"Truly fine poetry must be read aloud.
A good poem does not allow itself
to be read in a low voice or silently.
...a poem demands pronunciation.
Poetry always remembers it was an oral art...
It remembers that it was first song."
- Jorge Luis Borges
POEM OF THE MONTH (TIE!)
HE WHO CREATES RE-CREATES HIMSELF
‘Have you ever been to France, Sir?’ asked Candide.
‘Yes,’ said Martin, ‘I have travelled in several provinces. In some you find half the people are fools, and in others you find them much too subtle. There are some parts of the country where people are simple and stupid, and others where they pretend to be witty. But wherever you go in France, you will find that their three chief occupations are making love, backbiting, and talking nonsense. [...] I know Paris. You will find all sorts there. It’s chaos, a mob of people all out for pleasure, and scarcely a soul who finds it. At least, that is how it appeared to me. [...] After that I took a job as a printer’s reader... [...] That is how I got to know the Grub Street hacks and every corner in the whole warren of intrigue and fanaticism. I am told that there are some people in that city noted for their good manners; I wish I could think so.’
..................
[ John Butt, Transl. Candide: Penguin Books] François-Marie Arouet a.k.a. Voltaire (1694 – 1778)
You may not grow old too soon
if
Things you have known will come back to you again
No revision nor recall need put them back in place
Time was when you knew the time the place the face
Even the scarce women in prized moments gone in pain
Who would care nor what would it matter
in which life upon what water
you have trailed your fingers
upon waves of papers
Let your mind brush
some canvas in a rush
Left your mark
upon some bark
Wed some wanton women
spawned wholesome omens
Made as if the artier your words
held some moment in a perennial frame
Never to be banged away by fading suns
collapsing quasars
asteroid storms
puncturing galaxies
usurping black holes
Can this act of writing seize the moment
Or is it your way of saying
What else is there to be done?
Let the unknowable undermine the unknown
Here on this planet
we have made our sinuous conventions
stick to paper and canvas
stone and sound
And words that are haloed
by the sickness of the poet
though all is not lost for the pen
whose blood will
possess anchor expose
our futile justifications
explications
ratiocinations
doctoral dissertations
And generations will tremulously grant him
The right to unravel the eternities
For one who dared capture the moment
In the capsule of a poem
for René Passeron
by T. Wignesan
‘Yes,’ said Martin, ‘I have travelled in several provinces. In some you find half the people are fools, and in others you find them much too subtle. There are some parts of the country where people are simple and stupid, and others where they pretend to be witty. But wherever you go in France, you will find that their three chief occupations are making love, backbiting, and talking nonsense. [...] I know Paris. You will find all sorts there. It’s chaos, a mob of people all out for pleasure, and scarcely a soul who finds it. At least, that is how it appeared to me. [...] After that I took a job as a printer’s reader... [...] That is how I got to know the Grub Street hacks and every corner in the whole warren of intrigue and fanaticism. I am told that there are some people in that city noted for their good manners; I wish I could think so.’
..................
[ John Butt, Transl. Candide: Penguin Books] François-Marie Arouet a.k.a. Voltaire (1694 – 1778)
if
Things you have known will come back to you again
No revision nor recall need put them back in place
Time was when you knew the time the place the face
Even the scarce women in prized moments gone in pain
Who would care nor what would it matter
in which life upon what water
you have trailed your fingers
upon waves of papers
Let your mind brush
some canvas in a rush
Left your mark
upon some bark
Wed some wanton women
spawned wholesome omens
Made as if the artier your words
held some moment in a perennial frame
Never to be banged away by fading suns
collapsing quasars
asteroid storms
puncturing galaxies
usurping black holes
Can this act of writing seize the moment
Or is it your way of saying
What else is there to be done?
Let the unknowable undermine the unknown
Here on this planet
we have made our sinuous conventions
stick to paper and canvas
stone and sound
And words that are haloed
by the sickness of the poet
though all is not lost for the pen
whose blood will
possess anchor expose
our futile justifications
explications
ratiocinations
doctoral dissertations
And generations will tremulously grant him
The right to unravel the eternities
For one who dared capture the moment
In the capsule of a poem
© T. Wignesan 1987
April 12, 1987
[from the collection: back to background material, 1993 & pub. in Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad:
Cyberwit.net, 2008, xiii-214p.]
REFERENCES: T. Wignesan. POIETICS: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net, 2008, xiii-214p.
