One Stop Spotlight - Adam White

I think most of you have already met poet Adam White somewhere along the One Stop trail, where he shares his excellent poetry every week.

Adam has a strong voice and I very much enjoy his honesty and straight forwardness (not only in his writing) but his variety when it comes to approaching different poetic styles.

Adam is about to move from England to Canada and I want to say a special thanks that he found the time to write a bit about his background, how he came to write, and what inspires his poetry.

You can read more of Adam's work on his blog "Poetry by Adam White" and you can also find him on Twitter @adamwhitepoet.

~ Claudia

His Hands

His hands are steady, workers hands,
They work a dark workers task,
Twisting lives with thread and needle,

And souls infused in cloth and glass.
Forming perfect feminine shape
Sweetly curved and lovingly made,
With naive minds unused to life,
Innocent, untouched and afraid.

With their feet, their delicate flesh
As soft as softest, bone white silk,
They wake unknowing in the dark
Skin shining bright like moonlit milk.
Hearts of glass rest in breathless breasts
And no breath will pass their painted lips
And eyes like stars freshly cast
Guide ships in to their careful kiss.

He made one most desirable

Of all his pretty maiden dolls.
Kairi. Her name was Kairi and
She had the most shining of souls.
She was kind and sweet and caring
And giving with her lover's heart.
Her beauty left perfection spent,
Surroundings rendered empty, dark.

All able men craved her presence
Wanted, not the word for her.
Craving the most common of sights,
Her smile raised and so deftly turned
They would promise no disservice
To the beauty of his great craft,
But on this day, his love was money
And where there's money, there's a man.

He was a lord, a libertine,
A hedonist both crass and cruel,
A violent and heartless creature,
A drunkard and a proven fool
His fists played harsh on her beauty
From the first night she spent enslaved
Her suffering was so lasting
That one cold night, she ran away,

Her stitches split, stuffing scattered

Kairi dashed through dark and winding streets
Far from the pain her master gave
With clubbing hate and cloying heat.
She ran back to her great maker,
Through a bleak and telling storm,
To fall at his door and scream for love,
And sanity and for warmth.

His hands, his steady workers hands
That night they pulled at golden seams

They tore at cloth and snapped strong thread
Despite her cries and dying screams.
He ripped her perfect form apart
And smashed her eyes of starry glass
And started work on replacing her
With his hands, his steady hands.

(Copyright Adam White)

Background:

I was born and raised in Birmingham, England and (other than a year or so in Northampton, which is just as bad) I've spent all my life here. Anyone who has visited will know it's a horrid place and I am a product of that. That said, I've been blessed with knowing some wonderful people and come from a very loving family, so that has made the whole terrible situation much more bearable.

How I Came to Write:

I started writing when I was 16 (11 years ago, woof,) after some particularly traumatic events, at the suggestion of a man much more intelligent than myself. I'd lost somebody I was close to and it pushed me over the edge. That edge was self constructed of course, me being a 16 year old lad, raging with hormones, confusion, and a fair share of mental health issues which I'd hidden from everyone instead of doing the smart thing and seeking help. By the time I'd reached the tipping point, it was a little too late to reconcile my problems in an easier way so I spent a fair few years writing as a form of therapy.

It was all awful. I had no idea of form or structure or anything like that. I just scribbled hard words and, for the most part, that writing is very grim and not fit for human consumption. Take the normal teen angst poetry and combine that with a healthy dose of fantastical insanity and you're just about there. I still write this poetry and, hopefully, this part of my writing will never be read by anybody but me.

The more normal writing (if you can call it that) is the stuff I started writing for pleasure and makes up the bulk of the poetry I post on my blog. At first, the writing may have been a coping mechanism, but as I wrote more and more, I started to enjoy it. The story telling aspect of poetry is the part I love the most and, browsing through my site, you'll come across an awful lot of narrative driven verse about heroes and villains, lovers or suffering innocents.

This urge to share is a recent thing. I once ran a poetry group through the old msn communities but was never as serious about having my work seen as I am now. I set up my blog at the end of September 2010 and have been flabbergasted (great word) by the reaction. I am genuinely surprised by the amount of traffic my blog receives and all the positive feedback I've received, much of it from all the wonderful poets I've met through Twitter, Facebook, and especially One Stop Poetry. The hard work the guys here have put in to building a poetry community and promoting the up and comers is fantastic.

Inspiration:



I love all poetry but I do have a bit of a bone to pick. I read and study a lot but I have tried to look at the medium from an objective standpoint. I've noticed that I read much of it and feel sad that, as an art form, it has become increasingly abstract and elitist, especially here in England. This is by no means a modern problem (read Milton and his self referential nonsense) but it seems like to become part of the establishment nowadays you have to write about things that only intelligentsia and other poets are going to understand. This means that the majority of people find the work unintelligible. I genuinely hate this and, while in my more private work, I do write a lot (a LOT) of this kind of stuff myself, I will only post the accessible poetry on my own blog. I want anybody to be able to read and enjoy poetry. All they should have to be able to do is read. Maybe part of it comes from how poetry is taught in schools here (badly) but the trend for referential writing isn't doing the medium any favours.

