Monday, October 26, 2015

Anna Akhmatova and Naomi Shihab Nye (Mother Teresa, Mahmoud Darwish, Suleiman Mansour)

Naomi Shihab Nye: 'The Space Between Our Footsteps'  
and  Anna Akhmatova: 'Lot's Wife'  

   searching, again, through household closets for 'yellow-page syndrome' (yellowed and smelly poetry books - strong allergenic responses from Judith, Frosty, Tama and I). . .      dismaying, there are so many. . .  
   yet, found!  moments within poems, cleansing, humbling, a certain wondrousness. . . here, succinctly as (I) can be (not easy), two poems (and a painting) -
   from Naomi Shihab Nye's
The Space Between our Footsteps  Poems and Paintings from the Middle East, poet Mahmoud Darwish's 'Give Birth To Me Again That I May Know' (with Suleiman Mansour's painting Mother Palestine), and, first, from Anna Akhmatova's Poem Without a Hero and Selected Poems, her poem 'Lot's Wife'. . .

Lot's Wife
And the just man trailed God's shining agent,
over a black mountain, in his giant track,
while a restless voice kept harrying his woman:
"It's not too late, you can still look back

at the red towers of your native Sodom,
the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,
at the empty windows set in the tall house
where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed."

A single glance: a sudden dart of pain
stitching her eyes before she made a sound . . .
Her body flaked into transparent salt,
and her swift legs rooted to the ground.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem
too insignificant for our concern?
Yet in my heart I never will deny her,
who suffered death because she chose to turn.

(translated by Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz) 
(yes, you and I, we grieve for this woman)


Mother Palestine,
Suleiman Mansour

Give Birth to Me Again That I May Know
by Mahmoud Darwish

Give birth to me again.    Give birth to me again that I may know
         in which land I will die, in which land I will come to life again.
Greetings to you as you light the morning fire, greetings to you,
         greetings to you.
Isn’t it time for me to give you some presents, to return to you?
Is your hair still longer than our years, longer than the trees of clouds
         stretching the sky to you so they can live?
Give birth to me again so I can drink the country’s milk from you and
         remain a little boy in your arms, remain a little boy
For ever.  I have seen many things, mother, I have seen.  Give birth to
         me again so you can hold me in your hands.
When you feel love for me, do you still sing and cry about nothing?
          Mother! I have lost my hands
On the waist of a woman of a mirage. I embrace sand, I embrace a
          shadow. Can I come back to you/to myself?
Your mother has a mother, the fig tree in the garden has clouds.
          Don’t leave me alone, a fugitive.  I want your hands
To carry my heart.  I long for the bread of your voice, mother!
          I long for everything. I long for myself    I long for you.
translated by Abdullah al-Udhari

speaking with ass't ed's Frosty and Tama as they review our work, asking, just what does this post have to do with haiku?  



They reply, in unison, 'everything' 

      see you in a moment

    ayaz daryl nielsen


Wednesday, October 21, 2015

starlight poetry

far journeys
   sending you poetry
       by starlight

early morning, thumps on back door - above brief message attached to following Halloween poems, and! who sends poetry by starlight? - please contact us (Frosty, Tama and I) if you know (or work with/heal via starlight) - did have a brief glimpse of the entity below flitting through aspen and aster:                                                                                                                                                    
 and, the poems. . .                  

         Tiny witch
         names me leprechaun:
         young eyes still clear

           Slowly shadows
           circle the park
           swirling dead leaves

           The monster mash
           makes my stupid feet move
           into the mystic

           At the first bend
           black & white dog & warlock
           stirring river mist

poetry by Chase (shares home with Chris Faiers)

here's a like(able)ly suspect, Karla Linn Merrifield, known for having worked with starlight:

now breaks
and enters
my untethered mind?
Gardenias under the moon.

Tama suggests Patricia Carragon as a starlight fairy. . .

the goddess meows
Kishigawa’s good fortune
calico blessings

(Kishigawa is the depot where 
Tama was station master) 

Charlie Mehrhoff, suggesting starlight messages are based on love:

The sun rises in my heart, I call it love.  
Every leaf of me.

dreaming                     . . . Dennis Rhodes suggests starlit dreams
is what   
your mind does
when you
get out of
its way. 

Frosty's (first) suggestion:      

Sinews of primeval goddesses
stretch and shrink with sentient 
engagement in all dimensions 
of earthen interaction, the 
visceral foreshadows of their 
forever sacred embrace.

Frosty's (second) suggestion. . .
'whoever will surely send further info via the next starlit night, and now, treats and belly rubs for all! (two treats for Jo Balistreri!)'

ok, Froster. . .

see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen


Monday, October 19, 2015

HALLOWEEN birthhome of poetry!

