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Meeting Blake

November light, low and strong shadowing the room
leaving a blue haze around the room
reading in bed, books everywhere
when do I stop this game: consumption of books
when should I give reign to imagination
in front of me thousands of poems that
distract the soul, leaving me without purpose
more imagination, less meticulous attention
smoking the hours away, dawdling time
I wanted to write a poem. I lacked the courage
an epic breathless like Jerusalem
from a distance I saw a figure dressed in black
white collar, eyes wide shining like diamonds unmoving.
He saw me correcting my hand
with reassuring smile said: ‘Fire thy Imagination’

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There Is A Time To Write A Poem


There is a time to write a poem
It is anytime the soul is waiting to be said-
It is anytime the deepest feeling must be expressed-
It is anytime the words come before they are written down-
It is any time of intense holiness,
Of deepest love in words-

There is a time to write a poem
When the whole of one's being hears a song that must be said.

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I Wanted A Poem In The Early Morning-Even Before The Darkness Had Gone


I wanted a poem in the early morning
Even before the darkness had gone-
I wanted to hear words
That meant music
That said I was alive and could write-
I wanted a poem in the early morning
So that I could be justified
For the rest of the day-
Time and again I have written that poem
I write it now -
How wonderful when it flows as if it is real
I may never know that it is
But in writing it, thank God, I feel alive and blessed

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It Is Time To Write A Poem For My Soul


It is time to write a poem for my soul-
To wake it up a bit this morning
So many errands have been done
So much walking and looking and buying and bringing
So much cleaning and eating and drinking
So many many physical things-

It is time to write a poem for my soul
And wake up a bit this morning
And come back to who I really am
When I feel I really am-

Writing a poem gives me my soul back-
And writing this I come home to who I am-

A poem is my soul
And I am writing it now.

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I Wanted A Poem Greater Than The One I Had


I wanted a poem greater than the one I had
I tried again and again to write it-
I could only write the poem I am
It was not all I wanted it to be-
It is here now in these lines
Simple and clear and superficial and me.

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I Wanted A Poem/But There Was No Poetry In Me


I wanted a poem
But there was no poetry in me
I said to myself from outside,
Write the feeling of a song'
But I had no song within me-

Poetry did not flow
No music moved me
I was alone with a Mind
That had no heart or song-

And then I writing
Simply tried to listen to myself
And what I heard
Was these awkward non- poetic lines
That make a poem
Which is not true poetry
And yet here now
proclaims its own rhythm as this page.

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It Is Time To Write Another Kind Of Poetry


It is time to write another kind of poetry-
To leave behind the self-reflection
The poems on the poet the poem and the poetry -

It is time to rediscover that the world is rich in unsaid dreams
And the poet must see too the beauty of what has been unsaid before
And what has been said many times before -

It is time to write another kind of poetry
And to leave myself as poet subject behind-

I have not yet done this here
But tomorrow and the next day perhaps
There will be other worlds.

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Is There Time For A Poem?

Is there time for a poem
In a world of other sounds?
Is there time for a poem
When songs cannot be heard?
Is there time for a poem
In a time when fear is everywhere?
Is there time for a poem
When no one knows the way to help?
Is there time for a poem
In the darkest time, in the time of no way out?

Is there time for a poem
Any time a person alone
Cannot dare to breathe their own Name
Against the silence of the night?

Is there time for a poem now
When all is so light and bright
There is nothing not even evil to fear
And all the world is singing and saying words of beauty?

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A Time To Write About Time

how do you write time? as simple as asking what time is it?
and then you look at your watch and say
without much thinking about how time passed swiftly and how
it affected you leaving you another lock of white hair
and sense of nostagia of
i am left out here and i have done nothing about the passing of time

it is 8: 17 in the morning, you hear some roosters still cocking out
their maleness to the hens laying their eggs in the warmth of their
quest for more of them

scrambled eggs and scratches on the grass for food

now finally i have found time to write about time
for eyes to look into my own eyes for hands to work on my own hands

time swiftly passes by
and i have noticed more wrinkles on my hands, more lines on my
forehead, eyebags, weakened knees, blisters on my feet, sagging cheeks, falling flesh on my arms,

my heart beats faster on the worry of
i have not done well enough and time passed by leaving me away
with this feeling of

