How Many?

I’m suddenly frightened, scared to death, actually. I feel a little dizzy and breathless. I crack open another beer, in order to forget what might be facing me. I’m losing my memory and there’s nothing I can do about it.

It was subtle at first: what singer sang Fast Car, a tune that was popular more than 30 years ago? Try as I might, I couldn’t recall. It’s not like my short-term memory is evaporating, which is an early indication of Alzheimers. And it’s not like I can’t remember what day it is or the name of the president. Those were the questions the neurologist asked my dad when he was diagnosed at age 80, more than 20 years before. So what am I worried about? On the other hand, all my mom and dad’s brothers and sisters suffered profound dementia prior to their deaths.

As I drink my beer, I wonder: how many beers have I already had? I can’t remember. And have I eaten? Did I take my medicine yet? What is the name of that singer? Next I try to retrive a document on my PC, but I get confused; I forget how to do it! Dammit!

Dad was just 10 years older than I am now when his memory began to fail. Today when I was out and about, people stared at me as if they didn’t know what I was talking about, as if I’d said something which didn’t compute, didn’t make sense. Instantly, I forgot what I’d just said. Did I say something to upset that young female cashier? Did me mistake me for some kind of masher? Do they even use that expression anymore? God, I’m old!

Back home again, I stride into the next room with purpose, only to discover that I didn’t know why I’ve come. And I don’t even remember coming back home. I open another beer; this makes…how many? 

UNPOETIC THOUGHTS

[Saying anything and getting caught is not a  literary virtue, it is an unliterary activity. The best in literature are things which spin the words and images round and round and the reader has to shoot an arrow into the eye of the floating fish, looking at its image in the water. [Draupadi’s Swaymbara] ]

Dr Jernail Singh Anand

Broken lines which carry sophisticated ideas are not poetry, unless they evoke emotions which blend disparate elements of experience into a unified whole. The final feeling should not be of a broken experience, but a unified entity, whispering to the soul. If the poet does not whisper to the soul, it lacks in essentialities.

When we talk of a common subject like love, on an extensive scale, is the broken heart of a poet so important to the world? Is it important to tell the world how it was broken and where its splinters are lying? Does the world expect such lavish wastefulness from the poet? If poets are irrelevant to the world today, it is precisely because they sing of their personal sorrow, and sing too much, which fails to connect with the mass mind.

Metaphor as a smoke-screen

Is it important to postpone finally saying something and trying to find metaphors, so that abstract images could say, what the poet is so scared to say in plain words? A metaphor is not always an adornment. In these politicis-ridden times, most of the times it is used as a smoke screen.  

A poem’s message is like a needle to be found in a chaff store. The poet talks loosely about clouds, flowers, rivers, oceans, moon. – good images, and sometimes soothing too, but the message… Oh, I am sorry, does the poet have any message to convey? Or just to fiddle with words, images and enjoy and make the reader enjoy his word patterns, which have expertise in not saying anything.  Saying anything and getting caught is not a  literary virtue, it is an unliterary activity. The best in literature are things which spin the words and images round and round and the reader has to shoot an arrow into the eye of the floating fish, looking at its image in the water. [Draupadi’s Swaymbara]

So difficult it is to find the meaning of a poem. And finally, if the reader says, “the poet says this” agains there are eyebrows. It is not the poet, it is the poem that says something. So, the text says, the poem says, … this is the fad. The poet has nothing to say. He only put some words together. Forged some images. Which are now lying before you. Try to read into them and say what you find them say.

A post-modern reading of Paradise Lost can be rewarding.  Let us forget what Milton has to say about “to justify the ways of God to man”.. The invocation becomes absolutely irrelevant in which he invokes the Muse to let him sing of the disobedience of man which brought death in the world. How can Milton dare to utter these words? It is all irrelevant. Leave invocation. Let us move straight into the text.

Love for the Workshop

If text is our focus, we can go beyond Milton. The message has no significance. What is important is the text, and using the text, bring a staircase, stepping down into its interior, let us move in the dark chambers of Milton’s mind.  What he says, has no relevance. What he did not say, is important. Move in.

