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A flower that has
Roots in both heaven
And earth. She is lit
Within by moonlight
From night swimming with
Mermaids. God would
Offer heaven for her beauty
To create new worlds out
Of it's symmetry.

Window

I woke up to see a morn of night,
A nibbling ache I have no
 responsibility to.

 
It was- But a shearing blad
Of delusion that must be paid
with blood.

The hammer swang,The knife twisted
And I finally could hear the pulse
Of my ear.

The white Rose smiled
For her envy, at last,
smudged red.

Charles Simic has influnced me. I won't paraphrase a TheGuardian article or Wikipedia entry1, but I'll highlight something expressed in the former to which I subscribe:

"A New York Times review from 1978 would note his gift for conveying 'a complex of perceptions and feelings' in just a few lines.

"'Of all the things ever said about poetry, the axiom that less is more has made the biggest and the most lasting impression on me,' Simic told Granta in 2013. 'I have written many short poems in my life, except written is not the right word to describe how they came into existence. Since it’s not possible to sit down and write an eight-line poem that’ll be vast for its size, these poems are assembled over a long period of time from words and images floating in my head.'"2

Amen. For me, it's not about the narrative, it's about the mood. If I want a story, a narrative, I'll watch Kubrick's classic adaptation of King's "The Shining." Now, there's a spectacular example of cinematic art, and what a narrative! But when I want a poem, I want a musical mood to be immersed in through language.

There may be those who knew Simic, who may step up and tell me that I don't know what I'm talking about--"That's not Simic!"--and it may be true. I have read only a few of his poems, and both were included in a tattered, old book I have in my library called "How to Read a Poem."3 One of them was "Empire of Dreams."

Had I been quicker on the draw, I might have tried to meet Simic, or Heaney, seeing that they were, at some times, geographically accessible to me. But had I done that, what could I really have expected from them? Criticism? Should I have asked them if my poems are any good? Damn straight, they're good. What we have here at PMO are living poets whose poems are good, and for now I'm pleased to be a part of this collective of the living.
 

                Good

Flip your hair and flash your eyes
I know it makes you feel
good, move your body, real,
good, thrill them when they fantasize.

In Too Deep (Arthur Younger Remix)

 

1. Charles Simic
2. Charles Simic, Pulitzer Prize Winning Poet Dies at 84
3. How to Read a Poem by Burton Raffel. New York: The New American Library; 1984.

 

She may be young,

She may be small,

She may even

Be southeast Asian.

Yet do not

Discount her so soon,

For she is nimble,

And she is quick.

 

This young lady,

Barefoot,

And wearing standard

PT gear

And wearing a small pin

Depicting a flag:

A red and blue flag,

With a triangle

At the hoist,

Depicting a sun

At it’s centre

And three stars

At each point

Of the triangle.

As said before,

Discount her not,

For looks do deceive.

 

For, Behold;

With her staff;

Graceful as a cat,

She swings and thrusts,

And parries,

With the grace of a cat,

Taking down

All foes,

Whether human

Or occultic,

Winning it all,

For her homeland,

For her host country,

And for her 

countrywomen

In her special regiment,

And even for

her homeworld;

The planet Earth!

However,

 most importantly,

she also fights

For her Lord and Saviour,

As evidenced by

Her genuflecting,

With her head bowed,

And her staff held

In an upright manner!

 

See! Above her,

against the

unadorned

Background,

A pair of rings,

Green, floating rings,

Resembling eyes,

Hover above,

Seemingly spectral,

To which she pays

No notice.

What are those rings?

Are they the eyes

Of a friend,

Sent by her Lord

And saviour to guide

And protect

Her and her regiment?

Or are they

the eyes of

A supernatural

Malefactor,

The likes of which

She is sworn to fight?

 

That, dear reader

Is the mystery

behind this painting!

Is it not amazing?

There you see her,

This ginger kid,

A teenager;

Barefoot,

In a navy blue

leotard,

Down on her knees,

Admiring her new

Bracelets! Bracelets-

Bound together

By a long, thin chain.

 

She shakes her arms

This way and that,

Yet the bracelets

Maintain their hold,

On either wrist,

Tightening further.

 

How she got them,

There’s but two theories:

One theory says

That she got them

After a loss,

From a wrestling match!

A wrestling match

Against another

Like herself

In stature, dress,

And skills,

Yet different from her

In age, ethnicity,

And even profession,

For it has been

Rumored that her foe

Was a cop back

In her homeland!

If this story’s true,

Then all those flips,

Handsprings,

Cartwheels,

Light punches,

And light kicks

Availed her little,

For she surely

Lost the match,

Since the terms

Of that match were

That whoever lost

Would be forced

To wear those bracelets,

But for how long

Would she have

To wear those bracelets?

 

Another story

Goes like this:

She wore them willingly,

As part of a show,

Yet why is she

Down on her knees?

Could it be practicing,

So that she could break

Into those bracelets?

Would she be able

To perform well

On the balance beam,

And on the floor,

When the big day comes?

If so, it’d be a first;

A first for gymnastics!

 

After that,

there’s but one problem:

After the event,

How’s she gonna

take them off?

Would her coach

Or her teammates

Be able to help her

Unlock those bracelets?

Also, what about

Her wrists? They’re

Gonna be real sore,

Lemme tell you!

 

 

Some rather nice comments from the editor:

https://www.asppublishing.co.uk/john-winder-a6

 

A collaboration with poet Lia Brooks. 

https://feversofthemind.com/2022/07/07/poetry-art-not-walking-by-phil-wood-lia-brooks/

All the best.

Phil

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have one appearing here...

https://www.kleksograph.be/

 

Best

 

Phil

 

Killin’ time sippin’ whiskey

At a bar on the boardwalk by the sea

the jukebox keeps on playin’ visions of love

and it takes me back to when I first saw you

swayin' to the rhythm of the waves

eyes as blue as the sea

the wind in your hair

pink ribbons everywhere

 

I stopped to stare

you did your best to make a boy aware

your swayin’ arms reached out letting me in

the touch of your hand calmed the storm within

your shinning light touched my mind, body, and soul

I saw it in your eyes

I felt it from your heart

Love was all around me

 

You made it so easy

the way you loved me

made it so easy with every little thing you did

Unconditional, unconditionally

You loved me unconditionally

 

We set sail upon the waters

you were the wind in my sails

drifting onto the sea of love

tides rolled by, waves of love

swept into my heart

The smile on your face, your laughter

brought me back from the depths of heartache and pain

I felt alive for the first time in my life

 

Anchored on the vessel of embodiment

cherishing the freedom from within

A rainbow appeared in the far horizon

and that girl

 

You made it so easy

the way you loved me

made it so easy with every little thing you did

Unconditional, unconditionally

You loved me unconditionally