there they are on happy faces with children and grandchildren
and birthdays and deaths and graduations and anniversaries

where are we my dear? we are in this house where there are only
two of us left
we are watching tv and this advertisement on milk for old age
and new born babies

how can we relate to the time that i am writing? i sit beside you,
i hug you again (for the nth time of this almost 30 years of being

i turn off the tv, and let the silence be with us again
i hold your hand, and tell you the usual sweetest words
your name, i always say your name
and my name, you always call me by my name

i hold your hand, your head on my shoulder, we sit together
facing the sunset on the sea on the horizon where birds are flying towards their own nests

it is 5: 15 p.m., time is not freezing. it need not stop just like the
way we really want it

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Wanted; a poem

Wanted; a poem
Poem overcome
Trust deficit
Poem provide
Life breath
Poem guiding star
Poem not far
Poem fire
Destroy life's
Dark car.

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I Write Poem

I write poem
the way I think
it should be.

You are here
in my poem.
I have setup
my mind to
pacify you.

If my thought
If my action
And intention
are honest
If I am sincere
No body can
called me flatterer.

In fact
You cannot
blame a poet.
Poet writes poem
watching the
society modem.

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Read poem write poem and poem

Read poem write poem and poem
I know poem is the best
Poem has emotion poem has life
Through poem we can reach
Where we want to reach.

I express myself through poem
Truth is in the poem
And truth is my expression.

Know truth live with truth
Truth is in the poem.
Read poem write poem and poem.

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Write Poem

Write write write
And write poem and write
Till you cross the poem
And to cross the poem
You have to write and write
And write.

Child is here
Moon is here
Here is flower
Here is water
You are here
To write poem
On different color
That give you pleasure
Pleasure is the
Ultimate aim of creature.

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I Wanted A Poem For The Morning

I wanted a poem for the morning
A poem to begin the day with-
A poem which would give my life hope -
I wanted a poem
Which would say I am alive
A good poem a kind poem
A poem which would make others a bit more happy-
And as so often
I wrote a poem
And left it as a question for the longer daylight and
the longer night which also is our life
beyond the morning-

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There Is No Time For A Poem


There is no time for a poem,
The tasks of life demand attention-
Perhaps later in the day
There will come a time
To wait and think and contemplate and dream
And listen
To the poem that has been waiting
And wants to come.

But perhaps not
And today like yesterday
Will be one
In which
There is no time for a poem
And life seems somewhat more empty
And more meaningless.


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I Wanted A Poem To Break The Silence


I wanted a poem
To break the silence
Of my own inner emptiness-

No thought no feeling
Blank inside-

These words too flat and emotionless
Strive to move me back to myself-

But there is nothing in me now
But the waiting to be ‘real’ again-

I am alive now
But I am nothing inside-

Blank words trying to be a poem-

And lines written as if I were only
A slave of the idea
of my being somehow
a writer of Poetry.

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I Wanted A Poem / Which Would Take Me Beyond Myself

I wanted a poem
Which would take me beyond myself
Which would make me feel the Beauty
Of this world
In a new way.

I wanted a poem
Whose music really was of the stars
A poem of the kind
That makes you feel alive
And know what you want
To live for in this world.

I wanted a poem
I would love and believe in
And whenever I walked
Would be with me
To say over and over again.

I wanted you
But you did not want
The poem is someone else’s
And I am alone with my

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I Wanted My Poem To Be A Real Poem


I wanted my poem to be a real poem-
I have read and studied and memorized
So many real poems-
I wanted my poem to be one of them
Which others would read and feel and memorize
And make their own –

We want and we want and we want
And who are we with all our wanting?
Who am I with all my wanting?
One more dreamer
One more ambitious person
One more lover of poems
One more writer of poems
One more wanter of real poems
Who writes this poem
For others
who dream like me
of writing real poems.

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The narrow passage; A blue haze of cigar smoke

Here the boisterous dockers
They play cards
Billiard & Snooker
Some concentrate
The slow moves on Chess
Drink beer
Soda & Water
And blow bubble-gums.
The young Lad, An apprentice in the graving dock
Who's seated in front of a Promiscuous beautiful Lady
Half drunk it seems on a stool
Who exhibits accidentally her new pantie
While moving her skinny legs apart.
The boy's intoxicated
By inhaling the unrestricted cigar smoke
And he heard a ship's horn at the Wharf
By the time the cargo vessl cast off!
He daydreamed that he's sleeping in a luxurious cabbin
With the new panty lady
Until his drunkard Bosun Uncle
Woke him up to go back home!

