Thursday, April 4, 2013

April 2013 Poetry Page






“If you commit yourself to the art of poetry, you commit yourself to the task of learning how to see, using words as elements of sight and their sounds as prisms. And to see means to see something worth all the agony of learning how to see."

- Archibald MacLeish
source

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POEM OF THE MONTH



PATHS IN THE PRIVATE COUNTRY
by T. Wignesan
                       
The memory in need
Is the implacable enemy of the creed,
Waits and watches its foe

The all-clawing frenzy on tip-toe;
Quiescent in the instant's repose
The thud of flurried gnawing years evoke.

The poet in his solitary moments, spoke
Those whispered words, memory's secret ear yoke.
His wares, his scares, ailments and balms

Suddenly at the oasis of his thirst, awoke
Transilluminating the hard wad of his private notes,
Clutching at the infant's murmurous innocence

The clear innocuous dogma of cries;
While his immodestly preened notes of travesty
Hark back; and the first poem playfully struck

Teaches him now too late the laugh, the critic's qualms.
Just as the poet had wandered away from childhood,
So will the child thwart the unspoilt man

And shyly, shyly he turns away from the poet
Coming in like a stray camp-follower to brood.
For who may ask which the supreme poet

The child's sweet ineffable musings disrespect
While language etherises meanings proudly sown:
The title in two is halved - one the art, one, lone.

And the man, memory's ill-begotten infant
Lurking round the corner, pranks the urgent moment
Or two - then restores the poet to the poem.



© T. Wignesan, 1957 - First published in "Diskus," University of Frankfurt-am-Main, 1960 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)


T. WIGNESAN was born in Malaysia where his parents settled as immigrants, and he worked and studied during most of his teens there. Then, he continued working and studying in London, Heidelberg, West Berlin, Madrid and Paris, as a teacher, journalist, labourer, clerk, and research fellow. He is a published writer in all genres. For a complete list of his published works, please visit his website. Contact





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EASTER'S LILY
by Susan Marie Davniero


Easter has seen
Burst of green
In garden’s room
White lily blooms
Pure as white
Point of light
To grace the way
This Easter Day
Awakens spring
Hear Angels sing
Each Easter gives
Behold, God lives


