Monthly Archives: April 2015

To be a poet is dangerous

Wuji Seshat

13
Messages without Knowing

Poets acquire humanity
In their undoing, this
Dangerous self-destructive art
Who dares be ridiculed a poet these days?

This secret subversive pleasure
Isn’t it so, that we are the houses
Of art that try to be haunted
To feel what others dare not!?

Painting they say is silent poetry
Poetry is painting that speaks
But for whom does it speak?
These echoes asking shadows

To dance, that communicates
Without or before understanding
To sit in the dark and sing
To cheer its own solitude

With sweet sounds, where O where
Are the sweet sounds of old?
Poets die trying to be poets
I’ve seen it with my own eyes

Poetry is an escape from emotion
An instinct to tell stories
Like a seer or a prophet in hard times.

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Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation

Rtuc's Blog

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation is a Scottish folk song whose lyrics are taken from an eponymous Robert Burns poem of 1791. It derides those members of the Parliament of Scotland who signed the Act of Union with England in 1707, comparing their treachery to the country with the tradition of martial valor and resistance commonly associated with such historic figures as Robert the Bruce and William Wallace. It has continued to be associated with Scottish nationalism and also been referenced in other situations where politicians’ actions have gone against popular opinion.
The melody and lyrics were published in James Hogg’s Jacobite Reliques of 1817

(The song’s lyrics are in Lowlands Scots which is similar in origin but separate from English. Burns was a very literate and well-educated man and wrote both in English and Scots.)

Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel…

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I met a man….

The Long Habit of Living

Funny how something sticks with you for years, but you don’t really know its origin or meaning.  My mama used to recite little ditties and rhymes to me all the time, and I always presumed that this one was a Mother Goose nursery rhyme.  It’s not.

As I was walking up the stair,

I met a man who wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there again today.

I wish, I wish he’d go away.

steps in sepia

It’s actually called “Antigonish” and was a poem written by Hughes Mearns in 1899.  Story goes that it was inspired by reports of a ghost of a man roaming the stairs of a haunted house in Antigonish, Nova Scotia, and over the years variations of the poem have been made into songs, and used in literature, movies, plus become a reference to make points in all manner of subjects.  

The full poem/song goes like this:

Yesterday, upon…

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I’d Rather Be Alone

DoubleU = W

And what of loneliness,” you ask.

And I say, “what about it?”

What does it even mean?

Does being in a room alone,

avoiding contact,

no conversation,

few, if any, friends,

do these equal loneliness?

And what is the cure?

Taking in the company,

of a boring mind,

to while away the hours,

in a numbing drone,

with some small, weak,

lacking brain,

incapable of,

a unique thought?

Thank you but,

I’d rather be alone.

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Wonder Land

chester maynes

I bring the moon
inside my mind.
The gravity pulls
me toward the
flat, blue ocean.

My thousand stars
have red eyes and
their feet are
standing flat on
the summer ground.

The birds fly over
the huge sky,
the clouds hide
their wings,
they chant a song.

Whispers are uttered
smoothly in the
dark and the gossips
render stories of
love songs and
lullabies.

I summon the wild,
reprimand the tides,
pacify the tantrums
of the galaxy and
sleep in the dreams
of purple eyes.

The earth sees all
these things and
he captures our
thoughts, traps
them in the deep
underground.

2015

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Deep End Of The Ocean

Reblogged with thanks.

dicky j loweman

And I

Watched you

As you slowly sank down

Dragged to the bottom, so dark

And I

Did nothing

To help

*

And You

Looked back

Up to me, but said nothing

Just held out both your hands

But still,

So silent

So dark

*

And I

Turned away

Not wanting to see the end,

The disappearing act, as you slipped

Deeper down

As I

Did nothing

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

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POEM: SILENT SOULS

Reblogged with kind permission.

Nathan B. Poetry

homeless_day_1-greycroppedMany walk our streets
They roam as silent souls not seen
Yet in them lives an unknown story
Somewhere in the pages of the past they were once called upon
A young boy looking up to his father
A daughter needing a mother
But today they are forgotten in the midst of the crowds
They have become walking stories
Unknown to the creations amongst them
In the shadows of the tall buildings which surround them are they embraced
Yet they remain unknown
They carry with them the echoes of the past
Stories filled with such emotions that they have become oceans of endless lives
A simple smile
A simple notice is all they desire from those that run the streets as if they were not present
To only speak and see their thoughts
To only walk in their shoes for a time
What would we see?
How would we act?

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Featured Novella: Flowers For Algernon

MMU Novella Award

Image

by Dan Peacock

“My name is Charlie Gordon I werk in Donners bakery where Mr Donner gives me 11 dollers a week and bred or cake if I want. I am 32 yeres old and next munth is my brithday.”

Daniel Keyes’ Flowers For Algernon is often cited as a classic piece of science-fiction, but there’s the feeling that branding it as “sci-fi” might turn away a lot of people that might otherwise have loved this novella. There are no spaceships, no aliens, no time-travel; just solid fiction with science at its core.

Charlie Gordon, the narrator, has an IQ of 68 when he signs up for an experimental surgical procedure to vastly increase his intelligence. His diary entries (which form the book), which are initially riddled with spelling mistakes and cloudy observations, slowly become more coherent, insightful and revelatory as his IQ climbs… and climbs. In a manner of…

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