Poetmeister 4 Poets !

Memorial Day Poems

2009-05-25T16:24:00.007-04:00

Remembrance Day

by Jon Fenzel

Dispossessed voices on vast crossed and starry fields,

Of Luxembourg, Brookwood, Gallipoli, Fort Vaux.

Solaced whispers mingled with tears and convulsed despair.

Final letters sealed before a slow and anxious dawn,

In Shiloh, Le Cateau, El Alamein and Iwo Jima.

Sons and daughters far from home in hushed prayer.

Shrill screams of rockets flying low to high,

Through, Guadalcanal, Inchon, Khe Sanh, Fallujah.

Terrible noise and dust, blood and tears, searing air.

Echoes of Taps voice remembrance of courage and sacrifice

At Antietam, Bastogne, Kandahar, Saratoga

Old men’s souls sit alone—silently, painfully aware.

The End and the Beginning

by Wislawa Szymborska

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall,
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

Read entire poem at urbanmennonite.com

The Sacrifice Continues..

Blazing heat…sand blowing…heart pounding…not knowing

To have that kind of courage and the will to make a change

To live in a place that is distant, dry and strange

I can’t imagine being there to face my greatest fears

Leaving home and family, my comforts and my peers

God bless the men and women who do it every day

Our American heroes, the ones who lead the way

Posted on Caren Libby

Write a Personal Memoir for a Veteran who Died for our Freedom

found on The Story Woman

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the Gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the mornings hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.

Author Unknown

The Story Woman says, “Write a bio-vignette to Honor our sons and daughters who have served our Great Country in the name of Freedom the World over.

by Marvin D. Wilson, The Old Silly from Free Spirit Blog

As a young boy sitting on Uncle’s lap
My mind was blown as he took me back
With tales of men of valor who
Fought with him in world war two.

Young men, scared men, hearts pounding, guts clenched-
Pushing forward on the front as comrades fell in blood drenched.

The highest prize was at stake,
Our freedom a tyrant wanted to take-
But courageous hearts of those who would be free-
Enough to lay down their lives if need be,

They fought through the terror, the horror of that war
They brought down the giant who would have made us his whore.

My Uncle told stories that no one should have to hear
Let alone to have lived them, he often said with a tear.
Many never made it back to their families and homeland
Some made it back missing arms, legs and hands.

I’ll never forget what brave souls did for me
They cried and they died so you and I could be free.

HEROE’S HAVEN

by Glenn Buttkus of Feel Free to Read

By the bus load
they rolled into Balboa,
wounded,
disemboweled,
their asses shot off,
carried roughly on taunt khaki stretchers.

Weary eyes
that wore a planet’s pain;
their heads shaved,
their underwear stenciled,
their blood spilling in little puddles
in quiet green hallways.

Cripples all,
they limped and wheeled,
hobbled and crept
through all of the limbs
of the gray octopus
military hospital;
within wire fences,
beneath post card palms,
gathering up gobs
of their old selves.

Metal and plastic and airplane glue
became tendons.
Canes, crutches, and chrome prosthetics
became new legs.
Empty pinned shirt sleeves
caught the ocean breeze
like sad May pole streamers,
flapping
a melancholy tune.

There were white jagged scars
running over the bodies of menl
ike angry dead veins,
hard to hide,
especially
those inside.

The doctors, nurses, and corpsmen
raged through the sterile wards,
and their insane anger was leveled
like a loaded rifle
at the patients.

For Christ’s sake,
the patients;
that dull thick red river of broken men;
damn goldbrick sonofabitches.
Make sure that those lazy bastards
shined their shoes,
and cut all their hair,
just scrape their heads bald;
filthy germ-ridden hair.
Geld them,
stab them,
break and slice them;
deny them comfort,
harass them,
give them pain
and then give them aspirin,
only aspirin.

They must get their minds right.
Shake them from their fitful slumber,
and stand them at attention.
They are just meat,
just
infintesimal maimed expendable insignificant
protoplasmal service numbers,
and they are not useful
when bedridden.
Those slackers must not stay.
They must go back,
back to the front…
they must.

The men and boys of pain
absorbed the anger,
heard the words,
suffered the scapel,
took the aspirin,
shined their boots,
cut and recut their hair,
stood at rigid attention,
and they did not
forget.

Glenn Buttkus 1968

HOME OF THE BRAVE

by Glenn Buttkus of Feel Free to Read

Ferns and creepers rustled softly
as a crisp breeze gently tousled
the hair of the hanging man.

Below,
in the mud,
a soldier in a foxhole
peered over the lip
and there in the moonlight
was a man on a cross
naked.

The crucified one hung there
in silent agony;
another man on a cross
seekingdown a road of sorrow
in a world of pain;
red pain,
sunset orange, yellow, and deep red.

Rusty railroad spikes in his hands,
the flesh split,
yet
he would not let loose
of life;
though it raced ahead of him
in the darkness.

The soldier had watched
for several days,
but dared not
cross to the other,
over a hundred lethal yards
of barren ground
to the death that crouched there
with the Mongols
that also waited.

Until
the silence was sliced open
with a burst of M-16 rifle fire,
and the thing on the cross
no longer quite a man,
was slashed to ribbons;
the lead searing through
his loin and chest.

The last flicker of life
rushed from him,
red-washing his limbs
and the greasy wood.

The man in the trench
felt himself tremble,
felt the tears on his dirty cheek,
as he heard the blood birds shriek
and the night became full
of their flapping.

Glenn Buttkus 1968

DAY OF THE PARIAH

by Glenn Buttkus of Feel Free to Read

Bogie and the Duke
never made a war movie together,
and that’s a damned shame;
it would have been
a proper piece of propaganda.

War
is always so clean
on the silver screen.
Explosions are intense rainbows,
tramping troops start toes tapping.
Great machines of war on wheels
and tracks of steel,
groan and roll,
clang and bang,
crushing foreign soil
and foreign devils beneath them.

Actors in pancake make-up,
carrying toy guns,
recite bellicose bullshit,
wearing the masks of heroes,
and the blood
on their hands and faces
is merely strawberry jam.

But the problem is,
in those darkened theatres
battalions of boys believed
in the ersatz brutality,
and found themselves
in Viet Nam.

The Freedom Birds,
screaming jet liners,
took them there,
and for those who survived
Tour 365,
and remained somewhat
alive,
brought them home again,
with the steaming blood
of the Orient
still clinging to their swollen lips.

Home,
to work in their Dad’s
hardware store, lumber yard or machine shop,
with the stench of the ‘Nam
still strong in their nostrils.

They remembered
how proud their fathers had been
sending them off to war;
and how,
now,
their only embrace
was stone silence.

Warriors walking
the streets
of every city in America,
hundreds of thousands of them,
with their fists clenched
and their minds still scrambled
from that Soc Trang overload.

Watching
and waiting,
year after year,
angry
clear into their bones,
with society’s spittle
dripping
down the front of their dress uniforms.

There it is.

There were no parades,
no handshakes,
no welcome home dinners,
no easy bank loans,
no talk of valor.

The calloused fact is
pain can only be withheld
for so long.

War creates warriors,
and not all of them
are willing to lay down
their weapons.

Glenn Buttkus 1979

Prestwood School Fifth-Graders take to airwaves with own Earth Day poetry - Sonoma, CA

2009-04-23T17:41:00.003-04:00

Teachers at Prestwood School's 5th grade class chose 22 students to read their poems on KSVY 91.3 Sonoma Wednesday; poems the students wrote for the annual River of Words poetry contest. I'm sorry I missed this radio program. Good on you, KSVY 91.3!

Reading and writing poetry are part of a language arts program at Prestwood and students are given 5 poetry lessons a year starting in the 3rd grade! This is great stuff, folks. And get this - this poetry program is paid for by using PTO funds due to budget crunch we're all undergoing these days. So, kudos go to you, too, Prestwood PTO!

Sonoma Valley Sun is running the following poem by Francisco Cervantes-Escatel (your poem reveals a soul beyond your physical age, Francisco. Super job! Keep writing, honey!) in the article:

Butterflies Soar

All over the world
butterflies are born
Chalcedon checkerspot
drifting through the air
eating from plants
fluttering by
great spangled fritillary larva
hiding from animals.
I gaze down to nature.

by Francisco Cervantes-Escatel, Prestwood Elementary School

Prestwood is also lucky to have poet-teacher Phyllis Meshulam on-board teaching these poetry classes for the past several years. Meshulam is an independent contractor working with California Poets in the Schools, which just celebrated 45 year anni with the school system.

The River of Words poetry contest had the students concentrating their efforts on water and nature themes which tied in to lessons on the environment and earth's watersheds. Watershed art and poetry submitted to River of Words is seen around the world by millions of people in magazines, books, in person, and through other media.

2007 River of Words Monkey's Raincoat Haiku Prize

The Four Seasons

All of the seasons
Are spent mastering the form
None call it easy

Ashley Lopez, age 10
La Ballona Star School
Paramount, Calif.

Response to the Loyalty Oath

2009-04-23T14:49:00.006-04:00

I copped this at Feel Free to Read (no, that's not Feel Free to Steal; always give credit to the original author and/or blogger, please. This has been a free public service announcement..;>), the blog of Glenn Buttkus, who is a genius for sifting through the annuls of literary history for the most interesting items for our continued reading pleasure, I swear! Thank you, Glenn, for providing cyberland with a fantastic repository for (most) all things prose & poetry! This piece by Jack Spicer is a brilliant discourse on the nincompoopery of loyalty oaths:

[Response to the Loyalty Oath]

by Jack Spicer

We, the Research Assistants and Teaching Assistants of the University of California, wish to register our protest against the new loyalty oath for the following reasons.

1) The testing of a University faculty by oath is a stupid and insulting procedure. If this oath is to have the effect of eliminating Communists from the faculty, we might as logically eliminate murderers from the faculty by forcing every faculty member to sign an oath saying that he has never committed murder.

2) That such an oath is more dangerous to the liberties of the community than any number of active Communists should be obvious to any student of history. Liberty and democracy are more often overthrown by fear than by stealth. Only countries such as Russia or Spain have institutions so weak and unhealthy that they must be protected by terror.

3) Oaths and other forms of blackmail are destructive to the free working of man's intellect. Since the early Middle Ages universities have zealously guarded their intellectual freedom and have made use of its power to help create the world we know today. The oath that Galileo was forced by the Inquisition to swear is but a distant cousin to the oath we are asked to swear today, but both represent the struggle of the blind and powerful against the minds of free men.

We, who will inherit the branches of learning that one thousand years of free universities have helped to generate, are not Communists and dislike the oath for the same reason we dislike Communism. Both breed stupidity and indignity; both threaten our personal and intellectual freedom.
[c. 1949]

This letter cost Spicer his job.
Published over on the Poetry Foundation
Source: Poetry (July/August 2008).

Student's poetry event will benefit American Kidney Foundation - NY

2009-04-23T13:35:00.001-04:00

Tonight, in the Town of Ulster, the Catskill High School Interact Club will put on a "Night of Poetry and Song" at 6:30pm in the Barnes & Noble book store on Ulster Avenue. The students plan on reciting original and interpretive poetry readings in honor of William Shakespeare's birthday. The poetry and song venue will benefit the American Kidney Foundation and former Catskill High School graduate Jedediah Berry who will read from his novel Manual of Detection at the venue tonight, as well as sign his book that will be on sale at the "Night of Poetry and Song" venue.

Tips for Editing Poetry

2009-04-22T15:51:00.006-04:00

Angela Saunders, BellaOnline's Poetry Editor, has a great, informative post up entitled, "Tips for Editing Poetry," which is just the kind of how-to information a poet starting-out is likely to find very helpful (as well as those brushing up on their craft.. ;>) Here's a snippet:

"In writing classes, we were bombarded with the five step writing process: prewriting, writing, editing, revising, and publishing. The writing process for poetry is much the same. Write down initial feelings and thoughts; choose a format and begin writing; read and edit; prepare your final draft. The differences in the writing process for stories and poems is in the editing. If you were to write a story, the proofreading would include grammar, punctuation, sentence structure, and tense agreement. Additionally, you would take into consideration the flow of thoughts and the details in the story. In poetry, the editing process involves reading for “meter",“tone” , word choice, and style."

Saunders further offers up a poem, The One That Got Away (for a readership of fisherman), for which the author had provided 4 different edited versions!

Before editing:

The one that got away- A Fish Tale

Eased up to my old cypress tree,
hoping the big one was waiting on me.

Hooked one on my very first cast,
taking out line, he was running fast.

Rod was bent, drag was screeching,
Old Mr. Bass was doing the teaching.

He came up top, tried to shake loose
then dove down deep, knew it wasn't no use.

He headed for the timber
and that's the last I remember

about the one that got away.
Not to worry, I'll be back another day.
--Bill Jenkins--

Now, of course, Saunders does provide, in great detail, the process used for accomplishing this poetry "haircut" which you must read! It's (en)lightening! (Less hair - get it? heh heh.. ohnevermind..:)

"If we look at the point of the poem, it is a fish tale about the one that got away. The poem describes in detail how he got away, but it is missing the feeling and the tone that descries the disappointment associated with losing the big one. Its like building up a joke, but the punch line is missing. Additionally, the tone is a bit serious. If we look at the poem and its meaning, we can, as Bill Jenkins, the author of the poem stated- "experiment with words and phrases just as if putting together a jigsaw puzzle." After editing, the same poem became:"

After editing:

Hooked 'em on my very first cast
takin' out line, he was runnin' fast

Ole' Mr. Bass was doin' the teachin'
The rod was bent an' the drag was a-screechin'

A fight did he give as he came up to the top
He shook and then dove, refusin' to stop

To the timber he headed, no more can I say
I'd lost the battle; that one got away

Fear not, I'll return to that ol' Cypress tree
Mr. Bass hasn't see the last of me!
--Bill Jenkins--

WE KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE! - Come out! Come out! Wherever you are! Pretty please?!?

