“Who knows how easily ambition disguises itself under the name of a calling, possibly in good faith and deceiving itself, in sanctimonious confusion?” Les Miserables, Victor Hugo
I saw you first
on the main banking floor
Unpacking customers
like a traveler his suitcase
Just passing through
on your way to the top
The poem above is about ambition that is totally self-centered, which it can certainly be. Ambition can also be a good thing, helping us get things done that make life better for our families and community. Like many human characteristics, it can be a mixed bag, a sticky combo of service to others and self-aggrandizement. What are your thoughts and observations? Tell us in your own poem/s.
Share them on theme in the comments section below or leave a link to it/them. All poems on theme will be published on the first Tuesday following this post.
No poems submitted through email or Facebook will 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, February 11 by 8 pm standard.
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. This is a discerning non-judgemental place to connect.
You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.
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.
“When I was young and miserable and pretty And poor, I’d wish What all girls wish: to have a husband, A house and children. Now that I’m old, my wish Is womanish: That the boy putting groceries in my car
Thanks to Julie Standig (and a warm welcome), Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Jen Goldie, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Marta Pombo Sallés (welcome back), Mike Stone, and Anjum Wasim Dar. Well done, poets, and thank you!
Enjoy this stellar collection and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.
I’m Not Done Yet
I lost my ovaries a week ago:
no, they were not misplaced,
like my keys, cell phone and eye
glasses. They were unruly
so, like that bad student years ago,
they were removed. Don’t miss ‘em.
Don’t need ‘em.
Heads no longer turn when I walk
down the street,and when I meet
my daughter on Columbus, the waiter
barely takes my order, but quickly
knows to hand me the cheque.
I expect it.
I’m the oldest woman at work.
My earrings don’t hang as long,
my heels are not too high,
and my hair is quite short.
I wear pants, and if they’re tight
is more around the waist.
But I love nights filled with music,
wine and friends. Amber necklaces
and oversized rings that still slide
over my knuckles.
Words are comrades, still, and so far
they have not deserted me.
The lines around my mouth and
creases at my eyes, I wear like medals.
Not for bravery, or a war that was won.
I can’t win this war and I know it.
I have lost, I miss, yet I have no regrets.
Beware.
I’m not done yet.
JULIE STANDIG was born in Brooklyn, grew up in Queens, lived on Long Island. She now splits time between New York City and Doylestown.PA. She has studied at the Unterberg Poetry Center,participated in Writer’s Voice and is an active member of a private workshop in NYC. Published in Alehouse Press, Arsenic Lobster and Covenant of the Generations, Then and Now Issue of Sadie Girl Press, as well as the online journal, Rats Ass Review. Her first chapbook, Memsahib Memoir has just been released by Plan B Press and is currently working on her next project.
Poetry is her voice and it has taken a long time to find it. She works her way through loss and dementia and her love of life. She writes on trains, in cars, Central Park walks, late at night and always somewhere between New York City and Doylestown.
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.
Before I get taken to play at my soft playcentre,
my one year granddaughter toddles with her zimmer frame.
Later we will take her to the memory cafe
where she’ll remember her past lives.
“Hard”, of before dawn and midnight hours:
A welder in the Clyde shipyard, 1942.
“Stinks that,” she says of the steel shavings, and Swarfega.
“Heavy”, of the hammer…
A kitchen servant in a big house.
“Hurts”, of calloused pestle and mortared deferment…
I’m all giddy at tumble down
slides, scramble nets and ballpools.
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
If you haven’t heard the phrase, “Keep calm and Chive on,” there is a link in the limerick explaining this saying. The last line was originally going to say “So she said “F#%& that” and continued to thrive” but I thought the modern reference was a “cooler” ending.
I’m turning a significant age this year (five years until half a century!), and like Jamie, I too feel quite comfortable at this age. Maybe it’s because despite my advanced age (thank you for that phrase, medical community!), I actually don’t feel “old”. I feel more secure in myself, more confident, more daring – all characteristics that are related to gaining experience and self knowledge, which can only come with age.
