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By
Alexander K Opicho

(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)


Spiritual scholars of Christian Science have a concept that there is
power in the name. They at most identify the name Jesus and the name
of God, Jehovah to be the most powerful names in the spiritual realm.
But in the world of literature and intellectual movement, art,
science, politics and creativity, the name Alexander is mysteriously
powerful. Averagely, bearers of the name Alexander achieve some unique
level of literary or intellectual glory, discover something novel or
make some breakaway political victories.

Among the ancient and present-day Russians, most bearers of the name
Alexander were imbued with some uniqueness of intellect, leadership or
literary mighty. Beginning with the recent times of Russia, the first
mysterious Alexander is the 1700 political reformist and effective
leader, Tsar Alexander and his beautiful wife, tsarina Alexandrina.
The couple transformed Russian society from pathetic peasantry to a
middle class society. It is Tsar Alexander’s leadership that lain a
foundation for Russian socialist revolution. Different scholars of
Russian history remember the reign of Tsar Alexander with a strong

bliss. This is what made the Lenin family to name their son Alexander
an elder brother to Vladimir Ilyanovsk Ilyich Lenin. This was done as
parental projection through careful   choice of a mentor for their
young son. Alexander Lenin was named after this formidable ruler; Tsar
Alexander. Alexander Lenin was a might scholar. An Intellectual and
political reformist. He was a source of inspiration to his young
brother Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, who became the Russian president after
his brother Alexander, had died through political assassination.
However, researches into distinctive prowess of these two brothers
reveal that Alexander Lenin was more gifted intellectually than
Vladimir Lenin.

