Long poem by
Matt Ancient | Details |
Each and every day, mankind search to find out that which exist and that which is to happen., thus the destiny of mankind. it is reality as a human beings to know and understand the beginning of the universe and what really happened.with this we as humans can predict or forecast the future and the destiny of mankind. so many scientific solutions and religious ideas have erupt for the past 2000 years and beyond to seek and understand life and how it began.
for man cannot live without tracing or finding out his origin and his mission on earth, his visions and destiny. even though there have been many scientific studies which may be true or lie about the universe and how it began. life and the history of mankind. so have there been so many religious illusions. for there is no concrete evidence to prove the mysteries of the universe and the cliches surrounding life and humanity.
To science the planet evolved from volcano and turned into lands for human habitat. and man was an Ape who evolved to be humans. but even though Apes have heads, nose, mouth, ears and creep on two toes and have the like of humans, they can never evolved to be humans no matter how far time travels, because biologically this cannot be true, because the human genes is far different from that of an Ape and other living creatures on earth, all living things produce their own kind and no matter the climatic condition or how far time travels Apes can never evolve to human form or have it behavior , feelings or sensitivity. neither can an Ape can reproduce human beings as it offspring. nor acquire any knowledge, skill or intelligence to be humans. However man should not be ignorant about how scientific studies have brought the human world and how helpful it has been to help in clearing of the cliches and illusions caused by other ideologist.it has been a blessing rather curse, it has provided the basics of the study of our cosmic system. but it has still not provide us with answers about the questions we ask.
And to religion god used six days to create the universe and used the seventh day to create man with clay,which is Adam and removed his ribs to create Eve which is the first woman and by them all the entire human race were born.Even though there are several questions to ask, but we humans have lived with this for several year.
this brings us to wither Adam and Eve are the first man and woman on earth and the cliches or the story about them being the parent of the human race or entire genealogy of the human race.
and how come a world of several race of man produced by just two people. in the world today there are about six(6) different races in the world. so how true is it as religion claims to know the beginning of man and his destiny on earth.
let us not forget that god has given man the power to understand and makes decisions on his own, to find out the truth and that which exist.
now if Adam and Eve were the first man and woman on earth, were they Black or whites, brown, yellow or red or were they Africans, Arabians,Europeans, Indian,Chinese or Red Indians decent.and how can these two people give birth to all these different races.and If they were Africans, how come two African can produce an Indian race or the Arabian race. Neither can an European and African reproduce a Chinese or a Red Indian. Neither can a Chinese and European reproduce an African, a Chinese or Red Indian, no matter the climatic condition or no matter how far time travels. Biologically the idea of Adam and Eve being the first man and woman created by god is wrong and has no fact to prove.
Genetics has proven that even though two races can mate and reproduce but they will reproduce a similar kind or it behaviors. Neither can magic, miracles or by any other religious means can this be true.
The aim of this research is to provide evidence and fact, which will be the basis in research, in other discover who truly mankind is, his destiny on earth. how did the universe began. that by this the future generation will know and understand what exist and the true world that nature has given mankind. in other to find a better destiny for mankind. This is beyond religion, race, nationality and age or other wise in search of freedom and happiness, a true world for all mankind from generation to generation.
The question is being asked and man need answers. Are we to live with this or to believe in this and for how long are we to live with this mystery. For we must decide for ourselves, the well being of humanity lies on our shoulder, which direction or way are we to go. We need to educate ourselves, research to discover and uncover life and nature.
For Adam and Eve might exist but they are not the genealogy of the entire human race but that of Abraham and the Israelite and not the human race.
Copyright © Matt Ancient | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Edlynn Nau | Details |
DON'T FEED THE PARTICLES IN THE ZOO
What particles ARE, with this list of ARE NOTS,
ARE listed below to peruse in your thoughts.
Mesons AREN'T plural for multiple mice.
Baryons AREN'T picked for a pie just to slice.
Neutrinos AREN'T Newts and Leptons don't leap.
Muons AREN'T kittens that mew in their sleep.
Electrons WON'T fry you to particle vapor.
Gluons WON'T stick you, down to your paper.
Gravitons AREN'T gravy nor dug from a grave.
Tachyons AREN'T tacky in clothes you won't save.
