PSALM FOR WORKING WOMEN
by Lynne Thompson

A microwave is my savior; I shall not starve.

It alloweth me to eat quickly. It leadeth me
to purchase Stouffers in bulk.

It restoreth dehydrated onions. It delivers me
from pre-heating for pre-heating’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley
of canned goods, I shall fear no tin containers
for plastics art with me and glass and ceramics,
they comfort me.

It preparest a roast turkey in thirty-six minutes;
four for carrots when they’re ’waved on HIGH.
My rumaki comes out crisp.

Surely, defrosting and warming shall follow me
all the days of my life and I shall dwell
in the land of a Hotpoint forever.

—from Rattle #23, Summer 2009

https://www.rattle.com/psalm-for-working-women-by-lynne-thompson/

#poem #poetry #literature

Vulnerable

Sometimes, loneliness
stalks the crowded room, and laughs
to find the wounded.

© Simon J Ashcroft, 2024

#haiku #poem #Poetry

From 'In Our Terribleness'
Photos by Fundi (Billy Abernathy)

In Our Terribleness

Imamu Amiri Baraka & Fundi (Billy Abernathy)

-> In Our Terribleness (1970) I Designed by Laini (Sylvia Abernathy)

-> https://zocalopoets.com/2013/02/01/amiri-baraka-and-langston-hughes-throw-jesus-out-yr-mind-goodbye-christ/
-> https://zocalopoets.com/2013/02/01/they-now-gonna-make-us-shut-up-the-black-nationalist-third-world-socialist-poetry-of-amiri-baraka/

Image and poem by Imamu Amiri Baraka (Le Roi Jones) & Fundi (Billy Abernathy).

#InOurTerribleness #poetic #photographic #book I #poetry #design #photo #art
#ImamuAmiriBaraka #LeRoiJones I #Fundi #BillyAbernathy I #Laini #SylviaAbernathy

In Our Terribleness

Rob Welborn, New York Times, 1971: It is not surprising that Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) — a black artist who, having been successful in the mainstream literary world, returned to Newark, N. J., to head a black cultural center and involve himself...

Ballad from the Soundhole of an Unstrung Guitar
by Diane Seuss

The best I ever wrote was in an attic.
No chair. Manual typewriter on an upended box.
No screen on the lone window, which I removed.
Bats flew through.

I woke up one night and Blue was in bed with me.
Nah, I said, and he put on his wire-rimmed glasses and left.
Somehow, I ended up with two kittens. Littermates.
I wonder how they lived and died, where they went.

The only furniture was the mattress on the floor.
A wooden box full of someone's Mardi Gras beads.
No ethics. No lock on the door.
No worries about vermin, rabies, fleas.

Where did I pee in the middle of the night?
There must have been a bathroom down those narrow stairs.
A shower somewhere.
A gold shower curtain laced with mold.

Blue once told me I walked in on him peeing and laughed.
That it ruined his life.
Well, Jesus, I'm sorry.
I would never have apologized back then.

I knew no forms.
Just a swarm of bees in the rafters who agreed to leave me be.
I made a line break when I took a drag on my Salem Light.
Menthols were pure as poetry.

Where are the words now, that you wrote in that hellhole?
On the typewriter ribbon I stuck in a knothole.

#poem #poetry #literature

https://neopagan.net/blog/2020/03/25/on-seeing-beyond-ourselves/

"On Seeing Beyond Ourselves
Posted on March 25, 2020 by Phaedra Bonewits

This one’s for the street kids
The runaways and the throwaways
The queer kids and the trans kids
and the druggie kids with empty eyes
who can’t go home even if they wanted to
The travelling kids, the hitchhikers
who no one will stop for
The buskers and the panhandlers
staring at empty streets

homeless boy 1860

This one’s for the homeless
who have no place to shelter
The street people
The cold and hungry people
The ones with no soap
No running water
No take out or delivery
The ones with bad lungs
and diabetes and rotten livers
and damaged skin
who already saw friends die

This one’s for the buskers
and the living statues
and the people in costume
asking a fiver for a selfie
The ones who found
a way to survive
that worked for them
Who used their creativity
to find a way
Who stare at empty streets
with empty pockets
Knowing no government program
will compensate them