Everyone who enters this talisman finds something different and challenging. So, that is our study of poetry. Finally to put out a broken spectacle because, a verse, if we take the words to enter into the poets mind, will take us into a factory area where tools are lying scattered. Are we interested in the workshop or the finished product? I think entering a sweet seller’s pantry cannot be a rewarding experience. Better to enjoy the sight of the silver-covered sweets, and still better, to taste a few of them, and praise the sweet maker, rather than de-kneading the flour and sugar that went into it and following them from which mill the flour came and from which factory, the sugar came.

Bio:

Dr Jernail Singh Anand, President of the International Academy of Ethics, is author of 170 books in English poetry, fiction, non-fiction, philosophy and spirituality. He was recently awarded Seneca Award by the Academy of Philosophical Arts and Sciences Bari. [Italy -19/10/2024]. He also won Charter of Morava, the great Award by Serbian Writers Association, Belgrade and his name was engraved on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. He was awarded Doctor of Philosophy [Honoris Causa] by the University of Engg and Management, Jaipur. Recently, he organized an International Conference on Culture, Values and Ethics at Pune.  His most phenomenal books are Lustus:The Prince of Darkness [first epic of the Mahkaal Trilogy]. And Philosophia  de Anand, a work of philosophy which has under one roof, ten of his philosophical works. [Email: anandjs55@yahoo.com Mobile: 919876652401[Whatsapp] [ethicsacademy.co.in]

Link Bibliography:

https://atunispoetry.com/2023/12/08/indian-author-dr-jernail-s-anand-honoured-at-the-60th-belgrade-international-meeting-of-writers/

https://sites.google.com/view/bibliography-dr-jernal-singh/home

Time

Little girl, why the sad pout

What is there to worry about

Life may slide from North to South

And cries be held tight in your mouth

But time flies quickly from East to West

Clock ticking continuously without rest

Soon you will be leaving your nest

To face challenges of nature’s test.

Release all the burdens of your heart

Painful though it is, let go of the hurt

Waste not every breathe, for it is short

Learn and live fullest, of all that it’s worth.

Faith

What is Faith?

A belief that goes beyond what senses perceive

A belief that goes beyond what our instincts gives

A belief that goes beyond confusions that deceives

Yet, is Faith enough?

To accept the time to be born and die

To accept that fate and faith is but one

To accept a predestined destiny is done

To accept that a path is an inflexible sky

Then why is there Life?

Should life be spent by being immobile

Should one sit, silently wait in self exile

Should one watch others the world defile

As hunger, anger, greed and violence pile

Then why is there Free Will?

A choice to leash or let go one’s desire

A choice to create or destroy with fire

A choice to reject or sing along with choir

A choice to lead or be led by thorny wire

What is Faith?

Is Faith a strength to empower an action

Is Faith a comfort for failure’s depression

Is Faith a guide to worthwhile destination

Is Faith a motivation to lead one’s passion

What is the benefit of Faith in one’s belief?

What is the benefit of Faith in acceptance?

What is the benefit of Faith in one’s choice?

What is the benefit of Faith in one’s life?

With Faith, there is Trust,

Yet Trust with Wisdom,

Wisdom with Humility,

Humility with Confidence,

Confidence with Compassion.

Faith must not be blind,

For a Blind Faith is a Dead Faith;

Faith must be Alive with Free will,

Freewill needs to make wise Choices.

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.

Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.

This composition started when I saw a documentary on New Orleans. I have never been there so I’ve always been fascinated by its culture and its history. And after watching the documentary, I kind of envisioned myself living there, the cast of characters I would run into, and the underbelly of New Orleans, but also the music and the uniqueness of the place, and that’s how I wrote Saint Street.

I brought in a 12-string and a mandolin just to give the music a colorful different texture, and that reminds me of New Orleans as well.

