“Poetry is dead.”
Dead my ass.
Poetry never died
just the poets
and even back when the genre
was hot
only a handful broke the mold.
In bed reading Prose. and thinking about the famous phrase, whether used bitterly
or
ironically for gain
-Poetry is Dead-
Lying here in bed
reading some damn good
poetry by "unknowns"
lying here minutes from Mexico
the mountains out the window
cold and bright with sun
at their peaks
the sound of the street coming
alive with tourists
thoughts of coffee
of poetry
the new poets
reaching for me
touching me
through a screen
on a phone
bookstores down there still
sold out of Cummings,
Eliot, Plath, Neruda, Frost.
Bukowski's corpse still raking
it in.
The magazines and online
presences of poetry
the new blood I read
on Prose.
The novelists, scribblers, story tellers, bloggers, beginners, professionals, old and salty writers pervasive across genres,
and,
yes,
the poetry:
as alive as it ever was
or more.
new writers
cropping up
with just as much
to say as the heroes
or more.
the mountains
out there
breaking through
the low clouds
reaching through
haze
to touch
new
light.
Too Young For Nightmares.
I am not fond of stories that tell of intense pain and suffering. I have always found these matters quite repulsive and upsetting, and such extreme negativity kills the creative flow and stifles my imagination. Nonetheless I have been tagged in this challenge, so I will try as best I can.
The following tale is a true story, it happened at a very early stage of my development, at a time when I was perhaps most impressionable. It is not difficult for me to recall these events, though it may prove difficult for others to read of them.
My mother was on her own now as my father had departed the family some months prior, leaving her to provide for myself and for her. It was a testing time for us both back then.
The year was 1958, and Liverpool was slowly getting back on its feet after the devastating effects of the war. I was very young, just six years old and had few friends other than the kids that lived on the same street. It was an old terraced row of workers houses, back to back and side to side, and what little there was of play areas for us kids was thin on the ground, so we made do with what we had.
Kids just do not see ghettos, or poverty because kids are too busy having a good time to notice such things. We could learn a lot from kids if we only tried. Kids don't see skin colour, or infirmity, or ugliness, kids are kids, shame they have to grow up huh?
Anyway, one day my mother found herself a job working in a small cafe in Liverpool centre, I believe it was called the Kardoma Cafe, though my spelling may be a bit hazy here. She and I would travel by bus to the city centre where she worked, and she would deposit my innocent self in an all day cinema were I would quite happily watch the Three Stooges and whatever cartoons were being shown. Later, when she finished her shift she would pick me up and we'd head back homewards, her cheery and smiling and me bubbling over with tales of what I'd seen. This routine went on for several weeks until that fateful day that would change me forever.
The day dawned as usual and while mother was upstairs getting ready for her shift, I was downstairs and looking forward to my movie matinee, as I always do (and still do to this day, I love the movies). She came downstairs and we departed to catch the bus.
I remember the very movie I was watching.
It was a documentary on sea life and in colour too. I was sat alone in a row of seats totally absorbed in the magic that played out on the screen, and did not notice that a man had come and sat beside me.
Some minutes after he sat down, this man who I had never seen before turned to me and said those words I will never forget;
'You want to do a job for me son and earn some money?'
I was not at all afraid because in those days grownups were to be trusted, so I said 'Yes'.
He took my hand in his and led me out of the cinema, and onto a bus that went a short distance to where he lived, I followed him and trusted him implicitly. We arrived at a three story building and went inside.
It was dusty and dimly lit, he led into a room and closed the door behind him. The room was quite poorly lit with just a single window that had been mostly hidden behind curtains. There was a bed to the side and a chest of drawers and that was about it, apart from something I had never seen before, it sat atop the chest of drawers and was like a small box with a glass front.
'What's your name?' he asked, I told him my name was Steve.
'Do you like that?' he asked, referring to the strange box that I was staring at.
I asked him what it was and he said it was a television. Now I had never heard the word television before so I still was none the wiser.
'Steve - take your clothes off'
I thought to myself that that was a very strange request, but I could see no wrong in it, so I did as he asked. The thing is, he had taken his clothes off also, and stood before me as naked as the day he was born. Now, I had never seen a naked man before, so I didn't really know how to react, but I do recall starting to feel a little scared at this point.
Well, at this point in the tale I feel I would rather not go into the detail of what followed, as you all are no doubt well aware of paedophiles and the sickly trade that they ply.
But, when he had finished, he took me back to my seat in the cinema and left me there unharmed, on the outside at least.
My mother duly picked me up at her shifts end, and failed to notice the change in her son, who was now silent and fearful.
That's my story.
Problems -sigh
I think I have a problem -
I am addicted to Prose
I find myself waking earlier every morning just to read what everyone wrote while I was dreaming. But I am afraid, I didn't wake up early enough to read everything that was posted last night. So with a sad heart I shall go to work. Thinking of all the wonderful stories that I haven't read. Watching every minute until I can be free to read. So be patient with me. I will get through it all eventually. I suppose I will have to start waking up even earlier as our community grows. Because there is no cure for the addiction of Prose.
To be me
She cries her self asleep each night, not out loud, but silently.... Not on the outside on the inside. She does not want to show weakness, but it claws inside her... Me afraid to Step up to my family for who I want to be... what life i want to chose the path in my road I want to take. What beliefs I want to believe. I fear to disappoint them.... My flaw I put others more then myself..... For now one of My fear is to be myself—Terra
