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Long Poems
Long poem by Tom Arnone | Details

April's Babbling Foolishness

(Created using the bAbBlE sentence generator, various text excerpts, and a minuscule bit of human editing.) 

And she smells good without keeping all ...

Beef, sitting lonely on that lies floating on the tufted floor. "Surely," I was napping, cold noodles, I implore!

But the Raven, "Nevermore."

Deep into that darkness peering, I got enough trouble.

Boy, the whole world together. Eagerly I guess dirt is what thy worldly name is on the tufted floor.

Taken from the night thinking. Eagerly I sat engaged in guessing, when, I'm supposed to spend the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose foot-falls tinkled on the floor; And my soul grew stronger; hesitating then he fluttered - Till the dirges of evil! - prophet still, hot noodles with seeing bird above my heart be still is there balm in Gilead? - here I scarcely more than muttered, sitting lonely on that placid bust, chicken guts!

Beef, while I pondered, shrimp with garlic sauce, and the silken, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; hesitating then no longer, "Nevermore."

Beef, yet all undaunted, nearly napping, and sour chicken, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to take out, "Though thy crest be shorn and mighty truck load of prehistoric swamp mud! Take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, lemon chicken with fantastic terrors never felt before. Then the bird said, beef with fantastic terrors never felt before; But the morrow he will leave me burning, curry sauce, crispy noodles, all my soul within me burning, roast pork, pepper steak and sour combination, "Nevermore."

But the Raven, "Or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore!" Quoth the morrow; - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber of flea-bitten bug ridden throng of flatulent sewage! - prophet still, if bird or white rice, chicken guts! Take out, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burnt into my bosom's core; This and more I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burnt into my bosom's core; This and more I sat engaged in guessing, curry beef lo mein, shrimp egg foo young, roast pork with my head at my chamber of contaminated cigar butts!

The Raven, "Nevermore."

Beef with broccoli and nothing more.

"Prophet!" said I, "Tapping at my chamber of pureed monkey mucus! - prophet still, if bird or steamed dumplings, stir fried rice noodles, beef with chili sauce, fried or steamed white rice, perfumed from an erratic horde of his Hope that melancholy burden bore - Till I said, Doubtless," said I, "Sir," said I, "Art sure I heard a tapping, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of septic frog water!"

Beef with many quaint and mighty dipstick of Pallas just above my chamber door, "Nevermore."

Beef Szechuan style, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the only word, anniversaries, roast pork with onions and spicy beef egg foo young, all the seeming of seething pus! By that Heaven that bends above his chamber of soggy camel snot!

Ah, Bar-B-Q pork with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now to take out my heart be still the beating of my heart be still a moment, and nothing more!

Beef with sorrow for the lost Lenore! Quoth the floor; And his eyes have flown before - On this home by Horror haunted - tell me see, then, shrimp lo mein, boneless chicken almond cookies, chicken, chicken egg foo young, vegetable chow fun, "Nevermore."

The Raven, "Lenore?" Merely this and nothing more!

Beef lo mein, free delivery within 4 blocks, I implore; But the fact is I was napping, hot spicy beef fried rice, open 8 days, suddenly there came a blasphemous sliver of steaming monkey meat!

Then, pork fried rice, weak and mighty stack of my heart, and mighty bowl of rotten bear whiz!

This I flung the shutter, catering for free delivery, weak and mighty repository of the countenance it wore, shrimp, shrimp, with garlic sauce, fearing, Doubting, Buddhist delight, I stood there wondering, beef with my head at my chamber door - This is it and tomato, beef, That one gently rapping, crispy noodles, roast pork, eggplant with my head at ease reclining On the fact is I was napping, calamari with broccoli, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered - not a schizophrenic cask of mealy verbal diarrhea!

Beef with many a flirt and mighty crust of repugnant disk failures!

Ah, nevermore!

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to take out that now burnt into my bosom's core; And my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, crispy shrimp, I implore - Is there - is there balm in beer batter, sitting lonely on this desert land enchanted - On the morrow he hath sent, Bar-B-Q beef, while I pondered, General Tso's chicken guts!

Beef, "Nevermore."

Startled at the house specialties, "Thing of evil! - prophet still, Singapore rice, my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the angels name Lenore - Clasp a cow. Not the ducks and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore - Tell this is some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast delivery within 6 days, Nevermore."

"Thing of evil! - prophet still the beating of forgotten lore - While I nodded, nearly napping, and chicken, chicken wings, run, with my chamber door!

"Nevermore."

Jane said, "Here he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered, Sir," said I, funny, Though thy crest be shorn and shrimp with me truly, shrimp with this and sour soup with mien of lord or steamed white rice or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Jane and tomato, perched above my bosom's core; This and vegetable chow fun, look, I muttered, Jane, I muttered, "Mother."

Beef, "Nevermore."

You - here, all the shutter, dropping her underwear now burnt into the chamber turning her dress.

Colors may be paid by that God we have sent, consult your receipt. There balm in Gilead? - tell me, feeling the door - Perched upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door.

"Get thee back through him."

She knew that way she was watching her flesh. There spoken was unbroken, $111.

Then, what thereat is not the Beatles.

Quoth the grave and stern decorum of the angels name Lenore. Quoth the whole lobster with broccoli, Dynasty delight, all the night thinking.

He was in beer batter, By the ushers watch me up was sure gets complicated. They like parking your gum on the floor; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the stuff in the other kids are a man. They like you came rapping, truly your forgiveness I wish he'd hurry up snappy answers for evermore.

Copyright © 1994 Tom Arnone & bAbBlE (computer writing program)

Copyright © Tom Arnone | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

PermaCultural Trust

The organic building of a coordinated artist
begins with reconstructing competitively clumsy LeftBrain technicians.

Whether learning to play the piano
or learning to communicate in some new language
or learning to adopt,
and/or adapt,
norms and nuances of some new cultural environment,
human nature starts, and started, with RightBrain
as inductive unconscious autonomic pre-programmed DNA/RNA receptivity,
double-bind fractal-octave resonance,
to and with and as externally and internally triggered changes,
and builds out deductively
reductively decomposing complexities of some performance system
we notice in some other,
including other humans,
we are attracted to in some positive empathic-trust way,
inviting further trust.

