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Archive for the ‘writing’ Category

Winner of the 5th-Anniversary Poetry Contest

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 03/08/2012| Leave a Comment »

 I am pleased as punch to introduce you to Martin Bartels, winner of our 5th-Anniversary Poetry Contest.
 
Martin’s poem “At the End of the Day” not only offers a sense of discovery to the reader, but it plucks at that certain string – an air of plenitude maybe – native to so many of the poems collected here. 
 
And it ends with two lines that may be my new favorites.
 
So now, with no further ado, I proudly present our winner…
 

At the End of the Day

 

A simple place to write with a friendly pub nearby.
Land to grow vegetables and herbs for our evening stew.

A landscape of pasture lands, a river nearby for fish,
the cheap cuts of steer or pig, a plucked chicken

(save the parts for stock). A cast iron pan. Good wine.
A quiet place to read where the land stretches its legs,

reminds us that we are humbled eternally by grace and
beauty. To know these moments is our only ambition.

At the end of the day you come home to what you are.
The corporate ladder is climbed primarily to patch walls and

change light bulbs. The serene young blonde at the corner bar
has aspirations. She will either live them or not, both results

equally poignant. The loons defend their twilight, blue-grey
mystics in a perpetual stance of expectation, until their wings

explode in the urgent energy of exploration. Mythic dances
unfold unobserved. These are our first angels. The moon in

daylight pretends to be a cloud. Nimbus or cumulus, I’m unsure.
In daylight the moon is a won ton, cloud-swallowing minister,

the monk who chops wood before and after enlightenment.
Wood chips on the grill smoke white cloud riffs against the sky.

The clouds themselves are thin fish bones; sky soup. The breeze
moves through us at the same pace as clouds. The moon

remains still. The moon is a skull in this light, not threatening but
ponderous. Strange dreams flow out of it that remind you of the

long poem by Harrison. The moon in daylight said this to me:
You are the changing line in the I Ching symbol that suggests

you will be a great man one day. I am buckled by the notion,
having no such pretensions. The old man who told me we are

born with nothing has it wrong. We come into this world
with everything. We leave with everything.

-Martin Bartels

c. 2012, by Martin A. Bartels
Martin A. Bartels is an accomplished writer whose career in journalism and communications spans almost 30 years. His poems have appeared in Poetry24, the Found Poetry Review, and Verse Wisconsin. He has written for more than 100 print and online publications around the world, including AOL CityGuide, the Jerusalem Post, Chicago Sun-Times, and dozens of regional and community newspapers. He has held several leadership positions at national and international nonprofit organizations. Bartels lives in northern Virginia with his wife, two children, a cat, and a golden retriever. You can follow his poetry blog at Difficult River.

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Poem of the Day: The Middle Is Twilight

Posted in michael haugh, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 01/31/2012| 3 Comments »

Twilight is a threshold time,
a corridor, a port,
a melting pot, a thing sublime,
where light and dark consort.

It is a grail, a cup,
for dual absolutions.
It softens stark extremes
and beckons toward solutions.

The hero wakes in twilight,
past crushing, clashing rocks.
In his begging bowl is insight,
carried home to feed the flocks.

In days gone by, this hero
was the seer, was the sage.
Now, he’s a twilight poet,
who sings to a twilight age.

Find his middle way,
and its truth that does denote us.
For at twilight’s balance point,
dwells the jewel within the lotus.

-Michael Haugh

I am extraordinarily pleased to share this special poem written recently by one of the most influential teachers in my life, Michael Haugh. At 15 years old, I was sent from public school to private school after nearly failing out my freshman year. Here I met Mr. Haugh, a no-nonsense teacher; a large and imposing man to whom I sensed – and still sense – I must bring my best. He believed in me and being, for the most part, terrifying made that even more effective.

Michael Haugh’s encouragement of my abilities as a writer and thinker changed my life and set me on a course for honors English, then AP English, then a bachelors and master’s in English, and finally into careers as a professor, writer, editor, and publisher.

Michael P. Haugh was born in Brooklyn, NY on October 25, 1945. He graduated from The Aquinas Institute of Rochester, NY in 1963. He matriculated at St. Bonaventure University. He obtained a B.A.in English in 1967 and an M.A. in English Literature in 1969. He, also, acquired an M.A. in Diversified Studies from Brockport State University in 1985. For forty years he taught English, Journalism, Theology, and Creative Writing at Cardinal Mooney H.S. and at The Aquinas Institute, both located in Rochester, NY.

In addition to classroom responsibilities, he also held the administrative positions of Dean of Students and English Departmental Chair, and served several years as Campus Minister and the coach of boys’ varsity golf and freshman basketball. In 2007, the year of his retirement, Michael was a recipient of the Singer Award for Excellence in Secondary Education from The University of Rochester. Michael is married to Stephanie Haugh, is presently retired, and continues residence in Rochester, NY. They have three married sons, seven grandchildren, and two dogs.

