Opinion

The Writer – Haibun – October 19, 2014

Originally posted on Bastet and Sekhmet's Library:

The best author will be the one who is ashamed to become a writer.
Friedrich Nietzsche

Writing from nine to five … trying to get the reports out before the deadline chopped off the utility of their existence.  Statistics, meetings, growth charts all to be compressed into 10 pages.  Conclusions to then be discussed to be re-elaborated and rewritten.  Day after day, year after year.

She’d wanted to be a writer.  She took creative writing courses in High School, majored in Modern English Literature in College.  She read poetry and was part of a poetry club. Then,  she’d become the editor of the school newspaper and she took a journalism course, even a writer has to eat.  She’d lost the way … and the wonderful poems and books she was to author, became stale reports.

She stopped typing as this thought screamed through her mind:  ‘Is this to…

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Little Red Journal

Originally posted on Girlgoyle. Banished.:

10 18 2014 adapted birches 1

Her obsession with writing started in her teenage years. 

It was harmless stuff, really – rambling pages that could be condensed into seven words:  “my life sucks and I’m pretty sad”.  Then it progressed to laments for her dark-eyed teacher crush – to cheesy rhymes for the idiot who broke her heart – to guilt-laden words for the red-haired boy whose heart she’d broken. 

a little red journal
full of baby steps –
cooing

One day she felt brave and shared a love-sick confessional with her ditzy friend – who giggled.

Rookie mistake.

From that point on, her writing followed self-imposed rules.  Be cryptic.  Be symbolic.  Bury yourself at the bottom-most layer – even in your diary – just in case.

Oddly, the rules didn’t clip her wings:  the rules made her freer.   

And her writing bled.

in bitter words
a realization:
sometimes freedom hurts

The friend who read…

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Ligo Haibun Challenge Link-Up

http://www.gunns-cabinfever.pw/l298go/ligo-haibun-quote-prompt-week1#.VEF-tWeSxAU

Categories: Haibun, Haiku, Information, Memories, Mysteries, Opinion, Philosophy, Writing | Leave a comment

Carpe Diem Haiku – fireworks

Originally posted on Björn Rudbergs writings:


Kobane’s sky –
not fireworks exploding
in mortar’s song
the world’s observing
our unified defeat

Image source

Image source


I don’t know if you can be political in a tanka. But at least it’s worth a try. Linked to Carpe Diem

October 12, 2014

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Turkish government deal with ISIS

Originally posted on Dear Kitty. Some blog:

This video is about anger in the Turkish government because US Vice President Biden mentioned their connections to ISIS.

When United States Vice President Joseph Biden spoke about links between the Turkish government and ISIS terrorism, he did not commit a ‘gaffe’, whatever establishment media pundits say. For one moment, rare for establishment politicians, Biden told the truth.

From daily The Morning Star in Britain:

British prisoners handed to Isis

Prisoner Swap: Two British extremists were among dozens of prisoners handed back to Islamic State by the Turkish government in exchange for the release of diplomats, it was reported yesterday.

The Times newspaper claims Shabazz Suleman, 18, from Buckinghamshire, and another 26-year-old Briton are among as many as 180 fighters traded with Isis to secure the release of Turkish consular staff.

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Carpe Diem ~ Haru Ta (Spring Paddy)

carpediem

patchwork of greens
sudden explosions and napalm
craters of brown

The United States unleashed a secret carpet bombing campaign on this country for nearly a decade, dropping 260 million cluster bombs – the most heavily bombed country in history, with more than 2.5 million tons of munitions during 580,000 bombing missions – equal to a planeload of bombs every 8 minutes, 24 hours a day, for 9 years  – more than all bombing by all belligerents in World War II, or 210 million more bombs than were dropped on Iraq in 1991, 1998 and 2006 combined.

Of 75 million bombs that failed to detonate, less than 1 percent have been cleared, and 25,000 people have been killed or injured by these bombs in the 35 years following the end of the bombing campaign. Today, an average of 300 people are injured or killed every year by these weapons, about half of them children, and most of the rest working men.

The economy is almost entirely agricultural (rice, in particular) yet one-third of the land remains littered with unexploded bombs.

Between 1996 and 2012, the U.S. contributed on average $2.6M per year to a general United Nations unexploded bomb clean-up program; the U.S. spent $17M per day for nine years bombing the country.

The U.S. spent as much in three days bombing of the country ($51M) as it spent for clean up over 16 years ($51M).

The country is Laos.

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विकर कुर्सी में

And then it happened. She was gone. A micro hurricane of swirling dust and stinging eyes as the bus bounced and rattled to a near-stop then suddenly sped up again and hurtled away.

“Who were you?” I thought, only minutes after she’d left. “What do you do, in your foreign land?”

She had stayed the night, back pack and all, but I’d sat in the wicker chair as she rested her tired eyes.

Leaving, she had taken the mango and given me a peck on my cheek, her eyes gleaming with freshness and fun.

.

polishing shoes again
dreaming of another friendship
no matter how short-lived

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Ode To Traffic Wardens

I used to hate
traffic wardens
when I was a slave to society
but now I see them
for who they are
our holy warriors
slaying dragon cars
appearing just on time
to lay down a beautiful fine
their little sword a pen
but oh don’t be mistaken
its a mighty weapon
and their shield the simple note pad
which such style they wield

Yes! Oh yes!