The Tau's AREN'T an Empire with power to wield.
Bosons AREN'T bossy while out in their field.
Fermions, ALL TWELVE, while The MATTER endorse,
the Bosons, OF FIVE, are Carries of FORCE.
Fermions WON'T be, in same-place-at-same-time,
But Bosons WILL be, it's their paradigm.
While some Quarks ARE Uppers and some let you Down.
Some ARE true Toppers with Bottoms profound.
Some DO act Strangely, while others have Charm.
Mass, charge, spin, and color, ARE features they arm.
Leptons ARE in "flavors" that can be most tasteful.
What they ARE in decay is not at all wasteful.
There ARE three generations that change what they weigh.
And they ARE very different in how they decay.
Electrons ARE stable with common precision.
While Muons and Taus ARE made in collision.
NO strong interactions these Leptons will take.
Yet they're subject to basics, make NO mistake.
Photons ARE particles AND waves of light.
Gluons ARE binding in matter, just right.
"W's" ARE weak in their force, it is true!
So ARE the "Z's," who are last at the zoo.
The Higgs, IS a boson that's so elusive.
What boson it is, IS not so conclusive.
We know IT's a particle with zero spin.
IT's got positive parity from deep within.
Now that you know what particles ARE NOT,
And what some likely ARE, it can help quite a lot.
Some things ARE tiny and invisible too.
They ARE dancing about in the particle zoo.
So MANY zoo particles for you to know.
In a zoo of a SECRET particle show.
Come SEARCH for particles, if brave and you dare.
But DON'T feed the particles, while you are there!
May 26, 2015
Copyright © Edlynn Nau | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Brian Johnston | Details |
(A Rave By A Poet)
Remember when you were a child?
Adults seemed then to be in control,
Almost like Gods, with special powers
That almost always knew
When you'd been up to mischief.
‘Playing with matches again Brian? '
What a childish view of things! Right?
And my punishment, how perfect that was!
‘After you've finished lighting two boxes
Of wooden matches, one at a time,
You can go to bed, without your supper! '
Probably the best punishment I ever got.
I really couldn't believe my luck
But I was more careful after that!
Of course mom's punishment didn't stop me.
Do you remember match guns,
Made from 2 wooden clothespins?
Oh, my God, what fun those were!
A little carving with a kitchen knife
Reversing the spring on the outside,
And some electrical tape was all it took.
Really made me appreciate man's genius!
Hiding behind parked cars (a block from home)
And shooting flaming missiles in the dark
At unsuspecting passing cars
And then running like Hell
On a preplanned escape route
When the innocent victim screeched to a stop
Jumped out of his car to yell at long gone villains.
Honestly, the 4th of July couldn't beat this!
Carrying out the garbage every night
Now that was a chore made in Hell,
Though better than the night pots
Our forebears had to deal with.
Wow, thank God for outhouses
But especially modern sewage systems!
At my house the trek to the garbage can
Was a long hike, especially for a kid.
We burned trash in those days,
There was no garbage pick up,
And the can was hidden in an alley way,
You had to go through a gate to get to it.
A big elm tree (that I loved in the daylight)
Blocked even starlight and made the yard dark.
I always was scared so I'd whistle to and back
Praying that if a monster got me Mom would know,
My whistle wouldn't stop without reason,
That there was a chance at least of rescue,
I think I was too scared though to test it out,
I needed to believe that Mom would hear.
How insensitive the child is to adult problems.
But really how's a child to know
The tyranny of feeding a family,
Of trying to secure an unknown future,
Without a crystal ball, only prayer really!
(Though with luck, maybe some common sense.)
Parents, really are children grown large,
Carrying their demons in a sack on their backs,
Taking them out on occasion to play with,
Hoping against hope that that's all there is,
That some special Hell doesn't await them!
Meteor showers that exterminate all life,
Dust bowls, global warming, ice ages,
A new Yellowstone blast that buries our cropland,
A Canary Island tsunami that wipes out the East Coast
(A 2,000 foot wall of water now 50 years overdue) ,
Magnetic storms that destroy all electronic progress
That we've made in just the last fifty years?
The universe may seem big
But there's really no place to hide.
The public school system, what a joke!
