Long poem by
JW Earnings | Details
There's consequences in all we say and do
Go forward and walk your walk and I'll go ahead and talk my talk
Quite distraught due to the fact that you're too good to be true
I know that the Lord of Accord will be following me like my shimmering shadow wherever I walk
I will walk and walk
And I will talk my talk
I will practice what I preach
To the pupils, I will teach
Pensive propositions is my speech's mission
Honor and think through Constructive criticism
Cleverly-written composition begin to slightly transition
Take correction not for granite...with optimism that is symmetrical like a puny prism
Free-spirited I long to be
With you as long as I thrive to wondrously live
I want to flee and be set free
Let go and have consideration to generously give
Be anxious for nothing
Love all and do your thang
God's spirit is available to us 24/7
I always make my way to 7-eleven
Doing away with the latter days of my lament
Live in the present of yesterday's tomorrow
My mind constantly whirls around like a hurricane near the beach and tornado in the east side of the United States - my mind is cozy in God's tent
Repenting slowly, but surely until sorrow is a healing scar that flies away in recovery like a splendid, spunky sparrow
Hooking up problems I need to fix
At least I don't receive a million kiks
Tweet me, Facebook me, tumblr me...insta me...younow me...
But I'll still be lonely as can be
Fruit of the spirit drives me to drift away from deception's flow that's broad and deceiving
Faithful and loyal with dignity and positivity is what I crave in my character of behave-and-be-brave...
Self-control braces itself upon my inner being and I accept it kindly
Patience paints a picture of peace in the frame of my mind silently
Is enmity to God that is evil and impure
It leads to death I'm sure
God's way - the way of life at least in my humble opinion, which will be a fact in the near future
It's okay to be different
It's alright to be working on perfection
As long as you repent
For all the downfalls and sins we've committed that gave you inner infection
Reveal to me His spirit and the life it produces fruitfully
Zealous is the sun that shines upon me oh so dutifully
Gracious be to the sons and daughters of Him who has made the world so beautifully
Until Satan tainted it with sinister avarice and insidious, chaotic catastrophe
Quit your disputes and quarrels and arguing alike
Stop trolling people on the net...or you'll have something to regret
Listen to instruction
You choose destruction or construction
Do you want His amazing affection or His raging rejection!!?
Foundation of faithfulness
Goes to the called ones in God's family alone and He is the Father we look upon
Obliteration of misery's mess
Come on and follow me...I will be your responsible leader from now on
I want knowledge from God
From on high, not down below in Satan's Despising Nature
People just ignore and nod
Approach people in the nicest way and react, act and think good thoughts and good actions and interactions that are grown-up and mature
Need I proclaim my beliefs to all the world, Lord?
Should I explain myself constantly? What's my award? Reward?
What if I commit sins that I can't afford?
I hoard shame in my brain basement, but you played skillfully on the I-forgive-you keyboard
There's a reason behind what God does
Do not remain blind or deaf
The spirit of stupor is splendid to my human nature....and its faithless flaws
I don't understand your plate's creativity, my chill chef
God selects His special chosen one
He sees the nature and character of each and everyone
He is the guide to everlasting life that's full of blessings and miracles
But, my life is full of depression dungeons and mysterious black holes
Eat Christ's flesh and drink His blood of His Father's Wise Sayings and Life-giving Word
You must abstain from lusts of your gullible, heartless hearts and your prayers will be heard
If you don't believe and betray Him for life,
Your life will end in jaded death and strife
I wish I can declare His Word to all nations
But I get nervous and soft-spoken beyond frustrations and heightened hesitations
I'm awkward... Why was I called in His church?
Am I a bird that has nowhere to truly rest and perch?
