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'Poetry Splash! E-zine' Issue **018**
Date : 15 August 2000.
Arvind, Sangita, Pushkin Passey
(((((((((((((((((( CONTENTS )))))))))))))))))))))
1. Forms Of Poetry (Osho's definition of a Haiku)
2. ...The Delectable, Memorable Poem...('Why I am not a painter')
3. Poetry In/From India (From the Holy Book of the Sikhs)
4. Your Requests! (LUKE 1:46-55)
5. Let Us Connect With Poetry (An article by Arvind)
6. A Poem For You All -- From Me (A poem by Pushkin Passey)
7. Comments, Ideas, Contributions from Readers (Poems by: Antwian Marcel
Crawford, Saro Gun, Sharon Jennings/ Paul Lowe, and Simon Icke)
A Note From The Editor:
First let me share an interesting piece of information with you all.
Poetry Splash! now has a new URL: http://www.poetrysplash.com. We have
also uploaded most of the Poetry Splash! Award Winners and all those who
asked us to be included on the Net Addresses pages. There is a new
referral system in place...check it out.
More of you wanted to share their web URL with others...so, here they are
(they can also be found on the Net Addresses/Award Winners pages):
sitename: poems and me
Anand S Sengupta (email@example.com)
sitename: Know me : The life and times of Anand Sankar Sengupta
Antwian M. Crawford (Un_P_S@yahoo.com)
sitename: The Underground Poets Society
Slava Meskhi (firstname.lastname@example.org)
sitename: Meskhi lines
description: Limericks and short lines by Slava Meskhi. English, Russian
and Georgian languages.
Debi Bender (email@example.com)
sitename: Paper Lanterns
description: Personal Journal of Asian inspired verse; haiku, tanka,
haibun, haiga, sijo, imayo, rengay, renku, ren-forms, experimental, etc.;
Also childrens' pages.
Until the next issue...bye!
--* Forms Of Poetry *--
We shall take up a formal discussion of the form of a haiku in a later
issue. In this issue we give a new awareness in the definition of a haiku.
Osho's interpretation on how to read a haiku:
"How to read a haiku?
Read one haiku, repeat it, sing it, chew it, swallow it deeply, and then
sit silently, waiting for the meaning to be revealed.
Don't think about it; thinking, you will go astray.
Don't analyze it; analyzing, you will go far away.
Meditate, just be with it, let it be with you, and suddenly you will find
something is changing in your consciousness. You are moving upwards, or
you are moving deeper."
Here is one haiku by Basho:
'I clap my hands
and with the echoes
it begins the dawn --
the summer moon.'
See how you interpret this haiku with Osho's definition. Send your
interpretation to me. We will publish your interpretation as well as
Osho's interpretation in the next issue.
Until the next Hai!, its Coo! to haiku!
--* ...The Delectable, Memorable Poem... *--
>>WHY I AM NOT A PAINTER<<
By: Frank O'Hara (1926-1966)
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
--* Poetry In/From India *--
Shri Guru Granth Sahib, the holy book of Sikhism, contains 974 verses by
Guru Nanak. Japuji Sahib is the first book of the holy Shri Guru Granth
Sahib, containing only 41 verses. The Japuji Sahib does not follow a
strict metre of poetry and even rhyming seems, at places, uneven and
incoherent. The main inquiry of the Japuji Sahib is the search for Truth.
Here is a glimpse of the lyrical format of the most revered scripture of
the Sikhs proclaimed in the lineage of the Sikh Gurus as 'The Final Guru'.
The verses of the compilation are called 'Pauris'.
Mulmantra - The Prologue.
Ik Omkar Sat Naam
There is only one God
His name is Truth
He is the creator
Realized by His divine grace.
(The above translation is taken from 'Osho Times', August 2000)
--* Your Requests! *--
And Mary said,
"My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has regarded the low estate of his handmaiden.
For behold, henceforth all generations will call me blessed;
for he who is mighty has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.
And his mercy is on those who fear him
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm,
he has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts,
he has put down the mighty from their thrones,
and exalted those of low degree;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent empty away.
He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
as he spoke to our fathers,
to Abraham and to his posterity for ever."
--* Let Us Connect With Poetry *--
>>THE FIVE SENSES AND THE FORCE OF POETRY<<
An article by Arvind Passey.
1.LOOK AS YOU LISTEN.
A word spoken, a sniffle stiffled, a tear crashing onto a dream, one
little laughter decibel tip-toeing into hearts, a knuckle-crack nervously
opening some door,...can all be sounds that go unnoticed, unsung. Stop
merely hearing them. Capture their sound bytes and have a good look at
them. They will tell you more than their sounds that your ear has heard.
Take a walk down the pathways that sounds carve and you will see what a
poet aught to really see. Then write about it. Honestly.
2.HEAR WHAT YOU SEE.
Lipstick on a collar, a wobbly knee, sparkling new jogging shoes,
thumb-print on a floppy-disc, a missing shirt-pocket,...are all visuals
that are ready to whisper their secrets into the ears of a poet. Why?
Because a poet is ready to pro-actively listen to their story, however
improbable it may sound to the logical amongst us. Their story is not the
story that our ear would hear. Their story meanders between what what has
happened and what was intended to happen, between what should have
happened and what could have happened. So, hear! And then put it all on
3.FEEL THE TEXTURE OF YOUR WORDS.
Dont just pick any word that comes along and fit it into an emotion and
then try to pass it on to yourself first as a poem! No, dont ever do it.
Feel each word as you would feel the texture of a piece of cloth you are
intending to buy. Just as you relate the season, climate, place, time,
environment, ambience, and your own task to the texture of cloth that you
buy, so must you insist on the texture of the words you choose for the
poem that you intend writing. Simple.