More like twelve years of day care.
A football coach teaching physics,
Latin the only language choice?
(Sure opened up the world for me!)
The most important job of our lives
Getting married? Sex? Raising a family?
Well our parents were screwed too,
‘Pass it on, no pass backs, joke's on you kid! '
You want to fix the problems of the world?
Make politicians work for no salary or benefits
Let them shower us with their love of country,
Eat cafeteria food every day (no wine) ,
Random armed guards monitor their calls.
Let's make teaching the highest paid profession
With teacher's tenure voted on each year
(Each kid two votes, parents one vote for both parents,
Put power where it belongs baby.)
Well this may not in fact be a poem,
But it has sure been cathartic.
Hope my venting at least struck some chords
And was not a complete waste of your time.
May God save us every one!
Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
James Horn | Details |
About Bill Posters and Bill Greenwell
Words not to use in poems
In 1993, I (Bill Greenwell) went on a three-day workshop with the poet Peter Sansom, who co-edits The North, and runs the Smith/Doorstop imprint. He’s also the author of Writing Poems, Bloodaxe’s perennial seller. And a nicer guy you couldn’t hope to meet. My aim at the time was to unclog the effect of years of writing parody, to find out if I had a voice of my own after years of impersonation. I’m still not sure.
Peter had one golden rule (it’s mentioned in Writing Poems, too): do not under any circumstances use the word shard. This might strike you as very peculiar. But if you were to start to teach poetry-writing, you would know exactly what he meant. There is something about the word shard that fatally attracts every other would-be poet, each of whom, quite innocently and separately, comes across it, and thinks ‘that’s a good word, a very good word. I’ll have that,’ rather in the manner of Burglar Bill. Of course, the entire group of writers (he must be sick of this) immediately wrote shard poems to twit him. But he was right. There are some words which turn up so often in the work of aspiring poets that an anti-preservation order should be slapped on them.
Here are a few more. They may seem irrational, but I promise you, they occur to people with an almost desperate frequency, and the result is an accidental smack of the hackneyed.
Seeps, seep, seeped: Don’t know why, but some variation of seep seems fatally to recur, usually to do with light, i.e. in a metaphorical, synaesthetic way. ‘Light seeped in through the window.’ Don’t do it.
Crimson: Much-beloved version of ‘red’, especially to do with dawn, but unfortunately also beloved of both Victorian poets and heavy metal lyricists. Avoid like the plague.
Translucent: looks good, but it’s actually quite a confusing word, since it seems often to be used to mean both ‘clear’ and also ‘as if through frosted glass’, i.e. not very clear. Usually used to make light seem posh. (Ditto pellucid.)
Myriad: poety word for ‘lots’, with a terrible whiff of archaism.
Languid, languour: these ones are marginal cases, but they always send me back to poems written between 1870 and 1920. They aren’t exactly archaic, but there are plenty of contemporary alternatives.
Evil: whether a noun or an adjective, this is just too heavy an abstraction for a contemporary poem – in fact, most abstract nouns are suspect (hatred; time – especially if capitalised; passion; and so on).
Curlicue: I was caught using this by a friend, who said that she was always seeing it in poems, and I think she’s right.
Soul, mind: usually soul is used to indicate deep feeling, and is redundant because of it. I think you have to be very good to get away with it. Mind usually pops up to indicate inner feeling or emotion, in which case it too is redundant. Just think of the hopeless Michel Legrand lyric ‘The Windmills Of Your Mind’ – a text-book example of how not to construct metaphors.
Woe, sorrow: abstract nouns for feeling very unhappy, but never heard in colloquial language (quite a good test) these days.
Pent: maybe as in pent-up, but otherwise, a relic of reading Wordsworth.
Hence, thence, whence: any word which makes you think that the nearby verb should end in -est, as in Whence comest thou?, is best given a wide berth. Too biblical.
Yesteryear, yonder: if used, you are probably writing poesy.
Then: obviously permissible, but in nine times out of ten, implied by the order of the words, and their sense.
I have more bugbears, but that’s all for the moment. Feel free to suggest others, and forgive me if you find them in what I write (or rather, don’t. I need to be ticked off).