*[A humble attempt to revisit my swings & roundabouts of sunk bygone seafarer era! Now it's like a forgotten black & white dream, I stranded on Horizon mending my torn sails with a phobia of serious death threats! ]
To oskar & Rahul Atik my fellow Seafarers!

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An Epistle


Master and Sage, greetings and health to thee,
From thy most meek disciple! Deign once more
Endure me at thy feet, enlighten me,
As when upon my boyish head of yore,
Midst the rapt circle gathered round thy knee
Thy sacred vials of learning thou didst pour.
By the large lustre of thy wisdom orbed
Be my black doubts illumined and absorbed.


Oft I recall that golden time when thou,
Born for no second station, heldst with us
The Rabbi's chair, who art priest and bishop now;
And we, the youth of Israel, curious,
Hung on thy counsels, lifted reverent brow
Unto thy sanctity, would fain discuss
With thee our Talmud problems good and evil,
Till startled by the risen stars o'er Seville.


For on the Synagogue's high-pillared porch
Thou didst hold session, till the sudden sun
Beyond day's purple limit dropped his torch.
Then we, as dreamers, woke, to find outrun
Time's rapid sands. The flame that may not scorch,
Our hearts caught from thine eyes, thou Shining One.
I scent not yet sweet lemon-groves in flower,
But I re-breathe the peace of that deep hour.


We kissed the sacred borders of thy gown,
Brow-aureoled with thy blessing, we went forth
Through the hushed byways of the twilight town.
Then in all life but one thing seemed of worth,
To seek, find, love the Truth. She set her crown
Upon thy head, our Master, at thy birth;
She bade thy lips drop honey, fired thine eyes
With the unclouded glow of sun-steeped skies.


Forgive me, if I dwell on that which, viewed
From thy new vantage-ground, must seem a mist
Of error, by auroral youth endued
With alien lustre. Still in me subsist
Those reeking vapors; faith and gratitude
Still lead me to the hand my boy-lips kissed
For benison and guidance. Not in wrath,
Master, but in wise patience, point my path.


For I, thy servant, gather in one sheaf
The venomed shafts of slander, which thy word
Shall shrivel to small dust. If haply grief,
Or momentary pain, I deal, my Lord
Blame not thy servant's zeal, nor be thou deaf
Unto my soul's blind cry for light. Accord-
Pitying my love, if too superb to care
For hate-soiled name-an answer to my prayer.


To me, who, vine to stone, clung close to thee,
The very base of life appeared to quake
When first I knew thee fallen from us, to be
A tower of strength among our foes, to make
'Twixt Jew and Jew deep-cloven enmity.
I have wept gall and blood for thy dear sake.
But now with temperate soul I calmly search
Motive and cause that bound thee to the Church.


Four motives possible therefor I reach-
Ambition, doubt, fear, or mayhap-conviction.
I hear in turn ascribed thee all and each
By ignorant folk who part not truth from fiction.
But I, whom even thyself didst stoop to teach,
May poise the scales, weigh this with that confliction,
Yea, sift the hid grain motive from the dense,
Dusty, eye-blinding chaff of consequence.


Ambition first! I find no fleck thereof
In all thy clean soul. What! could glory, gold,
Or sated senses lure thy lofty love?
No purple cloak to shield thee from the cold,
No jeweled sign to flicker thereabove,
And dazzle men to homage-joys untold
Of spiritual treasure, grace divine,
Alone (so saidst thou) coveting for thine!


I saw thee mount with deprecating air,
Step after step, unto our Jewish throne
Of supreme dignity, the Rabbi's chair;
Shrinking from public honors thrust upon
Thy meek desert, regretting even there
The placid habit of thy life foregone;
Silence obscure, vast peace and austere days
Passed in wise contemplation, prayer, and praise.


One less than thou had ne'er known such regret.
How must thou suffer, who so lov'st the shade,
In Fame's full glare, whom one stride more shall set
Upon the Papal seat! I stand dismayed,
Familiar with thy fearful soul, and yet
Half glad, perceiving modest worth repaid
Even by the Christians! Could thy soul deflect?
No, no, thrice no! Ambition I reject!