So this fun poem reflects the fun that I’m having now – being a mom, a runner, a partner, a friend, a writer – despite of or probably, because of, my advanced age!
I’ve written a lot of poetry lately, but I’ve also done a fair share of running this past week. Thursday’s short 4 mile run was so hot that I couldn’t even even run the last two miles of it. My head was pounding and I was starting to feel dizzy. I felt defeated and annoyed at my inability to do these minimal miles.
Saturday, I ran 11 miles in cool weather with a slight drizzle and I felt great! I felt like I could have finished another 2 miles for an impromptu half marathon (I didn’t though, as coffee and a bagel was calling my name). I felt elated and victorious, ready to conquer the rest of the day.
Poetry and running keep my soul from getting old and stagnant. I never know what to expect but the range of feelings I experience before, during and after every run is similar to my writing experience. What a blessing to have both in my life and to also have a community of wonderful people to share it with!
I am, the wind in your sails
when storms cause you fear,
I am, the love on your skin
when complexion gives in,
I am strength in your bones
as your bones become thin,
You will know me by sight
when your sight isn’t clear,
When darkness is near,
You will deny any fear.
I am the warmth
of your Sun.
and the light
of your Moon.
I am everything
you know,
I am everything
you knew
Who am I?
Graying hairs, and
Weakened bones
Could snap as the fragile
Aging branches
Of the tallest tree.
I am now as tall
As I’ll ever be.
Time is mine to keep.
My eyes have opened
Though I can hardly see,
my limbs have
taken me the distance
and no longer carry me.
I am wind and I am sea,
The heavens tenderly
Beckon me,
My arms are open.
Please
look
at
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.)
Girl, my little pearl
you swirl in golden waters
when you wear the highest heels
when you show your slim body
when you put on that lovely dress
when you wear that perfect make-up
when you exhibit those expensive earrings
when your fingers and toe nails are so carefully painted
when you completely remove all your hairs
(except those on your head)
when your hair is dyed accordingly
(never forget to dye it when you grow older,
you should always look younger)
Girl, my little pearl
you still want to swirl in goldern waters
when you exhibit those piercings and tattoos
though they are not still enough,
so you will want to have some more, perhaps
some botox and breast size operations too.
And girl little pearl says:
I do not want to wear high heels,
they’ll ruin my feet and back forever.
I was not born with a slim body so
why should I want to have it?
I do not want to wear that lovely dress,
it’s terribly uncomfortable, unpractical,
has no pockets and it’s too cold now,
so why should I wear it?
I do not want that make-up made of chemicals affecting my health.
They always want to sell
and so they never tell.
The same with nail polish. I do not want it
unless I buy these things at the organic shop
just in case I changed my mind.
I do not have earholes for earrings.
Why does almost every girl have them
to mark their gender as soon as they’re born?
My mum has those earholes and wore once
some unexpensive pair of earrings, bad metal,
and ended up with red skin, red spots and allergy.
No, I do not want earholes to mark my gender differentiation.
I want to choose if I want them or not when I grow up.
As for my hair and its natural color,
I am perfectly satisfied, well, perhaps
some streaks to highlight a bit of color
together with shades of greys and whites.
I want to look my age, why younger?
I am getting older and have grey hairs.
So what? Will I be less of a woman
if I don’t dye my hair anymore?
I refuse irreversible things
like piercings and tattoos.
Some other women and men
may like them very much.
Perhaps they’ve been the luckiest ones
who had no health problems so far
after piercings and tattoos
marked their bodies
forever.
I do not want this on my body
I do not want to be obsessed by esthetics
I do not want to do something just because
it’s fashion, everyone does it.
I do not want to be who I am not
I want to be myself
I want to be appreciated for who I am.
And if somebody wants to love me
I’ll say, please, look first at my inside
and then you’ll be able to decide.
I am no girl, little pearl
to swirl in golden waters
I am simply who I want to be
now you just take me or leave.
