Monday, December 17, 2018


In my heart I must be Sami, as the Sami people believe everything in nature has a spirit. First Nations believe this as well. Enjoy this peaceful few moments in the beautiful landscape of the Arctic. 

We want to wish you a peaceful and happy holiday season, in whatever way your family celebrates this time of year, whether it is Solstice,  Hannukah, Yuletide festivities, Kwanzaa, Diwali............or celebrating the simple joy of being alive on this beautiful planet.

We hope you and your loved ones enjoy gathering together, and that peace and happiness find you, wherever you are.

Thank you to Mary, our intrepid captain, for another year of hard work behind the scenes, and to our staff: Susan, Rosemary, and Sumana, for a year of interesting and inspiring weekly features.

And most of all, thank you to each one of you, for coming back week after week. Truly, without you, we would not be here. Thank you for sharing poetry and time with us. We look forward to another year of new poems in 2019!

We will return January 6th with the first Poetry Pantry of the New Year. Until then, stay safe, keep warm, and keep your pen handy. Wishing you and your family the joys of the season, and a brilliant New Year, as our planet slowly turns us back towards the light.

Sunday, December 16, 2018

Poetry Pantry #433

Christmas Tree in NK Shopping Center - Stockholm, Sweden

Greetings, Friends.  Hope you all are doing well and enjoying the blessings that December can bring.  This will be the last Poetry Pantry of 2018.   It has been a good year for Poets United, and we hope it has been a good year for each of you too -- both poetically and personally.

After this Pantry closes, Poets United will be taking a break until January 6, when we will resume our regular features again.  (We have some great things planned for the new year!! But, for now, mum is the word!) 

Hopefully, during this break time, each of you will be taking the opportunity to rest, enjoy, and celebrate (whether it be a holiday or the end of the year) as well.

Sumana, Susan, Sherry, Rosemary, and I all have enjoyed sharing time (and poetry) here with you this year.  We have had some good times, shared good poetry, and enjoyed some wonderful features, haven't we? Some of us have gotten to know each other well over the years, and reading each other's poetry is like having a visit with friends.

I personally will not be quite as present in the new year as I have been.  It has not been easy lately for me to come up with original poetry that I deem to have 'redeeming qualities.'  Perhaps this happens when one writes for a number of years.  But I will be and on.

We all wish you a nice break!  Sherry will be putting up an 'official break message' tomorrow.  See you in 2019.

Friday, December 14, 2018

The Living Dead

Fern Hill

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
     The night above the dingle starry,
          Time let me hail and climb
     Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
          Trail with daisies and barley
     Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
     In the sun that is young once only,
          Time let me play and be 
     Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
          And the sabbath rang slowly
     In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
     And playing, lovely and watery
          And fire green as grass.
     And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
     Flying with the ricks, and the horses
          Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
     Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
          The sky gathered again
     And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
     Out of the whinnying green stable
          On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
     In the sun born over and over,
          I ran my heedless ways,
     My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
     Before the children green and golden
          Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
     In the moon that is always rising,
          Nor that riding to sleep
     I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
          Time held me green and dying
     Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

– Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

This is my final Friday feature for 2018. After Sunday your staff at Poets United go on holiday for a little while. (More about that in the Poetry Pantry on Sunday.) For many people, the up-coming religious festivals include gift-giving. And in the Wisdom Circle, a 'real-life' discussion group I attend, we've just been looking at the healing power of beauty. So I thought I'd like to give you all the gift of beauty via one of my very favourite poems – Dylan Thomas at his best and most beautiful. 

He attained that peak in a number of his writings, actually, not just this one piece. I also picked this poem because of the reminiscences of a childhood which was truly innocent, and because the last few lines of the fourth verse always suggest Christmas to me – though that is not stated, and I think was almost certainly not the poet's intention. 
It is well-known that he was a heavy drinker who died quite young after a turbulent life, from illness exacerbated by the effects of alcohol. You can check the details in his Wikipedia entry. While not meaning to gloss over that sad fact, I'd like to focus right now on his brilliant talent. He left us not only a number of wonderful poems but also the radio play Under Milkwood which many consider his masterpiece. He was Welsh of course, and the play is a loving and very entertaining recreation of Welsh village life. 

