Drawing In
November 2015
#083
The Moor To The Artist
You and the light are pale today,
brittle, Northern and gray.
We are bleak, the two of us.
I am serene.
Lie down by your easel
and let me draw you in.
Noam Livne
Paso
en el pueblo de Pawtuxet
Cuando el palo de mango te llama
hoy me encuentro a los años pasados
que hasta el sol que toda la luz marcha en la busca
de la otra verdadera justicia en la vida
brillando inaugurando el Día Nacional de Lamentación
al pueblo Wampanaog y El Cacique Metacom
y El Grito de Oración para todos los compañeros
mis poemas de liberación y las palabras de Leonard Peltier
y el baile de Atar de Pawtuxet
y en toda la noche
pasa el ratón y busca en su busca de toda de su vida
y todo en el nombre de Codicia
que es su civilización
y a los que escriben su primera palabra obrera
somos hermosas en la lucha para la justicia y paz
Drawing
In the village of Pawtuxet
When the mango tree called you
Today I find myself with past years
toward the sun light all the way in the search
of the other true justice in life
shining inaugurating the National Day of Mourning
The Wampanaog people and Cacique Metacom
and the cry of prayer for all compañeros
my poems of liberation and words of Leonard Peltier
the dance of Atar of Pawtuxet
and all night
the rat passes and looks after all of his life
all in the name of Greed
that is their civilization
and to those who write their first working class word
We are beautiful in the struggle for justice and peace
© Carlos Raúl Dufflar 11/27/15
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective
Drawn-In
The world
Knows many forms
Of the vacuum cleaner
The mechanical device
invented by
The former president
Of the United States,
Herbert Hoover:
A good friend
Of Big Business,
A well known type
Of vacuum cleaner.
Another is the stone fish
Which makes a living
By opening its huge mouth
And sucking in its prey.
Another is
The black-hole in space.
Another is
These never ending ads
Regurgitated
Through all forms
Of mass media.
To look on
The other side though,
There are the writings,
And deeds
Of people
Of conscious,
The fragrances
Of fresh bread,
A forest
After the rain,
Incense,
And a woman.
There is the fascination
And love of the new,
And a good satire
Exposing the flaws
In the first category.
These people,
Places, and things,
(To plagiarize the title),
Draw in.
© David Gordon
November 30, 2015
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective
Drawn Text 1: Where Has My Search For Wisdom Drawn Me In?
Where has my search for wisdom drawn me in?
My deepest longing is for knowledge, with which I can reach
the Moon of Tito Puente’s dreams of his puertorriqueñidad
My attention is from the heart, both drawn to deep focus
on words meant to teach, to liberate,
for the words speak wben the speaker does not
These words, in fact, are here, every day
Wisdom waiting for us to hear
If I can show that a Moorish tree was planted amid Caribbean waters
is there any force that can draw out of me that this was never so?
This is not possible – ignorance is shattered by knowledge
lying deeply in the verse, waiting to be freed.
[Appendix: The Drawn Text Fragments
“… my research has drawn me into those depths of puertorriqueñidad.”
“ … my attention and heart are drawn with great focus to several words amid her own text and the living texts … .”
“… are drawn from the dialogical everyday … .”]
