#Oct poem

[spicyspaceee]

The fall sky a blanket up so high of pure white, rose dusted light cob web spiders delight ; Acorn drop head tops, water clouds covered with lust. stubble clairvoyance infinite rush tiny heart must clutch. billowing willow lie over sapphire silhouettes wind breathes the essence from the lunacy with thin, silenced by wind a Calming of Wiccan slight whispers so gently into the night, caress oh so slight cloudy delight, be patient light a candle through the night keep the crystal clear fore-sight.

[katakaluptastrophy]

Then the nun came back and knocked on my door and said, John, I think I have it. I know you’re very scared right now, but I’m going to help you. Please let me in.

He said: I let her in. She’d brought P—’s gun.

As they stood in that filthy hallway, he looked down at the brown collection of clothes and body. She did too, recognising, dimly, what she was looking at. He said, “Don’t. This isn’t what she looks like.” - NTN, John 1:20

Are the brown clothes due to the floodwaters, or is this confirmation of Franciscan Cristabel?

Franciscanism has a particular interest in the natural world and solidarity with the poor, and a history of reading these interests through an apocalyptic lense. So of religious orders whose members might take particular interest in a group of anti-trillionnaire eco terrorists, Franciscanism feels like a pretty solid bet for Cristabel.

It's perhaps also relevant here that the same poem by St Francis that gave us the title of the anti global warming papal encyclical Laudato Si also gives praise to God through "our Sister Bodily Death".

[goth-claudia]

I miss poetry

The words would flow from me like....

a warm summer day. Drowning in guitar and fuzz. Looking at the trees. a real voice. make me a real boy. stringing together just the right terms words something to create to feel to-

lose track of my own art is to lose my voice. Back in the tower. To find it again is like pulling teeth. Unnatural. Painful. Confusing. unoriginal and trite and deeply obvious and frankly embarrassing to think this could be moving-

out of bed and to the couch and back to bed with little inbetween. I scroll online and take none of it in. My thoughts are scattered and my sentences meaningless. The world is so cruel. I call doctors and call out of work and apologize again to my teachers as I spend hours a day doing anything but thinking-

that this could mean anything. The conceited heart of an artist. That your words change anyone but yourself. That they are missed. All artists think they matter and very few of them are right-

and left and right and left moving forward. my legs ache after five minutes of standing. my head swims and my vision becomes. strange. I should have the words, having the words is my only job. My doctor is concerned and everyone else seems mostly inconvenienced. I keep to myself. I search for a conclusion. I call my doctor again hoping to get an in person meeting this time. I go on my meds and go off my meds. I sleep again. October ends. The world moves on.

[maldreathezora]

i'm running out of steam.

How do you function when all your insides are scar tissue and plastic bones?

How do you survive when you're embarrassed to be alive?

Can you stand that laughter? Can you somehow join in?

Will it kill you to pretend you're ascending?

Are you actually maturing or are you just getting older?

Anger, grief, anger. Explain it away.

I will never be explained away.

I will go out crying and kicking and screaming.

I can't radically accept this.

God Can, God Should, God Won't.

I care more than God does,

And I love deeper than God does,

And to those who cry Blasphemy on me,

Can have a faceful of my anger.

They can eat the spidery claws of my rage.

As cancer has taken me, so shall i consume them.

Their minds will never be rid of me.

Every time they hear my name said, and that's pretty often...

They will remember, and doubt will creep in.

[blankboard]

[renee-writer]

Every Heartbeat

Written for @fictober-event prompt: What are you doing?' and the writers write October prompt: Beat of the.'

Original work

What are you doing

With the time allotted you?

We live in perilous times

With wars and rumors of the same

Every beat of your heart

Could be the last

So,

What are you doing with them?

Are you looking in on your elderly neighbor

Sharing a meal with those in need

Smiling at a stranger

As you hold the door open for them?

Praying for a world in need

Cuddling your pups and kitties

Growing your own vegetables?

