The immature rice stalk stands erect, while the mature stalk, heavy with grain, bends over.
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A Realization Of Two Things
a bud is better
seen on top of its stalk
even when it has
already bloomed
completely
it is still nicer to
see the flower stuck
on its stalk
even if it has already
wilted
it is still nicer to see
it on its stalk
even when the stalk is gone
the flower is still there
and it is nicer still
to imagine it
untouched by any human
hand
only nature
only nature has the power
to take it
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Hope I Am Just Like You
i know
that you will be reading this.
This is thinking about man's capacity to quit.
TO dismiss what he grows inside his heart.
He was talking about the stalk of the fruit.
His end like the sap. The white sap
of the stain of the stalk of the fruit
the banana stalk giving off the
white sap from its stalk
cut off by the sharp bolo
when it ripens
he is talking about the mouth
and the last spit of the saliva
rabid. The dog finally goes off the street
and bites everybody.
I am bitten. And i have no last word to say.
There is no reason to quit.
everything ends. There is such thing as
a natural death.
soon it will come. I am waiting.
I try to tell you that there will be an end to this.
It is obvious. Too obvious. Like sunlight
to my forehead.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The flower and the girl
The flower blossoms with the sun,
Flirts with the bee and bears
Pollen grains of some other stalk.
The girl befriends the brave,
Woos the cute and is settled
With a boy of her stalk elsewhere.
04.12.2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Corn-Stalk Fiddle
WHEN the corn's all cut and the bright stalks shine
Like the burnished spears of a field of gold;
When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine,
And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold;
Then it's heigh-ho! fellows and hi-diddle-diddle,
For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.
And when you take a stalk that is straight and long,
With an expert eye to its worthy points,
And you think of the bubbling strains of song
That are bound between its pithy joints —
Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle,
With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.
Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow
O'er the yielding strings with a practiced hand!
And the music's flow never loud but low
Is the concert note of a fairy band.
Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle
To the simple sweets of a corn-stalk fiddle.
When the eve comes on, and our work is done,
And the sun drops down with a tender glance,
With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun,
Come the neighbor girls for the evening's dance,
And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle —
More time than tune — from the corn-stalk fiddle.
Then brother Jabez takes the bow,
While Ned stands off with Susan Bland,
Then Henry stops by Milly Snow,
And John takes Nellie Jones's hand,
While I pair off with Mandy Biddle,
And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn-stalk fiddle.
'Salute your partners,' comes the call,
'All join hands and circle round,'
'Grand train back,' and 'Balance all,'
Footsteps lightly spurn the ground.
'Take your lady and balance down the middle'
To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle.
So the night goes on and the dance is o'er,
And the merry girls are homeward gone,
But I see it all in my sleep once more,
And I dream till the very break of dawn
Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle
To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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which is heavier -
the wind, the rice stalk
or the bird on the windblown plant?
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Like The Jackfruit
like the jackfruit you wait for the season
when you become ripe
and when it comes you exude the scent
of the sweet one
and then you are removed from your stalk
and then they tap with their hands your body
and smell you with their noses
kissing you and hugging you and then
they cut you to slices and then they eat every chunk of you
meanwhile some saps flow from the stalk where you were taken
they fall dropp by drop
they do not stop until the night is over
each dropp is a poem coming from your hands
on that ripe season, your own time.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Power Of Repetitions
repetitions, you say are
reinforcements, a promise that
there shall be no forgetting between the stalk and the leaf
once upon a tree.
there is this river that runs through us
and i am at the other side of the bank
you do not see me
alone, am i as usual without the song
i gaze upon the leaf and the stalk
i cut across barks
i rub the knife and sculpt the pain
reshaping it for something so practical and
useful
like a statue of the town god
that i everyday
worship purposely to erase the pain
to numb the nerves
of my being, alone, am i,
in the repetitions, i have learned how to live
and then scribble
on those surfaces
debarked and cleaned.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It...
IT IS everyday
like everything that you do: waking up
washing the face
brushing the teeth
combing the hair
defecating on the
throne
in the comfort room
taking breakfast
reading the news
watching tv
waiting and going
and coming back
on the table
searching for words
to mark your day
above all those
rantings
take the cure: write, write,
write
they follow you and
read and say something
about you
perhaps it will matter
that your existence
is being confirmed
by all
you too stalk as they
stalk you
it is fair then.
