Category: new poetry

Poetry Reading: Im Zweifel zur Wahrheit, by Erich Ruhl Bady

Performed by Carina Cojeen

POETRY 7 questions:

1) What is the theme of your poem?

We can be sure on our way to truth if we allow (ourselves) to doubt. We need to doubt.

2) What motivated you to write this poem?

In an exibition I saw the installation of three signposts – two pointed nearly to the same direction –  to the direction of truth and doubt – the other signpost showed the way to the opposite … the indecisiveness (deutsch: Unentschlossenheit)

3) How long have you been writing poetry?

Since about six years, even more since three years

4) If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?

Barack Obama

5) What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?

I think there could be the chance to increase the range (I hope I’ll be allowed to show the link on my pages…) – and the other reason: I would like to hear my poem spoken by another voice (because I’m a narrator as well – all my 50 poems are to be listened on AUDIYOU –    https://www.audiyou.de/benutzer/smoothenergy99/0.html

6) Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?

Sometimes reviews about books or films – in my main job (Journalist / Press officer) I write articles and speeches – The other side job is audiobook narrator (should be more 🙂

7) What is your passion in life?

I will never stop to believe in the possibilities of personal development and in the power of compassion and dignity – therefore sometimes I try to consolidate my thoughts and my deep sentiments into a poem – and my wife, my two daughters and my four grandchildren motivate me to carry on

POSTSCRIPT:
THE POETRY FESTIVAL is a real great project which brings together open minded and warm-hearted people.
Thank you for this grand idea.

 

Poetry Reading: A WIDOW’S STORY, by Terita Buchanan Moore

Performed by Carina Cojeen

Get to know the writer:

 1) What is the theme of your poem?

The theme of my poem is how I overcame the tragic loss of my husband. Triumph after an unexpected tragedy.

2) What motivated you to write this poem?

I wanted to inspire others in whom may have suffered an unexpected tragic loss, by sharing my pain and the power to overcome.

3) How long have you been writing poetry?

I have been writing poetry, since I was twelve years old.

4) If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?

It would be my late husband Frank Moore II.

5) What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?

It is my desire to share my gift of poetry with the world.

6) Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?

Yes, I am a published author of “My Sweet Thoughts of Poetry.”

7) What is your passion in life?

My passion is to uplift and encourage the masses in sharing my story.

 

Read Poetry: how we unfold love from the moon, by Nosakhare Collins

Lover…..

This is how to unfold love from the moon;
you seat close-by in your crux divan
watching your mouth and hands sleek into praise
into momentum desire that has blossom into revelry
you look up sky as the stars crosses your eyeballs
perhaps which one of them has heart to love;
glimpse the eye to ponder into felicity
but this is how love unfolds from the moon;
you seat right close to your lover
help lifting the hands up to the sky
where the moon unfold love into your river part
then wait as the moon fondle his way into you
crawling his love into your heart
flowers and gift of different kinds
as the flowers and gift break into blossom romantic
clumsy and holding memories with lit candle light
as songs broken into lyrics in the face of moon night.

Poet: Nosakhare Collins

About me—

Nosakhare Collins is a budding Nigerian poet, writer, literary critic and a tutor. He is a student in the Accounting department of Ambrose Alli University, Ekpoma–Edo State. His works including book reviews has appeared and are forthcoming in anthologies, journals and various literary outlets which include Sevhage Reviews, Antarctica Journal, Least Bittern Books, Dwart Magazine, Youth Shades Magazine, WRR (words, Rhythms and Rhymes) and so on. He is currently working hopefully towards his chapbook (a collection of poems). He writes from Nigeria, and can be reached through his Facebook: Nosakhare Collins, Twitter: @nosa_collins, Instagram: nosakharecollins

Read Poetry: Toby Sycamore, by Ben Westwood

Toby Sycamore
Again I’m in London, and I’m back on the run,
And because I was grassed up before,
I need to stay undetected, so that nobody finds me,
I’m going to have to try more.

No-one can know that my real is Ben, and that I’ve ran away
from care,
Folk will be asking for me around Whitechapel, so it’s best
they think I’ve not been there.
So I speak a fake accent, a pretend East End cockney, from
the moment I wake up, until night.