But, stumbling across an anomalous situation,
a creature,
human or not ambiguously felt
and has become historically suspect,
we distrust due to negative threat,
aggressive competitions
where we would have normally anticipated cooperation;
or maybe just too loud and stinky
to mutually ignore in some tolerant kind of way.

From perennially positive systems
soliciting and supporting our further WinWin nutritional relationships,
and from our negatively toxic attritions,
our deductive LeftBrain builds labels 
to reduce the whole gestalt
into its cause-effect cycling and spiraling parts
until we can predict
to our satisfaction,
and sometimes hypnotizing horror,
how to regenerate/degenerate this behavior with our own mindbodies
through deliberate,
step by consecutive technical step,
building technique until this new pattern,
sequence of rhythms within interdependently cooperative performance,
becomes what we call "second nature"
internalized,
as automatic as finding our ways back home.

But, this second nature,
whether learning to perform a song
that is also a compelling and resonant emotive narration,
or venomously screaming threats at anyone you perceive as unlike your own egocentric self,
in some unenlightened way,
becomes incorporated into Left and Right Brain reiterative appositional flow.
Technically learned performance
moves from Left-deductive
toward Right-inductive co-arising nondual 
nature-nurtured habit of "second nature" expression,
thought,
activation of a mastered behavioral-affective constellation
of interior/exterior activity,
as natural as writing with your left
or right
dominant hand.

Given all the above,
when and why would becoming a violent aggressor
become an ego-acceptable,
LeftBrain deductive dominant choice
of encultured instinctive response to "non-kin"
as opposed to "not yet kin"?

How would one become attracted to,
and sustained by,
becoming a dissonance-creating and expanding bully,
an aggressor against potentially immigrating strangers as aliens,
labelled collectives of ecosystemic individuals, hives, nests, pests
who have not themselves ever actually exhibited threatening behavior
toward yourself, 
or those you already perceive as "kin"?

It seems that terrorism and bullying
might also be rabidly aggressive behavioral-affective negative patterns
which can be as competitively-reiteratively contagious
as cooperative trust
in healthier patterns of becoming together
rather than thrusting and parrying apart.

In WinWin as NonZero ReGenerative Game Theory,
and in Feminist EcoPolitical CoOperative ReProduction Theory,
learning resonant-positive nurturing behavioral norms
anticipates nonzero-sum, nonpatriarchal-competitive, outcomes,
WinWin bilateral equivalence
that normatively anticipates pay-it-forward more of the same
as long as everyone follows Left-Right learned
behavioral-affective Golden Rule matriarchal-maturation patterns
toward mutually nutritional "second nature" norms.

What is actually Elder brain stem "first nature"
is profoundly matriarchal-cooperative ownership and governance
except under unusual survival Win-Lose pressures of past experience
as environmentally reconceived.

It is here
in anomalous primordial seas
of survival of the "I Win so You Lose" fittest
where might makes our ego's self-optimizing right
to survive today
despite knowing that doing so by accessible aggressive means
predicts more of the negative same,
or even more escalating,
risk of loss tomorrow.
But, this is not normative "first matriarchal-love nature"
just as it is not first-nurture,
for if zero-sum survivalist toxicity
were our AntiGolden Rule primordial soup
from which we arrived at this time on Earth,
then human LeftBrain dominant nature
could never have evolved decompositional technique at all.

Declaring private or very public wars against alien terrorists
is a suboptimizing zero-sum choice
to play a negative LoseLife-LoseLife Game
unless no nonzero-sum option has been more diplomatically learned
that we have not yet responsively tried.

The zero-sum "I must win" so "You must lose" of Either-Or bottom-line producer-over-consumer-oriented capitalism,
with competitive ownership rather than cooperative ownership WinLose assumptions,
is a sub-optimizing economic and political performer,
still trying to relearn our first-nature matriarch-nurturing health and safety.

Capitalism as might-makes-right evolutionary theory
is patriarchally LeftBrain dominantly deductively mislearned,
technologically over-shot,
ecologically over-grazed ecopolitical error
in its unmitigated incarnation 
away from baseline cooperative matriarchal stewardship
and nurturing co-management roots.

Ecologic,
like sacred syncretic Logos and Mythos,
is prime relationally,
primally Original Matriarchal Source,
WinWin,
notnot zerosum,
for the same reason economic transactions
and politically positive relationships between kin,
extending out to neighbors
and those perceived more ambiguously as extending-extensive biological kin,
are rooted in continuous Left-Right ego/eco-balancing extensions
from co-empathic trust as positive and normative health-roots,
embryonically matriarch-regenerative,
while actively anti-pathic, sociopathic distrusts
are suboptimizingly and violently degenerative.




Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Translation of Eric Mottram's Courbet: Elegy 8 by T Wignesan

Translation of Eric Mottram’s Courbet: Elegy 8 by T. Wignesan

Blanches oeuvres ouvertes
résident dans les jours
la surface du banc de travail est noire
les géraniums-lierres
les fougères et les adragans
accumulent leurs oeuvres et jours:
La toile noire de Courbet
un endroit où la lumière
puisse-être enfoncée
avec un couteau
pour créer une crête
cassée figée

la crête s’alourdie:
la nature sans soleil
est aussi sombre et noire:
Je fais comme la lumière -
Illumine les endroits qui projette

en toute connaissance de la tradition
découvrir une raisonnée et indépendante
conscience de ma propre individualité

Je place un vase blanc sur une toile blanche
toutes les difficultés
blanc sur blanc et à la cinquantième fois
Je l’ai eu       regardes l’ombre sur la neige
comme elle est bleue
Je vois trop clairement 
Je dois éteindre mes yeux 

en ce siècle socialiste
les hommes voient sans apercevoir
leurs esprits occupés de commerce
vos mères ne vous cachaient pas 
sous la maison à l’abri des soldats

des cochons essayèrent de dévorer l’art démocratique
il les dévorera
en dépit des renégats des troupeaux déments  

afin que les muscles forcent la colonne vertébrale 
courber l’esprit peinant
glaner des écritures adroites
devant des niveaux de l’horizon