Rain

The sun is hidden behind the clouds

The clouds turned into a black storm

Covered the sky together with the sky

Suddenly the sky rumbled

Lightning flashed in the sky

Little by little

It started to rain

It was pouring rain

Knocking on the window

The smell of rain spread

It caught the whole world

Enjoy the plants

Sevinardi in the rain

It is slowly shining from the rain

Thank you plants

Asta bowed his head

WHEN WE EMBRACE THE SOLITUDE OF

TOMORROW

An Iroko, once tied behind

the black ears of wickedness,

always end with the recital of shadows

upon the earth.

Today anthems, are syllables of tears,

Pledge where dark beings once purge

The sea.

To the black letters of recorded time, which boils in fame.

To the prayers of bullets, mother

fired when age first brewed the wine

of maturity upon my lip.

My soul is a remainant of solfas,

Carving notes in this arm eaten by the

Virgin fangs of Needs.

Whenever we withness the harmonic weaving

Of flame on wood, we shall wear our anthems

Like skin,

For that black boy opposite our hut

Has learnt to recite the slogan of success

Where fear and failure brew dreams

upon the podium of regret.

An Igbo writer, a member of hilltop creative arts center, a lyrical poets who writes about the constant changes of emotions. My works have been published on synchronized chaos, poetry parliament, and my poem (virgins pride) and (symphony of love) was shortlisted in the 2023/2024 annual nature poetry contest. 

Turning 75 Three Times

	1-
Self-portraits by Picasso:
elbows where the head
should be, mouth and eyes
randomly scattered,
a mass of color; 
body parts trying to connect

	2-
Novels in three lines
like Japanese death poems:
a few words summing up life-
more than enough

	3-
Remembering morning at
a still lake: false dawn 
suggesting light with a
persistence of fog refusing
to lift-lines written in lieu
of mourning. 


White Noise Twice

	1-
Woman in white-
pale skin and alabaster
eyes, a white room
wraith, a scatter of
dried flowers, herbs; 
Emily Dickinson dreaming

	2-
Open Mic with thunderstorm
with unexpected static, 
dimming house lights
then total darkness;
an apology for reading
a war poem that ends
in thunder


Kawabata Six Times

	1-
At peace pagoda-
wrought iron character
for peace. At dusk
a bell rings

	2-
Clear summer night.
Where are the fireflies?

	3-
Still Life with Flower
Arrangement- 

single long stem Iris
in clear glass vase.
Shadows cast on
white interior wall;
perfect symmetries

	4-
Still Life with Waterfalls-

Summer drought reduces
flow. At the crest,
sleek stepping stones-
still a long way down

	5-
A trick of light
on lake reflects
flocks of birds

	6-
Folding origami cranes
for peace and releasing 
them into rivers, ponds,
lakes- a thousand is
never enough


Flood Tides Five Times

	1-
Cornfields on a flood
plain-only the tops
of stalks visible

	2-
Light through spider’s
web between two trees;
a world about to end

	3-
Found, barely visible
in receding tidal pool,
between a scatter of rocks,
a whale’s rib

	4-
After the flood,
gray morning sky;
a broken tree limb
with one bird on it

	5-
Weeks of rain then clear
and warm. The sun feels
strange, out of place

Seeing Sleep Four Times

	1-
Looking up from under
water, the movement
of clouds

	2-
Sleep-letting go
of the body,
the mind moves on

	3-
Light through gaps
between broken trees.
New day colors-
blue sky and rising sun,
almost liquids

	4-
Bone white trees-
moon shadows on
still water.
Nothing moves


White Symphony Three Times
	
	1-
Young woman in white
gazing into a mirror-
reflection in half tones
and light

	2-
Woman seated on piano
bench facing away from keys,
an annotated score open
to a piece for four hands,
two hands missing

	3-
Dreaming woman sleepwalking
in white, silk kimono empty
tea cups in each limp hand;
rice paper walls dissolve
around her.


Tone Poems Three Times

	1-
Outdoor concert at
night, Les Preludes
with moonglow and
meteor showers; a tone
poem with stars in it

	2-
November evening
with freezing rain

Cars sliding
on black ice

Inside a Schubert trio;
safe at home at last

	3-
Stained glass sonata:
musical notes as pure
as light through
colored glass