Poem of the Month October 2019

honest critique can be an oxymoron
it's sometimes an excuse used by the egotistical
to be as harsh as they want, sparing no feelings
bearing no responsibility when destroying writers
these consider themselves as the elite but not so
the do not care who they hurt or how they hurt them
they point the finger and laugh at writers they see as peasants
they find their peers wanting in all areas because they have to
in their lust for power over others, they will stop at nothing
there is not a place they won't go in fact the lower the better
they assassinate, they gossip, they prime others to think their thoughts
these people are the poisoners of many wells and always aim personally
they collect "friends" as a hobby, but what happens if you dare question
firstly there is the lambasting, secondly the abuse, lastly the harassment
hate-filled narcissists by their very nature are incapable of any critique
that doesn't involve the destruction of the poet unless of course they
are part of this sycophantic clique, who bow and scrape to their masters
all forms of writing have these people around - they are called critics

but there is a better way
treat all writers in a community as equals
when critiques are requested, gently does it
firstly use encouragement and be empathetic
concentrate on the positive things of the piece
make respectful suggestions on possible changes
always deliver critique with a kind and humble heart
listen, really listen as the poet might know something
you don't that is true of any poet despite education
never discourage, give poets the best of your knowledge
be humble enough to accept the poet's right to choose
on any suggestion you make It must be their vioce,
words and their intent is paramount above all things

this is the way critique should be in a public forum
so-called honest critiques should be done in private
there are new  or nervous people able to view them
some will leave as a result, some won't ever post
this is an avoidable loss and should be a source of
sadness and guilt for all members baring grudges
these fight and flames are seen in public sadly
maybe we shouldn't pick fights, maybe we shouldn't retaliate
maybe we should resolve our differences or just keep away
maybe we shouldn't target people regardless of history

I write this as a plea
to reinstall peace to the site
to not seek to inflame
to only do what is positive for the site
to promote DU and what it could be
to think before typing "would this hurt someone" then desist
this is an ideal world scenario but why not try
aiming for perfection will always make you better

Now before people go jumping up and down
I am making this plea to myself as a flawed human being
somewhat broken but willing to try (are you?)
I plead guilty to sometimes being short with others
I plead guilty to sometimes being over reactionary
I plead guilty to sometimes of unguarded retaliation
I plead guilty to sometimes typing without thinking
I plead guilty to sometimes making my dislike of people obvious
I plead guilty to sometimes deliberately flaming
I plead guilty to sometimes writing veiled poems
I plead guilty to sometimes hurting peoples feelings
I am guilty as charged
for the second time, I offer an unreserved apology
to anyone I have hurt or offended, that means anyone
I am sure there are a few
this is my confession
this is my plea
a plea for it all to stop

I shall swim through sand,
leave all sensible problems behind
and just proceed stroke by stroke
as the sandwakes sighs in soft susurrations.
Let the Sun bless me
as arms slowly but purposefully
make wide rotations
churning through the dusty dunes
like orbiting planets
languidly spinning in infinity's serenity.
Let me lose myself
to the eternal expanse
transcending the senses
synchronised with a higher tune
that reverberates across all and the void;
the momentary now becomes
submissive to the displacing motion.
While I, am a desert swimmer
a fish out of water
but immersed in another great body
striving on and onward seeking,
making waves with wavign arms
being wild and free
under an endless sky,
unconcerned about movement and place
entranced by inner visions of outer planes of existence
as I swim through sand.
as silly as that may sound;
We all seek to move somewhere.

The poison lingers on my lips
like salivation, uncontrolled,
and waiting to ruin everyone’s day.

I get it from my dad, I say,
which certainly isn’t a lie.
But really, ugliness is me,

as near the Divine as I get.
Some people reach it perfectly,
projecting only thoughts and deeds

to make an angel blush
redder than a teenager,
on watching with his parents that

scene in the movie where
the leads take off their clothes.
That isn’t me.

Sarcasm, and bitterness,
the lowest form of wit:
that’s me.

My dad’s an Enfant Terrible
even in his latter years.
Without ever meaning to be,

his words are like thumbscrews,
cat o’nines, and other such playthings
with which to sing the blues

in tones of cackling laughter.
Paraphilia, divorce, crimes of war
and wretched hate, the broken whore

of life in all its vicious modes...
it’s always, always ripe for jokes.
And I don’t want to be a cold,

offensive, mean bastard
(given that bastards don’t have dads
and mine, however flawed, will do).

I’d like to be a comfort and a joy.
But sheer grotesquerie can be
its own strange alchemy,

and we don’t notice flowers less,
nor turn away from art,
just because the cut of our jib

is lined with razorblades.

There's a cold breeze
coming through the back door
causing it to creak on its hinges,
Grandad's gone across the backs
to feed his pigeons.
 
I find him inside the empty loft
closing derelict cages,
gently I place an arm
around the confusion.
Using soft words we stumble outside
towards real moments.
 
The overgrown allotment glistens
through droplets, strung out
across gossamer connections
that tremble in the cold morning light.
We hear the rush of racing pigeons
and watch them disappear overhead
like ghosts into field mist.
 
Grandad stood staring at the sky,
"they're not coming back are they son?"
I put my coat around his shoulders,
'no Grandad they've been gone too long".
We start the slow walk back towards the house,
"someone will have to tell your Nan
she loved those birds"
"She's dead Grandad,
Grandma's dead".

 
can fall the rain?
can rage the trees, that give a hospice
to every weary, wounded bird?
can call the birds by name?

was every road so cobbled & split
was every cloud a bruise upon the sky
was every grassy field parched & withered
was every hill so high

a soldier’s helmet is a crown of thorns
his aches, a spear thrust in his side
full of a minstrel that merely mourns
full of sorrow, but never cried

dismantle the cannon that pocks the land
rip the flag that takes no mends
a thousand miles begins a journey
a journey never ends

the burning night is made of songs he didn’t sing
the hill that stretches higher, higher
a brooding passion, a sculpted fire…
  I’ve lost something


(Art: Rene Jacques)