Category: Poetry Festival

Read Poetry: The twain that never cross parts, Okah Obinna Joseph

Drowning in sounds of figmented imaginations
Nope it’s a bad nightmare of incarceration 
Torturing me with scars and tears 
As I fright back into my shell of fears 
Reminiscing good times 
Scathing our cherish, dreams and memories 
With haunted sacrifices 

I lost myself changing for you or else ? 
While you changed for someone else 
Oh no ! you bought me a bitter sweet 
I’m not a wailing wailer for meat 
But this bitter pill is really costly 
As thou faithfully betrayed Bostly 

A vengeance of forgiveness
Is the magical agony of kindness
Oh Love and passion ! 
What a cruel combination !
Dear time shower your miracles 
Please don’t fling me away like a rag doll just like the team of Heracles 

I’m drunk to stupor 
Because my saviour is liquor 
Just two minutes to rebuild the glass 
But forever to rebuild my breathing flask 
My emptiness only has hate 
Like wounds of the diabetic gate 

No ounce of mercy 
In Bovary and madam Stacy
There’s no moving on
The end is all one 
I hope the twain never cross parts 
As breaking romance surely sparks

Read Poetry: Agony, by Sujoy Bhattacharya

An apathetically toxic sound entered my mortal
visual organ .
Dandified with the foppish arrogance of cosmic
supremacy the
sound reverberated in my frozen heart preserved
at the core
of Antarctic effigy emanating sigh of vacuity .
Dead dynasties
delineated perpetually flapping flag of time studded
with space spacious !
Flippant cosmic rays cooing with the dead stars –
corpse love !
Coffined human love taking a flimsy phantom
figure was
pouring elixir -stolen from Egyptian mummies.
My amputated
organs scattered over the oceans were reading
the inscriptions
of time over the tapestry of space dew – drenched!
My severed
tongue was licking languidly the spilling psalm of
humanity !
Millions of mouths were chanting dogged dogmatic
doctrine
to establish monuments of ephemeral discourse .Lonely polestar
was politely polishing the rusted metal deity of
compassion ,
so that it could radiate again the theory of relationship!

Read Poetry: THE MANSION OF RUSSIAN CREEPS, by Fadrian Bartley

On the remote island of Russian creeps

A cast away washed ashore wounded and weak

Upon awakening such place he has never seen

Not familiar to his eyes, or has he ever being

Struggle to stand, and from his feet he bled

With the buzzing sounds he constantly heard in his head

Stranded at the shore no one seem to be at bay

No ship approaching and no one coming his way

Unconsciously he fainted, fell to the ground,

And woke only to find himself chained and tied down

To a basement in a mansion that’s where he was

With antique items and dirty old rugs

Swiftly and quietly appears a mysterious girl

With the appearance of what seems not from this world

In front of a huge mirror she stands combing her hair

While the lost victim sit quietly and trembled in fear

As she brushed her hair with a sweet humming from her voice

‘’What am I doing here? he yelled’’

You are here for a reason,

And You are here for a choice

With her hair reached to the ground,

By then the humming stops and not a sound

Struggling to free himself from those fetters and chains

The flashing of lightening along with the pouring rain

The child began to laugh and this is what she says

‘’On Russian creeps you stranded for days’’

‘’You are still asleep bound in this maize’’

Here is the mirror where you will find your way’’

As these words spill from her velvet lips

He saw an imprint sign carved on her wrist

Angrily he shouted ‘’let me go, let me go’

She replied ‘I scream those exact words before I die seven years ago’

Her tears became dark, And black as charcoal

With her hair falling out, and the face grew old

Her skin began to fade while he watched fearfully and lingers

And what remains of her was only a ring that fell from her dead fingers

A shattered mirror blast in pieces

While her scream echoes, and all that there is began to depleted

Struggling and shouting but no one could hear

Down from the basement is all a soundless fear

Awaken from a dream, a dream that’s what it seems

Terrified in himself he wonders what all these means

But the occurrence endless and seems to follow

Through the dreadful catastrophe and sleepy hollow

There were noises in the walls

Of little children running through the halls

From his bed he ran to look

Taken with him a cross hidden inside of a book

Looking around in expectation, but all was only a strange phenomenon.

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.

 

