Sunday, 31 October 2010

One Shock Sunday: A Halloween Special


One Shock Sunday
A Halloween Special

Dustus has been buried deep in a grave of despair as I wrestled One Shoot Sunday from his grasping hands...continuing the Halloween celebrations I give you a poem that celebrate's One Stop Poetry, in a dark, wicked way

A Deathly Tale
by Pete Marshall

An axe that falls upon the neck
Of smoothen skin of innocence
Will draw the breath of life’s regrets
And spasm truths of brilliance

And from the earth the flowers grow
That suck on blood of those before
Who lay beneath in rotten casks
That bide their time with tooth and claw

For in the sky the moon is full
That shines upon the marbled tomb
Who’s stones are etched with flowing words
That speak of tales yet hide the truth

A howl is heard across the pond
As dust would settle on the shrine
The miller works within his realm
As wind blows sails that move with time

And blood will flow and rush through veins
As taste desires those who prey
To suck on sweetly sugared flesh
And stop once more to stay and play…..

*************

Have you a Halloween treat you would like to share? Or would you like to write your own poem using the iconic image below of Nosferatu?...Whatever you chose please use Mr Linky to lead us to your vault of delights and............

HAPPY HALLOWEEN 





all images courtesy wikipedia

Saturday, 30 October 2010

Halloween: A One Stop Celebration

The clock strikes twelve 
as the children lay asleep
the zombies will rise 
and the witches will seek.......................



Welcome to Halloween

As the barriers of the underworld open once more, One Stop brings you a bag full of treats to send shivers down your spine and celebrate All Hallows Eve. My first treat is the great and the glorious, I give you Vincent Price reading The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe


Are you cosy? Are you calm? What was that noise....who is that looking over your shoulder? Have you looked in the mirror? What did you see......................................NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!

My next treat is a poem, written by myself, that I originally shared with One Stop Wednesday way back in early August...but in the tradition of Halloween we celebrate those that have gone before

The Lykewake of Morag

The crows would circle high above
As death would waken on the ground
A hand would stretch and flick its claws
To trap the prey that swooped on down.
As feathers fell on sodden earth
And float as boats upon the breeze
Bones would crunch and blood would splay
That fed the Scarecrows dark disease.

The haar would creep along the links
As song was heard beyond the hill
The tabor marked the lykewake start
As clans would bow and mourn their still.
Upon the beach the waves would crash
And curse and spit their maddened angst
The mortcloth lay across her soul
As friends would come and offer thanks.

Through wynd and vennel souls would part
As spirits fled the darkened streets
The Scarecrow watched in silent thought
Whilst winds would blow through mans deceit.
And dirks were drawn at Morag’s hame
As Chiefs would curse their spoken vow
Blades would clash and wounds were deep 
But one remained to tell this tale…….


As I delve into the bag and feel the bones of those before I bring you a tale that will chill the young and old alike. Wilfred Owen, the famous British wartime poet, gives us 

Shadwell Stair
by Wilfred Owen

I am the ghost of Shadwell Stair.
Along the wharves by the water-house,
And through the cavernous slaughter-house,
I am the shadow that walks there.

Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,
And eyes tumultuous as the gems
Of moons and lamps in the full Thames
When dusk sails wavering down the pool.

Shuddering the purple street-arc burns
Where I watch always; from the banks
Dolorously the shipping clanks
And after me a strange tide turns.

I walk till the stars of London wane
And dawn creeps up the Shadwell Stair.
But when the crowing syrens blare
I with another ghost am lain.

Are the lights on? Are you alone? Who's that knocking on the door? Do you dare to invite him in........

My next treat is by the great American Poet, Robert Frost


Ghost House
by Robert Frost

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me--
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.


Is it time to creep upstairs and go to bed? Have you read enough or would you like one more treat?  I bring you the theme tune from Halloween.............




HAPPY HALLOWEEN



all images courtesy wikipedia

Friday, 29 October 2010

Bloodletting Fees, A Poem by Adam Dustus

 Happy Halloween! Trick or Treat?


Bloodletting Fees by Adam Dustus

Vomit smells dominate
Amid holding cell fermenting wait
After intensive fuzzy interrogation

Zombie hostage
Mid-life crisis situation

Being escorted to precinct station

A detaining cauldron

Squirming bacteria

Seething sticky cement
Sardines sit benched
Stench sweat

Scrambled yellow blocks mental

Self becomes mere guess
Seeking tricks?

