Poetry: April 16, 2008 Issue [#2332] |
Poetry
This week: Edited by: Stormy Lady More Newsletters By This Editor
1. About this Newsletter 2. A Word from our Sponsor 3. Letter from the Editor 4. Editor's Picks 5. A Word from Writing.Com 6. Ask & Answer 7. Removal instructions
This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
ASIN: B083RZ2C5F |
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(Although I didn't find out a lot about A. S. J. Tessimond, I truly enjoyed his poetry and hope that you all do too.)
Day Dream
by A. S. J. Tessimond
One day people will touch and talk perhaps
easily,
And loving be natural as breathing and warm as
sunlight,
And people will untie themselves, as string is unknotted,
Unfold and yawn and stretch and spread their fingers,
Unfurl, uncurl like seaweed returned to the sea,
And work will be simple and swift
as a seagull flying,
And play will be casual and quiet
as a seagull settling,
And the clocks will stop, and no one will wonder
or care or notice,
And people will smile without reason,
Even in winter, even in the rain.
Arthur Seymour John Tessimond was born on July 19, 1902 in Birkenhead, England. He was an only child and left home at a young age. He was sixteen when he started his studies at Liverpool University. After he finished his studies he moved to London where he worked in a small bookshop. Tessimond dodged getting drafted into the service during World War II. He was later diagnosed as having bipolar disorder. As a treatment for his condition Tessimond under went electroshock therapy.
Tessimond started writing in his early twenties. Often writing about his ups and downs and his nightlife. As many other poets, his first pieces were published in literary magazines. In 1934, Tessimond published his first volume of poetry "Walls of Glass." Followed by "Voices in a Giant City" in 1947. Tessimond also contributed poems to "Bewick's Birds," which was published in 1954.
At the age of sixty, Tessimond suffered a Brain hemorrhage and died.
Black Morning Lovesong
by A. S. J. Tessimond
In love's dances, in love's dances
One retreats and one advances,
One grows warmer and one colder,
One more hesitant, one bolder.
One gives what the other needed
Once, or will need, now unheeded.
One is clenched, compact, ingrowing
While the other's melting, flowing.
One is smiling and concealing
While the other's asking kneeling.
One is arguing or sleeping
While the other's weeping, weeping.
And the question finds no answer
And the tune misleads the dancer
And the lost look finds no other
And the lost hand finds no brother
And the word is left unspoken
Till the theme and thread are broken.
When shall these divisions alter?
Echo's answer seems to falter:
'Oh the unperplexed, unvexed time
Next time...one day...one day...next time!'
Wet City Night
by A. S. J. Tessimond
Light drunkenly reels into shadow;
Blurs, slurs uneasily;
Slides off the eyeballs:
The segments shatter.
Tree-branches cut arc-light in ragged
Fluttering wet strips.
The cup of the sky-sign is filled too full;
It slushes wine over.
The street-lamps dance a tarentella
And zigzag down the street:
They lift and fly away
In a wind of lights.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
| | Invalid Item This item number is not valid. #1403900 by Not Available. |
The Storyteller
The children are nestled,
In their little beds.
Dreaming of yesterday,
The storyteller said...
They were so excited, to see,
A horse at the fair.
Though it was raining,
Seemed nobody cared...
Stories were told,
Of a great horse and his Knight.
Running through fields,
Of sunshine, bright...
While slaying a dragon,
Who lay in his lair.
He rescued a princess,
With golden hair...
Though, he didn't know,
At this place in time.
The princess, would be his wife,
And children, he'd have nine...
This is my ending,
To stories, not true.
But if I were a Knight,
I'd make a princess out of you...
Doing it right
As children get excited
the storyteller knows
each harvest is determined
by what the farmer sows.
-
And never ending nuggets
we sowed just yesterday
will be the ones we harvest
once time has had her say.
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If sunshine is to follow rain
then we must do our part
to keep the horse in front of
and not behind the cart.
Honorable mention:
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