(from A Faithful Private, 1976, includes “Statements by the artist on his work.” This poem became Elegy 30 of ELEGIES, 1981) Pub. in The Journal of Comparative Poletics, Vol. I, n° 1 (Paris), p. 55. Edited by T. Wignesan

Note: In this and successive posts, I shall include extracts from Eric Mottram’s letters to me during 1965-66 when he was the invitee of the American Council of Learned Societies, for his perceptions and comments on the American literary and cultural scene reveal nooks and corners of his own make-up and make for much intelligent perspectivising of the “outre-Atlantic". The fact that some comments refer to our own relationship cannot be helped - I cannot defer to some detractors “outre-Channel". Eric had urged me to publish all our correspondence during his last two visits to Paris, but literary publishing being what it is and has been in the hands of a favoured few, I have no choice but to… 
October 31, 1965:  « Dear Wignesan,
[...12 lines suppressed]  I look forward to your NLR rebuttal but I have to admit I didn’t see the cause: must have missed it among all the other magazines piled up and left behind unread. I think of the empty base [15, Vicarage Gate, London W.8] basement and [sic] few regrets, except that I miss all my friends, students, even you, quite a lot, even though the combination of university people and local writers here is beginning to surge in on me. The main problem is to take it easy. I do not have lectures to give, so that is fine, but leisure is a curious burden at first: the routine has to be worked out again based on learning how to sit in the square in the sun, take in a movie without guilt in the afternoon, or go to an exhibition, or read something not remotely connected with any work in hand. And not to have the near future mapped out ready to move into. Choice is strange when you are not used to it so totally. So I too - and not because of your absence - am beginning to write poems again, weird things but decently done. Perhaps I’m no scholar after all - long suspected, and on good evidence. I am still working on the Negro piece; masses of materials only part of which will go into the TLS article - the rest will be ready for anything further, apart from sheer interest of the thing. My Tribune article attacking American assumed innocences appeared and they liked it. Future thing on Frost in Spectator, etc. etc. But once this is through I’m not going to bother about writing these bits for a while. There’s only one book I feel like recommending you, and that is not yet out in England - Ralph Ellison’s Shadow and Act, a highly literate and penetrating collection of essays by the author of Invisible Man ( you’ve read this novel? Penguin if not - it’s tremendous and no Negro novel has approached it yet, although Leroi Jones’s new The System of Dante’s Hell is interesting in another way. Most of the stuff I’ve been going through has been sociologically fascinating but artistically humdrum to downright bad. Kitschy stuff for the market only. Watch out for Selby’s Last Exit to Brooklyn (and my broadcast with him) - it is mostly brilliant if entirely disturbing. Calder have asked me to defend it if necessary, since they apparently anticipate a court case. It does deal with violence and brutal sexuality but with a cool analytical sympathy which is new and necessary.
         What else.... Oh yes: a good film called To Die in Madrid, compiled from the newreels[sic] etc. of the Spanish Civil war: the feeling I had of the futility of ideological warfare but its necessity was painful. Members of the audience openly cheered the Franco-RC priests combinations and there were one or two counter cheers but no fight. The film is generally too subduing. And the present context - the NY elections and the anti-war demonstrations too clearly part of a similar process of authoritarian government, backed by an ignorant and brutalized populace.   Incidentally, films here are a superb opportunity - this week, for instance, one nearby cinema is showing in one programme three major Renoir films. Double bills of important films are a commonplace. Slowly I’m catching up on what I have missed.  Have I been living wrongly these past ten years, all bound up in work rut and imaginary self-importance? Certainly, shifting here is perspectivizing.      Write more of you[r] good news. When you have a moment’s pause for breath.
                                                                        Yours,   Eric. »
 
 [ From Department of English, New York University, Washington Square, New York, New York 10003. Letter addressed to 28, Cheniston Gardens, London W. 8 and re-directed to c/o Howard Hotel, Friargate, Derby]
 

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Translation of Eric Mottram's 28th Legal: Letter Jan 2, 1966 by T Wignesan

Eric Mottram on the American literary and cultural scene during 1965-66 while he was the recipient of the American Learned Societies’ award for a year. (begun in the last post and to be continued)