Nobody could know
Not expecting his wife

Soon told him so
Disbelieving

This Halloween

Bloody horror
Silly string


 
 Subconscious mistake, regret

An additional mortgage dis—
Pence
Over the counter 

To in jest

Rigamortis

Starting over
Numerous bad choices
Wasted welter of cruel nagging voices

Sign glares at eve

Sunken so low
Swimming arms sway
Within long flannel sleeves

Russet plaid pajama-clad
Half-life scene for so long, too bads
Sleepwalker wandering
Mumbling sad


Through sordid shadows
Skidding down row

Neurochemical mystery flows
Proving illusive for restive intentions

While still denying abusive
 dimension

Downed

Ambien

Set 
in 

Mind—moved

Matter

Programmed

Steps

Right


Left
Undead
Down town home stairs
Out front door fled
Led by gutted shadows
Twitching flounder
Beneath sinking sail

Squinting moist cataract veils
Shimmering city light
Impactions byte
Nothing registers 

Skin itching, sour milk smelling, market rot

Pulsating neon beer signs, marquees, double parked lot
Inside boils oblivion steam

Blood flow still being one
Warmth through knock out routine
Lying fetal, cheek to porous curb
Eyeballing shoed casino herd
Shapes pass emitting coronas
Under lamppost an eternity
Listening to the earth's beat
Trembling underground



Buzzing throng, blurry people
Clacking along sidewalk

See through sequin chemise
Each painted face
Sheets, capes, tails, hidden life
Costume heroes
Clashing toxins

Boasting revelers drunk

Living sleep
Fortunate waking up

Perhaps it karma
Or dumb luck
Someone tossed
A quarter at him
The well wished
Taking pity
Near the forest green
Bulk dumpster
Stray meowing
Hungry kitties chewing onion rings
Tongue garbage lapping
Before assault happening

He was mistaken for a deaf beggar
By two different versions of GaGa
Adjusting broken chandelier hats

Spilling candy out plastic pumpkin heads
Chugging Pixie Sticks
Joking they would never pick up death
Still helping him out anyway
Yet alone he's left
Unaware blood drips
Into a shark stalking tank

Violent brood of collective vampires

Aiming for wallet and wrist watch

Thwarted, foot stomps forced open his hand
That had instinctively held clutched to his wedding band
Assailing barrage, strikes and insults
Battering life, smashing somnambulist mien
Laughing, a farewell kick to the nuts
Field goal thud, imaginary crowd roar
DB blocks

Count Dracula's punt
Thieves off with the ring

Man screams again
He can't understand
Almost breaking through his coma
Time's broken hour-hand
Froze forever held
No awakening instant
Except when heart melts
What's lifted

Disorderly conduct disturbing peace
Chin trickles red from broken front teeth

Resisting arrest, billy club beaten,
Struck over the head
Seal like squealing
Ear drums pounding 

Arms behind cuffed, siren sounding
Cursing 3 glasses of vinegary wine
That smooth cap-sized pill for sleep
Future ending in divorce
Bloodletting fees
Feeling tricked
Through poison means



*********
Cheers, Adam

Thursday, 28 October 2010

MoonDustWriter Thursday - Featuring Author Claude Bouchard




                    I met Claude Bouchard on Twitter almost a year ago. What amazed me about Claude was he had 50,000 + followers but he added me and commented back to me. When I told him I would be interested in reading his book Vigilante, he sent me a copy to read. With all the people Claude knows, he could have blown me off or sent me spam - He didn't, he never has. Over the year, I have enjoyed getting to know Claude, his wife and his writing cohort Luke Romyn.  Claude continues to be well liked in the Social Media spectrum; one indicator the  110,000 + Twitter followers. Claude lives in Montreal and is either writing, clowning around on-line, or enjoying art, music...

You have to know this about me as a reader; I don't consider a book a novel until it is either a tome (it has to be at least 1000 pages of classic literature) or from the first chapter the book and I are one. Claude's books ( all New York Times Best Sellers caliber) come with a magnet included (free of charge.)
Vigilante (book one of an on-going crime/ suspense series),  pulls the reader into a complex situation. Characters are seeking a solution to crimes that are rampant in the beautiful, vibrant metropolis of Montreal.  I liken this involved scenario to juggling. One ball is the bad guys (i.e.the bottom of the food chain  - drug lords, serial killers, the guys who savor daily mayhem), the second ball is the Vigilante ( a man who in six months has killed more than a dozen bad guys and no one has a clue who this hero/albeit criminal is) ball three is the police force (represented by Lieutenant McCall of Montreal Special Homicide Task Force who is torn by law and order and providing safety to his city).

Claude manages to keep all these balls up in the air at one time. I think his side line may be as a magician; he has the ability to use a slight of hand type writing that keeps the reader distracted.  I was captivated by Vigilante's story line until the end and stared, mouth agape for ten minutes at the conclusion.
*
Yes- Claude Bouchard is a master of the written word.
**
Vigilante would fit perfectly on that list of hard to buy for people on your holiday shopping list and don't forget one for you.


Vigilante is Claude's first published novel followed by The Consultant, Mind Games, The Homeless Killer (all part of the Barry/McCall series).
He is presently working on 6 Hours 42 Minutes and Asylum.


Claude is represented by Tribe Literary Agency which represents several class acts: Luke Romyn, Michael Balkind, Lou Riddell, and Bob Kuykendall. If you have a manucript in the making, Tribe Lit is an excellent choice. 

Contact Claude on his website  
on Twitter @Ceebee308
Claude's books are available on Amazon. Additional book ordering information is available.

