Long Publishers Poems
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And soon you will see that inside every impossible is the word “possible”…if only we dare to see it. - TerKeurst, Lysa. What Happens When Women Say Yes to God Devotional (p. 40). Harvest House Publishers. Kindle Edition.
Philippians 4:7 (KJV) “And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”
Struggling with stressful situations,
I ask myself – can I possibly overcome?
Fighting my fears, the darkness,
I wonder, can I silence the doubts?
Find answers in the quest?
Can I work through the sorrows?
Let faith paint my heart in hopeful?
Fraught with worries and pain,
I cling to the shadows, marveling –
Can I make it through the greyest rain?
Can I reach beyond my dread, my despair?
Find a way through the desperation?
Grief and grace – both a part of my heart,
Can I listen to the beautiful?
And, erase the sadness that staggers me?
Resisting the demons who torment me…
With shame and guilt, humiliation,
Can I let go of the disgrace, the dishonor?
Find a way through the embarrassment?
Reach beyond the indignity, into the promise…
Bold and brave, the feelings that save me,
From the degradation… feelings of self-respect,
Brought to life despite a life that can reject.
Struggling to learn, to grow, to become –
I ask myself often – can I possibly find my way,
Through the aching, through the sorrows,
Through the disappointments and discouragements?
Can I reach beyond all the reasons –
I have for giving up on my dreams, my beliefs…
And find the courage to listen to God’s promises,
His light shining through my darkest dread,
His assurance filling me with faith,
His kindness reminding me that I am still His,
Despite all the fears, the tears, the years…
When I felt like I couldn’t make it through the hard,
When I wasn’t sure I was meant to know hope,
When I couldn’t let go of the panic in my heart?
Struggling on, I realize – He is my guide,
And, though I may feel like giving up on this life,
I know that, with Him by my side – I’ll find the light,
The lesson, the grace that I need to realize my dreams,
The promise of a joy beyond anything I’d expect to see,
A moment when my prayer is answered by His love,
And, just for a while, there is peace in my world.
If you have a dragon, a great furnace he makes.
belching his fire can heat your entire place.
But, there is one problem, non initially foreseen;
you see dragons, like people, have their own dreams.
We’ve hired a new dragon and now I will tell,
the story of a dragon, who did very well.
So well in fact, that fame took him away
and we were left freezing, on a very cold day.
Most dragons hibernate in warm weather, you see;
but ours was an insomniac; he just couldn’t sleep.
Dreams of grandeur kept him awake;
his imagination soared; his ideas were just great.
He asked for his own blank journal and pen;
he filled it up quickly and asked us again, to
provide him with another and in them he stored,
hundreds of poems and sketches galore.
One day I went downstairs and imagine my shock;
he had hammer and chisel and was carving a rock!
He smiled as he chiseled and then moved away
and I’d been immortalized in marble, that day.
Oh he was so proud; his smile how it beamed
and he asked if I’d get him a bowl of ice cream.
He’d worked up a sweat, as stone carvers do
and then he asked if we had any nail glue.
He’d broken some claws while carving his rock;
Fortunately, we had our supply fully stocked.
He was patched up and really enjoyed his ice cream;
into his journal he recorded more things.
He filled volumes of journals and more
and then made notes on our walls and even on doors.
Well, we just couldn’t keep it all quiet, you see;
so the media got wind of his talent and dreams.
They camped on our lawn and he gave interviews;
would you believe it, the next thing we knew was that,
he could also sing and play guitar; had offers from producers
and publishers; someone gave him a car!
It was pretty clear he’d not be held back;
he gave us his car and went in to pack.
A limo was waiting to drive him away;
we all shed huge tears during that long, last day.
He referred an old friend for our heating needs
and headed for Hollywood; big producers to see.
Well, that was that, we felt he’d moved on,
but we soon discovered that we were wrong.
To be Continued...
CONVERSATION
Good morning, Lord! Thank You for a good night's sleep.
Good morning, My Son! You're quite welcome. Are you refreshed and ready?
Well, Lord, I do feel rather energetic, but ready for what?
I'm glad you feel energetic, because you'll need lots of energy for what I have in store for you today.
Oh! And what might that be, Lord?
You know the widow Jenkins who lives in the rather run down shack on the back forty? Did you notice that her roof needs some repairs, and the front door is sagging on its hinges. The window on the south side has two broken panes and the sash needs fixing.
