Ryan comes to us from New York ...

writing in his own inimitable way, bringing us something to ponder today.

A Veil

Heavy feet assist muck

Drowning heels, which once

spread haste across Rock Glade

And drank from bathwater

tepid, of course, a preference

Sight becomes sunset

Dropping past etchings

of many artists' depictions

Giving me double-visions

even now, in remembrance

Extending appendages

to grasp sanded mug

Which holds the elements required

by both oceans and thirsts

Becomes my weakest attempt

Last words, true to form

Are still written, 

If not on pages, at least branded

into the outsetting walls

of my mind

Go check him out.

Today we have Jess, a remarkable young lady from the U.K.

with a particularly pertinent perspective on the class system in schools and universities in the United Kingdom.  She can be found here:    

http://allpoetry.com/EternitysLastWish

Monotony

You shouldn't lift a finger to people who are

better than you, so you don't.

This is the drill we know, the routine they expect.

Just scurrying past the cast-iron gates leaves me dry-mouthed.

They line the pavements,

dominant males roosting at the bus stop, hands on the smalls

of the female backs. Filthy yet so clean.

Clack, clack, clack in my bedraggled skirt. 

A big white starry jacket. The zip's stuck.

They erode your dignity slowly, as they notice these things.

"Where do you shop?" hollow laughter.

Empty vessels, "where do you shop?"

you want to ask why their tongue has more power than

their mind, but you don't.

"Charity handouts?"

Clink, clink, clink, you've paid for this.

A swish of perfect hair

clucking at the scraggy ravens on the opposite side of the road.

Tottering along a sacred pavement, thighs hugged together by firm 

pressed black

pull it down over the knees when the organ starts.

Long hours, straight backed, uttering

breathless litanies of words

they will never understand.

One girl even fainted.

Talk of Oxbridge, aren't they. 

They pick their way past you, a breeze of refined

masculinity. Snap.

You can smell it on their starched white collars,

smell it on their necks.

Be sure to check her out using the link above.

Vera Rich hails from England. She is the Editor of Manifold Magazine of New Poetry ...

"All God's Children"...

“A coin for Charon, new shoes for the road.”

So, the Museum guide says, Romans blessed

Their dead away. “Sound logic”, he opines,

“For those whose Empire’s heart was the Golden Milestone!”

(Though Merlin, Otherworldly wise, knew better:

The rough-spliced sandal-strap would serve the boy

An hour and all eternity…)

 

But Christians need no offering of shoes;

(Angels in icons glide on stocking-feet),

Dante through death’s three kingdoms, Bedford John,

Or Inkling Jack – none (if my memory serves)

Speaks of the Pilgrim’s need for sturdy footwear.

Only the barefoot dream a well-shod heaven;

Plantation slaves hymned golden slippers; prattling

Of scarlet boots, Avvakum’s young disciples

Joyfully leapt into the fire…

 

Yet, viewing Roman death-shoes (simulated

From nailmarks in the clay) my mind returns

To the dead of Kurapaty – Windflower Hill –

Where beneath pines, among the bones and bullets,

So many shoes survived the march to death,

So many to be listed: peasant “walkers”,

Gumboots made from old tyres, elegant

Feminine pantoufles, sturdy city lace-ups,

A gym-shoe trademarked “Riga”… Cleaned and counted,

Not for museums (“Footwear, nineteen-thirties,

Mid-Stalin-era”), not to identify

The dead by name (though some, they say, have found

Relics there of their kin) only to seek

Not who they were,  but what, what kind, what genus

Of people perished there… And toiling through

My long translation-task, and coining terms

Where English had none, I found but one answer:

Peasant and scholar, poet, clerk and worker –

All trades, all grades of life lie in those finds

Of lasting leather… Do not send to find

For whom the bell tolls, Master Donne; ask rather

Whom the shoe fits! For snugly it fits thee,

And him and her and ye… and, likewise, me…

Previously published  Manifold, No.39, 2001

Author’s notes:

PLEASE EXCUSE THIS LONG EXPLANATION - but the subject and some of the allusions may not be familiar to all members - though I presume that that Stalin's purges are -alas -sufficiently well-known.