Alexander Pushkin, another Russian personality with intellectual,
cultural, theatrical and   literary consenguences. He was a
contemporary of Alexander pope. He is the main intellectual influence
behind Nikolai Vasileyvich Gogol and very many other Russian writers.
He is to Russians what Shakespeare is to English speakers or victor
Hugo is to French speakers, Friedriech schiller and Frantz Kafka is to
Germany readers or Miguel de Cervantes to the Spaniards. Among English
readers, Shakespeare’s drama of king Lear is a beacon of English
political theatre, while Hugo’s Les miscerables is an apex of French
social and political literature, but Pushkin’s Boris Godunov, a
theatrical political satire, technically towers above the peers. For
your point of information my dear reader; there has been a
commonaplace false convention among English literature scholars that,
William Shakespeare in conjunction with Robert Greene wrote and
published highest number of books, more than anyone else. The factual
truth is otherwise. No, they only published 90 works, but Pushkin
published 700 works.
Equally glorious is Alexander Vasileyvich sholenstsyn,the, the, the
author of I will be on phone by five, Cancer Ward, Gulag Archipelago’
and the First Cycle. He is a contemporary of Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor
Dostoyevsky, Alfred Nobel and Maxim Gorky. Literary and artistic
excellence of Alexander Sholenstsyn,the, the anti-communist Russian
novelist was and is still displayed through his mirroring of a corrupt
Russian communist politics, made him a debate case among the then
committee members for Nobel prize and American literature prize, but
when the Kremlin learned of this they, detained Alexander sholenenstyn
at Siberia for 18 years this is where he wrote his Gulag Archipelago.
Which he wrote as sequel five years later to the previous novel the
Cancer Ward whose main theme is despair among cancer patients in the
Russian hospitals. This was simply a satirical way of expressing agony
of despair among the then political prisoners at Siberia concentration
camps .In its reaction to this communist front to capitalist
literature through the glasnost machinery, the Washington government
ordered chalice Chaplin an American pro-communist writer to be out of
America within 45 minutes.
Alexander’s; Payne, Pato, Petrovsky, and Pires are intellectual
torchbearers of the world and Russian literary civilization. Not to
forget, Alexander Popov, a poet and Russian master brewer, whose
liquor brand ‘Popov’ is the worldwide king of bar shelves?
In 1945 the Russians had very brutish two types of guns, designed to
shoot at long range with very little chances of missing the target.
These guns are; AK 47 and the Molotov gun. They were designed to
defeat the German **** and later on to be used in international
guerrilla movement. The first gun AK 47 was designed by Alexander
klashilinikov and the second by Alexander Molotov. These are the two
Alexander’s that made milestones in history of world military
technology.
The name Alexander was one of the titles or the epithet used to be
given to the Greek goddess Hera and as such is taken to mean the one
who comes to save warriors. In Homer’s epical work; the Iliad, the
most dominant character Paris who often saved the other warriors was
also known also as Alexander. This name’s linkage to popularity was
spread throughout the Greek world by the military maneuvers and
conquests of King Alexander III. Alexander III is commonly known as
Alexander the Great .  Evidently; the biblical book of Daniel had a
prophecy. It was about fall of empires down to advent of Jesus as a
final ruler. The prophecy venerated Roman Empire above all else. As
well the, prophecy magnified military brilliance, intellect and
leadership skills of the Greek, Alexander the great, the conqueror of
Roman Empire. Alexander the great was highly inspired by the secret
talks he often held with his mother. All bible readers and historians
have reasons to believe that Alexander of Greece was powerful,
intellectually might, strong in judgment and a political mystery and
enigma that remain classic to date.
In his book Glimpses of History, jewarlal Nehru discusses the Guru
Nanak as an Indian religious sect, Business Empire, clan, caste, and
an intellectual movement of admirable standard that shares a parrell
only with the Aga Khans. Their   founder is known, as Skander Nanak
.The name skander is an Indian version for Alexander. Thus, Alexander
Nanak is the founder of Guru Nanak business empire and sub Indian
spiritual community. Alexander Nanak was an intellectual, recited
Ramayana and Mahabharata off head; he was both a secular and religious
scholar as well as a corporate strategist.
The American market and industrial civilsations has very many
wonderful Alexander’s in its history. The earliest known Alexander in
American is Hamilton, the poet, writer, politician and political
reformist. Hamilton strongly worked for establishment of American
constitution. Contemporaries of Hamilton are; Alexander graham bell
and Alexander flemming.bell is the American scientist who discovered a
modern electrical bell, while Fleming, A Nobel Prize Laureate
discovered that fungus on stale bread can make penicillin to be used
in curing malaria. Other American Alexander’s are; wan, Ludwig,
Macqueen, Calder and ovechikin.
Italian front to mysterious greatness in the name Alexander
spectacularly emanates from science of electricity which has a
measuring unit for electrical volume known as voltage. The name of
this unit is a word coined from the Italian name Volta. He was an
Italian scientist by the name Alesandro Volta. Alesandro is an Italian
version for Alexander. Therefore it is Alexander Volta an Italian
scientist who discovered volume of electrical energy as it moves along
the cable. Thus in Italian culture the name Alexander is also a
mystery.
Readers of European genre and classics agree that it is still
enjoyfull to read the Three Musketeers and the Poor Christ of
Montecristo for three or even more times. They are inspiring, with a
depth of intellectual character, and classic in lessons to all
generations. These two classics were written by Alexander Dumas, a
French literary genious.he lived the same time as Hugo and
Dostoyevsk.when Hugo was writing the Hunch-back of Notredame Dumas was
writing the Three Musketeers. These two books were the source of
inspiration for Dostoyevsky to write Brothers Karamazov. Another
notable European- *** -American Alexander is  Alexander pope, whose
adage ‘short knowledge is dangerous,’ has remained a classic and ever
quoted across a time span of two centuries. Alexander pope penned this
line in the mid of 1800 in his poem better drink from the pyrene
spring.