Lord, that lady is noted for being a little “touched in the head”. Are you sure she won't just send me packin' if I try to help her?
Let me handle her attitude and you do the repairs. By the way, I noticed that the back steps are missing a couple of risers. You need to replace those so she doesn't fall going down them.
Lord, You know lumber and hardware aren't exactly cheap and since I had to spend the 300 dollars on my old truck to keep it runnin', I'm kinda strapped for money right now.
Come, come! Don't you recall that I will supply all your needs? If you are obedient in this matter and trust my promises, you'll not regret it.
Okay, Lord, I'll get it done, but it won't be easy.
Thank You, Lord, for the strength, energy, and stamina to do all that work for the widow Jenkins. She is really a sweet lady – and a great cook! She fixed a lunch for me the likes of which I never had before, And, she seemed right pleased and appreciative of the fact that I would do all that for her.
What's that, Lord? You know I don't play the lottery or mess with publishers clearing house and such – Yes Sir, I could use a new truck, but You know I can't afford it. You what? They what? For real? Why would the preacher and that bunch from the church give me a new truck? Oh! You took care of that. Well, thank You, Lord. I'm kinda tired so I think I'll turn in now. Good night, Lord and thank You for all Your blessings.
Curtis Moorman
17 January 2012
For Frank H. contest: Conversation
Variations On A Theme...
Ach'n (ache Ken) Existential Struggle...
(NOT by Bellini, Paganini, Rossini...
Eeny Meany Miney Moe - si,
nor the three stooges tee hee hee)
twill never end till...this oft writ trend
of mine will never end,
only when...mortality
ike'n no longer defend!
Thus...once again, (or...as per usual),
this poem iz a boot
ruminations about bout,
who else except this ole coot
at das receiving end damned
lifetime role, and goot
raw end of deal, sans docks side of
moon efficient intervention
(teachers never gave a hoot)
as they appeared oblivious,
how moost all classmates did loot
mine emotional account, viz
cheap trick super tramp ping coot
tees reviled, renounced,
and wreaked havoc as root
of all misfortunate previous
to mine existence,
as iced (sic culled) hood
reaper remained mute
and scythe lent,
while (cue in dolorous)
melody issued from
Mose Arts magic flute,
whereat serpent (also known
in political circles as
Sally Salamander Newt
Gingrich) charmed goaded,
and relentlessly needled
Eve with snake hushed snoot,
thenceforth viper got ramrod
rigid taut as jute
of course this a fallacy as
just smore hove my fruit
fully "FAKE" pre fabric hated
discombobulated trumpeting ill suit
head prevarications – more
offal than glute
tee us expulsion, donned
as invisible faux poetic
apparel clothing with astute
cheeky effects, thus allowing,
enabling, and providing
adapt tub bull usage as zoot suit,
or as space age jumpsuit,
when I travel (with my cute Malamute
outsize prairie dog like fine home
companion) to the outer limits
of the twilight zone,
which groovy farout signals
detected by vodafone
and desperate plea made
to aliens to abduct me
(receiving an affirmative
digital binary tone)
courtesy of publishers,
unlike the negative responses,
predictably forecast, no complex koan
but clear as day -
inducing a slight inward moan,
which figurative slap in face
finding yours figuratively prone,
hence...a recurring well known
fantasy regarding plucking
this chicken (198920) heart lee
moss see rolling stone.
NOVELTIES
by Thomas Campion
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their whores for exotic positions.
This is my translation of a Latin epigram by the English poet Thomas Campion. In Campion’s era some English poets continued to write poems in Latin and/or Greek. For instance, John Milton and Andrew Marvell wrote poems in Latin, while Shakespeare was criticized by Ben Jonson, if I remember things correctly, for having “little” Greek and Latin.
Not being “versed” in the senior languages was seen as a deficiency in literary circles back then. Shakespeare was called an “upstart crow” for daring to write “litter-chure” without a proper university degree. How could he properly quote the ancients if he couldn’t read them in their original languages? The Bard of Avon was doomed to failure and obscurity … or perhaps not, since the English language was finally in vogue in England (where for centuries English kings had been unable to read, write or even speak the mother tongue, preferring French, Latin and Greek).
My title is a bit of a pun, because novels were new to the world when they first arrived, and were thus considered by the literary elites to be “novelties” not on par with more serious verse plays. Some of the more popular early novels were “subversive” (pardon the pun) explorations of sexual naughtiness, through characters like Tom Jones, Moll Flanders, et al.