The essay: "René Passeron: The Spinner of the Painted Word" in the above-mentioned book, pp. 153-165.
The essay: "René Passeron: The Spinner of the Painted Word" in the above-mentioned book, pp. 153-165.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem was dedicated to René Passeron who was the "world" famous professor of poietics at the Sorbonne in Paris, France. I wrote this poem along with the essay "René Passeron: The Spinner of the Painted Word" in the above mentioned book, pp. 153-165 which was dedicated to him.
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
POEM OF THE MONTH (TIE!)
WRITING IS...
by Lydia Rule-Collins
A shelter of frequent resort
And when I visit this secret place
I find it filled with some new Face
From this Face, character comes next
Built from lines of descriptive text
And soon this Face learns a fact:
That I decide how he should act
My keyboard chooses a path
Filled with sorrowful aftermath
Since it may win some reader's tear
On this path he is forced to appear
In the whirlwind of my mind
This character forcibly must reside
Until the story comes to an end
I dare not release my newfound friend
And then in some twist of fate
(Which I discover much too late)
This Face I found begins to insist
That I change the plot to fit his wish
I'm sure any writer you may know
Has had trouble, grief, and woe
With managing this Face they found
Who once was just a shapeless mound
Yet from this endless tug of war I find
A book that truly captures the mind
Because if your writing is alive to you
Then, your readers will believe it too...
LYDIA RULE-COLLINS is an author and freelance writer who is currently working on several book projects. She just got married a year ago, and is pretty sure her husband wishes she would read the recipe books as avidly as she reads her Kindle. But, she is glad that he understands this writing obsession, and dedicates this poem to him. Visit Lydia’s blog. Contact
APRIL SNOW
by Floriana Hall
The arrival of spring seems longer than usual
In the chill of an April snow,
Unlike the powdery descent of winter
Which fills most hearts with a glow.
The unfolding of spring in the pale sun
Brings laughter and gaiety to the soul
But any sleet instead of showers
Covers flowers seeking to cajole.
The raw numbness deep in the core
Emerges as hope and cheerfulness
When the stalks of bulbs, though stubborn
Cannot hide their faces in regress.
Should I peek now? asks the crocus -
This variable weather is confusing,
I'm covered with residue, says the daffodil,
April snow is not amusing!
The inclement weather swiftly becomes a statistic,
The solar disc overwhelms all frigidity,
Humanity becomes optimistic
As the universe hums with outdoor activity.
A fresh garden of joy blooms with each flower
And blossoms on fruitful trees,
Resilience increases with warmth
As spring and society face life with ease.
FLORIANA HALL is the author of twelve books, six nonfiction and six inspirational poetry books. She and her husband have been married for 63 years and they have five children, nine grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. Her nonfiction book, FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT has recently been translated into Spanish (FRANCISCO, NO EL SANTO). Her poetry book SELECT SANDS OF RHYME AND REASON and young children's book SIMPLE PLEASURES are now available at Cyberwit.net and Amazon.com. She has published two new books including MISS FLOSSIE'S WORLD- Coping with Adversity During The Great Depression Then and the Recession Now (2011) and POEMS OF BEAUTIFUL OHIO - Then and Now (2011) which she compiled for THE POET'S NOOK. All of her books are available on Amazon.com. Floriana teaches poetry at www.LSSWritingSchool.com under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website
~~~~~
THE DAYS OF SPRING
by Susan Marie Davniero
Morning birds sing
Bid winter adieu
Welcome spring anew
Nature’s ballet
The flowers sway
Breath of spring air
Whispering breeze there
Seasons make room
Spring is in bloom
Kiss of morning dew
Awakens sky of blue
Garden blossoms
Spring becomes
Grass is growing
Streams are flowing
As nature allows
See spring now
The days of spring past
Will come to pass
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
~~~~~
AN ARTFUL DODGE
The old devotion has fizzled.
Defiance and contempt are my
companions. If I stifle my muse,
deaden my sensibility, so be it!
(But wait! Is it subterfuge,
a dodge to disown mediocrity
and avoid the dread inditement?)
In truth, I care not. Deprived
by high-nosed prophets
who deny me an infant step
toward the golden door,
keeping me silenced in this limbo
with sophistries and kind regrets
and best of wishes elsewhere.
Bah! I don’t care to be in fashion
with a mind fettered by rhyme and meter,
reeling in a maelstrom of clever,
pretentious drivel! I will not toady!
