Daily Archives: December 15, 2017

Begging Bowl by Anaya S Guha

I am not a silent poet

withered incognito
beggar is attired
in finery
only the begging bowl
is visible to naked eye.

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Aberdeen, 2050 ce by Mandy Macdonald

I am not a silent poet

On days when the sun shines we stop work,
go into our garden with books, coffee, wine, fruit;
it will not shine for long, and we must make the most of it.

The garden is violet and misty blue,
full of ferns and skiophilic flowers,
but I remember it as it once was

 in summer, blazing with hot vermilion,
bronze, gold, chrome yellow, as the fields were
yellow with dandelion, ragwort, rape.

More people are coming now,
more of them every day, swarming north
with their cracked skin, flayed faces, dust-filled eyes.

They think us a haven. Sometimes we almost laugh. Among those
assigned to us, the wizened children, desert-dried, touch the fruits
we can still grow – raspberries, redcurrants,

dark acid cherries espaliered against a wall –
as though they were jewels. And they laugh at us
when we seek the sunlight, mothlike. They have sunned themselves

enough. As…

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The flat faced God

I am not a silent poet

We told ourselves
it was a simple improvement
we didn’t see its looming impact
on our society
our future
our children
just a better communication system
it would only improve our access to information
and keep us informed

then we quit watching
the physical world outside
most of us joined the iPhone society
wandering down the street
with our minds somewhere
a thousand miles away
wrapped inside the flat screen

it seemed harmless enough
until we quit talking to each other
even on our phones
now we text
it’s quicker and less personal
you can be abrupt
and not seem rude, uninterested

now our lives are stored in hand held
memory banks
we don’t question the information
just look, like and share
look, like and share information
emotion icons and symbols
but not ourselves.

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Preface to Ode to the Air of Righteousness by Martin Stannard

I am not a silent poet

after Wen Tianxiang (1236-1283)

I am incarcerated in the North Court, in a mud cell eight feet wide and thirty-odd feet the other direction. The only door is small and low, the window tiny, and the place dark and filthy.  In these summer days, all sorts of airs gather. Rain water floods around and floats my bed. That is the air of the water. Mud oozes around half the morning and I am submerged in vapor and sludge. That is the air of the mud. On hot sunny days, when all the airways are blocked, that is the air of the Sun. When the burning of faggots for cooking turns up the heat, that is the air of the fire. When rotten grain gives off sickening smells, that is the air of the rice. And the odours, sweat and breaths from the crowd are the air of the human. The…

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