I chose to share the poem "His Hands" with you because I think it's very indicative of my narrative work. Also because it hasn't been looked at a lot by people and it's one of my favourites of my recent output. As a reader of poetry, it satisfies me and that's honestly all I look for. I am a simple creature.

In the next few days, I'm going to embark on my next big adventure. I'm moving to Montreal in Canada (one of my favourite places in the world) to start my new life with my frankly wonderful partner. What will follow is a long period of writing freedom for me, so you can expect an increased volume of writing. I will be working on my epic poem, Udulo's Wars, a few screenplays and bringing my novel up to scratch. Bits and pieces from all of these will be popping up on my blog so look out for that. My work will keep popping up on One Shot Wednesdays and One Shoot Sundays too so keep your eye out for me and add me on Twitter @AdamWhitePoet.

Photo credits:
Creative Commons, Andreas Levers, Jonathan Khoo
http://www.flickr.com/photos/96dpi/2564208064
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jonk/3052458912

A Saturday Celebration: Lord Byron

A Saturday Celebration:
Lord Byron, 1788 - 1824

Today at One Stop Poetry we celebrate the work of one of Britain's most famous poets, George Gordon Byron. He is  6th Baron Byron, born, 22nd January 1788, better known as Lord Byron.

Byron’s short life of 36 years was full of adventure and literary acclaim. From being revered as a national hero in Greece, for taking arms and fighting the Ottoman Empire in the Greek War of Independence, to the famous tale of being cooped up for three days during a “wet, ungenial summer” at the Villa Diodati, which  led to Mary Shelley’s famous novel, Frankenstein.

Byron shared the benefits and pitfalls of celebrity.  Affairs and scandals were to follow him throughout his life, including those of sodomy and incest. These things coupled with bouts of depression, extravagant, flamboyant and eccentric behaviour, an extreme temper, a club foot which caused a limp to blight him all his life, Byron certainly had many sources of inspiration.

Following a violent fever, he died, on 19th April 1824, whilst in Greece fighting for their independence. Such was Byron's standing that having been embalmed, the Greeks wanted to keep part of him with them. It is rumoured that either his heart or lungs remain in Greece. Byron's body was returned to England for burial at Westminster Abbey. However, due to "unquestionable morality" the Abbey refused the burial. He is buried at the Church of St Mary Magdalene, in Hucknall, Nottingham. 

He left behind a daughter, The Honorable Augusta Ada Byron, born 1815, who herself holds a notable place in history. It was she, who worked closely with Charles Babbage, the man who was widely regarded as the inventor of the modern computer, and is known for  being the world's first computer programmer.

As a leading figure in the Romanticism movement, Byron was a prolific writer, and it is his work that we wish to share and celebrate today. There have been so many poems to chose; I am sure you each have your favorites. Today I will leave you with three poems, starting with, perhaps, his most known, She Walks in Beauty, 

She Walks In Beauty
by Lord Byron (1814)

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

When We Two Parted

by Lord Byron (1817)

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sank chill on my brow— 

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me— 

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:— 

Long, long shall I rue thee

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met— 

In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?— 

With silence and tears.

Epitaph to a Dog

By Lord Byron (1808)

Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.

This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a DOG,
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18, 1808.

When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,

Unknown by Glory, but upheld by Birth,

The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,

And storied urns record who rests below.

When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been.

But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,

The first to welcome, foremost to defend,

Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,

Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,

Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth,

Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth –

While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power –

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,

Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy words deceit!

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.

Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn,

Pass on – it honors none you wish to mourn.

To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;

I never knew but one – and here he lies. 

images all courtesy creative commons/wikipedia

One Stop Spotlight - Gerald Barret aka Jerry

Your sure would agree that there are many interesting, talented and highly likable people around in the blogworld. "Very likable" was the first thought that jumped to my mind when I met Jerry through One Shot Wednesday a few weeks ago.
I would describe his poetry as fresh and unconventional and you can clearly hear his heart beat when reading his words.

He approaches everyday happenings with a twinkling eye and in a healthy down to earth style.
Jerry is a people person - you can sense this in his writing and commenting - he easily connects to others and I'm sure many of you, who have met him somewhere on the One Stop trail will agree.

Jerry blogs at "Under the doorframe" and today he allows us a glimpse into his busy life, tells us about his big family, how he came to write poetry and what inspires him - enjoy

~ Claudia


Fall

The other night the wind and the rain
slapped a lot of beauty out of their canopies.
The rain fell on the leaves,
the leaves fell like rain.
The colors lay dead.
I tried to rally my kids to pick them up.
I gave them Elmer’s glue and a stapler.
I had a few ladders too.
The suns out now and how much
I wanted to see the colors against
a cool blue sky instead of faded green
and asphalt and gravel.
I almost prayed for the resurrection
of these expired tree totalers.
But then my kids dropped the glue
and staples and the disbelief
their faces were showing me.
They ran for rakes.
Their faces flush with autumn air
they piled up the colors on the runway.
They carelessly overlaid color on color,
like when they were much younger with crayons.
Their excitement rose as did the pile.
Then I saw the clear blue sky in their eyes
as they lay laughing in the colors.
I smiled as their redemptive act
fell on me like cool rain in the night.