In the last century colleges, Universities and high schools in Kenya
and throughout Africa, taught Alexander la Guma and Alexander Haley as
set- book writers for political science, literature and drama courses.
Alexander la Guma is a South African, ant–apartheid crusader and a
writer of strange literary ability. His commonly read books are A walk
in the Night, Time of the Butcher Bird and In the Fog of the Season’s
End. While Alexander Haley is an African in the American Diaspora. An
intellectual heavy- weight, a politician, civil a rights activist and
a writer of no precedent, whose book The Roots is a literary
blockbuster to white American artists. Both la Guma and Haley are
African Alexander’s only that white bigotry in their respective
countries of America and South Africa made them to be called Alex’s.
The Kenyan only firm for actuaries is Alexander Forbes consultants.
Alexander Forbes was an English-American mathematician. The lesson
about Forbes is that mystery within the name Alexander makes it to be
the brand of corporate actuarial practice in Africa and the entire
world.
Something hypothetical and funny about this name Alexander is that its
dictionary definition is; homemade brandy in Russia, just the way the
east African names; Wamalwa, Wanjoi and Kimaiyo are used among the
Bukusu, Agikuyu and Kalenjin communities of Kenya respectively. More
hypothetical is the lesson that the short form of Alexander is Alex;
it is not as spiritually consequential in any manner as its full
version Alexander. The name Alex is just plain without any powers and
spiritual connotation on the personality and character of the bearer.
The name Alexander works intellectual miracles when used in full even
in its variants and diminutives as pronounced in other languages that
are neither English nor Greece. Presumably the - ander section of the
name (Alex)ander is the one with life consequences on the history of
the bearer. Also, it is not clear whether they are persons called
Alexander who are born bright and gifted or it is the name Alexander
that conjures power of intellect and creativity on them.
In comparative historical scenarios this name Alexander has been the
name of many rulers, including kings of Macedon, kings of Scotland,
emperors of Russia and popes, the list is infinite. Indeed, it is bare
that when you poke into facts from antiques of politics, religion and
human diversity, there is rich evidence that there is substantial
positive spirituality between human success and social nomenclature in
the name of Alexander. Some cases in archaic point are available in a
listological exposition of early rulers on Wikipedia. Some names on
Wikipedia in relation to the phenomenon of Alexanderity are: General
Alexander; more often known as Paris of Troy as recounted by Homer in
his Iliad. Then ensues a plethora; Alexander of Corinth who was the
10th king of Corinth , Alexander I of Macedon, Alexander II of
Macedon, Alexander III of Macedonia alias  Alexander the Great. There
is still in the list in relation to Macedonia, Alexander IV  and
Alexander V. More facts of the antiques have   Alexander of Pherae who
was the despotic ruler of Pherae between 369 and 358 before the Common
Era. The land of Epirus had Alexander I the king of Epirus about 342
before the Common Era and Alexander II  the king of Epirus 272 before
the Common Era. A series of other Alexander’s in the antiques is
composed of ; Alexander the  viceroy of Antigonus Gonatas and also the
ruler of a **** state based on Corinth in 250 before the common era,
then Alexander Balas, ruler of the Seleucid kingdom of Syria between
150 and 146 before the common era . Next in the list is  Alexander
Zabinas the ruler of part of the Seleucid kingdom of Syria based in
Antioch between 128 and 123  before the common era ,  then Alexander
Jannaeus king of Judea, 103 to 76  before the common era  and last but
not least  Alexander of Judaea  son of Aristobulus  II the  king of
Judaea .  The list of Alexander’s in relation to the antiquated  Roman
empire are; Alexander Severus, Julius Alexander who lived during the
second  century as the Emesene nobleman, Then next is Domitius
Alexander the Roman usurper who declared himself emperor in 308. Next
comes Alexander the emperor of Byzantine. Political antiques of
Scotland have Alexander I , Alexander II and Alexander III of Scotland
. The list cannot be exhausted but it is only a testimony that there
are a lot of Alexander’s in the antiques of the world.
Religious leadership also enjoys vastness of Alexander’s. This is so
among the Christians and non Christians, Catholics and Protestants and
even among the charismatic and non-charismatic. These historical
experiences start with Alexander kipsang Muge the Kenyan Anglican
Bishop who died in a mysterious accident during the Kenyan political
dark days of Moi. But when it comes to  The antiques  catholic
pontifical history, there is still a plethora of them as evinced on
Wikipedia ; Pope Alexander I , Alexander of Apamea also the  bishop of
Apamea, Pope Alexander II ,Pope Alexander III, Pope Alexander IV, Pope
Alexander V, Pope Alexander VI, Pope Alexander VII, Pope Alexander
VIII, Alexander of Constantinople the bishop of Constantinople , St.
Alexander of Alexandria also the  Coptic Pope and Patriarch of
Alexandria between  then Pope Alexander II of Alexandria the  Coptic
Pope  and lastly Alexander of Lincoln the bishop of Lincoln and
finally  Alexander of Jerusalem.
However, the fact of logic is inherent in the premise that there is
power in the name .An interesting experience I have had is that; when
Eugene Nelson Mandela ochieng was kidnapped in Nairobi sometimes ago,
a friend told me that there is power in the name. The name Mandela on
a Nairobi born Luo boy attracts strong fortune and history making
eventualities towards the boy, though fate of the world interferes,
the boy Eugene Mandela ochieng is bound to be great, not because he
was kidnapped but because he has an assuring name Nelson Mandela. With
extension both in Africa and without ,May God the almighty add all
young Alexander’s to the traditional list of other great and
formidable  Alexander’s that came before. Amen.