2009-04-14T07:54:00.011-04:00

Story running the other day about the 43-year-old literary organization International Poetry Forum being on the ropes. What the Forum needs is a benefactor who will ensure that the Forum doesn't have to close its doors -any time soon. Founder and Director of the organization, Samuel Hazo, last week said that it's "possible that somehow we'll get the support to exist in some form." Right now Hazo is looking inside and outside the Pittsburgh area for support but aside from finishing the season at the Carnegie Library Lecture Hall on Tuesday at 8 pm, he has no next move. Hazo had announced in February that the lack of new funding has forced him to drop plans for a 44th season unless something turns up.

May I suggest a kind benefactor step out from the shadows to fund the International Poetry Forum - and become a modern-day hero to the Arts?

The Forum's heyday was in the '80s when Hazo expanded beyond poetry readings into musical, dance and plays, starring the likes of Gregory Peck, James Earl Jones, Princess Grace of Monaco, Vanessa Redgrave, Cleo Laine and Michael York to the Pittsburgh stage, and then brought its program to Washington, D.C., including the stage at Wolf Trap. "The 20th anniversary gala sparkled with Jerzy Kosinski as master of ceremonies and former U.S. Senator Eugene McCarthy" among the performing poets. Hazo also "launched the long-running Poets in the Schools program that reaches high schools in five counties around Pittsburgh."

During all this time, Samuel Hazo was also writing -- "poems, plays and novels, more than 35 books. In his 80th year, he published two books, This Part of the World, his 5th novel, and The Song of the Horse, a collection of poems."

However, for the past 23 years, the International Poetry Forum has contracted, offering fewer and fewer big-ticket draws which resulted in the cancellation of its Washington, D.C. schedule; but Hazo never lost his mission of showcasing the best poets in the face of growing expenses and shrinking cash for arts organizations.

"This year, it went dry."

Samuel Hazo has devoted the last 43 years to the art of poetry; his office is surrounded by photos of the finest poets in America of the past 50 years, more than 500 readings, including Archibald MacLeish in 1966. This is Hazo's legacy, a remarkable and stellar place in American letters that he built in Pittsburgh that he can look back on with pride and satisfaction.

This is my call-out for a kind, benevolent benefactor to fund the International Poetry Forum to keep POETRY - front and center - in the nation's conscience!

Sketch by Matthew Anderson; annotation is the author's handiwork..:)

Poetry for the People - BERKELEY, CA

2009-04-14T00:16:00.008-04:00

Daughter of Puerto Rican sculptor-singer Anna de Leon and African American blues musician Taj Mahal, Aya de Leon is a poet, a UC Berkeley African American studies professor, activist and Harvard graduate. de Leon is also coordinator of a campus-to-community partnership called Poetry for the People (P4P). [Not to be confused with Poetmeister 4 Poets! (P4P), mind you..;>] Poetry for the People at UC Berkeley is an arts activism program started by the late Jamaican poet June Jordan (b. 1939, d. 2002), in 1991. For, de Leon, the gist and heart of Poetry for the People is helping people to express their creativity, which to her means to find your own voice, how to craft strong work and stay true to yourself. The partnership brings nationally known poets in from the East Coast to perform on campus and introduce them to the community.

"I believe everybody has passion about creativity in one way or another. But I know that came from her (mother): the thought that I could do it, that it was a real life. This is part of what I tell my students. A lot of people think, "Oh, well creativity is fine, but then you know, you gotta get a real job. You've got to be a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer." And I think, in watching my mom, I understood that art is a real job."

Check out Poetry for the People for their schedule of upcoming events. On her site, de Leon writes that "P4P continued to pursue Martin Luther King Jr.'s vision of a beloved community for all. P4P has an academic focus on the reading, writing and teaching of poetry. The program also bridges the gap between the university and the larger community, working with teens and young adults, schools, community organizations, and activist projects in the greater Bay Area. This Spring, join us at La Pena every Third Thursday!"

Next up is April 16th National Poetry Month showcase: a multi-generational poetry conversation featuring: American Book Award winner, Coptic poet Matthew Shenoda & John Carlos Perea on bass former P4P Director, poet Maiana Minahal, Hip hop artist and activist Ras K'Dee & dj offering (teao-audiopharmacy), DJ Munkee Pants, plus local artists, Poetry for the People poets, and special guests!

B There or B Square!

White House "Bo" gets his own Writing Beau - Harold Goldberg

2009-04-13T22:57:00.006-04:00

Everyone seems to want in on the Gravy Train, even award-winning journalist, Harold Goldberg, who will be writing White House Dog Tales: The Very Personal Rhyming Diary of the White House Dog (making contact with his crystal ball, is he!) and the Mystery in the Fountain to honor National Poetry Month.

I would love to present the first installment just to give you a taste of things to come, but no peek-preview here folks; looks like you'll have to buy the bow-wow without a wow-now ;> You can purchase the goods on the White House Dog Tales blog. Yip!

Poetry Writing Contest - KANSAS

2009-04-13T20:55:00.007-04:00

Kansas Poet Laureate, Dr. Denise Low, is offering 2 poetry writing contests throughout the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month. Kansas poets can submit one original poem per contest based on a specified theme (see below) determined by Dr. Low. Winning poems will be selected by Dr. Low and posted on her blog. In addition, the poets with winning poems will be gifted with a book of Dr. Low's poetry from a personal collection.

You may email your original poems to Dr. Denise Low at kansaspoetry AT gmail DOT com.

Here are the Themes with their Deadlines:

Kansas Ghost Story - April 16
Kansas Houses - April 20
Kansas Historic Myth - April 23
Kansas Garden - April 27
Kansas Wildlife - April 30

Source: Kansas Arts Commission

GOLGATHA by Glenn Buttkus

2009-04-10T15:00:00.002-04:00

GOLGATHA

I am the Christ,
he whispered,
and they laughed at him;
at his thin unshaven face,
at his long blood-caked hair.

But no one looked at his eyes
the way I did.
He could have told them,
if they would but listen.

He remembered
Antonia,
the cold castle walls
and the cockroaches that chewed his ankles.
The club and the chain,
and the many-tailed whip
that tore hunks of flesh from his body.
Roman guards that had beat him.
Thorns in his hair
tearing at his scalp.
Men who had feared him,
pummeled him with their fear,
Blackening his eyes;
those sad eyes
that could see
infinity.

Herod was fat,
and loved his whores,
and his little boys.

Pilate was lean
and he splashed his hands
in a flowered urn as the people
cheered the thief Barabbas;
placing a straw basket on his head,
and carrying him on their shoulders,
a frozen smile on his lips,
his liberty barren.

It was a dirty amemic yellow dawn
as Jerusalem reeked of refuse.
He put the rugged cross upon his shoulder;
a huge thing
that smelled of creosote and tar and pitch;
fresh cut
brought from the dark forest,
bolted together with iron clasps.

The burden was heavy
and he fell under it.
the cobblestone bit into his raw knees.
the whip kissed his scourged back
as he stood up.

The sky appeared dead.
The narrow streets were open cesspools
in the dim light,
rubbish in rainbarrols,
gutters that rannith over
with filth.
People leaned out windows
and spat,
though some did not.

Come see the parade,
it is free,
like hunger.
and the people came,
an army of shopkeepers, drunkards, farmers, artisans,whores,
pick-pockets, thieves, cutthroats, lepers,
and rabbis,
huddling, steaming, and shuffling,
as dirty children played
tag with the rats.

Another painful stumble at the corner crossroads,
flat onto the hard street,
but this time gentle hands
reached out to him
and a negro named Simon stepped up
to help shoulder the burden,
and although conscripted,
he too
was whipped and beaten
as the procession continued.

His mother was there,
somewhere,
in that sea of whirling souls,
though he had missed her at the trial.

Porta Judiciarn,
a Roman gate,
stone and ornate,
marble and impressive.

Then Calvary at noon,
a sickly place,
stinking of carrion and death;
Golgatha,
the place of skulls.
The crowd jeered and bellered and wept.
Dysmas and Gestas sweated,
watching the crosses being arranged on the ground.

The four corners of the world heaved,
black clouds raced for the hillock,
a pallid ring hid the desert sun;
noon and dark.

Pain hid the rising,
three sharp white sihouettes
against the indigo sky,
yet the iron spikes still hurt
as the flesh split, cracked, and crunched
in his hands and feet.

Jesus of Nazareth,
King of the Jews;
words on a hand-written wooden sign,
nailed lop-sided over his drooping head.

The spikes were thick and cold,
and blood flowed,
slowly trickling down,
spiraling around his body
and the cross.
Little red rivelets of life
in a rubious world;
becoming a steaming puddle
on the bare trodden ground.

I thirst, he cried,
and they sponged his swollen face
with vinegar;
while the black sky brooded,
his crown caught the light on a barb.
Whispered words with his father,
dice that rolled,
winners that did not win.

4:00, Good Friday,
April 7th,
30 A.D.;
a scratch on eternity,
a wound that never heals,
bleeding still,
becoming words that will not clot,
from a Christ,
and from all men suffering,
and not suffering.

My God,
My God,
Why have you forsaken me ?

Glenn Buttkus Easter 1966

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I'm extremely pleased to be able to publish Golgatha by Glenn Buttkus of Feel Free to Read on this Good Friday. His poem is one that affects me in a profound way. I was shaken the first time I read it, and cried. I felt I was personally there while reading, witnessing the Passion of the Christ, or Stations of the Cross, if you will, as it happened back in the day that He walked the Earth, carrying the Cross He died on - for me - for All.

Try Putting Lipstick on a Landfill - enter Staten Island Haiku Contest on Freshkills Landfill-to-Park project

2009-04-08T16:00:00.011-04:00

Heh heh. This is a good one, gentle readers. Staten Island Parks Department is running a haiku poetry contest enticing poets to write a traditional haiku form meditation on the natural transformation of Freshkills Landfill into Freshkills Park, the city's most important new Park in 100 years. Go to this site and click on the e-mail link to enter the contest by - Friday, April 24 at 5:00pm. All I can say is - Talk about lipstick on a pig!

Haiku, in short form (pun intended), is written in 17 syllables divided into 3 lines of 5, 7, 5 syllables; in order to qualify as traditional Haiku Japanese verse the haiku must mention some element of nature or one of the seasons. Good luck to all who enter this unusual endeavor! Now... 1...2...3... everyone... grab your lipstick!

And now, just to mention a few of my favorite haiku haunts: an old friend, Paul David Mena, the Haiku Poet; David Rheins Blog, Haiku.com; and Like My Haiku.com.

Gordon College posts poetry as podcasts on iTunes

2009-04-08T15:11:00.004-04:00

Massachusetts' Gordon College melds age-old poetry tradition to 21st-century technology by recording a variety of poems as podcasts on iTunes. As many of you know, podcasts are digital recordings available on the Internet and can be downloaded onto iPods or listened to through your computer speakers.

The college chose favorite poems that were recited out loud this spring by students and faculty. Communication arts major, Natalie Ferjulian, a junior, recorded the poems and coordinated getting the poems posted as podcasts on iTunes. A new poem is posted every day during April, National Poetry Month.

A few of the poems representing poetry recorded include Langston Hughes' Harlem, warning of the danger of deferring dreams read by Jo Kadlecek, senior communications writer to John Ciardi's whimsical Why Nobody Pets the Lion at the Zoo, read by Jan Carlberg, wife of college President R. Judson Carlberg.

Win up to $500 at museum's poetry slam - DETROIT

2009-04-08T14:45:00.004-04:00

Here's how: Enter the Wright Poetry Slam Open-Mic Competition sponsored by the Charles H. Wright Museum of African American History on April 15, 2009, 7-9pm, by calling 313.494.5823 to provide your name, e-mail addy and phone number. This event has no admission fee and the museum is located at 315 E. Warren Ave., Detroit, MI.

Visit the museum's website for more information and while you're at the site check out the Current Exhibition I Have a Dream: An International Tribute to Martin Luther King, Jr., which runs from March 18 through May 3, 2009. The exhibition is organized by the Maricel Museum in Spain as a tribute to Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s philosophy of freedom and justice - for all. The Curator, Gabi Serrano, amassed 70 works created by artists around the world, all the works fall under the main theme, "the dream".

I want to make you famous, Marcee Lee!

2009-04-07T12:26:00.005-04:00

This is a story written by Jacquelyne Smith (Bless her!), run in the Independent Florida Alligator. Marcee Lee Winthrop is the kind of woman that inspired Janet Leigh's poem Ode to Woman. Ms. Winthrop has what's called the "irrepressible spirit" of woman; she has courage, resiliency and a vision of how she wants to be seen. She sees herself as "poet," and she's even come up with the title of her first poetry book, Poverty Revolution Part 1: Skimming the Surface. Winthrop wrote her first poem as a part of a New Year's resolution to live up to her potential and improve her life. The poem was written based on her own experience living in poverty. Winthrop is raising her 13 year old daughter after being left on their own by her husband who left in early March.

Winthrop faces a number of obstacles in her daily life. Starting with a full set of teeth, she now has 3 left, all in the front, and because of this physical characteristic and her lack of job experience, she remains unemployed. The loss of her teeth has been personally painful and brings her much anguish and hurt. Unemployment rules out medical and dental care, leaving the dental work she needs to improve her appearance, out of reach. Nevertheless, she manages to get past the resulting insecurity of her appearance to take the stage to read her poetry at places like UF's Orange and Brew during open mic nights. She hopes to educate people through her poetry to the hardships of poverty and stir action to eradicate it. I love that she is taking this initiative to help others while helping herself.