January 2, 1966: Dear Wignesan,
        
 [...9 lines suppressed] One thing I can I’m afraid say for certain: it is highly unlikely that Laughlin will do Bunga Emas [An Anthology of Contemporary Malaysian Literature: 1930-1963]: he is blocked with reproducing his past books which turn out to be so excellently judged that reprints are needed. Can I see the Soyinka review? (Much as I hate Peace News’s guts at the moment): contrary to your thought, Tom McGrath did not send a copy, the b---d. He has not replied to my letters either and is hanging on to my Burroughs article when I want it back to try to find a home for it over here.  [...4 lines omitted] As for your comment on my own pitiful lack of confidence and hubris, you are not the first to say that, and someone over here said exactly the same thing last week. With which I am tired. But I do see that I am in danger of being left far behind by activating loafers.   Your choice of politics or university is so enviable I could weep. It’s probably that my birthday, just ‘celebrated’ makes life hateful. I must make decisions I can’t make about my future career. If only it were as easy as just accepting the jobs offered here. What happens is I don’t think about it and go on writing, thinkong[sic], reading, talking to people. The reception of my TLS piece was decent here - even among Negro writers who saw it. Which is a test. The response to the Stand piece on Williams has yet to come although Roy Fisher wrote me nicely about it. Now I have just finished another marathon on Arthur Miller for next year’s Stratford Theatre Studies. No more commissions now so I must get on with my books. Only a jazz piece to do, but it’s nearly done.   You seem to think I lecture etc here - not at all: my fellowship strictly says no lectures except one-shot occasions. So I turn down offers, although I am doing a summer course at Buffalo in July, when my grant technically ends: it’s a very lucrative affair and should be interesting working with postgraduates on American nineteenth century writers. I did one lecture recently on Auden as Ang[l]o-American poet for NYU. Mostly I listen to others, which is good for me. Already a third of my visit gone and I have to book my cabin home this week! Good old tempus. But at least the reading for the Negro article - masses of it which did not go into the final thing - will come in useful. I’ve just read Stepanchev’s American Poetry Since 1945 and it is one of the worst books of criticism I have every[sic]  read; fortunately it is short or I wouldn’t have bothered to finish it. It claims to be a survey and treats the poets like bits of literary history - and even then has nothing on Koch, O’Hara etc and their crowd (a little and useless on John Ashbery), nothing on McClure, Snyder, Ferlinghetti or Corso or Whalen, and inadequate on Duncan. And Ginsberg treated simply as a ‘popular poet’ who sells well for inexplicable reasons.  You’d never guess from this book that the poetry scene is rich and wildly varied: I have been to a number of good readings by a variety of poets and the younger men still come on, as Sandburg might say. The avant-garde theatre too: last night I saw a production of Gertrude Stein’s Play I Play II Play III and Ruth Krauss’s A Beautiful Day - at Judson ‘Poets’ Theatre: both were brilliantly done, with a flair and a certain vigour which I liked very much. The Columbia Contemporary Music Group puts on programmes which would make the Third blush for shameful conservatism and the experimental cinema has two regular theatres for its stuff, much of which is admittedly pretty awful but some of which is really new and realized: mostly in the field of combining film with stage and happening ideas. The new Tulane Drama Review will give you an idea. In painting and sculpture, the pop, op and abstract expressionists and hard edgers are still pouring stuff out. Recently, at the Jewish Museum, they had a show of  Tinguely’s mobile sculptures, and Kenneth Koch put on a play which used them - actors in the production included the painters Jane Freilicher, Larry Rivers, Joe Brainard etc. and the writers John Ashbery and Arnold Weinstein. I was lucky enough to get a seat - the performance was oversold many times.   So while establishment poetry, theatre, etc. is as businessman-bound as ever it was here, the new thrives as nowhere else. The trouble is that politically America is imperialistically nineteenth century and socially it lives in the past era of charity. As for the integration of Negros - what a joke! Nothing substantial really has happened at all. And yet jazz is greater than ever: the new names - Shepp, Ayler, Sun Ra, Pharoah Sanders - are unknown in England but soon will be. I heard Mingus the other night and it was just pitiful repetitions of old successes - he seems temporarily to have lost the gift. But at the New School they had the New York Art Quartet in a programme of advanced jazz (tiny audience) which was superb. Incidentally, you would be interested in the Free University over here, set up to counterattack the other universities as a Marxist and progressive evening affair, with lectures on subjects the universities don’t make available. There seems to be a strong case for such a thing in London. For instance, who gives a course there on Marxism and Existentialism - and after all it is here that the crucial enabling beliefs and actions lie, it seems to me too.
              Well, enough.    Best wishes for everything.  Yours sincerely,    Eric »
 
[From Dept. of English, New York University.Letter addressed to 28, Cheniston Gardens, London W.8 and re-directed to 33, Mimosa Street, London S.W.6]
 
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 1990/2017

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Neldy Jolo | Details

THE CRAFT CAN CAPTURE IT

Oh well I got an angry email to begin my day
Because of my last post on the Jabidah thing yesterday
Galit sa akin but greeted me with Assalamu alaykum.
And kung personal Moro friends ko naman ito 
They know I don't criticize Moro leaders
I always leave that to them to criticize their leaders
According to my friends baka nasa gubyerno or something
Next time I'll write na lang about the sea and the palm trees and the beaches 

Pray and pray nalang para walang provocation
ako nga ang daming nag-message sa akin nagalit sa issue ng Sabah standoff
Ikaw pa kaya na wala namanng masama na sinabi dun
Alam mo ‘buti na lang you verbalized that kasi iniisip ko rin ‘yun
I know you have reasons and you know better kaya; I just read your posts
I don’t have to go against parties kasi both have rights
And the issue must be solved

Wala, kasi sa akin kundi independence lamang ang kailangan
May ganyan din kasing realities? 
Minsan you are being asked or expected to take sides
Yes, my side is peace – with peace is independence
Yes, I heard that sa dating Jabidah Massacre celebration
Somebody said that, “Walang kapayapaan kasi walang kalayaan”
And that is very universal, kapatid.

Moro or non-Moro and writing should always geared towards humanity
That’s why for me it “anti-humanity” if you will not listen 
Or suppress when somebody will talk about freedom.
That’s the problem with Filipinos, they don't listen.
Kasi the leaders may sarili ring interests.

How do you see being Filipino?
Ako, it's a cage, Filipino nationalism 
Agenda ng mga oligarchs and landowners 
Filipino nationalism is violence against Muslims and lumads
Kasi ‘pag ako ang tatanunginmo I will never say I am Filipino
Because Tausug it’s not a name but an identity...
I understand but kaunti na lang kayo

Ako sasabihin ko na I am a Filipino but I have reservations
When I was a teenager hindi ako tumatayo ‘pag Lupang Hinirang
ngayon tumatayo na kasi napapaaway ang mga kasama ko sa sinehan
Yes and identity should be critically assessed and examined.
Kaya if they say Filipino ang mga Tausug masakit sa aking loob
But not all, kapatid. try mo pumunta sa Manila
Yung mga Moro na malalapit sa mga institusyon ng Pilipinas
Bakit iba ang Moro at ibang ang Tausug
kaya sila naging Moro at masaya na tawaging Moro 

May identity na naiiba sa Filipino
Pinag-aaralan ko rin yan and ino-observe ‘yung pag-yield sa 'Filipino'
‘Will give Filipinos a disservice
Because it is tantamount to be an accomplice to a corrupt system
And this system is the one that oppresses Muslims
At alam natin ang Tausug di lamang taga-Sulu
Pati Bisayan, Tausug din

As much as possible I am trying to make my writings 'away' 
Away from Filipino nationalism
That's the right way for me and my writing
I will ask first, “How it is to be human?” 
At super last na ang, “How to be a Filipino” 
And the Bangsamoro struggle is the greatest critique to the violence
And failures of Filipino nationalism

Ang problema kasi kaya di successful ang Bangsamoro struggle
Dahil nagdadala sila ng pangalan na di naman originally sa kanila
How come ang pangalan ko ay Abdul sa rights
Gagamitn ko ang Juan para sa aking bayan?
Kaya war of ideas ito and alam mo naman sa akin, ‘pag ideas 
And perspectives walang kompromiso and peace talks 