Tuesday, 26 October 2010

One Shot Wednesday Week 17


Welcome to  One Shot Wednesday. I'm Moondustwriter (aka Leslie Moon) hosting this round of poetry. We want each of you to feel welcome at One Stop Poetry. I'm thinking this week's poetry might have some unusual characteristics since Halloween is lurking. (come back this weekend I think the guys have a few things under their sleeves.) If you have been coming by regularly, can I encourage you to at least read the post before yours so that each person has at least one comment (this is especially true for late posts). If you are new, please comment and tell us who you are so we can welcome you properly.
Thanks to each of you for your wonderful writing  and for inspiration each week.

Here is the format for those of you just starting
1. Write a poem
2. Come to One Shot Tuesday night or anytime Wednesday and put in the necessary information on Mr Linky. If Mr Linky is down you will need to put the URL in the comment box. The URL is the web page address of your poem
3. Leave a comment (we love to hear from you)
4. Take a few moments to read a poem or two and give some words of kindness. I personally like constructive criticism but if you do that keep it positive.We have poets of all levels. I know how much it means when the reader can give the poet some encouragement. Thanks all of you for always knowing the right thing to say. 

Have a great One Shot Wednesday

One Stop Spotlight - The Way to You - a poem by Marlene Giraud

Do you believe in love at first sight when it comes to poetry..? I do... since I stumbled upon Marlene Giraud's poetry at  Qbanpoet during One Shot Wednesday...

The intensity and atmosphere in her writing and the fantastic use of imagery captured me from the very first minute and drew me into the world, she creates with her words..a world you can feel and smell and taste...

Here is what she wrote for us -  relax - take a deep breath - and - enjoy...!!
~ Claudia


The Way to You

1

I drive the same route to see you
the back beaten pathway through horse country,
fields with fences the ponies jump during season,
dead empty for now,
dried up and rusted farm equipment,
the uses for which I have no clue,
but you would.
And you’d explain to me the subtleties of tractor engines
and round service cord or some such thing.
Machinery and names of tools catalogued in your mind.
You’d see how the fences were carved or cut or stained or hauled or built
from this distance
like you can see the dining room tables, arm chairs, floorboards,
desk or dais
waiting to be prepared in planks of wood.
Maybe you can see inside trees to the whorls and markings
and know how old they are
like a dendrochronologist or super hero with x-ray vision.
If you were here,
you’d admire the farm hands, metal workers, wood walkers, groomers, and saddlers
and disdain the polo players’ audience
because they were watching not working.

2

I’m piecing poetry to pop songs
that’d make you grimace,
noticing how odd it is that when you pull up to a stoplight
and look at the neighbor car, they know to look directly
back at you.
I’m aware of burger kings on corners
and boston terriers on sidewalks,
the smell of French fries
and the vision of black and white and fur.
I’m involved in the metaphor of the pine needle
trapped in my windshield wipers
wondering how many times it too has made the journey
to see you.
I see the familiar inland sunset
all rosy purple orange colors
contrasting the digital dashboard green
and gray upholstery of my decidedly girly cruiser.
The vintage style speedometers
versus the suburban sprawl of shopping plazas,
scenes so homey and recognizable
I could close my eyes and steer straight
all the way to you.

© Marlene Giraud




And for those of you, who may have fallen in love as well while reading this, meet the Poet Marlene Giraud - here she's giving us some background information:

I'm 31 years old and work as a nanny. I've been writing since I was a child but poetry became my passion in high school. I became editor of the school's literary magazine and helped create the still running coffeehouse poetry performance night called "Mudslide Cafe." At Eckerd College I continued to write and perform poetry. (The picture on my blog on the About the Poet page is from a performance in college. So old! I need new pictures!) I have a BA in Creative Writing. I wrote a chapbook of poetry called, "'I Care Little for my Body,' She Said." In my adulthood, I've performed at Greenberry's Coffeehouse and because of that I was featured in Wellington Magazine. I belong to the Poets of the Palm Beaches, a non-profit organization dedicated to supporting and encouraging the creation of original poetry in Palm Beach County, Florida. Recently, a friend was encouraging me to start writing again and self publish on the web. I told him I have poetry in my head all day long. It's always there. He asked me how I see the world. I told him I see it in metaphor. Whenever I witness the smallest things the larger worldly meaning comes to me like a beetle bumping repeatedly against my screen porch is a metaphor for our struggle to find meaning in life. He said, "Uh yeah, not everybody thinks that way. You have a gift and it's criminal not to write it down and share it." So, I started Qbanpoet.com.

Monday, 25 October 2010

One Stop Spotlight: Patience Ray

Sometimes it amazes me the people that I meet here in the blog world. The world flattens a bit as you go online. One click you are in Africa, another you are in the Netherlands. It opens the door indiscriminately to those that have talent or otherwise. The lady I am highlighting today does not lack in the talent department.