Winthrop wrote her first poem, I am a Face of Poverty in America, to address her anger with the government which she feels treats her as an "expendable soul" because of her poverty. She says her experience trying to get assistance from the government is frustrating because, for one thing, she lacks transportation. Winthrop says many poor people feel like "a number," or "cattle wandering from building to building."

A neighbor, Edwin Luciano, has known Winthrop since she moved into the neighborhood several years ago and admires her for "stepping out and doing something special. It just goes into people's hearts and makes a difference."

May the stars be aligned in favor of Marcee Lee Winthrop's goal to "live up to her potential and improve her life" through publication of her poetry.

pssst... Winthrop needs a kind benefactor. From my lips to God's ear!

Poetry for an America yearning for awakening

2009-04-07T10:39:00.006-04:00

Poetry by Uncle Sam for Uncle Sam is the catch phrase for a featured poet in the annual Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, which will run April 25 & 26, 2009 on the UCLA campus. Uncle Sam, in this case, is poet Sami El-Soudani who will be having a book signing at the Xlibris Publisher's Booth, booth #238, from 11am-12pm on Saturday, April 25.

What I like about this poet is his intention to shake us up with a message about a "great nation in sedation, presently subjugated to the point of being captive by its homegrown military-industrial-media complex, which is dedicated to the service of special interest groups and personally profiteering war advocates." Whew! That's a head full.

But wait! There's more. Sami Uncle Sam El-Soudani is sounding an alarm, long overdue, that America's sword is being turned, slowly but surely upon its own people, as America's preemptive war escapade has already been set in motion, wrecking havoc in the world at large, and unleashing the dogs of war, skillfully trained by wicked war kindlers. This war is given the misnomer title of "war on terror," but in reality it is being waged with a mindset aimed at capturing Islam, as "a clashing culture" as prescribed in a recipe for World War III per Samuel P. Huntington. With such a mindset, Islam is regarded as "a threatening warring civilization," just another buzzword title, with both references being as bogus as a witch's broom. People of America: Awaken!" Wow! This is serious stuff, eh?

As serious as Dr. Sami El-Soudani's credentials; "an aerospace materials scientist specializing in fracture mechanics and failure analysis and has been engaged for over thirty years in averting failures of aircraft structures. For the past twenty years, however, he has been conducting independent theological and sociological research prompted by regrettable world events clearly showing that failures of the human spirit are of far more devastating consequences than failures of aircraft structures." [emphasis mine]

Actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers will wow us with his poetry - after retirement

2009-04-07T09:01:00.009-04:00

Aside from being one of my favorite actors, Jonathan Rhys Meyers claims he also writes "terrific" poetry (according to a newKerala.com item), and of this claim I have no doubts. Why, just look at how "terrific" this man presents himself. Then, think of his acting abilities! Surely a man who looks this good, writes just as well, no? All kidding aside, I will have to wait to pass judgment on his poetry at this time, however, I'll be an olde, fading raisin by the time Meyers retires.

"Maybe when I'm a lot older and I won't be so embarrassed, I'll publish it," he added.

Well, to this I say to Meyers, there's nothing to feel embarrassed about writing poetry; it's the language of the soul. And,, and - your eyes tell me a different story. You have the eyes of one who approaches life in a studious, meditative manner with great awareness and contemplation. Add sensitivity and stir. Voila! Poetry! Prove me wrong. Leave a poem here in Comments (and your phone number. Just kidding..:)

National Poetry Month kick-off!

2009-04-01T01:27:00.007-04:00

What better way to jumpstart Poetmeister 4 Poets! after a longish hiatus than start off National Poetry Month with a shout out to all my favorite poetry sites & blogs, and then some! I've truly missed, over the past months, my usual blog-hopping forays; it looks like the dust is settling over our homestead at last which will allow me to resume my blogging

I shall start things off by giving a high-five to Joe Felso, er, David Marshall, of Joe Felso: Ruminations, for his newest start-up blogs, Haiku Streak and Signals to Attend, which I'm just starting to "get to know." You may remember that Joe Felso/David Marshall is one of my favorite online educators and excellent writer of haiku! Welcome back to the blogging world, David! I'll be stopping in again soon to catch up with your comings and goings.
You must go to Poets Who Blog and give some luv to Sara who puts in endless hours of superb writing on All Things Poetry - for a community of some of the most talented, unique, innovative poets in cyberworld. Poets Who Blog site has undergone a new look which really pops! Great job, Sara. Kudos to you for your tenacity and perseverance in providing the best information hub to the online poetry world!
Don't forget to check in with these great blog sites, too; World Class Poetry, Billy the Blogging Poet, Blogsboro Poetry Club, Asphalt Sky , Glenn Buttkus' Feel Free to Read & Silliman's Blog!
Rick Mobb of Mine Enemy Grows Older still continues to amaze me with his enormous talents and vision, and heart for social justice. Read Rick's newest poem, and now she's awake here. And Just Paisley continues to awe us with her poems & writings with their perfect complementary photo or artistic embellisment. Scot Young's Be Not Inhospitable to Strangers still rocks for me. Go give some luv - now!
I'm totally taken by several new blogs I've discovered or been introduced to recently: Bryan Borland's SHAKE and David Rheins Blog.

These few highlighted sites ought to keep you busy kicking off April's National Poetry Month! At least until I return with more places to check out - and more poetry, of course.. ;>

An enigma - unto herself - it's what I love about c

2009-01-11T19:40:00.011-05:00

I came upon a real treat tonight; surfing, surfing, surfing my sea of cyberfriends,, trying to catch up with the comings and goings, trials and tribulations and mental meanderings of soulful, provocative & sensate individuals - who enrich and inspire us all - to higher, rarer realms of thought and imagination.. ahh.. and how I love swooping in on All the Elbows: the bend of them, their grease, poke and of the tennis variety - all are welcome in the house of c.. she will bend your mind, grease your creaky heart, ..and poke you right where it hurts with her fine-tuned, fertile verbal ferocity which has the power to ferry you across vast expanses of feral fields of cerebral imaginings like a pioneer imagist seeking new and untenable frontier. c is for cosmos, coping, commentary, caring, stream of consciousness, control, life changes, clean and color - which make up the cornucopia known as christine. And, we certainly can't get enough of c, see?

~ a little see of c ~

16/12

longer than not
together
i forget our separateness, was it ever
did i even exist before there’s only togetherly

you still melt me
in my belly like lava
and laughing and crying and
those times on our knees crawling

scraping and making
us
you me much forgiven
loved more than forgave less than adored

you’ve made me
beautiful
good good good man so good
saved me so good

so good to me you godgiven you

bad penny

This is what I say when there’s that feeling in my chest-
cold, metallic.
Coppery like old dead blood.
Useless.
That’s why I say it.
Bad penny’s what I call it.
A bad place outside digging at our insides.
It spreads out slow and steady from that place we call heart.
It’s that place that is your heart literally:
life-giving blood muscle,
and that place we think of as our heart meaning the heart of our being.
Our quick.
It spreads out,
pushing everything aside and filling you up with bad penny.
You breathe deep.
You have to in order to fill that space,
to make it good again.
You breathe so deep,
so deep,
but can’t be filled.
There’s not enough air to dislodge it.
And when you got bad penny,
ever notice how on the exhale,
you’re shaky?
The breath trembles,
starts and stops on its struggle outward?
It’s a bad way, a deep hurt,
shock anger love hate.
That’s because Abe’s hands don’t want to let it go.
Abe’s hands want to keep the air and bend it,
make it sticky,
rusty.
And that sound!
Terrible sound that I can’t directly describe.
It’s not a cry so much as a tear,
a rendering,
wrenching and primal.
An escape-
desperate escape from the hollow where you once were.
Choking.
Choking up the bad penny is what I like to call it and once that sound comes out of you,
the bad penny begins to melt.
Molten copper filling,
then spilt from eyes and suddenly!-
there’s room!
So the bad penny’s tossed up upon the ground,
like so much nothing.
Worth something so worthless…

Like myself.

autumn

i hear you whisper
what shall we wear this year

the classic look of course

golds reds browns oh you beautiful hands
resplendent and reaching
handing down cooled breezes to the forest floor
giving thanks in moonrise
reflecting warm light from the sun

ushering disguised children begging for candy
shading speckled fawns
bearing apples mmm the apples shapely pears

dappled walkways whirling dervishes tapping and miraculous
time for honey cake darling
scarves long nights brittling and starred
full of the odor of leaving short chilled days

and you
a sudden burst of color
banners of welcome only to disrobe in preparation for the season of rest

you
autumn trees
a dazzling show of dying

(copyright 2008 ) c A Hughes
09.19.08

The Tao of Laundry

*If you wish to comprehend the Infinite, consider Laundry.

*Like all things eternal- God, Time, Space- Laundry was, is and shall ever be.

*Laundry is something done that is never done.
Meditate on this and achieve enlightenment…

regarding the stars

what do they do up there,
stars, winking like tipsy eyes-

they look down on us and make wishes



she floats above in her star spangled bodice
and collects eyes for luck

the ocean is her treasure box
and filled with them, with bones

nibbled on by white lobsters
smoothed and the salt of the sea



clumsy, falling
where do you land?

you don’t.
you disintegrate, become dust, vanish-

are forgotten.



thorny stars or we are dead?
a million years when your light is met-

in contemplation, study, an accidental happening
wish on our faces, wide and light as memory,

we are the dust

(copyright 2008 ) c A Hughes
07.14.08

me, in the only dress i'll ever wear

will you be my dress

and he is
and he looks good on me
clings to me
beautifies me

in him, i am a vision

his color compliments mine
he feels good on me
and i am aware of my hips
i move hard

(copyright 200 ) c A Hughes
04.06.08

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

Reading these few poems ought to make you drop everything and tear over to All the Elbows for a longer visit. You will be treated to good/honest writing in a genuine, down-to-earth from-bird's-eye-view voice. c is an excellent writer of prose and poetry; no topic is too tough or taboo - written from a very unique perspective by a very unique voice - unafraid to dig deep into your soul, grab your heart and squeeze or wring your mind like a mop head. You will think differently than when you arrived, you'll see things from a different perspective and you will definitely feel the passion and depth of c's emotion wrung out in every word she writes. Guaran-teed, indeed!

Drum as Love, Fear, and Prayer

2008-12-13T01:57:00.008-05:00

This is one of my favorite poems by Sherman Alexie which resides over on one of my favorite poetry blogs, Feel Free to Read. Please do..:)

Drum as Love, Fear, and Prayer

1.

Drums
make everyone feel
like an Indian.

Drums make
everyone feel
like an Indian.

Drums make everyone
feel
like an Indian

Drums make everyone feel
like an Indian.

Drums make everyone feel like
an Indian.

Drums make everyone feel like an Indian.

2.

I have more faith
in drums

than I have in the people
who play them

I told her
and she said God

is a drum.
I have more faith

in a small drum
because I can carry it

everywhere I go
I told her

and she said God
is the smallest drum.

3.

She said, dance.

It is crazy, I know, how quickly I've learned to love
this dancing, this step-step across the floor

when I'd spent my whole life
without any music. I had promised never to dance

in the white way
if I didn't dance in the Indian way first

but she said dance
refuses color when we are broken down

and embraces color when we are built again
and I believed her

and danced when I heard the drums, the drums
the drums in her voice.

4.

If love is taken
in its smallest part
will there still be enough
to frighten me? Yes

and no. I mean, if love can be
reduced to a cut bead
then I am not afraid.
But if that cut bead is sewn

into a moccasin or purse, if
that bead is part of a chain
built larger and larger, bead
by bead, then I am afraid.

Here, she said, take this bead
with honor. Then she offered another.

5.

And if I choose to love
this Indian woman
partly because she's Indian

(drum)

and if I choose to love
this Indian woman
mostly because she's Indian

(drum)

then who are you to stop
this love between
and Indian woman and man

(drum)

and who am I, who is she, now
for both of us to make these decisions together?

6.

I have broken
bread with her.

We have prayed together in silent places
where we could hear each other breathe
and in airports and lunchtime restaurants
where nothing wanted to rise above it all

except a few lonely people
with their cigarette smoke.

These prayers have not been easy, how
do we say Indian prayers in English
and which God will answer? Is God red
or white? Do these confused prayers mean

we'll live on another reservation
in that country called Heaven?

7.

Then she tells me Jesus is
still here
because Jesus was
once here

and part of Jesus are
still floating in the air.
She tells me Jesus' DNA is
part of the collective DNA.

She tells me we are all part
of Jesus, we are all Jesus
in part. She tells me to breathe deep
during all our storms

because you can sometimes taste Jesus
in a good hard rain.

8.

And I want to say this (say it)
and I want to whisper (shout)
and I want to shake the doors of the house (church)
and I want to blow a trumpet (play a drum)

and I want to run (dance)
and I want to talk about laughter (pain)
and I want to count up all the losses (magic)
and I want to blow a trumpet (play a drum)

and I want to inventory my fears (joy)
and I want to hide beneath old blankets (grace)
and I want to feast (pray)
and I want to blow a trumpet (play a drum)

and I want
to play a drum.

9.

She danced alone
before she ever knew me

and she'll dance alone
though she loves me

but for now
she dances

with me.
I take her hand.

No.
I take her face

in my hands
and I tell her

how much I believe
in her, in her.

Sherman Alexie..........from The Summer of Black Widows
Photo courtesy of Standing Bear's Manataka Weddings

Have You Given These Sites Some Love Lately?