Predicaments in double trouble dilemmas substantially produce like cells in the body
Free me, heal thee, I die for you to live...I live for you to die...your hard heart makes my softness wither with everybody
Wide and broad are the path of many in this world of woe...and no one fully knows why
Difficulty be to the few who choose the narrow route that leads to constructive criticism by Lotd Most High
Once saved, always saved -
A belief originated in Christianity
I beg to differ - His saving grace has waved
Its effortless goodbye to Human's Atrocity
Labor in prayer, don't swelter
Work in love, sweat off hate and swear not
Be a giver, not a getter
Resist the urge to sin and persevere always, even in the darkness we rot
Through enduring self-control
Unlearn Satan's nature, as small as an elf
Compared to God's Giant Word that is a life tool to be rid of the fool inside us as a whole
Doing evil will have its aftershocks sting us like a viper
It will shoot us down, so bite the bullet of the serpent's sniper
I pray that I live in sanctuary city for the time being
I envy the happy-go-lucky and dislike what I'm seeing
Drinking in the Lord's yoke,
Mixed with the Words He spoke
You bind me with a biggo blind fold
Your spirit's intention is to simply scold
Faithful Moses parted the Red Sea
Miracles and curses shelter thee
I never knew that my life was of significance
Until I noticed that everyone is living in ignorance
Except the called ones...
Faith that weigh a trillion tons
Thank God for everything good
His word is a nourishing food
Emerge from the scorching coals and ice fire of your existence
Transform yourself before you remain in ashes' realm...seek repentance
The good news of the Kingdom of God is ringing in my ears
Wondering when it will be that day of awesome forever years
I will walk and walk
And I will talk my talk
I will practice what I preach
To the pupils, I will teach
Fret not the desires on fire and the passionate petitions of your young heart
Do not worship other gods before Him - Frey will fade away from the start
The gods of the east have come to get their revenge towards the gods of the east
The battle between them is beast...it's like enjoying a feast of chaos and commotion and peace and emotion...but their attitudes puff up like the bread ingredients that includes yeast
Inspired by (Matt. 7:13), (Matt. 11:29) and (Hebrews 11:24)
Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Ian Love | Details
[ story with context, a plausible universe with top and bottom
a coat of cosmos covering
over a subterranean protoverse of potential fields
a quantum cellar creating
the very big banging cosmos and much faster-than-light travelling
a probable theatre telling
of real possibility, fabulous overtures grounding deep base notes
life insistent, intermingling
incredible scenes playing out, coinciding with our own backyard
exploring, ever evolving... ]
exotic orb ? controlling dips between protoverse and the cosmos
rationale ? many minds minding
prime number composition ? seven million and sixty-one beings
all but one, still soundly sleeping
free-fall spirits just departed from a far-side galactic spiral arm
slow rhythmic dance, dizzy dreaming
sweeps inward around a massive black hole, gathering energy
cosmic speedster, flung fast flinging
protoversic drive to the suburbs, a myriad of stars invite
gentle probe, meme-melder mixing
juncture, reached in a blink, one-third across this beautiful galaxy
ethereal form, flimsy fleeting
mostly abolished space-time-matter, thirty-three thousand light years
emerges, clever craft cruising
no visible containment, just coherent rippling orb-like presence
with background quantum quivering
life slumbers on, networks calibrated, cells healed, new thoughts imagined
aware now, senses slowly stirring
as trusted "anticipator", open my eyes, feel alive again
reinforced, companions cuddling
functional, memory of last sojourn, full of miscalculation
lessons learnt, wistful wondering
warm memories flood in, tinged with sadness, as strange images disturb
melancholic mood measuring
constituent minds tingle and wriggle, more discomfort than pleasure
not sure yet, jape jostle-jangling
so move on, look forward to the glow ahead in the looming star-fields
search renewed, filters fine-tuning
our "scanners" primed to focus on bandwidths along the galactic plane
narrow beam, selective seeking
then...five sentient life-forms sensed, near a single mid-life yellow star
unusual, babble buzzing
three do not surprise, the fourth seems rare, the fifth is entirely unknown !
alter course...busy bee-lining
intrigued, "pilots" counsel caution, beneath the planetary orbits
blind-side approach, closer creeping
a stable solar system revealed, life is now clearly evident
artefacts duly dispersing
disparate group, crawling stellar-bound, unoccupied space vehicles
their signals, home-planet pointing
the originators ? large localised brain, upright body species
on-board discs, human song singing
gravity bound, oxygen breathers, not natural space-wayfarers
but inquisitive, inquiring
bimanual, bipedal, explorers of their planetary system
peering beyond, looking, longing
from double planet, third world, 8 light minutes out from the sun, named Sol
locked embrace with smaller sibling
planet of origin they call the Earth, two orbiting space stations
many satellites surrounding
our distraction suddenly broken...as in unison we shudder !