(copyright gerald barret 2011)

A little background:

I grew up in Michigan as number 8 out of 10 children. My mom pretty much raised us on her own, which is a long story worth writing about sometime. I'll be married to my wife 25 years February 16th.  She also hails from a large family.  If memory serves me she is number 10 out of 12 children. We have 4 biological children and 8 adopted (2 sibling groups of 4). I am a UPS delivery driver of almost 25 years. No need to say my writing is in the cracks of audible words and busy real life experiences.

Sometimes I'll say to people that I have been in a mid-life crisis for 30 years...and writing became a cathartic resting place between depressive dips and turns. When I came to faith the particular vein of the Christian church I was a part of thought of art and creativity as non essential.  If it wasn't utilitarian I set it aside. So most of my writing was journaling in the beginning...a private affair.

Then about 15 years ago a music minister in the church I was attending intergrated a Luci Shaw poem into the worship service. It about sliced my heart in two. It was as if I was given permission, freedom to create and drop the utility knife that kept shaving off a good portion of who I was. (The poem, by the way, is Spring Song, Very Early Morning which is found in her book The Green Earth)

Then I started writing and sharing with family occasionally (The most gracious audience. :)) Then after attending 3 Festival of Faith and Writing conferences at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan I was informed I needed a platform for my writing.  I didn't know what a platform was and I thought maybe it was nessessary in case I needed to jump.  Anyway I started a blog last spring and started a new one (underthedoorframe.blogspot.com) when I read L.L.Barket's interview in Christianity Today.

I like writing in other genres like memoir and essay and am chipping away at a short story. But poetry is my first love. I think maybe because I can finish poems within those cracks in my life. I used to think of it as the lazy writer's "out" because of its commitment level.  What a self deception. It is a craft that is intense, all consuming at times especially when a word or a line or an image pops up and the knee jerk reaction is to drop everything and find a keyboard or a pen and napkin.  Sometimes I drive and deliver with a sentence in my head and I repeat it aloud throughout my work day so I can deliver it to the keyboard that evening or next early morning. Early morning is the largest crack in which I write before the first child stands next to me with a "good morning" or a request.    

You will find that much of my poetry is about people. Of late a few more have risen about my mother who is getting on in years. I love to write about overt and covert spiritual experience. Sometimes I think maybe I should start another blog with a mainly overt Christian experience. Yet for now this network provides a wide range of personal and spiritual experience which I feel better represents the world out there...don't you think?

I chose to share the poem "Fall" because it is layered with depth and humor and transcendence which I feel is representitive of the spectrum of my poetry. Some of the influences of poetry have been of course Luci Shaw, Wendell Berry, and a dash of Billy Collins and now many One Stop additions.

Around our house humor is very needful. You know, as they say if you don't laugh you cry. Having adopted children really made the pain of our world more poingnant and sensory. We heard stories but until the stories came to stay in our home they were just stories. My brother once told me that proximity is everything. There are plenty of sad stories from which to harvest poems.
I am a little leary of writing about my children, especially the adopted ones and their fractured souls. I think in time more of these will surface on my blog as wisdom serves. 

Entering this network through High Calling Blogs and One Stop has been a stretching experience and it is fantastic to listen with those who share this passion, and sometimes compulsion, to mess with words.  I used to think that there was no point to write...there were already enough pages to turn, turn, turn and yet... We all have something to offer through our individual filters with which we see the world and if our calling is to write then write we must, and somewhere down the line there are people whose filters allow our words to penetrate their souls, sometimes right down to their very spirit where words dissolve to graft into their being.
I bet you the core of any poet's desire is to have their words settle into places such as these. I know mine is, why just today my wife told me that my poem today is her favorite...she has said that before and I hope she will say those words again.

One Stop Spotlight - Joy Ann Jones aka hedgewitch

It is my pleasure to introduce a poet I've come to appreciate during the last weeks for her writing and also her eloquent and sensitive commenting on other people's work.

Joy Ann blogs as Hedgewitch at Verse escape and her poems often have an epic and a bit of a "Lord of the Rings" feeling clinging to them, mingled with a dash of ancient mysteries. You may discover some of this in Joy Ann's poem "My New Dragon" below.

Enjoy the reading and make sure to pay her a visit over at Verse escape..

~ Claudia


My New Dragon

Flies above the forest
His spine a swift reticulated run
Of cloud croquet hoops,
His breath the flinty white
Of ashen cinders in the grate,
Flaring back behind him like a banner
Of all that overcomes.

                                             My New Dragon

Fought the old all summer long,
All winter in a haze of snow and fire,
Til victory was made in blurry battles
High where eyes of mortal could not peer
And now he mounts his watch above
In case his rival someday
Comes back home.