2008-08-03T22:48:00.003-04:00

C'mon, dear readers, it's time to Get Your Love On over to Poets Who Blog, an active community blog run by Sara for poets to get to know each others work, participate in group poems such as the Patchwork poem (check out Patchwork Poetry for some great examples of this form) and poems-by-prompt. Plus you can learn other forms of poetry like the "cento" which is a poem comprised of lines from other poets works; write poems based on words or lines donated by group members that must be incorporated into your poem; try your hand at a villanelle or ghazal or sestina.

Next, please go visit Billy the Blogging Poet for a look at his blogging prowess; his powerful poems; his penchant for bringing important issues to the forefront. Billy Jones is a true friend to all poets - he likes to showcase poets he finds of interest and provides a community blog for poets to share their poetry with the public. Why not join up with the Blogsboro Poetry Club where you'll find a potpourri of talented poets!

Next stop, the World Class Poetry Blog, where you'll find just about everything you need to know about poetry, poets, and the makings thereof; Allen definitely knows his stuff and also likes to mix it up and have fun while informing his readers!
Allen has written about the 11 Mistakes Poets Make When Seeking Book Reviews, The Importance of Explosive Imagination in Poetry, Using I As A Persona, Modern, Postmodern, & Post-Postmodern: Why Poetry is No Longer in Disintegration Mode, Mixing Poetry With Art is Good Exposure For All, 10 Poetry Articles You Must Read, and Millennial Poetics: A New Way Of Thinking About Craft (one of a series on his Millennial Poetics, a must read!)
Can't give enough link luv to Glenn Buttkus, co-contributor of Feel Free to Read blog; a perfect blend of poetry, celebrity & singer quotes and bios, American history & photographs, album covers and song lyrics to keep you enrapt for hours. If you're a Sherman Alexie fan, as I am, well, you'll find a wealth of Alexie poetry & remembrance at Glenn's Feel Free to Read 7th Heaven haven, as well as other American Indian poets such as Standing Bear Chief of the Oglala Sioux, Simon Ortiz, and Harlan Atwater Mythical Spokane Indian Poet *wink,wink*

Ok, this ought to Get Your Poetry On! - until next time!

Another Good One by Stacey on Autism

2008-07-31T22:38:00.001-04:00

As autism organizations and medical professionals alike voice their outrage at inflammatory comments made by controversial talk radio host Michael Savage, about most autistic children simply being "brats," the head of the network that employs him appears to be taking measures to pull out of a public relations tailspin. Savage, who in the past, has taken aim at the legitimacy of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and other behavioral disorders, called autism a "fraud" and a "racket" during his July 16 broadcast, adding that "[i]n 99 percent of the cases, it's a brat who hasn't been told to cut the act out."

Savage's outrageous remarks have Poetry by Stacey coming back at him with a fairly good spanking in the form of the written word:

Mr. Michael. Savage is the only man,
Voicing an opinion like no one can,
Lack of knowledge, causes anger to breed,
Upsetting parents, all part of his deed.

Clearly obvious his brain's not in gear,
He needs a firm kick to be placed on his rear,
Never learning to run before he leaps,
Lack of common sense is what he reeks.

For every parent of an autistic child,
Mr. Savage's radio rant sent them wild,
His callous speech on this neurological disorder,
Showed his true colours, he's out of order.

His claim that Autism is a fraud and a racket,
That parents claim welfare to make a packet,
Insulting these children by calling them brats,
Did he really think anyone would put up with that?

The barrage of insults he continued to use,
Calling them morons this is verbal abuse,
Stating only one percent of cases are real,
The other percentage are acting, he thinks is the deal.

For every child or adult that has this diagnosis,
This condition can give a different prognosis,
Symptoms can range from mild to severe,
But either way it can cause many tears.

Mr. savage needs to be taught the facts,
Learn from the families of those he attacked,
If he looked into the eyes of an autistic child,
The knowledge he'd gain would be worthwhile.

Instead of blaming their mum's and dads,
He should talk to them and learn the facts,
These special kid's parents, will no doubt tell,
Insensitive remarks can make their lives hell.

By Poetry by Stacey

Poetry Potpourri

2008-07-28T03:15:00.000-04:00

companion by Rick Mobbs

. Loyalty, from lirone, author of the blog, Words that sing (and they do)

. Bone tree (for Georgia O’keeffe), from Tiel Aisha Ansari author of the blog knocking from inside

. weed it out - half a poem, from gautami tripathy, of firmly rooted

. Beyond the Obvious, by Rose Dewy Knickers, author of the blog live/laugh (or is it Dewy Knickers?)

. Here is The Dog, from Pam, at amputated moon

Encore! Encore! Just one more Paisley, pleeeze?!

2008-07-26T03:03:00.000-04:00

I feel almost mischievous enough to keep posting Paisley's poems so I can re-read them as I type away. She keeps me spellbound.. she just has that way about her.. maybe we're locked in a mind-meld somewhere in another sphere.. okay,, okay,, last one is below entitled Time:

a reprise

it came upon me, as a thief
silently, stealthily.. stealing
my beauty,, my passion,, my dreams,, my desires...
i was swept up from behind,
now i'm caught
i am held fast,,
i am struggling
but the feather like fingers have taken hold..
slowly entwining themselves around my very soul...
coiling,, choking me from within...

I stand motionless... waiting
afraid any movement.. may propel me forward
when all i seek,,
is to go back...
as if i no longer have any control
as if the fates have finally won
and i have lost...
all but what i see...

Please follow the linked last line to read the remainder of this poem at Why Paisley?

Why Paisley? Because she'll paint the colors of her soul in words.. and your's, too..

2008-07-26T02:30:00.000-04:00

I can't claim to know the back story on Jodi's title for her blog Why Paisley? and it really doesn't matter. I like paisley patterns.. and I wear it well. Had she named her poetry blog Why Plaid? well, I'd have to ask that question myself. Visions of Arnold Palmer and Bob Hope out there in the back 40 of a golf tournament wearing We're-Wild-and-Craaazy-Guyz-in-plaid-pants is enough to last a lifetime, thank you very much. No, when I think of Paisley's poetry I sense the delicate curves of her words; I hear soft-toned murmurings and barely-perceived vibrations flowing through chakra-shocked bruised layers of deep coloring; I see pale swatches of longings, far out of reach, and the streaks of carefully placed tenderness like fingers over braille. Paisley has the ability to get into your mind. She can affect your sensibilities. Paisley is positively.. riveting. Take her following poem Paint me a Picture, written in collaboration with Rick Mobb's painting titled Let Your Tears. See for yourself-

let your tears com
let them water your soul
by eileen mahew

let your tears come,
let them water your soul
let them mix with the ash
of passions fire, grown cold

let them brighten the bruises
let their salt sting the scars
let them fill your lifes palette
let them color your art

let them mix with your blood
and your hurt and your fear-
then paint me a picture
i can see, feel, and hear....

Photo

His Love

underneath the stairwell
on the red pleather bean bag chair
she listened to the voices,, and she
could tell that they were mad
she dared not move a muscle
she fought hard not to breathe
she waited for the silence
that told her she could leave
she would sneak up thru the cellar
and out the back porch door
she'd look back and see her mother
lying passed out on the floor
she would whisper, "i fucking hate him.."
and then out the door she'd go...

today had been a good day
she'd got out before the fight
she heard him hit her mother
and hoped she was alright
she knew she couldn't stop him

and trying just made it worse

damn that demon alcohol
in her life it was a curse
tomorrow would be a new day
meek and mild he would be
afraid to lift his eyes up
afraid that he might see
the swollen eyes and cut blue lips
that symbolized his love....

don't blink

our birth marked the end of innocence
a new generation had been born
a time of freedom and drugs and sex
of violence and racism and war
all lines erased, no right, no wrong
tune in, turn on, drop out...

by junior high the lines were drawn
there was no backing down now
the world owed us a living
and the time to collect had come
get out of our way, man, we know what we're doing
and can't hear a word you say...

oh yeah, we walked on the wild side
we pushed it all to the limit
if it don't kill you, it'll make you strong
don't blink now, it'll soon be gone.

tomorrow breaths hard, now, at our napes
in a world so out of control
running amok on paths we fought to tread
what seems like, oh, so long ago
when we saw the world thru youth colored glasses
that we can't find, or we lost, or we sold...

no longer indestructible
not ten feet tall or bullet proof
we bemoan the world we knew back then
when in our youth, we ruled
the scepter passed on long ago
yet no one said a word...

oh yeah, we walked on the wild side
we pushed it all to the limit
if it don't kill you, it'll make you strong
don't blink now, it'll soon be gone

Please follow the linked last line to read the remainder of this poem at Just Paisley?

Nature Has Him in Its Sight - Scot Young

2008-07-26T01:58:00.000-04:00

Time to share another poet that captivates my attention and admiration every time I land on his blog. This wonderful poet would be none other than Scot Young who graces the pages of Be Not Inhospitable to Strangers: Lest They be Angels in Disguise with some of the most beautiful and provocative poetry on the web today. Scot's range of subjects that he gets into seems to have no limit; he seems to cruise in hyper-vigilance mode and doesn't let much get by him. His ear is to the wind and he eyes things like an eagle. He reminds me of life seen from the aerie's nest. Nature has him in its sight, although he might jest it's the other way around. Ha! Funny how the Great Spirit seeks out its own; taps the shoulder of its earthly manprey to give a flash of intuition or revelation. Here's examples of what I mean. You gotta love'm!

A Haiku Love Sonnet–

–Waiting for the End of Yesterday

sometimes we travel
deep into this naked night
and see yesterday

eager to reconstruct
bits of a fragmented dream
with lost dialogue

wait for fading light
to kiss the soft of angel
wings warmed by the day

not an easy job
turning the orange sky dark
not an easy job

rearranging the planets
hanging a blue moon

Haiku Sonnet: Ozark County

March 18, 2008

hands held on weathered
glades set with yellow primrose
side step cactus that

stair steps down through oak
scattered woods hidden from noon
day tourists lost and

dodging dirt road ruts
this path leads to our hidden
waterfall off that

ridge spilling into
a shaded pool reflecting
soft blooms of dogwoods

in filtered light we
scratch our names on mossy rocks

Summer Morning #2 Haiku

July 12, 2008

summer morning
silence broken by light
rain on a tin roof

Summer Morning #1 Haiku

July 11, 2008

This is the first of three summer morning haiku from our Ozark hideaway.

summer morning–
yellow swallowtails dance on
wild bee balm

Stones

July 3, 2008

I spend my time
collecting stones
large ones for strong corners
flats for the cap
cobbles for plugging
the holes mixed
each day
to hold it strong

I spend my time
collecting stones
working in layers
laying each one to fit
like a puzzle
in this perfect wall
that protects the things
I own
and sometimes own me

I spend my time
collecting stones
set them around this
ancient oak
spreading arching
protects from sun
and storms
built high enough
to dream well under
a marauding moon

I spend my time
collecting stones
my father’s trade
this art passed down
with bleeding hands
fit to chisels
chipping stones
making them fit
sealing it up

I spend my time
collecting stones
but sometimes I
leave one out
of the perfect wall
……..one rock removed just
long enough for you
to slip in
before new mortar
is mixed
I cannot tell you
where it is

run your hand slowly
over the surface
……..there

do you see it?

Reading these few poems ought to make you feel one with nature; like falling on your back into the tall field grass; ready to dive into a fresh, cold, crisp mountain stream; dive off a high cliff on a hang glider or watch an eagle scope the swoop like Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Oh, WOW. I'm having a John Denver moment! You can, too. Now get yourself over to Scot Young's blog posthaste and have yourself a piece of Scot's delicious naturescape!

Scot lives in Missouri with his wife and 3 daughters. He's a high school principal and finds time to teach graduate classes, and a poetry class beginning with the Beats. Scot can be found both on the internet and in print and his poetry credits include publication in The Beat, Spoken Word, Asphalt Sky, Potpourri, Hemingway's Shotgun and Pleiades.

Stupid war makes for "Four Buck Gas" by Glenn Buttkus

2008-06-03T01:48:00.000-04:00

Taking one of Rick Mobbs awesome paintings (yes I am a big fan of Rick Mobbs work!) with a little help (horse's red leg) from his son, Broadus, entitled , Stupid War, Glenn Buttkus co-author of Feel Free to Read blog, wrote the following poem, Four Buck Gas. It's long. Too bad. Excellent poetry comes in long - as well as short and medium. heh heh. Long is good. I know. How do I know? you might be asking. Glenn Buttkus tends to write lengthy poems; you see, he has an eye for detail that can analyze any subject down to a, ah - a gnat's eyeball! Yeah! That's it. Furthermore - this particular poem is an excellent example of my premise that poets are the true historians. But that's not all...Glenn also writes movie reviews that rock. He includes so much information that by the time you've read the review, you might feel like you just saw the movie! Yup, that good. This is also the way he treats poetry. If Glenn likes what you've written, he'll tell you exactly why; pulling every nuance, hidden meaning, psychological undertone, and any literary reference alluded to in the imagery that he can hunt down. He'll weave a beautiful and carefully written essay about your poem/movie/writing or pack a novella of a concise review down to critical mass thumbnail size that makes you feel like the most important poet that's hit the scene! Make sure you take a jet to his blog. You will find a fascinating & fantastic potpourri of miscellaneous literary extracts. And now, without further ado, here's Glenn Buttkus on four buck gas!