You can get a free download of Richard Burton (another Welshman)'s acclaimed reading of the play as an Audiobook here.  Or you can listen to it here, on YouTube. It's long, but marvellous.

You can read Thomas's poems at PoemHunter and you can find his books of poetry, short stories and the play on Amazon, along with a volume of his love letters.

I featured another of his poems, my all-time favourite, in 'I Wish I'd Written This' back in September 2012.

Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is
presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images
remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may
be out of copyright). This photo by Gabriel Hackett of Dylan Thomas at Gotham Book Mart New York City in 1952 is used according to Fair Use. 

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Peace On Earth

“Make peace with yourself, and both heaven and earth will make peace with you.”— Isaac of Nineveh


Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a
    bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second
    generation full of courage issue forth; let a people
    loving freedom come to growth.” — Margaret Walker 

Midweek Motif ~ Peace On Earth

Every one of us loves to cherish the faith that there is still an abundance of good in this world in spite of widespread violence almost everywhere every day.

We may not be “As Wrecked Men—deem they sight the Land—
At Centre of the Sea—”* but rather “come into the peace of wild things / who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief”**.

It’s now time to sing Peace on Earth…..


Christmas Bells
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
    And wild and sweet
    The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
    Had rolled along
    The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
    A voice, a chime,
    A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
    And with the sound
    The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
    And made forlorn
    The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth," I said;
    “For hate is strong,
    And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
    The Wrong shall fail,
    The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

The Rock Cries Out To Us Today

by Maya Angelou

 A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers- 
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours- your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes,
Into your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning. 

 *Emily Dickinson
**Wendell Berry

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—

      (Our next Midweek Motif will be Susan's ~ Starting Over ~
on the 9th of January ’19)

Monday, December 10, 2018


This week we are chatting with Wendy Bourke, of Words and Words and Whatnot, about the use of repetition in poetry. Wendy did some research and put together this article about how to make our poems more effective by employing devices such as repetition to good effect. Pour yourself a cup of tea and let's dive in, for some good information and inspiration!

Sherry: When Wendy recently posted this poem, I loved it so much I wanted to feature it as a Poem of the Week. Wendy suggested we use it as an example of the use of repetition in poetry, and offered to put together an article on the topic. As I am SO grateful for ideas and assistance for my features, I accepted with alacrity. So let's read on, and absorb some very useful information. Here is the poem that sparked this chat.

I was the one

I was the one who was first – in my class – to get glasses.
I was the one who memorized snippets of poetry – and
lied about it. I was the one, my father called 'Bird'. I was
the one who made tissue paper poppies in all the wrong
colors and had imaginary sword fights and practiced
yodelling, while I dressed for school. I was the one who
wouldn't step on a crack and gagged at the smell of oranges
and walked on my toes – though it hurt like the dickens.

I was the one who crossed my eyes, whenever I was taken
by surprise – and – despite my granny's fervent predictions
they would stay that way, forever ... I was the one spared
that googly-eyed fate. I was the one who didn't catch
the baton. I was the one who had to stand in the corner,
when the boy behind poked me in the back to ask what
page we were on.  I was the one who tripped into a hornet's
nest. I was the one, most often, told to 'Sit still' and 'Shush'.

I was the one who worried for days, that a tree was growing
in my tummy after I accidentally swallowed an apple seed.
I was the one who talked with an English accent when we
played board games and tied my shoes with bunny-ears and
and couldn't snap my fingers. I was the one who got hiccups
from pop ... that threatened to never stop. I was the one
who held time in my hands, catching the sunlight  – just so – 
on the crystal of my mother's watch, a lifetime ago ...
that was me

                                            … I was the one


Sherry: I resonate with every line of this, Wendy. I was an awkward child, freckle-faced and plain and falling over my feet. I remember my mom's disapproving face, turned towards me so often. My Grandma used to threaten my face would stay that way, too, when I frowned. I credit them both for my sunny disposition! LOL.

I loved every line of this poem! And I adore that your father called you "Bird". That is so sweet.

Wendy: I'm so pleased that you enjoyed my poem 'I was the one', Sherry. It was a fun piece to write.