Once when your light was at its zenith
We could see the possibilities of poetry
And now, and now,
Your light is swollen and bloodred
As it sinks below the crags of the far horizon
We would not venture to explore,
But even in the dying of your light
And the cold night that it portends,
You show us the way we all must tread
Through dreaded mindscape
That leads us lemminglike to fall free
Through the nothingness of nonexistence.
Though you would bid me follow you
Showing me the beauty here
Or the danger there,
You can only point at them
For words have deserted you,
Adjectives no longer describe
Nouns no longer are
Verbs no longer act,
And time itself was ever only deceit.
We sat at the kitchen table
The two of us as we did most evenings
Her eyes tear-brimmed.
I reached over and touched her arm
Why? I asked although I knew.
She had retired just a few months back
But I had kept on working
Til now.
We’ll turn into a couple of old people
It’s the last chapter of our lives, she said.
Both of us turned around and looked at Daisy
Snoring softly from her mattress
As she does most days now.
Neither of us could imagine life without her
But I sensed my wife’s sadness
Spilling and spreading out towards me
And I promised her
Wherever we’d go
We’d go together hand in hand
Til time’s far-flung end.
And in the end
They’re right, you know,
The Hindus and the Buddhists:
All life is illusion
Cut adrift from the shores of reality
With a logic of its own
Like the shells on the beach
That my mother remembering
When she was a little girl
Picked up and put to her ear
And heard the sea in them.
This was the wisdom they talked about
Sitting around the fires
Toothless grins under a full moon,
A wisdom that is not a wisdom,
At all.
My hands,
I look at them now
Trembling
As they are wont to do
And I wonder why
They do,
My hands.
My father’s hands trembled too,
More toward the end,
How I loved them,
His hands.
I think maybe they know something I don’t know,
My hands,
That starlight trembles in the night
From distance and the coldness of it,
That strings on violins tremble
From Sheherazade’s beauty,
Or remind me how my vulnerability
Lets me listen to your heartbeat.
O captain, my captain,
Perhaps your hand upon the wheel
Trembled before the port that was your destination.
The desert hills behind me
The white-flecked sea in front of me
Clouds roiling on the horizon
A chill wind shivers old bones.
That’s when the clementines are best
And a steaming cup of mud-black coffee.
The sky is golden just before dusk,
What more could one ask for?
My hands age while I watch,
I suppose, like everything else here.
Slowly,
It’s hard to tell,
If you don’t pay much mind,
Little things
Get subtracted from your life
Until there’s not much left
But I guess it’s simpler
To keep track of
What’s important
And what’s dying.
اک انجان ھقیقت اک خاموش راہ گزر اک آنسو اک مٹھاس اک تیز چبھن اک ڈنگ
،اک سایہ گہرا ،سایہ گہرا کیوں ھوتا ھے؟ جیسے رات اور دن جیسے وقت کا کھیل
ءمر اک دور ھے بچپن جوانی بڑھاپا خوبصورت جھریاں قمر جھکی ھویؑ
عمر عقل کا نام ھے عمر اک سوچ ھے عمر اک وقت ھے عمر اک زندگی ھے
اک زہن کا تصور اک طاقت کا اندازہ عمر بس پیار کی عمر اک وقت مقررہ عمر
عمر سب خوبصورت عمر سب کی کہانی عمر بڑی یا چھوٹی عمر سب کی فانی
“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
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.
In case you haven’t noticed, I’m beautiful now,
beautiful in ways I never was in callow youth …
On fire now with the violet fire of soul speak,
treading a lighter path with a brighter spirit. ·
Sparking pink tourmaline, green jade, amethyst.
Blue sapphire flashing through the cloud of my being,
shooting stars in a cobalt sky of my heart.
I shed the pyrite, lead, hematite, the heavy, the dross.
Lost in a whisper of indigo dreams,
like a gray sparrow feather –
I float through Eternity, a fragile-strong willow-wisp of joy. · In case you haven’t noticed, I am beautiful now,
beautiful in the way of all young women in that
once-upon-a-time when they were old.
