislodge a film that was not there.
This happened. I was a freshman, with no one to tell.
Why do we seek imagined worlds? We know nothing
of what is real, how wondrous and complete.
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers.
My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.
My poetry was recently read byNorthern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. I was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where I was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
“Come sleep with me: We won’t make Love, Love will make us.”Julio Cortázar
The Cortázar quote is apropos of nothing except that I like his work and thought of that line (so fabulous!) after hearing this last evening on a PBS Brief But Spectacular Take on letting go by the new-to-me poet, Whitney Greenway. Sometimes the mind takes a strange turn on things. I’m getting old. Anyway … THIS is the only piece of information I found online about her. I’ll let her piece speak for itself except to say that I like it but have to add that sometimes we women disappoint men as well. The transcript is HERE.
HEADS-UP:
This is last-minute but it might work for you if you’re interested and you have something ready to submit: Boston Review’s Annual Poetry Contest closes tonight. You can submit online or via snail mail, which must be postmarked June 1. $20 entry fee. $1,500 cash award and publication in Boston Review. Details HERE.
THE MASTERS REVIEW, A Platform for Emerging Writers offers a list of fourteen literary magazines and contests with June deadlines HERE.
And in from Poet, Editor and Founder of Diaphanous e-Journal, Krysia Jopek. “A mix of news / update: instead of a full-length journal of Diaphanous as in 2017, we are shifting gears to “diaphanous micro”: an e-journal of literary and visual art. Each micro issue will feature the work of one artist, often in more than one genre. Stay tuned! diaphanous 2.1 should be launched within the next two weeks! Thank you for all of those involved. It’s been lovely to collaborate with some of the writers and visual artists to be featured. There will be an interview with the artist included in each issue after their poetry, micro/flash fiction, art; links to all their books and some commentary about the work included. The first artist/writer to be featured is J Karl Bogartte; second, Francine Witte.” Diaphanous Press facebook page and website.
From Kallisto Gaia Press team member, writer/journalist Tony Burnett: “Let’s get busy writing. Two new Summer Writing Contests . Antonio Ruiz-Camacho judges in Fiction. Carrie Fountain judges in Poetry. $1500.00 in prizes!”
HERMENEUTIC CHAOS LITERARY JOURNAL publishes six issues a year and reviews submissions year round, including poetry, fiction and artwork. Details HERE.
GREEN LINDEN PRESS is reviewing submissions of poetry. It’s a new magazine and this will be the second issue. There is a reading free of $2. Details HERE.
BLUE MARBLE PRESS is a quarterly literary magazine for youth ages thirteen – twenty. It reviews submissions of fiction, nonfiction, poetry and art on a rolling basis. Details HERE.
THE CAPRA REVIEW is biannual and publishes fiction, nonfiction and art. Submissions are reviewed on a rolling basis. Details HERE.
FIVE ON THE FIFTH, an online lit mag, publishes five short stories on the fifth of each month. They accept flash fiction, general fiction, horror, science fiction, and fantasy with a maximum word count of 5,000. Details HERE.
CONTEST
Opportunity Knocks
NEW YORK ENCOUNTER Poetry Contest “to celebrate the theme of its 2017 event. The Encounter is an annual three-day public cultural event in the heart of New York City. It strives to witness to the new life and knowledge generated by the faith, following Pope Benedict’s claim that ‘the intelligence of faith has to become the intelligence of reality.’ The Encounter’s poetry contest invites all poets writing in English to submit up to 3 poems (maximum 30 lines each), related in some way to the theme, Reality Has Never Betrayed Me. Guest judge is poet, translator, editor, and essayist Christian Wiman,” the former editor of Poetry. Deadline: November 1st. Details HERE.
EVENTS
October 21 at 7:30 PM, Stellar Gallery 202 23rd Sacramento, California “Keynote Poetry Group is proud to host Michael Ellis in a Politically Incorrect evening of Poetry. He will share poems that are intimate and usually too much for a General audience. Ellis will speak on Police Killings, Read a poem dedicated to Trayvon Martin.. He will speak on Domestic violence in a sad poem titled Daddy’s Little Girl.He will perform a Rap version of “Have You Seen her” originally by the Chi-lites and he will top that off with one of his most popular poems, Jazz Legends..Readers will see why he is so endeared by level four inmates… THE BLACK PENIS poem is highly controversial but Socially Responsible..and some may want to leave the room for fresh air when he reads this poem…No further details on this one…And you will also hear the Uncle Tom Poem, one of his latest poems.. And there might be a few surprises somewhere.. Refreshments will be provided by KEYNOTE POETS so bring your thirst…”
BLANK SPACE OPEN MICThursday, September 29 at 6:30 PM – 10:30 PM at the Bookmunch Cafe Bay Square, Dubai, United Arab Emirates. This event is part of 100TPC. The Facebook page for it is HERE.
BOOK LAUNCH/POETRY READING, Saturday, October 8at 7 p.m. – 10 p.m. EDT, The Hamilton Guesthouse, 148 Mary Street, Hamilton, Ontario L8L 4V8. “John Wall Barger will be launching his new book, The Book of Festus (Palimpsest Press), at the Pring on October 8, 2016, with fellow writers Autumn Getty, Lucas Kolthof, and Chris Pannell. The evening will also feature an open mic for those who would like to come and perform their own poetry or music.” More details on the Facebook page for this event HERE.
TIDBIT
Silva Zanoyan Merjanian’s Rape of Arevik read by the inimitable Eabha Rose. The music is They Have Taken the One I Love by Levon Minassian. If you are reading the Sunday Poesy from an email subscription you’ll likely have to link through to the site to view the video.
THE POET BY DAY SUNDAY ANNOUNCEMENTS
Submit your event, book launch and other announcements at least fourteen days in advance to thepoetbyday@gmail.com. Publication is subject to editorial discretion.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 