pointed incoming beam bouncing
not sure if breached ? if probe gained entry ? if we are violated ?
strong feeling of gut-wrenching guilt
as "anticipator", I failed to anticipate, who knows what risk !
the rest respond, reassuring
our "scanners" hastily replay the event, scan, as only they can
narrowing down, sourcing, searching
stable legrange-point, far-side of sun-earth gravitational system
my "others" vent, much muttering
we overshoot, then manoeuvre in, our approach, the sun shining behind
defences up, our ship-shape shielding
a lumpy rock, gravity secured, five light-seconds from planet Earth
human instrument, scouring visible heavens for footloose danger
otherwise barren, silence screaming
but for warmed up dust-cloud, a hasty, eerie departure signature ?
frightened frantic lift-off leaping ?
slight wobbling motion on the rock, along with tell-tale surface abrasions
interstellar interloping ?
we feel exposed, nervous, rattled, we need more effective camouflage
cozy collective counselling
towards the blue planet, from behind sister Luna, they call the Moon
options open, plan preparing
note in our passing, dim human base-lights, near the far-side Earth margin
light valley shafting, shimmering
the beautiful one glides over the horizon, we are planet-struck
recharging, pleasure powering
a lucky break, covered by coincidental meteor shower
exospheric, in-close curving
updated report... humans, early-stage solar system colonisers
world-wide internet web, consciousness suspected, though not apparent
worth revisiting, reviewing
a mostly watery world with sentient planet-bound cetaceans
from early epoch evolving
landward, primitive, sentient hominids, related to the humans
that's four of the five, still no sign of the vanishing, illusive ones
harbinger, time turning troubling !
so descend, past atmospheric spheres to a warm glimmering ocean
slide in, only stealthy splashing
diving down, light receding, pressure building, where there is time to think
layers covertly covering
our hidden presence and games we might play, maybe companions willing
alien fingers finessing
candidate creature, the largest-ever animal on this planet
still living, still deep sea swimming
a blue whale to wrap around with delicate ephemeral touching
sharing thoughts and feeling feelings
Copyright © Ian Love | Year Posted 2018
Long poem by
T Wignesan | Details
K373 and K374 of the THIRUKKURAL: Translated with Commentary
The poet's name, THIRUVALLUVAR [Thiru = Sacred and Valluvar = the name of the priesthood caste of the « Pariah » (whom Mahatma Gandhi prefered to call "Harijans", "the children of God"), is very probably a misnomer. His name is sometimes followed by the collective title of « Nayanar », a term signifying religious Siva Bhakti poets and whose work had been anthologised first in the collection : TEVARAM by Nambi Andar Nambi of the Xth to XIth century CE. No one knows his real name nor his origins, whereabouts and birth circumstances. G.U.Pope, one of the few great foreign scholars of Tamil, began his missionary work in the enclave of Mayilapur (meaning "the township/bourgade of peacocks" in the city of Madras/Chennai, during the nineteenth century) . The term « pariah » denotes something most derogatory, for in the Hindu caste hierarchical system these members of the lowest non-caste were treated as "defiled", not worthy of being seen or being found in their company, due to their having to handle corpses, serving as "night soil men", employed in the tanning of animal skins and in other extreme menial duties and functions -- all considered "un-holy" by the upper castes]. Pope follows the claims of the popular tradition in thinking the poet lived and grew up there for there is to be found a temple consecrated to the poet in Mayilapur. Others like S. Padmanabhan and the Tamil Nadu authorities associate his name with Kanyakumari, the southernmost district of the Tamil peninsula on the strength of certain words in the Thirukkural which were in usage in the area during the first millenium of our era. Yet, others - Tamil Christians in the majority - wish him to have imbibed Christian doctrines and teachngs at the feet of the martyred apostle St. Thomas who was assassinated in Mayilapur, obviously in the first century of the Christ's existence. Pope and the great missionary translators and interpretors of the kurals, such as, D. H. Drew, John Lazarus, F. W. Ellis, the ilustrious Italian Beschi, the German Graul and the Frenchman Ariel -- all pay him their profoundest respect and admiration while drawing attention to the tradition of ethical maxims in other literary cultures to which Thiruvalluvar may or may not have had cognisance. As usual, as in all such cases, a good deal of myth also willingly gets spun, absorbed and perpetuated like the story of how he was the illegitimate issue of caste-miscegenation, that is, between a Brahmin father and a "Pariah" mother.
