​SLEEPING OUT LOUD
 
Talking 
in my sleep
like a wave
 
Breaking
again and again
against the shore
 
Upon the rocks
I am
lifted
 
Again and pounded
again
so I
 
Long
again
to awaken
 
Upon the shore
while 
I am 
 
Talking 
in my sleep
like a wave
 
Breaking

Bouquet of Light
 
Tap pity tap pity tap pity 
 
Ding
 
Typing at the dining room table
 
A bouquet of light 
Has been with me all night
 
Typing at the dining room table
 
 
djw
April 2020

​More I Cannot Say
 
 
Somewhere in the mountains
I wait for my daughters
 
More I cannot say
 
The weather has been clear
But bitterly cold
Old canvas and burlap
Afford little protection
 
This morning I rode with the others 
As far as the gap
We looked down across 
Border village rooftops
 
The evening sun lingers tonight
Lighting up new fallen snow
Blessing prayers ascend
For travelers and friends
 
First to arrive
We will be the last to leave
Last to leave
We will be the more grateful
 
Somewhere in the mountains
I wait for my daughters
 
More I cannot say
 
 
 
 
 
 
djw 
3/2020

A n g e l   Q u e s t i o n                                                    
 

I
 
d
o
n
’t
 
c
a
r
e
 
h
o
w
 
m
a
n
y
 
d
a
n
c
e
 
o
n
 
t
h
e
 
h
e
a
d
 
o
f
 
a
 
p
i
n.
 
 
A
l
l
 
I
 
w
a
n
t
 
t
o
 
k
n
o
w
 
i
s,
 
d
o
 
t
h
e
y
 
s
p
i
n?

 
djw, 2020

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. Martin 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