An old poem shared today, somewhat rewritten in honor of the soon-to-be celebration of my sixty-ninth year. I may be a minority, but I find old-age gratifying. It some ways, life is easier and things are certainly clearer than they’ve ever been. How about you? What are your thoughts on aging? Tell us in your poem/s.
Share them on theme in the comments section below or leave a link to it/them. All poems on theme are published on next Tuesday.
No poems submitted through email or Facebook will 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, February 11 by 8 pm standard.
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. This is a discerning non-judgemental place to connect.
You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.
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.
“In the long run, the sharpest weapon of all is a kind and gentle spirit.” The Diary of Anne Frank, Anne Frank
The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Plotting a Story, January 31, 2019 was a real challenge and it speaks volumes that it is so very difficult for us to envision a world where murder, torture, separation, and starvation are no longer options. What would such a world look like? Intrepid souls all, Gary W. Bowers, Irma Do, Jen Goldie and Anjum Wasim Dar have risen to the occasion. Well done, poets, and thank you!
Enjoy this little collection and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.
dew unto others
suddenly dew
turned blue and combusted
trustworthy wherewithal
came with the aerosol
all who breathed hue
once spewed-hate-encrusted
dusted off bigotry
shed their misanthropy
new things to do
included feasts mustered
for clusters of needy
and all were ungreedy
arcadia stew
and utopia custard
frustrated our devils
and we reached new levels
all due to a psychologist
and major-league geneticist
and freejack climatologist
enacting armagenesis
her name was diana
euglena endora
late of tijuana
born in bora bora
when asked of the process
she wasn’t specific:
“i alchemized raw cess
found in the pacific
“a punster’s emotion
bears brunt/onus/blame
for making an ocean
live up to its name.”
To vanquish all the demons of senseless aggression
The women left, with children on hips, for vacation
Without the men and older ones, corrupted too soon
In the middle of the night, they left without resignation.
It started with whispers under the heartbroken moon
Mothers left behind who wanted to hear a new tune
The song of “I’m sorry” for rape, murder, starvation
Made for a hollow dirge in the empty baby room.
Without any recourse than to cry and wail with rage
The women made a plan to change the history page
Eve’s disobedience might be original sin
But Cain killing Able spotlight the violent stage
Without testosterone, how/where would the anger begin?
It became clear that peace could never start from within
Add in voices loud with societal machismo
Can’t unlearn this behavior yet men had no chagrin
It took years to create the perfect utopia
Women agreed there was only one panacea
As much as it hurt to acknowledge the truth of it
Leave them behind, the only viable idea.
After kisses and climaxes for the lucky ones,
And tender tough love goodbyes for those who had older sons
The women vanishing in one night of defiance
Bringing babies, clothes, food, seeds, tools to create, no guns
When the world awoke, there was silence then confusion
There was crying and wailing and raging delusion
The accusations turned deadly with no end in sight
The world was burning, cleansing all those in collusion
And the women waited, teaching their children new ways
With emotional regulation, without fake praise
Listening, reflection, the basis for discussion
Decisions consensus, not perfect, a better phase.
Is separation the best course of action for now?
Or work hard together and put our backs to the plough?
I don’t know the answer or the moral of this tale
To change our world, what are we willing to disavow?
This is my first attempt at a rubaiyat – inspired by Frank Hubeny at dVerse call to action. Feedback is welcome and most appreciated!
The theme is in response to Patrick’s Pic and a Word Challenge #172 – Vanishing as well as Jamie Dedes’ Wednesday Writing Prompt. Jamie’s prompt this week deserved a lot of thought – it was hard (for me at least) to imagine what a world would be like without murder, torture, starvation. In writing this poem, I am NOT saying that all the bad in the world are due to men but statistically, most of the violence in the world are perpetuated by those with a Y chromosome.
I don’t think separation is the answer. As the saying goes, if you’re not part of the solution…however, sometimes I do just want to take a vacation from all the strife I hear about in the world. Yet, where would we go?
