I just won the Poetry Contest. How cool is that!!!
At the beginning of February, Freedom Bookshop was firebombed. No one was hurt and not a single word was broken. In fact, the burning of words only strengthened links and empowered ideas. Funny how things turn out.
The lack of media attention was disturbing, but not surprising. Interesting waifs and strays heard via word of mouth. Activists blogged, tweeted, and txtd each other. And as a writer, I heard in a pub. I went to Facebook. I was livid. Then confused. I searched for reasons why this, above everything else at the moment, should bother me so profoundly.
I wondered whether my emotional self was translating oppressed whispers from my Irish blood. Or if my survivor self was looking for further sacrifices to appease her inner goddess of rage, or whether I just fancied causing trouble. My anger it seems was talking to someone quite small and gentle. Someone who likes red ribbons and hiding in bushes to…
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Set to lull
Beers swilled, shots tossed
Ink to page
Rip it up
Still a mess
Note to self
Give it up
Go to bed.
What is an ode?
Just a part of something else.
It’s unearthed in a mother lode,
And buried in a secret code.
Shaped inside a fashion model,
Sung amongst a mountain yodel.
Stomach rumbles, a little erp
Should have waited on the buttery popcorn.
Mouth opens, roiling burp
Wish I’d passed up that Tex-Mex chili dog, y’all.
My clenching stomach is swilling greasy
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The English Writers’ Cooperative of Sri Lanka
in association with
International Centre for Ethnic Studies
cordially invites you to a Literary Evening
Celebrating Sri Lankan Women’s Writing in English
Thursday, March 7, 2013; 4.00 pm – 6.00 pm
ICES Auditorium , 2, Kynsey Terrace ,Colombo 08
Kamini de Soysa
Introduction to the EWC – Vijita Fernando
The Narrator in Creative Writing – Prashani Anjali Rambukwella
Readings: 15writers from their works
Nanda P. Wanasundera Summary Emerged Kandy Women
Premini Amarasinghe Poem Realisation
Rukshani Weerasuriya Poems The Birth, It is no sacrifice
Basil Fernando Poem A Woman for Other Women
PunyakanteWijenaike Short Story Reconciliation
Shireen Senadhira Poem Where Am I
Sakuntala Sachithanandan Poems Daughter, Rizana, All is Burning
Chitra Premaratne-Stuiver Poem Lechery Machismo for the Birds
Myrle Williams Short Story Investigative Journalism
Jayanthi Kaththriarachchi Poems Patachara Laments,. Gratitude
Faith Ratnayake Poem Hands
Jayani Senanayake Poems Loku Amma, Lender of Perfumes, The Other Woman, Advice on entering the Adult World, The Gorgon
Mariam Riza Short Story The Child that Died
Shirani Rajapakse Poem December Sixteenth 20/12
Vijita Fernando Short Story The Prize
Pamela S. Wight
Snow falls as silently as stardust on a bright clear night.
Stardust covers the houses and the trees and the ground and you –
if you’re out on a star-filled night.
The sound is a hush.
A hush as haunting and beautiful as a
mother’s lullaby to her newborn babe.
It’s the same sound of snow falling on oak and dale,
on lampposts and driveway, on forest and plain.
But the snowflakes are exposed by their very nature;
they are white and pristine on a background of pewter sky.
The snow shines like elegant moving polka dots
floating with the grace of a thousand ballerinas.
It’s the dance of nature’s beauty,
of the grace of life and death,
of love from the spirit of the universe.
Snow falls silently so we can hear
our own delight at nature’s spectacle.
Snow falls silently so we can…
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The word Valid comes from the Latin,
(As so many words do),
I want what I am feeling
To be valid,
But I do not want to
Is not so simple as
It may be Old Germanic
(With a bit of Latin thrown
in too, just for good measure).
It means many things:
But it is also a bedfellow to the word
I desire to pour myself
Into another human being.
To fill up all their dark spaces with
Light and understanding.
To feel pleasure in their company
And in the fact that they are near,
And always will be.
But I do not wish to be left alone,
And I do not wish to be strong.
I think of you easily
It is such a relief
Not to care anymore
Not to have that painful catch
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My poems are on today.
Webster perches on the table
by my side and waits
ever patient. Spell check is
sometimes negligent. I think he
gets into moods. He takes his own
version, tries to impress.
Tells me I am wrong and he’s
right. He never
admits he’s wrong. Not even
once. How like a man. Spell check’s
a young punk with his
pants hanging down to his knees.
“Wassup?” he calls to
the air as he struts around in designer
shoes. Not much help there. So
old Webster hangs out by my side in
dignity. Ever patient. Old is gold they say,
while the newness is oblivious to it all.
Inside the Old Room
What would the walls
say if only they
could speak? Would they
tell you of the dreams
I dream when I am
not with you, or my thoughts
that I speak out
for no one to hear
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Poetry Week continues with poems by Beverley A. Hoyles.
Across the bridge
beat of my heart
like rock n roll band
plummet to acute silent
moment in time
before the scream
a split second
the mind have crossed,
penalty weight heavy
tempo and meter
dark in my head
do I dare demand
it’s been a long time coming
cannot go gently,
tears stream down
know first hand
the loud cries
truth and substance
haunting deja vu beckon
you hear but not listening
my pleas unheard
I pound my chest
agony of soul
devoured by darkness,
travel twisted veins
bleed vestige of hope
jagged rock of defeat
grounding grinding growls
earth bowls of rumble
it’s mad absurd
my wails of why
I yearn for freedom
how can you pretend
scum of sum prevailed
shiver and shook
the loss of light and focus
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It’s Poetry Week at the Word Shark. Starting today with Karen’s signature piece to her mother and Bocelli. Watch this space for more throughout the week. My poems appear on Wednesday.
I kick off Poetry Week with what I refer to as my signature piece, Mom and Bocelli. Today is Mom’s birthday, so I thought it fitting.
Mom was born Lois Jane Holmes in Lansford, PA, February 18, 1921. She loved her family and instilled “loving family” in all of us. She was a seamstress, a crossword and quote-acrostic puzzler, a meatloaf to beef bourguignon chef. She could jitterbug and waltz; she liked the classics and opera and big bands. She studied French and Welsh and could pronounce Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch (it’s a town in Wales and if you don’t believe me, here’s a YouTube pronunciation). And she loved Phillies baseball – she took notes and could discuss trades and stats with anybody.
I miss her awful.
Mom and Bocelli
Mom introduced me to Andrea Bocelli several years before she died,
And he comforted her throughout her final days.
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My poem, Zuccotti Park Rises is published in About Place Journal, Vol I Issue IV on the theme of Wall Street.