His head is turned to follow
The disappearing backside of his foe.
His three-horned crest stands tall
And watchful, full
Of secret raptor pleasures
Bone bred in dragonkind.
Though rain patters grey
turning blue as it falls
like steel on the scales of

                                            My New Dragon’s  

skin, his heart is light
And on his broad back of clouds and vapor
I go riding.

© Joy Ann Jones, November 2010

Mirror

The soul within / smooth, reflective curve
Glossy with the sheen of old smokes
Something about the light, he said
There is a wild piece of it in the dark.
It winks in the corner of the mirror,
An absent flame / the memory of a flame
Whiskered by the haze,
Reaching out to touch it you feel
First the illusion, then the fingertips finally
The smooth cold feel of the mirror
Asking which is real.

Perhaps it’s over, the light show,
The flowers powerless against the machine.
Only a curve reflecting forward
Some piece of light
To kindle the back ward glancing eye

© Joy Ann Jones, January 1988

I asked Joy Ann to share a bit about herself and her writing...

First of all, I’m very flattered to be here at One Stop Poetry, a place I consider one of the best networking sites for poets and writers on the web. The talent on display here from week to week is astonishing, and it’s a pleasure and honor to be a part of it even in a small way.

I first came to love poetry at the age of eight when I found a volume of classic poetry included in my Childcraft encyclopedia set. In a turbulent childhood, that volume was my refuge, and I read and reread poems like The Highwayman, and La Belle Dame Sans Merci til I knew them by heart. That’s when I discovered that mere words expressed in certain ways were able to create a living world of the imagination that is far more attractive and often seems more real than the mundane one we inhabit. That empowering and intoxicating combination of control and creation is what continues to make me write poetry.

In high school, I was fortunate to have a great Creative Writing teacher who took a personal interest in motivating young writers, and as her student I even won fourth place in a national competition (Atlantic Monthly) which at the time was quite heady stuff. After that, however, life intervened, and my poetry was strictly something that came pouring out when it had to, and the rest of the time was pushed aside. It’s only recently that I’ve had the resources and leisure to get back to writing. Always, though, at the hardest crossroads and in the most painful situations of my life, it was there for me, and is still the way I work through all the inarticulate forces that challenge us to the max, and of which life never seems to run out.

The writing process itself for me starts with an emotion, or a tag line in my mind that has to be written down. I jot sentences, phrases and paragraphs down as they come to me, and occasionally I get a whole poem that way. Usually, though, the lines have to be worked with, written, paired with others, and rewritten. Then I often let the poem ‘steep,’ and come back for a final microscopic go at it word for word and line by line. I often enjoy the process as much as I do the end product.

...and I was curious about how Joy Ann reads other people's works and if there is a structure when she comments, how she looks at a poem from different angles or compares with something she knows or has learned...

One of the best things about blogging poetry is that you get to see so much creativity and so many different ways of writing. When I comment at a poet’s site, I feel there are two things that are important, respect and connection. It takes courage to post your work out where everyone can see it and leave yourself open to the reactions of total strangers. Also, fundamentally all art is, at its most basic level, a giving back. I feel you have to respect that. Then, I think if someone’s work has said something to you, made you think, provoked an emotional response, or engaged you at all, it’s important to try to show the poet how s/he did that, just why that piece worked. So I try to do that when I comment, sometimes through drawing in a personal reference, or by comparison. Mostly, I want to pass on some of that encouragement I got as an adolescent when it meant so much, and share the enjoyment that poetry gives me with everyone who experiences it.

One Stop Spotlight - Roary Williams aka @CoyoteSings

Roary Williams is one of the poets I met on twitter when he re-tweeted one of my haikus. I had a look at his profile and blog "My dreams move slowly" and immediately fell in love with his poem "The Reason: for poets who have lost their way." Written in such a warm-hearted and sensitive way, it just touched my soul and I think most poets can very much relate to his words.

After following and contacting him, I found out that he has a big heart for micropoetry spread through twitter. Below, he will tell us more about his vision of using twitter as a platform for poetry, encouraging other poets and collecting twitter-poetry. I can highly recommend following him on twitter (@CoyoteSings). He will brighten up your day with the micropoetry he's spreading.

But first, enjoy a few of his poems...I won't tell you how often I've read "The Reason: for poets who have lost their way"... no, I won't...

~ Claudia


"The Reason: for poets who have lost their way"

All these poets, doing battle in their chairs,
Writing about cherry blossoms, and crows,
and gentle birds maybe flying, maybe singing,
maybe doing nothing at all
except looking pretty.

Writing about the sun, the moon, and each individual star
as if they all had names and meaning, and could talk back to us.

Writing about love, and more love, and even more love
until there is so much love we have to rent
an extra warehouse to store it all in.

Writing about beautiful melancholy, and glorious depression,
as if those things were some sort of beautiful smack
that made men keen and women swoon.

Writing about the curious, writing about the mundane,
Writing writing writing until the seats of their chairs
are stained with black spots of words.

Writing as if their lives depended on it (they don’t).
Writing as if the world needed to hear them (it doesn’t).