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Top 10 Poems of 2011

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 12/29/2011| Leave a Comment »

1. Ithaca

2. I Walked a Mile with Pleasure

3. The Lost Son

4. Ithaca (video)

5. The Serpent

6. After a While

7. Love Me Like You Never Loved Before

8. Deathless Aphrodite of the Spangled Mind

9. Giving Up

10. The Unicorn

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Poem of the Day: In My Hollow Bones

Posted in Nina Alvarez, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 12/27/2011| Leave a Comment »

In my hollow bones
I heard her
Like a bone woman
A lisp

Her eyes were green
And I see now
How I thought I was beautiful
Compared to him
But she was beautiful
Compared to me

And he would chose her

In my head
And in the hall of my roots
Where the dead grow and the old
Plays are memorialized on tapestry

The mold is only slight, there is a
Magic that keeps this terrible truth alive

In all I wanted, in all these years, I thought
I found something to aspire to, that is a line
From a book, I suspect, some bland platitude
But it piques my interest because

I am the tom cat
In the celebrity showcase

I am the one cartooned

She is the plaster goddess, the thing on the wall
She is the face that said no
And now smiles and so
Who could say no to her?

She is the power play, I am merely the one who
Stood next to him

I am the one who has offered
She has asked to be given

And no matter what I do
it is always me
who must be cast out
To the far corners

Me as always
In every one of these stories
In the deep dank room of roots
Untried, unloved, unwon, uncarried
The woman in the background

Fading away already, always light of hair, light of skin

A ghost

-Nina Alvarez

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Poem of the Day: Poem 3

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 12/08/2011| 1 Comment »

Friend, hope for the Guest while you are alive.
Jump into experience while you are alive!
Think…and think… while you are alive.
If you don’t break your ropes while you’re alive,
do you think
ghosts will do it after?

The idea that the soul will join with the ecstatic
just because the body is rotten —
that is all fantasy.
What is found now is found then.
If you find nothing now,
you will simply end up with an apartment in the City

of Death.
If you make love with the divine now, in the next life
you will have the face of satisfied desire.
So plunge into the truth, find out who the Teacher is,

Believe in the Great Sound!
Kabir says this: When the Guest is being searched for,

it is the intensity of the longing for the Guest that
does all the work.
Look at me, and you will see a slave of that intensity.

-Kabir

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Poem of the Day: Untitled [I talk to my inner lover]

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 11/24/2011| Leave a Comment »

I talk to my inner lover, and I say, why such
rush?
We sense that there is some sort of spirit that loves
birds and animals and the ants–
perhaps the same one who gave a radiance to you in
your mother’s womb.
Is it logical you would be walking around entirely
orphaned now?
The truth is you turned away yourself,
and decided to go into the dark alone.
Now you are tangled up in others, and have forgotten
what you once knew,
and that’s why everything you do has some weird
failure in it.

-Kabir

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Poem of the Day: Affirmation

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 11/05/2011| Leave a Comment »

Once in a while I will come across an unpublished poem – or one will be sent to me – by a talented but unpromoted writer. It is my honor to showcase them to you, especially this poem by Mary Harker.

Affirmation

“If anyone here
knows a reason why
these two should not be wed
let him speak now.”
Of course, at this wedding
these words weren’t spoken.

At this wedding
on our porch above the beach
the words told of a chance meeting,
attraction, loyalty, and love.
They spoke of difficulty
and of gratitude.

I watched the slight caress of fingers
the quick meetings of eyes
the soft interplay of smiles.
Beyond, waves crested, rolled in
to spill themselves across the sand.
Sun parted the clouds.

A man on the beach,
his camera pointed our way
dashed here and there to get pictures.
He had a smile on his face
delighted, I think, by these two
in their matching white jackets.

-Mary Harker

About Mary
I began writing poetry at age 43, received a Master’s Degree in English with an emphasis on poetry from San Diego State at age 53, and now teach a Poetry Workshop for adults 50 and above through OASIS. I was married for 27 years, have 3 children and 8 grandchildren.

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Poem of the Day: How Many Miles to Babylon?

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing on 10/31/2011| Leave a Comment »

How many miles to Babylon?
Three-score and ten.
Can I get there by candle-light?
Yes, there and back again.
If your heels are nimble and light,
You will get there by candle-light.

-Old English Nursery Rhyme

 

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Poem of the Day: Metaphors of a Magnifico

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Wallace Stevens, words, Write, Writer, writing on 10/25/2011| 2 Comments »

Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are twenty men crossing twenty bridges,
Into twenty villages,
Or one man
Crossing a single bridge into a village.

This is old song
That will not declare itself . . .

Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are
Twenty men crossing a bridge
Into a village.

That will not declare itself
Yet is certain as meaning . . .

The boots of the men clump
On the boards of the bridge.
The first white wall of the village
Rises through fruit-trees.
Of what was it I was thinking?
So the meaning escapes.

The first white wall of the village . . .
The fruit-trees . . .

 

-Wallace Stevens

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Poem of the Day: There Was a Child Went Forth

Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Whitman, Write, Writer, writing on 09/28/2011| Leave a Comment »

THERE was a child went forth every day;
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.

The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal, and the cow’s calf,
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there—and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads—all became part of him.

The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him;
Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover’d with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the tavern, whence he had lately risen,
And the school-mistress that pass’d on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass’d—and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek’d girls—and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went.

His own parents,
He that had father’d him, and she that had conceiv’d him in her womb, and birth’d him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that;
They gave him afterward every day—they became part of him.

The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table;
The mother with mild words—clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by;
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger’d, unjust;
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture—the yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay’d—the sense of what is real—the thought if, after all, it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time—the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets—if they are not flashes and specks, what are they?
The streets themselves, and the façades of houses, and goods in the windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank’d wharves—the huge crossing at the ferries,
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset—the river between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, three miles off,
The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide—the little boat slack-tow’d astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color’d clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away solitary by itself—the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon’s edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day.

-Walt Whitman

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