Dark and Light

Tags

amreading, amwriting, dark, despair, Flash Poesy, hope, light, poetry, writerscommunity

Dark and Light

The morning was dark as night

the evening bright, as the moon,

stars, and constellations

illuminated my path

There is light among the darkness

and shadows of darkness in light

The magic is to find the beam of hope

whether it’s daytime or night.

©S.E.Sanders 2020

Advertisement

I’m at Center Stage having a chat with author Mick Rose

Tags

anthology, blog post, Books, Center Stage, chat, crime writer, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Interview, Mick Rose, Newsfeed, poetry, short stories

 

 

 

I’m delighted and honoured to be at author Mick Rose s Center Stage. Thank you very much, Mick, for all your hard work. I thoroughly enjoyed our chat. 🙂

Here’s the link :

https://centerstagewithmickrose.weebly.com/home/category/amazon-author-sebnem-e-sanders-ripples-on-the-pond?fbclid=IwAR3C6J0KqV3n8-ImEOAXwHdYX4pq0XPYHWjg_2Z3Xqta2o6_nL6oMhIQmPQ

 

Thank you very much for reading. 🙂

 

 

Bibliophile, Word-Lover & iPhone photographer Douglas Cronk

Tags

amreading, amwriting, art-lover, Bibliophile, blog post, Center Stage by Mick Rose, Facebook, Flash Fiction, Interview, Literature, photographer, poetry, Read or Die, Word-lover

 

Below is the link to an entertaining Blog Post by fellow author, Mick Rose at Center Stage where he has interviewed Douglas Cronk, whose shares on Facebook bring writers, poets, and readers together on his profile page and at his literary group, Read or Die

Not only does Douglas Cronk share the written word from all over the world, but he also posts amazing shots of Florida sunrises and artworks which brighten up his pages.

Blessings and cheers to Douglas Cronk, the Patron Saint of Literature and Arts.

Thanks for reading. 🙂

The link:

https://centerstagewithmickrose.weebly.com/home/bibliophile-word-lover-iphone-photographer-douglas-cronk

 

            

Florida Sunrise by Douglas Cronk

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Easter! ************************* [in Just-] by E. E. Cummings

Tags

e.e.cummings, Easter, Easter Egg by Limoges, eggs, fertility, Happy Easter, poetry, prosperity, spring

 

 

 Easter Egg by Limoges

[in Just-]

By E. E. Cummings

in Just-

spring          when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles          far          and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it’s

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far          and             wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it’s

spring

and

         the

                  goat-footed

balloonMan          whistles

far

and

wee

 

 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47247/in-just

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/e-e-cummings

Easter Eggs Various

 

 

 

 

 

 

—The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock — by T. S. Eliot for World Poetry Day

Tags

poetry, T. S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, world poetry day

Keystone Pictures USA / Alamy Stock Photo

 

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

By T. S. Eliot

 

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats	5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….	10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,	15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,	20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;	25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;	30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go	35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—	40
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare	45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,	50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—	55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?	60
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress	65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin? .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets	70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!	75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?	80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,	85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,	90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—	95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,	100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:	105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.” .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .	110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,	115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …	120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.	125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown	130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

 

 

Source: Collected Poems 1909-1962 (1963)

http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/44212/the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock

 

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/t-s-eliot

Future Love

Tags

awareness, dreams, feelings, Flash Fiction, future, heritage, humanity's future, learning, love, poetry, robots, secret

My take on the Prompt-Love from last week’s Flash Fiction competition at Scribblers.

 

Young Girl Seated

Amedeo Modigliani

Date: 1918; Paris, France

 

Aurora stepped into the library and began to peruse the aisle market Classics. In 2118, paper books were only found in libraries. She liked to feel them, and turn the pages, instead of swiping the arrows on her digital appliance. The old worldly smell of the books fascinated her, and as she flipped through the yellowed pages, she wondered how many pairs of eyes must have read the words printed on these ancient tomes.

The title of the book said Sonnets, rhyming words that sounded like a lullaby. One word kept re-appearing, love, something she had to find out about.

The robot librarian approached her and scanned the tablet in his hand. “Aurora Ellis, your preferences show you’re into sports and inter-galactic thrillers. You must be in the wrong section. I’ll guide you to your favourites, away from these dusty antiques.”

Aurora fluttered her eyelids. “I’m doing a research on this ancient concept called poetry.” She pulled out her tablet from her backpack and showed the robot her assignment, signed by her instructor, Mr Shelby.

The robot studied the validation and replied in his monotone electronic voice. “I see. If you need any more help, I’ll be around.”

Aurora took a deep breath and silently thanked Basil, her classmate, for hacking into the school system to create a false assignment.

Love was a word from her recurring dreams that had begun to haunt her. It wasn’t a concept learned at home or taught at school. Mr Shelby talked about the poets from ancient times and how they composed an arrangement of words in a certain rhythm. Musical, with a set measure, that somehow stayed in her memory, like the lyrics of songs she heard on old recordings.

Why was love so important then, and not so, now? What was the difference between like and love? Aurora liked her friends, her parents, the books she read, and the games she played with or without her classmates. Did she like them all the same? She decided some were stronger. She liked her parents more than those of her friends’, and her friend, Alma, more than the other girls. Basil was her favourite among the boys.