…oh thee of tight uniforms ankles bare
our proud holy warriors
marching in your ranks
to my eye you bring a tear
the dobermans of an Orwellian animal farm
and part of our war against terroni
on behalf of nations and corporations
yes hail the heroes who set us free!
they are veritably our kindred kind
how I’d love to put my arms around your neck
advance fair until a car be found
or hope for a delivery truck
to which an orgasmic ticket written
feels better than a …Original Sin

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Friday Fictioneers – Last Known Words of HMG Gurrumul, Lead Explorer of the Queen Bentafrou Antartic Expedition, date and year unverifiable

…Ladies and gentlemen who may read, I fear these may be my last known words, not for want of trying, but because one does want posterity to keep a kind eye cast and not a presumptuous giggle, and it is clear my colleagues and I are rapidly succumbing to the effects of unverifiable collective delirium.

I enclose the film for you to process if found, to see if indeed we have ‘lost it’ as they say. But we have walked by a mirage of a river and fauna in the Antarctic sun for hours and are too weak to continue. Surely the photo will show snow, no more-

Friday Fictioneers found here –  http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ Thank you, Rochelle

Photograph by kind courtesy – http://erinlearywrites.com/

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Meditation Haiku

sound of bell
meditation stops
haiku starts

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But If You’re Talking About Destruction You Can Count Me Out/In

”The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall.”

(Che Guevara)

‘Revolutionary’, in the image of the brutal if sincere Che, has a positive, romantic flair much in the same way as to ‘nurse’ something along is positive, and to ‘doctor’ it isn’t, inexplicably.

But nursing things along is not what revolutionising is all about, according to Che, and I dare say he knew. It is about short, sharp shocks. However, the problem with revolution’s revolutionaries is the penchant for reinstalling a ”past”, instead of wanting to take society a step forward. Granted, the laws of physics apply fully to politics: every action demands an equal reaction. How else could we explain Hitler, Pol Pot, Ayatollah Khomeini and Pinochet? How else could we explain the swing the Republicans took  in USA, that sees them now seeking to ‘moralise’ while calling for ‘less government’?

Revolutions can work long-term.  1776 is the classic, as was the French revolution, kind of, and the Haitian revolution against slavery in 1791 (though massive repayments to previous slave owners after the successful revolution permanently damaged the nascent Haiti’s prospects).

Maybe Che Guevera was an exception, but his masters, or minders in Moscow – whether he liked them around or not – were among the most conservative of all, and the Soviet revolution had long lost its way. But Che’s early writings show a doctor horrified by poverty in latin America and its blatant causes, for which the North American and European continent heartedly contributed to.

Tonight 409 years ago, a revolutionary at the other end of the evolutionary scale called Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the houses of parliament, in order to restore a Catholic monarch to the throne. The 5th November has now accordingly become Guy Fawkes night in much of England, when British boys and girls blow their fingers off with fireworks instead. Hopefully not too many this year.

An effigy of Guy Fawkes, wheelbarrowed around streets by children mysteriously asking for ”a penny for the Guy” is followed by the tossing of the straw-filled figue onto a large bonfire in towns and villages nationwide.

The real Guy Fawkes fared little better, and was duly hung, drawn and quartered in the best tradition.

Guy Fawkes night needs to be expanded, to symbolically include all the fanatics and fundamentalists who have found their way through the woodwork, as worms do when the foundations are rattled. The trouble is that the foundations do need rattling. Strongly. Catch-22.

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Trifecta ~ The Ingredients

The min 33/max 333 word story must feature the following word in its 3rd definition:

“I shot the sheriff,” he hummed, walking up the stairs. Blood poured down the stairs and over the stairwell in a solid, sticky and quite sickly stream, if you were not a mosquito or homeless dog: “..but I did not shoot the deputy..uhhh!” he sang, earphones plugged in ears, until the fresh blood splattered onto the pizza box, shuddering it open.

“Oh maaan!” He moaned. Duty made him first give a cursory glance into the pizza box to check if the contents had been compromised, even as the blood streamed in a slowing waterfall next to him. “Oh dude!” he said aloud, to himself, checking his shirt, pulling it forward between thumb and forefinger; “oh dude, dude!”, his blood-splattered white shirt, the word “Pizza” at the top left breast pocket almost obliterated. He looked up the stairwell, completely and totally unsure what his next step should be; programmed to deliver pizza, nothing else. “You ok up there, man?” he tried. The silent reply echoed silently.

Seemed to be more tomato in the pizza than before. He’d never failed a delivery yet. Couldn’t tell you where pizzas come from, or how to make ‘em, but he’d never failed one delivery, and now was stuck. Just did not know what to do. The box dripped with blood, and his shoes gelled to the congealed blood on the stairs as he waited for his mind to come to a decision.

That darn box. That was blood on it. Couldn’t hide that. So he took the pizza out of the box, cupping it with his left hand, then dropping the box. “That was stupid, dude,” he said aloud, upon reflection. “You jis’ cannot deliver a pizza with no box.”

He ate the pizza, in one of those spur of the moment things; stress bringing upon hunger.

Later, in bright red lipstick, polka dotted dress, breasts held firmly in bra, he sat in the court room. “And the defense for the woman’s murder?” Roared the prosecutor; “alchemy, she says!!”

T r i f e c t a 333W exactly

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