The message of the poem is that we – all of us – carry bits and pieces of our childhood with us, all the days of our lives.  I suspect that those remnants show themselves in a host of ways – most of them, tucked away from consciousness .  And yet, they subtly influence our likes and dislikes ... our responses to that which we encounter in our daily comings and goings ... our foibles ... our insecurities ... and – even, perhaps – that which gives us joy.  I really enjoyed casting back to odd little eccentricities and entanglements from my childhood.  The exercise conjured up a plethora of memories.

Sherry: Me, too! There is rich ore to mine back there. 

Wendy: But I also found that it was so delightful working with repetition.  As you can see, there is a lot of it in 'I was the one'.  I wanted to infuse the poem with a sense of childlike vulnerability.  As well, I thought the words 'I was the one' conveyed a sense of naivetĂ© reminiscent of a child's confession – as opposed to an adult's admission.  

I haven't written a poem with a lot of repetition in it in quite some time, and it summoned forth a host of divine recollections of so many incredible works I have read over a lifetime, that were filled with wonderful repetition.  And thus, I thought I would take this opportunity to put together:  'A Few Notes In Praise of Repetition'.  I am sure that there are multiple Ph.D. dissertations devoted to the myriad of qualities that repetition bestows upon poetic works – there are so many splendiferous ways that this fantastic literary device  gives our poetry wings.  So I must try to rein myself in ... a lot.  

In poetry, repetition can be a word, a phrase, or a full sentence,   I recently, discovered there are 11  ways (in terms of placement) in which repetition can appear in poetry – most of them with lovely exotic names.  Literary Devices
 lists them, and provides explanations and examples.    

Repetition can identify a theme and/or add emphasis,  It can create cadence and rhythm and structure.  It can add irony and/or juxtaposition and even, at times, humor.  It can be stirring  or haunting – melodic or hypnotic.

Many (in some cases, centuries old) classical poetry forms, are constructed using repetition as a central literary device.  Throughout the 20th century to current day, repetition continues to be an important creative vehicle for poets.   I was somewhat surprised to learn that Dylan Thomas's '
Do not go Gentle into that Good Night' (1947) is a Villanelle.  The repeated title/opening line builds up the emotional impact, while adding meter. 

Robert Frost's '
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' (1922), is a Rubaiyat.  It uses repetition sparingly, repeating an indelible line a mere two times, at the close of the piece.   And yet, what a haunting echo –  ' And miles to go before I sleep' –   leaves with all who read those words.

In Maya Angelou's brilliant poem, ‘Still I Rise’ (1978
) repetition is used to stunning effect.  The repetition of  'I rise' feels much like a mantra; an invocation that regardless of oppression, prejudice and hate – we will succeed.   Repetition, indeed, continues to be a feature in contemporary poetry. 

In the poem '
Wild Geese' (1986),  Pulitzer Prize Winner, Mary Oliver, begins the piece with anaphora repetition –  which is the repetition of a phrase at the start of lines.  Specifically, she opens with the words 'You do not...' and repeats those words at the start of the next line.  This creates an intensity, out of which the rest of the poem cascades.  

Sherry: Wendy, this is so interesting. It is intriguing to picture the poets beginning to write these famous poems. We are so used to reading and accepting them as they are, we forget that, like us, they sat down with a blank piece of paper, chose a form and wrestled with it, just as we do.

Wendy: I have been reading a lot of poetry lately, Sherry, and find myself, truly, blown away by repetition and the cornucopia of awesome effects  that poets, through the ages, have been able to achieve with this remarkable, multifaceted and layered  literary device.  What would the breadth of our poetry be, without it?

Sherry: You have reawakened my interest in forms, Wendy. My favourite is the pantoum which, for some reason, comes to me more easily than others.

Wendy: For those poets who are interested in exploring repetition a little more, I highly recommend  the Society of Classical Poets website,
 which features really clear info on how to write classical poetry (Villanelles, Sestinas, Triolets, etc.), most of which are built on the various types of repetition.  On a personal note, I have found, The Society of Classical Poets is very supportive of poets working with classical forms.  

