Tag Archives: World Poetry Cafe Radio Showl

World Poetry Celebrates Trish Hopkinson from Utah!

 

Ariadne’s News! A wonderful World Poetry Café radio show with two great guests on October 19, 1-2 pm PST. First up: Trish Hopkinson with advice on contests, tips for youth poets and how her popular blog came into being.  She answered a poet’s question about spending around $500 dollars total on submissions fees and did not receive any acknowledgement from any of them. We hope to have Trish back again! A must hear show below:

LISTEN HERE! This is for last week’s show. Hopefully we can retrieve the current show from the station.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trish Hopkinson has always loved words in fact, her mother tells everyone she was born with a pen in her hand. A Pushcart nominated poet, she is author of three chapbooks and has been published in several anthologies and journals, including Stirring, Pretty Owl Poetry, and The Penn Review. She is a product director by profession and resides in Utah with her handsome husband and their two outstanding children. You can follow Hopkinson on her blog where she shares information on how to write, publish, and participate in the greater poetry community at http://trishhopkinson.com/  Tips for publishing , contests and more! 

A Way In

for Amiri Baraka

 

As involved and still

as looking inward. Loudly

closing all the shutters at once.

 

Evening: sarcasm blocks

my window view

of the garden.

Scarcities

 

of light. The shadows. The

irregular flickers. Like old

flashbulbs on the red carpet, cold

and electric. There is no silence,

John Cage says . . . Just the tones

of nervous system operation

& blood circulation.

 

My throat wants to shout

out at this tangible reality.

 

Although, (standing upright in thin

atmosphere from shut windows; all

the answers falling to the floor,

till your feet are bruised & knee deep in)

Although, sunlight will edge between cracks

& in warm strips of faith, of truth.

 

There are glorious murals of lilies

on the wainscot

in the dollhouse. The dolls

sit still all day. In blue

dawn & morning dew.

 

Church bells, like the good

book in the nightstand, anchored in the drawer.

The lamb and the crucifix, a vision

with an ending.

 

I am satisfied. Pausing

in this moment, staying still,

waiting to pass this old age, the

mortal pain of body; sloughed off . . .

Like newborn field mice;

shivering in the nest,

until the unknowing

boot heel crushes their bones.

Use up the ugly

expanses, with full lungs

primed. Harmless lift

of human dreams. A prophet’s

transformation.

 

Crumpling into the dirt, worms

writhing on lips. Wood

and hinges sealing the box.

 

Awakened. Convoluted

and looking inward. I evaporate.

” (This is the first poem in my recently published chapbook Footnote)”

Trish Hopkinson (C) All rights reserved.

World Poetry Celebrates Mahmood Jan from Afghanistan!

Ariadne’s Notes: I have been receiving so much e-mail from all over the world, some of it is so unique. This poem was read on the World Poetry Café Radio Show several weeks ago and I would like to feature him as an example of the quest for peace around the world.

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“My name is Mahmood Jan from Afghanistan.

I am a 52 year old man I am living in Kabul, a shopkeeper in the selling of tiles.

I am sorry :  I am studying English is   but it is poor

I have a  little knowledge of English

language. But I  feel the pain of the world creating such pain topics as (  Voice of the heart of the world)  that I wrote.

I thought I would share my topics the outcomes that  I feel that I am alive to read especially in the writing or singing to express my feelings.

This is for reading on the world peace day with full singing sound on September 21st.

Voice of the Heart of the World

Our world   Your world   Our world

Our sky   Your land   Our space

I am   As you are   You are   As I am

Our place   You live   We live   Your place

Our love   Your ambition   Our ambition   Your love

Our world   Your world   Our world

Our sky   Your land   Our space

Hey person   Hey human   Hey mankind

Our color   Your blood   Our body

Our intellect   Your brain   Our mind

We see   You see   Our lookout

We become dust   We are melting

We become growth   We become leaves

We become flowers

Our flowers  Your flowers   Our grass and land

Our world   Your world   Our world

Our sky   Your land   Our space

Our stones   Your mountain   Our universe

Our stars   Your moon   Our sun

We become light   We become lamps   We shine

This is our heart   This is our heart   This  is our heart

Asia is our heart   Australia is our heart   Africa is our heart

America is  our heart   Europe is our heart

All people the world are one heart

All people the world are one heart

Mahmood Jan  (C)

Alberto Cristoffanini, World Poetry Cafe Radio Feature in Canada!

 
 
 
 

World Poetry Featured Poet

Alberto Cristoffanini is an apprentice juggler of words, amateur sound-acrobat, and trapeze artist of language. Born in Chile, he has been attempting to write poetry since reading Neruda at the age of 8.  For the last couple years, he has turned his efforts onto performance poetry. He is an alumni of the 2011 Ignite! Spoken Word Mentorship program and co-president of Slam UBC for 2011/12.”I would very much appreciate if you could throw the links to my blog (www.writewhatsleft.wordpress.com) and the UBC Slam blog (http://slamubc.wordpress.com/)
 

Green

He said he only ever wrote in green because it is the colour of
hope.
This may sound completely arbitrary but, I assure you, it is not.
His words grow like tendrils in my mind, wild restless shoots
that spread their eager toes and fingers where they will,
planting  images in the fertile valleys of my ribcage:
One. the telltale palms of my grandfather’s grapevines,
rough from the sun’s unabated kiss, from the labour of
drawing life from deep within the Earth and bearing it to fruit
as the taste of a star’s lips that are Chilean grapes. And let me
tell you, there is nothing sweeter than the children of a miner.
Two. the emerald glint of a seashell’s heart, because despite
what scientist’s will tell you, some molluscs wear their insides
on their sleeves. Three. the curiosity with which I picked one up

nd learned what sleeves are for. Four. the colour of the ground
the day I learnt I was not cut out for soccer. Five. the inebriated
breath of forest moss as it whispered the secrets of life: there is
no death. Six. the foamy laughter of a seastorm as it dances
to the music of the wind; the ocean is most beautiful when it’s
just about to burst.

His words first planted the seeds in my mind to write a tree of
poetry, because I could taste from their vegetable yield that
our roots intertwined far down into the earth, where dirt knows
little of time, people, flags, or pens.

So, yeah, I may still be a little green to be making statements
about the nature of life, but it is no coincidence I am full of hope.
Like an irrepressible artichoke, my heart is leafy with chlorophyll
ready to photosynthesize the caress of any radiant day into this
optimistic longing, this insatiable aquamarine fire that
like my grandmother’s hearth burns for the rainy days.
Like the timeless ticking of the kindling-boy’s horse-cart
on the cobblestones reminding me that I can always reach down
past the hours and hours of sand blown to glass on rugged
grandfather clock faces, delve down where dirt knows little
of time, people, flags or pens, and grasp the nutrients to feed
this fire. This never stop dreaming of greener grass fire.
This fire that taught me that the grass is always greener
on the inside. Because you can wait in the green room forever,
but the only cue, the only green light you’re gonna get is
its timid glow. And you don’t need a ring to be the Green Lantern
on the path of your life. So even though any Kermit will tell you,
It’s not that easy being green.

Let these words sow grapevines of aquamarine fire inside your chest,
no matter how many times someone eats your artichoke heart.

By Alberto Cristoffanini ©

To listen to Alberto on the radio, please click here.