For the whole next four months, with everyone that I meet,
just so I know that I’m alright.
Or else they might find me, when Old Bill ask questions,
someone might say, “I know him”.

So if everyone thinks that I’m from round here,
The chances I’m caught are quite slim.
One day plain-clothes police pulled me outside Victoria station,
asking people outside for spare change.

They were gonna release me, but decided they couldn’t, as I
was young and my story seemed strange.
The address that I gave, just didn’t exist, which I’d said in
my fake cockney voice.

And two-and-half hours later, they still wouldn’t release me,
I knew I did not have a choice.
“Hands up I’ve been caught, I’m not really from here”,
I said like I spoke when back home.

I thought they’d go mad, but in the end I was glad,
it all ended in humourful tone.
“You did have us fooled, we thought you were local,
it was just the address that you gave,
Which had made us suspicious, or else we would have
released you out onto your way.”

Well its more lessons learnt for the next time I guess, as I
wait to be brought home by escort.
If you need to stop for the bog, they’ll walk you right to
the door, but the lift home there’s time for some thought.
A few hours later I’m well on my way, and I know at least I’ll
get a warm bed.

Once I get back to the kids home where I live,
I’ll wash all my clothes and get fed.
But everyone knows that I’ll soon be back, via hitchhiking or
bunking the train.
And I’ll always choose a different way to get there; it may be
unwise to pick the same.

From Winnersh Triangle, Watford Gap, Oxford, Milton
Keynes,
I’m searching for my independence.
Nothing stops these dreams.

I know that I can make my way, back to find Joanne.
Just go the way they least expect, was usually my plan.
Often I would walk through town, through Pinner, St Johns
Wood.
As long as no-one knows I’m Ben, I’ll reckon I’ll be good.

Read Poetry: WE R HUMANS by Gladys W. Muturi

Genre: Humanity

We are human beings living on the planet called “Earth”

We are young

We are old

We are the past, present, and incoming future

We are male and female

We are gay and straight

We are the winners that take all

We are the losers we fall

We are Black

We are White

We are Latinos, Asians, and all of the above

We are best friends, lovers, and enemies

We are one’s nation under God’s oath

We are alive and well

We are sick and dead

We are disgusted by our behavior

We are dumb when we make mistakes

We are smart when we pick up the pace

We are right from wrong

We are wrong from right

Right where we are, where were from, and who we are

We are forgiven

Forgiven our enemies on what they did to us

We are loved

We need to be loved

Don’t hate us

We’re not ugly

We are beautiful, beautiful people

We should love each other, not fight

We bleed red blood, but we are different

We are violent because we want blood

We are mad because we want more

We are sad because we can’t take it.

We fight because we want to start a war

We want to stop, but we can’t stop, we won’t stop

Why can’t we?

We need help, who can help us?

We are strangers

We shouldn’t hate strangers

We shouldn’t hate children, our children

We shouldn’t hate God

We are not monsters

We are humans that speak our minds

We are Americans loving our country

We are humans build to destroy

We hate lies, betrayal, and discrimination

We hate rape, murder, racism, and drugs

We want love

Hand in Hand

We need Hugs and Kisses

We are helpers helping one human being after the other

We are who we are

We are humans

Watch the DECEMBER 2017 Poetry Readings

Poetry Reading: NEW WEBSiGHT, by Vihang A Naik

The Bane of Whitechapel – Poetry Reading by Lee A Forman

FRUSTRATION – Poetry Reading by Patricia Marvin

Escape – Poetry Reading by Farzleen F Khan

Beautiful Dead Dragonfly Why – Poetry Reading by James Gaynor

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Read Poetry: Eerie Sea, by Patrick Turner-Lee

Awkward silence: the peace a violent under performing scream
Slicing cobwebs from the ceiling 
Feelings crumble in just about time to make the clock

 

Busking bravely to earn a crust
If you must
Bust the bank with crowbars to get an ounce of sense
Not media just a fact for frustration 

 

Break in glass slippers: Just bits left behind 
Never mined the shattering; illusive, baking hot, tin roof reason.
Flat you lent is parting the cheeks
Flapping the wind swept alleyways of leaves.
In the eaves flicking seaweed at the passers by.