In the days when the land is covered with incantations
       The moon walks together with the corpse.                 

poet: zhang zhi (el diablo)  popular republic of china
translator: teresinka pereira 


Whose fault
is the evening

Who misplaced 
the sun

Someone must
be accountable

after all
when day is done

dennis saleh
seaside california

Steamer trunk in
   the attic.  Darkness
locked inside.  Stars.                
   The Moon.

alan carlin
schenectady  new york


       Whether performed
       by Michael Jackson,
       or Neil Armstrong,
       it's still out of this world.

       sharon anderson
          hopwood  pennsylvania


 The high water mark is clear
 Its stain is sketched into the sand
 As I watch the ebb and flow
 What I cannot decide
 Which wave turned the tide?

                                                yates young
                                                palm coast  florida

breakfast with the soothsayer 

and she 
this day
will be cold,
cold as a once-revered saber buried 
in a forgotten battlefield’s debris,
saber capable of transmuting ill-will
and evil intent into an intrinsic realization 
of the sacredness within all existence. . .  
and this saber”. . . she pauses, grasping 
my arm. . .“it can, it must be found, found and
wielded by hero and heroine, working together 
as one. . . and you and I” she states, 
clasping my arm - “it’s up to us. . .  it’s us. . .”  
the steaming coffeecup, halfway 
to my lips, suspended in the 
silent, fertile morning light. . .

ayaz daryl nielsen
longmont colorado

                           The Masterpiece          charlie mehrhoff
                              oakland maine

    Unlike most human artists, the Creator 
    does not sign Her work. 

    This so that humanity may come to know
    it all as being

    Her signature.

asked ass't. ed. Frosty if he would          
be a black cat for Halloween - I 
should recover in a week or so. . . 

Jo's ass't. ed. Tama, laughing. . . 

see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Canadian poets: Lysa Collins, and! Chase's canine 'dogku'

             CHASE'S CANINE CORNER: "Dogku" (dog haiku)
             marmora canada

rolling on my back
kicking snow in the air:
sun on my cold belly

sniff, snuffle
porcupine den tree:

old enemies
this muskrat and I
exchange blood

                    wonderful! wonderful!
                    fresh, fresh snow
                    cleaner than my lazy master's house

bored with his heels
I leap ahead:
my turn to break trail

                                   pee smells, poop smells
                                   wonderful! wonderful!
                                   cold air amplifies

sniff ... hmmm
this is a BIG dog
master says timber wolf

What! what ...
brush pile
full of wild smells

my ears so shaggy
where is Chris?
where? where? there!

                             sniff . . .  snuffle
                             happy days

                             happy notes

(Chase graciously shares his home with poet Chris Faiers)

          LYSA COLLINS      white rock    british columbia
          (new favorite poet)

crescent moon -
I hear the chant of rivermen
where boats no longer go

                                    around the barefoot child
                                    buttercups -
                                    just buttercups

rain crawls down
the rusted fire-stairs
where one small shoe
still dangles

                                    blue herons
                                    back to back -
                                    ink brush poising

September sun
all day in the mountain ash -
crows having a brawl

ass't. ed. Froster. . .
"dogku?!?  this calls for an extra treat!"

ass.t ed. Tama states, "treats and belly rubs for everyone!
especially Lysa Collins and my Jo Balistreri!"

see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen                            

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

S L Peeran, Angelee Deodhar and Bijoy Kumar Dubey

Three poets/authors/editors/artists/teachers writing from and of their own beloved nation, India (Bharat). . . India, a close ally who continues to enrich us in so many realms, including creatively and spiritually - 

S L Peeran. . . 

Mera Bharat Mahan

I am not going to speak
About the disasters
cyclones, havoc,
terrorism and corruption
Of our past glory
Of famous rule of Akbar
Of architecture of Taj Mahal
Of Temples of Konark
Of the modern India
Of improvement of city life
Of reigning bureaucracy
Of roads, dams and bridges
Of per capita income
Of factories, defense, production 
Of population explosion, birth control
Let me speak
Of our unity in diversity.
Of our spiritual values, diverse literature.
Of our religious tolerance.
Of our spicy foods, films, music and dance.
Of our colorful dress and head gear.

O! Bharat Mahan
Thou have lived from antiquity

Thou shall live for eternity.

Angelee Deodhar's haiga (poem and picture embracing). . .

Bijoy Kumar Dubey. . .

In the woods
Between two hills
There flows a brook
Sweetly murmuring,
Babbling and singing
The songs of Nature 
and its bounty.

Through the highlands 
And the lowlands and 
Into the mid between
Down flows the small brook
Murmuring, singing
The songs of time.

Between clusters of hills
Flows the small brook
Singing the songs 
Of humanity and of
The waterways of time.

ass't. ed's Frosty and Tama state, 'maybe we should visit Bharat!'

well, umm - it's time for treats, belly rubs, and our ongoing appreciation for these two poems, and the haiga, by sharing them with as many as we can. . .

see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen