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Long poem by JW Earnings | Details

The 996th Poem

Fulfilled fantasies and legitimate realities…you do know how to please…
Are you listening to my voice of longing and yearning?
No, don’t backstab me with your broken promises…stop being a horrid tease…
Do not worry, Lord, I am still constantly…learning…

God is here…

I’m scared, so unprepared… my flames are flared…
I’m impaired by depression wars I have fought over the years
Just a hair, faced this nightmare and no one cared
Slayed by the mocking sanity of society…reduced me to tears…

Healing is near…

Exceedingly exasperated by your empty empathy 
Vacant stares flood the room in despair and envy
I adore you, you’re my door of countless opportunities and yet, time flies
Play me on the radio again and again and you’ll find where your heart lies 

Don’t worry, dear…

Rising in the moment of remarkable letdowns
I had a miscarriage of misery a long time ago
You blew up my cellphone with texts, calls and happy frowns
I can do this, I have done this before, I…know…

Cower away from sheer fear that veers the head…don’t let it appear…
Yank away from my dreams…
Turn me on with your musical talents and interests alike
Broken by the useless seams…
Ride me like your favorite, childhood bike…I let go of the mic

Therapeutic aftershocks draw near to me…honey, don’t shed a tear…

Get off of my chest, heart attacks of our love from below above
I’m chasing the water under the bridge over you, can’t you sea? No possibly…no possibility…
Can’t you just leave me be?
I swear without cussing, I was being sincere with my speech you knew not of
My flow is far from yours, so don’t intertwine with my flow of ecstatic me, in need of being free
Can’t you leave my side for now?
Just leave my presence somehow…

Jealousy is key to the gates of selfish ambition, so don’t have the spirit of jeer

You served as a distraction more or less
Sorry I got you in this hell-heaven of a mess
Everything can last a while, but not forever
It is impossible to say what is on my mind whatsoever
I’m a Positive Poe and a Silly Seuss all over again…so, cheers! 
Raise up your wine cups and bubblin’ beers…

My request is to kiss your lips, so warm and lovely
In my tamest dreams, I’ve looked all over for you…you were lying on stones and stix
I am raptured in this love affair; barely breathing, baby...
Do it again…do it again – the verbal abuse is a bruise I fix…you are as hard as billion brix

Going Justin Beiber on you...disappointed, you scoot away from me…drove me to laughter tears…

Plastic reality can’t undo what has happened to me in the past…I’m the mast in Antarctica, left behind at last 
It is the captive soul that needs some healing…I seek something more than what meets the eyes
You are Australia and I am America…opposite directions…we drifted our separate ways oh so vast and fast
Cast away this sorrow from my sullen cheeks and these eyes that are like mood rings daily…it’s best if you don’t ask your what’s and why’s

Instead, you go Lady Gaga on me – good one! At least I’m not going Demi Lovato on you, my wandering deer

Wipe away these lament drops from my cloudy eyes
Because they won’t even consider my cry for help, but hopeless like withered kelp 
Ripen me with radiance and reveal to me no sly lies
No vulgar talk please…he speaks genuine words and hear my helpless, muffled yelp 

If I was your man, I’d be the happiest man alive…like Rihanna that arrives in Los Angeles for the first time…I’m getting it on poetically and popically up in here

I got you in chains in my heart…you feeling it? Are you ready? Do I need to feed you regretti?
You ain’t coming out of my ribcage
Try to plan an escape route…just try and give up already…here’s a celebrated fail with confetti
You make me feel this painless rage

I bit my Cyrus Tongue…hold your tongue before the fire consumes all…or if you whisper it in my ears, you’ll reduce me to ashes...nowhere to roam it appears…

You shelter me with laughter and peace disaster
I don’t understand the words you utter, but I know it screams out those hear-me-out’s
I can’t make out how we made it through this hardship that has torn us asunder 
My ears will listen to you acutely, so I’ll be your butter on warm toast when you let out your desire shouts

Killing me alive by your sensual and passionate nature that give me dream infatuationmares…my obsession towards you is dastardly, disturbingly serpentine to my evanescent heart of stone in a sight’s gleam

I need saving, for I am caving…fell victim to lustful, ugly craving
It takes me to levels of languishing hopes
I know I was unfaithful and misbehaving…force-fed your raving 
My voice of angst anguish…it still mopes

I know my rights and wrongs…
Catastrophe connection lost its link and my positivity peace is in the brink of spring – so, in winter, I sing these sad, sad songs

I was the class clown…in pointless, humor town 
Now, I’m the loner in class
Let’s not categorize others and put everyone down 
I am lost in a multitude alas

Inside and out, I have the hearts for you… and you had no clue
Through silence and shouts, I’m blue without you… so true…

I freaked out suddenly…
It puzzled me and bewildered you too…I’m sorry for my cyber-outburst
Dating goes bad madly…
Needed you really badly, but you were…oblivious of it, it seemed at first

Whistling to myself in a blissful moment of musical, magical muse…
I speak mindlessly with my imaginary friends and it’s amusing because I have some good and bad news…
My Silly Seuss released from my writing of childish conniving
Emerge from the volcanic vanity, scorching…warped-up writhing… 
After being verse-tracked, I have some good and bad news: 

I passed for being the biggest loser on Earth
I failed on being a good leader…
Mirth gives birth to a rebirth of faith hearth 
Okay, fine…I’ll be a follower…

Remember, I am titaniumb and I am Rated R for Recovery 
December, the month in embers…January is a new discovery

Hang on the ceiling, chandelier fear 
The spotlight is on me…once and for all…
After all I’ve said and done, I’m of cheer
Because I fear no more…996th poem, y’all…

Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2016

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 Dorian Petersen Potter | Details

The Book

Shhh...Be quiet! please...or you'll wake up everybody... Did you see what that young man did all this evening at the table while taking some of his notes? Yes, sure we did, and so what? a "Poetry for a Lifetime" replied quietly. After all, we are all books and we are very important to mankind, everywhere.Yes, we are all very important, no matter who we are. Yes, but did you see, that he was only going through those old, dog-eared magazines, that are piled at that left corner table? I am telling you that most people are just browsing through all those computers.I think that they're kind of forgetting about us.I know I should be happy to take this dream vacation.No more prying eyes and hands touching and knowing my most privete thoughts.I should be in heaven! The Gone with the wind" book, just frowned and started laughing.Look at me and remember my lines. Tomorrow is another day! You should all be quiet, and go to sleep! Merrily a voice said in a whimsical manner.Everybody looked up at one of the highest shelves, where the voice seemed to have sounded from. Yes, it is me, you knuckles heads! A "Grim"s Complete Fairy Tales Volume" book, spoke in a playful tone.He opened up one of his pages and showed one of his most beloved fairie tales. Come all over here and pay me a visit.Which one you would wanted me to read you tonight? What about me reading you, Little Red Riding Hood or perhaps you would prefer, The Sleeping Beauty" I am just telling you that I am a very important book indeed.All my stories make children all over the world very happy and parents love me since they find my services more than welcome every night at bedtime.I am very important, yes, Sireeeee.And aaying all this,he chuckled with a most contented sight of relief in his very merry and child-like voice of his. The rest of all the books just fell silent for a moment.A "Pride and Prejudice" snorted loudly all of sudden, and retorted in his very conceited and masterful voice.Well, they all say that, they all think that they're important.One of my sisters " Wuthering Heights" thinks the same too, I am telling you.She's always scoffing me and thinking that she's better than me.But I tell her that she's wrong,because I am better than she is.That's for sure.I am a much better classical read than most of you here, just laying around gathering dust. Wait a minute, hold it right there! A very thunderous voice just said that.Everybody book shuddered at the sound of that very ntimidated voice.I am very old, and I am very important too.I am much older than many of you, just gossiping around, wasting your time and mine.I can't fall sleep with all the racket you're making down here.Can you have some consideration for the ones that need a little more sleep everyday? A " Tale of Two Cities" volume, took a royal bow to everybody around, while paced back and forth in his most comfortable upper shelf.I am a very important book too.Iam considered a classical among book readers all over the world.So now please go to sleep! and let's end all this nonsense about who's more important or not.Saying this, he yawned so loudly, that he woke up some of his other books that were before dozing in either side of his shelf. Who dare to do this and woke me up like this in such a rudely manner? A " Cronicles of Narnia" volume in a roaring voice moaned.How dared you to to do this and believe that you are more important than me.Well, let me tell you, mister, than you're not and never will, more important than me".A tale of Two Cities", let me tell you, that "Romeo and Juliet" think the same, and are spitting mad about your delussion of grandeur and self- pride.You know you got a coming anyway, even "Hamlet" thinks that is better than you are.Take that for a change! Now saying that, I can go back to sleep now.I bid you all good-night ladies and gentlemen! I don't really care, if you are young or very old, perhaps you may be older and more experienced than me, in many ways, but still I believe I am the most important of all the books in this library, and elsewhere in the world too.A very comanding voice, and full of authority said.Everybody turned around to see the "Half Blooded Prince" lifting one of his fingers in self- importantance, and saying "I am the most important book in the world and all my brothers are too.Look up my ratings and my movies too.Everybody wants to know about me, from beggining to end.Everybody wants to read me and know all my most hidden secrets in every chapter I have and possessed.So you see, people of all ages like me a lot and bring me to their homes.So that settles everything now, be quiet and go to sleep and stop all your shouting and whispering about.I am the most important book ever! Is that understood? I guess it is... Not so fast, you fat head! I am the most important, not you.No way! it can be you.I am the most important book in the whole wide world.I am the "Lord of the Rings" and I am very full of adventures,wars, death,heroism,magic,betrayals, self-sacrifice, love, and mistery too.I am the one that saves mankind and the whole world from darkness in the end.Remember that! One of my greatest citezens saves the world.His name is Frodo and is a Hobbit.So you see, I am the greatest among all the greatest here in this whole library and all the libraries in the whole wide world. So, please, go to sleep now! I see you tomorrow, my brothers and sisters.Saying that "The Lord Of The Rings" closed all his pages quietly and with a big smile went to sleep. Meanwhile in one of the main upper shelves in the library, a very old and worn out "Holy Bible" just chuckled softly under his breath... Dorian Petersen Potter aka ladydp2000 copyright@2001-20005 09.18.2014

Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details

Week 2 - Brian's Poet of Note - 'Herman Hesse'

Brian’s Poet of Note – ‘Herman Hesse’ Week 2

This week I thought I would discuss translating poetry from another language. I just finished retranslating from German this poem ‘Stufen’ from Hesse’s famous novel ‘The Glass Bead Game’) but it has been a favorite of mine for a long time. I first translated it 50 years ago when I was studying German in college, but I have misplaced the earlier translation. So today I include the original version of Hesse’s poem in German as well for those who can read German or those who want to compare my translation to the original German.

There are different ways to translate a poem if this is something new to you. 1. The simplest way is a word for literal word translation. And these are interesting in themselves I think but suffer from the fact that the word the poet chooses may not always be the best word in expressing the poet’s intent. For example, an idiom in German might sound funny translated into English, but there might be an expression in English that is the German equivalent, but which uses very different words. 2. Some translations skip rhythm and rhyme altogether but try to communicate the translators “understanding” of the poem using often very different words. 3. And finally, some translations will make an effort to preserve the structure and even the rhythm and rhyme pattern as well. It is not easy to do this and to also use most of the poet’s original words!

Whatever technique you use, the original poet’s poem is going to suffer. Think of it as reading a friend’s poem and then trying to write a personal version of the original work's content without looking at your friend’s poem again. Rewriting another's idea is a fun game to play. Sometimes I will write an Echo Poem of a friend’s poetry. I rewrite his poem using my Muse and interpretation of reality, or the Echo may veer off tangentially and not be my version of his effort but of what I think is true. Both are fun exercises when you are looking for something different to do. It seems to me that translating another poet’s poem is very similar to writing an Echo Poem in many ways.

Hesse’s Original Poem in German	         Translation

Stufen	                                                 Stages (First Translation)

Wie jede Blüte welkt und jede Jugend	         As every blossom wilts and every
Dem Alter weicht, blüht jede Lebensstufe,	 Yields to old age so manifests
                                                                 every stage of life,
Blüht jede Weisheit auch und jede Tugend	 All wisdom and every virtue
Zu ihrer Zeit und darf nicht ewig dauren.	 Has its time, and cannot last
Es muß das Herz bei jedem Lebensrufe	 At every call of life, the heart,
Bereit zum Abschied sein und Neubeginne,	 Wrapped in bravery and without
Um sich in Tapferkeit und ohne Trauern	  Must be ready to take its leave
                                                                  and start again
In andre, neue Bindungen zu geben.	          To embrace each new adventure.
Und jedem Anfang wohnt ein Zauber inne,	  For a magic lives in each
Der uns beschützt und der uns hilft, zu leben.     That shelters and helps us to

Wir sollen heiter Raum um Raum durchschreiten,	Let us move calmly from
                                                                        place to place,
An keinem wie an einer Heimat hängen,	   Clinging to nothing as if it were a
Der Weltgeist will night fesseln uns und engen,  The “Age” does not chain or
                                                                    confine our dreams,
Er will uns Stuf’ um Stufe heben, weiten.	    It guides each step toward
                                                                    increased opportunity.
Kaum sind wir heimisch einem Lebenskreise	    But homelike surroundings,
                                                                    creature comforts,
Und traulich eingewohnt, so droht Erschlaffen, Tempt us to let down our guard.
Nur wer bereit zu Aufbruch ist und Reise,	    Only those prepared to let go,
                                                                    to love revolution,
Mag lähmender Gewöhnung sich entraffen.	    Have a chance to escape
                                                                    crippling habits.

Es wird vielleicht auch noch die Todesstunde     Perhaps even the hour of our
Uns neuen Räumen jung entgegensenden,	     Will open fresh new vistas to
                                                                     challenge us,
Des Lebens Ruf an uns wird niemals enden . . .  Might life’s call to life be never
                                                                      ending then?
Wohlan denn, Herz, nimm Abschied und gesunde! Let it be so! Heart! Take your
                                                                         leave and health!

Well this seems to be the best I can do with the formating. There are more comments to come. If you like what you see so far be sure to check back later. This is obviously a work in progress and experimental!  :-)

Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Ian Howard | Details


	A Bluto is not that Disney dog
	It was when a mewling 
	that I would scream 
	Should they wet my body
	And then apply cream
	Ablutophobia – fear of bathing, washing, or cleaning
	Achluo the demon that lurks
	In darkened corners
	The long toothed life suckers realm
	I am scared as the sun dims
	It seems to bare my soul
	Achluophobia – fear of darkness
	Acro what did they do 
	They called me acrobat 
	This will not do
	I get giddy standing on a matchbox
	Please get a net to see me through
	Acrophobia – fear of heights

	Agora just shut that door 
	I am staying here forever more
	Bring me food put it on the floor
	The letter box is just for you
	Don’t, Don’t,  try to get through
	Agoraphobia,  Fear of open spaces or of being in public places. Fear of leaving a                    safe place
	Agrap stole my feelings 
	He caught me unaware
	I am now afraid of sex 
	don’t ask me anymore
	It frightens me that’s for sure
	Agraphobia – fear of sexual abuse

	Agrizoo an angry gorilla I knew
	Wild as hell was kept in a cell
	As all his kind, even a timid Hind
	They scare the crap out of me
	Please let them run free

	Agrizoophobia – fear of wild animals

	A gyro is just what I need
	I will fit it to my trusty stead
	He will fly straight across that band
	A tarmac nasty throughout the land
	I cannot face the walk you see
	Agyrophobia –fear of crossing the road

	Aichmohe got in a hell of a fight
	They killed him with a pointed knife
	It will come for me just you see
	I cannot even mend his cloth
	Won’t  touch a needle at any cost
	Aichmophobia – fear of sharp or pointed objects (such as a needle or knife)

	Ailuro he lived next door 
	The bastard sits on the fence
	To me he snarls not a purr
	A Persian he is supposed to be
	Frightens the *****out of me
	Ailurophobia – fear of cats
	Algo, Away, I am pain free
	This morphine is the best
	First day of pain free rest
	Been told that it will return
	Got some gas, peace I yearn
	Algophobia - fear of pain

	Andro I’d rather be               (android)
	I am metal and plastic you see
	Electric person not man or woman
	That would be so sad
	If just a man I would go mad

	Androphobia – fear of men

	Antho the pologist got the plan
	He put concrete throughout the land.
	Not one shrub or flower seen
	Not one blade of grass green
	A flower would make me scream

	Anthophobia – fear of flowers

	Anthropo was a lonely man
	Wouldn’t mix with others so
	He lived in a cave, well just a hole
	You would see his eyes peeping out
	A shaking frame if people were about
	Anthropophobia – fear of people or the company of people, a form of social phobia.

	Aqua marine or even the wet stuff
	Is enough to drive me mad
	I stay in when there is rain
	Just wait for the sun to shine again
	A damp tissue that’s quite enough

	Aquaphobia – fear of water. Distinct from Hydrophobia, a scientific property that makes chemicals averse to interaction with water, as well as an archaic name for rabies

	Arach no, and know the score
	Those creepy creatures on the wall
	Send shivers up and down my spine
	Six legs and venom to drive you mad
	I am running already it is sad.

	Arachnophobia – fear of spiders

	Astra my name you would think of the stars
	My gaze goes up but not that far
	To the first cloud there in the sky
	If it’s the shape of an anvil I will fly 
	Fear grips me and I don’t know why
	Astraphobia – fear of thunder and lightning
	Atychi that was about the size of me
	The others would just make fun
	I was no good to anyone
	A failure of the first degree
	Nothing my goal, was all I could see
	Atychiphobia – fear of failure

	Auto matic I will seek people out
	To touch to play as long as they are near
	Don’t leave me in this place alone 
        A singularity is my biggest fear
	I will hold anyone you see I care

	Autophobia – fear of being alone or isolated
	Automat o no it’s not true how could you
	An advert that’s telling just lies
	Don’t all the others realize
	What you say is not true, put it right 
	It will drive me crazy I’ll keep out of sight
	Automatonophobia – fear of anything that falsely represents a sentient being

	Aviat o if you think I am going in that
	No I am not a scared ***** cat
	If we were meant to go fly
	Wings we would have from him on high
	Fold your machine and put it just so.
	Aviophobia, Aviatophobia – fear of flying
	Chaeto he was a Greek of old
	Bald as a badger so the story is told
	But why you say is there no cure 
	For him to grow some lovely hair
	For him it would give such a scare

	Chaetophobia – fear of hair

	Chemo therapy keep away from me
	Chemicals scare me I know they are free
	But to have them coursing through my veins
	No matter how good they are, and that jar
	The fear of everything for what they are 

	Chemophobia – fear of chemicals

	Chirop to or not too so I am told
	They stick in your hair best to be bald
	Now I find that my nails are made of hair
	Chirop is what I fear not chiropodist is that clear!!
	Just shave my head and cut my nails dear

	Chiroptophobia – fear of bats

	Chromo shines bright in my eyes
	The fear of all colours  I realise
	Now I am safe from a troubled day
	Into my dark room, I have found my way
	Knock when that sun has met its demise

	Chromophobia - fear of bright colors

Copyright © Ian Howard | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Joel Lee | Details


A Dark Identity

Days into nights... time without time
Normalities of everyday life beckons to remain
Shadows with lights.... to find to define
I am he who goes by without a name

The world is only up to date
And I’ve decided no more to follow
Bearing time to finally relate
Yet a self I’m to find to wallow

He who walks without an identity... walks alone
And he who walks alone needs be proud
Yet walking forever without finding a home
Have I that heaven beyond the clouds?

I cannot see either far or near
I cannot be to be neither nor
I’m listening... I cannot hear
I’m at peace... I’m at war

I did not know... am I suppose to?
I know I’m alive... is that enough?
Yet, rather not to know than knew
For knowledge shall never last

A mystery if not yet to be
That one mysterious hope to be searching for
I have dreams but what did I see?
I have no one... not one I can call

A darken need shall heed not words
For the dark shall rise as light
The fade will be a promise to be heard
For shadows are without night

And I started to listen distractedly
Hearing for what my eyes cannot see
A hallucinatory moment ever constantly
As I began to believe that of what cannot be

The instant my eyes close
My mind drew as suppose
Sketching a stand alone amid a world once seen
Of ranging fires to have had believed as a dream
And there I was... a lone figure enveloped in darkness
With crossing flames alight yet from a distance as useless
Left as I was before... I am to return as I am
Reliving once more this beginning with never the end
Thus did I continue my path away from the bloodshed
Carefully as one had hoped where a darker darkness be led
No more do I wonder what transported me here
To only know for certain I am riddled of constant fear

“Fear is a fire
To temper courage and resolve
Be it desire
To quench the thirst for one’s unfounded lost”