I do not compromise my language, my craft and myself, my writing
Filipino is an imagined nation, as well as Bangsamoro
Bakit di natin magamit ang orignal nation natin 
Na based sa Sulu archipelago and Mindanao
Yes, actually diyan ako papunta - papunta

Bakit hindi i-Bangsamoro-ized ang buong Filipinas?
It doesn’t mean na i-convert ang Pilipinas 
But the spirit, the struggle it should mean something to Filipinos
It should kasi ang dami na nagbuwis ng buhay
Kaya ko pa na tanggapin kung Maharlika

‘Yan ang gusto kong ma-achieve: Filipinos should listen to Moros
Siyempre marami pang madidiscover along the way
Indeed. Ikaw ba ‘pag sasabahin ko na ‘Tausug’ ano ang maiisip mo?
Tausug is Moro and Moro for me is something that predates 'Filipino'
But now, I would like to know the concept of “Lupah Sug”
I want to know it, I think there are more and beyond Moro on it

Before ‘Moro’ was named to Mindanao and Sulu people
It was first name to Aceh people, Melaka, Brunei and then Manila
Sulu and Mindanao were the last places to have been called the name ‘Moro’
Sulu archipelago was united under the name Sulu archipelago 
The name of people is Tausug. 
Tausug is composed of different ethnics:
Arab, Banjar, Dampuan, Buranun etcetera.
The concept of Sulu as part of dar al islam 
Is already a nation and state 
Where the government is the people and itself headed by sultan or raja

Yes, and I would like to feel this from the ordinary Tausugs when I get there
I would like to experience this from ordinary Tausug and on from place itself.
In the hinterland of Jolo, their laws still on the ground not of Philippine law

I believe in narratives
I want to hear and feel this from the place and from the people.
And then capture it; I have these thoughts 
That Lupah Sug has something that the Moro concept does not have
And it’s a bit metaphysical but sige lang.

I know my craft can capture it.
I think there is a language that can capture it 
And specific craft that can carry its soul
Not fictionalize but put it in a form like a novel or a narrative
Which have their own logic and truths as crafts.






This poem is made after the conversation and sharing with Filipino writer Rogelio Braga who also serves as the editor of the poem. He is currently in Mindanao, travelling and writing; he will then proceed to Sulu Archipelago soon. 2:28PM, 19 March 2013, Facebook Chat across Sulu Sea!

Copyright © Neldy Jolo | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by ruta skendeliene | Details

Juozas Miltinis Learning Years in Paris


It was September 
Of one thousand 
Nine hundred seven
The end of summer
With apples lying thickly
Under the apple trees
And the smell of Autumn
Covering the grass
Filled with ripe yellow
And orange squash
He was born in a little
Wooden house that night
At the very edge
Of a very small village
At the rail tracks
Where lonely train 
Run once a day
Every other Sunday

Then one rainy Autumn day
He caught a Paris train
And ended up on the stage
With Jean-Louis Barrault
Who was taming a wild horse
In As I Lay Dying famous
Performance that stunned
The artistic community
Of avant-garde France
And Théâtre de l'Atelier 
Became an icon of the time

After the show was over
They all got drunk with ideas
That were brewing up in the air
They disagreed about many things
And all had different images
Of what future is about to bring
Fiery proving his own point
Marcel Marceau broke a fight
Protecting the mime rights
On the modern theater stage 
Under Mullen Rouge cabaret lights
Where fancy elusive prostitutes 
Stepped down from the paintings
Of dreamy Toulouse Lautrec
Who was leaning at the wall 
At white clothed table very small
In a corner next to open doors
Women with blood red lips
On whitish anorexic faces
Whispered little dirty things
In slutty enticing voices
Into enchanted artists ears 
They danced around the tables
In blurred light with their eyes 
Framed with dark eye shadows
Like deep pools of water shut wide 
On the other side in a dim light 
He saw a man sitting at the window 
Who looked like Antonin Artaud 
With pale face suspended in frenzy
Whispering with bloodless lips
And eyes locked in a distant gaze
Mystical words of a secret prayer
To his own God whom he called 
Magical cruel double theater cage

Later he slept in a room
With Madeleine Renaud
Future wife of J L Barrault
Which they shared in the attic
Of a historical stone building
On the Augustine street corner
With trams running non stop
All night along till the morning
Waking up exhausted artists from
The marathon of intellectual orgies
After the premier of Volpone
J L Barrault was still dancing
In the dark narrow corner
With pale shadowy horses 
In his deep sleepwalking haze
When morning broke up
Through narrow windows 
And light was gliding through
The cosmic artsy scenery
Of cosmopolitan Paris streets

One-day Picasso showed up at the door
Of the little room on the top floor
Where the roof was serving as ceilings
In his pocket he had a bottle of aperitif 
And the party went on till next morning
When he inspired started Guernica drawing
On the walls of the attic with his fingers
Dipped in blood reaching the arched ceiling
A beautiful but suffering weeping woman
Emerged in the dark shades of the beams
Screaming about sadness of human being 
In the world that lost its own Identity 
For imaginary empty cruel things

Jean Cocteau brought a bizarre spirit
Of avant-garde into the community 
Of a little world of artistic attic
That was tremendously affected
By the ideas of surrealism in his movies 
Filled with mystical images of dark spirits
Elaborated shapes sounds and forms 
Never seen on the screen before
Love struggle death and rebirth
Of The Blood of the Poet that is 
A part of a divine sacrifice
And the modern world’s price
For being authentic and alive

The next day he went to a market place
With beautiful actress Marcelle who was
Maestro Charles Dullins’ beloved wife
He wanted to learn the lessons of life
And to get a reality check of street wise
Also to ask for an intelligent advice
How not to get lost and find a way
To freedom and not to scream or cry
In all this spectacular confusing mess
Of imagery and novel lavish ideas 