Found this to berry very interesting. Jim Horn
Copyright © James Horn | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Christine Phillips | Details |
Fall tumbles relentlessly on our door steps
young winter birds inducing provoking sounds scamper in trees
Watching winter crawling slowly under our feet.
The night rain wet the ground with sadness
washing away the environmental stench
purging the atmosphere of its infectious dew
And I could absorb fresh air in my lungs again.
I fell into a deep sleep shortly after nine but woke up
by my next door neighbor bustling activities.
Nice showers clean fresh air is the perfect night to
be drenched with sleep but instead I was on my knees.
An unknown burden overshadowed me, disturbing my spirit
raising my curiosity, causing me to ponder over unknown mysteries
unexplainable matters that doesn't concern me, yet they troubled me.
I soaked myself in prayer seeking for a plausible answer
And after praying I fell asleep again; a sleep that
I thought would be peaceful but here I am again
on an unannounced journey to the Far East.
I mysteriously found myself on a university campus in the Far East,
no paint, no color, everywhere was deserted, no one was around
except for dry leaves spreading out on the troubled ground
and dull trees astoundingly lingering in the autumn breeze.
I walked propitiously through the front door along a bare corridor
in search of a toilet to ease my body pressure.
A desolated corridor whose hope seemed to be diminished with the passing of time
a million feet must have trodden upon it, feet in search of freedom ,
feet looking for peace, proud feet, dirty feet, bloody feet, stubborn feet.
Feet looking for revenge and feet marching to the destiny of doom.
I moved anxiously from door to door but every door that I opened I saw
Asian toilet embedded deeply in the ground and clean water flooding all around.
I opened another door and found a western bath filled with clean water
I kept walking along the corridor but all the Asian toilets were flood with water.
At the end of the corridor I found one that was completely dry but there was no toilet inside except for PVC pipe fittings planted firmly in the ground.
I tread along the opposite side of the hallway still searching for a toilet
but only rooms whose doors were removed and leaning helplessly
in front of them occupy the other side of the stricken corridor.
I anxiously left the building and a slim young man in his early twenties
wearing shaded glasses ran behind a reception area outside the campus ground
and pretended as if he was at work, but that was only a deception.
As I walked passed him he tried to reached out to me
He complained about someone who has treated him badly
and pointed to a friend who was instrumental in turning his life around.
A sizable crowd gather around him as he illustrates his painful story.
He and his friend took me to the other side of the campus where
a larger crowd of young people had gathered for a wedding
some were sitting under large beach umbrellas
While others congregate in groups all over the campus grounds.
I walked upon a platform where the wedding ceremony
was about to take place but daylight suddenly exploded in my face.
©2014 Christine Phillips
Copyright © Christine Phillips | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Poet M.e. | Details |
She was eighteen
The Girl got Straight A’s
Mother says, 'I’m proud of you.
Your hard work is gonna pay.
I know it's been a long road
But you've carried your load."
The girl looks over her shoulders
And scans through the crowd
In the back of the auditorium she sees her Father
Who is just as proud.
As the tassel falls from the air
She recalls the secret they all share.
The night he ruined her world
The night she wasn’t Daddy’s Little girl.
Ten Years Earlier]
Daddy tiptoes past the Grandfather clock
Through the kitchen
past the icebox.
There were ten steps to the room down the hall
He didn’t see himself in the mirror on the wall
Nor did he hear his conscience call.
He turned the doorknob as quietly as he could
With the door half opened there he stood
He looked at the one he promised the world
So Beautiful- So Peaceful- Daddy’s Little Girl
She searched his wallet- the whole thing through
Credit card receipts—his pockets too
For a trace of the other woman
Some kind of clue
He had to leave at 3 am- Another emergency
“When I get back honey, I’ll explain the urgency.”
And sometimes you’re just a clue away
Pictures on the mantle piece show sunny days.
The wedding seemed like just yesterday.
But over the house hover the clouds of gloom
And it’s gonna rain real soon
When you learn that the other woman
Is in the other room.
Mama’s Precious Pearl
Daddy’s Little Girl
Daddy closes the door and takes a step or two
Convinced that Mama doesn’t have a clue
He considers the consequence.
What would happen if she knew?