I met her through Willow's Magpie Tales. You may remember the spotlight I threw on Willow (Tess Kincaid) a few months back. Patience Ray is a storyteller and a marvelous spinner of words. She does not post often, but each week I look forward to visiting Looking Both Ways, because to read her poems and stories is quite the treat. I know you will enjoy them as much as I do. ~Brian

Abandoning Birds

She rakes
alone,
broad-backed woman,
a blue bucket,
plastic bloom,
at her side.

She keeps
company with birds.
Behind her, they arrange
themselves, a brown flush
at her heels,
a feathered train.

She moves
her tool, metal teeth,
through the ripping grass,
holding the handle,
her arms, brown tendons
which lift, pull, lift pull.

She plucks
the piled leaves
from the ground
with a fleshy hand,
gold earrings quivering
as she bows,
the birds a riot of wings.

She lowers
her rake,
pronged appendage,
to gather the wooden
backbones of popsicles,
a silver flash of wrapper,
two mauled wads of gum—
one pink, the other white.

She stands,
bucket filled,
to watch the other women
sweep, their backs bent
and abandons her rake, the birds,
for a broom.



On My Mother's Side

On my mother's side there is whiskey,
an Indian woman with a white man lover.

They say they were joined at the hips,
with seven dark-eyed babies sleeping
in the same room they made love in.

He wrapped her up in high-waist skirts,
high-neck blouses, white, like his skin.
But the old steeple churches
spat her out—she was still too Cherokee,
walking barefoot into town,
a black braid slithered down her back,
singing with her wild, deer tipped tongue,
hips moving, deep woods and birthing
in her stride—the reverend said no man
would marry a red devil in a God-fearing town.

So she went home with her pale man
to their Carolina mountain—he
gave her gold rings for her ears,
one for her finger—she kissed him
with her sweet grass, sage brushed lips.

On my mother's side there is whiskey,
an Indian woman with a white man lover.

Sunday, 24 October 2010

One Stop Poetry Interview with Photographer Silviu Ivana

One Shoot Photography Sunday!



Sunday means another photographer for your viewing pleasure. Today we’ve the honor of introducing Silviu Ivana, a Romania-based photographer with a focus on nature photography. His explorations have brought forth some truly beautiful art, and we are grateful to have but a few of his pieces for you today. For Silviu, it is the touch and feel of the world that drives his photography.
Chris Galford


 

How did you become involved with photography?
"My first contact with photography was when  I was in high school. I asked my mother to buy me a camera for Christmas. Unfortunately after a few days somebody had stolen it when I was at a party. It was a simple camera with film, but it was my first camera. Since than I have changed a few cameras."

What about photography appeals to you?
"I believe that photography gives me the possibility to express the way in which I see the world. It also gives me (sometimes) the power to shape it in a way in which I want to see it. But the most, it gives me the possibility to transmit the beauty of this world."

Do you find any similarities between photography and poetry?
"Both give the possibility to share a feeling or a multitude of  feelings. The photography uses the visual way and poetry uses the written way."


Do you have a personal philosophy about photography?
Currently I can't say that I have a clear philosophy, because I don't have the necessary experience for that. I can say that my current principle is to "use" the camera every time I have the possibility and whenever I believe that I see something that can be captured in a photography. In time, I will develop my own philosophy, mainly based on the photography type that I will enjoy the most.


Where are some of the places you’ve shot photographs? Do you have any favorite locations/spots?
Now I enjoy the landscape/nature photography, so every place on this earth can be a candidate for great shot. At the end, it's all about the capacity of the photographer to "build a frame" for that location, a frame that will capture the attention of the viewer.



What catches your attention when you're taking photos? 
"I try to capture everything that touches me; that reaches my heart. It can be the beauty of place, or of a face. But it also it can be the pain of a person, or the degradation or the mystery of a place. All of these are parts of our life, it's not always the nice part."


What kind of camera, lens, filters do you use?
"Currently I use a Canon 450D with 18-55mm and 55-250mm lenses. Most of the times I use also a polarized filter. I work most of the times with the Av and Tv settings, based on the situation."

Could you please recommend a few photography resources for individuals who wish to know more about the art form?
"There are plenty of specialized photography sites and books (either reaching general topics or either treating specific topics), the only condition is to have time to read and practice. Here are a few examples of sites from where I 'steal' the photography knowledge."

Digital Photography School : http://www.digital-photography-school.com/
Photocrati: http://www.photocrati.com
Photography: www.photography.com
Photography About: http://photography.about.com/



*********

Visit Silviu's Picasa page

His photography blog: http://sisivana-photo.blogspot.com/
*********
Now for the Picture Prompt Challenge!

How would you translate Silviu's beautiful photograph into poetry (or microfiction)?  Submit your poem (or Flash 55) by signing in to Mr. Linky. Then let us know what you are sharing with us by leaving a brief comment. Finally, please visit other links, comment, and give credit to Silviu.

Accept the picture prompt challenge! :)



Saturday, 23 October 2010

A Saturday Celebration: Robert Bridges


A One Stop Celebration Of Poet Laureate Robert Bridges



Today One Stop Poetry, hosted by Pete Marshall, celebrates the birth of English Poet Laureate Robert Bridges. 