 

Clever tricks never opened the window to let in some air
As if we care
As if we fidget when poked with a sharp prick
A needle in the vein
A sharp instrument to flush the chained up latrine
Obscene and relentless

 

 

November 28th 2017

Read Poetry: Blood Manner Panache, by Robin Carretti

Everything was playing so “Gusto”

Like he became Heavenly blood brothers

“Maestro” at the London Metro.

Having hotter than hell fling

But people were more than blood things

Feeling like a substitute or big “Hero”

What happens to some of them

they weren’t waking or O or B- cups

drinking

But a style of panache

The style of grace or disgrace

showing deeper how it cuts

like the “Reaper” all circumstances

Fewer but true redder romances

the evidence got flown away

but miraculous something has to give

Like a stewed “Hungarian Goulash”

miracles time for hot fetishes

You just felt eclat what a cliche these Vampires and

their maidens. With the raw bite of her bodice

styles were becoming. But a bigger blood manner

was moving toward her so risque

Dances storing more blood trances

of a repertoire

Their necks were suffocating watching another

lover was mating like a web server

“The Others” were sleepwalking deserter

Like another language takes over

a code talking nevermore

Back to life a style forming another soul

to capture, but the wrong type of blood

failure whats to prevail?

Like self-murder so red

Vampire’s attached bloody email

Some were at the spa-like looking wolf-like

howling that strip of a face peel

so habitually like blood uses

The best collection of blood choices

So mainstream another erotic dream

Like a style or seeing hot gesture

So popular stream forevermore

At the concert, he noticed who she was

Knock dead bloody Tis the holiday features

That maestro what style Panache

Like a french Brulee bite of toast

He was the hot bloody roast he

got her blood the most

Read Poetry: Via De Cristo, by Marc Libidinsky

I watch You pray upon Your knees

In the garden of Gethsemane,

And hear Your voice, both sure and meek,

Travail in earnest agony;

Still, wondering at Your sweat and blood –

Is strength in this and is this love?

I watch in silence as You stand

In silent protest, a just man;

Watching, see a man so wracked,

Without help, so attacked,

Until death brings some peace,

If not a just and sweet release.

I watch the faithful lay You down,

Anoint with myrrh Your bloody brow;

And, one by one all disappear,

Fearing as the night draws near:

Yet, with the morning mourning flees

As You ‘rise and bring sure peace.

Your Grace is strength and purity;

So, when I wonder at its reach,

From Heaven’s height to Calvary,

From life to death to victory,

From first confessions to the last;

I find Grace equal to the task

Your crucifixion posed to me,

So bare my cross as pleases Thee.

(c) Marc Libidinsky, 2017

Read Poetry: Too many questions, too little answers, by Juan Miguel Idiazabal

All things said and done,

I’m still looking through the shattered stained glass for a solution,

a brighter day may come,

but unless I tune my ears,

it will fade away,

like a little sister who drowns in tears of despair,

her pink bunny transformed into a dildo,

her dildo transmutated into a womanizer,

her womanizer turned into a confessor,

her confessor converted into an A-bomb,

her A-bomb changed into tears of despair,

like a little suicidal sister who drowns in sweet virginal blood,

a real solution for imaginary problems?

an imaginary solution for real issues?

The world keeps spinning round and round,

a week ago, thousands of children died of hunger in Africa,

six days ago, another Qom cried because he/she was no longer free in a democratic country,

the next day, 5 CEOs moved the clock down to extinction for marlins close to 0,

four days ago, nothing happened?

three days ago, another one bite the dust while sending a tweet,

the next morning, police raided a theatre looking for drugs, while a judge bought it in the courthouse,

yesterday, 523,245 million dreams and hopes fade away,

today, a little sister was sodomized, while I was writing this poem,

an answer knocked at my door,

I wasn’t the proper question for it,

she went back to the world crying in despair,

no one believe the story we told,

she bleed herself alone and ashamed to death…