A night lights shines in the darkness-
The color BLUE
Father kneels on the side of her bed
And awakens the child with a kiss on her head
With one hand he strokes her hair
With the other hand he touches her - there
She tries to restrain his hand.
He says, When you’re older you’ll understand.”
She gave a fight
But he was the stronger one
And there in the night
The wicked thing was done.
She cried as quietly as she could
As tears streamed from her face
And twice that night--- she changed her pillow case
Sometimes you stand on the edge of the world
Just be strong Daddy’s Little Girl.
Morning comes and Mama knocks on the door of the shower
“Girl, You been in there two hours.”
In the hamper Mama sees blood on the sheets
Picks it up and smells the scent of her sweet.
Mama opens up the shower door—shows her the blood stains
The girls chokes on her words- Mother I just can’t explain
“Babe, tell Mother what happened to you?”
Mother’s eyes told her she already knew.
Sometimes a heartbreak doesn’t give a referral
No more Daddy’s Little Girl.
Mother sits on the sofa and looks back
At ten years of marriage
How could she abort it now?
The clock stops at 5:23 and Father turns the key
He opens the door "How are you my sweet?"
Seeing her reach for the bloodied sheet
“Babe, It’s just blood—This is outrageous
You know these girls they go through stages.
It could have been someone from her class
I told you the girl was just too fast.”
She is no longer your daughter and
I am no longer your wife.
Your bags are by the door
Now get the Hell out of my life.”
Barely bearing the weight of frustration:
“You can explain at the Police Station.”
When the pain is like a hurricane
And it leaves your mind in a whirl
What you gonna do without that man?
The sun will shine again
You still have Mama’s Little Girl.
Copyright © Poet M.e. | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Max Siewert | Details |
I sit here steeping in the History
of Our Land, a class, my eyelids dense.
Our Flag hangs in the corner of the class
Red and White folds in deluge, licking the
framed portrait of our Thomas Jefferson,
our founding father, the slave holder.
My teacher, stern at his pulpit, recites
to silent rows of desks and students,
to the classroom, he recites Our Constitution:
“We hold these truths to be self-evident,
that all men are...” my pen drops, my sight blacks
yet I can see through the stars and the stripes,
the desk legs tremble and I hear Ocean -
seeking depth in the sands of my inner beach
I can see true Lady Liberty
kneeling in the dirt. She’s draped in the dull
jade gown which she filched from the Iroquois,
Catawba, Choctaw, and Creek. The Natives
who shared their fish, corn, wisdom, and shelter
with the savages who would betray them
eventually, steal their hunting grounds,
burn their homes, rape their women and children.
I see why she stoops so low now, and how
her crown pines for the Nature that once was,
Nature that hides now in the oaks which had shed
their trunks and rotted into divinity.
So deep is my reverie that the scepter
held by Lady Liberty does not shine,
guide, shimmer, nor teach, but instead it falls -
falls in black ash clouds, falls like grime culled from the backs
of Germans, Italians, Chinese, from
the farmer who brought his family by ship
to polish the shoes of Christians who called
him yellow. Or the daughter, destitute,
and attending to men in brothels for coin.
Or the minister, told that he knew not
the word of God and would be spurned heaven.
They will never hold the scepter, and so
it falls like stinging sweat from the fissured
palms of Africans, Irishmen, and Jews.
There was the grandmother of eight who stole
what time she could from her master to teach
her son, daughter, and grandchildren how to read.
There, in a gutter, lived the lonely wife
who left home in wake of famine and still
had to bury her children in the mud
and abandon them to the Earth.
And there was the street-sweep who knew the burn
of cold spit on his forehead, kept his eyes
cast down to the dirt, still held onto hope.
Altogether, all together they were Americans.
Beckoned by Lady Liberty’s gilded staff
and enticed by her golden siren song
to the eastern coast of teeming land where
they first beheld its radiance, as if
only in a dream, then ceded life’s breath
to paint with Truth the lungs of Our Land
and the sickly veins of its governance.
I hear the collective voice of lives past:
the dying utterances of the slave,
the immigrant, the first woman to vote,
the soldier, the farmer, the criminal,
and the jailer, and they are one ocean,
and their voice is the persistent undulation
of the swelling-then-receding tide.
