Confessed passion

I have to confess, I have a passion,
for the theatre. It is attended every
evening, every night of the week, and
I never tire of the performances.
There are occasional lapses in dialogue,
a hesitation for affect, but then
the stage comes alive with known
characters, apostles of what was, is
and will be. When morning dawns,
the stage lights have been turned out.
The actors safely tucked in their beds
resting for the next evening stage
call. There is no need to practice
lines, the audience of one is always
forgiving, appreciative of each emoted
posture or devilish burlesque kick.
No marquee sizzles and blinks, only
a subtle nod, a fluttering of eyes,
the ringmaster and playwrite are
are one in the same; “Ladies and
gentlemen, let the dream begin.”

©2014, Donald Harbour

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©2014, Donald Harbour

Feeling a little kinky today. Could  not find a muse except the spam box on my email.

Shi Tao

Shi Tao, a Chinese poet and journalist, was arrested for an email he sent to pro-democracy websites in 2004. He was finally released from prison September 2013. It should be noted that his conviction was predicated by an email taken from his private account by Yahoo and given to the Chinese government. He served 8 years of a 13 year sentence. Congratulations Shi Tao, you made it. The following is a protest poem about the injustice suffered by Shi Tao, which I wrote 7 August 2008. It speaks for every person that promotes freedom and human dignity for all the repressed peoples of our world. You can read more about his arrest and the poem “June”, by Shi Tao, here.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Shi Tao your thoughts are as water,
They will always find a way out.
Your suppression is a cotton gag,
Soon to rot and disintegrate.
Despot leaders and jailers all die,
Their passing the cleansing of stain.
Their trial against your humanity,
Rust on the steel of human rights.
History’s repressive governments,
All of them are footnotes in time.
The poets, the writers, the teachers,
Their words the soil of expression,
They pay the price for our freedom.
Your penned words etched on paper,
A killing field of social injustice.
The world’s authoritarians fear this,
Their minions the truth eradicators.
Shi Tao, unlike you they are fools,
They never learn the pen’s strength,
The weight of your written words.
They cannot dismiss freedom’s voice,
For your brothers and sisters speak.
Your indignity poison to the corrupt,
The gall that spills over black deeds.
Nothing exists forever except,
The verdant fields of knowledge.
The poetry of your life, Shi Tao.

Copyright: 2008 Donald Harbour

A span of faith

Everywhere you look there are
bridges, spans, ancient and new.
Connections from somewhere,
to somewhere with an intermediate
transverse from having been there,
to being there, a slog, a trip, or a
simple uncomplicated, happenstance,
a foot tread over a void of space.
We trust our bridges believing they will
support us and others on our travels,
but, whether conscious or not,
there is always a gnawing doubt of fear .
Stepping out on a native vine laced
thread across a chasm of jungle,
motoring over asphalt, encased in steel
with rolling waves beneath us,
it is all the same, trust, belief.
Given the movements of earth and time,
why is it that we give our lives
so easily to such fragile designs?
We become tightrope walkers on perilous
dew dropped spider web suspensions,
no safety net below or on either side,
In calculations and plans, as in life,
we tempt fate whose fickle finger may
casually brush us away with a gentle breeze
as it does a spiders artful creation.

©2013, Donald Harbour

About the dead man and poetry

I previously posted this poem in 2010. I was asked yesterday if I knew about Dead Man Poetry. So here is my effort to emulate the originator.

This particular form of poetry was developed by Marvin Bell and his Dead Man Poetry. Mr. Bell explains it in his own words:

The Dead Man poem is a form I created a few years ago and then couldn’t shake. Dead man poems come out of an old Zen admonition that says, “Live as if you were already dead.” But you needn’t feel remorse. The dead man is alive and dead at the same time. He lives it up, he has opinions, he makes bad jokes, he has sex. Is he me? No, but he knows a lot about me. Dead Man poems come in two parts. Each line of poetry in a dead man poem is a compete sentence, long or short.

The form is comprised of two sections. One is titled “The Dead Man and …” and the second “More About the Dead Man and … .” All lines are written as sentence lines and enjambment matters quite a bit. The first two lines generally turn back on each other. The two versions seem to discover or expose different things about the Dead Man, one more internal in nature, the other external.