EASTER LILY, Credit: Susan Marie Davniero


SUSAN MARIE DAVNIERO is a published poet listed in "The Poet's Market 2011." She writes in traditional rhyme verse and has been published in various publications including Pancakes in Heaven, Coffee Ground Breakfast, Long Short Story, Great South Bay Magazine, Write On, The Poet's Art, Creations, Poetic Matrix, Pink Chameleon, Shemom, and others. She has also written essays and letters published in newspapers and magazines including the New York Times, Daily News, Newsday, Ladies Home Journal, and Saturday Evening Post. Her blog “Susan Marie” is her writing history. They don't know her; yet, by way of writing they might. She is never at a loss of words. She has found her place as a writer and a poet. With every poem published she is inspired to write more. Writing feeds her soul - literally food for thought. Contact



~~~~~




EARLY SPRING RAIN

Early spring rain
has driven forest dwellers
to wood pile
and burrow.
A party of jays
seeks refuge
high in the rafters
of the overhang. 

Even under the
shelter of my own roof
I am subject to
downpour
and ridicule.


                           p.l. wick

bear creek haiku #98                                                   


p.l. wick is a versifier, never a “poet.” p.l. wick has been contributing to periodicals for over forty years: youth publications to literary journals, even outlaw biker magazines. One trade book of illustrated verse is credited, and an eleventh chapbook is being completed. Born in the first half of the last Century—two pennies are always kept ready for the boatman. Contact



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WISDOM
by Floriana Hall


My muse tells me that I am wise
When I write poetry to help others
But what is wisdom, after all?
Is it a special quality only some may possess,
Or is it a power that is within all of us
If we but search for it?
A course of action one person thinks is wise
Is not necessarily prudent for another,
Doing nothing often the best solution.
Is wisdom ‘knowledge’ or ‘understanding,’
Or both?
One hesitates being a wiseacre,
A know-it-all with all the answers --
There are many aspects in life that
Have no answers.
One person’s perception may be the
Opposite of the other,
But both think they are right.
Wishful thinking may be only an illusion
In a realm of fantasy.
Oh, muse, tell me if this viewpoint
Is prompted by wisdom,
Or is it just the ramblings
Of a wise guy who dreams
Of changing the world?



FLORIANA HALL was born in 1927 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is a Distinguished Graduate of Cuyahoga Falls High School, Ohio in June 1948, and attended Akron University. She is an author and poet of 17 inspirational books, nonfiction and poetry. All of her books are available on Amazon.com. She has five children, nine grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. She is the founder and coordinator of THE POET'S NOOK at Cuyahoga Falls Library. Contact Website Website



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THE LORD IS THERE
by Douglas Ellington


I was blind,
But now I see,
Because the Lord has touched me,
I was lost,
But now I’m found,
Because the Lord is always around.

I was deaf,
But now I hear,
Because the Lord whispered in my ear,
I was down,
But now I can stand,
Because the Lord has grabbed my hand.

I was in the wrong,
But now I’m in the right,
Because the Lord has showed me the light,
I was sick,
But now I’m well,
Because the Lord leads me away from hell.



DOUGLAS ELLINGTON is a young, aspiring poet who writes in various categories to include tough love, heart breaking, and falling in love, life experiences, and spirituality. He will continue to write poetry to touch people's hearts and souls. Contact 



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WITHOUT WORDS TO CREATE 
by Bobbie Shirley


I’m lost. 
Health issues 
steal spontaneity.
Words hide. 
They desert me.
Packed in a crevice 
I can’t dig them out. 
Dead, buried.

Where is the wonder
where has it gone. and 
the marvels that
transformed childhood?
Kids discover sunshine, 
they sing and dance,
play in fascination.
Where are the words that 
take me by the hand,
lead me to magic
help me create.
I want to discover 
things that color my day,
like the red Sedona sandstone.

I bless friends for
the rich gifts they’ve given,
who teach me
to recognize beauty
in the moment.
They ignite
the desire to bounce
on a springboard
explore the unknown, unafraid
until I seize my talent,
deposit it where it can grow

and blossom.


BOBBIE SHIRLEY started writing poems in grammar school but
was advised by her father that becoming a secretary was more realistic. Instead she became an accountant where she learned to speak the language of numbers to answer, solve and total. She missed poetry’s beauty. Bobbie now writes poems again. She reads in a local coffeehouse. Contact 



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NATURE'S REVELATION
by Sandra H. Bounds


A Mississippi breeze whispers
in Spring’s primeval bower
as graceful petals sway
among darker trappings of trees.

In Spring’s primeval bower,
blossoms, dainty and elegant,
reveal Nature’s Infinite beauty

as graceful petals sway,
the dogwood, simple image
of legend and story,

among darker trappings of trees,
silently unveils God’s
sovereign power and majesty.


SANDRA H. BOUNDS has a Master of Arts in English and has taught in both high school and community college. An active member of the Mississippi Poetry Society, she was its 2005 Poet of the Year, and MPS published a chapbook of her poetry to honor that selection. She has won many awards in the annual contests sponsored by MPS, and she has been published in such journals as ART GULF COAST, THE LYRIC, THE ROAD NOT TAKEN, SHARING, THE WELL-TEMPERED SONNET, and WESTWARD QUARTERLY. Contact 




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LIFE WITHIN THE GRAVE
by Patricia Crandall


Meandering
a maze of worn paths,
in the old Vermont cemetery,
I stumbled on the legend
ROBERT FROST.
Inscriptions of dates
and brief pronouncements
detailing a giant’s past
were visible on a stone slab
as quaint and picturesque
as his writings.
In a divine slumber,
this poet-genius
addressed me spiritually,
“You are a Poet,”
He breathed.



