Symbolic collisions

Greetings,

Welcome to another edition of: Things are symbols of themselves.

People pretend to be exactly who they are. Infinite diversity through infinite combinations. Somewhere in the world a woman is carrying the planet on her back.

It was a Sunday and The Big One (Supreme Deity) rested. They took out their slingshot. They looked at Earth. They witnessed very stupid humans practicing REVENGE. This made them unhappy. They decided to send them a message to stop the foolishness, learn how to play together and how 2 share.

They picked a country at random after analyzing levels of violence, fear and intimation. (Fill in the blank_____) They sent a message. I will give you 24 hours to cease your revenge actions, war and reciprocal suffering. It's a waste of lives, time and money.

If, after 24 hours, I see you are continuing your collective madness, I will send you a little message. I will destroy part of your civilization to teach you a little lesson. Do you read, over?

Naturally, the ego-manics running the country ignored this message. They persisted in war-like behavior with weapons of mass destruction. They persisted in starving people to DEATH. They persisted in their greed and stupidity.

The BIG ONE had infinite patience. 24 hours for talking monkeys is a long now. For The BIG ONE it's a blink. They sent another message.

I gave you a chance. You ignored my request for peace, harmony and equality.

The BIG ONE loaded a rock the size of a small planet into their slingshot, took aim and let it fly toward a specific, particular location on Earth. It flew through the atmosphere at light speed. Meager powerless humans attempted to divert it with ultra-sonic flyswatters. It was useless. 

The rock zeroed in on a city in a country on a continent. It was a direct hit. Millions died. Vaporized. The leaders said it was only a freak of nature. For domestic consumption they blamed their imaginary enemies because they ate and worshiped Revenge. Sweet revenge. Survivors rolled the dice. 

Metta.

Poets & Writers...

Publish it

Greetings,

A new article link and ideas about the world. The world of self-publishing. You write for an audience of one. You write with passion, authenticity and humor. You write with a light heart. You are hopeful. You expect the worst.

You play the publishing game. Every fall you buy a copy of Writer's Market, the bible. You research markets. You craft a query letter and synopsis. You send the query letter, synopsis and first five pages to a literary agent. You wait. You write. 

The agent reads your synopsis. They thumb through the five pages. Their first thought is, "Can I make 15% on this?" If the answer is no, you get rejection letter wallpaper to decorate your room. If you take the rejections personally and bang your head against the wall all the letters become wild word birds and fly away.

Or, you consider self-publishing. This is what I did in 2007 while finishing a teaching job in China. I researched options and purchased a publishing package with iuniverse. It was a good choice. A viable option considering my work was experimental, non-linear and filled with nomadic storytellers and their adventures.

You have many self-publishing options now. Look around. See what meets your needs.

A Century Is Nothing...

Few have read it. Fewer have understood it.

read more...

Metta.

Dhaka

Greetings,

You find poetry while sweeping. Poetry finds you while weeping.

Metta.

Dhaka

Only five million humans 
 
Horns for beggars, their arms
Broken and bleeding
Hands extending through cracked windows
 
Floods send them into traffic
Unable to cope with land loss
Daughter sells body, father sells wife,
Son sells self
 
We sell them malnutrition,
Handfuls of rice
As sanitation system collapses
Under strain of poverty
 
Misery is a child
Bloated stomach a hopeless
Jaundiced eye full of tear
Never going to fall
Into streets where holy bull wallows
Next to a one-legged man
His crutch a stench rising
In dust, sleeping in a broken down 
Life

My fake pregnancy begs for charity in China. Save face. 

Poetry rocks russia

Greetings,

The passing of Mr. Voznesensky creates new opportunity and awareness for poets with courage and voice. Poets speak in the atmosphere of intimidation and menace. 

Here is a NYT piece on Russian poetry.

...Here is Pushkin’s poem “Good for the Poet Who ...,” a bitter satire of writers who would curry favor with rulers, in a translation by Yevgeny Bonver:

Good for the poet who applies
His art in royal chambers’ splendor.
Of tears and laughter crafty vendor
Adding some truth to many lies,
He tickles the sated taste of lords
For more greatness and awards.
And decorates all their feasts,
Receiving clever praise as fees ...
But, by the doors, so tall and stout —
On sides of stables and backyards —
The people, haunted by the guards,
Hark to this poet in a crowd.

Now there’s a declaration of independence.

Read more...

Metta.

Andrei Voznesensky 1933-2010

FATE

Fate is above me. Why should I browse?  Sleeping in dosses, an outcast, I rove. Grief is a cellar, that opens in every old house. A ditch is below me and fate is above. What did I want? Well, a life of contentment. What did I get? Just a coffin and wreath... Under the cradle a grave has been latent. Fate is above me, a ditch is beneath. Up in the sky my soul, like a hound, howls, despaired, the trigger to pull it was keen. Fate has come over my family background, and on the earth where fate is my kin. What have I done, apart from the simple poems I've written in passing to date? I've been a lightening conductor for people. Now I have broken my back. Such is fate. + Dear colleagues, I'm so happy: nowadays when all is well  I’m the only one who happens  to be criticized like hell. I’m a black sheep. No objection, for my living does make sense ‘cause I set off the perfection of my flawless author friends.    read more...