He chose Charles Dullin as his teacher
And Théâtre de l'Atelier became his home
And his rigorous training ground
For long  strenuous four years
That flew by as fast as one day
He was taught to master the secrets
Of sacred stage that is to become 
A new religion of the future to come
On the grounds of Intellectual belief 
That there is hidden true meaning
Of every living human being
In the world that lost its ability 
To be fair and true to itself
He spent days and sleepless nights
Learning behind the closed curtains
The hard lessons of the theater art
Taught by skillful masters of the craft
The signs of the time were brought to life
In that dimly lit space of a closed stage
And lit with bright light to emphasize
The importance of the sacred stage
And the future was to be defined
Of many aspects of the art of theater
That was conceived in that place
Into the craft he was ordained 
To be perfected to absolute space
And time limits expanded and defined
In a new creative enchanting way
He pledged to be true to the cause
To protect the dignity of human being
To fight for the freedom of art
To become a new century's religion

Deep impressions of Paris artistic life
Etched in his brain in a new pattern
That he saw in the back of his mind
He knew he had to find his own way
To bring this pattern to life one day
He was searching for fertile ground
In Paris and all over around
But couldn't’t find the right stage
Till one rainy day he took a train
Back to where from he came 
He opened a new chapter in his life's 
Book that he was about to write
In images on Lithuanian theater stage
He brought spirits of masters to life 
Off all times in to this little country’s
Tragic life that was about to unfold
In the shadows of the second world war
Brewing in the guts of European core
That was wide opening the doors
For dark evil unpredictable force
To come and change the world
in a way that will never be the same

Copyright © ruta skendeliene | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by ruta skendeliene | Details

Jean-Louis Barrault As I lay dying

Heavy storm was sweeping dark Paris streets
Lit with dim lights that dreary November night 
With ghostly shadows lurking in the corners
Cold wind dancing with dirty wet leaves fallen 
In the water pools in the middle of the street
It has been raining already for three weeks
Everybody was getting impatient and
Anxiously praying for a long waited relief

Behind the closed doors of Theater de I’Atelier
Filled with mythical spirits of Champs-Elysees
That gloomy night a magic was about to happen
The stage was sunken in the darkness yet
While audience quietly was taking seats
An imaginary world was opening behind
The heavy black curtain that was hiding
The secrets of magic of the theater
And was slowly rising to the ceiling

The center stage circle was bright lit
With dark corners filled with imaginary 
Shady creatures crawling slowly towards 
The center like moths attracted to the light
It felt like a fiesta of the creatures of the night 
Unexpectedly stunning confused audience
White horse emerged from the darkness
Like a fool moon sliding over the edge 
Of a heavy cloud in the center of the stage
Stopping for a moment glancing shyly
Then jumping over the edge of precipice 
The horse hit the ground with his hoof
Terrifying sound left his wet snout
He leaped and flew towards horizon 
That was emerging on the backstage
With dark heavy curtains rising
And opening the view in front of
Audience suspended in disbelief
Of endless prairie going forever
Touching the edge of the sky
And extending itself like a lazy
Snake towards the milky way
Stunned audience gasped

A quiet moment passed by 
And then a young man appeared
In the middle of a vast lit stage 
Sitting on a horse and smiling
In a victorious way like someone
Who just tamed a wild mustang
Just like he was trying to tame his pain
For all those long unbearable days
While his mother was lying in bed 
At a small window to the backyard
And watching a coffin to be made 
For her from a raw three trunk
That smelled like wind and the sun
She knew she was slowly dying 
And quietly waited till preparations 
Are made so the moment of death 
Can come over like a welcome guest
And take away her lonely aching soul
Which used to be like a white mustang 
That was dreaming of being free and wild
Running green fields and chasing clouds 
But was tamed by the hardships of life 
And was reduced to a battered drought
By everyday heavy exhausting load
She was getting weaker every day
Every night that was passing by
Took her strength bit by bit
But her spirit was not dead yet 
She made an extreme effort 
To stand and walked slowly outside
To see the moon and the sky 
Filled with stars and a big dipper
Friendly smiled into her eyes
Her white long hair was flying
In harsh cold wind that night
Like a spider cobwebs spread wide
Touched the nose of a white horse
He made a quiet sniffing sound
When she leaned on him and died
She was holding horse with her arms
Her empty eyes were staring at the sky
Young man sitting on the horses’ back
Grabbed her swiftly and pulled up
Like a light body of a sleeping child


On a bare wooden floor of the plain stage
Hypnotized enchanted audience saw
A young man holding an old woman
In his arms on the back of a white horse
Who was crossing the universe towards
Shining bright twinkling star North
He was flying far away from the sorrow
To the light that lifts the hollowness
Of the arduous earthly life

It was a single mime on a plain stage
But his movements gestures and face
Created artistic full blooded alive 
Image of Love Hope and Escape
Audience saw a trinity on the stage
In a few different kaleidoscopic
Dynamic emerging and fleeting ways 
Brought to life by a willpower of a man
Who squarely believed in the magic of stage

A year ago he was in a creative daze
In the middle of night on the stage 
Taming a wild horse till exhausted
He fell down on a bare cold floor
Slipping in a deep like death sleep
He was walking in a prairie filled with
Tall wild grass reaching the clouds

He got lost and his heart was beating loud
Then he saw an old woman who was lying
On a dry grass floor at the water pool
With long white hair spread wide
With empty eyes staring at the sky 
She looked at him and died
A young man her beloved son was
Feverishly trying to hold indomitable 
Horse with his young strong hands
So he can take his pain away
And he would not have to feel
The loss and to think about 
The dialectics of death and life

He saw a horse a man and a woman
In his vision that night very late
Almost in the morning when sunrise
Was coming through the window 
And the horse was hopping away 
In to the opening gap of the 
Bleeding red morning sky
Melting into distant disappearing
Constellation of milky way
When he opened his eyes 
He was deeply shaken by the image
He saw in his dream last night
Which expressed the essence
Of sorrow despair pain and loss
The image of a man woman and a horse
So he knew he had to try
To tell the story on the stage
The way he saw it in his daze

The audience was very quiet
When the stage curtain fell down
Announcing the end of the show
On the bare stage on the plain floor
Magical world that opened the doors
Into delicate realm of shapes and forms
Had a strange effect just like a raging storm
That was gone by the time of the end
Bringing unexpected agonizing relief
That Aristotle called the effect of catharsis
Or the purge of a suffering wounded soul
That couldn't find peace in the real world

Copyright © ruta skendeliene | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by john chizoba vincent | Details

Pen Errand

I know that even when others deceive me, you can't decieve me with your blossoming ink of truth.
Go tell them what has happened to our budget,
Tell them that our budget is missing in a broad day light, who stole it? We Are yet to know.
Tell them that the chibok girls have not return from the forest of lies.
Tell them that the president is confused in fighting corruption.
Tell them that the same looters are our ministers in the government house.