Four Buck Gas
This morning
I stood in the pre-dawn chill
and pumped 4-buck gas
into my pick up.
Suddenly consumed
with unspeakable anger,
I shook my free fist
at the Shell sign—
standing there tall
and sullen
and silent,
arrogantly golden
flashing
its $4.15
for regular gas
message.
I thought about
The Bush War
and what it is costing
us/me,
and about the fat cat
oil barons
who hang out with Junior
swilling Lone Star
and counting their tax-free
trillions.
The New Millennium Crusades
suddenly swam belligerently
into my cortical net,
witnessing Bush stir up
the Muslim wasp nest,
sending our youth
into harm’s way
to face the barbs and stingers,
RPG’s, roadside explosions,
and suicide bombers
who themselves
are barely old enough
to enjoy
the promised 100 virgins
in Jihad Paradise.
A few yesterdays ago
there we were
post 9-11 in 2003,
wanting to strike back,
wanting revenge
for the terrible toppling of our towers,
and the callous crushing
of the innocent thousands,
as death was brought to us
on our own silver wings,
diving and plunging
straight down,
laden with high-pitched screams
from jet engines pushed to full throttle
and passengers hoarse from fear.
Something had to be done.
Who could we punish?
Who could we kill
to satiate our blood lust?
George W. Bush, Jr.
and all his father’s posse
smiled like hyenas
in a silent pack,
and their greedy index fingers
pointed back,
straight at Iraq;
telling us repeatedly
that right there was the heart
of darkness,
the den of murderers,
the scourge of the earth;
plotters, terrorists, and enemies—
that Bush was ready
to lead us
into a holy war
that would finish the job
left undone by his daddy
in 1991—
that as righteous patriots
we should take on
the rag tag Republican Army
and run that ruthless fox,
Saddam Hussein,
to ground;
for he was a madman,
an abuser of human rights,
a killer,
a dictator,
a womanizer,
a sodomizer;
and not only
did he absolutely possess
weapons of mass destruction,
but he fully intended
to send unmanned squadrons
of drones
to our eastern shores,
that were fully laden
with biological germ warfare payloads.
75 senators were duped, cajoled,
and convinced,
thus launching
Operation Iraqi Liberation;
soon to morph into
Operation Iraqi Freedom.
During the one month assault,
we overran Hussein’s finest troops
like shooting coyotes
from horseback,
and it only cost us
139 American lives.
“Outstanding!”
was on the commander’s lips,
followed by,
“Let’s stick around a while now,
and assist the Iraqis into forging
a Democracy.”
We all recall
the smirking grin
and lying eyes
of warmonger
Donald Rumsfeld;
and that late afternoon
five years ago this May
on the USS Abraham Lincoln,
when Commander in Chief,
President Bush
emerged from a fighter
wearing a flight suit,
stood spread-legged on the naked steel deck,
waving his thunder bolt helmet
and declaring,
“Mission Accomplished!”
And presently
here we are,
knee deep in Year 5,
fighting “asymmetric warfare”,
without front lines,
against a faceless enemy
that hides in
and melts into
the civilian population;
just like before
in 1964—
except now we are immersed in
and surrounded by
civil war and insurgency,
as we are being branded
the Occupying Force,
once again;
spilling blood for greed
and democracy—
being taught hard lessons;
like we cannot curtail
the flow of Jihad insurgents
by cutting the head off the Hydra,
or its whelps,
or its lieutenants—
for new warriors
spring like cockroaches from the shadows,
craving to join the resistance
to the Infidels and Capitalists,
arriving in dark clumps daily,
like monsters rising out of the blood-soaked
waters of the Tigris and Euphrates—
making us pay
every day
for patrolling
the Sunni Triangle.
Oh God,
when will the madness end?
How much black gold
has to be pumped
into profit
from the Iraqi
fat oil reserves?
How many more
retired Special Forces
will have to be recruited
by Blackwater
to protect Bush’s
real agenda?
The numbers for Y5
are staggering!
U.S. dead: 4,079.
U.S. wounded: 30,000.
Contractors dead: 1,028.
Contractors wounded: 10,569.
Iraqi death toll: 1,000,000.
Iraqi combatants dead: 10,800.
Insurgents dead: 22,807.
Detainees: 43,000.
Like in the 60’s
when the carnage
in Viet Nam
was broadcast to us daily,
splashing red and futile
on our living room television screens—
today
our forced occupancy
of Iraq
is beamed immediately by satellite
to every home,
for all of us to see
and cringe
as the pride of our loins
are kicking down doors
and pumping hot lead
from their Mossberg shotguns
into the Islamic populous—
are being ambushed
around every corner,
green zone or not;
witnessing the riddling
of those poorly armored Humvees,
those High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles,
with bullets bought in black markets,
originally manufactured by us
and sent to Saddam
when it was his job
to fight the Iranians
for us.
Our young men
and women,
do their duty,
without hesitation,
becoming hard-hearted
and stone-jawed—
even though many of them
may be stop-lossed
or extended
by their loving government
to stay
in the fray;
professional targets,
standing atop
an M1 Abrams battle tank,
or racing down some dangerous narrow alley
in their M2 Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle,
or screetching through those
mean Moslem streets in Strykers—
the dead brown skies above
choked
with Apaches, Kiowa Warriors, Black Hawks, and Chinooks—
the dirty twilight punctuated
by the deep throb
of dozens
of .50 caliber lethal heavy machine guns—
patrols partially protected
by howling M249 SAWS.
Yes, Lord,
we see it all;
and feel overwhelmed
with intense grief and anguish
as this cavalcade of cavalry and contractors
are at this very moment
toiling in the acrid white dust
of the Middle East,
providing the opportunity
for the petroleum bullies
to force me
to have to pump their goddamn
4 buck gas,
and shake my inept fist
at a stupid sea shell,
and snarl terribly
at those barons unseen,
but most certainly
felt.
Glenn Buttkus June 2008

A Call 4 Poems about the recent Sichuan Earthquake tragedy

2008-05-29T01:28:00.000-04:00

By way of Charles Bernstein's weblog a call for contributions to a pending anthology of poetry dedicated to all those affected by the Sichuan Earthquake, also known as the Wenchuan Earthquake, in China. As you may already know, this earthquake was the most catastrophic since the 1976 Tangshan Earthquake and so far its been confirmed that 67,183 people are dead and more than 360,000 people have been injured. Calls have been put forth to all countries of the world for help, be it material or spiritual and its in this spirit that Charles Bernstein makes his stand for solidarity in piecing together an anthology of poems, blessings and prayers to honor and mourn the victims of this terrible tragedy. The only caveat is that this anthology is scheduled to be published as soon as possible so poems have to be submitted by June 25, 2008. For more details about submission and compensation please visit Bernstein's weblog. I'm signing off on this post by expressing my deepest sympathy to all the men, women, and children who were caught up in this horrific catastrophe with prayers that you'll regain your peace of mind and personal stability post-haste! Lastly, for all you poets out there who hear their calling - GET YOUR POETRY ON!

Photo Source: Szbluewater

Talk about 'learn by heart' !! That would be Jimmy Mac (Mc Aleer)

2008-05-25T01:20:00.000-04:00

Here's a poet for you! Jimmy Mac, real name Jim Mc Aleer, does poetry presentations - at senior retirement homes, senior citizens' groups, children's parties, you name it and he'll do it, it seems. Mc Aleer is particular about what he will recite, though. He sticks to rhyme-and-rhythm poetry. Doesn't do free verse. Mc Aleer calls it a hobby (oh-oh) and has been performing for the past 4 years, but his love for poetry is lifelong. He's been a student of poetry for as long as he can remember. Jimmy Mac puts everything into his performances; his aim is to bring poetry to life . The poet uses humor, different voices for different characters, is rambunctious when called for, even going into costume using such things as crazy hats. He loves what he does so much, regardless of whether he's paid for his performances, or not. Amazing thing about these "gigs" is the poems he recites - are from memory! Learned by heart, if you will. He recites, Edgar Allan Poe, Alfred Tennyson and his favorite poet, Robert Service, performing 30 of his poems. Jimmy Mac Aleer knows 433 poems by heart. (I'm ashamed to say I can't recite even one of mine by heart. Blech.) This poetry performer's repertoire even includes his own poems! His business card reads, "I recite 'em & I write 'em." Cute, huh? The longest poem he's memorized is "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" - yes, you read that right - and it takes 43 minutes to recite it! He can recite "The Shooting of Dan McGrew," one of his favorite poems of his favorite poet, Robert Service, in 5 minutes and 28 seconds. Yup, he timed it.

Jimmy 'Mac' Mc Aleer finds time to memorize more new poems and write his own. He's never been published - he doesn't do much advertising for his gigs either - yet, he keeps busy with gigs at churchs, parties, retirements, reunions - all done by word of mouth.

The wonderful thing about this man is that he'd love to start a non-profit organization with like-minded people who want to share rhyme-and-rhythm poetry with seniors and lead workshops on memorization, even writing poems, all to benefit local seniors. He states that "memorization is a great way to combat memory loss in older adults."

Debbie Humphrey, activities coordinator at Sun Tower, says, "Practicing memory skills like that really works your brain; you're going to remember things much better." It's just amazing what he can do, and I think that's what people find fascinating about him. There's not a lot of people that do that type of thing. You don't see a lot of that around."

"Memorization is great for the mind." -- Jimmy Mac Mc Aleer

For more information or to schedule a presentation, call Jim Mc Aleer at 249-0485.
Source: Yakima Herald-Republic Online

Hallowed Ground to Asphalt Sky

2008-05-21T01:02:00.000-04:00

I've chosen this intriguing painting by Rick Mobbs to highlight Jo Hemmant, a participant in Rick Mobb's invitation to readers to write poems for his paintings. I also chose Jo Hemmant because I want to tell my readers about a superb new online literary journal, Asphalt Sky, of which Jo is an editor. Asphalt Sky is an elegantly appointed journal that is "committed to publishing emerging and established artists and giving a place for thoughtful and engaging poetry, prose, and art work." My thought is to present a juxtaposition between earth and sky, highlighting the poet whose feet are firmly grounded on terra firma who has the ability to guide us into the heavenly through the written word. Asphalt Sky has just stepped into the world of online publishing. A very impressive first issue revels in earth's nature while taking the reader up, up, up and away into self-mesmerizing day-dreamy thoughts and images provided by these exceptional writers, poets and artists. I love that this first issue reminds me of all things earthbound but takes me into quiet contemplation that speaks to otherwordly thoughtscapes. I find myself scultping images into solid landscape and bucolic meanderings. I say kudos, and a cartwheel to Asphalt Sky's first foray into online literary journaling. Artists Cris Halverson and Catherine Farmer further attest to the otherworldly glimpses I experienced while reading this splendid issue.

Jo Hemmant's editorial essay, Beginnings, featured in Asphalt Sky, is as fresh as a newborn babe's first slap and hits you as strong as that first slap's wail. Please read it. Here's just a snippet of the essay, followed by Jo's poem written for Rick Mobb's painting gracing the top of this post. Enjoy!

Beginnings

"Language surrounds us, defines us, is how we express our selves, how we try to decode the universe. When I visualize it, it is as water flowing, meaning always and endlessly deferred, passing through the connections, the spaces between words and moving on, understanding contextual. And this deferral means that there can be no endings as such. Yet still the records are made, and they come out of two very different beginnings -- origin and starting point."
To which Jo goes on to describe these two very different beginnings.

Hallowed ground

he has exposed history for us,
fortified walls arc over earth
as deceptive as love, territory

cross-sectioned, the blade finding
the soft beginning of the belly that
mounds then slitting the fundaments
from pubis to throat.

Note the foreground, a woman’s head
resting on an arm as if sleeping,
a child close, tender shorn,
these two recognisable in a scree of
faceless figures, a continuum,

a latitude, the others vulnerable curvature,
ribcages scored like the knife’s
sliding through skin, muscle,
bone to marrow’s...

Please follow the linked last line to read the remainder of this poem at Jo Hemmant's blog florescence.

Shakir Hasnain IS Crimsonflaw

2008-05-04T00:07:00.001-04:00

When I started my poetry blog, one of the things I enjoyed was checking out other poet's work. I soon came across , The Crimsonflaw Lived to Tell the Tale, Shakir Hasnain's blog of wonderful writings. The first thing I read of his, On Your Way to the Wizard's Dwelling, put me under his spell, forever, quite frankly. Hasnain lives on another plane, far removed from the mundane activities of worker bees, travels in the ethers, and is intimate with all-things-ethereal, as you will see as you read these enchanting snippets from his blog:

On Your Way to the Wizard's Dwelling...
I am a wizard. This world bores me and there is to my wizardry the
quiet place paths omit from their digression.
I could be the host. I could welcome you with all I have. The red
carpet I unfold can reach the very ends of the world and the
darkness I carry within this heart is sly, is perfect...How it merges
with the lantern, how it snakes up to the chandelier, and how it
nestles in the lamp's aura is a tale that would begin much later.
My palace is made with fragrance, with mirrors, with secrets,
with love...Look how it colours with its grandeur the book of spells
where I found you. The idle hour is page heavy. I read with a smile
as you stir with your passing the lakeside grove into a familiar
song. I wait for you still...
The laws that govern a reading man's drowse keep the unsaid
safely entwined in a wish. Is it any wonder then that I know you
were on your way? The mist took you to its waterfall, the wind
brought you its wild flowers and the song traced its vines in your
breath till you were only a sigh away.
Why then did you accept the berries from the path that was no
path at all? And why did you eat of them? Of wistful magic, they
will keep you asleep forever at the banks of those calm waters. The
wind will laze in your hair for this long knowing in its scattered
heart that it does not have the power to lead you back to your
waking hours. It will caress your brow for me and drop a musical
glimpse of this reverie in your unlistening ears for all my sorrows.
And so my love, pillowed on a natural IF you will lie, forever
dreaming your dreams as I pass my fingers lovingly across these
pages...Only a wizard of a sublime melancholy.

copyright shakir hasnain

Pericardial Art
midnight loves the shelf
comes to it sweetly
as would a haunted periphery
to the day dreamer's eye
the jar lives there with the vials
the bottles and the shards
and all these silent sentinels
to an otherwise eloquent emptiness
are faded of labels
it is in dust that they write
their odes to loneliness
the jar thoughtfully reflects
on its terms with still-life
its burden is a human heart
preserved in a muddled liquid
that often rages like the sea
and it is during such moments
that the jar becomes a lantern, naturally...

copyright shakir hasnain

A Beautiful Word

beautiful word
more beautiful than her eyes
beautiful word
beautiful then will be your destiny
there will be poems in your entourage
vocabularies will wait on you
and meaning...all of it
will be the pilgrim to your essence
you will be truly universal
the stars will shoot past
the tears will flow
this world will die its otherwordly death
just to catch a glimpse of you
magic spells will be phrased around you
prayers will shield you with their wings
there will be the sweetness of echoes in you
the reader's paradise will grow anonymous
in its unwritten love for you
beautiful word, there are devils burning in your depth
angels singing in your silence
I...

copyright shakir hasnain

On Hasnain's blog, he has this to say about himself: "I arrange ivy on walls, figments in imagination, full moons for the late night whims and missing words for the sudden urge to howl." Well, I think Shakir does more than that. He rearranges neurotransmitters on the walls of my mind, takes me on flights of fancy, makes passes around the moon on his flying carpet, takes words and spins them into dreamscapes in word-worlds far beyond mere figments, where I feel I've been written into the script somehow as that mysterious woman, that haunting memory, that glorious yearning, that spiral staircase to the stars, to otherworldly spheres where mind finds everything impossible is possible.