This one’s for the refugees
The ones in camps with
bombed out homelands
or drought or flood
behind them
and nothing in front
The ones who have no soap
and carry their water
The ones raising
their kids in tents
with nothing but fabric walls
separating them
from their neighbors
The ones who did
the best they could
and now they’ll see more death

I see you
I hear you

I fear for you more
than I fear for myself" #poetry

English below :
Lorsque les ombres obscurcissent ton esprit,
Souffle sur les braises
de la joie d’être en vie.
Jette dans ce feu
tout ce qui n’est plus toi;
Que brûlent enfin
toutes les scories du moi.
Ressent le tambour
derrière ton sternum,
Et foule la terre tel les premiers hommes.
Que jaillisse
enfin de ta poitrine,
le souffle libre des origines.
L.V

When shadows cloud your mind,
Blow on the embers
of the joy of being alive.
Throw into this fire
all that is no longer you; Let all the dross of the self
all the dross of the self.
Feel the drum
behind your breastbone,
And tread the earth like the first men.
Let it burst
at last from your chest
the free breath of origins.
L.V

#poetry #poesie #dance #human #humain #heart #coeur #vie #souffle #life #breth #joy #joie #firedance #origines

They ignore the suffering of millions saying they do not understand it but I ask them:

In what language does a child cry?

— Karim Wafa Al-Hussaini

#KarimWafaAl-Hussaini #Gaza #genocide #suffering #poem #poetry

Every time there is a war somewhere in the world we need to be reminded of the famous Iranian poet Saa'di e Shirazi

#Poetry #Iran #Saedi #Humanity

From nowhere with love, on the -eenth of Marchember,
dear respectful my darling, doesn't matter
even who, for the face, speaking frankly,
is impossible to remember, not yours, and
no-one's best friend, sends his regards being on one
of the five continents, related to cow-boys;
I loved you more than angels and even Himself
and am further from you now than from them both;
late at night, in the sleeping valley, in its very pit,
twisting at night on the blank bed-sheet --
as not mentioned below at least, -- with a throb
I whip up the pillow by moaning "you"
from beyond the seas, its shores connecting
in the dark, with my body your body through
all it's features, as a crazy mirror, reflecting.

Ниоткуда с любовью, надцатого мартобря,
дорогой, уважаемый, милая, но не важно
даже кто, ибо черт лица, говоря
откровенно, не вспомнить уже, не ваш, но
и ничей верный друг вас приветствует с одного
из пяти континентов, держащегося на ковбоях.
Я любил тебя больше, чем ангелов и самого,
и поэтому дальше теперь
от тебя, чем от них обоих.
Далеко, поздно ночью, в долине, на самом дне,
в городке, занесенном снегом по ручку двери,
извиваясь ночью на простыне,
как не сказано ниже, по крайней мере,
я взбиваю подушку мычащим «ты»,
за горами, которым конца и края,
в темноте всем телом твои черты
как безумное зеркало повторяя.

1975-1976

#brodsky #poem #poetry #reflection #love

This is my life!!!

THE NEW BATTERY SHOULD COME TOMORROW
by Ruth Bavetta

Got up this morning thinking about going to see my daughter.
Which led to thinking about the remote for the garage door opener
which had stopped working when I replaced the battery.

Which led to searching online for garage door repairmen. Which led to
wanting to check the remote again before I called a repairman.

Which led to getting dressed so I could go outside. Which led to
remembering to brush my teeth. Which led to discovering my Waterpik
wasn’t working. Which led to researching online to find out
what the problem could be. Which led to

scrabbling around to find the extra tips that came with the Waterpik
and figuring out which was which and how to replace the tip.

So with Waterpik repaired I went outside and tried again
to make the garage door opener work. Which led to
my discovering that the little red light in the remote wasn’t on.

Which led me to fiddle with the batteries again. Which led to
my discovering I had ordered the wrong battery for it. Which led to
a protracted Amazon session looking for the proper battery

and figuring out which were in stock and would come soon
and didn’t come only in a pack of fifty.