Next doubt. Could doubt have swayed thee, then I ask,
How enters doubt within the soul of man?
Is it a door that opens, or a mask
That falls? and Truth's resplendent face we scan.
Nay, 't is a creeping, small, blind worm, whose task
Is gnawing at Faith's base; the whole vast plan
Rots, crumbles, eaten inch by inch within,
And on its ruins falsehood springs and sin.


But thee no doubt confused, no problems vexed.
Thy father's faith for thee proved bright and sweet.
Thou foundst no rite superfluous, no text
Obscure; the path was straight before thy feet.
Till thy baptismal day, thou, unperplexed
By foreign dogma, didst our prayers repeat,
Honor the God of Israel, fast and feast,
Even as thy people's wont, from first to least.


Yes, Doubt I likewise must discard. Not sleek,
Full-faced, erect of head, men walk, when doubt
Writhes at their entrails; pinched and lean of cheek,
With brow pain-branded, thou hadst strayed about
As midst live men a ghost condemned to seek
That soul he may nor live nor die without.
No doubts the font washed from thee, thou didst glide
From creed to creed, complete, sane-souled, clear-eyed.


Thy pardon, Master, if I dare sustain
The thesis thou couldst entertain a fear.
I would but rout thine enemies, who feign
Ignoble impulse prompted thy career.
I will but weigh the chances and make plain
To Envy's self the monstrous jest appear.
Though time, place, circumstance confirmed in seeming,
One word from thee should frustrate all their scheming.


Was Israel glad in Seville on the day
Thou didst renounce him? Then mightst thou indeed
Snap finger at whate'er thy slanderers say.
Lothly must I admit, just then the seed
Of Jacob chanced upon a grievous way.
Still from the wounds of that red year we bleed.
The curse had fallen upon our heads-the sword
Was whetted for the chosen of the Lord.


There where we flourished like a fruitful palm,
We were uprooted, spoiled, lopped limb from limb.
A bolt undreamed of out of heavens calm,
So cracked our doom. We were destroyed by him
Whose hand since childhood we had clasped. With balm
Our head had been anointed, at the brim
Our cup ran over-now our day was done,
Our blood flowed free as water in the sun.


Midst the four thousand of our tribe who held
Glad homes in Seville, never a one was spared,
Some slaughtered at their hearthstones, some expelled
To Moorish slavery. Cunningly ensnared,
Baited and trapped were we; their fierce monks yelled
And thundered from our Synagogues, while flared
The Cross above the Ark. Ah, happiest they
Who fell unconquered martyrs on that day!


For some (I write it with flushed cheek, bowed head),
Given free choice 'twixt death and shame, chose shame,
Denied the God who visibly had led
Their fathers, pillared in a cloud of flame,
Bathed in baptismal waters, ate the bread
Which is their new Lord's body, took the name
Marranos the Accursed, whom equally
Jew, Moor, and Christian hate, despise, and flee.


Even one no less than an Abarbanel
Prized miserable length of days, above
Integrity of soul. Midst such who fell,
Far be it, however, from my duteous love,
Master, to reckon thee. Thine own lips tell
How fear nor torture thy firm will could move.
How thou midst panic nowise disconcerted,
By Thomas of Aquinas wast converted!


Truly I know no more convincing way
To read so wise an author, than was thine.
When burning Synagogues changed night to day,
And red swords underscored each word and line.
That was a light to read by! Who'd gainsay
Authority so clearly stamped divine?
On this side, death and torture, flame and slaughter,
On that, a harmless wafer and clean water.


Thou couldst not fear extinction for our race;
Though Christian sword and fire from town to town
Flash double bladed lightning to efface
Israel's image-though we bleed, burn, drown
Through Christendom-'t is but a scanty space.
Still are the Asian hills and plains our own,
Still are we lords in Syria, still are free,
Nor doomed to be abolished utterly.


One sole conclusion hence at last I find,
Thou whom ambition, doubt, nor fear could swerve,
Perforce hast been persuaded through the mind,
Proved, tested the new dogmas, found them serve
Thy spirit's needs, left flesh and sense behind,
Accepted without shrinking or reserve,
The trans-substantial bread and wine, the Christ
At whose shrine thine own kin were sacrificed.