I disdain success by compromise.
(Yet, failure is small reward--unless,
as rumored, it becomes by clever maneuver
an opiate sweeter even than success.)
HUGO DESARRO is a former adjunct college instructor in English at the University of Hartford. He has been published in a variety of literary journals here and abroad, including Oklahoma Review, Colorado Review, Poesy, Current Accounts, Pulsar, and others. Contact
~~~~~
by Joe DiBuduo
Inflated inflamed egos expand and grow
with every line rhymed
and verse recorded
until a critic deflates and injects
unrelated words like egad that epoch
really has no zygosis whatsoever
like a pierced annihilated balloon
egos deflate and recreative narrative
initiates prose of woe
and the poet lets us all know
his inspired world is like being in hell
when a critic shreds all his efforts with a word or two
people who haven't experienced life
should moderate what they say about
things they know nothing about
how easy it is to say a few words that destroys
herculean efforts put forth by those of us
Inflated inflamed egos expand and grow
with every line rhymed
and verse recorded
until a critic deflates and injects
unrelated words like egad that epoch
really has no zygosis whatsoever
like a pierced annihilated balloon
egos deflate and recreative narrative
initiates prose of woe
and the poet lets us all know
his inspired world is like being in hell
when a critic shreds all his efforts with a word or two
people who haven't experienced life
should moderate what they say about
things they know nothing about
how easy it is to say a few words that destroys
herculean efforts put forth by those of us
who at least try to enlighten the human race
JOE DIBUDUO is a writer who lives in Arizona and graduated from Yavapai College in 2009 in the creative writing program. He has published several short stories and poems online, and has published one nonfiction book. He is presently working on a memoir and novel along with writing a poem a day. Contact
JOE DIBUDUO is a writer who lives in Arizona and graduated from Yavapai College in 2009 in the creative writing program. He has published several short stories and poems online, and has published one nonfiction book. He is presently working on a memoir and novel along with writing a poem a day. Contact
~~~~~
E&E
Mental efficiency towards precision
through courageous thought
and bold decision
Advance in mind
by spiritual enhancement
and feed through the senses
artistic enchantment
Nurture your nature
with cultural selection
choose new beliefs
through educational election
Battle deterrents
of cognitive progression
so acquisition of knowledge
becomes a constant obsession
Expansion and Evolution
from mind to air
to life revolution
ANDY LEVINE lives in New England and has been writing poetry for the last 15 years. The challenge of making words fit together is like a puzzle. It is something that he enjoys greatly. In the last few years he has used more current event themes into his work. As he gets older and understands the world more, it is hard not to comment on the world we live in. Contact
~~~~~
by Jhinuk Sen
A few days back I saw this city disappear in a cloud of dust. Towering above in the twelfth floor I saw birds struggle and get carried away in the storm, rain drops feebly clawing at the glass that shielded me from them-'You silly heartbroken girl- We are here- Break this glass open and come to us...'
They sighed their existence away on the grey wings of the pigeons that took refuge in the space meant for the AC.
I silently watched the rains. Trying hard to breathe in the smell of a wet earth, of the grey cloudy skies I so passionately loved- but couched in white light and coffee- my rains became an alternate reality.
The city of mirages had battered me to bleached, hot bothered discomfort. And on long humid days when I wanted home- I thought of the rain. I thought of love I had left behind and I blindly wanted to run to anything that remotely gave me comfort.
~~~~~
THE POET WENT MISSING
by Joseph WadeThe poet went missing
So they put up a web page,
It read, “She was seeing too many men.”
The lawyer doesn’t know who to charge,
There are no laws for missing poets,
Just guidelines for the ones we can find;
They are posted like club rules
Above the water fountain,
“Courtesy of the higher powers,
Pass assonance, alliteration and
Dreadful consonance, chances
Being, meters below ground, the time is
Buried with dead rhythm and rhyme,
Next to the cliché
Of ‘In due time.’”
JOSEPH WADE writes poetry, fiction, nonfiction and news. He began writing seriously while attending Harrisburg Area Community College. Joseph now attends Brooklyn College as a Creative Writing major. He has won The Joan Gipple Scholarship for Creative Writing and most recently, the Rosen Fellowship which is giving him $5,000 toward the publishing, advertising and promotion of a book of poetry that will be launched this summer. For more information, visit www.josephwade.com. Contact
~~~~~
FLY WINGS
by Michael Lee Johnson
Black wingslanding on unwanted
space, like the devil
in bad spots that itch-
fly swatter hammers,
summer fly body parts splatter
blood crucifixion red,
blood stains splat against the kitchen wall.