Writing on behalf of all humanity,
Writing on behalf of themselves,
Writing because the world is spinning
and they can’t figure out
where or when
to get off.

Writing about death,
Writing about almost dying,
Writing about death in the first, second, and third person,
from behind the fourth, fifth, and sixth wall…

And then…

a million words later, growing through the rubble,
this beautiful daisy smiles, and bows her head and says

“Thank you for thinking of me. I was sure you all had forgotten.”

and then she holds up her roots like a prom dress
and scurries off giggling, as if she were late
for a birthday party, leaving dirt
all over my desk.


________________________

micropoetry:

broken glass
this sun
that shines through you
(senryu)

***

I could not
find the words
so silence
found them
for me
(gogyohka)

***

I said it
in three words
you said it
with your eyes
closed...
(gogyohka)

***

first frost
all the stars
the night left on my lawn
(haiku)

***

inside
stars hanging on trees
outside
trees hanging on stars
silent night
(gogyohka)

***

sometimes
sparrows fly out of my poems
and I have to chase them down
and put them
into another poem
(gogyohka)

***

this desert monk
who needs no water
sits waiting
for his one flower
-cactus

***

in the dead of night
the remote conversations
of neighborhood dogs
(haiku/senryu)

***

my heart
this insistent hawk
I cannot keep down
though I stand
two feet on the ground
(gogyohka)

***

I trade sparrows
birdseed
for company
and leftover
songs
(gogyohka)

***

© Roary Williams (@CoyoteSings)


About Roary:

I live in central New Mexico, in the high desert, and have lived here since 1989. I grew up in Detroit, Michigan however. While most people on Twitter know me as a poet (I like to call myself a micropoet), I have spent more of my life as a musician. I play and write on my keyboards, which are synthesizers, but I grew up on a baby grand piano. I also played classical violin for eight years as a youth, and was in a local symphony.

But I've written poetry since I was a kid. My main influence for writing poetry is e. e. cummings. I honestly have not read many other poets, except what I came across in school. I loved cumming's use of words, punctuation, but mostly his unique ideas. Considering he was writing in the 50's, I always thought he was a poet who really broke ground in his words.

I love the idea of poetry on Twitter, and see micropoetry as a rebirth of the older Japanese poetry, such as haiku, senryu, and tanka. In the earlier times of Japanese poetry, they wrote socially, and form and content was followed strictly. It was a way for the people to connect. I see this reborn in the micropoetry of Twitter, where people connect with their poetry in an electronic social media. While much less strict, forms are still followed, albeit nothing like the traditional Japanese forms. I see myself and other micropoets as pioneers, of a sort, reinventing poetry in mostly 140 characters or less. Links to longer poetry are often ignored, but the micropoetry that finds itself into tweets is read voraciously, and through the function of retweets, talented poets are read by many people. The micropoets of Twitter often inspire each other, and work off of each other in a way that, before Twitter, was not done with the lightning speed it is done now. An idea, a theme can spread like wildfire and you can have 20 micropoets relating to each other in just a few hours, even sometimes a few minutes. Poetry has taken a resurgence on Twitter, and I think it is phenomenal.

Before I started writing micropoetry, I wrote mostly essays, and believe it or not, mostly about ferrets, posting to the Ferret Mailing List as an advocate for ferrets. I also, for a short time, wrote Bridge greetings which are short stories written about real ferrets who have died, written in order to comfort their keepers (I don't like to use the word "owners"). Ferret keepers whose ferrets had died took great comfort in the stories of their ferrets making it to the Bridge, a sort of in-between place where ferrets wait for their keepers to claim them in the afterlife. While the stories were imaginary, the ferrets and keepers were very real, dealing with difficult emotions. Writing those greetings put me very much in tune with my own deep-seated emotions, and I think it is one of the reasons that I write poetry like I do.

And while I sometimes fantasize about getting my words published, I am more connected with the idea of people on Twitter reading them almost immediately after I write them. Even if I were a published poet, I would not get the feedback and emotional response in the same way that I get it from Twitter. It also ties me, not to just readers of poetry, but to many, many other micropoets as well. It is like the micropoets of Twitter are one living, breathing organism, reading and writing words. I have found much respect amongst the micropoets I write with, and I feel respect for all of them who bravely put their words out there. It is not always such an easy thing to do, to instantaneously wear your heart on your sleeve in front of sometimes thousands of people.

Over the last 14-16 months, I have done quite a bit to encourage the micropoets, and for a long time I collected their words on blogs I created to archive them, namely the Dragonfly Collection and the Dragonfly Archives:

dragonflycollection
dragonflyarchives

It occurred to me that all this poetry I found on Twitter was just disappearing, and I wanted to preserve it the best I could. Unfortunately, archiving all the poetry worth saving was a near impossible task, simply overwhelming with 1500+ tweets of poetry being written a day. Even with the help of a lovely lady named Jenny (@gennepher, from Wales), I was not able to sustain it, although we kept it up for over eight months. School and work finally took their toll.