Sherry: Thank you so much for researching this and putting this together for us, Wendy. We poets can get in a rut and forget to challenge ourselves to work a little harder on our poems, challenge ourselves to try forms, whether difficult or easy. You have fired up our engines for 2019, which is coming ever closer - a new year for sharing poetry in this wonderful community. Thank you for the inspiration!

Wendy: Thank you, Sherry, for giving me the opportunity to exercise a few brain cells.  I appreciated  learning a little more about repetition and am intrigued by all the – newly awakened – possibilities it has conferred upon my poetic 'tool kit'. 

Sherry: Me, too! And thank you so much for gathering and sharing this information. We appreciate it so much

Wasn't this a lovely chat, my friends? Are you as motivated as I am, now, to tackle some thorny forms and wrestle them into submission? 

This was our last feature of 2018. Next week I will post a seasonal wish for you to enjoy our down-time however you and your family traditionally do, at this time of year. We will be back January 6th, 2019 (wow!) with the Poetry Pantry, followed by a bright and shiny feature to start the new year off. Do come back and see who we talk to then. (Hint: It is a very well-known poet that somehow I had missed interviewing until now. You won't want to miss it.)

Sunday, December 9, 2018

Poetry Pantry #432

Morning Mist Lifting from a Plowed Field - Brastad, Sweden

Greetings once again, Poets.  I hope everyone is having a good week.  So many signs of holidays around.  One can't help but get in the spirit.  Yesterday when I was walking around in a mall, there was one of the usual Santa Claus set-ups along with a photographer, of course.  I couldn't help but smile though when I saw 5 children (from perhaps age 12 and down) cuddled up with this mall Santa in their seasonal pajamas.  Perhaps this photo will end up on the family's holiday card.

I hope you have all seen (or read about) some joyful things this time of year.  The other night when I took the dogs outside for the last time I saw several deer in the background, perhaps the same kind that will be pulling Santa's sleigh.  And one more share:  I read an NPR article about an Orthodox Jewish man who has been a year-around Santa for about seven years!  Inspiring really.

Be sure to take time to read and comment on Rosemary's Moonlight Musings this week. If you haven't seen it yet, do look at it.  She asks the question, "Are we preaching to the converted?"  What do you think.

Monday, be sure to visit Sherry's Blog of the Week feature in which she talks with one of our regular poets about a particular poetry technique.

Sumana's Midweek Motif this coming Wednesday will be "Peace on Earth."  Definitely a good theme for the season.

And just a reminder, next Sunday will be the last Poetry Pantry of this year before we all go on break for a bit & take time to enjoy the season.

With no delay, let's share poetry.  Link your one poem below.  Stop in and say hello.  Visit the poems of others who link.  See you on the trail.

Friday, December 7, 2018

Moonlight Musings

Are we preaching to the converted?
(And if so, how do we get the message out to others?)

I have seen some wonderful poems lately, many of them by Poets United members, which protest the evils and troubles of the world, poems which make me want to stand up and applaud. In fact, come to think of it, there have always been poems like that – stirring, moving, eloquent … and, in other times and cultures, popular. 

But who reads them here and now? We read each other – as poets always did – but I don’t know that many other people bother. Singers and painters have a better chance of getting a message across to the wider public, I think.

Does it matter? Well yes, I think it does. What is the point of writing impassioned pieces that we wish could influence people – from members of the public to those in authority who might have the power to implement change – if such people never get to see our impassioned pieces? 

Would they be influenced if they did see (or hear) them? Who knows? But it’s worth a try.  If we make someone think, if we plant a seed…. Surely, the more voices raised – and heard – the better. So how do we go about it? 

I’ve noticed with my own writing that the passionate protest poems often date quickly, especially if they refer to specific issues and people. That’s OK, I think. We need to address the particular as well as the broader and more general. As poets, we know that the universal can be brought home with greater impact via the particular. If you want to touch people’s hearts, show them a close-up of one suffering child rather than a sea of faceless victims. (Yes, photography does it instantly, but the principle holds for our pictures made of words.)

Well, if the protest poems are going to have a short shelf life anyway, why bury them in literary magazines? There might be a long wait for busy editors to even see the work; it might not get published anyway; and if it does, it will mostly reach people of similar mind already – people who would read a particular publication in the expectation it would publish material of a certain slant.