I have already in my previous posts shown how complicatedly arduous it is to compose a "kural"in the venba metre, the most difficult of the Tamil prosodic structures. Add to this the plan and structure of the whole composition, and it will become evident that no one who had not enjoyed the highest literary and mental capacities could have authored this oeuvre.
Even the language the poet used was free of "sankriticisms", the principal linguistic influence over other languages in the sub-continent. According to Pope, himself, the language of the kural is a product of pure high Tamil. For instance, Tamils everywhere today would use innumerable words of Sanskrit or of other origins in their spoken or written forms like "kobam" for "anger" or "sadtchi" for "witness", but in the kural the poet employs "vekuli" and "kari" respectively, words of Tamil concoction.
I, for myself, am convinced he was, as I said earlier on, "unjustifiably oppressed". In that case, how has his work survived the ages. That is because he outsmarted them all. I have my own « theory » or conjecture or deduction about it all. (T. Wignesan)
K373: nunniya noolpala katpinum marrunthen
unmai arivee mikum
In subtle learning manifold though versed men be,
The wisdom, truly his, will gain supremacy. (Transl. G.U.Pope)
Although a man may study the most polished treatises, the knowledge
which fate has decreed to him will still prevail. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
Even if one imbibes works from the most learned sources, knowledge that
is inherent* in him owing to fate will triumph (over the rest).
[*in the sense of the inherited genetic code.]
(Transl. T. Wignesan)
K374: iruveeru ulakatthu iyatkai
thiruveeru thelliyar aathalum veeru
Two-fold the fashion of the world: some live in fortune's light;
While other some have souls in wisdom's radiance light. (Transl. G.U. Pope)
There are (through fate) two different natures in the world; hence the difference
(observable in men) in (their acquisition of) wealth, and in their attainment of knowledge. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
The nature of the world is such that fate provides some with the ability to acquire wealth and others knowledge. (Transl. T. Wignesan)
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Donal Mahoney | Details
In 1962, I was a caseworker, not a social worker, in the Cabrini-Green Housing Project in Chicago. In that era, the difference between a caseworker and a social worker was simple. A social worker had a degree or two in social work and was qualified to work with the poor. A caseworker usually had a degree but not in social work. And a caseworker usually had too many clients to have time to do social work even if he or she had a social work degree and knew how to apply it.
To be hired by Cook County Department of Public Aid as a caseworker in 1962, all one had to have was a degree in anything and the ability to pass a test. I passed the test and was assigned as a novice caseworker to Cabrini-Green, perhaps the “toughest" housing project in Chicago at that time. I was assigned to two high-rise buildings with 458 families. I remember their addresses as clearly today as the address of my childhood home. Some things one always remembers.
Being a caseworker in Cabrini-Green was not a job coveted by many. But I was fresh out of grad school, had a pregnant wife, and absolutely no interest in business where salaries, of course, were higher and “careers” potentially much better. I may not have had any training in social work but I really didn’t need any formal training to keep filling out and filing new forms for the many changes that occurred in the lives of the families in my “caseload.”
There are many stories of clients and their lives that I remember because they are impossible to forget. But the one I remember best may illustrate why some "poor people," even today, 50 years later, fail to climb the ladder of success as many middle-class and upper-class families wish they would, if not always for compassionate reasons.
My story involves a young black man, married with two children, who managed to graduate from a local junior college despite living in Cabrini-Green. I happened to see a notice in the neighborhood posted by a major grocery chain looking for a manager trainee at its nearby store. A high school diploma was required. I thought my client was more than qualified.