Born Robert Seymour Bridges in the village of Walmer, Kent, on 23rd October 1844, Bridges had an illustrious education, attending both Eton College and Corpus Christie College, Oxford. He went on to study medicine at St Bartholomew's Hospital, London becoming a successful physician.

In 1882, at the age of 38, lung disease  forced Bridges into early retirement. Marrying Mary Monica Whitehouse in 1884, Bridges spent the rest of his life in virtual seclusion. He devoted himself to his poetic work and the study of prosody, culminating with becoming Poet Laureate in 1913, a post that he held until his death in 1930. 

To celebrate his birthday, I have chosen two poems. The first, Melancholia, purely because it is a favourite of mine. The second, I share with you, is verse from his last work, The Testament of Beauty; for which he received the Order of Merit. Written at the age of 85, this was to contain over 4,000 lines and was sub divided into four books. The complete works having been critically acclaimed as a masterpiece.

One Stop Poetry celebrates the work of Robert Bridges:

Melancholia

The sickness of desire, that in dark days
Looks on the imagination of despair,
Forgetteth man, and stinteth God his praise;
Nor but in sleep findeth a cure for care.
Incertainty that once gave scope to dream
Of laughing enterprise and glory untold,
Is now a blackness that no stars redeem,
A wall of terror in a night of cold.
Fool! thou that hast impossibly desired
And now impatiently despairest, see
How nought is changed: Joy's wisdom is attired
Splendid for others' eyes if not for thee:
Not love or beauty or youth from earth is fled:
If they delite thee not, 'tis thou art dead.

************************

From "The Testament of Beauty"

Twas at that hour of beauty when the setting sun
squandereth his cloudy bed with rosy hues, to flood
his lov'd works as in turn he biddeth them Good-night;
and all the towers and temples and mansions of men
face him in bright farewell, ere they creep from their pomp
naked beneath the darkness;- while to mortal eyes
'tis given, ifso they close not of fatigue, nor strain
at lamplit tasks-'tis given, as for a royal boon
to beggarly outcasts in homeless vigil, to watch
where uncurtain's behind the great windows of space
Heav'n's jewel'd company circleth unapproachably-
'Twas at sunset that I, fleeing to hide my soul
in refuge of beauty from a mortal distress,
walk'd alone with the Muse in her garden of thought,
discoursing at liberty with the mazy dreams
that came wavering pertinaciously about me; as when
the small bats, issued from their hangings, flitter o'erhead
thru' the summer twilight, with thin cries to and fro
hunting in muffled flight atween the stars and flowers.
Then fell I in strange delusion, illusion strange to tell;
for as a man who lyeth fast asleep in his bed
may dream he waketh, and that he walketh upright
pursuing some endeavour in full conscience-so 'twas
with me; but contrawise; for being in truth awake
methought I slept and dreamt; and in thatt dream methought
I was telling a dream; nor telling was I as one
who, truly awaked from a true sleep, thinketh to tell
his dream to a friend, but for his scant remembrances
findeth no token of speech-it was not so with me;
for my tale was my dream and my dream the telling,
and I remember wondring the while I told it
how I told it so tellingly. And yet now 'twould seem
that Reason inveighed me with her old orderings;
as once when she took thought to adjust theology,
peopling the inane that vex'd her between God and man
with a hierarchy of angels; like those asteroids
wherewith she later fill'd the gap 'twixt Jove and Mars.
Verily by Beauty it is that we come as WISDOM,
yet not by Reason at Beauty; and now with many words
pleasing myself betimes I am fearing lest in the end
I play the tedious orator who maundereth on
for lack of heart to make an end of his nothings.
Wherefor as when a runner who hath run his round
handeth his staff away, and is glad of his rest,
here break I off, knowing the goal was not for me
the while I ran on telling of what cannot be told.