Their waters will cover her feet and lick
her shins until she falls like cornhusk,
Lady Liberty, Lady of Ideals
now empty, on her knees and in the sand.
And the men, women, and children will come
clad in white, blue, black, brown, red, and all
to form a circle of one,
one nation and one people gathered here
together to cast a single acorn
into the pit she left behind
and declare this Their Land.
My eyes open and so too do my ears
to a teacher sleepily sputtering at a lectern
spouting a message addressed to all,
addressed to none: “...we mutually pledge to each
other our lives, our fortunes, our sacred honor.”
Copyright © Max Siewert | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Abdulhafeez Oyewole | Details |
So soon after supper, you’ve forgotten
Those ones you called your alter egos.
Said adieu and you did not stay o!
So soon you forgot those ones?
The one you met and greeted in clan,
During moon, storm, wind, rain and sun.
When did you see such last o!
Have you forgotten that one?
The day you laughed, soul solo,
The day you wined and dined with time.
The day you saw what meant not see o!
Have you forgotten that one?
(Look) lad and lass, you’re right about your proof,
You hailed from the noble city.
But useless you to the piss poor, when yet yearning for more o!
Have you forgotten that one?
You’re known before your canker-worm,
You’re (now) renowned of being perilous.
In addition is your notorious nature o!
For God’s sake, did you forget that one?
It’s you that’s spotted in the red road,
Caught red handed and still didn’t repent.
Wake up and have a rethink of your ways o!
Be pure heart and build a better unforgettable one.
It isn’t right when you rolled late in rock n’ rule,
It’s lovely then to have discovered you’ve inborn.
The loveliest of all is mastering one at a time o!
Let’s hope you wouldn’t forget that one.
Tis terrible there you mounted upon
Would you mind stepping down from there?
Saying wisely, you are the master of your ships o!
But stay grown, before you decide that one?
Wanderer (like yourself) wouldn’t warn you youth.
That is your life you’re playing apart.
Stay put so as to not cross your luck in the vain search o!
Let’s hope you wouldn’t forget that one.
Having a slot in the scorching sunny days,
Pitter-patter you’re yet there.
Should no vacancy, don’t let longing for home hook you o!
Work (more) harder, and there you get a better one.
Thinking about joy to come without working towards joy,
Hoping that that will bring forth the fortune you crave.
Joy won’t near you until you dare joy o!
Never forget that one.
Often, you’re inspired by rich men virtues
These call for emulations, they’re what you lip.
The outer- ordinary you see but careless about digging o!
And what would you call that one?
There you’re when you suddenly spoke,
And found your blurred lids exposed to transient.
Deeply lost when you lock in lack of exposure o!
To knowledge, you dare not forget that one.
You know what; I think you’re right,
That wrong rag-tag rule is the reigning rule.
But that got nothing doing in your personal dreams o!
Let’s hope you’re aware of that one.
You met your kinds in the region seemingly round.
Or have you forgotten that one?
Soils and skies make sphere most suitable for soul o!
Don’t say that, you forgot that one.
For you to assure me you note those terms
Show me what you’ve taken down.
About war, perhaps fun, or on allies and foes o!
Let me hear you on those ones.
Always remember you lived zero worlds,
Always remember you toured the middle worlds.
Since the last worlds, is still obscured o!
Live those ones you know as one.
So soon at first light, you’ve forgotten
The one you proclaimed your alter ego.
Said farewell and you did not save o!
So soon you forgot that one.
Let’s hope in the struggle through life,
You wouldn’t forget someone.
That perfected you in the most appealing beauty o!
Let’s hope you wouldn’t forget that Worthy One.
Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
Learning disabled, hopelessly unemployed
Troy McBride can't write the address for his next interview.
Warehouse stock, 331 Tiffany Street, in the Bronx.
His girlfriend, Desanda Gantry, also unemployed,
with one child by Troy. She's much brighter
but probably doesn't realize it. For one month
she worked an evening cashier job until her mother
refused to babysit at night. Wants to go out, live
her life, too. Desanda made numerous appointments
yesterday, can write and find the addresses o.k.
Troy has nowhere to live, has been crashing
with a woman in the Bronx. She's on public assistance,
they share the bed. How Troy reconciles this woman
with Desanda doesn't matter. Survival precedes love.
