3 Persons are tagged with #poet

#poet

ramnath@nerdpol.ch
ramnath

The Unbelievable #Life #Of #Nisargadatta #Maharaj. Dec 9, 2022
Nisargadatta was born Maruti Shivrampant Kambli in 1897 in the #Maharashtra district of #India.

However, when his father died in 1915, Nisargadatta moved the family to Bombay where with his brother he opened a string of eight small goods shops selling mainly beedis or leaf-rolled cigarettes.
In 1923 he married and in the years that followed he and his wife had three daughters and a son.

In 1933, Nisargadatta’s life would change forever.

It was in that year that Nisargadatta met his #guru, #Siddharameshwar Maharaj.

Siddharameshwar Maharaj was a guru in the lineage of the #Inchegeri Sampradaya, also known as, Nimbargi Sampradaya.

This lineage of teachers came from Maharashtra and were inspired by a number of great spiritual teachers, including the great mystic #poet #Kabir.

The Inchegeri Sampradaya was unique in that it offered #spiritual #practice #to people from #all walks of life, including #women, and people of all religions.

Those who came for the teachings did not even have to be practising #Hindus.

It was particularly popular with #householders - those with the responsibilities of work and family.

In fact, the #gurus of this lineage were known for #travelling from home to home to make themselves available to householders, rather than the householder having to make time to visit the guru.

Many years later, Nisargadatta would say of his lineage, The Inchegeri Sampradaya--

Source: https://youtube.com/watch?v=ynjFKMNwZgw

1 Comments
kennychaffin@diasp.org
Kenny Chaffin

DAVID
by Jim Harrison
 
He is young. The father is dead.
Outside, a cold November night,
the mourners’ cars are parked upon the lawn;
beneath the porch light three
brothers talk to three sons
and shiver without knowing it.
His mind’s all black thickets
and blood; he knows
flesh slips quietly off the bone,
he knows no last looks,
that among the profusion of flowers
the lid is closed to hide
what no one could bear—
that metal rends the flesh,
he knows beneath the white-pointed
creatures, stars,
that in the distant talk of brothers,
the father is dead.

#poem #poet #poems #literature

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wist@diasp.org
WIST

A quotation from Wilbur, Richard

When a poet is being a poet — that is, when he is writing or thinking about writing — he cannot be concerned with anything but the making of a poem. If the poem is to turn out well, the poet cannot have thought of whether it will be saleable, or of what its effect on the world should be; he cannot think of whether it will bring him honor, or advance a cause, or comfort someone in sorrow. All such considerations, whether silly or generous, would be merely intrusive; for, psychologically speaking, the end of writing is the poem itself.

Richard Wilbur (1921-2017) American poet, literary translator
Acceptance Speech, National Book Award (1957)

#quote #quotation #artist #artistry #creativity #creator #poet #writer #writing
Sourcing and notes: https://wist.info/wilbur-richard/55478/

WIST - Wilbur, Richard | Acceptance Speech, National Book Award (1957)

When a poet is being a poet -- that is, when he is writing or thinking about writing -- he cannot be concerned with anything but the making of a poem. If the poem is to turn out well, the poet cannot have thought of whether it will be saleable,…

kennychaffin@diasp.org
Kenny Chaffin

The Fury Of Cocks
by Anne Sexton

There they are
drooping over the breakfast plates,
angel-like,
folding in their sad wing,
animal sad,
and only the night before
there they were
playing the banjo.
Once more the day's light comes
with its immense sun,
its mother trucks,
its engines of amputation.
Whereas last night
the cock knew its way home,
as stiff as a hammer,
battering in with all
its awful power.
That theater.
Today it is tender,
a small bird,
as soft as a baby's hand.
She is the house.
He is the steeple.
When they fuck they are God.
When they break away they are God.
When they snore they are God.
In the morning they butter the toast.
They don't say much.
They are still God.
All the cocks of the world are God,
blooming, blooming, blooming
into the sweet blood of woman.

#poetry #poem #poet #literature

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kennychaffin@diasp.org
Kenny Chaffin

Quinceañera
BY JUDITH ORTIZ COFER

My dolls have been put away like dead
children in a chest I will carry
with me when I marry.
I reach under my skirt to feel
a satin slip bought for this day. It is soft
as the inside of my thighs. My hair
has been nailed back with my mother’s
black hairpins to my skull. Her hands
stretched my eyes open as she twisted
braids into a tight circle at the nape
of my neck. I am to wash my own clothes
and sheets from this day on, as if
the fluids of my body were poison, as if
the little trickle of blood I believe
travels from my heart to the world were
shameful. Is not the blood of saints and
men in battle beautiful? Do Christ’s hands
not bleed into your eyes from His cross?
At night I hear myself growing and wake
to find my hands drifting of their own will
to soothe skin stretched tight
over my bones,
I am wound like the guts of a clock,
waiting for each hour to release me.

poem of the day - https://us12.campaign-archive.com/?e=58c6df03ad&u=c993b88231f5f84146565840e&id=6fb48799f0

#poem #poet #poetry #literature

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kennychaffin@diasp.org
Kenny Chaffin

No Images
by Waring Cuney

She does not know
Her beauty,
She thinks her brown body
Has no glory.