Blood crucifixion red-
Dead? Sacrifice?
Or does Jesus call, resurrect all?
Black wings.
Black wingslanding on unwanted
space, like the devil
in bad spots that itch-
fly swatter hammers,
summer fly body parts splatter
blood crucifixion red,
blood stains splat against the kitchen wall.
Blood crucifixion red-
Dead? Sacrifice?
Or does Jesus call, resurrect all?
Black wings.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: FLY WINGS has a rather sardonic note or elements to it. An incident seemly as insignificant as a fly being killed, and splattered against a kitchen wall- forces reflection into our nature as viewed by an omnipotent God looking down on us. Is there a kitty or doggie heaven, a fly or insect heaven- are they offered salvation or do they just die?
 |
| FLY WINGS, CREDIT: Michael Lee Johnson |
~~~~~
MY LIFE AS A RIVER
by Rhea B. Riddle
Tomorrow promises floods renewed and torrents of mindless splashing in the matte surface of mud-filled holes. No rainbows here, no golden beam, few rays of hope.
I run with my river, I shower in the rain, I say “Pour it on me” as one day flows into the next, and pelting is what I know, though what I long for are sprinkles and a slow current.
I take my stand as the rushing foam plays at my ankles; I feel with my sole the sinking beach as it searches for its bed of rock. Well splashed from above and below, I become the meeting place.
Do I rejoice? Is this a washing of the soul, or a baptism of the flesh? Shall I hide in the deep or awaken from the snags of my dreams? Will shedding the moisture of grief be the most I forever know?
I linger on this damp-filled strand, screaming thoughts, but God has plans. Repentance is reflected in a colorful bow and I turn as Truth appears through the droplets, and drying takes place, then I can see the path Grace laid for me.
Petulant clouds are lifted back into the heavens ready to roll over another unrequited searching heart. Light was born anew, as quick as a spear thrust into a willing rib, sacrifice was made and all is changed.
To the Master’s hand I release my river, now calm and burnished with gold, where once the rain fell heavily and was swallowed whole, my river is now well fed and strengthened by trust, it rushes on through today streaming toward tomorrow.
God is the current and the crest of each wave; I must remain liquid and willing to follow His flow!
~~~~~
HIGH PRIEST
by Shirley SecurroOn the cross where Jesus died
Two criminals hung by his side
He was innocent but yet was tried
They called it crucified
Jesus is our high priest accordingly
Because of him we have been set free
We can directly to our Father above
Whose Holy Spirit came down as a dove
Jesus suffered; he died on that cross
For our blessings and for all of the lost
What a huge cost the price he paid
In a borrowed tomb he was laid
Jesus continues to pray for us all
He lifts us up so that we don't fall
Jesus knows all about you and me
The hairs on our head are numbered to be
Our problems are always on his mind
Because of his love and he is so kind
Jesus my High Priest I thank you
Without you Jesus what would I do?
SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in fourteen anthologies along with other poets and is currently working on her own manuscript for publication. She has designed/illustrated two book covers for other poets/writers and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact
SHIRLEY SECURRO has been published in fourteen anthologies along with other poets and is currently working on her own manuscript for publication. She has designed/illustrated two book covers for other poets/writers and does poetry readings for churches, weddings, funerals, and meetings. Contact
~~~~~
STILL ON FIRE
by Abigale Louise LeCavalier
Shakespeare in a sugar bowl,
a coffee grind
with left-handed scissors,
this is what I think about
when she’s not around.
Putting milk in a wine glass.
The mood
is not so relaxed,
nor the moon;
desperation with quickstep breaths,
I can’t find the note she left me.
She left me.
Better, I figure
To be buried in Camus,
thick papers of old ideals
idling for the most part,
but still on fire.
Still.
On.
Fire.
And I can’t say I’m happy waiting,
I mean, really waiting!
Because I haven’t met Juliet,
YET!