For not the Muse herself can tell of Goddes love;
which cometh to the child from the Mother's embrace,
an Idea spacious as the starry firmament's
inescapable infinity of radiant gaze,
that fadeth only as it outpasseth mortal sight:
and this direct contact is 't with eternities,
this springtide miracle of the soul's nativity
that oft hath set philosophers adrift in dream;
which thing Christ taught, when he set up a little child
to teach his first Apostles and to accuse their pride,
saying, 'Unless ye shall receive it as a child,
ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven.'
So thru'out all his young mental apprenticehood
the child of very simplicity, and in the grace
and beauteous attitude of infantine wonder,
is apt to absorb Ideas in primal purity,
and by the assimilation of thatt immortal food
may build immortal life; but ever with the growth
of understanding, as the sensible images
are more and more corrupt, troubled by questioning thought,
or with vainglory alloy'd, 'tis like enought the boy
in prospect of his manhood wil hav cast to th' winds
his Baptism with his Babyhood; nor might he escape
the fall of Ev'ryman, did not a second call
of nature's Love await him to confirm his Faith
or to revoke him if he is whollylapsed therefrom.
And so mighty is this second vision, which cometh
in puberty of body and adolescence of mind
that, forgetting his Mother, he calleth it 'first Love';
for it mocketh at suasion or stubbornness of heart,
as the oceantide of the omnipotent Pleasur of God,
flushing all avenues of life, and unawares
by thousandfold approach forestalling its full flood
with divination of the secret contacts of Love,--
of faintest ecstasies aslumber in Nature's calm,
like thought in a closed book, where some poet long since
sang his throbbing passion to immortal sleep-with coy
tenderness delicat as the shifting hues
that sanctify the silent dawn with wonder-gleams,
whose evanescence is the seal of their glory,
consumed in self-becoming of eternity;
til every moment as it flyeth, cryeth 'Seize!
Seize me ere I die! I am the Life of Life.'
'Tis thus by near approach to an eternal presence
man's heart with divine furor kindled and possess'd
falleth in blind surrender; and finding therewithal
in fullest devotion the full reconcilement
betwixt his animal and spiritual desires,
such welcome hour of bliss standeth for certain pledge
of happiness perdurable: and coud he sustain
this great enthusiasm, then the unbounded promise
would keep fulfilment; since the marriage of true minds
is thatt once fabled garden, amidst of which was set
the single Tree that bore such med'cinable fruit
that if man ate thereof he should liv for ever.
Friendship is in loving rather than in being lov'd,
which is its mutual benediction and recompense;
and tho' this be, and tho' love is from lovers learn'd,
it springeth none the less from the old essence of self.
No friendless man ('twas well said) can be truly himself;
what a man looketh for in his friend and findeth,
and loving self best, loveth better than himself,
is his own better self, his live lovable idea,
flowering by expansion in the loves of his life.
And in the nobility of our earthly friendships
we hav al grades of attainment, and the best may claim
perfection of kind; and so, since ther be many bonds
other than breed (friendships of lesser motiv, found
even in the brutes) and since our politick is based
on actual association of living men, 'twil come
that the spiritual idea of Friendship, the huge
vastidity of its essence, is fritter'd away
in observation of the usual habits of men;
as happ'd with the great moralist, where his book saith
that ther can be no friendship betwixt God and man
because of their unlimited disparity.
From this dilemma of pagan thought, this poison of faith,
Man-soul made glad escape in the worship of Christ;
for his humanity is God's Personality,
and communion with him is the life of the soul.
Of which living ideas (when in the struggle of thought
harden'd by language they became symbols of faith)
Reason builded her maze, wherefrom none should escape,
wandering intent to map and learn her tortuous clews,
chanting their clerkly creed to the high-echoing stones
of their hand-fashion'd temple: but the Wind of heav'n
bloweth where it listeth, and Christ yet walketh the earth,
and talketh still as with those two disciples once
on the road to Emmaus-where they walk and are sad;
whose vision of him then was his victory over death,
thatt resurrection which all his lovers should share,
who in loving him had learn'd the Ethick of happiness;
whereby they too should come where he was ascended
to reign over men's hearts in the Kingdom of God.
Our happiest earthly comradeships hold a foretaste
of the feast of salvation and by thatt virtue in them
provoke desire beyond them to out-reach and surmount
their humanity in some superhumanity
and ultimat perfection: which, howe'ever 'tis found
or strangeley imagin'd, answereth to the need of each
and pulleth him instinctivly as to a final cause.
Thus unto all who hav found their high ideal in Christ,
Christ is to them the essence discern'd or undeiscern'd
of all their human friendships; and each lover of him
and of his beauty must be as a bud on the Vine
and hav participation in him; for Goddes love
is unescapable as nature's environment,
which if a man ignore or think to thrust it off
he is the ill-natured fool that runneth blindly on death.
This Individualism is man's true Socialism.
This is the rife Idea whose spiritual beauty
multiplieth in communion to transcendant might.
This is thatt excelent way whereon if we wil walk
all things shall be added unto us-thatt Love which inspired
the wayward Visionary in his doctrinal ode
to the three christian Graces, the Church's first hymn
and only deathless athanasian creed,--the which
'except a man believe he cannot be saved.'
This is the endearing bond whereby Christ's company
yet holdeth together on the truth of his promise
that he spake of his grat pity and trust in man's love,
'Lo, I am with you always ev'n to the end of the world.'
Truly the Soul returneth the body's loving
where it hath won it...and God so loveth the world...
and in the fellowship of the friendship of Christ
God is seen as the very self-essence of love,
Creator and mover of all as activ Lover of all,
self-express'd in not-self, mind and body, mother and child,
'twixt lover and loved, God and man: but ONE ETERNAL
in the love of Beauty and in the selfhood of Love.

Friday, 22 October 2010

One Stop Poetry Friday Spotlight: Larry Jaffe, Poet Laureate - Youth for Human Rights

Welcome to Dustus Friday on One Stop!

Having been a participant in One Shot Wednesday, Larry Jaffe returns to One Stop Poetry to stand in the featured spotlight. Reflecting on his recent work, I've been a fan since reading about his involvement with The Human Rights Project, for which he is poet laureate. With great respect and dignity, Larry Jaffe continues creating poetry to promote human rights.