I wanted the micropoets on Twitter to know that their words were important, that what they worked so hard to create meant something. In my unique position, collecting micropoetry, I watched poets come and go, and watched their words and styles of writing evolve over time. I loved that aspect of it. I think it made me a better poet.

To me, micropoetry is more about the community and connections of the poets than anything else. I hope to continue writing on Twitter for a long time to come.

One Stop Poetry: Picture Prompt Challenge (Holiday Edition)

Take the Holiday Poetry Challenge!

I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday weekend! Due to the hectic nature of this time of year, One Shoot Sunday will return next week in its entirety with what promises to be another spectacular interview by Chris G. It will also include a picture prompt challenge inspired by a photo from a professional photographer. 

For this week's abridged version, I offer an image I shot a couple of days ago in New York City. The scene is part of Rockefeller Center, home to the world famous Christmas tree and ice skating rink. Without revealing additional information to influence your writing, let us see what you come up with using this festive image as a prompt! As always, make sure you enjoy the creative process. Have fun with it :)

Rules:
Write a poem (or Flash Fiction 55) based on the prompt.
Then post your creation on your site.
Sign up using Mr. Linky so people can find your work.
Let us know what you are sharing by leaving a comment below.
Finally, please visit other participants & comment on their posts.

Thank you,
dustus

Challenge Time!

One Stop Poetry Featured Poet: Shân Williams

Shân Williams

Friday Feature on One Stop Poetry!

Today my guest is Shân Williams, and her excellent blog is called Musings and Smatterings.  I've been following her work since last year, including the past weeks of One Shot Wednesday, admiring clever lines and dedication to craft. To my surprise, I discovered recently that English is not her first language. As you are about to learn, Shân's Welsh roots influence her English poetry, along with her studies in biochemistry and penchant for avid reading. 

Shân's Homeland...

"I began writing at a very early age, mostly in Welsh, as it is my first language. By the time I was 17, I had two eisteddfod (welsh cultural competitions) chairs and was published in Welsh magazines and in a small English anthology."

"What made me write originally was a love of my Homeland, and a vivid imagination. Also my roots, as my father is half Arabic, and there's quite a story about how my grandmother came to Wales in the first place. To put it lightly if it weren't for illegal immigrants, I would not be here! Most of my early works are based in the horror/sci fi/ fantasy genre. I still very much enjoy writing these types of work. I was influenced by Welsh poets such a Taliesyn, Ap Gwilym and later on R.S.Thomas and Dylan Thomas. I read Poe, Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath and Carole Ann Duffy in English. I'm a bit of a bookworm, if I'm not reading then I'm writing."
 

Shân's Academic Background & Teaching....

"...I made a decision to study Biochemistry at Liverpool University, and my writing got lost by the wayside, until 2007s, in fact, where I got an itch to pick up a pen once more. What I found that I was an ok erotica writer, and that the short stories that I penned at the time were enjoyed by a number of readers. I wrote now from an older perspective, and more emotionally than before. Having traveled extensively after Uni and taught children from very poor backgrounds I had an insight into injustice, and this is one of the main reasons I write now. I have more confidence now as a 33 year old that my words will hopefully reach people, and be appreciated." 

Life & Writing....

"Life experience has changed my writing, and I like to go with the flow. An enquiring mind always asks questions, and it's always good to put those questions out there. Politics is another passion, so I tend to highlight the class divide with other poems. And of course I still write about the stunning, striking mountains of home!"

Shân's Sense of Humor...

"Saying that I have an evil sense of humor and enjoy liberal use of irony in some of my poetry, I classify myself firmly as a newbie in English. I'm learning, as everyone does, and brand most of my poetry as bad poetry! I'm more than willing to laugh at myself and don't take myself too seriously!"

**********

And now 3 selected poems from Shân Williams

Exploration

Under the bare bones of the apple tree

A frigidity swept over me

A coolness that bore me to the bone,

The loss of a friend, the one I called home.

As winter ravens cackled in grey British skies

And white snow-filled clouds burdened by

Ice tears formed in my eyes

As my feet followed the path of trodden earth

We used to walk in days of mirth.

On automatic pilot to the hard stone wall

Where keystones had scattered

Hand placed, they fall

At my small tired feet.

The smell of winter, old oak and pine

purvey into this empty mind.

Thinking of a world without a spring

Empty words, in my mind ring

As I search for reason

In this manic silent world

Without you.

**********

Ignorance
 
The mockingbird screams its final tune

As mayhem ensues.

Dark eyes watch the carniage

Burning wreck, insolvent individuals

Running to and fro, hands in hair

Charred with ash, gravel, dirt.

What is this Earth?

What is this humanity?


The Raven watches entranced

Awaiting its last macabre dance.

Anticipaiting its final meal.

Rest assured it will be fulfilling.

Black eyes peruse,

Unfeeling of the situation,

Of the pain and the emotion,

Only carrion here

Where brother fights brother, kills sister.


Lest we forget


Fundementally 46 gene pairs

make us the same.

“Belief structure” makes us different.

Holier than though-than whom?


