Failing a Turing Test

Failing a Turing Test is a poem by poet Sean Wright. It was written to honor the victims who died in Orlando and I think it is beautiful. Enjoy.

A Poem about Bums by Hollie Mcnish

I woke up feeling stressed out this morning. My wife tells me to read a poem. I do. It helps.

Bums

People talking every day about
The topic of the year
Is it fun to shake about or just a thing for us to jeer at
Have I seen the videos?
Do I think that they’re ok?
People asking me about bums Everyday"

A Poem about Bums by Hollie Mcnish at Hollie Poetry:

I read a poem this morning. I feel better for it. Thanks Hollie. 

Poetry - Rented Room by Xu Lizhi

The haunting poetry of a Chinese factory worker who committed suicide:

Every time I open the window or the wicker gate

I seem like a dead man

Slowly pushing open the lid of a coffin.

Damn.

A poem for Ferguson

Donald Glover tweeted a poem about Ferguson and race.

“childish gambino is a white rapper”

— childish gambino (@donaldglover) August 14, 2014

i wanna be a white rapper.

— childish gambino (@donaldglover) August 14, 2014

i wanna be so white im the biggest rapper of all time.

— childish gambino (@donaldglover) August 14, 2014

i wanna be so white i can have a number one song with cursing and parents are fine with it.

— childish gambino (@donaldglover) August 14, 2014

Read the whole poem here.

Poetry is powerful. Damn…

Sunday cooking and a poem

I started the day shopping for pork chops. I enjoy shopping early because the market is empty and I do not need to be social, although I did engage in a lively discussion with a woman over the merits of bone in versus boneless pork chops. She made a good point, but I went with the bone in cops.

I cooked 24 pork chops and some smoked sausage on my grill this morning while the mist broke. My grandson and dog played around my feet. Brunch is in a few hours. I know it will be a good time.

I started my day with a poem, which is normal. Today's theme was cooking.

The Bachelor's Gourmet Cooking Manifesto by Tom Bell

A bachelor's life is, by necessity, quite simple 
We're generally the same ourselves 
Complications we avoid 
They take from us too much energy 
And if you look at our kitchen shelves 
You'll almost always see 
Our gourmet pre-made food 
is for us the key 
We would not know how to fry 
an egg or make good tea 
You see, if it ain't pre-cooked, 
To just be microwaved 
We'll shy away from those such products 
It's ease and speed we crave, 
This type of food only 
Until our early grave

Read the rest here.

My problem this morning is that I don’t know how to cook Longaniza the way my mother-in-law cooks it. It look like it is time for another cooking lesson. I hope she will share her method with me. 

A dog rules my life, but so does poetry

My dog sits at my feet every morning as I start my day. He reminds me that I need to take him for a walk in the most subtle of ways. I remind him that I need to read a poem each morning by holding him in my arms while I whisper daily inspiration in his ear. Somebody else in my house needs to like poetry too…

Dog Around the block by E.B. White

Dog around the block, sniff,
Hydrant sniffing, corner, grating, 
Sniffing, always, starting forward, 
Backward, dragging, sniffing backward, 
Leash at taut, leash at dangle,
Leash in people’s feet entangle—

Read more

A poem a day is good for you. 

There is a rhythm and flow to life

I’ve been reading and thinking a lot  lately. 

[Step One: Resentment]
Hi, My name is Quentin.
I'm a write-a-holic.
I can't control it, can't curb
the urge to write.
I need help.
I want my life back.

Excerpt from Writers Anonymous by Quentin Huff

What I’ve learned is that reading and writing is a much a part of my life as eating. 

R.I.P. Maggie Estep

Poet Maggie Estep died this week. I was a fan of sorts. I loved your poetry. I read every one. I was not a fan of your music and I did not connect to your books. But as a poet, back when I first hear you read, in the early 90s, you were something to me. I was saddened to hear of your death.  

Poetry, a priest and a murder

I do not think I am exaggerating by saying that I read more stores about pastors and priests than just about anybody else I know. I read of new hires, deaths and promotions along with good works and utter depravity. It's 10 stories a day, every day, over the last ten years. When I miss a day, I catchup by reading what I missed. A few years ago I read a story about a Catholic priest who had translated a Japanese woman's story of surviving Hiroshima. He also translated her poetry. I copied one of her translated haikus into a little poetry notebook I keep near my desk.