I kid you not! I've never been taken away so far from myself as when reading Shakir Hasnain. Come, let's go there together... where the Crimsonflaw lived to tell the tale.

Noah the Great !

2008-05-01T23:43:00.000-04:00

You thought wrong

It's okay to think
happiness won't come to you,
because I want you to know
it was me that brought it,
I want you to remember
I heard what you said,
I was listening to every word,
but, you think you're alone,
I'm here with you,
when you look forward,
I look toward you,
but as you turn your head,
I look away,
though, my eyes don't pull you
out of view,
I may look bored,
but I'd rather be here
than anywhere,
I may pick on you,
but it's only because I care,
nobody else is worth my attention.

I chose this poem to share with you because I'm touched by it's sentiment . It reminds me of my younger self watching someone who was watching someone else. Poet, Noah the Great, may have a different idea behind this poem, but for me it speaks of unrequited love. You know it reminds you of that, too, dontcha? The first 4 lines tell you all you need to know about how it feels to have someone you're mightily attracted to tell you they'll never be happy, when in fact, there's much laughter and warmth between the two of you when you're together. I know this has happened to you, too. Sometimes your love is hiding in plain sight. You don't notice because you think someone else is bringing the Happiness pill to you.

If you enjoyed this poem, you have the opportunity to visit Noah's awesome blog. He's also running a start-up community blog you can check out. Noah is a student who writes constantly and gets good grades. He's a thoughtful, engaging young man who enjoys his solitude, would rather write and create engaging poetry than party-hardy. Noah is also a member of the Blogsboro Poetry Club. Oh! And he plays guitar! (I love guitar!) So get yourself over to Noah the Great's awesome blog and leave him a comment about his poem. In other words - go Get Your Poetry On!

Wouldn't you like to know what's behind Noah the Great's most excellent poem? Why not ask him?

Poetic Bytes

2008-04-19T23:37:00.000-04:00

If I handed you a 300-page epic poem about werewolves in modern-day Los Angeles, would you want to read it? William Weir of The Hartford Courant writes about Sharp Teeth by Toby Barlow , a novel in free verse. Dare ya!
Oh, oh. When is a poem a "poem?" The Queen's English Society in reference to contemporary poets has espoused that "too often strings of words are being labeled as poems despite the fact they have no rhyme or metre." (sniff, sniff) The QES believes The Sun Rising by John Donne is a poem, but not so for contemporary poet Michael Schmidt's poem entitled Pangur Ban, excerpt below. What say you?

Jerome has his enormous dozy lion.
Myself, I have a cat, my Pangur Ban.
What did Jerome feed up his lion with?
Always he's fat and fleecy, always sleeping
As if after a meal.
Perhaps a Christian?
Perhaps a lamb, or a fish, or a loaf of bread.
His lion's always smiling, chin on paw,
What looks like purring rippling his face
And there on Jerome's escritoire by the quill and ink pot
The long black thorn he drew from the lion's paw.

From Richard K. Weems' drive-by poetry to Dave Johnson's charity poetry-on-the-spot, and the original Douglas Goetsch's poetry stand, we have the newest spin-off poetry-on-demand presented by Bainbridge Island West Sound Academy high school's celebration of National Poetry Month.
The People's Poetry Gathering stretches a clothesline of poems from around the world across the streets of Lower Manhattan.
WordFest 2008, a poetry showcase created by pioneers of Asheville's poetry movement, in Asheville, NC, starts Thursday - April 27 all over town. Featuring Pulitzer Prive-winning poet Galway Kinnell, four-time National Poetry Slam champion Patricia Smith, renowned translator of Sufi Poet Rumi, Coleman Barks, NC Poet Laureate Kathryn Stripling Byer, Jewish Arts Institute's Richard Chess, Cherokee poet MariJo Moore. Read WordFest highlights here.
Dont Miss Out on This! LibraryThing, Favorite Poem Project, World Class Poetry, Poets Who Blog, or Blogsboro Poetry Club.
New Hampshire poet Martha Carlson-Bradley reminds us to not overlook the wonders of nature - she uses them to tell us about ourselves - in her poetry book, Season We Can't Resist. Read article by Rebecca Rule of the Concord Monitor here.

Your Pocket Guide to Poetry

2008-04-18T23:33:00.000-04:00

This post is a product of an article by Cornell Green for the Erie Times-News about around-the-town National Poetry Month activities and particularly about the "Art House, 201 E. 10th St., where kids are learning to express themselves in colorful, constructive ways." Last evening (I just learned this) the Inner-City Neighborhood Art House celebrated Poetry, presented the winners of the "Keep a Poem in Your Heart" contest, hosted a performing poetry troupe and also poetry readings by adult members of the community.

But wait - there's more - 13 year old Rokey Butler, who along with other children who take after-school classes in 'everything from poetry to violin' at the Art House, recited a poem at the celebration entitled "The Rapper as Light," a poem by Kate Rushin. Rokey not only put the poem to memory, but did a little 2-step shuffle while he belted out verse, "When the sun sees me coming he hust steps aside. ..So listen to my rap, see the glint in my eye. You'll feel a glimmer of hope. I electrify." Rokey didn't think much of poetry before, but now in his own words, he says, "poetry is amazing. Say you're mad or something.. you can just write it in a poem, and you can just get all your anger out in that poem." (This is an astute youngster, by my estimation. :) Poetry has become a way to let loose, say other students at the Art House.

Twelve year old Shane McClelland, a student at Pfeiffer-Burleigh Elementary School, says, "It's fun. You get a chance to express yourself and move around and act funny. You get to see what other people's ideas are, and their moves." At last night's Celebration of Poetry, Shane performed the poem "Monday" by David L. Harrison. It's a poem about how the beginning of the week starts out as a "bummer" but he also likes Langston Hughes' work the most. Sharon Szymanski, a 6th grade reading teacher at Wattsburg Middle School, said poetry helps to deveop speaking skills, learn to fine-tune the English language, and most of all, for me anyhow, really boosts their self-esteem. She told Cornell Green that her students went from being "literally petrified" at the thought of performing in public to being "cool and confident." Sharon Szymanski further goes on to say that poetry provides the most effective way to teach metaphors, figure of speech and similes, all things that a student needs to know for their state achievement tests. She goes on to encourage every teacher to have a poetry slam at their school. Once the kids are "hooked on poetry," she can "throw anything at them, and they love it."

Rokey Butler and Shane McClelland get your poetry on!

Rick Mobbs - Artist Extraordinaire! - Figurative Painter & Poet

2008-04-16T00:17:00.001-04:00

I've been wanting to share Rick Mobbs talent with my dear readers for quite some time now. Rick Mobbs is a phenomenal figurative painter of the highest caliber as you can see for yourself by visiting his beautifully appointed website and his blog, Mine Enemy Grows Older. Also my little chickadees, you get a two-fer when you visit Rick. Not only does Rick paint the most original, dreamy, and otherworldly subjects, scenes and sensibilities *wink* but he writes, too! Be prepared to spend lots of time reading, oooooo-ing and ahhhh-ing when you first visit Rick's blog because its absolutely packed with plenty of interesting paintings and personalia. Oh, and did I mention Rick's blog encourages reader participation? This is how it all plays out: Rick puts up one of his ethereal paintings and his readers are invited to write a poem or short story to accompany the painting! I was around for the beginning of this enterprise and I want to share with you what did unfold when Rick put up his painting under a post entitled, Standing in the Shadows, on March 29th. Johemmant, author of floresence, wrote the wonderfully evocative story to accompany the painting which was an instant hit! She captured the essence of the painting for me in a most poignant manner. I'll share part of the story with a link to the original post. I urge you to visit Johemmant's blog site because she writes with a deft hand neurally connected to one amazingly creative, insightful brain! Now on with an excerpt of her story:

We were resting after a long day in the fields when the children came running, shouting excitedly of angels and unicorns. We would have thought it a game and sent them away but an elder pointed to the sky silver with cloud and told us to listen to the wind in its lament. We rose then and followed their raggletaggle to the edge of the village where the salt flats begin. And the children were right, these were not figments but the archetypes of our dreams.
I stand at the edge,
a myth sheltering under
my outstretched wings,

their eyes hostile
holding us here though

I have been amongst them
every day, a shifting

shadow, a soft breath
on a tired cheek.

But I see my mistake.
Men do not want proof,
they would rather
have faith.

Follow the rest of her story here.

Johemmant's ekphratic poem inspired another poem by poet, Ozymandiaz, who you can find on his own blog Ocellus which is exceptionally well-written and thoughtful. His contribution below:

Neath the ashen sky
Her spirit strong and true
Some saw but a mare
But the wisest knew
The painted desert soul
Watching o’er this land
Known well as the wind
Known well as the sand
Presents herself this day
To run and to fly
In form seldom seen
Neath the ashen sky

Ozymandiaz's poem put an entirely different feel to the painting; a genuine Native American voice - wise and grounded. I just love his interpretation, too.

There's so much more to Rick Mobb's Mine Enemy Grows Older; Rick is one of those incredibly creative, innovative, multi-talented people who grace us with artistic delight and reverence. He draws from a deep well of experience and a rich inner life that connects with the heavenly. He can charm us and keep us enrapt in his world - as is evidenced in his poem, Mary Draws from Silence, with it's companion painting, below.

Mary Draws From Silence

Mary draws and Mary writes from silence,

silence that uplifts and holds her. These strings,

she thinks, are more than finite. They wrap all things

and draw them to her. Every weight and every measure,

all things tossed or turned or treasured,

all things simple, green or rusted, doubted, doubled, drummed

or busted, all things filtered out and saved, or wasted,

all things stirring, dead, or passive

all the unknown multitude of things

enormous as a whole, and as a whole, so quiet.

Like Mary’s eyes, so quiet. Mary draws from silence.

Poem and Painting by Rick Mobbs

Please give yourself a well-deserved break from day-to-day harsh realities and engulf yourself in a world of aesthetic sensibilities brought to you by Rick Mobbs.

Seabuscuit's Chris Cooper Reads Walt Whitman for PBS

2008-04-14T23:29:00.001-04:00

Wow, how cool is this! Chris Cooper, who starred in Seabiscuit, will be reading poetry by Walt Whitman for PBS tonight at 9 PM. The movie, Seabiscuit, is the true life story of the famous, under-sized racehorse that lifted the spirits of a nation and symbolized hope during the Great Depression, memorialized by author Laura Hillenbrand.

Cooper says he felt a shared experience with Whitman when reading from Crossing Brooklyn Ferry: "Just as you are refresh'd by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh'd; Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood, yet was hurried."
"That's the beauty of his writing," Cooper says. "One hundred years later, he's talking to the person of the future."
Excerpt from USA Today, 4/14/08

2008 Pulitzer Prize Winners for Poets

2008-04-07T23:26:00.000-04:00

Congratulations to -

Time and Materials, by Robert Hass (Ecco/HarperCollins)

Failure, by Philip Schultz (Harcourt)

Citation for Bob Dylan - Well, he is a poet..:)

Source: The Associated Press via Breitbart.com

Huffington Post Reader 'picodegallo54' Gets My High-Five for 'Comment' Poem

2008-04-07T23:02:00.001-04:00

The Huffington Post carries a feature article "A Quick Guide to National Poetry Month" by John Lundberg, well worth reading, that elicited a response from picodegallo54 in the Comment Section a la poem:

my generation
they call us boomers
and we go boom
throw ourselves
on the floor
hold breath
turn blue in face
get our way
with our dollar
and our vote
we don't die and refuse to get old
we hold on tight and won't let go
this land is our land
not your land
this land is our land
[...]
You can read the rest of picodegallo54's poem here, near the top of the Comment Section.
I glean several layers of meaning here.. heh heh.. so kudos and a cartwheel to picodegallo54 from Poetmeister !

Why The Young Men Are So Ugly by Tony Hoagland

2008-04-07T22:58:00.001-04:00

The following is one of my favorite poems by Tony Hoagland, Poetry Professor at the University of Houston who just won the Jackson Poetry Prize, an award of $50K "for writers of great talent, but less fame.. he risks wild laughter in poems that are totally heartfelt, poems you want to read out loud to anyone who needs to know the score," wrote the judges, who included poets Philip Levine, Robert Pinsky and Ellen Bryant Voigt. Continued here.

Why the Young Men Are So Ugly

They have little tractors in their blood
and all day the tractors climb up and down
inside their arms and legs, their
collarbones and heads.

That is why they yell and scream and slam the barbells
down into their clanking slots,
making the metal ring like sledgehammers on iron,
like dungeon prisoners rattling their chains.

That is why they shriek their tires at the stopsign,
why they turn the base up on the stereo
until it shakes the traffic light, until it
dryhumps the eardrum of the crossing guard.

Testosterone is a drug,
and they say No, No, No until
they are overwhelmed and punch
their buddy in the face for joy,

or make a joke about gravy and bottomless holes
to a middle-aged waitress who is gently
settling down the plate in front of them.

If they are grotesque, if
what they say and do is often nothing more
than a kind of psychopathic fart,

it is only because of the tractors,
the tractors in their blood,
revving their engines, chewing up the turf
inside their arteries and veins
It is the testosterone tractor

[...]

You can read the remainder of Tony Hoagland's poem here .

Autism's Special World Experienced through Insightful Poetry

2008-04-07T22:33:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I come across a poetry site that moves me in such a way that I can't help but share it with others. Such a site is Poetry by Stacey , poetry that will put you through an emotional stew with a myriad of ingredients; humor, wit, spit & fire with delicious poignant tidbits that let you know you've just enjoyed a spicy & delectable meal! Such is Stacey's poem entitled His Special World, a poem written through the eyes of a child with Autism. It's uncanny in its telling of the world an autistic child deals with on a daily basis. What's so striking is the depth of understanding Stacey exhibits and an ability to express it in poetry that makes it truly special to me.

His Special World
Hurt and anger that comes from inside,
Frustration confusion that can't subside,
Trying to comfort but pushed away
A blank look upon his face.
Our world is so different within his eyes,
Words that are spoken not recognized
People around him are pushed away,
Being alone is part of his day.
Senses much stronger than yours and mine,
From a touch in his hand to hearing a noise.
A taste on his tongue and different smells
Just adds confusion within his world.
[...]
You can read the remainder of this poem at Poetry by Stacey here.

If You Dig Slam Poetry.........this is 4 U!

2008-04-04T04:36:00.002-04:00

I had to chuckle when I came upon an article about National Poetry Month activities which included a plug for "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Slam Poetry" by Marc Kelly Smith and Joe Kraynak. I grinned - finally! - someone's read my thoughts! Not thoughts that I have about slam poetry but that I'm an idiot, and someone's finally given me recognition for it!! Until I read further that it was Marc Kelly Smith who actually invented Slam Poetry in 1984 - at which point I bowed in reverence to the man who jump-started a resurgence of poetry readers and writers as well as branded poetry into the nation's conscience. Well, that might be an exaggeration, but probably not by much.

"Slam poetry attempts to invigorate poetry by giving equal weight and integrity to the poetry and the performance," stressed Marc Kelly Smith. In his book he goes about explaining the concept and gives up the skinny on how to go about it. Cool!

Other National Poetry Month Happenings!

2008-03-26T04:31:00.001-04:00

At Poets Who Blog, Sara says you can submit a poem to her National Poetry Month Project where she will be featuring no less than 1 poetry blogger's poem for each day of the month. Way to go! and thank you, Sara, for your event to promote National Poetry Month! where she will be featuring no less than 1 poetry blogger's poem for each day of the month. Way to go! and thank you, Eureka Books , of Eureka, CA, will celebrate National Poetry Month by offering illustrated poetry broadsides of internationally known writers like Pulitzer Prize winners Seamus Heaney and Philip Levine, as well as local poets. Broadsides have become very popular because many of them are signed by the poets and are very affordable [starting at 10 dollars] according to Jack Irvine, owner of Eureka Books.

Thought you'd never see something like this, huh, folks - but I'm really happy to tell you that Virginia Military Institute will be holding its first Poetry Symposium April 4-5. Yes. You read it correctly. Friday evening's "The Power of Poetry" will be kicked off with a reading by 2006 Pulitzer prize winning poet Claudia Emerson and poet and Vietnam veteran Bruce Weigl. The Symposium will take place in the Nicholas Engineering Building auditorium at 7:45 pm and is free and open to the public. Even though some will think VMI and poetry is incongruous, there have been "memorable readings at the Post by Allen Ginsberg, Elizabeth Seydel Morgan and Iraq War veteran Brian Turner." Way to go! VMI, get your poetry ON!

Interested in film? For National Poetry Month, the Poetry Foundation, in collaboration with WGBH/Boston and docUWM at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, will be presenting Poetry Everywhere, a series of 32 short poetry films. The films can also be seen at the new PBS website, and - get this! - on Transit TV, a network that runs their programs on LCD screens in public transportation systems in Atlanta, Chicago, Los Angeles, Milwaukee, Orlando, and San Diego. This is phenomenal! I didn't know such a thing existed. [my bad]

Baker Books, of Dartmouth, MA, in honor of National Poetry Month, is sponsoring a children's poetry contest, open to children from kindergarten through 8th grade. Submission deadline is April 19th. Submission form can be obtained at the bookstore or online. According to the SouthCoastToday.com: The Chronicle, "Over the past 11 years, Baker Books had contacted dozens of schools in the New Bedford and Fall River area to encourage teachers to utilize the contest as a way of inspiring local young people to explore the creative and expressive possibilities of poetry." Good on you, Baker Books!

Barnes & Noble of 392 State Rd., Darmouth, will also be sponsoring a poetry contest for student poets in grades 9-12 and the winner will receive a 25 dollar Barnes & Noble Gift Card.

To be continued..

2008 Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere

2008-03-26T04:25:00.002-04:00

BloggingPoet.com is announcing its 2008 Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere Election - with nominations to begin on April 1, 2008. The BloggingPoet.com has hosted the Election for the last 4 years and stresses the Poet Laureate of the "Blogosphere is the only laureateship chosen by readers." Here are the Rules for Nomination of Poets as per BloggingPoet.com:

Those nominated must have a history of posting poetry to their blogs for a period of no less than 1 year prior to March 1, 2008.
Anyone can nominate their favorite poetry blogger.
Nominations will begin on april 1st and will end on April 20th.
Voting will begin on April 21st and will end at 12:00 midnight on April 29th.
The winner will be announced on April 30th.
As in years past, Billy Jones, a.k.a Billy The Blogging Poet, will not be nominated because he is hosting the event.
English language only.
Previous winners can not be nominated.
All decisions by the Judge, that would be Billy The Blogging Poet, will be final.
All nominations must be made in the form provided on April 1st. E-mail, write-ins, protests and other means to nominate will not be accepted.

Prior Poet Laureates of the Blogosphere are Amy King, Ron Silliman, and Jilly Dybka.

All you wonderfully talented poets, and you know who you are [ ALL OF YOU!], please tell your readership, friends and ezine memberships about this wonderful opportunity to become the Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere! Spread the word like wildfire! [You might even burn up your competition in the process! heh heh. er, ahem, that didn't make sense, did it? But I hope it made you laugh..]

Joe Felso on teaching poetry to high school students, responsibly

2008-03-03T04:18:00.002-05:00

Come see with me how a teacher manages teaching his high school students the fine art of writing poetry - along with his students feelings about tackling this much-ballyhooed literature in metrical form. Poetry, defined as "the measured language of emotion." [Easton's 1897 Bible Dictionary] Joe Felso, teacher, poet, and artist, takes the reader through the finer moments of Dead Poets Society, the movie in which Robin Williams gave a memorable performance as Mr. Keating, who enumerates traditional rudiments of poetry, then calls the method "excrement" and encourages his students to rip the pages out of the lesson book and throw them to the wind. Felso states that placing poetry on a pedestal of reverence gives students the means with which to cause its fall from lofty heights. He goes on to remind us of Keating's bleating against over-emphasis on analyzing poetry to death, but rejecting analysis of poetry in toto makes it impossible to teach it according to Felso. All of this reminds me of the analysis-paralysis syndrome. I tend to think one can get light-headed and speak in tongues while analyzing everything down to a gnat's eyeball. Moderation in everything is the key.

Felso brings up true misgivings about over-analysis and hints that maybe we shouldn't analyze poetry at all, and just leave the meaning of the poem explicitly to the reader. I can get into that. And, more of his marvelous ideation. But, I don't want to give all the good stuff away in Felso's well-thought out ruminations and beg you to go read his entire post here. But wait, let me leave you with a little tease a la list of Joe's evocative ideas about poetry before you whisk over to his great read:

So, teaching poetry often becomes an exercise in un-brainwashing.
No, poetry isn't special, except that it is a form of writing with distinctive and interesting conventions and challenges.
No, we aren't looking for specific answers in poems as if each were a life or death riddle.
No, you aren't stupid if the poem doesn't resonate with you. Maybe the next one will.
No, it is possible to read a poem closely and attentively and still appreciate it (and maybe even enjoy it).
No, poetry isn't always boring, arcane, or snooty.
No, I won't give up or leave you alone if you play nice during this "poetry unit."
Yes, I do love to analyze poetry...because it's worth it.
Yes, I love poetry.

And, yes, it is so worth it to read anything Joe Felso deems worthy of his time to write. He's an excellent innovative writer, poet, and his amazing art work will leave you breathless. Truth.

Kelsey Tanasiuk of University of Alberta CANADA this is for U!

2008-02-28T04:16:00.000-05:00

As promised, Kelsey, here is your reserved space on Poetmeister 4 Poets! Or, if you like, you may email me and I'll put it up here for you. I want to make you famous!

Robert Bly named Minnesota's first poet laureate

2008-02-28T04:13:00.000-05:00

Governor Tim Pawlenty named Robert Bly as Minnesota's first poet laureate calling Bly "a Minnesota treasure." This means Bly, 81, may use his new official position to promote the reading and writing of poetry and to preside over poetry contests and award ceremonies. He may also write poetry or designate other poets to compose works for significant state occasions and other state functions as he sees fit.

In an interview, Bly said he didn't have any specific plans for his new position other than "Just to stay alive, I guess, is about it."

That sounds like a good plan for this distinguished poet who's written more than 30 books on poetry and a prose best seller he's best known for, "Iron John: A Book About Men." The Governor further stated, "His many works, impressive 40-year career, and national reknown will help promote poetry in Minnesota."

Now isn't that a great reason for staying alive? Check out Robert Bly's site at http://www.robertbly.com

Black Studies Dept. of Cal State hosts S. Pear Sharp, an accomplished author, poet and filmmaker

2008-02-27T04:09:00.002-05:00

"Sometimes, you know, you write just to heal yourself, to get yourself through something, but you never know if it might also heal somebody else," Sharp said. "Poetry is very personal. You can spend your whole life just writing for yourself if you wanted to, so when it connects with somebody, then that's important. Then the poem is doing its work in the world."

--S. Pearl Sharp, author and poet, presentation "Voices and Visions of Color and Depth:
Poetry Readings by Artists of Color" at the Beach Auditorium,
Cal State Long Beach; Daily 49er

Poetry On-line Community You Must Join - NOW

2008-02-21T04:06:00.002-05:00

So, you've been writing poetry for a while. Your friends and family - even your dog - loves the written word. Yours, especially. Your poetry blog is deev and readership is growing like wild fire. Something tells you it's time to meet other poets on-line but you don't know where to start looking. Hey! That's what I'm here for [takes a bow]. Right off the top of my pin head I think of Poets Who Blog community and Blogsboro Poetry Club. How easy was that! Now get your awesome self over there and have some fun!

Poet Laureate Charles Simic on Writing Poetry

2008-02-21T04:01:00.001-05:00

A few things to keep in mind while sitting down to write a poem:

Don't tell the readers what they already know about life.
Don't assume you're the only one in the world who suffers.
Some of the greatest poems in the language are sonnets and poems not many lines longer than that, so don't overwrite.
The use of images, similies and metaphors make poems concise. Close your eyes, and let your imagination tell you what to do.
Say the words you are writing aloud and let your ear decide what word comes next.
What you are writing down is a draft that will need additional tinkering, perhaps many months, and even years of tinkering.
Remember, a poem is a time machine you are constructing, a vehicle that will allow someone to travel in their own mind, so don't be surprised if it takes a while to get all its engine parts properly working.

This is from the Library of Congress Poetry website.

Well, I just finished tinkering with a 109-line poem, my longest by far, and now I learn a poem ought not be longer than a sonnet. I don't even know how to write a sonnet. Ooooooh, yoo-hoo, David Pitchford-of-the-bestest-and-wittiest-sonnets, where for art thou?! Yoo-hoo?!? You must trot right over to Bitterhermit's Hideout right now - read some of the most well-thought out sonnets on-line. Truth.

UK Poetry Contest: Pupils to Imagine Life as a Detainee - write about it

2008-02-12T03:53:00.002-05:00

Amnesty International is hosting a poetry competition called You Can't Jail Minds for secondary school children in the UK. Students are to imagine life as a detainee in prison and to find expression without using pen and paper. It's up to them to scavenge up a way to express their poetry, i.e., napkins, toilet paper, disposable cups, clothes etc.

Amnesty International hopes that by asking pupils here in the UK to try and replicate the efforts that went in to producing the poems, it will encourage them to take a closer interest in human rights and question their own values and attitudes.
We also look forward to receiving some wonderful and thought-provoking entries.
--Kate Allen, Director of Amnesty International UK

On the one hand, I think trying to put oneself in the shoes of the oppressed or imprisoned is a good lesson in empathy and understanding, but on the other hand, I also wonder what other more subtle psychological ramifications might be to such a role reversal exercise. Induced, glamorized Stockholm syndrome or cyclical nightmares?