The starling above,

Makes no reference to the burning and bellowing below.

Continues its flight

No hesitations.

Not caring for warring nations.

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

"What I want to create with some of my poetry is a trip into the senses. To transport my reader to places and paint them a picture of what my words want them to see. If I could paint, I would!"—S.W.

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

New Old Fashioned Romance

  Back in the days of black and white,

It was all cut and dried,

All it took was the shock of an ankle bared

Red hot lipstick, a shared cigarette,

Melodious harmonies created on the big screen,

Ingrid Bergman, James Dean,

All they had to do was smoulder up there

A Marilyn wiggle of the derrier.

Now in the world of match dot com

I sit here thinking-where did we go wrong?

Where’s the electricity, the passion, the innocence?

They had on the flickering screen? The Presence?

It’s just a story of boy meets girl.

Does it happen in this modern world?



 ****************

Check Out Shân's Blog Musings & Smatterings @ http://repressedsoul.wordpress.com
Follow Shân on Twitter: http://twitter.com/Awdures

Comments & feedback are always appreciated!

Cheers,
Adam

Monday Feature - Writer and Poet Mildred Kiconco Barya

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I (Leslie Moon) am standing in for Brian Miller this week. I have the honor of featuring Mildred Kicono Barya, on One Stop Poetry, this week. I was introduced to Mildred (Midi) through a mutual friend,Josepf Haslam. I'm not only impressed with this woman's writing but her heart for her people. 

As a writer, poet and organisational psychologist, Mildred Kiconco Barya has worked in the book industry, broadcasting, and human resources consulting with Ernst & Young. She has written travel articles, features, commentaries, book reviews, essays and short stories for various newspapers, journals and magazines.

She is presently at Syracuse University (New York) working on her MFA (Master's Fine Arts). In her spare time, she is part of a non-profit established to encourage writing in Africa.

Many thanks to Mildred for taking time out of her holiday for this interview.

Midi - When you graduate from Syracuse what are your dreams for your writing?
To keep writing, really, and also to have more publications out because what's the point of writing to keep everything in the drawer if you believe in sharing? Right now, I'm revising my novel manuscript and also writing short stories. I hope in two or three years I'll have the novel out and some short stories as well. Poetry is the constant, it meets the every day life and concerns. Prose is something i have to plan and work on for the long term.


What message would you want to convey to a fledgling poet?
To keep writing. To keep trying until they find their feet (maybe nowadays its their shoes). No baby would be walking if they'd been afraid of that first step. So the point is to get the first words out, the first sentence, and follow it up with more words and somehow it will all begin to make sense.


How has writing changed your life?
This is a hard one to respond to in a few words. But I think it has made me more of a believer. By believing I mean in creativity, in possibility, in imagination, and in creating an unknown world. Each day begins with a high dose of optimism because of what I can create to make a couple of folks feel better, and because of what I've seen others succeed at creating. Without the writing, maybe I'd be a resigned person, which would be terribly sad.


Let me encourage you to read Midi's poetry a few times. There is a depth in her work that I know you will enjoy.

The Call

Come to the edge, he said

It’s dangerous there, I answered

Come to the edge, he said

It’s risky, I might fall and break my bones

Come to the edge, he said

I did,

He pushed me,

And I flew.

The Vultures

(I don’t usually try to explain my poetry but here I’ll say this poem has nothing to do with vultures but has a lot to do with vultures.)

The vultures descend

This one is ready meat, they say to one another

The girl pretends she’s dead

They poke her head eager to feast on her brains

But it’s turtle shell hiding arrows, mazes and puzzles

Their beaks crack and two leave

The one that stays strikes raising much dust

The girl rises, clears the dust and heads home.

After the Tsunami

Pain is in the swollen silence

That comes after watching

The broadcast news-

Laughter fades

Deep calls to deep of every nation

Eyes search for a place,

To lay down the sorrow.

Trapped in a web of tangled emotions,

Wordless wounds fester,

We stand on the banks and exhume the debris

Remembrance is nothing but this crumbled pile.

We did not notice how it started,

Waves that were callous

Gathered their force and ripped us apart

Wails of a thousand voices echo:

Prove that God is there, attest to his care!

We are stripped of all answers.

Tears happen,

Hearts splinter

Loneliness and terror,

Make their visitation known

This is what it means;

To hold infinity in a grain of sand,

To watch leaves blown by wind fall to the ground

We too are severed by the seasons’ change,

The price of memory crippled by loss.

The sky wears a cloak of bereavement

The moon is somber stricken,

We hung between despair and brokenness

Strands of grief weave us together

We are knotted into a ball of mourning

Wrapped in heartache’s arms

Only blinding faith and generous hands sustain us,

In the wake of Tsunami.