In addition to numerous publications, Larry was the poet-in-residence at the Autry Museum of Western Heritage, a featured poet in Chrysler’s Spirit in the Words poetry program, co-founder of Poets for Peace (now Poets for Human Rights); and he helped spearhead the United Nations Dialogue among Civilizations through Poetry project, which incorporated hundreds of readings in hundreds of cities globally using poetry to bring understanding to the world. Also, he was the recent recipient of the Saint Hill Art Festival’s Lifetime of Creativity Award, the first time that honor had been given to a poet.

The Human Rights Project

Larry's continual effort to promote human rights is admirable. His poetic declaration combines both activism and heartfelt creativity in The Human Rights Project.  Consider the following beginning excerpt:
ARTICLE 1... All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.


Dignified stars
Soaring through infinity
Autonomous born
Individuals
Hands linked
in freedom
One Child Sold

Larry's most recent poetry collection is called One Child Sold.  He was nice enough to send me a copy of itIn my opinion, this work is emotionally-charged and crafted masterfully.  In One Child Sold, readers will discover poems on topics ranging from slavery and genocide to pieces that question human rights, freedom, and the exploitation of children. I highly recommend checking it out. You can learn more about One Child Sold through Salmon Poetry. It's one of the best poetry books I've read in a long time.

*********
The poem I chose to highlight today is a personal favorite...

 We Are The Poetry They Said

An artist
puts pen to paper
rides keyboard
into sunset
A working
man’s words
fly from fingers
unencumbered
by class
The words
refuse to climb
socialite limbs
stay earthborn
with dreams
of flight
Desperate words
breath last breaths
and leave a void
a silence
that suffocates
– Disillusioned
by hapless
commentary
crying for resolution
for vengeance
Words
longing for freedom
unfettered by lust
wandering freely
unbridled
These unhappy words
yearned for life
and not some
mundane
calling
We are poetry they said
We are poetry they said


*********
"We have the potential to take this planet to great heights of culture and technology. It is the job of the artist to present mankind with an alternative to war and hate. I hope that these works help move us all in the right direction. We can no longer slip away quietly in the darkness. Our survival depends on our responsibility to others and ourselves." —Larry Jaffe


*********
Larry's new blog is @ http://www.lgjaffe.com/

Visit The Human Rights Project to read all 28 Articles and poems!
Larry Jaffe on Twitter
His Facebook page

Thanks for reading.
Cheers, Adam

Thursday, 21 October 2010

Moondustwriter's Thursday - guest featuring Shaun Masterton

Welcome to Moondustwriter Thursday.

 I'm excited to feature one of the first poets I met on Twitter -Shaun Masterton- published poet.
I am inspired by Shaun as he creates with words, drawing, and photography.

"The desire for writing has come from many different forms of creating. Writing poetry has given me the quick avenue to get thoughts and feeling out to people around me. Being a very private person makes it hard for people to get to know me. Writing has given me a gift which allows me to give a glimpse of my mine and the the things that grab my attention."


Flame on the Fire

Flicker of the fire
Burns in the night
Heat brushes your skin
Given shivers to the bullet

Lift your hands to the fire
Let the cold meet its fear
Close your eyes to the fire
The night will guide your soul

Silent howls of the trees
Bring a sigh of peace
Sway to the flames
Let your body go

Peaceful eyes open
Your lips crack a smile
Calm Warmth gropes you
From a flame on the fire

"I started off with discovering I had a photographic memory and the ability to re-create a picture by drawing it piece by piece. This is probably why I now love to create moments in poetry, taking a simple event and putting that in mind with words."

No Tomorrow

Sky lights up with the unusual
crashing rocks of meteoroids

Fires of surrounding torture
Humans scream to the skies

News with snake like finesse
Creep across blurry television

Rush to the close family
Dodging dangerous debris

Hope to reach your family 
Thwarted by human need

Chaos selfish need
Grips a race in panic

Tears of realization
The world is going to end




I love this about my friend Shaun:"If one person reads a poem of mine and it has helped them greatly, then it was very much worth my time writing that poem."


As you can see, Shaun is not only gifted but has a big heart for others.


More of Shaun can be read here 
If you follow twitter he is @notretsam
Thanks Shaun for sharing with One Shot Poetry


A last reminder - the last bell is tolling as our poetry competition closes in 48 hours. We will have more competition opportunities in the future but don't want any of you interested in being published to miss out. 

Tuesday, 19 October 2010

One Shot Poetry Wednesday - Week 16


Welcome to One Shot Wednesday - Week 16

On behalf of all the team at One Stop Poetry, I welcome you to another One Shot Wednesday. I am Pete Marshall & I will be your host this evening.

Over the last couple of weeks I haven't been around as much as i would like and actually missed out on lasts weeks One Shot, which was an amazing week of poetry. Those who know me and follow my work will understand the reasons why but I would still like to take this opportunity to thank all of you who have forwarded kind words of support over the last few weeks...you know who you are and I thank you immensely from the bottom of my heart,

Anyway enough of that, I am back and looking forward to yet another amazing feast of poetic brilliance! 

