Heidegger wrote about this Other,
the self that brings its being
to our work.
He (she) reads the words,
uses them, cuts them and mends
them as needed.
But we must allow that process,
we must allow play with our
sentences, must allow the reader
to recline on the pillow we make
with verbiage.
We must be open when we write
so that the reader came come
inside the word and take a peek.
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard. Please find one of his several blogs at http://spinrockreader.blogspot.com.
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SWEET LITTLE SPERM. A Poem by Tony Martin-Woods.
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm.
Show us what you are made of,
thrive to compete,
reach for the stars
in England’s global dream.
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm.
Don’t worry if it’s just white tissue
where you have to navigate:
The world’s changing fast,
don’t refrain to adapt
to exciting new terrains.
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm.
We don’t want any
foreign,
faster,
bastard
sperm
to get there,
to get anywhere,
in fact,
before you.
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm,
if you’re idle, you’ll be dead.
I know there is no egg,
but who needs more of them
if technology will soon
allow to replicate,
even in their solitude,
individuals like you
who can’t find a mate?
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm,
it’ll do you good.
You don’t want to be fat,
like me,
or have cholesterol.
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm,
it’s in your DNA
(and in my IDS),
like our sporting traditions,
discipline, skill,
our culture of duty,
glorious league tables,
sacrifice, routine.
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm,
but do not demonstrate!
Do not complain!
Do not affiliate!
Put a brave face
and get on with it!
Don’t believe what anyone says,
just believe in you.
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm.
Your welfare depends
on the vibrancy of your motion,
your speed up the stream,
and so does my wage,
and my job,
and the profits of thousands
of savvy businessmen
who trade
with the energy
of the movement
of your tail,
sweet little sperm.
Tony Martin-Woods started to write poetry in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada (Transforming with Poetry), an online publication of political poetry that he edits. Tony is a political and artistic activist who explores the digital component of our lives as a means to support critical human empowerment. He is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his non-literary name. He writes in English and Spanish and is due to publish his first book of poems in 2016.
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Ansatz für lieben | Geek love. A Poem by Prabhu Iyer
1. Mystery girl, let me make an ansatz about you:
You are like an anti-gravity wave –
The farther I go, the more I pine for you.
Some kind of growing exponent:
Yes, you are the solution I ignore in my
Quotidian root-finding mission;
The annihilation – those killer eyes!
Now I see, we inhabit orthogonal planes;
2. Wonder-woman, let me make an ansatz about you:
You are elegance. Ripple-play
at pebbles, those dimpled cheeks,
deliciously symmetric – not Cartesian;
Guess it’s subterranean, Artesian,
in the k-space, transform domain,
my mind-space, where, girl,
you are a wonder of beauty and grace.
3. Magicienne, let me make an ansatz about you:
You are the particle for Love waves:
a lovelet; you tread shadow and space;
Dressed in that kaftan
when you walk in, I will sublimate.
Ether-maker, you solve the Hamiltonian,
I see now, how matter’s made.
Educated in India and England, Prabhu Iyer writes contemporary rhythm poetry. He counts the classical Romantics and Mystics among his influences. Among modern poets Neruda and Tagore are his favourites for their haunting and inspirational lyrical verse. Prabhu has also explored the meaning of modern art movements such as surrealism and cubism and their role in anchoring the society through his art-poetry. Currently he is based out of Chennai, India, where he has a day job as an academic scientist.
In 2012 Prabhu collected over 50 of his poems and self-published them on Amazon Kindle: Ten Years of Moons and Mists More recently, his 2014 entry made it to the long list from among over 5000 entrants to the annual international poetry contest conducted by the UK-based publishing house, Erbacce Press. His major current projects include a further volume of poetry, his first fictional novella and a planned series of translations of lyrics from Indian film music.
Editor’s Note: for further information see Interview with Prabhu Iyer at this site
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YOUR SHOULDER. A Poem by John Tustin
I woke up
In the complete darkness
Reaching out for you
Like I always do
But this time
You were there.
I touched your shoulder
And you grunted.
I don’t know if the grunt
Was anger or assent
But you were there,
Beside me,
Asleep.
Where you belong.
I kissed your shoulder,
You sighed,
Then began to breathe deeply
Again.
I fell asleep
Completely
Satisfied.
John Tustin graduated from nowhere, edits nothing and has no awards. His poetry is forthcoming in Poetry Pacific, Leannan, Your One Phone Call, Bare Back Magazine and Newtown Literary Review. http://www.fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry/ is a link to his poetry online
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“The love of one woman” A poem by Franchot Ballinger
- “The love of one woman
- W.S. Merwin
How can there be such singularity?