ABIGALE LOUISE LECAVALIER's poetry has appeared in many online as well as print magazines including Fullosia Press, Feelings of the Heart, Black Cat Press, The Sheltered Poet(twice), The Same, FreeXpression, The Journal & Original Plus, Abandoned Towers, Negative Suck, A Golden Place, PigeonBike, The Linnet's Wings, Vox Poetica, The Blotter Magazine, Roses & Vortex's, Language and Culture, The Writers Block, Visions and Voices, Camel Saloon Press, Mat Black Magazine, The Second Hump, The Eclectic Muse, Clutching At Straws, Lit Up Magazine, Leaf Garden Press, Illogical Muse, Raven Images, Ken*Again, The Scruffy Dog Review, Jerseyworks, 63 Channels, Speech Bubble, The Stray Branch, Clockwise Cat, and Record Magazine. Contact
~~~~~
ON AN ARTICLE RECENTLY READ
by Michael Ceraolo
It was the sort of pseudo-profundity that has given intellectualism a justifiably bad name:
a writer was judging the bout
for the heavyweight title of dystopian prophecy,
Huxley vs. Orwell,
and
he awarded every round of the bout to Huxley,
as though you couldn't have censorship
as well as people not wanting to read,
as though you couldn't have government secrecy
(on certain things)
as well as being drowned in a sea of irrelevant information
(on other things),
as though Huxley hadn't written a utopia
near the end of his life,
etc.
It was the sort of pseudo-profundity that has given intellectualism a justifiably bad name:
a writer was judging the bout
for the heavyweight title of dystopian prophecy,
Huxley vs. Orwell,
and
he awarded every round of the bout to Huxley,
as though you couldn't have censorship
as well as people not wanting to read,
as though you couldn't have government secrecy
(on certain things)
as well as being drowned in a sea of irrelevant information
(on other things),
as though Huxley hadn't written a utopia
near the end of his life,
etc.
~~~~~
ENCROACHING
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
and I, caught wondering at his lithe grace,
lift hands from keyboard, lose the cogent thread
and let the book review I write unwind.
These moments, fleeting as they are, portend
the greater loss ahead as aged cells fade,
dry up, fall off, and leave the brain as dead
to memory’s great gifts of life once bold
now slow, confined to house and book and pen.
~~~~~
MY HANDS GET ITCHY
by Felicia StaubWhen the buds start to pop,
blushing and swelling with a hint of future beauty,
When a mist spreads over the farthest branches,
a green haze making me look back at it twice –
Is it real or is it just a trick of the light?
That’s when I start to feel it –
the urge to sink my hands into the dirt,
to coax the hard nodules of dead-seeming seeds
to burst open and turn the world green.
A touch of creation, to be a Maker,
someone who builds things, cultivates life –
That’s what I long to be.
When spring is just the beginning
of a twinkle in the eye of the sun,
the echo of raindrops
sounding like they’re almost gone,
the slow evaporation of the Northwest winter
like the fading memory of a dream,
That’s when my hands get itchy.
~~~~~
WILL POWER
by G.S. Vasu Kumar
It is determination to
Achieve something,
Even if it is impossible
In the eyes of others.
Even if many obstacles
Come in the way.
Even if failure grins
And seems to stay.
It is like climbing
A steep mountain,
The fear of falling
Is always there in mind,
As the strong wind
Is pushing you behind.
Also the rope to which
You are holding
Begins to break.
It’s the will power
That gives strength
To the weak,
And who knows,
You may even
Reach the peak.
G.S. VASU KUMAR lives in Bangalore - Karnataka, India where he writes short stories and poems. He has participated in various contests and some of his writings have been published. You can visit his blog at http://gsvasukumar.blogspot.com. Contact
~~~~~
I'LL TELL YOU WHO I WRITE FOR
by Julia Nadon
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for the child within
searching for friends in a story,
a place to grow up
with just enough adventure
without too much danger,
Well, maybe a wee bit of danger
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for the young woman I was
Unsure, unsteady, and unwilling
to simply please herself
Pleasing the lover in the story
Passion, longing, hurting, aching,
I’m glad I’m no longer that age
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for the middle-aged me,
Ready to laugh at life’s foibles
And recount my most memorable mistakes,
The twists and turns which made me
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for the woman I’d like to be
wise and attractive despite crow’s feet
and deep laugh lines
and too much sun,
and age spots I’ll call freckles.
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for those who will never know me.