When we started One Shot we had a dream and with all your help & support that dream has become a reality! One Stop Poetry has become a platform to help promote your work and bridge the path towards publication, once published it is also there as your friend to help you on your continued journey. 

If you're new to OSW, here's how it works:

1) post a poem on your blog
2) Link your poem to One Shot using Mr Linky, where the prompt asks put the URL for the poem there. The URL is the web address for your poem
3) Visit other One Shot Poets. Tell them how you feel when your are reading, encourage and interact with them
4) Tell others about OSW by including a link to this page on your post

Once again thank you for taking part & let the festivities begin


One Stop Spotlight - Steven Marty Grant

Strong, honest, touching, sometimes harsh and disaffected, sometimes very gentle but always to the point and passionate. These are some words, I would describe Steven's poetry with. Unblurred, evocative and with an eye for what's going on inside and around him. It's never shallow and never soft-focused - but very real and heartfelt  - it touches - and that's why I love to read Steven's poetry!

Make sure to check out his poetry blog "Urbanality" to read more of his fantastic work
..and here's what he has written for us...enjoy..

~ Claudia


"Manhattan Progression"

Quiescence:

Silence and darkness
never take Manhattan
but at 3:30 Monday
morning they stake
a claim on the island
and brace for attack.

Portland, fly ash, slag
and aggregate groan
and weep in the shadows
above carbon arc
and incandescence.

The wounds inflicted
by decades of Checker
and Crown Vic abuse
have a moment to heal
and sometimes
in those lonely hours
you can even dream.

Crescendo:

The tenuous stillness
of fragile dawn is eroded
by the tin horns of steel cattle
as they herd through the tunnels.

The Midtown, Battery
Holland and Lincoln
belch rubber and chrome,
and foul the unruffled
air of daybreak.

The city’s veins
course, and crisscross
with Pullman cars
and the pressures rise
along with the sun.

Hundred year old bridges
sag under the weight
of Detroit and Tokyo wheels
and disillusion
takes the place of dreams. 

Chaos:

Subway steps erupt
with molten commuters

that bubble up
and out across the city.

The irresistible flow
washes over the cars
and buses locked
in their cross town crawl.

Soft associations
form and disband
at every intersection
then resume
their persistent crush.

A symphony of whistles,
horns and profanity
shakes the air and
reverberates off
the canyon walls.

Motion accelerates
and overwhelms
the asphalt maze,
an indistinguishable
blur of primary colors,
‘til all that remains
are the agile nightmares
of midday Manhattan.

© Steven Marty Grant 


I asked Steven to tell us a bit about his background, why he writes, when he started writing, what he hates and loves about it - and he tells us quite a bit. Didn't want to edit it down though because I think it's great to read someone's poems and know something about the man behind the pen...


I started writing about three decades ago when I was heavily involved in music. I was a touring sound technician and I started to work with some of the band members writing song lyrics. Eventually I began to perform both as a drummer and a singer and I continued to compose lyrics. When I realized that I was never going to make a living wearing spandex, I switched over to designing, selling and installing custom high-end audio systems. It was a great job and it took most of my time so writing took a back seat for the next few years until at the ripe old age of 27 I decided to attend college. It was in school that my addiction began to take its current form.

In college I was exposed to new and exciting forms of poetry and wonderful books that had a profound impact on me. I took my first creative writing class as a sophomore and my professor was very encouraging. She suggested that I should submit some of my work to various publications and, surprisingly, I got accepted and published several times early on. Bukowski said that “an early taste of death is not necessarily a bad thing” but I found that an early taste of success was a very bad thing for me. I began to have serious doubts about my ability as a poet and assumed my early acceptance was just luck. Not wanting to have that fear confirmed I quit submitting and finally quit writing.

It was not until I divorced in the late nineties that I began to write again. The confusion and sadness that accompanied that event in my life forced me back to the pen (it was actually a pen). I found that emotions that were difficult to express to friends and family could be written about metaphorically and processed. My first book (Another Hotel Room) contains a sampling of things I wrote during this period. It is not my best work but it is the most real and heartfelt.

  • I write because I have to write, it is how I interact with my emotions. I love music and I am trying to make my readers feel like I do when I listen to Springsteen, STP, REM or Simon and Garfunkel.
  • I really hate editing what I have written, I am a little bit of a perfectionist and I have a very hard time saying “okay this one is finished”
  • I love to find the perfect words, the ideal metaphor; I love it when I can capture the emotion I am feeling in a few lines.
  • My new book is about 2/3’s done and publisher is pushing me hard. I have not settled on a title at this time but I am leaning towards “An Unfair Wind”. and it should be ready by early next year.
  • My work has been published in: The Writer, Spring Harvest, Notes Magazine, The Ampersand (&) Review, The Melancholy Dane, The VVC Drama & English Journal. I have also been published online at: Vivid, Sleep Snort Fuck, Drink This Cola and of course my poetry blog Urbanality.