All around us are multiplications,
Exponential effusions of professions,
Of declaration, of protestation, of procreation.
All the lavish universe refuses a center,
Denies a focus—galaxy, nebula, black hole,
All teeming and sucking and wildly flung,
All’s akimbo, flailing, flying,
Even the million seeds of the white pine
Like stars carried promiscuously afar.
But look—she who is a wealth of caresses,
Well-spring of kisses, creates with me a center,
A holdfast root to flower…as if
We were the only and last of our kind:
Precious and prayerful, all stem and stalk,
Leaf and flavor, bloom and blossom;
Seed and husk, juice of fruit and pulp.
Sunk in guttering light and
Darkening sweep of cosmos,
Of our days, our lives, there is only
This one love–avant-garde acceptance,
Cool conspicuousness (if puzzling principle),
Remarkable reaping.
In retirement after nearly 40 years teaching English at the University of Cincinnati, Franchot Ballinger has continued volunteering with the Cincinnati Nature Center in various capacities and is also a spiritual care volunteer with Hospice of Cincinnati. His poems have appeared in numerous poetry journals in print and on-line.
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Parkinson’s Lament. A Poem by Leland Jamieson
For G.K.J. (In her voice.)
What is this thing called Parkinson’s Disease?
The sickness robs me of my body’s grace,
and worse, it robs me of my mind’s trapeze
for agile thought. No longer do I ace
the mental tests I used to love to face.
Double vision’s dogged the play of my eyes —
so long, so much, I cry, “Is this life’s Prize?”
Reading — strong prizing bar to deeper thought
lifting the eyes above the self to see
what lies beyond the daily diddly-squat
of eating, sleeping, bathing, poops and pee —
is gone. Slow living death my apogee?
Can’t draw. Can’t paint. P.D.’s a heart-deep thorn.
I think it better were I never born.
Leland Jamieson lives and writes in Monroe Township, New Jersey, USA. He has three collections of poetry — 21ST CENTURY BREAD (2007), IN VITRO (2009), — plus a handbook for self-taught poets-to-be and teachers-to-be, HOW TO RHYME YOUR WAY TO ‘METAPHOR POEMS’ (2012) also check out his latest book Sooner: A Crown of Sonnets & New Post-9/11 Poems.
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In Mornings. A Poem by Ananya S Guha
In mornings there is explosion
a certain humming, a certain resistance
to the sun or thunder
cars, frantic have rollicking time
school kids think that morning is cessation
but, soon there will be shadows
and lingering dust
dogs’ tails will wag
mornings are premeditated action
a liitle discernment
and mornings will take to paths
unscented.
In morning
she takes position near
the bus stand, vegetables she sells
may or may not ( sell)
but mornings are arcades of hope
and in this city, mornings have the luminous
mornings have smell of flowers
mornings are creepy mirages of another day.
In Mornings.
Ananya S Guha has been born and brought up in Shillong, India and works in India’s National Open University, the Indira Gandhi National Open University. His poems in English have been published world wide. He also writes for newspapers and magazines/ web zines on matters ranging from society and politics to education. He holds a doctoral degree on the novels of William Golding. He edits the poetry column of The Thumb Print Magazine, and has published seven collections of poetry.
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From Agassiz Peak. A Poem by David Chorlton
- photo Roberta Chortlon
From eleven thousand feet the shadows
cast by clouds rock
back and forth as they float down
through volcanic light
to the forests where they break
apart between the pines
and disappear into late summer grass.
Windgusts at that altitude
slide from a raptor’s wing
and dissolve in thin air
while the view from the treeline
runs sky-wide and frost-bright
to the point where Earth and rain
pale into each other.
A misplaced glance
would slip back a thousand years
to be swallowed by lava
and leave no foothold
on the crater’s edge.
Prairies tumble, edge over edge,
while forests tighten their grip
against winter, which begins
its descent from the first
aspen leaf to turn yellow.
David Chorlton was born in Austria, grew up in Manchester, England, and lived for several years in Vienna before moving to Phoenix in 1978. Arizona’s landscapes and wildlife have become increasingly important to him and a significant part of his poetry. His Selected Poems from FutureCycle Press appeared in 2014. The shadow side of Vienna provides the core of The Taste of Fog, a work of fiction published by Rain Mountain Press. http://www.davidchorlton.mysite.com/
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