Or are you

Pulling in on yourself

Only seeing to your own

Watching the news like it is a religion?

You only have so many heartbeats

So many tomorrow’s

What are you doing with them?

[kala-ya-aan]

Shut eyes I feel em close...

Reaching in tryna live inside my realest true dream destination thinking is this pace how fast I wanna go? Will i ever get to find where my true purpose is?what resides in my head is a open book of unanswered questions put in my imagination to pick and unlock like those rebel ancestors of mine never did raise their fist to the sky louder than their voices could go so people like my beautiful lolas grandmothers great grandparents parents could watch me live

who am I anymore? What am I to become?

If theres a plan left for me in store by God if he exists why do I feel it deep inside my bones when I wake up from my dreams I am damned to go to hell because of him? Have you ever loved someone so much, you had to let them go?

And the only way you could be close again

is by keeping to your promise if it was meant to be I'd see you once again in blissful beautiful exile...

in a paradise far away from a world that means you both so much harm...a sanctuary a place where the two of us can go and be loved unconditionally with no limit or restrictions that nobody else around will ever know thats really ours a heavenly place beyond my dreams that always and forever will feel like home..

if we could only manage to keep our distance

Keep it a secret cus to many people will drown envious if they knew how special it is to be close to someone so precious you would kill your own who will never give a damn..

well that's kinda how this is its a mission...

I see it now I'm climbing up the staircases of hell where my two unborn children I once heard crying for me in a text message by some foreign unknown number to my cell...I must save...knowing I am safely protected by demons conspiring with angels to unite two eternal worlds that still fight over their souls and my own...I promise...I will...keep it going...on this earth til the next I don't care...where I go...I can hear them call out for their daddys name..I feel em

Watch, learn and observe please over the next couple years...how I grow out the cursed mentality I must end thats responsible for all this as i enter unprepared for a spiritual Jihad type of war of some sorts, where the might of the sword defeats the pen, in an eternal fight...with no beginning and no end...a war for a more beautiful world...neither here nor there...gotta quit wasting my time, from the burbs out to the prison cells

you can hear them call out my name?

Listen closely and you'll hear...

Please come we need you

CHRISTIAN DE VERA

Please come nearer please be with us

Im telling you its close...looking upwards from below from within I can hear em but what do I do? Must i live or do I die?...I must do something soon...somebody tell me what is their question they wanna ask? And if jesus loves me should I perservere and live? Or if it's the devil talking... must I go outside commit a crime and sin? I gotta at least let my brothers and sisters know i tried...i am trying..im laughing crying tears..what does it mean to be free? Oh what's it mean?

As I walk across the road at a red light...avoiding eye contact with pedestrians who want nothing to do with me...to get to the other side..

What's it all mean?

[glonkayote]

I believe in white i believe in every second of time,i believe in writing hand written letters, do you?

I believe in kissing kissing alot i believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls i believe moon is the best psychiatrist i believe that tomorrow is another day i believe laughing is the best calorie burner.

Yes, i believe in miracles too.

[dharshini25]

🕰️💙

[frary-us]

“To celebrate the centenary of the publication of ‘The Waste Land’, Dead Poets Live turn their attention to T.S. Eliot, perhaps the greatest of all Modernists. Dead Poets Live’s clever and detailed dramatization of the poem’s creation and development demonstrates that ‘The Waste Land’ was not Eliot’s work alone, but a collaboration between him, his first wife Vivien, and Ezra Pound. For any poetry enthusiast, this show is as exciting as a courtroom drama.

Pound’s influence can be seen right at the start of the poem in Eliot’s dedication to his friend, written in Italian, IL MIGLIOR FABBRO: The better craftsman. It’s a humble beginning to a ground-breaking poem. Of course, Pound’s impact over ‘The Waste Land’ is well known but rarely do we see it acted out on stage. The two men argue over lines which Pound believes are cheap imitations of Alexander Pope and Lord Tennyson. And it’s true, if it weren’t for Pound, ‘The Waste Land’ would be a very different poem; much longer, and with whole swathes of it written in the iambic pentameter that Pound was so determined to break. In Dead Poet Live’s recreations of these conversations, Pound’s suggestions about excising flabby phrases and moralising words seem perfectly reasonable.....