When I went with my client to the store to make his application, I thought nothing about the workers, at least the ones I saw, being all white and the customers being all black. This was 1962 and that composition would have raised no eyebrows in most stores in the neighborhood surrounding Cabrini-Green. I still thought my client had a chance to get the job. He had a degree from a junior college, looked comfortable in a white shirt and tie, and spoke “white English” in public. He seemed very intelligent.
I was probably about the same age as my client but I came from an all-white section of the city, home to blue-collar immigrants, and my father paid my college tuition. My client worked to pay his tuition and feed his family at the same time. Although I thought he would get the job at the grocery store, he never thought he would. But since I was his caseworker, he went along to fill out the application. Sadly he turned out to be right. And I learned a lesson that day that made a deep impression on me as a novice caseworker.
I can only hope that things are different today, and to some degree I suspect they are. Qualified minorities do get hired in many situations they would not have in 1962. Times change, in some ways for the better but not always for the better. And some things remain stiflingly the same.
Over the decades since, I have often wondered what might have happened to my client and his family. I thought about him again this morning when his mirror image appeared as a news reporter on a TV station in St. Louis. The young reporter looked almost exactly like my client and talked almost as well as he did. The reporter, however, looked as though he knew he would get the job at that station in 2015. My client knew the grocery store would not hire him in 1962.
In St. Louis now, black reporters and black anchors are not the exception to the rule, especially since the 2014 death of Michael Brown in one of our inner-ring suburbs, Ferguson.
I imagine the TV station required the young reporter to have a degree and probably the ability to speak “white English” in public. How he talks on his own time is his own business. After all, I was able talk any way I wanted to when I went home from my job at Cabrini-Green. My kids used to say I sometimes slipped into my father’s Irish brogue when things didn’t go exactly as I had planned. At times I still do. Our roots are always with us.
Copyright © Donal Mahoney | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Kai Michael Neumann | Details
Fragments United In Perfect Imperfection
And all the smeared colours unite into white
Fragmentation personified call it life
broken shards razor sharp at the cutting edge
where darkness meets red pastel indigo’s crown too far to assemble
smattered fracture to be launched from oblivion
baptism of fire watered aired earth’s grounds
Call it madness the insanity of bedlam’s cosmos
awaiting healthy chaotic pandemonium
entropy topsy-turvy balance yoyo’s stagnation
the juggler’s explosion
Universal trapeze trampoline free falling
on impact a pact with the devil which does not
Exist but for molecules here and there fused and divided
In haywire resolution for the shrapnel once smoothened
on the edges to nowhere
soothes pike’s spikes and the scalpel’s bond
super glues quivering
quakes in silence
The glass’ bits and crushed illusion of wholeness
deluded schisms shibboleths trenches mental warfare
burst crumbled unison tar potted gold at the end of rainbow prisms
blinding light assembled
peaceful resolution in disarray acceptance
inter-webbed connected intermingled
Liberation freedom in acceptance
en-storied en-lived enlivened
where life is narrated
and all the little pieces are
When evening falls at dawn
One story one life one body
one mind one soul my soul
Painted pained paned into a novel window
lens focus composition
No more pieces’ disproportion
Convocation concocted congregating the dots
in the puzzle called broken pieces the bigger picture
lies in bed with Chronos and Kairos
does not lie rather resonates
salutes truth honest saltation the salt of
my shallow sorrows
jumping at me from out of
the box with some
marvellous marbles created from scraps
All The Little Pieces Poetry Contest
13th September 2016
Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Cona Adams | Details
A combination of Prose and Free Verse:
The most thrilling and inspirational piece of music ever to reach my
ears is, without doubt, Handel's Messiah. I've never known anyone
who could experience a performance and remain unmoved by this
stirring composition. There is not a doubt in my mind that Handel
was inspired by God's Holy Spirit while writing the brilliant oratorio.
Since its first performance in 1742, Messiah has remained one of the
most popular works in music. From all accounts, Handel was surely
driven to push himself to the limit in its completion.
George Frideric Handel (1685-1759) was a German-born organist and
composer. He was born in Halle and began taking music lessons at the
age of seven. By the time he was 12, he was assistant organist at the
Halle cathedral. As a youth, he had a typical Lutheran education, and
began his work as a composer at the age of 18. Three years later, he
moved to Italy and worked there for several years, becoming one of
the most popular composers of Italian opera. He composed 46 Italian
operas, over 100 Italian solo cantatas, 32 oratorios, and many other
works. His anthem for the coronation of George II has been used for
all subsequent coronations. As an organist, he was considered without
At the age of 27, he moved to England, lived in London until his death,
and is buried in Westminster Abbey. He was 56 when he abandoned
opera and dedicated himself to composing oratorios. Messiah was the
first, and was presented in a theater in Dublin in 1742. Less than ten
years later, blindness forced him to give up composing but he remained
active. He conducted a Holy Week performance of Messiah the day before
he died. It was told of Handel, that he was so engrossed in his work during
the composition of Messiah, that he shut himself away in his study and
would not come out until it was completed. His housekeeper would bring
his food on a plate, knock on the door, and set the tray on the floor. When
she would return to retrieve the dishes, the food was invariably untouched.
He felt the excitement of true inspiration, and the urgency of recording it.
As he emerged, gaunt and unkempt, his eyes shone with an inner radiance,
and he declared that he had “. . .seen the great God himself.”
The power of this work has inspired millions since its first performance. The
text is a collection of quotations gathered from the Bible by Handel’s friend
Charles Jennens. It illustrates the foundations of Christianity in a series of
musical numbers that parallel the prophecy of Christ’s coming, his birth, life,
death, and resurrection. The main reason for the popularity of Messiah lies
in its glorious choruses, which display a variety of mood and technique.
“And the Glory of the Lord” is a happy dance-like chorus in triple time. In
“Surely He hath Borne our Grief's,” Handel portrayed grief with solemn
rhythms and thick harmony. The thrilling “Hallelujah Chorus” shows Handel
as a master of choral effects.
This poem was inspired by reading about George Frideric Handel's passionate
experience during the writing of Messiah.
What's That I Hear?
The bells are ringing,
The angels are singing,
do you hear?
They are telling the story
The Son is exalted, exalted.
Handel's Messiah is heard
in heaven, as always.
What a gift God gave us
through one man,
willing to listen.
listen with your heart,
what do you hear?
Reference: The Columbia Encyclopedia - Second Edition, 1950
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
T Wignesan | Details
Unquotable quotes : EVIL PEOPLE – VIIIL (42)
Animals (amphibians, reptiles), birds, insects, dinosaurs and even imaginary beasts kill to eat. Humans for pleasure, pain and profit.
Evil people never think of Evil lest they feel remorse over whether the extent, duration and intensity of their acts wrought the mostest and the damnedest on the object(s) of their wilful designs.
Evil people never inflict harm on others unless it is to placate their gods. And their gods are always right, so say their prophets and their preachers.
Crusades, conquests and colonizations are always under-written by the sacred commandments of holy texts rained down from above for the benefit of heathens only, for they are invariably the most devout.
Evil people never understand why the evil they wreak is not always successful nor productive –from their point of view – for they fear to step out into the open from out of the grip of their conditioned reflexes they were bound into from babyhood. They rather not – they will not – believe their gods can be less than the plenipotentiaries of the multi-verse pantheon, even if the revelations of present-day astrophysics and quantum mechanics were unknown to their gods and prophets at the time of the composition of the holy texts taken right out of the mouths of their gods.
Evil people always feel invulnerable when they lay their lives down for their beliefs and convictions: god before country, country before caste, race before religion, religion before rights, club before cause, sperm before spouse, money before madness, airs before achievement, avidity before nudity, the party before parents, the House before home, profit before principle, the prophet before poet, violation before violence, the President before peasant, His Holiness before humanity…
Evil people always find happiness for the happy are those who are protected here-in and here-after by the powers that be.
Evil people know they are always right for don’t their leaders always remind them of their might.
The Seal of the Saviours always sits well on evil people provided they further his/their side every time they have fun at the expense of those born with less in their pockets or much less grey-matter behind eye-sockets.
Evil people always manage to stay afloat: watch how they gloat even in a leaking boat in the moat around their fortresses, far from the final departing coast.
Evil people earn merit by trampling on those who swear by no holy spirit.
Evil people all hate to be told they make no haste to read the texts of their ingrained faiths, nor that they take no vows to vie with other fellow louts.