Campion probably didn’t have such campy (enough with the puns, already!) novels in mind when he wrote his epigram, since the more titillating (cease! desist!) ones had yet to arrive. But perhaps he would prove to be a “profit” (I’m udderly hopeless!).
Keywords/Tags: Campion, Latin, translation, exotic, exoticism, epigram, novels, novelties, book, books, booksellers, publishers, write, writing, author, authors, poet, poets, poetry, poems, pimps, whores, prostitutes, prostitution, exotic, positions, extended metaphor
Gerrit Verstraete released his first book of selected poems titled “Mid-Seventies Crisis,” in
1980 ( Admiral Press, Canada ). “But,” he says, “it’s never too late. It’s not that I stopped
writing, I just didn’t know what to do first, draw, paint, write poetry, work on my novels,
write columns, and of course raise a large family together with my wife Alice.” A number of
his poems have been published in various magazines and publications, but his new
book “Cerulean Odyssey – the long distance voyager,” is the first volume of an epic poem he
began writing in 2004. Cerulean ( meaning sky blue ) is a personification of the artist’s
personal journey through the web and weave of life, a journey of art and faith that focuses
on Cerulean’s search for “the city of God, not built with human hands.”
The content of his new book is a contemporary style using conceptual imagery in a narrative
poetic manner. Much of the writing was inspired by his island surroundings, both on Gabriola
and Vancouver Island. One reader in New Zealand said, “Wow! I've now had my daily dose
of inspiration. Your visual poetry is truly powerful and transcending...I love how it reaches
out on so many levels and does not exclude anyone in its scope.” To date the epic ( in four
completed volumes – so far ) comprises over 500 tableaux or sketches ( individual poems )
with 200 in volume one.
The book is available online through Wordclay Publishers. The 6 X 9 volume is paperback,
full colour cover, and 124 pages at $25 US ( plus S & H ). Simply log on to
www.wordclay.com, select the “bookstore” and type in the author’s name: Gerrit Verstraete.
Lots more information about the book is posted. Currently Gerrit is writing the fifth volume of
the epic. So, if you’ve ever wanted to own a Verstraete for less than fifty bucks ( many know
him for his fine art drawings and abstract paintings ), enjoy a copy of “Cerulean Odyssey.”
Ballade : In favour of those called Decadents and Symbolists, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s Ballade en faveur des dénommés Décadents et Symbolistes
for Léon Vanier*
(The texts I use for my translations are from : Yves-Alain Favre, Ed. Paul Verlaine : Œuvres Poétiques Complètes. Paris : Robert Laffont, 1992, XCIX-939p.)
Some few in all this Paris :
We live off pride, yet flat broke we’re
Even if with the bottle a bit too free
We drink above all fresh water
Being very sparing when taken with hunger.
With other fine fare and wines of high-estate
Likewise with beauty : sour-tempered never.
We are the writers of good taste.
Phoebé when all the cats gray be
Highly sharpened to a point much harsher
Our bodies nourrished by glory
Hell licks its lips and in ambush does cower
And with his dart Phoebus pierces us ever
The night cradling us through dreamy waste
Strewn with seeds of peach beds over.
We are the writers of good taste.
A good many of the best minds rally
Holding high Man’s standard : toffee-nosed scoffer
And Lemerre* retains with success poetry’s destiny.
More than one poet then helter-skelter
Sought to join the rest through the narrow fissure ;
But Vanier at the very end made haste
The only lucky one to assume the rôle of Fisher*.
We are the writers of good taste.
ENVOI
Even if our stock exchange tends to dither
Princes hold sway : gentle folk and the divining caste.
Whatever one might say or pours forth the preacher,
We are the writers of good taste.
*One of Verlaine’s publishers who first published his near-collected works at 19, quai Saint-Michel, Paris-V.
* Alphonse Lemerre (1838-1912), one of Verlaine’s publishers at 47, Passage Choiseul, Paris, where from 1866 onwards the Parnassians met regularly.
*Vanier first specialised in articles for fishing as a sport.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
The Salt of the Earth
Who is the Salt of the Earth?
Is it Pakistani musicians making music with pyramids and suffering?
Is it Pakistani musicians finding suffering in heart problems and untimely
hospital stays?
Is it Jordanian warriors tied to their culture, but yearning for the love of the world?