They are your ITs
And you are their
It too.
but actually it would have been
a better world
if we did not write at all.
simply because
we have chosen the
right course:
talking.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blessed Persistence
i changed my mind
and looked no better
hard of hart blind blind to his higher art
my frustration
my anger in disguise i slip under
i slip under quiet
he spots me anyhow
chalk up my name
you burn my bridges for me
to a dry and clackin stalk
i swallow stone
they do not recognize inside with them
the locust has no king
just noise and hard language
they talk me over but i fade slower
on fever
blessed persistence right under my skin
blessed persistence
blessed persistence right under my skin
you burn my bridges for me
to a dry and clackin stalk
blessed persistence
nothing comes to mind
nothing comes to mind
nothing comes to mind
nothing comes to mind
hey chalk up my name
right under your skin
to a dry and clackin stalk
nothing comes
nothing comes to mind
nothing comes
nothing comes to mind
nothing comes to mind
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Deftly Running
Running from life
trying to keep up
with the Lord
of death.
Waiting for
a line to grab
a hold of
deftly,
stealthily,
I stalk death
waiting
for the appropriate
time to grab it
by the tail
Death cannot see
nor can it hear
but it can feel
It can feel breaths,
presences,
and people
behind it
so to stalk death
one must
be fearless
and one must
be sneaky
and fast
So I am deftly
running after
death
A Little Sunshine
a grain of rice
on a table cloth
beside
a cup of hot
coffee
imperceptible
but when a connection is found
soon
the spoon and fork
shall understand
some pieces
no matter what
do not fit
on a reasonable landscape
what is the grain of rice
doing on a breakfast table?
your mind is furious
i think it is cool
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Grown in Age and That's About It
Grown!
And still making immature comments.
Grown in body but not in mind.
Making comments about likes and dislikes.
And who it is they wish to beat and fight.
With the whipping done of someone's behind.
Inspite of the fact,
The one on their list for wishes to attack like that...
Has no idea these childminded creatures,
Stalk them near.
Grown in age and that's about it.
Expressing who they wish to 'get'.
And 'hit' over foolish and unbelievable nonsense.
Regardless if they are mothers and fathers with kids.
Ignorance is their policy AND initiative.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Field of the World
Sow in the morn thy seed,
At eve hold not thy hand;
To doubt and fear give thou no heed,
Broadcast it o’er the land.
Beside all waters sow;
The highway furrows stock;
Drop it where thorns and thistles grow;
Scatter it on the rock.
The good and fruitful ground,
Expect not here nor there;
O'er hill and dale, by plots, 'tis found;
Go forth, then, everywhere.
Thou know’st not which may thrive,
The late or early sown;
God keeps His precious seed alive,
When and wherever strown.
And duly shall appear,
In verdure, beauty, strength,
The tender blade, the stalk, the ear,
And the full corn at length.
Thou canst not toil in vain:
Cold, heat, and moist, and dry,
Shall foster and mature the grain
For garners in the sky.
Thence, when the glorious end,
The day of God is come,
The angels reapers shall descend,
And heav’n cry - 'Harvest Home.'
poem by James Montgomery
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Upon Graciosa, Walking And Talking
When as abroad, to greet the morn,
I mark my Graciosa walk,
In homage bends the whisp'ring corn,
Yet to confess
Its awkwardness
Must hang its head upon the stalk.
And when she talks, her lips do heal
The wounds her lightest glances give:—
In pity then be harsh, and deal
Such wounds that I
May hourly die,
And, by a word restored, live.
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Three months
it takes the padi
three months
to write its
poem of love
it has all the
muses to help it
in its novel aim
the birds sing
their lullabies
the wind carresses
each leaf with
the greatest of care
while the sky pours down
its spring and
great blessings
a verse sprouts
each day gleaned
by the sun
and shared
by the moon
till it bows and bows
to all who have
helped it bloom
as the malay proverb
goes the stalk with
the most rice
bows lowest
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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S[t]alking Mirror Sestina - CV in hand
CV in hand through contest I would stalk,
ILLEgitimate undertaking I admit,
Lightly through the rhyme scheme let me walk,
I subtle sense within sestina fit,
Stalking pseudo is not hard to talk,
Away for those with golden goblet lit
CV of charming nymph will o’ wisp lit
ILLEgible to most seems simple stalk,
Lightly pen traces, hears the table talk,
I see the comments – praises all admit,
Stalking may be fun - together fit,
Away from prying eyes will life-lines walk.
CV few APe, divine, her verse I’d walk
ILLEgal act for gaol or goal bright lit?
Lightly linking her name to my fit
I root acrostic in sestina stalk,
Stalking talking balking not – admit,
Away with critics and their jealous talk.
CV masks beauty more than my trite talk.
ILLEcebrous attractive and alluring walk,
Lightly stroking peerless miss admit,
I find no other muse as charming lit,
Stalk king if she queen Stork to nest add stalk
A way I’d find to offer homage fit.
CV seems perfect. Could another fit?