This poem refers, in particular, to the mass-murder of up to 200,000 victims, shot at Kurapaty ("Windflower Hill") just outside Minsk, capital of Belarus, during the Stalin purges of 1937-41.

The burial site was discovered and excavated during the final years of the Soviet Union, and although the Soviet authorities (even then, in spite of the new official policy of glasnost - "openness"!)tried to claim that the killings dated from WWII and that the Nazis were responsible, the archaeological evidence (as well as some personal testimonies of old people who, as children, had lived near the site) overwhelmingly confirmed the earlier date!

The victims' clothes had for the most part rotted - but metal fastenings and trimmings and anything made from rubber or leather (in particular, shoes) had lasted, and was subjected to thorough archaeological/forensic study. It was my task to translate the Belarusian investigators' report into English.

Most of the "literary" and historical allusions in the poem will, I think, be familiar to the majority of Allpoetry readers:
However, in case some are not, I should, however, perhaps remind you that
"Jack" (C.S) Lewis - member of the famous Oxford "Inklings" literary group - wrote a religious-allegorical work "The Pilgim's Regress" - a kind of modern and personal answer to the "Pilgrim's Progress" of John Bunyan ("Bedford John");


Also, I should perhaps mention that during the 17th century Great Schism in the Russian Orthodox Church, the Arch-Priest Avvakum was one of the leading figures among the "Old Believers", many of whom, including small children, voluntarily burned themselves to death;

and a Welsh legend tells how Merlin saw a young lad spend his money on sweetmeats instead of getting his sandal repaired - and when a bystander criticised the lad, Merlin said that the knotted strap would last "long enough" - foreseeing that within an hour the lad would fall into the river and drown.

The title of this poem (as you will probably recognize) comes from the traditional Afro-American "spiritual" "I've gotta shoes, you've gotta shoes, all God's children's got shoes" (I ask pardon of Afro-Americans if I have not transcribed their demotic correctly!)

and Dante and John Donne surely need no explanation!

From Delaware, wbiro with something relevant ...

to what we intrinsically are:  poets and writers, and those who appreciate them. He can be found here:

http://allpoetry.com/wbiro

What an Artist Does

Throwing fate to the zealous zephyrs an artist does, though rarely supported and though the artist’s life crumbles about from neglecting life's practical bouts there is ever one last word to write one last intriguing scene to paint one last soaring note to compose- for that is what an artist does.   Where an artist did, an artist was though forever disdained by family and friends who never perceived an artist at all- just an impractical spirit engaging in what they had desired for themselves, and thus are challenged to acknowledge it…   Sad, every ten people should have at least one artist that they all support; but alas jealousy and nature being what it is, not to mention their idea of what an artist is corrupted by shallow sensationalism has thus far prevented us from such a culture…   So what becomes of an artist’s life? the message is as clear as the art itself- tossed to the winds, crumbling to dust, it does not matter when an artist has done what an artist does.   What then, when neatly shuttled away and shorn of the tools an artist uses, is an artist to do what an artist does? It does not matter, an artist does what artists will do with whatever's at hand  wherever the artist is…   Perhaps it is a mystery of the heart sharing and expressing vision and thought; perhaps it is contained in the artist’s eyes that spreads through those who’ve been touched by the artist who does what an artist does.   For individual glory an artist does not, as a speck in society an artist does; painting a mural on the wall of souls encountered, remembered, touched, forgotten yet living in what the artist does.   There is always one, last magical touch left in an artist’s fingers and soul though reduced to sculpting mashed potatoes- because an artist will do what an artist does.   I thank the Lord for allowing my family for tolerating what this artist has been, for when the creative spirit frolics free the artist is not mindful of practicality quite the way the others will be- therein lies to price that is paid for an artist to do what an artist does.   Never losing the twinkle in the eye, always seeing the world in ways that defy the imaginations of more practical minds- though set low on the rungs of social strata because their lives are strewn in disarray artists will do what artists do just because they've been shaped that way…   Even as I write, life conspires to pull me away from this unwritten page, from the virgin canvas begging a scene, from the musical staves that shout in silence for thoughts emotions, ecstasies, pain, for visions and paths not yet imagined... and yet I do what an artist does at a sacrifice to myself and those in my life- so I do understand, and thank them for their silent support as this artist does what an artist does.   On a lighter note, for one can take only so much sober, solemn fare- an artist does funny things to one's hair…   So if those close are having a challenge perceiving you as the artist you are- just light up their lives with some artist’s hair… they will then understand that an artist will do whatever it is an artist does without further questions, though with reserved stares…   Yes, you may eventually be locked away, but they’ll always come around to see what you've done as you do that which an artist will do as a yet-living artist who still actively does…   Now with your new-found artist’s hair you’ve created new-found expectations- all art-bound, which is great for you- as you inevitably do what an artist does with whatever you have at your disposal- be it knives and spoons, or mashed potatoes, or bed sheets, brooms, carts, tray tables… an artist’s palette is never bare when an artist is doing what an artist does...   Well, I have just fifteen more minutes to continue doing what an artist does, then Practicality will haul me away thinking I’ll hold off being an artist for another day… little does it know how an artist does the creative little things that an artist does at whatever life-sustaining task the artist must do that seemingly takes away the creative time in which an artist does what an artist will do- for no one is just an artist alone, isolated, creating within a box- as life seeps in, art comes out in the creations that result from what an artist will do.   So time ticks on, bringing an end to this end-result of what an artist does… I bid thee adieu, my artist friend, next time we meet it will be in a place where artists are doing what an artist does.   Check him out.

from British Columbia comes Regis Auffray ...

with some homespun truths.   You can find him here:

http://www.authorsden.com/regisjauffray

In Her Sunday Best

                                          

          ©Regis Auffray

                                         

There she is in her Sunday 

best blue dress 

she said she was 

saving for a special day

At last she's wearing it 

though she did not put it on 

herself 

They've closed her blue eyes 

blue like the dress 

she never wore 

blue like the sea 

she never saw 

Sleeping there 

in her velvet-lined skiff 

She'll float away 

across the bright gravestones 

like whitecaps 

in the sun of August 

towards the infinite sea 

of the sky

In his own words:

Regis Auffray came to Earth in Peace River, Alberta, Canada. He gives credit for that to his parents who had just come over from Brittany, France. He is of Celtic descent. Bretons are not of "French" ancestry thus, as far as he is concerned, not French although at least one of his siblings disagrees. But he loves all nationalities and origins of people. He is convinced that "compassion" is the answer to all of this gem of a planet's problems. He admits that he just does not have a clue how to make it happen. His first language is French but he learned English when his family moved to a town 100 kilometers (60 miles) east of Vancouver, British Columbia. The first poem he can remember writing was in grade 9 in English class. It rhymed and had the proper rhythm. His English teacher thought it was good and encouraged him to continue to write. (Thank you, Mr. Stolee). Regis is a graduate of the University of British Columbia with an Education Degree majoring in French and English.  He has also done some post graduate work in counseling psychology.  He is an educator in a senior high school. He has been greatly influenced by the romantic poets and the symbolists (in French) but many others - Baudelaire, Verlaine, Rimbaud, Lamartine, Frost, Keats, Dickinson, and so many others who don't come to mind at the moment. He says that he appreciates this site because it has allowed him to share with others what is in his soul and he has made new friends whom he greatly values. He thanks all of you who take the time to read and to comment on his creative endeavors.

Be sure to drop by and check him out.