Dom's Best

Son

While I stood by the bloody bed,
She cried out lonely as a wolf.
I put my hand behind her head.
She was lonely and herself.
A midwife with a witchlike face
Hissed in her ear, 'Push, ducky, push,'
Till from his warm and wanted place
My son came through the burning bush.

Sticky with blood and yellow slime,
He was held  up, his back was slapped
Like a drunk's at closing time.
When insecurely he had slipped,
Trailed by a steamy sponge of filth
Into the floodlit theatre, I
Took him inside my arms and felt
How soon our children make us die.

He yelped for air. I took her hand,
But her face was smiled away.
A pride I couldn't understand
Swelled her breasts out like milk. The grey-
faced witchlike woman in her white
Was smiling also, so I knew
This was an old rite I was at
And was necessary to.

I had stood by the bloody bed.
She had cried lonely as a wolf.
I had put my hand behind her head.
She had been lonely and herself.
Now I was lonely and myself,
And standing by the lonely bed,
When he cried lonely as a wolf,
I put my hand behind his head.

-----Dom Moraes

Absences

Smear out the last star.
No lights from the islands
Or hills. In the great square
The prolonged vowel of silence
Makes itself plainly heard
Round the ghost of a headland
Clouds, leaves, shreds of bird
Eddy, hindering the wind.

No vigils left to keep.
No enemies left to slaughter.
The rough roofs of the slopes,
Loosely thatched with splayed water,
Only shelter microliths and fossils.
Unwatched, the rainbows build
On the architraves of hills.
No wounds left to be healed.

Nobody left to be beautiful.
No polyp admiral to sip
Blood and whiskey from a skull
While fingering his warships.
Terrible relics, by tiderace
Untouched, the stromalites breathe.
Bubbles plop on the surface,
Disturbing the balance of death.

No sound would be heard if
So much silence was not heard.
Clouds scuff like sheep on the cliff.
The echoes of stones are restored.
No longer any foreshore
Or any abyss, this
World only held together
By its variety of absences.

 

------Dom Moraes

The Patriot

I am standing for peace and non-violence.
Why world is fighting fighting
Why all people of world
Are not following Mahatma Gandhi,
I am simply not understanding.
Ancient Indian Wisdom is 100% correct,
I should say even 200% correct,
But modern generation is neglecting -
Too much going for fashion and foreign thing.
Other day I'm reading newspaper
(Every day I'm reading Times of India
To improve my English Language)
How one goonda fellow
Threw stone at Indirabehn.
Must be student unrest fellow, I am thinking.
Friends, Romans, Countrymen, I am saying (to myself)
Lend me the ears.
Everything is coming -
Regeneration, Remuneration, Contraception.
Be patiently, brothers and sisters.
You want one glass lassi?
Very good for digestion.
With little salt, lovely drink,
Better than wine;
Not that I am ever tasting the wine.
I'm the total teetotaller, completely total,
But I say
Wine is for the drunkards only.
What you think of prospects of world peace?
Pakistan behaving like this,
China behaving like that,
It is making me really sad, I am telling you.
Really, most harassing me.
All men are brothers, no?
In India also
Gujaratis, Maharashtrians, Hindiwallahs
All brothers -
Though some are having funny habits.
Still, you tolerate me,
I tolerate you,
One day Ram Rajya is surely coming.
You are going?
But you will visit again
Any time, any day,
I am not believing in ceremony
Always I am enjoying your company.

----Nissim Ezekiel

Poet, Lover, Birdwatcher

To force the pace and never to be still
Is not the way of those who study birds
Or women. The best poets wait for words.
The hunt is not an exercise of will
But patient love relaxing on a hill
To note the movement of a timid wing;
Until the one who knows that she is loved
No longer waits but risks surrendering -
In this the poet finds his moral proved
Who never spoke before his spirit moved.

The slow movement seems, somehow, to say much more.
To watch the rarer birds, you have to go
Along deserted lanes and where the rivers flow
In silence near the source, or by a shore
Remote and thorny like the heart's dark floor.
And there the women slowly turn around,
Not only flesh and bone but myths of light
With darkness at the core, and sense is found
But poets lost in crooked, restless flight,
The deaf can hear, the blind recover sight.