He came to the end of the road,
looked left and looked right,
He feared looking forward.
His father once said,
Endings are beginnings
Concealed as doors,
and hidden from view, so,
Seek your way through.
But these doors were murky,
Hard and impervious,
Stained with blood and bone
by the scratching of nails on
the aged worn wood,
yearning for freedom,
tears have etched trails, with
deepening grooves of sadness,
in its woody worn frame.
These are days to remember,
Not days to forget.
Solemnly he gazed
into his Father’s vacant eyes,
and sighed,
We’ll find a way through.
Where are you going son?
To the Noonday Place Papa.
Where’s that son?
Where the sun shines!
And where the light lives!
The light Son?
Yes! the light!
Where the children play!
It’s a living place Papa,
A living place?
Yes papa!
No hurting, no fighting
No guns.
Where the flowers bloom
Where the birds sing
Where the rivers run.
Is that all son?
Is that all you need?
Yes Papa.
Alright Son
Thy will be done.
see no murder, nor starvation or separation no people to torture, now you shall see, no enemy
warm feelings smiling eyes, cool raindrops dropping from the skies, on a green carpeted vast expanse embroidered from edge to edge, said the one who saw the white horse run
see no guns, no rifles or grenades no barbed wires or walls، who
would ever think of sinning not one all would be in, for Heaven said the one who saw the fiery horse driven
see the Earth grows green, sweet gold
honey abounds even if we eat it all,
still there is more and more ,for the
seasons changing, times coming- said the one who saw the black horse fall.
see the showers bloom the buds life reawakens from deep slumber graves descend to the depths beneath disease defeated must await its orders said the one who saw the pale horse chained,
see the world in perpetual beauty peace silence fragrance abound streams crystalline carry music no shots nor blasts anywhere sound
see no envy or pride, nor greed nor sloth to slow and hide all good behind, go not for lust, for dust we are and shall to dust, return, said the one who saw four horses gallop away
یہ دنیا کیسی ھو اگر ظلم و تشدد قتل و غارت فاقہ کشی و جدایؑ نہ ھو
دنیا کی حقیقت بس ؑ عارظی و فانی اک مدت مقرر ہ تک ھے
گر ظلم و تشدد قتل و فاقہ کشی نہ ھو تو کویؑ دشمن بھی نہ ھو
محبت بھری مسکراھٹ ٹھنڈی بوںدوں کے موتی سبز وسعت پہ گرتے ھوں کنارے سے کنارے تک نقش و نیگار کھلتے ھوں تو سب پر امن کیوں نہ ھوں
نہ ھتھیار نہ جنگ، نہ خاردار تار نا دیوار ایسے ماحول میں کون گنہگار ھو کیوں کر ممکن ھوجب نہ خطاوار نہ مجرم تو کویؑ محسن بھی نہ ھو
ھریالی زمیں روانی شہد خوراک کی فراوانی موسم کی لازوال کہانی ھو خوش حالی و سکوں، کیسے ممکں ھے کہ پایلؑ کی جھن جھن بھی نہ ھو
ھسین رنگین دنیا، عارطی ھے پیرہن، زندہ رہیں کہ فلحال امراز مر چکے نفرت نہ غرور نہ لالچ کریں انجم ، من پاک ھو ، میلا مگر تن بھی نہ ھو
یہ دنیا پر سکوں خاموش اور خو بصورت ھی ھو گی
“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
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
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JULIE STANDIG was born in Brooklyn, grew up in Queens, lived on Long Island. She now splits time between New York City and Doylestown.PA. She has studied at the Unterberg Poetry Center,participated in Writer’s Voice and is an active member of a private workshop in NYC. Published in Alehouse Press, Arsenic Lobster and Covenant of the Generations, Then and Now Issue of Sadie Girl Press, as well as the online journal, Rats Ass Review. Her first chapbook, Memsahib Memoir has just been released by Plan B Press and is currently working on her next project.
Photo Credit CER © 2019
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 