If she could dance
Naked,
Under palm trees
And see her image in the river
She would know.

But there are no palm trees
On the street,
And dish water gives back no images.

“No Images” appeared in Opportunity IV, no. 42 (June, 1926), where it tied for first and second place in the poetry section of Opportunity’s literary contest. The poem was later adapted into a song by Nina Simone, which was featured on her 1966 album Let It All Out.

William Waring Cuney was a poet of the Harlem Renaissance movement. The author of Puzzles (Stichting De Roos, 1960) and Storefront Church (Paul Breman, 1973), he coedited Lincoln University Poets (Fine Editions, 1954) with Langston Hughes. He died on June 30, 1976.

https://mailchi.mp/poets/february-19-2022-poemaday-12133526?e=2706955217

#poem #poetry #poet #literature

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kennychaffin@diasp.org
Kenny Chaffin

Autopsychography
BY FERNANDO PESSOA
TRANSLATED BY EDOUARD RODITI

The poet is a man who feigns
And feigns so thoroughly, at last
He manages to feign as pain
The pain he really feels,

And those who read what once he wrote
Feel clearly, in the pain they read,
Neither of the pains he felt,
Only a pain they cannot sense.

And thus, around its jolting track
There runs, to keep our reason busy,
The circling clockwork train of ours
That men agree to call a heart.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/26780/autopsychography

#poetry #poem #poet #literature

Autopsychography by Fernando Pessoa | Poetry Magazine

The poet is a man who feigns

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kennychaffin@diasp.org
Kenny Chaffin

Born on this day in 1901

Harlem
Langston Hughes - 1901-1967

What happens to a dream deferred?

   Does it dry up
   like a raisin in the sun?
   Or fester like a sore—
   And then run?
   Does it stink like rotten meat?
   Or crust and sugar over—
   like a syrupy sweet?

   Maybe it just sags
   like a heavy load.

   Or does it explode?

#poem #poetry #literature #poet

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kennychaffin@diasp.org
Kenny Chaffin

Born on this day

The Negro Speaks of Rivers
Langston Hughes - 1901-1967

I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

https://poets.org/poet/langston-hughes
#poem #poet #poetry #literature

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kennychaffin@diasp.org
Kenny Chaffin

A TOUR DE FORCE
by Brendan Constantine

I got a book and can’t
make myself read it, even
though my lover swears
it’s good, even though
the cover says we might
all beautifully belong
somewhere. Imagine if
everything you saw was
printed inside your skull
where people could see it
after you died. When
you do a lot of cocaine
it feels like that’s true, like
the gallery is struggling
to stay open because pipes
keep breaking and the floor
is always wet. That’s what
I remember, anyway. It’s
been a while since I had
enough money to be that
beautiful and echoing.
Of course, you can’t find
anything in my head that looks
like a sunset or a toy horse,
it’s all just goo in there,
that’s what memories become,
dark water and milk. You
could no more read it back
than you could drink the ink
from a novel and know
who loved who.

—from Rattle #73, Fall 2021

Brendan Constantine: “I don’t have a single approach to poetry. That is, whether the thing I’m making is a poem isn’t even on my mind. I’m just writing, and the longer I do, chances are I’ll discover what is on my mind. Sometimes it feels like walking against water, each word difficult and liable to fall away. Other times, it can feel like the poem already exists and I’m merely ‘negotiating’ with it, to see how it would like to be born. This piece is in the ‘where the hell did that come from’ category. It seemed just to appear at the end of my pen. My third book was like that; the speakers just barged in at odd hours and said, ‘Take this down …’ In this case, I almost felt goaded. What I wrote made me uncomfortable and my discomfort became my guide. I hope this doesn’t sound ‘too’ crazy. Just the usual amount.”

#poem #poetry #literature #poet

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baztian@joindiaspora.com
Baz

Books that I read in 2021 - number 30:

Now I have finally read the last part of the Copenhagen Trilogy by Tove Ditlevsen. „Dependency" is the title of this also short book. It is indeed the most spectacular of the three parts (but also the most challenging for me). It relentlessly describes the story of a drug addiction from the inside. No wonder that the humour of the first two parts is somewhat lost in this topic. It is still extremely gripping to have the power of addiction described in this way.

#ToveDitlevsen #copenhagen #denmark #sucht #dependency #drugs #buch #autorin #femalewriter #worker #workingclass #autofictional #trilogy #recomendation #books #literature #fan #married #gift #poet #vesterbro