And there it was... words barely a whisper
Where it came from... no longer matters
For the intended vigor were already cast upon
Serving me with renewed purpose for a sense to belong
Before long, beyond doubts... my callings were clear
The source from where it first began was indeed here
Almost startled, I looked around knowing I’m blinded to see
Too dark as it was, had it not been a lighted green to be
And there it was... a single light beyond the almighty dark
That one greenish light to aid one’s lonesome heart
Rather peculiar for I haven’t notice it before
And naturally I am to walk towards the green grandeur
Flickering and wavy as I drew closer to my destination
Seeing finally for what appears to be the least of expectations
Astonishingly, it was a lantern where within was the sighted fire
And simply the fiery green alone ignites ever on in dire
Levitated in midair, it stands rigid with its haunting presence
With an aura more deserving then welcoming of essence
So mesmerized I was... I wanted to behold
That of warmth for perhaps deliverance from cold
A dare if not, if only, if I must
A flame to embrace, a curiosity to engulf
And surely... I lifted my hand with only a wanting touch
Surely but unknowingly... the flame itself is to parch
Sparkles of green eludes and transcends about
As well an aria, an ancient tune goes aloud
To only see to believe, perhaps my life to perceive
Yet the question being... what did I achieve?
Smoke arises... wavering, quivering, settling...
My time... misgiving, misguiding and misleading
And there he was... rather it be
A human?... isn’t to be I see

“A dark wanderer, perhaps a lone wanderer alone
Regardless... a stranger afar returning home
Have you the teachings bequeath upon you?
From a once being of a knight who knew
For he alone stands unnerve by another
Serving a purpose to hold true forever
The resemblance I see forth leaves me incertitude
Both as mortals... though only he remains in servitude
Yet... my appointment upon you is clear
I am to you drawn as you to me when you hear
Nevertheless, far too long were you of absence
And once more I am in honor to be in your presence
It never is clear what the heavens contrive
For this unsung war... humanities were birth to strive
Every one mortal given birth were forged for war
To ensure the survival of humanities and of peace to befall
For many years this bloodshed wages in dire
Almost as certainly, the spirits of men responsively tire
No more are there ideas nor hopes they are to see
Battling on for pure survival remains what leads them be
Your return however, will perhaps set the tides in our favor
Though I know not the intention, I do not disregard altogether
Do not let the reasons why you have returned cloud your mind
I ask of you rather to remember who you once were to define
The land of The Ancients is never a quest for truth to seek
Purely for good to triumph over evil is the only idea you will need
Prepare yourself well stranger, for good will always be in disguise
Treachery and deception as often will never in itself be a lie
The unforgiving way is still a long one I’m afraid
However well is Heaven to plan... evil as always will await
And until out time will once more cross between us
I assure you... your time in this world will outlast”

Copyright © Joel Lee | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Translation of Eric Mottram's TIME SIGHT UNSEEN, Part 1 by T Wignesan

Translation of Eric Mottram’s TIME SIGHT UNSEEN, Part One by T. Wignesan

"Instead of an item in a school of rhetoric, the poem could have variety of articulations, continuity and discontinuity, sentence and parataxis, and an awareness of the imaginative possibilities of relationship between particles”. 
                                        Eric Mottram. 
December 29, 1924 - January 17, 1995, prolific poet, editor of the Poetry Review (organ of The Poetry Society in England during the seventies), eminent critic (Times Literary Supplement) and Emeritus Professor of English and American Literature at King’s College, University of London in 1990. He won a scholarship from Blackpool Grammar School to Cambridge, but chose to join the Royal Navy in 1943. He obtained a Double First in English Tripos (1947-1950) at Pembroke College, University of Cambridge, after serving out the War as second-in-command of a mine-sweeper in the Baltic and the Bay of Bengal. Just for the anecdote, his family traces its descent from the times of the Norman Conquest as Lords of the Manor.

The following translation is the first part of “Time Sight Unseen”, published in The Poetry/Rare Books Collection, State University of New York at Buffalo, 1993, n.p.


là dedans
        regardez là dedans                                                         ils ont les leurs
ce que ne pouvait pas être vu                                 la pensée dégoutante
une fois enfin                                                                  et dans l’événement regardez
                                                                                                      son temps
ils confèrent l’objet sur mon
le mien a été exploité
               en rappelant ceux qu’on ne peut pas voir
ceux rattachés au temps et à la cage thoracique                   ainsi ses mains soulevées  
leurs vies toujours vibrantes
                                                 saisissaient du temps de l’intérieur la seule
 chronologie du temps de sang                           sujet chronique
                                                                                          la fondation saisie
le temps de l’intérieur étant à vous et à moi
sans cadran                                          qui voyait                                         la cage
                                           courbé écarté pour atteindre
                                               le passage sans faire un numéro
les mains là dans le non-vu
                                                          comme un entraineur propriétaire calme vidé
assommé                               pour nous                                        de notre
pour garder l’unique temps                    
                                                                          à l’intérieur
chassé                                                      pour quand les organs  à l’extérieur
                                                                                      voient l’extérieur une fois de plus
le vrai temps dévidait puis s’enroulait
                            pendant un certain temps n’étant pas réel 

