Category Archives: Uncategorized

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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Memories by Gil Hoy

I am not a silent poet

Their homes, cone-shaped wooden
poles covered with buffalo hides.
Set up to break down quickly
to move to a safer place.

She sits inside of one of them,
adorning her dresses, her family’s
shirts, with beads and quills.
Watches over her children, skins
cuts and cooks the buffalo meat, pounds
clothes clean with smooth wet river rocks.

When she sees the blue cavalry coming,
she starts to run again.
Is that what made America great,
back then?

African families working hard
on hot cotton farms. Sunrise to sunset,
six days a week. Monotony broken only
by their daily beatings, by their singing
of sad soulful songs. Like factories in fields,
dependent solely upon the demands
of cotton and cloth.

You could buy a man for a song, back then.
Is that what made America great,
once again?

There are swastikas in our schools today,
gay pride flags being burned. Whitelash.

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I could have been a doctor by Graziella Ntinyari

I am not a silent poet

I could have been a doctor,
But I was born on a desert field of sand, sun shining on the small pieces of “gold”,
Which couldn’t protect us even from the night cold, so probably, my first site was of a slim bony structured face of what looked less than a female human,
Full of joy beneath the contingent fear of the lost son of man.

I could have been a doctor,
But I was born as a tail on a body that suffered from the disorder of hopelessness,
Its spirit and energy entangled by the chains of fearfulness and like any other body, the head was above and with the rule on in its system,
Then as a subject I ought to connect, receive and act.

I could have been a doctor,
But they told me like mother like daughter and just then I remembered the woman was only…

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hypnotic sequencings by Aad de Gids

I am not a silent poet

music keeps being a steeringwheel the churning bowl the rotating
wheel of karma especially this hypnotic sequencing music with bells
and poings, symphonic mass intermittent as backdrop and as lovely
as nonreplacable. essentialist wavering ribbon of time and pleasure
sometimes something urgent, troubling, an abstract necessity comes
to the fore now as in a spacey indian raga synth-induced druggy delhi
nylonoid music nevertheless with divaesque passion and raggedly
virtuosity not meaning a thing but a little glow of reinforcement in
the motivational emotional realm, vinyl nylon emotions tearfully as
the unexpected plague, broken. fields of tears and snowflakes asset of
the ‘distant saxophone’ (robert wyatt) and ‘uncertain trumpet’ (lyotard)
an elixirist accompaniment of the daily humdrum and ‘rests of talks
heard through slowly closing doors’ (jacques) on every floor as that
the building becomes a beehive of fragmented conversations, noisous
(nausious) lawmaking and laTrumpe rhetorics and shadow corporate
machinations as…

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