Painting by Mahmood Jan. Peace Poet from Afghanistan
Ariadne’s News: On May 2, 1-2 pm PST, CFRO 100.5 FM, the World Poetry Café radio show had a fascinating show with celebrating two book launches with Nima Tshering from Bhutan and Ahmad Ahmad Al-Khatat, a talented Iraqi Canadian poet! I will do separate features for each guest.
The show began with a healing song by a Hopi Elder and later continued with a solo woman’s voice song in a cave in Albania that is supposed to have the best acoustics in the world.
Featured e-poem Rain of Peach Petals was also from Bhutan sent by Ngawang Tenzin ,currently working as Radio Jockey for Tsangla (Native dialect of eastern populace) for Bhutan Broadcasting Service Corporation.
This was an special show for us with two book launches, a recorded message from Bhutan and a poem in Arabic by Ahmad Al-Khatat, a short story from Sharon’s new book More Big Bessie Stories and more!
“The title of my book is “songs of lonely raven” here is the synopsis of my book, I heard the old, old men say, poetry is a tapestry of thoughts and wonders. And I truly believe that one cannot be a poet without connecting with nature: a strong bond exists between the nature and the poet. To live and die without wondering and asking questions is a life wasted. Life has a lot to offer us and if we even try to unlock these treasures buried deep inside us, its has the ability to change us. Scientist use deduction and empiricism to understand nature: whilst poetry is the poet’s magic tool and always remember all that is wild is beautiful and wondrous like the daises.”
“You can purchase the book from me. Email me at, email@example.com “
Note: the material below was taken from messenger and may be hard to read.
*A New Year painting for peace and togetherness by Afghan Peace Poet Mahmood Jan with his powerful messages of respect, peace and love.
Ariadne’s Notes: The World Poetry Café, Feb. 21 at 1:10 PM PST, 100.5 FM,CFRO featured the welcome music, Londonian Set for piano solo in two movements played by Mamora Yabuki at Gewand Hall in Hiroshima of the well known composer and World Poetry Music Director Yoshifumi Sakura along with healing prayers and love for him. E-poet: Rabia Ahrar with her poem Wishes Died.
We also welcomed the Metaphysical Poetess Alara Bretanne from Vancouver Island! She read her beautiful poems and sang a healing song chant in Sanskrit . The song was so moving that she sang it twice! You could hear and feel the healing vibrations.
Also, some great poems from a new anthology by super tech, Victor Schwartzman ,e-poem by Rabia Ahar and a new Big Bessie story by Sharon Rowe from her upcoming book, More Big Bessie Stories. Don’t miss listening to the show below! The Music is amazing.
Alara Bretanne At 15, Alara was introduced to poetry by an extraordinary English Lit. teacher from Trinidad. Through his encouragement, one of her poems was published in the local newspaper. While attaining her B.A., majoring in English Lit., at Western University in London, Ontario, she was strongly influenced by the poets of the “Romantic Era” such as Blake, Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, Coleridge and Keats. The mystical and metaphysical orientation of their writing gave Alara an expanded world vision Alara was involved with World Poetry, The Millennium Writers Group, and was featured as a guest poet on World Poetry’s radio station in Vancouver, BC. In 2011, upon moving to Vancouver Island, BC, she joined the Cowichan Writers Group and began writing short stories. Poetry and short stories were published in the Anthologies “One Brick Shorts” in 2013 and “Love Notes”in 2016.
Her recent poem:
Trapped in a world with no vision of itself Spirits encased in matter A Harry Potter world of dementors Thought things weave a blanket of shadow
The shadow world thrives on fear essence Its daily diet of war, violence, racism, lack A slow death of desperation The message of permanent hope Riding an undercurrent in an impermanent illusion
Will you listen to the message? Will you hear its whisper? Will you feel its vibration? Will you act?
Hope sighs, “Shadow has no substance; Only that which you give it.” Shadow’s weapon – poisonous lies, Battering the flimsy shell of the deeper Indestructible worth of your being.
