Tag: poetry

Read Poem: Spurned, by Gary Beck

The beaten, the homeless
the mentally ill
trudge city streets
in the kinship of defeat,
dreams departed
like so many others
who believed in the Declaration,
who believed in the Constitution
and painfully found
it wasn’t written for them.

—

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 23 poetry collections, 7 novels, 3 short story collections, 1 collection of essays and 1 collection of his one-act plays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order, Contusions and Desperate Seeker (Winter Goose Publishing. Forthcoming is Learning Curve); Blossoms of Decay, Expectations, Blunt Force, Transitions and Mortal Coil (Wordcatcher Publishing, forthcoming is Temporal Dreams) Earth Links (Cyberwit Publishing: forthcoming Too Harsh For Pastels). His novels include a series ‘Stand to Arms, Marines’: Call to Valor, Crumbling Ramparts and Raise High the Walls (Gnome on Pigs Productions). Acts of Defiance, Flare Up and Still Defiant (Wordcatcher Publishing: forthcoming is Pirate Spring). Extreme Change will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. State of Rage will be published by Cyberwit Publishing. His short story collections include: A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing) and Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). The Big Match and other one act plays (Wordcatcher Publishing, Forthcoming: Collected Plays of Gary Beck Vol 1). Gary lives in New York City.

Poetry Reading: AI! AI! AI! (A Tatarus for Youth), by David Estringel

Performed by Hannah Ehman

AI! AI! AI! (A Tartarus for Youth), by David Estringel

I.

AI! AI! AI!

Sated with stolen life,

emerged from mother’s Night,

there is longing to be free

from the warmth of darkened humours–

to be crowned by The Light of Artificial Gods.

Our worlds quake and rip,

tossing us upon gory shores

beyond fertile crests,

illuminated by a cold Sun.

Messengers sweep down in clouds of winged oblivion

to wet lips with Lethe’s waters

upon cruel fingertips.

“Shhhh.”

II.

AI! AI! AI!

Blinded,

light brings pain

in rushes of movement and sound

that sting the flesh.

Icy

with invasions

of steel and sterile prodding,

souls rouse to profess philosophies

in cries and screams

that crack the air,

unheard

like the falling of leaves upon the ground

from distant trees

III.

AI! AI! AI!

Swaddled bodies,

searched in vain for the safety of familiarity,

tell much, tell little

like symbols in scrying mirrors.

Their fictions, written with sweat and tears,

anointing

foreheads, eyes, and lips

with benedictions of shameful regret.

As if it were better to have the heads of babes

dashed and bloodied

upon the Rock,

than to suffer Spartan destinies, impaired.

Left only to linger—a world apart—

in bloodless mediocrity.

IV.

AI! AI! AI!

What are these ragged paths

to be stumbled upon

under tender foot,

with stones that cut

and scratching thorns from the briar

that temper flesh,

supple and pink,

making hard what was once soft to the touch.

Fed by an earth

that feasts on cuts,

bodies devolve to walk upright—and alone

upon roads, paved with the hands and backs

of brethren.

Knuckles crunching beneath soles like so much gravel.

V.

AI! AI! AI!

O, the passion of attainment,

upon which the masses engorge,

aimless in its metal

and promises

of faceless adulations

and the settling of laurelled wreathes

upon heads of cartilage!

How empty, these violent strikes against the Self,

incessant and passionless,

carving out pounds of flesh,

victory for victory,

‘til nothing remains–

all for narratives

that are not their own.

VI.

AI! AI! AI!

How thirsty are these–

the razor-tongued buds of spring.

Driven

to the drinking of others’ tears

for satisfaction of sanguine thirsts.

To revel

in the tearing

of white petals

from tender stems

with poisoned fingertips,

delighting in themselves,

as if masters of ceremonies

at blood-lettings

and vivisections.

VII.

AI! AI! AI!