She scanned the shelves and found a book titled Famous Quotations, inside which there was a section called Quotations on Love. She took the book to a table and began to read.

“Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips. – Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Bound”
“We love the things we love for what they are. —Robert Frost, Hyla Brook ”

Aurora read for a couple of hours, trying to memorize the quotes and copying the longer ones onto her tablet. When she left the library, her head was full of love. Yet, she had to experience the warmth, the spark and the feelings the ancients talked about. Someone had said, “Love is the most profound human feeling.”

She ran to Basil’s house, and once inside his room, she quoted: “You are my North, my South, my East and West, my working week and my Sunday rest.” ¹

“What, are you mad?” Basil said, rolling his eyes.

“I’m quoting from W.H. Auden.”

“You’ve been reading too much poetry. Get real!”

“I am real. I love you, Basil,” she said and planted a kiss on his cheek.

Basil pulled back and blushed. She could see the spark in his eyes and feel the warmth that spread throughout the room. Aurora giggled and rushed home.

Her mother met her at the door. “Where have you been, Aurora? You’re late.”

“I was at the Library, Mum. Reading.” Aurora wrapped her arms around her and whispered in her ear. “I love you, Mummy.” Her mother patted her back, lifted her chin, and looked into her eyes. Teardrops landed on Aurora’s face.

“I knew you’d find it, ” she said. “It’s our secret.”

Aurora experimented the power of love on her best friend, her pets, and on her father the following day. The results were the same. Sparks in their eyes, warmth and comfort. They shared her secret. She remembered a quote from The Little Prince. The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched, they are felt with the heart. ²

No wonder the Leaders were trying to turn humans into robots. They were afraid of the power of love, but they didn’t know humans carried it in their hearts since the beginning of time, regardless of restrictions, and shared it only with the ones they loved. Shakespeare was right.

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark… ³

Aurora dreamt of love at night and the quotes that would guide her throughout her life. The secret she would pass on to the next generations for the most profound feeling humans are capable of experiencing.

 

References:
¹ The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
² W.H. Auden, “Stop All the Clocks”
³ Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare

Love Poems by Nazım Hikmet – Happy Valentine’s Day !

Tags

Love Poems, Nazım Hikmet, poetry, Valentine's Day

 

 

 

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/nazim-hikmet

Happy Winter Solstice, Season’s Greetings and Happy New Year! The Pomegranate Tree

Tags

awareness, Flash Poesy, new year, oneness, poetry, pomegranate tree, prosperity, Season's Greetings

Something from the past!

sebnemsanders

The Pomegranate Tree

The crimson blossoms of

the pomegranate tree in springtime,

turn into magical red globes during summer,

giving us ample fruit with sparkling ruby seeds inside.

A treasure within a treasure,

a chest within a chest,

one that contains many,

each seed from the heavens,

a sacred gift of Mother Nature,

heralding prosperity, nourishment, and health.

Let’s tie many coloured ribbons on the tree of plenty

and make wishes for happiness, peace and oneness.

Although Saint Nicholas has his home in these lands,

he’s busy carrying gifts to other children around the world,

but will be here on the 31st to celebrate

New Year’s Eve.

Let’s hope our tree will attract

 the birds and creatures upon Gaia and

when the gathering is complete,

with a full audience,

we’ll crack the pomegranates on the ground,

spreading prosperity around the globe,

to all the children and people of the world.

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Bob Dylan wins 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature

Tags

bob dylan, lyrics, nobel prize for literature 2016, poetry, protest songs, visionary

A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”

Oh, where have you been, my blue eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a gonna fall

Oh, what did you see, my blue eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a gonna fall

And what did you hear, my blue eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin’
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a blazin’
Heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a gonna fall

Oh, who did you meet, my blue eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded with hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a gonna fall

Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue eyed son?
Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a gonna fall

Cleopatra’s Island

Tags

amreading, amwriting, Cedar Island, Cedrae Island, Cleopatra Island, eternity, Flash Poesy, golden sand, Honeymoon, love, Mark Antony, Marmaris, poetry, Sedir Adası, Southern Aegean, the kiss

Cedar Island, Cedrae Island, Sedir Adası, Marmaris, Muğla, Turkey

The features of the sand is that each grain is equally 1 mm in diameter, burns when thrown in fire, multiples by itself in soda water, and shows spontaneous proliferation when you look at it under the magnifying glass. Indeed, the only other region of the world where this sand can be found is in the Red Sea.

https://keremkaraer.wordpress.com/places-visit/cedar-island/

 

The sands of Cleopatra’s Beach
glitter like gold
under the rays of the amber sun
Each grain, a perfect sphere,
Antony shipped all the way from
Egypt to Cedar Island in the Aegean
for their honeymoon
The specks of her Tiger’s Eye gaze,
reflecting the shimmer,
she beams and hints her approval

Yellow mimosa buds peeking between
the delicate leaves of the acacia trees on the hills
recall the scene under the cerulean sky,
and how she listened to the songs
of the flaxen wheat right before harvest,
coming from the mainland.

She strokes his sun-streaked hair and
gazes into his honey-coloured eyes.
A kiss, a promise of eternity falls into the sea
The golden moon rising behind the hills,
beholds the view and vows,
giving life to the sand forever,
to carry their story into the future.