Evil people all dream of the day when their captains will call it a day to put an end to the melting mountains of ice by pulling the foolscap over their eyes.
Evil people all drink and belch in the faces of those without the wherewithal to be merry for they know they can sell their souls as a last resort for a thimble-full of sherry.
Evil people all put the blame on the nation for their trials and fibrillations of their fabrications owing to the wheezing bag of bones in the name of the people prone to a measly existence.
The ancient Chinese classic of Change, the Yi Jing says: Retreat into yourself when you see evil people approach: they will go away by themselves.
But maxim 1073 of the classical Tamil treatise on Ethics, the Thirukkural, says:
theevar anaivar kayavar avarumthaam
meevana seitholuga laan.
Evil people resemble the gods in that
They too may do as they please.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2017
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Brian Johnston | Details
(5) At the same time, the US was exploring space, and we were able to view the stars for the first time in space above the atmosphere. Earthbound telescopes have to look through miles of dirty air which distorts the images of stars that we see (this is why stars seem to twinkle) , so I refer to the air as an atmospheric blindfold that is burned up by spacefaring astronauts.
(6) Early landings were at sea, and on at least one landing the astronauts were taken to a waiting aircraft carrier where the cooks had baked a 300-pound 'Angel Food Cake' to welcome them home. The aircraft carrier had thousands of people on board waiting to party.
(7) Many 'religious' folk worried greatly in the late 1950s that NASA 'shooting holes in heaven' with its rockets might bring about the end of the world! I even wrote a poem about it!
(8) Space is not empty but contains millions of photons (a kind of sea) .
(9) The human eye contains both 'rods that can detect weak light' and 'cones that can detect colored light when the light is stronger.' The color disappears after dusk because the cones are not sensitive enough.
In any case, when I read my poem aloud to the class, both the Professor and all the English majors got suddenly quiet. It was the first time in my life that I had a strong sense of my potential as a future writer and a poet! I felt that all were genuinely impressed by what I had done!
Imitation: A Creative Compliment?
Well, of course, there are different kinds of imitation. A simple one would be to strike the poet's name and publish the poem as your own. But of course, if you do this often enough you will get caught eventually.
To write the same poem but change a few words, so it is not an exact copy would be another way to imitate. But in both of these cases, the intent is clearly to deceive others and where plagiarism rears its ugly head.
Foster Harris, a creative writing instructor at OU, wrote some books in the area of 'Writing To Sell' which are interesting, though perhaps outdated by now. Foster claimed that there are only a small number of actual plots available for writing a novel, less than ten as I recall. If that is so, then it certainly creates a problem for someone wanting to write an original work. He suggested to his students that they think of their writing as you would the weaving of a carpet. There are the supporting threads he called the 'warp' and the right angle threads he called the 'woof.' He suggested we think of the 'warp' threads as the plot, which while important play, mostly a supporting role. And then, there is the 'woof' which is the insight that you weave onto the warp. Your life education is what you get paid for (if you do!) Ha!
Now my imitation of Richard Wilbur's poem is two-fold. I wanted to write a composition that would hang on his scaffolding and also be thematically similar, a sort of snapshot of what I see and love when I look at the earth. Is this plagiarism? I would say not! But loving imitation, yes, a heaping spoonful. Though I doubt that Richard would even see his poem in mine, I have no qualms at all about honoring him for his influence on me. Never-the-less, I would argue that this poem is clearly mine and not his. And I would love to think that he might love my work as much as I do his!
****More to come!****
Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Crow thepoet | Details
sitting there and staring at the screen
reading another tale from me
a chronicle to my life
Please don't sit and ponder my composition
please don't sit and ponder my inquisition
for I need your mind to form an opinion
upon my recent actions
Please bear with me
let me gather up the scattered letters
letters that form the words
the words I've scribbled down for rehearsal
a rehearsal for a play I sloppily put together...