The sooth of touch’s fidelity

has melted away–

soured–

like cream in the sun.

Replaced,

the quality of distance

makes, explicit, one’s worth,

across arid plains

of air and silence.

Fallen away, the allures and charms

of communion,

only to make room

for the play of shadows

on Plato’s walls.

VIII.

AI! AI! AI!

There is a science,

oppressive

and cold,

behind the collisions of heavenly bodies of light (in love)—

clashing

explosions of atoms

over chasms—

the spaces in between—

that define and separate.

Souls, burning brightly,

cannot coexist

in their starry majesties

without a surrendering of fire.

My Ares takes your Aphrodite.

IX,

AI! AI! AI!

Upon paths paved with gold,

under the azure

of a fanning sky,

herds

are driven in blithe procession

to the precipice.

Cast into the maw

of their society.

Without the iron shielding of wings,

they perish,

masticated,

like everyman’s meat,

leaving them shades

that stain the wintry air.

X.

I, I, I,

will crawl to the grave,

worn

and weary,

upon the Earth I have salted

with tears,

violent and hot–

but harmonious–

in Time’s own poetry,

where I will find

the Peace and Solace of Rest,

drinking from a forgetful cup,

enshrouded

by the arms of my brother—

The Undergloom.

Read Poetry: THE ART OF LOVE, by Dan

I made the first stroke,
On our virgin framed canvas,
Sheer ecstasy!
Coating our painting of love,
A brush and a palette,
Crimson ink from my heart
Briskly cultured my half,
Melted affection into art.

But you left your half untouched,
Your beret to gather dust,
Your bristles dry and parched,
Your heart sated and scarlet,
Void picture!
Halfway quenched,
Like a dying fire with no bellows,
A piano with only white keys.

But my limb pushed me to paint,
Culture your half with my surviving ink,
Drain my cardiac tincture,
Give our painting a clincher,
Altruistic love!
Bleached my heart and its nerve,
Robbed its hue and its curve.

A gavel and a French accent,
The verdict and the critic,
An infatuation!
Not worthy my ink you said,
A painter for a sculptor you’d trade,
It was only a fading charade.

Though beaten and pale,
Matte grey like Calvary,
I pinned the picture in the gallery,
Praying for an eye of valor,
That will behold my sacrifice of color,
And heal my heart’s pallor.
©

Poetry Reading: DAUGHTER OF THE DUST, by Fadrian Bartley

Performed by Val Cole

—

Producer/Director: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com

Festival Moderators: Matthew Toffolo, Rachel Elder

Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne

Editors: Kimberly Villarruel, Ryan Haines, John Johnson

Festival Directors: Rachel Elder, Natasha Levy

Camera Operators: Ryan Haines, Temitope Akinterinwa, Efren Zapata, Zack Arch

POETRY Reading: End, by Christine Bolton

Performed by Kat Smiley

—

Producer/Director: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com

Festival Moderators: Matthew Toffolo, Rachel Elder

Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne

Editors: Kimberly Villarruel, Ryan Haines, John Johnson

Festival Directors: Rachel Elder, Natasha Levy

Camera Operators: Ryan Haines, Temitope Akinterinwa, Efren Zapata, Zack Arch

Read Poem: Live in the Past, by Jaden Baxter

If the future has been frozen
cause you’re present in the past,
It may seem the life you’ve chosen
has been moving fairly fast.

For the memories have blended
to a smoothie of events,
and the seconds were suspended,
when you spent them making sense –

Of the short and sterile seasons,
That would quickly pass you by,
Never giving any reasons,
To assume that time would fly.

Always dwelling on the former,
Never thinking in the now,
Til’ your days are getting warmer,
And you know exactly how –

How the world keeps on spinning,
Even if your days have gone,
Even when your time is thinning,
it’ll just keep moving on.