PATRICIA CRANDALL has three books in print: a thriller, THE DOG MEN, a historical volume, MELROSE: THEN AND NOW, and a poetry book, I PASSED THIS WAY. She is currently working on an adventure/thriller novel and a book of bottle mining adventures. She lives with her husband on a lake in the Grafton Mountains in upstate New York. Contact Website



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A POET'S LIST
by Susan Marie Davniero


Literary no apology
For poems anthology
A hidden treasure
Of readings pleasure
Fluid poetry fits
Of such favorites
Factoring begun
All to choose from
Rhythm or free verse
Upon thy search
Poets likely drawn
Resembles their own
Compiled to select
Of voices dialect
Poetic prose enlist
For a poet’s list



SUSAN MARIE DAVNIERO is a published poet listed in "The Poet's Market 2011." She writes in traditional rhyme verse and has been published in various publications including Pancakes in Heaven, Coffee Ground Breakfast, Long Short Story, Great South Bay Magazine, Write On, The Poet's Art, Creations, Poetic Matrix, Pink Chameleon, Shemom, and others. She has also written essays and letters published in newspapers and magazines including the New York Times, Daily News, Newsday, Ladies Home Journal, and Saturday Evening Post. Her blog “Susan Marie” is her writing history. They don't know her; yet, by way of writing they might. She is never at a loss of words. She has found her place as a writer and a poet. With every poem published she is inspired to write more. Writing feeds her soul - literally food for thought. Contact



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TIME MUST HAVE STOPPED
by Desiree Woodland


Time must have stopped for her.
Why had she lived only to stand at the foot of her son’s dark cross?
The happy years--frozen in memory. She knew them by heart.
Only in time would she think of him working side by side with Joseph, brow furrowed, as he struggled to learn the carpenter’s craft.
She would remember the inexpressible joy of finding her lost son in a synagogue in Jerusalem, “About his Father’s business,” he had said.
One day would she remember the look of God in his eyes as he healed the sick and taught the sick-at-heart.
But now, the horrible present filled every space, a stench of death hung in the air polluting her thoughts.
She raged against the limits of her earthly existence.
The blood rushed through her temples, each beat of her heart pounding in her chest as she screamed a prayer, “Why couldn’t it have been me?”
Still, she was keenly aware of all she believed, deeply believed--that God was working a marvelous redemption through the son she bore.
The internal struggle within, she fought to release him from her earthly, clinging and sometimes doubt-filled heart.
Moans pierced the darkness. Were they hers?
She forced herself to look at his marred visage--this Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief, like a Lamb led to the slaughter, and yet still her son.
The prophet Isaiah said that many would become righteous because he poured out his soul unto death to bear their sins.
He bowed his head, his agony over, and cried, “It is finished.”
She sank helpless to the ground and wept. “How can I ever comfort myself with these words?”
Only in time.


DESIREE WOODLAND is a retired teacher who misses teaching, but enjoys having time to play with words. Contact 



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PASS WITH CARE
by Debbie Hilbish

Pass with Care
posted
precariously
alongside the narrow twisty roadway
Boldly stated
on a yellow - metal - caution - triangle
bent and scarred like a sentry left on guard
after one too many battles at attempting to
Forewarn the unwary traveler.

And us arriving here
so shortly after finding ourselves without a care.
Pondering the consequences
if one were to pass carefree 


DEBBIE HILBISH is a self taught poet who has been writing poetry since she was a young teen. She has held poetry readings throughout the Southwest and had seminars, sponsored by Arizona and New Mexico libraries, on poetry appreciation for young adults. Debbie also hosted the annual eight week Author's Fair at The Reader’s Oasis bookstore in Quartzsite, Arizona for five years. She is presently working on her first novel. Contact 

                        
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ARRIVAL SAN FRANCISCO, 1962
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones


The moment the sun
            breaks through the fog
we spread out on towels
            in the tiny garden.
Ignore the goose-bumpy skin
            surrounding bikinis,
sip champagne poured
           with lavish hands.
After our breakfast
            of hot breads, strong coffee
amid lilac scent and tulip blare,
            bee buzz and shreds of mist,
my friends bundle me off
            to see the Pacific.
South of the city
            on a deserted beach
we space our towels
            and a red-checked cloth,
take a brisk walk
            along the tide line,
stare out to sea
            with sun-spangled eyes.
We pillage the basket
            for ripe strawberries,
lie on our backs
            replete.


PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES has an interest in healing writing and leads the writing program at a Cancer Center. She is widely published in poetry and nonfiction, writes for the review department of Recovering the Self: a journal of hope and healing and has ten chapbooks of poetry. Contact



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PDD/NOS: CHILD 
by Shirley Willis


Paper schools
and consultants seek
answers to the nonverbal, seven
on one
child.

The child speaks.
The consultants squeak
at each other,
unseeing.

Seven 
on none and
the child speaks
in the corner.

The consultants tweak
hubcaps of learning,
ignoring the motor, yearning
in the corner.

And their presentation shines for
all time
for each other.

And the child
speaks,
alone,
in the corner.


SHIRLEY WILLIS grew up reading everything from tomato soup cans to Tolstoy. She writes short fiction, poetry, humor pieces and essays. After completing 26,153 pages of special education narrative, her major project is a love story, Naked Teaching, because she is compelled to reveal the stories behind the paperwork. It is a work of fiction because that is the only way to speak the truth about classrooms. Shirley lives in Arizona with her husband, Richard, and Max, the Intrepid Motorhome. Contact 