The three of them sit around a table, taking the poem apart line by line, and it thrills in the same way as a film where the lawyers work deep into the night preparing their defence for the courtroom the next morning. As Eliot, Luke Thallon certainly looks the part with his neatly cut hair, and his suit. His Eliot is a likeable combination of haughtiness and innocence, trying to stand by his wife even though her illnesses mean that he has little time to write poetry.

Toby Regbo is a wonderfully demonstrative Pound, who sacrifices his own work to nurture other writers while Pearl Chanda gives depth and intelligence to Vivien, usually seen as a tragic figure in Eliot’s life.

The two-act play is narrated by Lindsay Duncan, who plays Eliot’s second and much younger wife, Valerie. Speaking to us after Eliot’s death, Valerie presents the other characters, sometimes pointing to pages of the manuscript, projected on the stage, which show the many edits and scribbles as the Eliots and Pound shaped the poem into the form we know today.

After the interval, the four of them recite ‘The Waste Land’, and hearing the poem in four different voices, a nod to the poem’s original title taken from Dickens’s My Mutual Friend, is like dialling through a radio late at night, hearing snatches of music, of conversations at closing time in East End pubs, and of hearing about old myths reappearing along the banks of the Thames. All these voices chronicle the malaise of postwar London, and Eliot’s own fears. Played out in the crumbling and faded Coronet Theatre, this recital is ingeniously site-specific.

It may be impossible to fully understand the many allusions and stories within ‘The Waste Land’, but this production by Dead Poets Live ensures that we understand it just that little bit more.

Runs until 22 October 2022

The Reviews Hub Score  ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️”

[starryeyedpoet17]

[crescentmp3]

I GOT INTO THE POEM READING CONTEST

[quirkylittletea]

You whisper me your secrets,

And shed a tear or two.

And part of me is grateful,

I'm one of the trusted few.

I listen to your secrets,

And embrace you when you cry.

For you're my mother dear,

And I don't want you to die.

I'm glad you share your secrets,

But it hurts to see you sad.

I wish that I could do something,

But I wouldn't be in your past.

Please keep sharing your secrets,

With someone else but me.

For I can only do so much,

I love you mother dear.

[maldreathezora]

leaves falling, nature's confetti

rain dripping, down the eaves

windows open, the cats are happy

two cups of coffee, Inside me

everything's fine, finally.

[girlfictions]

Hiba Abu Nada, from I Grant You Refuge (trans. Huda Fakhreddine)

Hiba Abu Nada was a novelist, poet, and educator. She wrote this poem on Oct. 10th, 2023. She died a martyr, killed in her home in south Gaza by an Israeli raid on Oct. 20th, 2023. She was 32 years old.

[venusdevotea]

I’ve forgotten what your voice sounds like.

But it’s your voice I still hear speaking over my thoughts,

impeding my prayers to the Goddess.

Are you thinking about me too then?

What’s so important right now?

I’m trying to listen to the birds’ song in the early morning.

Yet your voice, memories of you hound my thoughts.

I miss you today.

Sometimes I honour your memory

in the little things you used to enjoy,

things I now enjoy because of you.

Accepting that you’ve become

something like an npc in my life;

always there and essential to the quest

but never truly interactive.

Other days though, it’s too much,

I hate everybody,

I curse your name and any who bear that awful accent

even somewhat similar to yours,

and I tell myself, this friendship,

the love that formed,

all of it was just a bad trip.

Some crazed fever dream.

None of it was real.

Just come and gone.

A distant fantasy.

I guess the reality lies somewhere in between,

The threshold we had made a home in, some time ago.

Never here nor there, but just is.

Us. Together. In those moments.

And then those moments ended.

And you wake up from the strangest sleep paralysis.