Read Poem: Self-Assertion, by Gary Beck

The desperate need
to differentiate oneself
from regular citizens
was once done
by wearing a social garment,
zoot suits, pegged pants,
motorcycle jackets,
disheveled jeans.
Social responsibilities changed.
It was no longer sufficient
to dress differently.
Body art, piercing,
gaudy colored hair
became normal,
to allow conformists
to stand out from the herd.

Read Poem: Lost Love by Abby Petrich

There are people all around you hugging, laughing, crying, and sharing all the memories. The only thing you can think about is not your friends because you know you’ll see them again, but the person standing a few feet in front of you. A tear runs down your cheek when a tear falls from theirs. You both open your arms. You walk toward their open arms. You’re thinking about all those times you had together and how they’re coming to an end. You hold on a little too tightly. You never want to let go, but at one point you must.
They tell you to keep in touch. “I will,” you mumble. They’re about to say something, but before they can get out their true feelings, your friends run up and pull you away saying something about a party. As you’re being dragged away, you look back, seeing that person just stand there with another tear falling.
An hour later, you’re in the backseat of your parent’s car. You look out the back window to see him running out the building, waving. You wave back knowing this moment will probably be the last time you will ever see him. You wave until he’s just a speck in the distance. You turn around and take a deep breath. Another tear falls as you look out the window with the rain falling heavily and everything flashing by.
Your mother turns and looks at you. “So are you ready for school, getting out on your own and college boys?”
All you have to say is “sure.” All you can think about, though, is those past four years.
You’re going to school in the fall. They’re going across the country.
You text for a while, but you are both too busy to get together.
Five months later, you get the first call. You talk for briefly twenty minutes.
Another five months go by, you get a letter. You write back.
A year later… Nothing. Another year… Nothing.
You search social media. You can’t find anything under their name.
You’ve officially lost touch. You can’t help but wonder where in the world is that person? Who are they with? Are they thinking about you? Do they even remember you and those four years? Sure, you’ll meet new people, but nothing like that one person. You’ll never know what could have been. It’s that one person you always wanted to be in your life.
Ten years go by and it seems like that life was from a different lifetime. It seems like a thousand years ago. You’re not even sure if they’re alive or with a family. Not a day goes by you don’t think of him. You watch the news. A girl you knew from school recently died from cancer. Another two people you knew are now professional football players.
You’re driving your kids to school. You see a homeless man on the side of the road, you remember you knew them as well. You felt bad for him, but every person you see that you knew only reminds you of that one person. Another tear falls. Your baby girl in the backseat asks, “mommy, what’s wrong?”
You say, “nothing.” Then you say to your kids, “never let time pass you by. Be thankful for every moment. Never regret something or someone that once made you smile. Time is too short. You have something to say, say it!”
The little girl says, “okay mommy,” although she doesn’t quite understand.
Junior year, your baby girl is going to homecoming and prom. She reminds you of yourself in school. One day, she tells you about this new boy who is always flirting and waiting for her in the halls. She tells you she asked him out. He said “yes.” She tells you that she had to do it before he moved on. Again, you think of all those memories you had. Although you love your life now, sometimes you secretly wish you could go back and do things differently.
Of course, time flies by and now you’re sitting there watching your baby girl walk down the aisle. She’s marrying her high school love, the one she told you about junior year. You’re happy for her, you really are, but you can’t help but feel a tad bit jealous. You think of him again. Another tear falls.
If you’re lucky, when you’re old, you and that person run into each other for the first time in 40 years. Last time you saw each other was graduation day. You sit down for coffee, catch up on each other’s’ lives, tell each other the feelings you were too afraid to say in high school and fall in love all over again.
But that rarely ever happens…

Poetry Reading: The Bombing of Tabriz by Mary Freericks

 

Performed by Val Cole

 

****

Producer/Director: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel

Festival Directors: Mary Cox, Rachel Elder, Natasha Levy

Camera Operators: Hugh Ritchie, Isabal Cupryn, Aser Santos Jr., Zack Arch