                            encore l’extérieur n’est pas visible
de nouveau après l’intrusion dans le seul sacré
                                                     les rouges sacs du temps là-bas ramenés et remis   
dans l’esprit
                                    rappelés à l’esprit
                                                                      pour se soucier de votre temps
pourrait être filmé et vu de façon non-réel le temps réel
                                                                  les images chaque seconde
                                                                  sous la rétine trembloté
                                                                  déjà vu auparavant comme la fin du réel
un passé dans la bobine                                  avec des agents de conservations 
dès ce moment où ce que s’éclata
                                                       l’amour               les poèmes d’amour
                                                       les éclatements de peur 
                                                       les découverts depuis des sacs du temps
                                                       des pulsations et ce que s’était passé se déroule
le grand secret répété devant nous
                                                                       la machine déclencha
                                                                       ces moments à nouveau
les vraies scènes         les moments intimes mutuels.     tout ce que vous pouvez

(c) T. Wignesan - Paris,  2017

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Translation of Eric Mottram's TIME SIGHT UNSEEN, Part Two by T Wignesan

Translation of Eric Mottram’s TIME SIGHT UNSEEN, Part Two by T. Wignesan

"Instead of an item in a school of rhetoric, the poem could have variety of articulations, continuity and discontinuity, sentence and parataxis, and an awareness of the imaginative possibilities of relationship between particles”. 
                                        Eric Mottram. 
December 29, 1924 - January 17, 1995, prolific poet, editor of the Poetry Review (organ of The Poetry Society in England during the seventies), eminent critic (Times Literary Supplement) and Emeritus Professor of English and American Literature at King’s College, University of London in 1990. He won a scholarship from Blackpool Grammar School to Cambridge, but chose to join the Royal Navy in 1943. He obtained a Double First in English Tripos (1947-1950) at Pembroke College, University of Cambridge, after serving out the War as second-in-command of a mine-sweeper in the Baltic and the Bay of Bengal. Just for the anecdote, his family traces its descent from the times of the Norman Conquest as Lords of the Manor.

The following translation is the second part of “Time Sight Unseen”, published in The Poetry/Rare Books Collection, State University of New York at Buffalo, 1993, n.p.


mais ce                                   nous disons ce                               rappelez
                                  qu'il revient                        le trouvez réel
                 comme vous dites ce ne soit pas tout à fait ce
sans ra.                         pas d’instants                           instantané  mais
                                   il y aura quelques changements autour d’ici
                                    se trouvant immobile se couchant dans
                                          des endroits à l’intérieur             des processus
la recette dont nous partageons pour
                                                              le maintenant renouvelé
                                                              par le non-visible
                                                              même s’il n’est pas agréable à voir
                                                              si l’on a du courage qu’il faut
la vue inaperçue c’est un syntagme à apprécier
que l’on se prononce complètement                  dites qu’il soit
                                                                                          alors il est là
                                    un jaillissement qui provoque l’émerveillement 
toujours les moyens qu’il utilise pour faire surgir  
                                                   des bonnes pressions inaperçues
                                                   plus ardemment que de la propulsion
de l’eau des causes non-éclaircies les distances
                                            connaissables mais toujours merveilleuses                                               
le sens complet soumis à l’examen
                               ainsi les temps n’étant pas susceptibles de tomber
dans la saleté    
                                                      revient à l’esprit
                                                      voilà l’engagement
                                        l'art éternelle intronisée sur notre rétine
voyez à l’extérieur et de la perception
                                        le dessin est partagé
                                        comme la lumière dérange
la donne appelée l’acte de vision
                                                        pas ce qu’on voit une vision mais l’art
l'art d’apercevoir                            l’oeil est un phénomène 
                                                               le moi est notre l’autre
                                                               oeil pour regarder
nous sommes tous les deux en train de regarder une couleur         
                                                       dans un tableau rectangulaire
                                                       de laquelle elle surgisse
                    en dehors envers
                    tâchez de la retenir maintenant
                    au fur et à mesure
                    de l’intérieur