4.SNIFF YOUR WAY INTO A SITUATION.
A whiff is all that one has at times. Despite the aroma and all the sweet
smells, a poet sniffs his way right into the heart of truth to find a poem
sadly curled up in a corner waiting to be rescued. Or maybe, a poet is
just blasting his way through the world's worst odours to discover the
sweetest smelling flower ever to be enshrined in words.
5.MAKE IT TASTE GOOD.
'A poem should not mean
Like the delicacies on a platter. Like actions and deeds instead of
cluck-clucks of mere sympathy. Repeat your lines aloud and hear the
effect, see what image it conjures up for you, feel the texture of the
words you've used...and decide if the final dish is worth it or not!
6.MAKE IT FUN.
Discover what makes it fun for you and your poetic urges. If the poetic
inclination wins, you win. Most importantly, enjoy writing your poem.
Don't let it be a drag, or that is what you'll ever write.
'Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.'
If writing one poem has given you fun, don't stop. If having fun is your
dream, give birth again to the dream -- write another poem!
--* A Poem For You All -- From Me *--
>>I VOTE FOR BOOKS IN PRINT!<<
(By: Pushkin Passey
In this digital age –
The books will be the same,
For those who read, there will be fame.
When bytes are there in place of page –
Less books to take to school each day,
Life is lighter, some may say.
When punching keyboards will be the rage –
No smudges or broken nibs there’ll be,
Instead, digital displays we’ll see.
When sighting sites will be a craze –
Bad prints in books will no longer scare,
Thus we will have an interactive fare!
All these ICs and their maze –
Will surely not drive books away,
Print too will move the IT way!
Within printed books a war will wage –
They shall be lighter and so much brighter,
And we will call them a valiant ‘fighter’.
All this shall happen if the scope –
And range of books and their design
Takes forward steps. All shall be fine.
As we go forward, one thing I hope –
Books should not be replaced
By microchips in a closed plastic case.
Comments, Ideas, Contributions from Readers
(Here is a delectable poem written by Antwian Marcel Crawford. His e-mail
and site URL are given at the end of this poem. I'm sure you can find
more great attempts at his site.)
>>I LOVE THE WAY SHE WALKS<<
I love the way she walks with such style and grace,
Poetry in motion, everything in the right place.
With the kind of curves only a sista can possess,
The average male vehicle would crash under the stress.
She's a sight to see as she passes me by,
I feel lucky to get a glimpse of those sexy brown thighs.
I'm hypnotized, when I see those round hips sway,
"Damn!, Girlfriend you made my day."
I know the sound of her heels tapping the turf,
I thank God for showing me this angel on earth.
The body is a temple and hers is well kept,
>From the smile on face, to the bounce in her step.
A masterpiece, from her head to her toes,
And the fragrance of her body is like a sweet smelling rose.
Her hair blows in the wind like a willow in June,
Her face sparkles, like water at night, from the reflection of the moon.
Her body speaks in a language I know all too well,
Vibrant she is, my Southern Florida Bell.
I love the way she walks and that's plain to see,
That's why I had to make her my wife to be.
By: Antwian Marcel Crawford
(The Underground Poets Society
>>HOLED UP AT HOME<<
By: Saro Gun
It is the time of dawning hour,
When the sunlight kissed every blooming flower,
The night withdrew its black quilt,
As the sun brought to the world his bequest,
It is his gift of a new day,
Life seemed most jolly this Sunday
I lay on my couch in a pensive mood,
Enjoying the bliss of solitude,
As I saw from the window the tossing head of the green tree,
On this day, life seemed so carefree
Like a day you can chase your little dreams in life,
A sole day isolated from the daily strife
Soon my friend flashed upon the inward eye,
Who always said, a poem of mine, should be given a try
This little seed of wish, he planted in my heart,
I thought it’s the right time to give it a start,
It's time to get holed up at home
And the time to follow his dream
As I penned down my thoughts, the pace seemed slow,
Yet I hoped that success would come with another blow,
And as the words soon found their way,
I could not, but be gay,
So this little poem, I dedicate to my friend,
Who is the heart and the soul and the inspiration behind.
By: Saro Gun
(Thank you Saro. Another poem that deserves readers. You seem to be
fascinated with descriptive poetry writing...keep it up!)
>>sweet cold water<<
By: Sharon Jennings/ Paul Lowe
a whore for words
I’ll do anything
except lie to
replace I with you
sugar water mama
sweet frosted flakes
on your thighs
of thin white whys
I know a lot of
thirsty ants & flies
who would die for
the chance to be
up your spine
By: Sharon Jennings/ Paul Lowe <firstname.lastname@example.org>
>>WHAT WONDER IS THIS?<<
By: Simon Icke
I stand so small in this big wide world,
Looking up to the heavens, stars in vast array.
What wonder is this, too much to contemplate?
Does my life matter in this amazing creation?
Where does my destiny lie, where will it end?
How can my mind take in this infinite wisdom?
To think, man in his arrogance can ignore all this!
I stand here humbled in awe of God.
Just a speck of dust in the universe.
Just one person in the sea of humanity,
Yet what I say and do, does make a difference.
What wonder is this mysterious paradox!
One day all my questions will be answered,
All will be revealed in eternity.
Simon Icke c. 2000
(For more information contact Poetsimon@aol.com
Copies of his book can be ordered from:
15a Long Plough
Bucks. HP22 5HB.
Price £1 plus SAE..All Profits to the ME Association)
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Until The Next Issue
Rhyme away your time!
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