~~~~~
                 

AT EASTER 
by John T. Hitchner

My son calls home
from two thousand miles east
of the Place of Skulls in Old Jerusalem.
He does not speak of scripture
or denials or revelations,
nor does he agonize
over IEDs, RPGs, or bomb-belted avengers.

He reassures me
that where he is food is good,
security tight,
and care packages and well wishes
arrived appreciated.
He allows that he and friends
gathered hours ago
for sunrise service behind the wire.

As we talk, even laugh,
I watch a cloud of memories,
precise as driven nails,
pass across the sun.
I see him cradled in my arms,
I hear the swish of a basketball net,
and I smell oily exhaust
from the bus that carried him to Boot Camp.

“Are you all right?
Is there anything you need?”
I ask before our conversation deadline.

Easter twilight shadows window curtains.
I am thankful for my son’s voice
thousands of miles away from my own,
yet a distance not as great and lasting
as blood and sorrows other crusades
have wrought upon the world.


JOHN T. HITCHNER’s work has been featured in Long Story Short in the past, including the Featured Poems “Snow Upon Green” and “Jimmy and Me in Those Days.” He teaches Coming of Age in War and Peace at Keene State College in Keene, New Hampshire. Contact 



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                         revisiting: 
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER
                           —or—
      More Cocktail Sauce, Anyone… …?


The time has come, the Walrus said,
  to speak of poemish things—
of: why the Oysters left so soon?
 …spoilt cabbages and kings.
Why, are these stanza lines as taut
   as ringing banjo strings… …?


… …A wink, he gave the Carpenter,
   that Walrus on the beach;
Too full of Oysters to be coy
   and sing of metered feet.
He said: They should’ve stayed their way;
   safe in their briny keep—


This single gastronomical
   disaster has undone
the logic of iambic met’
  for those who haven’t gone—
to depths beyond a tri’ or tet’
   and heard a ‘fourteen’ rung.