Shadow maliciously smiles, “Death is everywhere.” And licks gritty, black lips Like the con artist it is
Hope laughs with gut wrenching glee, “That’s the greatest lie of all,” Death is nothing, a transition of consciousness; That is all, a reprieve from matter.
Remember, remember, remember
The Hope wave moves on, Shadow evaporates.
Remember, remember, remember is the remaining echo.
Ariadne’s Notes: I am back on the World Poetry Café Radio Show, CFRO 100.5 FM after a three weeks break. Thanks to Victor Swartzman and Diego Bastinutti for keeping the show going. We have been going through a lot of challenges with our electrical problems and are now in a hotel for an extended time. I am doing my best to keep up with all the wonderful e-mails and offers of help and prayers. Please be patient with me. I had hope to launch WP Media with correspondents from all over the world but will need to postpone this.
Last week, we had the honour of having an amazing guest call in and to help us celebrate our 21st year of being on the air. Michael read his poems talked about his life and even answered a question from a 14 year old Nigerian boy who wanted his advise about writing. The answer was greatly appreciated by the young man who sends his thanks. Also, we want to welcome Michael Mirolla as the new writer in residence at the famed Joy Kogawa house starting in November and hope we can do a welcome program for him.
*Photo: Happy New Year from Afghan Peace Poet Mahmood Jan in Kabul.
Michael Mirolla is the author of a clutch of novels, poetry collections, short story collections, and plays. He is a three-time winner of the Bressani Literary Prize. His novel Berlin was a finalist for the Indie and National Book Awards. The short story, “A Theory of Discontinuous Existence,” was selected for The JourneyPrize Anthology; and “The Sand Flea” was a Pushcart Prize nominee. Born in Italy, raised in Montreal, Michael now lives in Oakville, Ontario. For more information: http://www.michaelmirolla.com. For an old WP Link:http://worldpoetry.ca/?p=11150
To a poet struggling to recover her words
Please note: this is not a metaphor.
In the spongy grey room, walls reticulated, bony chair bolted to upheaving floor, spotlight at 10 flickers per minute, she sits. There’s a hole in the side of her head. There’s a hole where they extracted the over-eager building blocks, the out-of-control tidbits of DNA. The incisions were precise, one must assume. But it didn’t prevent the words … her words … from escaping into the sterile air.
Now, a saintly smile framing her face, she sits in the bony chair inside the spongy grey room with reticulated walls and reaches out to recapture the stray letters that may or may not have survived without her tender care.
I sit across from her, spoon-feeding alphabet strands into a hungry mouth fearful that the words that have kept her whole that have defined her that connect her to herself that have built this grey room will be unable to make the return journey.
Please note: This has not been a metaphor.
Also, he read the following poem which is a favorite since I remember siting in a cave listening to my dad read Plato (The Cave) to us.
In The Cave of Lost Language
When rifling the pockets that hold the day in thrall there is always some thing that slips through the fingers. No matter how tightly we grip the fabric. Or fingernail dig into its deepest corners. Is it possible the contents change each time we reach in? Or does the pocket itself become altered by the hand as it latches onto a fistful of what was previously there but is no more?
And then, one day without warning, from hand to mouth, the familiar phrases themselves decide to come and go as they please, shape shifting before they disappear. And you’re prone to ask: What was … what is … that word once so strong, so anchored now fluttering out the window like a stale balloon’s flaccid breath?
At first, you tell yourself: Worry not. So what if within your grasp “brother” of a sudden becomes anaia and “crow” re-turns to belex? As long as one word simply morphs into another. As long as reaching down dislodges those helpful phrases you can use as place-holders for who you might be: wolf/hirpus tongue/osvache. As long as those scratches, familiar or not, re-appear on the wall at day’s end.
There is that comfort of finding something … anything, is there not? Until your hand comes up empty, an open palm holding a blank space. And your heart stutters and you grope about in your Kline bottle pocket in search of one word … one fragment that you can inscribe … just one clue that’ll keep you from vanishing.
Michael Mirolla (C) All rightsreserved by the author.