The atomic museum
the cries in the heart’s ears
the scent of the lily
- Hiroko Takanashi

I was reminded of her poem when I read a story on Facebook about a priest murdered in his rectory. Rev. Eric Freed’s body was found when he missed morning mass.

Mayor Frank Jager identified the victim as the Rev. Eric Freed, whom he called a personal friend and a "tremendous person in this community" since his arrival three years ago. The St. Bernard Parish website featured a cross and the words, "Rest in Peace," above Freed's name.

"He was a really, genuinely warm individual," said professor Stephen Cunha, the chairman of Humboldt University's religious studies department where Freed taught for more than 10 years. "... Kind is the word that comes to mind, sensitive."

I did not take long for a memory to surface. I quickly looked up the name in my index and found the reference to his work. I was stunned.

I do not subscribe to moral equivalence. It is simple. Some priest abuse children while some do not. We cannot paint all priest with the action of one (or some). Some priest bring ugliness into this world while some bring beauty and kindness. Father Jager’s translation of Hiroko Takanashi’s lifework was beautiful and I was made better by finding it. His death is horrifying. 

I do not know why somebody would murder him and I will not speculate on the motive for his murder, though some have, until I hear the facts. It is the least I can do.

Update 1/3/2014

• Warrant issued for Gary Lee Bullock. Freed killed via blunt force trauma.
• Gary Lee Bullock arrested in California priest killing. No motive established. 

R.I.P. Poet Ahmed Fouad Negm

Egyptian Poet Ahmed Fouad Negm “el-Fagommi” has died (Obit) in Egypt at age 84. Negm was the “poet of the people” in Egypt. I found his work through an Egyptian friend just a few short years ago. I have a PDF copy of a few of his translated works. I’ve copied out an example below. He is amazing translated into English, but I wish I could read his works in Arabic. 

(Uyun il-kalam)

A Poem, a Manifesto 

If the sun were to drown
In the sea of sad clouds
If the earth were engulfed
by a wave of dark shrouds
And sight died away
From all eyes and all minds
And the pathway went missing
Amidst circles and lines
You might get around
(You think you’re so wise!)
Yet you haven’t a guide
But the words’ very eyes

 

Poetry: I watch for Demons by Sean Wright

This poem was written by atheist poet Sean Wright.

My eyes along the tree line fall,
It is no idle pastime though;
No pleasant thoughts do I recall.
I watch for demons dressed in green.

My children play, as children do,
With fingers pointed, thumbs cocked back.
I played this game till it came true;
I watched for demons dressed in green.

My wife against the rising light
Holds up a child. With thought I'm struck
Of ancient Abram's mournful plight.
I watch for demons dressed in green.

A call I answered long ago.
In foreign soils my blood is sown.
The price was paid (I thought it so).
I watched for demons dressed in green.

And Christ-like is the ledger square?
Or do my children fear me too
As shades of green, my actions bare?
I watch for demons dressed in green.

A sacrifice, I made for life
And though those men in green lie dead
And arguments my only strife,
I watch for demons dressed in green.

A silent cohort are we all
And only death will end our charge.
My eyes along the tree line fall.
I watch for demons dressed in green.

This poem is reprinted with the approval of the poet. If you would like to submit a poem for publication here, please see this link. - Mojoey

Poetry: Art, as you by david m. myles

This poem was written by atheist poet david m. myles.

Art, as you

You start with clean canvas
and fresh palette primary
at first a cacophony
you learn line and form
time ads its own colors
or steals them
you concentrate
structures, perspectives
landscape, the surreal
shades of darkness
and light
distance
the
termination
point

If you would like to submit a poem, please see this link. - Mojoey

Poetry: The Cost by Joe Hino

This is a guest post by atheist poet Joe Hinol. If you would like to submit a poem, please see this link. - Mojoey

The Cost

As I traversed the World Bazaar
I spied an apple from afar
It glistened in the sun with taste
I had to own this fruit, post haste.