With apologies to Marvin Bell!

************************************************************

Live as if you were already dead.
– Zen admonition

1. About the dead man and poetry

The dead man is not a poet for he does not comprehend
the shades and nuances of meaning.
Even though he cannot understand, the dead man utters
words with weight.
Arcane in life, the dead man is the papyrus upon which
is written the prose of time.
For him time has no meaning other than dividing day from night.
He has always been and will always be the digger of incantatory
graves, the filler of assonance holes.
The mere existence of him does not create meaning for his
translation into thought lacks content.
In thought the dead man is described by lyrical cantata and
linen shrouded psalms.
There is never music in his rhyme for his speech is not
connected to the song of the universe.
Whenever there is hope, love, vision, purpose: he consumes
them from a burial ash urn.
Lacking the eyes to see other than his self, he has shunned the
visceral meat of satisfaction.
Living is not a choice or an occurrence for in living there can
be supreme gratification without desire.
Yet, for him the skill to convey profound emotional insight is
a death march through a literary nightmare.
He cannot perform his work since he has no ability to create
the most indistinct utterance of sound.
He has become a scapular shell of dried skin hanging in an
ancient stony chapel, weighted down by the chant of hooded
vicars who would utter those poetic verses he could not scribe.
The dead man has become the succulent pupa of belief that shares
no today, no tomorrow, only the injustice of the past where
there is no poetry of life.

2. More about the dead man and poetry

The dead man never could be a part of a slam.
The dead man could not produce a readable chapbook.
His only concern is the stillness and breathlessness of cold marble.
For him the dank earth is a Ginsberg elegy.
The Dead man could not withstand the withering wind of criticism
without disintegrating.
Never having acuity has given him no useful verse.
It could not be said of him that he had a poetic wisdom tooth for
dead man had lost his teeth.
When dead man is want to reason, he fails not understanding
the why.

© 2010, Donald Harbour

I write because

A poetry prompt group in which I participate, We Write Poems, wants us to write a line poem about: “I write (because).”  There are many reasons why one writes, however the greatest is most likely an inner urge that needs satisfaction and the pure pleasure of putting thought to written word. So here are my thoughts, some of them, the others I will keep to myself. I like to be a little unpredictable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I write to express my contentious and clamoring inner voice.
I write to better understand humanity, the world, and our place in it, and why emotion becomes an insipid event for those who do not understand poetic verse.
I write to define how life’s emotions impact our relationship with self.
I write to paint a vivid memory upon the wheel of time.
I write to fulfill the artistic side of my nature with creation my canvas,
words my pallet, and poetic form my brush.
I write to leave a lasting evidence of my journey through this moment of existence.
I write so that my words might be a light for others to find their way.
I write to satisfy a natural urge, as one needs food to survive, poetry is the  sustenance to my soul.
I write to say somethings that need to be said and are better said in a poetic verse regardless of where the chips fall.
I write because Gaea and I find it is a spiritual experience that enlightens us together.
I write because there is wonder in the diversity of words and their challenging meanings.
I write because I find camaraderie, and appreciation in the company of poetry and poets.
I write because other than my darling wife Luscious, poetry is my literary mistress full of beauty and gratification.

©2012, Donald Harbour

The Archangel cometh

We own you and we will take your soul. Bet on it, buy stock.

Poets are a dime a dozen, I
cost only a penny on the cheap.
Bilbo Baggins and Robert Frost
each a copper of time pasted
upon the digital landscape of
the Internet. No written pages,
only ones and zeros defining,
recording genius, talent, moronic
diatribes, the succubus of intellect.
The decay of society in the cloud
of tomorrow. Is that your ultimate
destination, bucolic acceptance?
At what point will the reason
of the word be given over to
the Machiavellian manipulators
You sheep, you followers, naysayers,
you destroyers, you that sleep
with Eden’s snake of technology,
will kill your children, welcoming
the Archangel of Destruction,
without ever knowing you are
no longer members of humanity?

©2012, Donald Harbour