 

-----Nissim Ezekiel

Minority Poem

In my room, I talk
to my invisible guests:
they do not argue, but wait

Till I am exhausted,
then they slip away
with inscrutable faces.

I lack the means to change
their amiable ways,
although I love their gods.

It's the language really
separates, whatever else
is shared. On the other hand,

Everyone understands
Mother Theresa; her guests
die visibly in her arms.

It's not the mythology
or the marriage customs
that you need to know,

It's the will to pass
through the eye of a needle
to self-forgetfulness.

The guests depart, dissatisfied;
they will never give up
their mantras, old or new.

And you, uneasy
orphan of their racial
memories, merely

Polish up your alien
techniques of observation,
while the city burns. 

----Nissim Ezekiel

Great Post on the "Why" Question.

http://www.kidinthefrontrow.com/2009_07_01_archive.html


Writing? Huh? Wha? Why?

She said, "But why? Why do you want to be a writer?"

Because I get to have a voice. Because I get to have something to say and I get to say it. I get to create the world I want through putting words on a page. And maybe, just maybe, some people might like those words, they might relate to those words. And maybe those words will change them a little. Maybe a story about dreaming will make a little girl dream a little bit more, maybe a script about war will make someone care a little bit more, maybe a film about imagination will make a bunch of people feel inspired at least just a little bit more.

I write because if I just take things in and experience them, they'll get polluted with my judgements and belief systems, whereas if I turn what I think and feel into some kind of words, then it takes on meaning. And if I work hard enough on myself I can rid myself of those judgements and tear through the belief systems and then what will come out on the page is pure truth. Truth like Jimmy Stewart's voice, truth like Tom Hanks' eyes, truth like Marylin Monroe's body, truth like Billy Wilder's dialogue.

I could not write. I could try that. I could keep clicking on people's Facebook profiles and I could argue with someone in the street and work in a job I hate, but I'd rather do this. I'd rather live by inspiration-- I'd rather something just hit me out of nowhere and feel it say "Hey! I am an idea! Take a look at me! See if we get along! Dance with me baby! Come on, throw me down on that page. Give me some letters, give me some words."

When people say "Why do you write?"

I'm gonna say "Why do you have that ugly look on your face? You'd be a lot more beautiful if you said "You write, that's amazing!"

I write because a tree is just a tree. But once you get an idea of a tree, you can turn the tree into anything. You can imagine a beautiful woman sitting on that tree, you can write about the beautiful sunset behind the tree, you can do whatever you want with that damn tree. You see that tree outside your window right now? It's been sitting there for years and apart from when you jumped off it as a kid it hasn't had much reason to be there. But if you have that picture in your head when you write a script, that tree could take on a life of it's own. It could be the kind of tree that Forrest and Jenny would sit on, or a tree that the boys from Stand By Me would like . Before you know it the tree outside your window that inspired you is part of something sitting on some desk in Hollywood that's making some balding Executive think, "this is a movie!".

What people forget when they pull an ugly and say "A writer? What? Why?" is that anything any of us have ever been excited by or inspired by has usually come from a writer. A book you loved, a song you sung, a movie that scared you, a love letter that made you cry, a poem that changed you. This is all at the hands of some writer.

I don't care if you're a successful screenwriter, a hilarious twitter-updater, a novellist or a speech writer. Whatever you are, be proud that you do what you do. Take those letters, take those words; do something with them. Write a movie, write a love letter, write a text message, write yourself a note.

It's the write thing to do.

I am a Military Brat

My hometown is nowhere, my friends are everywhere. I grew up with the knowledge that home is where the heart is and the family….
Mobility is my way of life. Some would wonder about roots, yet they are as deep and strong as the mighty oak. I sink them quickly, absorbing all an area offers and hopefully, giving enrichment in return. Travel has taught me to be open. Shaking hands with the universe, I find brotherhood in all men. Farewells are never easy. Yet, even in sorrow comes strength and ability to face tomorrow with anticipation….
If when we leave one place, I feel that half my world is left behind. I also know that the other half is waiting to be met. Friendships are formed in hours and kept for decades. I will never grow up with someone, but I will mature with many. Be it inevitable that paths part, there is constant hope that they will meet again. Love of country, respect and pride fill my being when Old Glory passes in review. When I stand to honor that flag, so also do I stand in honor of all soldiers, and most especially, to the parents whose life created mine Because of this, I have shared in the rich heritage of Military life.

