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My friend, Chris Martin, whose poetry I have shared here before, has started a newsletter called “The Listening World.” He works with people with a unique sense of the world, people who are neurodiverse, and will be publishing some of their poetry on this site. Here is how he introduces it: "Welcome to The Listening World, a newsletter where all the news is poetry and all the poetry is written by neurodivergent writers. I will aim to bring you a new poem every week and at least one new song a month, all created by students with Unrestricted Interest, an organization dedicated to helping neurodivergent learners transform their lives through writing. "This inaugural poem, from which the newsletter takes its name, comes from Hannah Emerson, a 27-year-old poet from Lafayette, NY. Hannah is a non-speaking, autistic typer who describes poets as 'keepers of the light.'” Here is the first poem he shares from Ms. Emerson:  To see more of what Mr. Ware is up to, and to subscribe to his newsletter, please click on this link:
https://chrismartin.substack.com/ LOOKING BACK
Loving you all these years has been like dropping a pebble a day off a high bridge. The river, dark and heedless, is reshaped, but slowly, slowly! IT’S A TIE
Friends no friends riends no friend ends no frie nds no frie ends no frien riends no friend Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends Friends no friends ends no frie ds no fr no  "There is so much we don't understand about poetry. No other utterance, we know, gives more lasting dimensions to our beliefs than that spiraling intertwining of music, image, and conviction. Yet we cannot see into the depths of that magical fusion, we do not understand how it can transmute any subject matter into a presence." -- Serge Hughes
"He never described himself as a poet or his work as poetry. The fact that the lines do not come to the edge of the page is no guarantee. Poetry is a verdict, not an occupation. He hated to argue about the techniques of verse. The poem is a dirty, bloody, burning thing that has to be grabbed first with bare hands. Once the fire celebrated Light, the dirt Humility, the blood Sacrifice. Now the poets are professional fire-eaters, freelancing at any carnival. The fire goes down easily and honors no one in particular.
"Once, for awhile, he seemed to serve something other than himself. Those were the only poems he ever wrote." Leonard Cohen, The Favorite Game I met Chris Martin through my work with kids with autism. He is a poet with a deep contemplative streak who has published several books. Here is a vertical poem he shared with me.
Rising over time vertiginous this timid middling life and no less miraculous over time me and you meandering and more dear or more idea than people I want to plead want to be plea and flue the hole the fire leaps through over time under cover of brick walled darknesses the fire feeds on air to meet whatever doesn’t groan and cleave against this cold and whitest winter - Chris Martin You can get to know him better through this website: https://onbeing.org/author/chris-martin/ there are not many songs
there is only one song the animals lope to it the fish swim to it the sun circles to it the stars rise the snow falls the grass grows there is no end to the song and no beginning the singer may die but the song is forever truth is the name of the song and the song is truth. -- Robert Lax  Early Remnant: Ohio Buckeye. 2017 WHEN
I WALK When I walk I pick things up I pick things up I pick things up When I walk I pick things up I pick things up to see. When I walk things pick me up Things pick me up Things pick me up When I walk Things pick me up Things pick me up to see. 8/19  The world
seems far away The world seems far away The world seems far away today. The world seems ill at ease The world feels ill at ease. The world seems ill. As I walk home alone today As I'm walking home alone The world seems far away The world seems ill at ease The world seems far away today. 7/29/19 |
Doug WestendorpI have written some poetry, and translated a few short poems from the ancient Chinese. Archives
December 2019
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