© Ángel L. Martínez 30 nov 15
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective
Beacon Station
A beacon of light shone from her forehead
In the long darkening winter's nights drawing in
The light glare from her forehead circuit
Circling brightness spreading sights open
The source code beaming beams expansion
Outsourcing beautiful hearts delicious touch
Yellow orange peel flash flows flames shone
Hair above in gold locks waved combed upwards
Stretching now the evening drawing out life
Living life drawing in the beacon shined on
Cooking she baked on the stove apple—pies
Drawing in steam the evening sweetness taste
The beacon shined down the hallway pantry
Drawing in preserving baking warmth love smells
John Joseph Sheehy
The Evenings Drawing In
"Laurie Light the lamps as you go by" So goes the old rhyme in part
Now I can flick a switch and light the rooms and warm the house, it lifts my heart
But how I miss the garden in the evening sowing and planting or just sitting
and basking in the late night"s warmth while watching the stars shine out
and bats flying low feasting on the the midges o"er the pond as they go
Now I sew small bags under "eco" lighting,, bags for sweet scented lavender
dried,and gathered in the autumn days, memory of the warmth of summer
I listen to the TV jingles and watch a drama unfolding on the screen
while in my room,, curtains drawn I scan eagerly through seed catalogues
Dreaming of my garden in the sunshine once again, flowers dancing in the breeze
Though as the evenings draw in more and and darkness seems more than bright
There is an excitement in the air a certain knowledge that dark will turn to light
Of celebrations near the darkest day knowing soon once more will return
the Spring that is sure, the flowers will dress in colour and in green the trees
Birds once more will sing that have fell silent with the winters freeze
Cynthia Price
A Beacon
Drawing In the wet rain cold damp in Commercial Street
Drawing in soreness and dampness
In the face brutally birth cold fusion
Galore sandwiches on 3rd floor water apples
Turning right under bridge Shoreditch high street
Still cold perished drawing in first Dalston Junction
Highbury and Islington drawing in boarding
Hot praised printing press releases images
Crisis Skylight we will collect and store
In the basement had a call from gallery to collect
Wanting to be safe collected images
Drawing in preserving background colour
A beacon of light shone from her forehead
Drawing in her environment
John Joseph Sheehy
Another Year Draws In
I hate the wintry nights
That draw in suddenly,
So short the days before
The nights so cold and raw.
It seems the sunny days
The birds that sung so sweet,
The sunshine on my face
Has gone and left no trace.
The gutter on the roof
Is filled with tawny leaves,
That flutter in the chilly breeze
I feel my body freeze.
Christmas now is drawing nigh
As Santa waits to call,
How fast the year has been and gone
With presents now to dwell upon.
(C) Sally Flood
Newham Writers
An Autumn Day
Picturing an autumn morning
Breeze is blowing through the trees
Leaves fall to the ground
Colours all around
Beauty is in all I see
Red and gold upon the pavement
Brilliant sunshine, turning cold
Summer fades away
With a shorter day
As the year is growing old
Life will change with the seasons
Each stage brings something new
Every phase has a reason
Helping us to see it through
I remember summer sunshine
Days which were so warm and clear
Swallows now have flown
Robin’s on his own
Awaiting their return next year
Walking through an autumn evening
Winter isn’t far away
Snow upon the floor
Snowdrops, then the thaw
Heralding a springtime day.
Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers
The Night Drawing In The Moon
I could see my mind curious drawing in
The moon adding lint and mood
Drawing in the morning session
Ink bottles brush with update settings
Farmers milking goats in parlour churned
Drawing in hay corn barley ripe fruit
Ploughing across acreage cornfields
Still operating systems symbolized
Gold medal earned sweat brought browsing
Through drawing in droves black faced ram
Rambling rather have raised rain speaking
Sweet turnips salad dressing cereal raisins
Drawing in turf sods from bog saved piked up
Ponies mane reins mouthpiece breath blowing
Authorship
John Joseph Sheehy
Five Senses Of An April Day
The bows across the violins
bending the oatmeal grass.
She heard Vivaldi
The rich dark peat beneath
springs radiant energy.
She felt Earth and Fire
The pas de deux of balletic
butterflies in the briefest love
She saw Romeo and Juliet
Sweetened butter adorning
spikes of flowering gorse.
She smelt Mediterranean
On Whixhall Moss freed
from industrialisation
She tasted Peace
Footnote: Just one poem I did from 4 workshops centered around the wild and stunning Meres and Mosses. This vast area 'drew me in'
Jan Hedger
WOW
Black Water (Whixall Moss)
Time for me is immaterial
as I lie waiting – a deep hollow of entrapment
blackness leaching into my sunless soul
a completeness of no reflection. I am totally blind,
but I can sense movement – and I wait.
Why am I waiting? I wait because I am starved.
Starved as the Savannah begs rain for fresh grass; yet
like female mosquito’s , I demand warm breathing life.
The mosquito’s are fleeting. I am longevity.
Eon’s of history define me, as
from the birth canal - I entered a Pre-historic land
human sacrifices were consumed victuals
preservation my passage of rite. Autonomy was mine,
but I sensed change – and I feared.
Why was I fearful? Fearful because I was sinking.
Sinking as a drought ridden waterhole stagnates; yet
Like a wallowing hippo, my skin splits and cracks.
The hippo collapses. I am dying.
A bleak February day led to this poem being set back in the past - and man's destruction of the Peat Bog
Jan Hedger
WOW