What do you think about exposing secondary school students to the harsh realities of surviving life as a terrorist detained in captivity akin to the infamous American-run Guantanamo Bay prison camp? Would you want your children involved in such an endeavor?

Eva Cassidy Birthday Week

2008-02-07T03:48:00.001-05:00

Poem collage of Eva Cassidy’s Live at Blues Alley CD

I heard an angel sing
my silver chord affirms
this; a voice so sweet
so pure, no crystal known
could ring as clear,
nor take the soul so far
from earth, or all the pain upon it

this voice sang through
this voice rang true
country jazz or bluesy blues,
she sang them all
she paid her dues
made strong men cry too

I heard this angel sing,
my silver chord affirms
this; so-tall Georgia trees
abloom sunlit breeze
her bridge too far
for silver birds to fly,
her troubled waters all gone by

I think willows weep now

sway mournfully, whisper
eva eva eva, we grow so high
to shade you so,
if only through the thicket
you would go once more

I heard this angel sing
my silver chord affirms
this; she knew misery
merriness run through
man, yet had no bridge across
troubled waters,
her courage
all women giving birth

we will remember you
you sang us through fields of barley

too,

these falling leaves drift past
my window, I hear you
in every color red green and

gold,

I swear eva if I had
wonderful life to give you
I could never weave one as fine
as you have done,
it takes a journeyman to portray
life's rainbow design - and you -
your heartsong rings through it.

In loving memory,
Eva Cassidy 1963-1996

Please visit Eva's website created and maintained by her cousin, Laura Bligh, to learn more about Eva's phenomenal talent. While listening to Eva's Live at Blues Alley recording for the first time, I couldn't hold back the tears as I heard the breath-taking clarity and emotional depth of her voice. Listening to her stirred an urgent need to write down what I was experiencing. Thoughts rushed into my mind so quickly and flowed onto paper in the form of what some people consider automatic writing producing this poem, Eva, which incorporated some of the words of the songs she sang and I just ran with it. I don't think I've ever been touched so mightily by a voice before and I doubt I will again in my lifetime. Eva sang jazz, folk, pop, gospel and blues. She sang lead, background vocals and, on Oh, Had I A Golden Thread by Pete Seeger, not only did she sing lead in a jazzy-gospel-goose-bump rousing rendition, but the back-up choir vocals as well. On many a song she did sing all vocal parts; lead, background, & choir. I'm of the opinion the level of talent possessed by Eva Cassidy comes but once in a hundred years or so and singing wasn't her only gift to us; she was an accomplished instrumentalist who played acoustic & electric guitar, keyboard, cellos, and strings. She was an artist extraordinaire - painting, sculpting, drawing, decorating furniture & clock faces, designing jewelry. She studied the works of great painting masters such as Van Gogh and Vermeer. It can be said nature became her - she hiked, bicycled and worked as a landscaper. From the moment I first heard her voice - her true essence - she made a home for herself in my heart. And for me her greatest gift is the ability to transform the heart, elevate the soul into the ethers where pure music is made. She now dwells among the stars forever - she passed over into Eternal Love which is God.

Martin Luther King Jr. Inspires Poetry Revolution!

2008-01-28T03:38:00.002-05:00

Poetry group breathes life into Dr. King's words

The Write Me Project out of Indianapolis, IN, performed at the Indiana Historical Society to show how King's speeches continue to influence. Tasha Jones performing group, The Write Me Project evolved as a way to help kids re-enter society after juvenile detention. It gives these kids an outlet to express themselves. Jones says, "..it was my job to show them how to become intellectual properties." "I continue to be Martin Luther King Jr, Harriet Tubman, Sojourne Truth, Emmitt Till and Nat Turner and we continue as those persons, those spirits to continue to educate the youth of today." The Write Me Project is based in Indianapolis but travels all over the country to share their poetry.

Describe "Poetry" to Me

2008-01-28T03:22:00.004-05:00

Poets! Can you describe Poetry - put a definition to it?

Billy Mills in his Guardian Unlimited column, "Finding the right words to define poetry" cites what Aristotle, in his Poetics, Thomas Campion in Observations in the Art of English Poesie, Ezra Pound, Philip Sidney in his Defense of Poesy, Brian Coffey, William Carlos Williams, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge's, "..prose -words in their best order; poetry - the best words in their best order." Check the Comments of his readers, too, for good come-backs.

Allen Taylor of World Class Poetry writes on his philosophy of poetics, the School of Millennialism, and encourages his readers to share their own ideas on what constitutes a poem, and how does one define poetry. Allen shares his ideas of what is poetry:

In my view of poetry, a poem can be about anything, or nothing at all. It can be a poem that simply is a poem or it can carry the weight of the secrets of life. It can, if it stretches itself far enough, be both. This is not to say, however, that anything is acceptable. For that would be a huge and grievous error. If we accept that anything in poetry is acceptable then we would fall into the Modernist trap that a poem should not mean, but be. And that is precisely what I am arguing against.

I rather like Allen's take on what poetry ought to convey.

I also like this definition of poetry from Poetry Magic:

— poetry is surely distinguished by moving us deeply. In fact, for all but Postmodernists, it is an art form, and must therefore do what all art does — represent something of the world, express or evoke emotion, please us by its form, and stand on its own as something autonomous and self-defining.

I invite you to share YOUR definition of poetry right here, right now!

gURL poet Cordelia

2008-01-25T03:13:00.002-05:00

I stumbled upon website gURL dedicated to teenagers covering a multitude of subjects and issues of a personal nature. Of course I gravitated towards the POETRY gURL section and read this poem entitled can you not see my eyes look right past you? by member Cordelia that I want to share with you. I'm impressed by the imagery and object of her ~~affection~~ attention. Maybe you will be, too.

can you not see my eyes look right past you?

Can you not see my eyes look right past you?
My gaze grabbing tightly on the door handle.
I have been watching it for more than a few minutes now.
I have studied every dent in its exterior,
The way the elfish light dances on it,
Every knotted curl carved deep,
So deep I feel I could fall in there
And never see the light of day again.
Look at the depths you have lowered me to.
I am staring at a door handle
As though it were an old lover.
Can you not see my eyes look right past you?

--Cordelia

Only Those Writing Poetry Read It?

2008-01-18T04:17:00.000-05:00

The Arts Blog of the Guardian Unlimited, blogged by Sean O'Brien writes that Giles Foden"it had not been a good decade for poetry," and then went about listing the numerous publications of poets in the last decade. What surprised me most was how much I enjoyed reading the reader comments.
commented in a prior blog entry that

Comments like, "those interested in poetry bemoaning the fact that there are fewer readers of poetry than poets. in other words it's only those writing it who read it," and "poetry has gone from being a central source for thought and image, for meaning, to being a very marginal interest."

Do you agree with these statements, and why?

Brief Poems & Bside Poetry by Brian

2008-01-18T04:12:00.001-05:00

If you like brief, succinct, tight poems that grab the heart and wring you out emotionally, I insist you visit Brief Poems by Brian. Using economy of words, Brian writes of the ordinary in extraordinary words, a different angle, or a blow to the gut. Take his most recent offering:

The front door protests my arrival.
The whole house sags and nearly bleeds
when ever I am home.
The walls lean inward.
The floors have hardened.
Someday I will climb up and sit upon
the roof and watch it crumble.
From beneath a dusty pile of cement
and drywall, I will rest my head and sleep.

And here's a sampling over on Bside Poetry by Brian:

Threads
She is a long string dangling,
twisting round and round.
I struggle to find a face.
~*~*~
Waiting
There is no coffee this morning.
So I spill onto the floor
and slosh around
uselessly for hours,
hoping someone might slip
and fall
and accidentally embrace me.

The Virginia Writers Club

2008-01-18T04:10:00.000-05:00

The Virginia Writers Club, founded in 1918, is looking for new members. The Club supports all genre of published writers from around Virginia who come together to promote, exchange ideas, come up with ways to stimulate the art and craft of professional writing. The Club draws in every kind of writer there is; poets, fiction writers, essayists, journalists, editors, technical, and public relation writers. The Club's purpose is to bring up-and coming-writers together with the experts in various fields of writing to get to know each other, compare notes, exchange and share their unique experiences. It's a place for well-known writers to meet their supporters, reviewers and promoters. At the present time, the Club seeks to establish a Charter in Northern Virginia. This is an opportunity for you to give a helping hand to your brothers and sisters in the art of writing. Won't you please step up to the plate?

Northern Virginian Doreen Peri Gets Her Poetry On !

2008-01-18T04:07:00.000-05:00

Doreen Peri, founder, designer, publisher and editor of Studio Eight, organizes a variety talk show, Cabaradio, featuring spoken word poetry, music and stand-up comedy, performed live at Washington, DC's Warehouse Theater. Doreen Peri, who refers to herself as "word dancer" can be found on her aesthetically-pleasing website, Come Home Soon. She's enormously talented. Her Art & Photography section is graced by a number of astounding photographs and digital art, namely, "night vision branched" photography digitally enhanced, "horse race," "beach play," "floating shapes of conscious matter," and "blue panther mountain" all digital art. I was enrapt, fascinated by colors, shapes, and unusual themes. Take a break right now and go visit her amazing artful self and artistic creations for an exhiliarating breath of fresh, rarified air! Now, GO!

Welcome to Poetmeister 4 Poets!

2008-01-18T03:59:00.001-05:00

I'll bet you're probably saying to yourself, "Geezes, hasn't Everything We Ever Wanted to Know About Poetry But Were Afraid to Ask" been done to death already? What's there to know now?! Well, that's what I'm here to tell you about. I bet you never heard about Poets Who Blog World Class Poetry, hunh? The Crimsonflaw Lived to Tell The Tale so eloquently as to the plagiarists who sabotaged, hijacked his namesake, drew his "crimsonflaw" through the mud and insensibilities impaled themselves upon his boundless depression.

Then, too, it's not every day one comes across FREE POEMS on the 'net or elegantly written poems by a Snake in the basement!

Billy the Blogging Poet, busy, networking the spiffy Blogsboro Poetry Club from Greensboro, NC, juggles report on Cruel and Unusual Punishment, namely, "Death by Poetry" . Nervously relieved to learn mine isn't the weapon of choice.

Stop in again soon to see if the Roving Poetmeister has found your poetry site while on the beat.

Poetmeister 4 Poets !

Memorial Day Poems

Prestwood School Fifth-Graders take to airwaves with own Earth Day poetry - Sonoma, CA

2007 River of Words Monkey's Raincoat Haiku Prize

The Four Seasons

Response to the Loyalty Oath

Student's poetry event will benefit American Kidney Foundation - NY

Tips for Editing Poetry

WE KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE! - Come out! Come out! Wherever you are! Pretty please?!?

Poetry for the People - BERKELEY, CA

White House "Bo" gets his own Writing Beau - Harold Goldberg

Poetry Writing Contest - KANSAS

GOLGATHA by Glenn Buttkus

Try Putting Lipstick on a Landfill - enter Staten Island Haiku Contest on Freshkills Landfill-to-Park project

Gordon College posts poetry as podcasts on iTunes

Win up to $500 at museum's poetry slam - DETROIT

I want to make you famous, Marcee Lee!

Poetry for an America yearning for awakening

Actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers will wow us with *his* poetry - after retirement

National Poetry Month kick-off!

An enigma - unto herself - it's what I love about c

Drum as Love, Fear, and Prayer

Have You Given These Sites Some Love Lately?

Another Good One by Stacey on Autism

Poetry Potpourri

Encore! Encore! Just one more Paisley, pleeeze?!

Why Paisley? Because she'll paint the colors of her soul in words.. and your's, too..

Nature Has Him in Its Sight - Scot Young

A Haiku Love Sonnet–

Haiku Sonnet: Ozark County

Summer Morning #2 Haiku

Summer Morning #1 Haiku

Stones

Stupid war makes for "Four Buck Gas" by Glenn Buttkus

A Call 4 Poems about the recent Sichuan Earthquake tragedy

Talk about 'learn by heart' !! That would be Jimmy Mac (Mc Aleer)

Hallowed Ground to Asphalt Sky

Shakir Hasnain IS Crimsonflaw

Noah the Great !

Poetic Bytes

Your Pocket Guide to Poetry

Rick Mobbs - Artist Extraordinaire! - Figurative Painter & Poet

Seabuscuit's Chris Cooper Reads Walt Whitman for PBS

2008 Pulitzer Prize Winners for Poets

Huffington Post Reader 'picodegallo54' Gets My High-Five for 'Comment' Poem

Why The Young Men Are So Ugly by Tony Hoagland

Autism's Special World Experienced through Insightful Poetry

If You Dig Slam Poetry.........this is 4 U!

Other National Poetry Month Happenings!

2008 Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere

Joe Felso on teaching poetry to high school students, responsibly

Kelsey Tanasiuk of University of Alberta CANADA this is for U!

Robert Bly named Minnesota's first poet laureate

Black Studies Dept. of Cal State hosts S. Pear Sharp, an accomplished author, poet and filmmaker

Poetry On-line Community You Must Join - NOW

Poet Laureate Charles Simic on Writing Poetry

UK Poetry Contest: Pupils to Imagine Life as a Detainee - write about it

Eva Cassidy Birthday Week

Martin Luther King Jr. Inspires Poetry Revolution!

Describe "Poetry" to Me

Poets! Can you describe Poetry - put a definition to it?

gURL poet Cordelia

Only Those Writing Poetry Read It?

Brief Poems & Bside Poetry by Brian

The Virginia Writers Club

Northern Virginian Doreen Peri Gets Her Poetry On !

Welcome to Poetmeister 4 Poets!

Actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers will wow us with his poetry - after retirement