Here then the moment comes when I crave light.
All's dark to me. Master, if I be blind,
Thou shalt unseal my lids and bless with sight,
Or groping in the shadows, I shall find
Whether within me or without, dwell night.
Oh cast upon my doubt-bewildered mind
One ray from thy clear heaven of sun-bright faith,
Grieving, not wroth, at what thy servant saith.


Where are the signs fulfilled whereby all men
Should know the Christ? Where is the wide-winged peace
Shielding the lamb within the lion's den?
The freedom broadening with the wars that cease?
Do foes clasp hands in brotherhood again?
Where is the promised garden of increase,
When like a rose the wilderness should bloom?
Earth is a battlefield and Spain a tomb.


Our God of Sabaoth is an awful God
Of lightnings and of vengeance,-Christians say.
Earth trembled, nations perished at his nod;
His Law has yielded to a milder sway.
Theirs is the God of Love whose feet have trod
Our common earth-draw near to him and pray,
Meek-faced, dove-eyed, pure-browed, the Lord of life,
Know him and kneel, else at your throat the knife!


This is the God of Love, whose altars reek
With human blood, who teaches men to hate;
Torture past words, or sins we may not speak
Wrought by his priests behind the convent-grate.
Are his priests false? or are his doctrines weak
That none obeys him? State at war with state,
Church against church-yea, Pope at feud with Pope
In these tossed seas what anchorage for hope?


Not only for the sheep without the fold
Is the knife whetted, who refuse to share
Blessings the shepherd wise doth not withhold
Even from the least among his flock-but there
Midmost the pale, dissensions manifold,
Lamb flaying lamb, fierce sheep that rend and tear.
Master, if thou to thy pride's goal should come,
Where wouldst thou throne-at Avignon or Rome?


I handle burning questions, good my lord,
Such as may kindle fagots, well I wis.
Your Gospel not denies our older Word,
But in a way completes and betters this.
The Law of Love shall supersede the sword,
So runs the promise, but the facts I miss.
Already needs this wretched generation,
A voice divine-a new, third revelation.


Two Popes and their adherents fulminate
Ban against ban, and to the nether hell
Condemn each other, while the nations wait
Their Christ to thunder forth from Heaven, and tell
Who is his rightful Vicar, reinstate
His throne, the hideous discord to dispel.
Where shall I seek, master, while such things be,
Celestial truth, revealed certainty!


Not miracles I doubt, for how dare man,
Chief miracle of life's mystery, say HE KNOWS?
How may he closely secret causes scan,
Who learns not whence he comes nor where he goes?
Like one who walks in sleep a doubtful span
He gropes through all his days, till Death unclose
His cheated eyes and in one blinding gleam,
Wakes, to discern the substance from the dream.


I say not therefore I deny the birth,
The Virgin's motherhood, the resurrection,
Who know not how mine own soul came to earth,
Nor what shall follow death. Man's imperfection
May bound not even in thought the height and girth
Of God's omnipotence; neath his direction
We may approach his essence, but that He
Should dwarf Himself to us-it cannot be!


The God who balances the clouds, who spread
The sky above us like a molten glass,
The God who shut the sea with doors, who laid
The corner-stone of earth, who caused the grass
Spring forth upon the wilderness, and made
The darkness scatter and the night to pass-
That He should clothe Himself with flesh, and move
Midst worms a worm-this, sun, moon, stars disprove.


Help me, O thou who wast my boyhood's guide,
I bend my exile-weary feet to thee,
Teach me the indivisible to divide,
Show me how three are one and One is three!
How Christ to save all men was crucified,
Yet I and mine are damned eternally.
Instruct me, Sage, why Virtue starves alone,
While falsehood step by step ascends the throne.

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Talk To A Frog

Jim got jealous and said,
'Suzy talks to the guy in red.'
John retorted with a fast reply,
'Jim, Suzy would talk a frog,
that's no lie.'
Well, Jim I guess John was right,
I talk to geckos who jump with delight—
right on the top of my hand,
one of course did so land.
Once in a while when I feeling blue
I think of you-and
there you'll be—
a gecko in front of me.
Thanks for visiting me in a gecko form
taking the time to truly transform.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on April 21,2012

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