Tag Archives: poet

Paper by Thich Nhat Hanh,


Paper

If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud, there will be no rain; without rain, the trees cannot grow; and without trees, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to exist. If the cloud is not here, the sheet of paper cannot be here either. So we can say that the cloud and the paper inter-are. “Interbeing” is a word that is not in the dictionary yet, but if we combine the prefix “Inter-” with the verb “to be,” we have a new verb, inter-be… Looking even more deeply, we can see ourselves in this sheet of paper too. This is not difficult to see, because when we look at a sheet of paper, it is part of our perception. Your mind is in here and mine is also. So we can say that everything is in here with this sheet of paper. We cannot point out one thing that is not here–time, space, the earth, the rain, the minerals in the soil, the sunshine, the cloud, the river, the heat. Everything co-exists with this sheet of paper. –Thich Nhat Hanh, Peace Is Every Step

mix media by morgan lyons

mix media by morgan lyons

 

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Woman Shapes, by pd lyons from once we knew the darkness


with wings

with wings

 

 

Woman Shapes

dapple grey
helixed tree
any shadow of the moon.

 

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April 14-15 2012 Part 2, by PD Lyons


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April 14-15  2012 Part 2

 

Today he drove only to Marconi beach. P-town would have been too far. At the entrance a park warden was stopping cars. Now what? But the officer was very friendly wanted only to advise them that yes the beach was open and there was a controlled burn going on and no need to be afraid or call the fire department. And are you here for the Titanic memorial Ceremony? If so it’s over there. yes you can just  go to the beach. Its a beautiful day for it. Their drive had been uneventful, stopped for petrol and bottles of water just the other side of “suicide alley”. Yesterday he joined the child in the water off Race Point. It was cold it was fun it was the big giant ocean! The wife had time to read and snap a few photos of them turning purple. Today cooler, windy-er but they made it down the wooden steps out to an almost deserted shore knowing that as soon as base camp was established they’d spend time trying to duplicate the day before. The water was indeed freezing, colder that at Race Point yet they stayed in longer. Once she said to him “This is the most fun ever!” he knew he’d stay in with her until they froze to death or she gave in and wanted to get out. It was dark by the time they made it back to Sandwich. He decided to take them to the canal see the water by starlight, maybe a ship or two, lights drifting through the black. They got out of the Jeep just as a fishing boat put in. Lets go see what they got he said. The child agreed. So they walked over to the Annie Wilder. There were two men and a woman aboard. Hello. He explained how they wanted to know a little bit about fishing boats and how the nets worked. The younger of the two men explained a little. No it wasn’t a good day he said. Flounder he said. They showed them a tub full, neatly packed white belly up all looked the same size. There weren’t many tubs at all. Does she like fish he asked. Morgan never met a sea food she didn’t like he told them.  Just made some fillets. Would you like some? and he was away. I don’t have any cash he told the woman. Did you ask him to sell it to you? No. Wouldn’t have sold it to you even if you had he said. Here you go. Just wish us luck for tomorrow. There was about two pound of pure white medallions. The next morning the child made a picture on a black piece of paper, surrounded by silver ovals, silver flounders all around the Annie Wilder.
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Poet As Noun, by pd lyons


Poet as Noun

he did not know what else to do

so he wrote

he did not think of it

he did not believe it to be divine

he was afraid of everything else

so he did this one thing

not that he didn’t do other things

but they were all varying responses to fear

attempts to over come

deny

hide from

himself and others

like the first one to do acid

like the first one to not cut his hair

like the first one to get married have a kid get divorced

get arrested go to jail

leave town leave the country

all the while knowing the falseness of bravado

he did not know what else to do

so he wrote

no matter how high

how angry

how lonely enough to believe that god did in fact exist and abandoned him

no matter how much sex

how many lovers

how many miles

how many broken torn up hearts including his own

he did this one thing

and because of this he never needed anyone to tell him who was

yeah they could tell him what he was

bastard

mother fucker heartless bastard

just a kid

a kid in love

a bleeding heart

ignorant liberal

beautiful lover

hackney painter

failed husband

a traveller of foreign lands

a lover a husband a loving husband a loving father

an outlaw of love a dealer of drugs a rider of fast horses across broken unknown terrain

selfish, grifter,

all these were changeable all these mere adjectives

temporary partial descriptions,

the noun he had always been

because he did this one thing

and then one day he stopped

fashion victim

fashion victim

Re poets


from Liam Clancy reading of Fallon’s Mary Hynes
 
Bless your poet then and let him go!
He’ll never stack a haggard with his breath:
His thatch of words will not keep rain or snow
Out of the house, or keep back death.
But Raftery, rising, curses as he sees you
Stir the fire and wash delph,
That he was bred a poet whose selfish trade it is
To keep no beauty to himself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbkwCidPlzg

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Re: Poets


“He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stone cutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.”
                                                              ― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez

spring

spring

Michael Mc Aloran new from Lapwing


 

https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/michael-mc-alora

 

 

Michael Mc Aloran new from Lapwing

 

Vermont Poet Laureate Ruth Stone has passed away


http://www.wptz.com/r/29858505/detail.html#.TtA7sWwwbYc.facebook

 

ESSEX JUNCTION, Vt. — Sad times for poetry lovers and Vermonters alike. Famous writer and former Vermont Poet Laureate Ruth Stone has passed away. She was 96.Stone wrote poems for decades but it wasn’t until she reached her 80s and 90s that she saw success. Now her books are sold in places nationwide, including bookstores in her own state, such as Phoenix Books in Essex Junction.

Paper


Paper

If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud, there will be no rain; without rain, the trees cannot grow; and without trees, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to exist. If the cloud is not here, the sheet of paper cannot be here either. So we can say that the cloud and the paper inter-are. “Interbeing” is a word that is not in the dictionary yet, but if we combine the prefix “Inter-” with the verb “to be,” we have a new verb, inter-be… Looking even more deeply, we can see ourselves in this sheet of paper too. This is not difficult to see, because when we look at a sheet of paper, it is part of our perception. Your mind is in here and mine is also. So we can say that everything is in here with this sheet of paper. We cannot point out one thing that is not here–time, space, the earth, the rain, the minerals in the soil, the sunshine, the cloud, the river, the heat. Everything co-exists with this sheet of paper. –Thich Nhat Hanh, Peace Is Every Step

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