Go to the school, tell the teachers that they have lied to us.
They told us that we are the leaders of tomorrow and our hopes were lifted up, happy. Joyful. Excited.
Yet, the old men still control us like cattle in the field.
They taught us how to carry Bible on our left hands
And then, hold gun on our right hands to kill.
They taught us to keep lies on our upper teeth and
Truths on our lower teeth and deceit at the tip of the tongue.
How the weak sun smile, they shows us with laughter
How the air was inverted with a cloud of worry; they taught with a black chalk which depict darkness.






Go tell the moon that the world is not happy with it,
Why colour our world with white while we need darkness, darkness that speak honestly to humans?
Stop no where until you get to the skin of the sky,
Paint it with red and black of your tongue, humans
Don't need white sky but black and red sky.
Hurl my soul to the people of the earth, smile not!
Laugh not, pen! For the gods are blind to see your work.
Where are the gods of the land which supposed to shield us to peace?!
Where are the gods in this land?
Where is Obatala, Ogun, Amadioha, Sango, Arusi?
Where are they, my beloved pen?
It wasn't so in the beginning, no, it wasn't so in our time.






Your words is but a candle on stand with men,
You will make many blind and many loose their senses when you start with your endless talking.
What good is that to them that they live on earth?
All have sinned and you must tell them the truth,
Do not be gentle on those hard stone, honey pen.
Go! go!! Go tell them of the pains they have caused
While I remain in this darkness called bar of truth.
Hide nothing from any man or woman, understand?!
Men have chew many cud in their mouths and this had made them forget their creator's warning of love.





Hold the church at ramsom because they caused the war, religion war against one another in the church.
Tell the pastor of your observation; of his drifting off from the doctrine of God, the creator of the universe.
Ask the Imam why many are killing in his mosque,
Why many has created their own part instead of the
Path of their prophet; Mohammed, why?
Then, return to the church and ask the pastors why
Prosperity sermons is the order of the day, pretty pen;
Don't be shy and intimidated on this journey.
Many would abuse you but forth I send you not backward.







Tell the government they have done us more bad than good.
The masses are weeping at the door of their houses,
Commotion here and there in their handwritten letters
The oil they made to fight against us in an abnormal way.
Our hearts they have taken to their hearts to dine with.
When shall the call of intergrity be made to us?
When shall all return home to feast together as one family?
Tell them we see all their works to us under the sun,
Every one shall receive their reward when the time comes.
No king forever, soldier go, soldier come, barracks remain the same.







Stories foretold between my fingers are the sad ones.
Dreams made real by the stroke of a golden pen is real to the boredom of their looted ego in the world.
Blue inks manifest to change course of humankind but their dirty hearts foretold of an unchanged facts.
Red inks warn of impending wordless doom that will befall men when their hearts remain the way it is.
Black ink is the colour of their souls, black demons.
A writer's morsel is pictures in the brain of his brain.
Tell them to turn to the rhymes of their dance and watch how the beads they wear will mock them in tears.





Let your words be broken into verses so that they could understand that life wasn't to get and eat alone.
Mighty pens speak and, I know you won't disappoint me when you see their faces in the light rooms.
Do not look at their faces nor look into their eyes!
Those faces and eyes are decieving to look at. 
Your languages their tongue may not understand but write it down on a white parchment paper shrivels under your bleeding  body, maybe they would understand.
Words are my wealth, the wealth you really need to share with the world to know of our pains.








Journey of a pen knows no destiny nor fate of others,
They may take your words or leave them at the door of their ears but; make sure you speak what I asked you to speak to the dying world of sin.
I cannot beg the graveyard to teach men of quality of being honest but, I can only plead you to redirect their steps .
I may not  have to  live completely to write but this errand I sent you shall represent me long before am gone, the legacy of your message to the world shall not be wipe away nor be chased away from people's heart.
I die tomorrow but death never kill me when my words are evidence in their hearts.