So, write other wonderful pieces on other topics, and submit them to the journals and anthologies, if you want to take care of your poetic reputation! That frees up the protest poems (or whatever one might label them – some will be calls to action, others cries of despair, some perhaps even hopeful; but I need a blanket term and hope this will do) to be used where they’ll be seen by a wider audience. Hopefully. Maybe. I think we’re going have to get creative about how to disseminate them.

Would your local politician (or his/her secretary) like to see a poem in the email instead of the usual petition … or alongside it? How many of you have participated in Poem in Your Pocket Day, where you carry poems around and give them away to people, even unsuspecting strangers? I have, and the surprised recipients are always pleased. I suppose a poem of a different opinion from a targeted politician’s might not get the same delighted response; but one could always try for humour, or even incredible beauty. I can think of Poets United members who write of terrible things in beautiful lyricism which cuts to the heart because of its beauty.

Then there’s ‘the general public’, which is made up of individuals of course. We could implement the ‘poem in a pocket’ idea every day, making them the kind of poems we hope might sway people. We needn’t even hand them out. Instead, we could pin them to public notice-boards. We could leave them on cafĂ© tables, stick them under the windscreen wipers of parked cars…. Maybe all of the above?

And what about busking? I expect the rappers already do that. Organised readings, even slams, seem a bit like literary journals – audience already favourably disposed. Nothing wrong with that; how wonderful to have enthusiastic audiences! But to change the tide of opinion might take something more. It seems to me to need a different kind of venue. A shopping mall, perhaps, rather than a stage?

Australian fantasy novelist Isobelle Carmody frequently stands in public places holding up a large placard criticising our Government’s treatment of asylum seekers who come by boat. It’s one thing to have a ‘no admittance’ policy; it’s another to treat people cruelly during years – yes, years –  of waiting for ‘processing’. Isobelle decided to bear witness. I think it’s an incredibly brave act! Note that, although she's not a poet, she is  a writer and is using her own written words to make this protest. People do stop to read, and mostly approve. She has inspired other Australians to do the same. Perhaps one could, similarly, hold up a poem that tells the hard truths?

We might send poems to mainstream newspapers if they have a poetry corner, or as Letters to the Editor if they don’t. Either way, that readership is wide and varied. Er, well, it was. Now it is falling, and newspapers are folding, being replaced by online versions. 

Which brings me to social media. I confess I’m a bit behind the times. Oh, I have the blogs, as every PU member does. And I use facebook, as many of us do too. But although I have a twitter account, and am also on Google+ because Google makes it hard not to be, I seldom use either. Instagram and such remain mysteries. How do people find the time??? And does this get the message out anyway? Given that social media depend on creating circles of ‘friends’ who are usually like-minded, and blogs also are read by those who like what we say, I don’t think this counts as changing people’s views!

Luckily, other options are open to us, in addition to poetry. No reason we can't have it both ways. We can sign the petitions; we can email our politicians in prose rather than verse (or as well as); we can write letters to the editors of those newspapers still surviving, in eloquent words of either verse or prose.

It’s easy to despair about the current state of the world – environmentally, politically, economically…. Maybe all our efforts won’t be enough to save it. The prospects sure don’t look good! But still, might as well do something. Might as well do many things, if we can manage it: at least some of the above.  If we are writing protests anyway, why not try and make them as effective as we can?

Will I myself do any of these things? Much as I admire Isobelle’s (literal) stance, I won’t do that. (Might if I was younger. I’d probably try and organise a few other poets to do it with me.) The rest? In writing this, I’ve given myself some possibilities to think about. I’d be willing to put into practice most or all of my own ideas, yes. First, I’d need to actually write some protest poems myself! It’s been a long time. Perhaps that in itself is a sign of deep despair – and, however valid it may seem, despair is not a good place to live. Meanwhile, I could ask poet friends who have written such pieces for permission to use theirs. Perhaps we need to revive the political pamphlets of centuries past!

What do you think? Can we use our poetry to reach more people? Would it do any good? Are there other ways I haven’t thought of? Am I simply being incredibly naive? Is this not the business of poetry anyhow?

(Images: public domain.)

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