Her first collection of poetry titled Men Love Chocolates But They Don’t Say won the Uganda National Award for poetry publication, 2002. The Price of Memory After the Tsunami is her second poetry collection published by Mallory International, UK, 2006. Give Me Room to Move My Feet her third poetry book, 2009. Amalion. All available to buy from the One Stop Bookshop

Mildred’s short story publications include: “Scars of Earth” published in The African Love Stories Anthology, Ayebia Clarke Publishing Ltd, UK, 2006. “Effigy Child” published by Commonwealth Broadcasting Association (CBA) UK, 2004, and republished in Gifts of Harvest, FEMRITE, 2006. “Raindrops” published in Words From A Granary, FEMRITE anthology, 2001. “Land of my Bones”, published in Dreams, Miracles & Jazz, an anthology of New Africa Fiction, Pan Macmillan, 2008.

You can find more of Midi's fantastic writing at her website

The non-profit for African Writers that she is part of is called African Writers Trust.  African Writers Trust: aims to facilitate and put in place structures that encourage synergism, writing development and publishing prospects for African writers.

Photo by: Frerieke

http://www.flickr.com/photos/frerieke/3563543999/

One Shot Wednesday: Poetry Week 21

One Shot Wednesday: Poetry Week 21

Hi and, once again, welcome to another One Shot Wednesday. Each week I am amazed at how popular this is becoming but as a platform to promote your work it sure is a great place to start!

This week also marks the Thanksgiving holidays in the US. Coming from the UK this is not something that I am to familiar with but that still doesn't stop me wishing my fellow American poets a happy Thanksgiving. No doubt there will be a few poems following this theme and I look forward to being educated accordingly.

Leslie, Brian, Adam & Chris will also be feasting heavy on turkey whilst, jealously, I still have to wait another 5 weeks or so for mine. Curiously, there is nothing better to go with turkey than brussel sprouts, just wondered if you enjoyed these also over the pond?

I believe that you spend a four day break, feasting, enjoying family and generally having a great time? If you are stuck for ways to enjoy yourselves may I recommend the challenge I set last Saturday, The Riddle of the Fish?

Its been a busy week at One Stop and a new feature that we have introduced is the One Stop Bookshop. At the moment it is in its early stages, showing just a gallery of publications by featured artists. If you have written a poetry collection or can recommend a good poetry publication please email me at oneshotpoetry@gmail.com, marked Bookshop and, if possible, include the ISBN code and I will look at these accordingly.

Dont forget we are also open to submissions & our new forum, After Hours.

Okay, as you may have gathered, my name is Pete and I am your host tonight. For those of you new to One Shot here are the rules;

1) post a poem to your blog

2) link your poem to One Shot using Mr Linky, where you will be prompted to enter your name and the URL for your poem. The URL is the web address for your poem

3)Visit other One Shot Poets, as many as you wish. Tell them how you feel when you are reading, encourage and interact with them. If you wish to critique remember to be positive and constructive, negative criticism does not help anyone.

4)Tell others about One Shot Wednesday by including a link to this page on your post

Lastly, One Shot is your platform, so enjoy yourselves.....Happy One Shot......Pete

The Riddle of the Fish: A Poem by Pete Marshall

The Riddle of the Fish

a poem by Pete Marshall

As gold would rise in morning skies

Across the fjords and mountains high

A cat would mew a man would sigh
And toss a Dunhill on the fire

The Danish blue was soft to chew

As plans were made for tea for two

She’d knead the dough and blend the food

He’d tend his horse and wait for you

The Red coats marched in Pall Mall’s streets

To words of war and drummers beats

The milk would sour as mothers weep

And doves would fly for peace they seek

The Kaiser came upon the green

Where troops would march and death was seen

The coffee pots would shine and gleam

As Princes rode towards machine

The White flag flew above the rim

No beer would flow nor Nobel’s sing

For canine joys had seen them sin

When masters blew and sent them in

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

Albert Einstein posed a riddle and said that 98% of the worlds population would never solve it! The riddle was the Riddle of the Fish? Today Poetry & Science intertwine as I ask you "who has the fish?"

The Riddle is as follows

There are 5 houses that are each a different colour.
There is a person of a different nationality in each house.
The 5 owners drink a certain drink. They each smoke a certain brand of cigarettes and also have a certain pet. No owner has the same pet, smokes the same brand of cigarettes nor drinks the same drink.
The question is. "Who has the fish?"


1. The British man lives in the red house.
2. The Swedish man has a dog for a pet.
3. The Danish man drinks tea.
4. The green house is to the left of the white house.
5. The owner of the green house drinks coffee.
6. The person that smokes Pall Mall has a bird.
7. The owner of the yellow house smokes Dunhill.
8. The person that lives in the middle house drinks milk.
9. The Norwegian lives in the first house.
10. The person that smokes Blend, lives next to the one that has a cat.
11. The person that has a horse lives next to the one that smokes Dunhill.
12. The one that smokes Bluemaster drinks beer.
13. The German smokes Prince.
14. The Norwegian lives next to a blue house.
15. The person that smokes Blend, has a neighbour that drinks water.

I hope you have enjoyed this little piece of fun & if you are stuck...therein the poem lies the answer?

If you would like the answer and how the poem tells the tale...please email oneshotpoetry@gmail.com, marked "The Riddle of the Fish" and I will ease your frustrations...