We must have, then, been canonized?
  by triplets long and true;
Doggerel rhyme, yet, sung-in-time
  —to bi-valves feeling blue—
verse, broken into pieces,
   for those who’ve missed the clue.
                                                                             

                                                    p.l. wick


p.l. wick is a versifier, never a “poet.” p.l. wick has been contributing to periodicals for over forty years: youth publications to literary journals, even outlaw biker magazines. One trade book of illustrated verse is credited, and an eleventh chapbook is being completed. Born in the first half of the last Century—two pennies are always kept ready for the boatman. Contact



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ANOTHER SPRING
by Abigail Wyatt


Another spring, another fall
and all the glory in between:
the trees you loved in startling leaf,
the hedgerow roses bright,
new foals at play in brambled fields
where you and I, out walking,
paused to gaze and lean.
I cannot think now what
we talked about:
as like as not some trifle,
yours or mine;
or if we laughed or cried that day,
or if the sun came out;
only I know the way you were,
so full of life and light;
and now, though you are gone,
how close you seem.


ABIGAIL WYATT lives in the shadow of Carn Brea in Cornwall. She writes poetry and short fiction. In June, 2012, 'Old Soldiers, Old Bones and Other Stories' became available via http://www.millionstories.net. Her new blog is at http://abigailelizabethwyatt@wordpress.com. Contact 




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IN GOD'S TIME
by Floriana Hall


When the sun sets in the west
It's time to relax, time to rest;
Bring an end to cares of the day,
Count your blessings, come what may.
Calm your heart, hush your soul,
God has everything under control,
If you just put your trust in Him
Worries fade and troubles dim.
Morning brings a bright new chance
To face the world, enjoy the dance;
Decisions made in God's own time
Ease the strain of mountain climb.
Time to let go, let God decide
 yet unsatisfied,
Answers only He can bestow
Relief for burdens, trials or woes.



FLORIANA HALL was born in 1927 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is a Distinguished Graduate of Cuyahoga Falls High School, Ohio in June 1948, and attended Akron University. She is an author and poet of 17 inspirational books, nonfiction and poetry. All of her books are available on Amazon.com. She has five children, nine grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. She is the founder and coordinator of THE POET'S NOOK at Cuyahoga Falls Library. Contact Website Website



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THIS EASTER DATE 
by Susan Marie Davniero


Adorn Easter attire
Hymns of a choir
Voices sing
Church bells ring
Heavenly message sent
Forty days of Lent
Till Palm Sunday seek
Welcome to Holy Week
Symbol of the Cross
Jesus is the source
Behold the Resurrection
Rejoice in celebration
Glory majestic glisten
He has risen
Pray to commemorate
This Easter date



SUSAN MARIE DAVNIERO is a published poet listed in "The Poet's Market 2011." She writes in traditional rhyme verse and has been published in various publications including Pancakes in Heaven, Coffee Ground Breakfast, Long Short Story, Great South Bay Magazine, Write On, The Poet's Art, Creations, Poetic Matrix, Pink Chameleon, Shemom, and others. She has also written essays and letters published in newspapers and magazines including the New York Times, Daily News, Newsday, Ladies Home Journal, and Saturday Evening Post. Her blog “Susan Marie” is her writing history. They don't know her; yet, by way of writing they might. She is never at a loss of words. She has found her place as a writer and a poet. With every poem published she is inspired to write more. Writing feeds her soul - literally food for thought. Contact






~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



april celebrity poet 

Archibald MacLeish
(1892 – 1982) 

nationality: American


Archibald MacLeish – Credit: Public Domain





ARS POETICA


A poem should be palpable and mute   
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless   
As the flight of birds.

                         *               

A poem should be motionless in time   
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,   
Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time   
As the moon climbs.

                         *               

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean   
But be.
   

Archibald MacLeish, “Ars Poetica” from Collected Poems 1917-1982. Copyright © 1985 by The Estate of Archibald MacLeish. Reprinted with the permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

Source: Poetry (June 1926).


















Quoted for educational purposes only. 
All work the copyright of the respective authors.

_______________________________________





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