So now I’m exhausted and I’m not going anywhere.

from Rattle #83, Spring 2024

Ruth Bavetta: “I write at a messy desk overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Once, it was important to me to make sense of life. Now, I’m convinced that there is no sense-making. There is only what is and what has been. I am human, separate and mortal, and that’s where the poetry comes from. This poem is pretty much an accurate report of an actual morning a couple of years ago. This kind of thing happens with increasing frequency as we age. What can we do but laugh about it?”

https://www.rattle.com/the-new-battery-should-come-tomorrow-by-ruth-bavetta/

#poem #poetry #literature

Patti Smith Sends Taylor Swift a Direct Message After Pop Star Name-Dropped Her in New Song

https://parade.com/news/patti-smith-sends-taylor-swift-direct-message-name-drop-tortured-poets

#poets #poetry #literature

THE TUNER
by Colette Inez

for E.C.

Choose how the forest
was deprived of a tree.
Blight, wind, fire?
I once lost a cantankerous man,
who tuned pianos.
Tall, an oak to me,
he goaded music from the keys.
I almost see him biting on his pipe,
tamping down the London Dock.
Blown back leaves, birds, moths,
the gestures here.
Pendulum, tool box auctioned off.
Summer roars another blast of green.
“I like to see a piano perspire,”
he’d say to me, slamming the lid
of the Baldwin.

—from Rattle #32, Winter 2009

Colette Inez: “A poem is born right here, somewhere in my heart, in my blood vessels, in my gut. It comes to the brain much later. I have to feel them actually pulsing in my body, and then when they get shaped, when the brain, the controller, the pilot, whoever one’s metaphor, however this metaphor can extend, takes over. I like to think that my brain is the lesser part of my poems and that my heart, in the best of my poems, is the one that rules.”

https://www.rattle.com/the-tuner-by-colette-inez/

#poem #poetry #literature

#music #reggae #afrofuturist #electronic #funk #soul #spokenword #poetry #Kingston

Working Progress by groundsound

Working Progress, by groundsound

15 track album

one of my older poems:

𝕊𝕖𝕝𝕓𝕤𝕥𝕡𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕣ä𝕥 ℤ𝕦𝕘𝕖𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕟𝕖𝕥 𝕁𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕗 ℍ𝕣𝕦𝕓ý, 𝕟𝕒𝕔𝕙 𝕦𝕟𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕞 𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕞𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕖𝕟 𝔸𝕓𝕖𝕟𝕕 𝕒𝕞 𝕊𝕒𝕞𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕘, 𝟙𝟚. 𝕁𝕦𝕟𝕚 𝟙𝟡𝟡𝟡

𝕎𝕚𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝔻𝕦 𝕟𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕥 𝕘𝕖𝕨𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕥 𝕚𝕟 𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝔹ö𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕙𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝔼𝕣𝕕𝕖! 𝔻𝕦 𝕙𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕘𝕖𝕝ä𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕥 𝕚𝕟 ℍ𝕚𝕞𝕞𝕖𝕝𝕟 ü𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕝𝕖𝕥𝕫𝕥𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕙 𝕘𝕖𝕤𝕔𝕙𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕙𝕥𝕖𝕥𝕖𝕞 𝕊𝕒𝕟𝕕. 𝕌𝕟𝕕 𝕟𝕦𝕟 𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕣𝕓𝕥 𝕕𝕖𝕚𝕟 𝔾𝕖𝕤𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕥 𝕕𝕠𝕔𝕙 𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕚𝕟 𝕚𝕟 𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕟 𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕣 𝕋𝕒𝕘𝕖, 𝕚𝕟 𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕓𝕖𝕣𝕦𝕙𝕚𝕘𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕟 𝔽𝕝𝕦ß, 𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝕨𝕖𝕚𝕤𝕤. 𝕀𝕤𝕥 𝕖𝕤 𝕕𝕒𝕤, 𝕨𝕚𝕣𝕜𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕙 𝕕𝕒𝕤, 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕕𝕦 𝕨𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕥𝕖𝕤𝕥!

𝚂𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝙳𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙹𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚏 𝙷𝚛𝚞𝚋ý, 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝟷𝟸, 𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟿

𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑! 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜. 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍!