Troy can't meet the rent although she gives him
subway fare. He dresses well enough in the youthful
style, dark shirt, thin dark tie. At least no sneakers
or a stocking over his head. Smokes cigarettes
but so do a lot of people. Hedging bets on life.
Desanda is tolerant of Troy. Understands his
predicament. No stable home, no money. How
does she feel about her kid? At least she has
someone to love her now. Troy forgets
to record the names and phone numbers of companies
he applies at. Burned out on angel dust. Wants
a job that pays and offers benefits. Too old
and desperate for a work experience/basic education
program. Needs a living wage, not a stipend.
But can't read or write or even speak coherently.
Interestingly he's not desperate enough to work fast food
at age 22. So the woman on public assistance is
a surer source of income than we think. Good.
Security guard may be the way to go with Troy.
No police record, requires no writing skills, just
stand there and be big. A job with no security
for the guard. Troy's mother threw him out
four years ago, although she helps out now and then.
He dropped out of high school in the tenth grade
kicked around the house and streets two years
doing drugs and partying. Met Desanda, got her pregnant.
Does Desanda have a contraceptive in place?
We don't know. As employment counselors, is that
our business? Only if Desanda brings it up. On
the bulletin board there's plenty of information
about family planning clinics. When she lost that
cashier job, I was completely frustrated, but not Desanda.
Takes it all in stride. I gotta admire her cheerfulness,
but why shouldn't she be happy? She has friends, family,
a community such as East Harlem is, not the worst,
and a purpose for living and acting in her kid.
She feeds the baby, negotiates living space with her mother.
Troy and Desanda wake up, late August morning,
hot and humid New York City. They have interviews
planned as well as personal business and pleasures
today. They have responsibilities, society puts
survival on them, never mind their disadvantages.
It is tough and it is good. Desanda will land
another cashier position, maybe today. Troy
will go for security jobs, I figured it out, the
uniform will make him feel better, the check
too. The work boring, easy, slow, perhaps fulfilling.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Gary Bateman | Details |
Theatrum Mundi, derived from the Latin as: “Theater of the World,” was famously incorporated by William Shakespeare for his well-known metaphorical world-view often referred to under the rubric of “All the World’s a Stage,” as it applied to many of his famous romantic themes and works. For me, however, beyond the romance genre specifically, I take Theatrum Mundi a step further at a macro level and consider it under its more precise definition* as “the world thought of as a theatrical presentation of all aspects of human life,” while considering all of us who live in this world who are, in a sense, on a stage as our very own actors in different roles.
I believe that many modern day poets tend to follow a multi-faceted approach to compelling and captivating themes and problems that form the verbal and written mosaic of what we call human life or the human experience. This is not so different from poets of a bygone age; yet, we tend now to be more influenced by the technological age we all live in, but this should not at all detract from our poetry and how we frame and stage human events on paper with our pens.
Despite our technological prowess nowadays—courtesy of the twenty-first century—the genesis and exposition of what we poetically write and how
we write it should continue to follow the traditional formats and structural methodologies passed on to us from poets of past centuries. In this sense,
Ars Poetica (or the Art of Poetry) will always be in the same tradition; yet,
it’s worth noting that the increased proliferation in the use of “free verse” is
indeed more telling today in this modern literary age.
That’s what makes writing poetry indeed so special today in comparison to strict prose and journalistic writing. Really good poetry invites the reader to think, and at times, for he or she to use their imaginations and to venture into the inner sanctum
of allegory, assonance, imagery, metaphor, metonymy, onomatopoeia, and so on. And so, we poets tend to have a virtual unending group of themes and subjects to consider for our writes when we look at the vastness of the human experience in society today in this century.
Theatrum Mundi is very much applicable to an all-inclusive view of themes and works across all genres when one considers the veritable magnitude of the human condition in today’s world. We poets are also actors on this global stage—and we’ll always have much to observe, discuss, and write about—no doubt whatsoever.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (May 3, 2015)
*This definition is taken from The Oxford Dictionary of Foreign Words & Phrases (New York: Oxford University Press Inc., 1998), 431.
(Release Date of this poem in my new book was on February 11, 2015)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015