Poetry Section: Polished Poems
You won’t find a literary magazine on the Internet that has as many promising poems as the poems you will find below. These poets truly do have a knack for sound and the English language. If you appreciate poetry and you appreciate the English language, you will be pleased with what poets Peter Grieco, Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, and Alex Coleman have submitted for Write from Wrong’s fourth issue.
In the words of T.S. Eliot, “Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” These polished poems do just that!
Peter J Grieco
The author, who has published over 70 poems over the past five year, is a writing teacher and former school bus driver living in Buffalo, NY. He enjoys studying French and composing songs for the guitar. You can find some of his music at: http://www.youtube.com/user/pjgrieco and can contact him there as well.
Alan E. Cober, 1997
Wind whistles through centuries waking devils—
the wind rattles through walls
shaking down a turbulence of images.
This ruddy, bulbous nose
my ears, senses, eyes, hands—
the flesh of me feels deceptively moored & stable
but I spin in a vortex.
You spin in one, too. Though I show the same face
as the moon, I belong only to the vanishing
instant. I am already my own cadaver.
The calm behind these supple brows is alert
to that certain prophesy.
The wind has bleached the light
spits rain, creates floods, unearths bones—
slits open the brown valley.
How soon these pigments perish. They fade
as does your own seeing.
THE CASBAH GATE
The ghost, again—there, just now—
in the corner—Ayse, do you see her?
Nay—it’s a trick of the sun.
Come back to your needle work.
Every stitch is a credit
towards heaven. So the women
flash their needles, white
in the blue shadows of the harem.
The door beyond the door
is open for traders to call—all the
riffraff of the dusty city, Tangier
& the sharp morning strikes
at the sides of the passage
& a crimson stain spreads
through the tall keyhole
of the Casbah Gate.
CELEBRATIONS OF LIGHT
various painters, 2002
Watercolorists try harder.
But the titles that they give
can sometimes seem amateurish
for fauve cows & photo realism.
“Moonstruck” stretches its rigging
across a silent sea groaning to the pull
of taught forces. Scenes of Venice abound
in “Reflections” & one more “Evening’s Last Glow.”
These conventional ambitions respond well
to alla prima, wet on wet, masking,
& stretching, beguiling us with “negative
painting.” “A Roma” is a pun on perfume
pinned to a study of shimmering decanters
of nickle & glass. “Face to Face” brings us
nose-to-nose with a grand-fatherly bull,
presumably toothless. Goodbye to summer
& unkept promises. Pears & stripes forever.
“Innocence Lost” shows us the cat that
ate the canary. “Make Mine Peppermint”
is the one the drew me in, to sit under
one of its red umbrellas, to wait, but nothing
happens. She doesn’t come. “Time
Stands Still” arrests a guttering candle.
“School’s Out” seems blind to irony:
these fish will never escape.
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé has edited more than 10 books and co-produced 3 audio books, several pro bono for non-profit organizations. Trained in book publishing at Stanford, with a theology masters in world religions from Harvard and fine arts masters in creative writing from Notre Dame, Desmond is a recipient of the Singapore Internationale Grant and Dr Hiew Siew Nam Academic Award. He has recent or forthcoming work in Cricket Online Review, Dark Sky, Folly, Grey Sparrow, Presence, Nano Fiction, Notes from the Gean, Spilling Ink Review, Sugar Mule, and Walnut Literary Review. Also working in clay, Desmond sculpts commemorative ceramic pieces for his Potter Poetics Collection. These works are housed in museums and private collections in India, the Netherlands, the UK and the US.
social realism is a table napkin of haiku
slip on pinewood squares
feldspar, talc, red clay, plaster –
chrome stains on loveseat
la vie en rose, this –
where’s the orange-eyed sparrow?
stage life, force, beeswax
long grain like moonstone
poured into brown porcelain –
lank, terraced, lowlands
four ideas installed –
for more conceptual art, this
moment like whale song
empathy is a lunar haiku
ladybugs a sprawl
over tray of almond tarts
deep red rays
hands over head
crouched on attic stairs
ragdoll without shoes
in bed with horace –
tonight’s simple shape
halfway poems in a pile
in gravy bowls
the way things line up
a haiku and auden’s unknown citizen
john updike died
this week when I moved my bedroom
to the balcony
struggling to fly
past the sun
the poets fell their good wings
picked up my clothes
to the lawn and stayed and slept
My pen-name is Alexander Cole, and over the past year or so, I have been engaging (some might call it ‘indulging’) my mind in the art of Poetry. With each evanescent moment, I am learning more and more about the importance of having a critical eye in relation to my own work, and reading as many poems by other poets as possible. Poets like Elizabeth Bishop and John Keats have had a large impact in my way of processing, composing and shaping poems. I am a student of Ancient History in Trinity College, Dublin – but right now, Poetry is my true calling.
Sound is sweet.
Sound sounds sweet.
Words give meaning.
Meaning give words.
Noise is precious.
Wherever you may wander,
Whatever language you speak –
Sound never softens.
Noise has a distinctive voice;
Voice utters tone –
Which betrays emotion.
Oh! What a delightful day!
To leave home and arrive home.
The same soul / A new life!
Where noise stems from sound.
Sound makes sense.
Sense fills the Void.
Children play in the playground;
Birds clamour ‘Hallelujah’ to the skies;
Couples engage in the act of Love;
Their noise is ever present.
Sound is sweet.
For untold beauty,
To pass the time?
A worthy pursuit,
I’ve seen them all:
Our so-called neighbours.
No. We can never understand their true power
Or the true extent of their knowledge.
Who is to say there aren’t another eight races
In our Solar System alone –
All as strange and sophisticated as ours?
Imagine, if you will,
An entire Universe of ‘overburdened’ lives.
How does one manage that?
I ask you, watches them?
Only the archives of Heaven record them all:
The weird and the wonderful –
And the downright weird!
Only gravity restrains our itchy feet.
We draw our hoods over in shame
For thinking so deeply,
Fearing what the mirror might say …
Probably just the usual:
“Wake up to reality!”
Or do what I do –
Dream on –
On a world of my own.
We don’t get much traffic down our way.
A rare asteroidOr stray shooting star;
The cold, black Void
Keeps us in the dark
(From God knows what
Or perhaps for the better).
Still … my soul mate could be out there!
Only fifty million light years away!
The Void holds the answers
To questions we have yet to conceive!
But who am I to complain?
Tomorrow is another day.
Business as usual
Who knows now, what
We might know then.
From A Word
(Just like the rest)
On the street;
Where is not the matter!
Those first years …
There is nothing …
No sight or sound
It is just bliss.
The ears pop.
Or are they pricked?
And with that,
We hear it.
They can talk too!
Oh! So knowingly!
Language is beautiful –
From a word –
We learn the truth
About Man and his Death:
The universal certainty.
We are one of ‘them’ now,
Mimicking their ‘knowledge’
All too soon,
Before we even get the chance
To pass a remark like:
“My, my! Didn’t that go fast!”