January, 2014
Love’s Language
POSTED IN classic poetry January 31, 2014
Love’s LanguageHow does Love speak?
In the faint flush upon the telltale cheek,
And in the pallor that succeeds it; by
The quivering lid of an averted eye–
The smile that proves the parent to a sigh
Thus doth Love speak.How does Love speak?
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,
While new emotions, like strange barges, make
Along vein-channels their disturbing course;
Still as the dawn, and with the dawn’s swift force–
Thus doth Love speak.How does Love speak?
In the avoidance of that which we seek–
The sudden silence and reserve when near–
The eye that glistens with an unshed tear–
The joy that seems the counterpart of fear,
As the alarmèd heart leaps in the breast,
And knows, and names, and greets its godlike guest–
Thus doth Love speak.How does Love speak?
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek–
The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendor;
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to one belovèd face;
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble;
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble–
Thus doth Love speak.How does Love speak?
In the wild words that uttered seem so weak
They shrink ashamed in silence; in the fire
Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher,
Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm;
In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm,
Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins,
Between the shores of keen delights and pains;
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss–
Thus doth Love speak.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Guiltless Heart
POSTED IN classic poetry January 26, 2014
Guiltless Heart
The man of life upright, whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds and thoughts of vanity:
The man whose silent days in harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude, nor fortune discontent;
That man needs neither towers nor armor for defense,
Nor secret vaults to fly from thunder’s violence:
He only can behold with unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep and terrors of the skies;
Thus scorning all the care that fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book, his wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends, his wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn and quiet pilgrimage.
“Truth is the daughter of time, not of authority”.
Sir Francis Bacon
The Wedding Photo
POSTED IN Stories January 25, 2014
The Wedding Photo
They stood there smiling in black and white
holding their fingers tender and tight.
They knew the secrets of a past tense heart
they knew of a future “till death do us part”.
They tell a story that starts with “I do!”.
They dream of a lifetime witnessed by two.
They hold their crowns as King and his Queen
They know not that marriage is simply a scene.
She hopes to be mother and blessed to be.
He hopes to write poems and countries to see.
She loves to become a woman at last.
He loves her in the future, present and past.
They both look so happy and deeply in love.
They both dream of marriage as life in a grove.
They both do not know the “I do” aftermath
for they both envisioned a different path.
Maria Magdalena Biela
Whose voice?
POSTED IN Stories January 25, 2014
Whose voice?
Writing could be only a struggle with death and sometimes a victory over it. Nothing dies more entirely in the human mind than the hidden memory of the first steps, the first spoken words and childhood’s first glance of life.
I have never sifted life, never hunted for it, I was never bookkeeping it nor have I ever used it for ”literary experience” purposes.
I simply loved and lived life, normally, spontaneously, disinterestedly, sometimes lazily.
I impregnated myself with life, hoping that its essences will echo inside me as strong as a small drop of fir resin echoes the scent of a whole forest. I used to stay awake late in the night, in a perfect harmony with insomnia, watching the trees, the stars, breathing the darkness near my wide opened window.
One morning I discovered the mystery of one apricot tree blossomed over night, like a child coming from the deep sweet dreamy waters of sleep.
Who was the child: the apricot tree or I?
Sprinkled with pink white flowers I felt inside me the echo of the Greek scream: ”Thalassa!”, when they discovered the Homeric wonder of the Sea.
When did my apricot tree become white with flowers? While I was asleep?
That tree dressed like a spring bride became my swing that went high and higher straight to the Milky Way.
The table of shadows invites everybody to take a sit and tell a story.
The old Jewish house of my childhood does not exist anymore, but in my memories. Late in the heart of night, when every soul sleeps, my friend, Insomnia, opens to me old windows that in the light of day seem to be locked.
I see myself, a four-year-old, running wildly between the trees of our orchard, climbing and hiding and running away from brothers, sisters and especially my mother. They always threatened me with ”lunch, dinner”, awful words, scary sentences for a four-year-old who loved climbing the trees and eating their fruits only.
I see my father, tall, dark, pale, a Poet, gathering us together, five children, and organising a poetry contest, behind the house.
There he would improvise a stage where we would recite poems, to be rewarded for the best acting ever.
I see myself fidgeting, fighting my tears and my fears, climbing the stage behind the improvised curtain, trying to remember my poem.
Of course, I always won! Everybody would be ready to give up their own pride only to see my serious and proud face receiving the chocolate trophy from my father’s hands.
My brothers used to sing but I, with my small voice, I would recite classic love poems not knowing the meaning of the words, and I would say ”I love you forever” with the same passion, hunger, delight, that I would eat my chocolate prize with.
I never smiled. Yet, in my father’s arms, I would hug him strongly, thankfully, collecting his tears with my fingers and wondering where they come from. I would caress his face and dry his tears of love silently. He loved through me, he recited with me, he cried for divine love having me in his arms.
Whose voice recited those poems? My voice or my Father’s?
I would not know….I do not know…I will never know.
Maria Magdalena Biela
Sunflower
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 25, 2014
Sunflower
I stretch and stretch
thirsting for light
your love
quickening, quivering
through my veins.
My seed glows gold
with the passage of time
beating for you my love
half tempo rhythm and blues.
I open wide
search for those last rays
a memory of you
embossed upon my heart.
Oh lord, where are you?
Why do you leave
this pale shadow of yourself
in my night sky?
I bow to you
curl around my emptiness
and cry.