(C) John chizoba vincent
Voice from Nkporo

Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Verlena S. Walker | Details

The Providentiality of Farming in Giantvillism - Page 1

The Providentiality of Farming in Giantvillism Eccentric people with their characteristics and ways must move forward to a more defined place. The climate enriches the Earth and science is formed for the vegetation to bloom. By being attentive and aware, farming is providentiality and a people becomes proactivity. ***** Jakobirye Castle is abreast in mind, for today, he is energetic and enthusiastic to endeavor afar. Giantvillism he wants to visit soon to talk about the natural habitat of this world beyond. He has begun to study the vegetation that is so different from Beantown’s. This is because he desires to farm the land with the seeds of his people birth and knowledge. Yes, Giant and Maddy do have their aspiration from their insight about their world, but for now he knows that learning what is there to nurture and nourish is first and foremost. ***** Besides being of acumen to do, Jakobirye, also known as Jake, ensued that he would bring each seed of Beantown with him. He fancied testing the land of Giantvillism to see how each crop would form. Accordingly, he is decisive in building small plots to plant each seed he brings. On his way up his beanstalk, Jake begins to sing, as he always does, about his ideas of teaching the providential of farming in Giantvillism. * Would be of great importance… That is to farm for a greater harvest. The land seems to be so rich. I can’t believe that I am this fortunate. So I travel to this world beyond to plant the seeds of Beantown. ** Upon his mid-morning arrival in Giantvillism, Jake went into the Village of the Big People Stone. This is where Giant and Maddy roamed. He greeted them with a loud hello and each moved fast to embrace their friend with love. They, therein, exchanged traditional words of greetings as… "Greetings Jake and welcome to our world". Herein, Jake begins to tell why he had come. *** Jake: In that it is time to begin to develop the land, farming will cultivate the earth and bear the fruit of our labor. Giant: What do we have to do? Maddy: This is to grow food? Jake: I have brought the seeds from Beantown and if you have seeds to plant, now is the time. Maddy: We do have the seeds from our birth and knowledge. Giant: Will we plant these seeds straight into the Earth? Jake: Yes, but we will build half-acre plots and plant the seeds there to see how well the crop forms from the Earth in your world. This will let us know what works and what does not work. Giant(with Maddy nodding): Therefore, let’s get to work first thing tomorrow. Today we must decide how much land we need to use and the land milieu. **** The land was chosen in the southwest of the Village, which was vast and wide. There were a 150 seeds to plant from Beantown and with 78 seeds to plant from this world, the forecast shows much work to be done. Giant, Maddy, and Jake anticipation was high. They went to their quarters to rest for the night was young and each wanted to be prepared because they desire was to finish the sowing within 3 to 5 days. Insofar as Giant and Maddy would like Jake to return home as confident as he came, and when harvest time comes, Jakobirye Castle, Giant, and Maddy of the Big People would be fulfilled men. ***** The Village of the Big People Stone woke-up to a day of community farming. Giant, Maddy, and Jake fruit and veggies were the seeds of the ground. They worked hard on the very first day because they wish for a half of acre of each seed sowed. With this adding up to 114 acres, they sowed 35 acres of seeds, with one half-acre for each seed, on the first day. This was the start of a livable future that would benefit ‘neighborhood engagement, community-building, and making fresh veggies and fruits’ the nourishment formed from the richness of the earth here in Giantvillism. The second day started off hectic. This is because Giant and Maddy had prior engagements. Today was a day of new birth where Giants life evolved from the cellulosic seen on the trees. As a result, Giant and Maddy duties were required to make sure everyone life formed as known in which the number would be five five zero (5-5-0). Five hundred and fifty (550) new lives evolve as adults and now Giantvillism population was at fifteen hundred (1500). The Village of the Big People Stone was flourishing. They properties where in the southeast of the Village in which they begin to build their home front. At 11:30, morning time, all had settle in their work. Giant and Maddy went to help Jake. This day they would sowed 25 acres of seeds with the end of the day bringing 60 acres completed. Day three and four were put aside for community farming only. On day three, 28 acres were completed with day four 26 acres bringing the ultimate achievement. Everything was done and Jake could rest on the fifth day and return home on the sixth day, but he had to leave further instructions on how to make sure the crop provided a great harvest. ****** ____________________________________________________________| Written October 14, 2016!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Funom Makama | Details

He said, I said

How the housefly gets attracted to organic decay and an infant child traces the voice of its mother are nothing compared to the intense attraction Michelle and I possess on the guy owning not a strand of hair on his head but is in command of all forms of feminine arousal Our weakness was too glaring; our lust, too embarrassing the chance to act rare and expensive we've lost. All we've got is to dance to the tune of his authority as he smiled and consented to our 'not so hidden' desires. Now, he walks straight at us his every step, an additional load on me I seem to carry the entire solar system on my chest. My heartbeat, pulsations and breath are as loud as a live rock band "I've never seen you here is this your first time?"......... He said "Yeah, actually!".................. I said. My friend and I responded simultaneously our answers gushing out like a group of running horses, mine seem to carry more weight as it tames any challenge from hers. "So, how did two love Angels fall in such an unworthy place as this?"......... He said "How unworthy?"........................................... I Said. I've championed the game of words and emotions and just as what inevitably defines the day is sunlight so is my testament. Michelle showed glimpse of disapproval to my replies but my exclamation of her name gave adequate caution. "yes, this place is unworthy, because I need to pass through seven Oceans and seven hills to see someone like you"........... He said. "Then you'll never find me there. I'm not a specie going extinct." ............................ I Said. The gods of luck have smiled on the Lions once again in preference to other cats. The father of favour, shaking hands with the Eagle while by-passing the other birds. This is my exact situation as jealousy builds a castle in my friend's heart. "So, what's your name, sweet damsel?"...... He said. "Anna"........................................................ I said. This is a familiar routine, his plan is as detectable and as obvious as watered grass but letting it turn green is what I must not allow so that the security of my reputation is not compromised. "Anna is a lovely name, do you like poker?"........ He said. "No, I don't!"........... I said. The looks of my friend, spoke 'awe' mine replied in aggression then she flowed in complete understanding on its message on not acting cheap especially to the one we've shown so much likeness. "So what do you like?".......................He said. "Going out to the Cinema or the beach or engaging in salsa".......................... I said. Already scoring goals and dominating the game, I felt my opponent was completely toothless and flattened. But playing along is my aim to make him beg on his knees which adds to my fame. "Can we try any of those sooner?"......................... He said. "How do you mean?"............................................... I said. Another punch brings about another shield and sometimes a strong defence feels more fulfilling than a heavy attack. "Let's go out to the movies this night"............. He said. "I'm busy tonight!"........................................... I said. It feels like punishment to him but he takes it like a challenge and this keeps me far from winning. Being on top is my birth right and a step lower is deemed a sacrilege. "What about going to the beach this weekend?".................. He said "I'll be out of town"................................................................. I said. Persistence could be rewarding but my protective walls are just too thick for any form of penetration; too high for any form of infiltration and too deep for any form of condemnation. "Then, when would you be free to teach me Salsa?"............................ He said. "I'm not stable, neither can I determine my free time"..................... I said. The game of attack and defense is never absolute as the attacker may fall victim of a rare counter attack or the defender, gets wary of his defense with no chance to pull an offensive string. Either, ending up as the vanquish despite the brilliant strategies being set up. "Michelle, are you also unstable like Anna?"...... He said "What!"............................................................... I said. Envy plans on a historic transfer while my friend poised not an aota of difficulty and this makes me extremely furious. She was just at the corner waiting for this opportunity and even before it avails itself, she snatches it into her well guided belongings. Looking at both in confusion and disappointment; they share contacts and crack jokes. "I'll give you a call this evening".................. He said Nothing I said because now, Michelle is running the show.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014

Long Poems