#ya #poem #poetry #word #gedicht #poesie #wort

Josef Hrubý, Czech Republic

He was born in Cernetice, Czech Republic, in 1932, he died in 2017. Poet, translator, editor, and journalist. Some of his published books are: Pálení básní (Praga, 1999); Zrzavé údolí (1993); Za pet PENez klic (Munich, 1992); Topoly (1998) and...

#humor #poetry

Chris Hallbeck on Mastodon

Rhyme. #comics #funny #poetry

Chris Hallbeck (@Chrishallbeck@mastodon.social)

Attached: 1 image Rhyme. #comics #funny #poetry

TODAY: In 1802, William Wordsworth and his sister, Dorothy, see a “long belt” of daffodils, inspiring the former to pen “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.”

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45521/i-wandered-lonely-as-a-cloud

#poem #poetry #literature #history

AGAINST THE SOLAR ECLIPSE
by Alejandro Escudé

It’s a black swath that cuts across
A part of the country that’s a myth.
Does Ohio even exist? Not here,
Where the post office blends
With the sky and the cops drive
Black and white cars off freeway
Overpasses. In one photo, a man
Peers down at a brass contraption
Like some 21st century Galileo,
A pinprick on the sun shadowed
By that communist rock in the sky.
Or was it the other way around?
I can’t recall. It’s all mathematical
Gibberish, if you ask me. A train
Stopped the traffic the other day
And that was more real than the
Eclipse. The sun is like an orange
At the grocery store at age fifty.
Who still buys the citrusy orbs?
If fact, the supermarket aisles
Are too bright these days. I should
Wear those ISO glasses they all
Wore to observe the eclipse.
See what? Nature? Apocalypse?
Down on this planet, it’s light
Pandemonium. Hysteria denied.
I’ve had enough of branded news.
Music mimicking music. It’s called
The cosmos. That death-trap
Beyond the atmosphere. Boneless
Graveyard, aqueduct to nothingness.
Honestly, I’ll take God. He’s not
In fashion right now. But I prefer
The ambiguity of faith to ignorance,
Which is what you see in crowds,
Lawn chairs and binoculars, tents,
Motorhomes, a sheet afloat, the sun
Figured there, reflected, swallowed
By time’s stupid, arcing mouth.

—from Poets Respond
April 14, 2024

Alejandro Escudé: “Human beings, in my point of view, are absolute masters of denial and distraction. The eclipse was just another event that reminded me of how well society can turn its gaze up and away from real societal issues, personal problems, true miracles, thought, insight, love, in order to participate in one more pointless venture.” 

https://www.rattle.com/against-the-solar-eclipse-by-alejandro-escude/

#poem #poetry #poets #literature

#humor #poetry #videogames

The Battered Inside
by Niels Hav

Translated from the Danish by Per Brask & Patrick Friesen
The battered inside of the cupboard under the kitchen sink
makes me happy. Here are two honest nails
hammered into the original boards that have been there
since the apartment block was built. It's like revisiting
forgotten members of our closest family.
At some point the boards were blue;
there is some leftover red
and a green pastel. The kitchen sink is new
and the counter has been raised ten centimeters. Probably
it's been renovated several times through the years.
The kitchen has remained current; there are new lamps,
electric stove, fridge and coffee maker.
But here under the sink a time warp has been allowed
its hidden existence. Here is the wash tub with the floor cloth,
the plunger and a forgotten bit of caustic soda.
Here the spider moves about undisturbed.

Maybe there's been kissing and dancing in this kitchen.
Probably there's been crying.
Happy people newly in love have prepared fragrant meals
and later cooked porridge while making sandwiches for lunch boxes.
Hungry children have stolen cookies. Laughter has resounded
in the stairwell and ropes have been skipped in the yard
while new cars were being parked outside. People moved in and out,
old ones died and were carried downstairs, newborn babies
were carried upstairs. Everything according to order—
my nameplate will also disappear from the door one day.
I get down on my knees in front of the kitchen sink
and respectfully greet the plunger, the spider
and the two honest nails.

#poem #poetry #literature