But as I sauntered down the path
A question in my mind was asked
I felt compelled, but filled with fright
…Something with this fruit’s not right.

So as this question slowed my pace
I chanced upon a preachers face.
He told me he would count me wrong
If I refused this gift so strong.

He shouted out I must be dumb
And I’d forever be the one
That went against the people’s whim
If I refused to dine with him.

He said I’m privileged, all the more
Traditions knocking at the door
He told me it’s the cake to get
To quote Archduchess Antoinette

Turn off your brain, ignore your sight
Embrace our patriotic right
Taste the nectar on your breath
Escape the consequence of death

His words, more eloquent than mine
I bit this apple so sublime
And watched the twinkle in his eye
As I began to slowly die

My sight grew dim, my heart expired
I lost my soul, consumed with fire
Alas, such wisdom inspires the lost
To ask how much the apple – really - cost

The author, Joe Hino, grants permission to reprint this poem. If you do so, please credit the author. 

Poet Kofi Awoonor murdered in Kenyan Terror Attack

Fuck terrorism. What say you Islam? Is this just your bad actors? Is Islam really a religion of peace? I judge based on what Muslims do, not on what that say. I judge Islam to be a religion of death and hatred. I think I'm being fair too. 

Poet Kofi Awoonor (1935-2013) wrote beautiful poetry. I've read a dozen or so of him poems and I am looking forward to buying his latest collection when published. A bullet from a Muslim zealot ended his life. It is so horribly unjust.

One of his final works is posted below. It's titled Across A New Dawn.

Sometimes, we read the

lines in the green leaf

run our fingers over the

smooth of the precious wood

from our ancient trees;

Read the rest: Read One of the Final Poems of a Victim of the Kenyan Terror Attack

I cannot process the deaths or the horror of this event. It hurts my heart. 

Poetry - OCD by Neil Hilborn

Wow. Just wow.

In honor of World Poetry Day II - Salma Rajathi

This is a powerful story. I can't wait to watch it.

Chariot of darkness
The children’s daybreak always
waits until I have opened my eyes.
Every day, with their petitions,
they draw out my dawn
from the night’s heavy darkness.
The elder boy, tearful eyes sparkling,
claiming his prerogative for the first bath,
waits for my consent, while the younger one
who swallowed the last drop of my breast milk
clamours loudly, voicing the privilege
of the very young. The very house shudders.
A monstrous picture of my neglect
lies stagnant, immoveable, always
in my eldest son’s heart.
It disturbs the impartiality of my love;
tilts it momentarily.
Their tender hearts churn my motherhood
with their tears,
and measure out their share
of the massing love.
Though they plant only seeds
of weariness, yet
with my sons help
I will take hold of the tow-rope
and haul away the darkness always by my side
like an unmoving chariot.

by Salma Rajathi

In honor of World Poetry Day

Poet Felix Dennis!

World Poetry Day, March 21, 2013. 

Poem 13: My favorite Haiku

Celebrating Poem in Your Pocket Day and National Poetry Month

summer grasses---
all that remains
of warriors’ dreams

Matsou Basho (1644 -1694)

While in Kyoto Japan in 1986, I took a tour of the stunningly beautiful Kiyomizu-dera temple. I mentioned that the view from the deck was visual poetry to a elderly Japanese man standing near me. He recited this poem, and two others in response.

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Poem 12: At Last the Secret is Out

Celebrating Poem in Your Pocket Day and National Poetry Month

At last the secret is out,
as it always must come in the end,
the delicius story is ripe to tell
to tell to the intimate friend;
over the tea-cups and into the square
the tongues has its desire;
still waters run deep, my dear,
there's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir,
behind the ghost on the links,
behind the lady who dances
and the man who madly drinks,
under the look of fatigue
the attack of migraine and the sigh
there is always another story,
there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddently singing,
high up in the convent wall,
the scent of the elder bushes,
the sporting prints in the hall,
the croquet matches in summer,
the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
there is always a wicked secret,
a private reason for this.

W.H. Auden (1907 – 1973)

Technorati Tags: Poetry

Poem 11: Poetry Slam - Shane Hawley

Celebrating Poem in Your Pocket Day and National Poetry Month

Technorati Tags: Poetry,Poetry Slam