ILLEcebrum around swan neck would talk
Lightly of love I bear for stem and stalk,
I cannot stem, so, in pursuit I walk,
Stalking close by inspiration lit,
Away she’ll never slip all must admit.
CV in hand my errors I’ll admit
ILLEist I’m never, should hat fit,
Lightly I’d wear it, with her smile love-lit,
I vaunt her emblem, on none else would talk,
Stalking kitten purring I, cat, walk,
Away from idols past – she bloom, I stalk!
All here admit one Muse should stalk,
a perfect fit, eyes lovely lit,
Her praise I talk, with trophy walk.
.............................
Her praise I talk, with trophy walk,
a perfect fit, eyes lovely lit,
all here admit one Muse should stalk.
Away from idols past – she bloom, I stalk!
Stalking kitten purring, I, cat, walk,
I vaunt her emblem, on none else would talk,
Lightly I’d wear it, with her smile love-lit,
ILLEist I’m never, should hat fit,
CV in hand my errors I’ll admit.
Away she’ll never slip all must admit.
Stalking close by inspiration lit,
I cannot stem, so, in pursuit I walk,
Lightly of love I bear for stem and stalk,
ILLEcebrum around swan neck would talk.
CV seems perfect. Could another fit?
A way I’d find to offer homage fit.
Stalk king if she queen Stork to nest add stalk,
I find no other muse as charming lit,
Lightly stroking peerless miss admit,
ILLEcebrous attractive and alluring walk,
CV masks beauty more than my trite talk.
Away with critics and their jealous talk.
Stalking, talking, balking not, – admit
I root acrostic in sestina stalk,
Lightly linking her name to my fit.
ILLEgal act for gaol or goal bright lit?
CV few APe, divine, her verse I’d walk.
Away from prying eyes will life-lines walk -
Stalking may be fun - together fit.
I see the comments – praises all admit.
Lightly pen traces, hears the table talk,
ILLEgible to most seems simple stalk.
CV of charming nymph will o’ wisp lit.
Away for those with golden goblet lit.
Stalking pseudo is not hard to talk,
I subtle sense within sestina fit,
Lightly through the rhyme scheme let me walk,
ILLEgitimate undertaking I admit.
CV in hand through contest I would stalk.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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8th November
Tethering your donkey to the vine and,
Washing your garments in wine;
For life is like a viper along the path of love and,
8th November is the date for my final exams on love.
I am fully prepared like soldiers at war!
And, i am like the birds that flies over the seas.
Blessings of the grain stalk and blossom,
Blessings of the mountains eternal;
For the truth is,
We have to to make this world a better place.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Bean-Stalk
Ho, Giant! This is I!
I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky!
La,—but it's lovely, up so high!
This is how I came,—I put
Here my knee, there my foot,
Up and up, from shoot to shoot—
And the blessed bean-stalk thinning
Like the mischief all the time,
Till it took me rocking, spinning,
In a dizzy, sunny circle,
Making angles with the root,
Far and out above the cackle
Of the city I was born in,
Till the little dirty city
In the light so sheer and sunny
Shone as dazzling bright and pretty
As the money that you find
In a dream of finding money—
What a wind! What a morning!—
Till the tiny, shiny city,
When I shot a glance below,
Shaken with a giddy laughter,
Sick and blissfully afraid,
Was a dew-drop on a blade,
And a pair of moments after
Was the whirling guess I made,—
And the wind was like a whip
Cracking past my icy ears,
And my hair stood out behind,
And my eyes were full of tears,
Wide-open and cold,
More tears than they could hold,
The wind was blowing so,
And my teeth were in a row,
Dry and grinning,
And I felt my foot slip,
And I scratched the wind and whined,
And I clutched the stalk and jabbered,
With my eyes shut blind,—
What a wind! What a wind!
Your broad sky, Giant,
Is the shelf of a cupboard;
I make bean-stalks, I'm
A builder, like yourself,
But bean-stalks is my trade,
I couldn't make a shelf,
Don't know how they're made,
Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant—
La, what a climb!
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Endless verse of a nameless flora:
A lonely lovely girl was Standing at her breeze filled balcony,
her adorable heart was admiring the quiet moon in harmony,
a golden yellowish nameless flower fell on her feet,
the sweet perfume of the fallen flower blended with that chill breeze,
while she tried to hold the flower the petals they fell one by one,
she was holding just the stalk that was left alone,
tear drops that escaped from her eyes fell one by one like the petals,
she was holding someone's sweet memories like the stalk.
The moon wished that her love should blend with her love like the perfume in the air.
poem by Vimal Kumar N
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The immature artist imitates. Mature artists steal.
quote by Lionel Trilling
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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