Amanda Edwards
Touch me
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 25, 2014
Touch me
We curl round each other
like fragile fronds,
safe in our womb of darkness.
Feathered finger tips
explore the surface of our skin,
trace each worn trail gently,
smoothing and moulding;
we relax into wordless sleep.
Somewhere in our dreams
we stir once more,
a tendril of fear uncoils
in the darkness,
threatens to divide us.
A whimper escapes my throat;
you nuzzle me and I press
into your warmth, loving
the shape of you,
stroke the nape of your neck,
Belief in my power restored.
Amanda Edwards
Man and wife
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 25, 2014
Man and wifeWe lay together underneath this tree.
The willow branches shade our skin, so fair.
We listen to the shrieks of youngsters, free,
Unshackled from the burdens that we bear.
It’s simple here to let our troubles ease.
Relaxed, replete I watch you drift away,
Enchanted by the shadows of the leaves,
That dance upon your face in joyful play.
I slow my heart to beat in time with yours,
and shed a tear of happiness for us.
For in this magic place we find no flaw,
Our lives of imperfection are suffice.
Just now we leave behind our family strife;
our souls connect once more as man and wife.
Amanda Edwards
Finding Comfort on the Back of a Horse
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 20, 2014
Finding Comfort on the Back of a Horse
There are times
When the vast emptiness
Of the prairie
Reflects a hollowness
I feel inside.
When the sound
Of the wind
Echoes in the vacant
Chambers of my heart.
Finding Comfort on the Back of a Horse
There have been times
When I have sought
Solitude,
Longing for the gentle peace
Of the quiet land,
But sometimes
The silence overpowers me.
I seek comfort
In the saddle,
Feeling the harmony
That can only be found
On the back of a horse,
My spirit matching
The rhythm,
Of the hushed beat
Of her hooves
As Rose dances
Across the prairie.
Her spirit
Speaks to mine,
Setting me free
From the shackles
Of loneliness
And self-doubt.
On the back
Of a horse,
My wounded spirit
Finds shelter
From my inner tempests.
Phil Ray Jack
I am tired.
POSTED IN essays January 20, 2014
I am tired.
Damn damn damn. I would not have you find me so led by others, but perhaps you are right.
I realize how I am so unrefined and stupid. I get down because I do fight the blues. I do suffer from what I accuse other of suffering from, vanity. I seek praise. I seek to impress you certainly. Maybe I have written four or five really good poems. I fear I have lost my ability in writing. I don’t know if it is in the medications I take, or in my attitude, in my lack of love, or lack of desiring love. I admit, I miss trying to woo you. I apologize for this. First, it is not something I should have done, and I apologize that when I tried, I did it with all my heart.
I tell you sometimes I see your picture and it is difficult to keep my promise to myself and to my wife. I fight to maintain a situation that never improves.
I send you the beginning of a poem I did not send you because it was no good. But here are my feelings in a few sentences.
We lie shivering in our bed
I believe, if I were to uncover you
I would see the steam rise
and that if I might warm my hands over your fire
all would be well
Believe me a fool
I love Estella
Ophelia
and women of my own creation
I was raised as a fool, and maintain this foolishness. You paid for my years of foolishness with the words from my wife. I still am sorry you caught the heat.
Sometimes I don’t know what is real and what isn’t. I fight the desire to sleep my days away and dream of young women walking the shore in Crete. Or past muses (not you) lying in my bed in Florence. I am in love with all the pre-Raphaelite models like Lizzie Siddal. I love Botticelli’s models. I love my own characters. I love Lippi’s women, or Daphne in the Bernini sculpture. I see women speaking flowers. I dream of making love while flying on a magic carpet (really). For awhile, with you and the other muse, I would hold my hands up in the air, in the dark, in bed, and hope, pray, ask for your ghosts to visit. No, just to sit with me and run your hand over my brow. God help me, but that is who I am. I do not believe in spirits but in the divine spirits perhaps.
I think of you as a divine spirit. As goddess. As vampire perhaps that I would gladly die for. I wish–I wish I had my wife back. I wish she thought me not stupid and unable to speak and devious. I wish she found me sexy or at least, bearable.
Now you know. So, believe me led. Believe me silly. Believe me without skill. But believe me.
I am just a man full of memories. That is all there is. I remember the old days. Yes, women who sprinkled baby powder on them who would kiss me for hours. Women who danced with me in velvet dresses and then lifted the dresses later in the car. When I am not dreaming, I am imagining sitting in a room in North, in the cool evening, with a midnight sun, and talking and being nervous with someone I desire who I should not desire. Looking her in the eye, and then looking down, and listening to that marvellous, small, intelligent voice.
I imagine too much, and live too little in the real world. So, the real world makes me dull.
Tomorrow there will be church and more proverbs and the wisdom. And sometimes I wish the hell with wisdom.
I ache sometimes damn it. So, there you go. This is me. The worst and the best of me. The dreamer and the man who can not live real life and can’t leave it.
Fernando Cordoba
A Besoin
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 19, 2014
A Besoin
pour son existence
une aiguille a besoin
d’une veine
le tonnerre a besoin
de la foudre
un artiste a besoin
de la douleur
pour son existence
les religieux ont besoin
du doute
le diable a besoin
d’un ange
le pécheur a besoin
d’un saint
pour son existence
les poumons ont besoin
du souffle
j’ai besoin
de ton amour
du volume “Roll the Dice”
Glen Alexander