       “ pour combien de temps un oiseau peut chanter
          aussi longtemps qu’il connaisse sa chanson
          je veux te le dire
          qu’un imbécile peut se tromper”

(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Judy Emery | Details



I hear a man cry out in the desert wind 
fear yet don't eat no meat or you will soon vomit
ravens are out on the trale ready to eat on your flesh 
warning do not fall in deep sleep 
I have seen many things in darken dreams
Oh the cries ,
those sad painful cries of the young and old
you don't want this emptiness to take hold
move along and sing your songs 
in the still of the night ,try not to cry 
for what it is you see with your eyes
Thats when I would hear Dark Angel speek
while he stands so bold in the desart wind
take my love, it is not clean I do give to the weak
So let it tempt you while you bleed 
come and feed off of me
in a world of pains of darkness you will see
and you will be alone with these
who cries in the night to be set free
but that will never be because you are in darken dreams
take and drink all this pain in and dance with me 
in the rain of a hurricane where coldness grown in your vain
you will hear and see things
that will make you feel your going insane
a place where life seems so cold yet so bold
I could see him talking away with new faces 
I had uncapped my pen to write down all the things I hear
oh, the pains are coming near holding much fear and tears
where lies cut deep into the night
where shame feeds on those who bleed
oh, the sigh for my bed i lie
I see skeletons that ravens left behind 
the bones are dried up on the desert sands 
where it is the evil stands
upon silk paper in my own blood stain ink,
for others to read what it is my heart bleeds and see 
the sounds of water from far away lands 
the waves push upon on the banks
where Dark Angel walks about scattered souls of long ago
into the clouds of weathering smoke
Oh, how my tears did flow
I have seen many things in darken dreams
how nature of man could make so much commands
with ancient anger hold in the  eyes that once 
gazed in the sky asking God why 
in the silence of their minds 
Oh, how I could hear the cries of all kinds 
I stand in the filed upon the blood stain sand
in the sound and the mood of ancient time
beneath my feet are souls of long ago 
that was abused and used
because they loved God they were slaves of the true faith
the young and the old they stood so bold
they died for what they believed in
they will always be the beauty of light 
that shines so bright in the love of God
Oh, ancient moon you hung in gloom in late June
where fewer summers came along hearts are shattered
soul is broken down day and night
tears flow like rain in so much pains
but the mind of the slaves remembers
there was once a true beloved face many
pains on earth before his death
Oh, how his love shined in the slave’s eyes
Because that beloved came from heaven above
He is like a white beautiful dove
that flies high into the sky of love
that one died for all of us who loves him
beneath my feet on wet ground are the cries 
of an ancient time
Where trembled hands where words and commands
came from he who haunts me
who gives so much pains his eyes are following 
my every move, ceasing away faith and love
I always had wondered how could he live with himself
life isn’t a game, but it is a gift
just like the sea that flows in darken dreams
the ocean blues and rivers and streams
hold the love of who created all things
while slaves are being termeted in all things
God Jehovah and Jesus sees all things
even in darken dreams that makes me scream
upon crying tones, blood has fallen beneath the feet
while the spirit still speaks
in places of the unknown where true agony was made
where tears fall while the body is beaten down
where found, feelings had no share
because Dark Angel don’t give a care
The sight of light never shone in his eyes
Dark Angel doesn’t know what love is
on all crying souls of long ago 
their words are still being told their pains are 
bring on the rain, while they call upon the name
where infant cries while they died
while mothers slaved out for their lives
friendships are bestowed upon the land
While Dark Angel beats them down
He calls out my name, Saying Moonlight
tell me what it is you see, come cry to me
Moonlight stands on her feet tell all what she sees
while slaves of faith weeps
time is a clock that plays the games of tick, tock
But no one knows the time when God will
make his show, to a place he will make war
a war not of man, but a war in his command
So, while you’re out being slaved to a word of pain
never loss your faith, love one another
I see faraway lands of true freedom
where the light will shine so bright
Where true love will always be
This is what I see.

Poetic Judy Emery © 2017

Copyright © Judy Emery | Year Posted 2017

Long Poems