Is it soft hearted geniuses doubting their own efficacy but yet affirming my soul?
Who is the Salt of the Earth?
Is it Divinity Students weighted down by the complexities of a God who would
forsake the downtrodden?
Or good hearted economists calling them commies?
Is it bow tie wearing conservatives who feed my mind yet bring a wry smile?
Is it Lesbian ethics professors who wage war on injustice?
Who is the Salt of the Earth?
Is it Jewish prophets of industry who volunteer to fight on the front lines and
receive stress and conflict in return?
Is it Jewish prophets of industry who write with courage and integrity to
publishers who shun the very idea of the Divine?
Is it cross wearing angels of administration who work behind close doors of
schedules and student suffering?
Who is the Salt of the Earth?
Is it Buddhist clinicians who start health care programs and help the unfeeling to
feel?
Is it loving pastors who pray with sincerity and conviction?
Is it a woman on the street teaching the rest of us to be grateful?
Or is it some wonderful euphony?
Or is it some wonderful euphony of people in conflict, yet all serving the same
goal?
Or is it some wonderful sound, as a sweet incense that though we refuse to
understand each other or consider the others vantage, together because our
hearts are good,
Together because our hearts are good.
Together because our hearts are good, we become a sound.
We become the sound of rushing water, and preserve the earth as one.
When the sun has set for me and the stars should have blinked no more,
When the time for me to go and see my friends on the other shore,
When the breath that I have loved for seventeen years have ceased,
Please, know it's already my evening sun, a fallen son of Mama Kipronoh.
Do cry your tears for it will be the first and the last time seeing me happy
For all these years I've been a lachrymose son of my mother,
Let the hills of Sigor know that the son of Kisiara has gone to the ocean of haunting spectres,
Be humbled by your tears, and accord me my due respect.
When I die, let Marriam come home,
Give her my share of land,
For her farm of simsim is where we grew our love,
For she is my all-time sinecure!
But I promise her that in case she leaves my body to the maggots in my shanty that night,
Then will I cause a stampede:
I will refuse to get out of my hut for obsequies!
When I die, I want my seven sons from different mothers to assemble near my grave
Let them spit on my face as my only daughter sits far away:
For I will not allow a girl like her to be near my putrefied body!
When I die, tell my unborn son that he'll inherit my name,
Tell him I died before I saw his face,
For I'm sure a man like me always sires boys with you
If in case she's a girl, woe unto you,
Leave my house, for my birthday will be announced once again!
When I die, I will want my books besides me
Let my publishers come from where they sit down,
Pocketing my hard-found publication fee
Let them donate money to the pal-bearers for them to take me to my grave.
Finally, when I die,
Stop calling my home arap Borusei
Call it the name of owls,
Because I'm sure I'll die an horrible death,
Yes, I'll die in vain!
January 13th, 2023
After wishing upon a star
to garner a handsome windfall
as a positive fated birthday gift
lo and behold, these ears didn't deceive me,
cuz I discerned a partial telephone message
hinting at word winnings to good to be true.
I (a sheepish fellow) nearly got fleeced...
to the tune of five hundred dollars
courtesy publishers clearing house scam
nearly got the wool pulled over my eyes
lucky for me presence of the missus
a force not to be reckoned with,
she madly gesticulated
yours truly to hang up the telephone.
Predacious con artists
flourish thick as thieves
insinuating themselves
with practiced braggadocio
annoyingly swat away
her/his feigned friendly felicitousness
courtesy mine non affirmative action
think my feeble and meek
polite verbal declinations.
Characteristic passiveness pervaded
persona non grata of yours truly,
whether being the "scapegoat"
all throughout twelve years enslavement
constituting skool of hard knocks
reflexively withdrawing within self
seriously contemplating existence
as Norwegian bachelor farmer.
After consuming copious
platefuls of powdered milk biscuits,
I (an ordinarily shy person)
bucked and chucked
conventional behavior of mine,
plucked courage with humorous repartee
off times conjuring
the perfect comeback
versus smarting with absent
quick wittedness ex post facto.
Overzealousness ofttimes finds yours truly
trying to overcompensate
being pegged as quietest student,
whose severe nasality reinforced
(courtesy submucous cleft palate)
impeded communicating spontaneously
even now thinking twice before
interjecting a comment viz aperçu
(ideally humorous) to feel included
among social venue or milieu.