The ancestors before me
The children I never had
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for me
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for the child within
searching for friends in a story,
a place to grow up
with just enough adventure
without too much danger,
Well, maybe a wee bit of danger
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for the young woman I was
Unsure, unsteady, and unwilling
to simply please herself
Pleasing the lover in the story
Passion, longing, hurting, aching,
I’m glad I’m no longer that age
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for the middle-aged me,
Ready to laugh at life’s foibles
And recount my most memorable mistakes,
The twists and turns which made me
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for the woman I’d like to be
wise and attractive despite crow’s feet
and deep laugh lines
and too much sun,
and age spots I’ll call freckles.
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for those who will never know me.
The ancestors before me
The children I never had
I’ll tell you who I write for
I write for me
JULIA NADON lives and teaches in Montebello, Quebec, Canada. She is bilingual (English and French). She enjoys reading and writing, playing different stringed instruments, songwriting, kayaking, cycling, gardening and raising monarch butterflies. Contact
~~~~~
I AM
by Tim Ouellette
multi-layered colors,
some wet,
some dry
simply
scratch
along the surface
and I bleed.
I am as a poem,
words upon the page-
sonnet, soliloquy-
silent rage.
I am as a sculpture,
Hardened over time,
Stoic, solid –
Punished for my crime.
I am as an artist
Whose craft was borne in pain;
Intemperate, insufferable –
Unfailing in my gain.
~~~~~
ADRIFT
by Charlotte Hamrick
Timeless, weightless,
directionless, immense.
An effect fortuitous as
the shimmer of a
flower seed floating
through the twilight garden
on the breath of
Oya.
~~~~~
THE FLUTE-PLAYER
by Patricia Crandall
A white-tailed deer
sprints over pine needles
and moss
to the pond,
taking a drink of clear water.
Sunlight filters through
Newfound leaves.
Pinwheels of fern fronds
unfurl at the sound
of a wind instrument
fluting spring
in the forest.
~~~~~
DIVERSIFIED ART
by Floriana Hall
Poetry leads to many discussions
And reiterates with much repercussion -
It's a learning technique
That helps adults and students to think
About the who, how, why, and what
The author portrays in eloquent words
Interpreted differently by those who have heard,
Or by simple, understandable rhyme
Or free verse that doesn't combine
The usual lilting impression.
But no poet should take exception
To the diversity in either direction;
And the public will generally accept
Any poet whose words are adept.
You do not have to be a Longfellow, Kilmer, or Browning
To make someone smile or keep from frowning
Just write from your soul, head and heart
Lines that somehow will set you apart
From the usual everyday verse
By composing poetry imaginative or terse.
Poetry leads to many discussions
And reiterates with much repercussion -
It's a learning technique
That helps adults and students to think
About the who, how, why, and what
The author portrays in eloquent words
Interpreted differently by those who have heard,
Or by simple, understandable rhyme
Or free verse that doesn't combine
The usual lilting impression.
But no poet should take exception
To the diversity in either direction;
And the public will generally accept
Any poet whose words are adept.
You do not have to be a Longfellow, Kilmer, or Browning
To make someone smile or keep from frowning
Just write from your soul, head and heart
Lines that somehow will set you apart
From the usual everyday verse
By composing poetry imaginative or terse.
~~~~~
I WISH FOR POETRY…
by Homa Ghoreishi
I wish for poetry that would flow like a cool river through mountains;
That would delight like the singing of birds in early mornings;
That would dance like a leaf in the cool autumn breeze;
That would tremble the heart like a lover’s kiss on yearning lips;
That would awaken like a jolt of thunder ringing through the ears;
That would freshen like the morning dew on still-sleepy petals;
I wish for poetry that would give life like Nature herself.
~~~~~
by Susan Marie Davniero
Hail Christ our King
Today he has risen
Behold! The sky’s glisten
In Divine cause
Heaven’s applause
With God, wish to be
Blessed is He
Bathe in God’s light
Glory in thy sight
Mercy shone on us
The Lord we trust
Look with favor
On us, Savior
Praise God Almighty
In holy sanctity
Depth of life’s gold
Eternity of thy soul
Hallelujah! Let us pray
This blessed Easter Day
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| STAINED GLASS CHURCH WINDOW, 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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
april celebrity poet
Jorge Luis Borges
(1899 – 1986)
nationality: argentinian
Jorge Luis Borges – Credit: Greta Stern, Public Domain
THE ART OF POETRY
To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
Read the entire poem at:
For the poet’s biography, see:
Quoted for educational purposes only.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
All work the copyright of the respective authors.
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