Read Poetry: 12 CROSSED BRIDGES, by Olabisi Akinwale

(Summarizing 2017)
.
J-F-M-A-M-J-J-A-S-O-N-D
The letters memorized by our feets
Before crossing bridges, over strange waters
.
J- January
It was the tale of a boy waiting for sunshine under a dark and grey
sky, he’s got holes in his heart, only light can fill, songs in his
blood- with ugly and beautiful notes
January was a book with empty covers, we read with million thoughts-
forging new names
.
F- February
We covered our skins with weary faces
Learning to live in a world, different from home
Everyone we met, became a blood in our veins
February was a loosed adventure- we thread her path with tight minds,
trying to catch the wind with the wings of our voices
.
M- March
We were left with sad letters from time
A brother marched onto glory with spirited feets
Our cries became lost ravens, perching on windows of injured memories
March was the rose that carried the smell of the flowers we left at
our brother’s grave
.
A- April
There’s nothing here
– only girls, asking fate questions devoid of answers
– men skating on the surface of survival
April was a god, not after God’s heart- it took us on a voyage to
hell, with fire in our eyes
.
M- May
The year became a five month old child, crawling on hungry stomach
We sang songs of joy with sad mouths
We danced too close to our dreams, that our feets began to sank in
multiple grounds
May was beautifully carved by our destiny- it taught us to hold on,
till the final whistle is blown
.
J- June
We marked dreams that came to pass
And wrote new ones in our diaries
We regurgitated home, and hoped we returned someday with rainbow
colours to mama’s dark smiles
June was nature- we understood the language of birds, and how the
trees holds God’s voice in their whispers
.
J- July
We ran from the wars in our heart
To places where love is everyone’s art
We found love different from our father’s type
But, sometimes love is not love only when it is loved
July was like the back of the moon- it shines, but on the other side
of the world, it reminds us; ‘ not all that glitters is gold’
.
A- August
We were beaten by whips from unknown hands
Into shapes, sizes and textures
Father said golds are made golden through fire- August was the prove
.
S-September
Ember came through this door
To homes with unbroken walls
And left them, broken
September was one of the war we fought with defeated weapons
.
O- October
We met strangers who became brothers overnight
And girls who became the lightening in our blood
Life is not life without people by your side, incubating your smiles
in their heart
October was too poetic to be left without a poem- it reminds us of
times spent with Godlike creatures
.
N- November
Here,
– we built castles of lost and won victories
– star the stars that shined in the sky of our souls
– we learnt to create paradise in odd places
November was the shore connecting realities to fictions-both, have a
touch of life and sanity
.
D- December
It was a room filled with thousand faces, and the path that leads home
A place where goodbyes, housed every tongue
Where we wrote reports of times and memories
December was too short to be lived forever- it was the answer to why
good things don’t last, and the whys behind farewell
.
2017 was long, but short- it left us staring in awe, to the perfection
in God’s art
.
.
© Olabisi Abiodun Akinwale
Undiluted Poet
#UndilutedPoetry

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.

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: Poem by Anthony E. Perillo

Oh, the whispering night,
The whispering night.
How softly does it speak
Of twinkling stars,
And pale moonlight,
And the rustling of the leaves.

Now it makes no sound
As it gathers round
All the things that earth contains.
While its soft caress
Leads the heart to rest,
Where the gentle stillness reigns.

From the realm of the day
Where King Hectic holds sway;
The night comes as a foe.
Brandishing its cloak
All of ebony smoke it
Sweeps the harshness away.

And the clouds as they glide
Past the moon in the sky
Make a candle aflickering
It seems. As if to remind
The deep darkness in time
That the sun in the heavens still beams.

Oh, the whispering night,
Oh, the whispering night,
A melancholy caller is he.
Though he sometimes brings dread;
When we’re snuggled abed
It’s as cozy as cozy can be.

by Anthony E. Perillo

Read Poetry: How to walk on the moon, by Micheal Ace

Your arm needs to be strong
If you wish to neil your dreams to trees
And watch as they mock the wind.

To survive is to walk out of fire
With wet skin and damp cloth.

How do we know you’ve spelt survival
If you do not send your ashes home-
To burn is to become a new being.

Mother punished my brother last night
She rubbed pepper over his prick.

I heard him groan; fighting for peace.
I heard him say he’ll grow up, find freedom
And watch mother starve, in pain, to death.

He knew what it means to seek vengeance
But not survival- he left home at dawn.

Do not cut yourself if blood startles you.
You cannot win a war without wasting a soul
And you cannot lose without being a wasted soul.

To survive is to eat a neighbour’s flesh
And drink from another man’s blood.

But there are already footprints on the moon
You do not need a strong arm anymore
Or need to neil your dreams to trees

You just need to write a suicide note
And set to walk on the sun- live

Breaking new boundaries

Read Poetry: AT THE PARK, by Ariel Westberg

A low-slung mist

stultifies the LA sunscape, setting the stage to play

the part of a rainforest’s cupola.

But rain doesn’t come

even though I am ready.

Boots and sweater, and a nameless

heartache to accompany

my attire,

hibernation

at times suits me,

but these days, these years,

I can ill-afford the luxury

of wallowing, of pining, of yearning.

Today, through the trenches of a familar

yet unknown abyss,

I cradle myself,

filled with a boundless love,

as intricate and vast

as the stuff of dreams.

A runner, springy and supine,

passes as I sit.

I feel catatonic but my soul,

a burbling brook, joyously knows

the routes of God.

Knows the loving hands that hold me

like a child holds a love-worn doll,

perfectly beautiful to eyes

that have seen all its years,

limbs gone missing,

hair brushed out of its head,

a marble eye rolled down a drain,

smudges that have turned to stains

forever,

I am loved that way.

– Ariel Westberg