All posts in Writing

May 12, 2022

“Pain of the Poet,” Assamese Poetry by Guna Moran

PAIN OF THE POET Original: Assamese: Guna Moran Translation: Bibekananda Choudhury Creator means poet So many innumerable poems did my mother write In the fresh leaf of the heart From the date she conceived me in her womb Who has bothered about the silent poet? I don’t know how much help I could be Having now understood the value of labour of the creator At least I could discover my sangfroid brother As I write My mother lovingly serves a cup of tea And says, looking at me From the corner of her eyes “Poem is one only Only writer is different But the pain of all the poets are All the same” The sun is burning to light others— Fuel cannot give light to others Without burning itself Don’t write much My darling I…

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May 2, 2022

Carolyn Adams — Art and Poetry

Posted by Mike Rochester in Fine Art, Writing

“Epiphany” In the Absence of Red Alarms My blood sisters remember what I’ve almost forgotten, the menses that measure our time. I’ve lapsed my membership in that club, I travel free from the 30-day clock. My time is counted differently now. Days are years, years are millennia, millennia are without measure at all. There is no monthly debt; all accounts have been balanced. I spend myself as I wish now, with no child or threat of one. I’ve reached a bargain with the planets, their moons, the sky and all of its diamonds. I won’t wish on anything anymore. I have what I need. Days pass quietly here in the corner of the universe where I savor the slight air of a spring night, where my steps have taken 60 years to make sense. I…

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April 28, 2022

“Points to Make,” Poetry by John Grey

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

POINTS TO MAKE Today began like a heart on fire. In between there was this hot-cold-hot-cold movement to establish the fact of me. It ended like a man with something to bury. I woke to the sight of a burning house, instructing firemen where to point their hoses. Family units are brittle. I’ve known this all along. I fell asleep that night like someone on a long, long highway. There must be something here about love – no, yearning – that’s it. In future excavation, you who yearn to uncover the ancient will find nothing but ancient yearning. Today, everything moved. It tried to leave me behind but I kept seeing me by my side. By night, I’d made it. I vowed to teach the light – teach it something new. I’m who I am…

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April 14, 2022

FC Celebrates National Poetry Month!

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

National Poetry Month 2022 The Academy of American Poets launched National Poetry Month in 1996 to increase awareness and appreciation of poetry. Celebrated every April, it has become one of the largest literary celebrations in the world. To celebrate the twenty-sixth anniversary of National Poetry Month, we are honored to introduce the amazing poets featured here. Please read their works and support their ongoing projects. Some ways you can participate: write a poem, listen to a poetry podcast, or buy some poetry books (from our list of poets or others you discover). Helpful Links:Poets.orgPoetry FoundationPodcast ReviewPoetry Podcasts ** “Games“Yong Takahashi(From Yong’s memoir, Observations Through Yellow Glasses: A Memoir Through Poems) Every card I put on the table, you take away in plain sight. At the flop, you say I don’t need any distractions. Too many…

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April 12, 2022

“Night Skies” — Poetry by Gopi Kottoor

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Night Skies And love turned me Into a fish, swimming in your eyes, And I was content, As though your small pools Were more than ocean. And so I swam. How you turned me, just a body, To all of colours, How you blossomed out your heart As a sea flower For its clown fish. And you had me there, Brightening myself for you Over and over, Forgetting the splendour of red sunsets Turning to loss, Eternally in the tossing high seas, Forgetting, That love is but imagination, Put to test for truth In dying night skies. ** Eyes Take away from me The nibbles you made on my flesh. All the whispers you made as we sat by the river bank Making paper boats. And when I came closer, you said, careful Even the leaves Have eyes. We let the sundown Turn to goldfish And sink down to sea. Back in the car It is me All about you All over you And your words Breathing poetry Into my face And…

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April 6, 2022

“Trade an Honored Word,” by Michael Tyler

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Sam lays beside, a strap released and delicate to the touch, bare back to the sun with a touch of whiskey to give the afternoon a kick. Charlie ties her hair back and applies lotion to Clay’s nose as he regales us all with tales of Amsterdam misadventure. A girl at each window, feigned desire amid fatuous aside from each passing native. Clay took a girl to a room, she cried as he undressed, he paid and let her be. She took his hand as she closed the door and returned to the window, he waved as he passed and that was Amsterdam. Clay has a fight in two days and Charlie notes he’s looking gaunt. He says it’s worth it for the adrenaline alone and it will not keep him from the whiskey. Charlie’s…

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March 27, 2022

“I Hear Yes,” Poetry by Vera West

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

i hear “yes” I jokingly have asked my husband: “Do you feel like I’m a gallon of milk you got home only to find out it’s expired?” He knows I’m referring to how I used to be pretty but now feel curdled. He laughs—not a real laugh but a confused nervous one I’ve forced out of him by knowing he loves me and asking him a ridiculous question like that anyway. You might focus on the fact that he did in fact laugh—coerced or not—but what you should really be focusing on is how only a sad insecure person hiding behind pain in humor would make that joke in the first place. It says so much and for the record, he always answers no but I always hear yes. ** affect and effect No one…

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March 21, 2022

“Tobias and the Wildflower Utopia,” by Derrick R. Lafayette

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

“Can you help me?” “Are you positive of what you lost?” “Yes.” “You’ve lost your soul?” “Yes.” “Where?” “I’m not sure. I awoke one day hollow.” “Continue.” There was a pathway beyond the wildflower meadows. My brother told me the noises from there were the product of trickery. Auditory hallucinations sent from devils and pagan worshippers. On a night not entirely unforeseen, my mother took her final breath in bed. I held a dying candle at her side. The embers cast a dreadful shadow upon the wall as if her soul was a silhouette. Dysentery had robbed her of her humanity. The smell tormented the house for days after. I suppose that was her way of saying she wasn’t ready. It left a silence in my home, which was filled with the sound of my…

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March 16, 2022

“Catch the Spring Young,” Poetry by Sunil Sharma

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Catch the spring young! A brief season that brings vitality to the faded flowers the wilted gardens and fields. The spring! It removes the effects of the winters in the frosty climes or the harsh sun in the moody tropics and ushers in dappled days dipped in fresh hues and light restores smiles on the  tired lips. Also, significantly, the young spring revives a hibernating artist by replenishing Within! ** The Snow the snow is deep outside the door shut inside in Toronto in the winter a whole world opens up Inside! ** Deep Darkness Evening no longer signals the darkness that thickens quickly, these days the tired eyes have seen darkness descend in the daylight also darkness that shines on despite the bright sun In a bleak country, where folks die quickly, fires burn merrily…

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March 9, 2022

“Counselling,” by Brandan Hingley-Lovatt

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: We keep the author’s original spelling when it differs from U.S. English. In this case, Brandan’s UK spelling of “counselling/counsellor” with two Ls persists throughout this work. If I were to write my suicide note I think I’d sign it “I’ve never liked anyone more than myself and I like myself this much.” A parting statement which I think is honest. I can picture it—the note attached to my shirt with a safety pin, my limp body hanging from the ceiling; a plastic bag wrapped around my head for good measure. Anyway, my counsellor says, “There are a lot of bad people in the world but there are good ones, too.” I agree but respectfully say that the good ones are too small in number so it doesn’t really make a difference. My…

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