This is a repost but I am proud to be a military brat. It's how we are, It's WHO we are. :)

I am an atheist because I care. I care for reason. I care for humility. I care for compassion. I care for honesty. I care for responsibility. I care for truth.

Ariadne Unspun

She would have silk embroidered moonlight
And wafts of finest gauze as her wings,
A labyrinth intricate as a dream that Breaks delicate as gossamer in spring;
A myriad of tendrils to reflect the light,
In each a world crafted as from a subtle web,
And flights of fancy that shimmer in the night
Dissolve the aged nightmares made barren in her bed.

But then the moment passes, by reality unspun;
The dust cloth of the housewife is a rag.
The spider’s slight of fancy is undone,
The spinsters girdle is the apron of a hag.
Each dream a thread entangled on the loom,
Soft thoughts cured of whimsy by hard work;
She will scour away distraction, grubby-clean
And spoil Ariadne’s labour, sullied in the dirt.

--Brian Condra

Ode To The Sea

Here is a chain poem we attempted on Facebook. Turned out quite well I think....

I worshiped you, tasted your salt
My eyes burned with longing as I
Swam into your arms

Legs dangled in the clear water
I felt your weight, power
Sand reflecting sunlight

As the great orb slowly set
On the edge of the world
Points of starlight, burst
Like tiny fireworks inside my head

The tide coiled serpentine, waves
Lapping tongue tied and moon struck,
To kiss the sea is to court death

You are the first words
In a book of passion ~
A treasured celebration
Of all the cherries I have ever tasted..

Now cast aside and stained
Salt cured heart embittered in the brine.
Stars tremble on the wave,
The gilly screeches torment

Forged in swirling white fires each polished thrust
The sacred milky river flows uphill,
A gentle stroke
Each soaring note unlocks
The ecstasy of wanting eyes

Tears that dream of ancient oceans
Salt but not as salty as today
Water lusts to make herself thicker
Wants to give herself as spray.

---- by Gagan Sky Judge, Martin Coule, Brian Condra, Chrissy Newbury.

A really short story by Brian Condra

"Speculation is such an odd word.

Prospector Bob, speculated that there was gold in “That there river”, and he was right.

Sly Hicks speculated that old Bob would not give up his gold without a fight, and he was right.

Sheriff Farrell speculated that Sly killed Bob for sheer badness and the gold lust, and he was right.

Judge Jones said, “Hang” and condemned Sly solely on the evidence, and that put an end to all the speculating."

Haiku by Tyle Knott Gregson http://favstar.fm/users/TylerKnott

i was a puzzle.
hiding in a
dusty box
missing your pieces.

I wish here was there
or that there could become here
so I could hold you.

Oh to be the wind,
to always have permission
to play with your hair.

The Reason, Complete

i

sewing old, tattered dreams
with thorns from the sink

as my flowing eyes, it seems,
are stemmed by the ink,

i write the lines
the solace they bring

will be brief and fleeting
but solace nonetheless, i think

the writing equivalent
of crying myself to sleep...



ii

"dig deep" as they would say
examine the flow of emotions

how did you get here?
we need proper investigations

so i become Sherlock,
pipe, hat and coat, all preparations

elementary, my dear Watson!
i say to my pen, after many negotiations

the pen being the only surgeon
to operate on my lunacy.



iii

cutting through the surface, it finds
all the things I had left behind

lost loves and loved ones
joys, sorrows, other states of mind

from epic novels to silly rhymes
so much in so little confined

the pen, at once surgeon and scalpel
wades through tissue,
and feelings of the hidden kind

it finds the tumor, deep and black
a deformed fetus waiting to be free



iv

the agony of the untold story
the cancerous fetus in the writer's mind

I take it out and lay it on white
it is shaped, slashed, spat on and signed

sewing it up, I rest a while.
the wounds will heal with time.

writing is exhausting.
it starts with tears and ends
with surgery of the mind

this exhausted solace is fleeting
then, like with Prometheus,
the pain starts again.

In the depths of winter I finally learned there was within me an invincible summer.
-Albert Camus