I constructed a love letter just days ago
to pose a poster of happiness I've finally managed to star in
a carbon copy of a starry sky
for you all I know the twisted tales
of my years as a man of misery
I constructed to a love letter
to thank a friend
to thank a personal someone
for reaching in through the fog
reaching in through the debris
the Sorceress and her followers
allowed to build up and block out
contain the gem inside the cavity inside my chest
a figurative treasure chest
Ironic, a treasure I am not one
Sorry, where is my train of thought
Oh right, it's here
directing itself to the point
to save myself from the temptation
the temptation of being subdued
the temptation of feeling the pressure of
of lying to the love letter
of burning it to take back what all I had said
of running back, running back
to reclaim my title of the man of misery
of running back, running back
to the hole in the dirt
to be buried treasure once again
disappearing in the hands of the Sorceress
I tried to break the ties
sever my hands that would try to reach back
systematically drive away the Sorceress and her minions
but how could I
when before the love letter
I promised so much to so many
I promised so much to so many in vain
I promised so much to so many
it's just so hard to lock up in a box
and just say never to open again
I found the words so hard to stomach
the words so hard to spill
And the look I received
the attack that followed
I've never meant to become a destroyer of worlds
who am I to become a destroyer of worlds
I'm just a kid from a small town
always thrown rocks to keep a cool head
but to throw rocks at glass hearts
throwing rocks at glass hearts...
With every heart that breaks
I turn from 5'9 and fall 7 inches shorter
but I guess it's one of my rewards
my gift of being a curse
my promise of being a threat
my ever after of being a perfect disaster
I once shouted I would never be happy again
but now that I felt it finally for all of these years
...what could that possibly mean for me
sitting there reading these words
reading my tale from the chronicle of my life
Please don't ponder my composition
please don't ponder my inquisition
please don't try to make heads or tails of it
for all I ask is your opinion...
Copyright © Crow thepoet | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Denis Barter | Details
When I was a lad and somewhat brash
I often read the poems of Ogden Nash,
whose humourous rhymes on many themes,
was motivation for my own poetic dreams.
Later when I took to reading Edgar Allen Poe,
more of this clever author, I longed to know.
Words from this expert Poet either stimulated
my talent, or left me wholly discombobulated!
When I progressed to renowned Edward Lear;
an expert at composing Limericks, twas clear,
with tongue in cheek, and saucy composition,
he'd shock readers with his lack of inhibition!
Then came E.C. Bentley, inventor of the clerihew,
who wrote biographical pieces, to mock a few
stuffed shirts, and pompous egocentric jerks.
His short poems were succinctly clever works.
The list of humourous poets found, is long tis true,
but not all their works are suited to me and you.
If you seek insight into their clever rhyming minds,
it is within web sites of the Internet today one finds,
their recorded words. Tis true, their style of teasing
is not suited to all. To some they are not pleasing,
for their words are thought rude and unwelcome;
regarding such rhymes as uncouthly unwholesome.
As for me, many poets found in literary perusing,
have written rhymes, I thought cleverly amusing.
Others had composed lines, deviously captivating,
and succeeded by subtle nuance, to be titillating.
Some with punning innuendo, fired my imagination.
Though I seldom criticize, will by close examination,
and applied studious consideration as to a poet's intent,
accept their simple humour as honestly penned content.
Later, chancing upon the witticisms of Benny Hill,
with his deviously clever ditties, many hours I'd fill,
but few can emulate his cleverly bodacious rhymes,
that kept me in stitches, laughing at him betimes.
Others such as Pam Ayres, Fletcher and Spike Milligan,
also possessed a flair for writing literary shenanigan.
With their rhymes that amused and titillated, their intent
was to lampoon, with basic humour, the establishment.
This is sweet music to the ears of this older English émigré;
as are the soliloquies rendered by Stanley Holloway,
but to appreciate such rhymes, one must be literarily liberal
if they would comprehend the humour within such doggerel.
Though many have tried their hand, few achieve success,
and often their best efforts fail. Writers are seen as less
accomplished than notable persona they strive to emulate.
Rare is the rhymster that achieves their dream, to become great!
Yes, I too have tried my hand at composing foolish rhymes,
and have achieved some small success, a few odd times,
but I find writing rhyming falderal is difficult to attain,
for sadly, I do not possess a devious innovative brain!
Rhymer. August 25th, 2016
Copyright © Denis Barter | Year Posted 2016