References;
Jewarlal Nehru; Glimpses of History


Alexander K Opicho is a social researcher with Sanctuary Researchers
ltd in Eldoret, Kenya he is also a lecturer in Research Methods in
governance and Leadership.
Alicia Jun 2014
Sunflowers are filled with stories
and power that no individual discusses.
Therefore no one understand why
I love them so much.

Reminding me of early morning sunrises.
The moment when the sun is just
above the trees. With a hue so bright,
they instill happiness into my soul.
Growing so tall they could reach God,
they cannot get enough of His love.
They will never stop trying to reunite
with their Creator because no one
loves them like He.
Representing the incarnation of Clytie
over the loss of Apollo. They say
the grieving of his absence brought her
into her next life and now she only
faces the sun, waiting for his return.

I saw them as my sunshine.
Their rays giving my spirit a new life.
My source of nourishment, they were.
Restoring my soul of the negativity
I came across. The Apollo to my Clytie.
I stood by for their return with hopes of
their absence being make believe,
knowing that they would never come again.

According to most men,
I already ask for too much.
With efforts unnoticed and
potential overlooked, I knew
I was never appreciated enough
to receive flowers.
*53114
Twitter: @the_monAlicia
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Prose is unpretentious, that's its attraction. Avoids bombast of line breaks but forgoes -- what -- perfect rest. Anyway today, a November day in February, no chance getting rest with the poor clay I'm made from.

With my mother this weekend, her dementia proceeding according to what plan. Saturday the kind of day I never have. Actually read three stories by Updike. One extraordinary -- Tomorrow and Tomorrow and So Forth -- which I chose from his Complete through 1975 for the reference to Macbeth and in it he so humanely, sympathetically explains through the high school English teacher's thoughts Shakespeare's mid-life bitterness or disappointment realizing few men achieve their potential in the face of history, society and their personal flaws. Making for tragedy. Hard to be humorous about that although Updike finds in Shakespeare's late plays, especially The Tempest, a resolution amounting to wisdom that there can be contentment with imperfection and partial achievement. Updike took some of the starch out of my contention that all Shakespeare's plays are comedies, impossible to take Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth and Othello seriously. Certainly not Romeo and Juliet. It is a consolation that Updike's and even Shakespeare's achievements are imperfect although it would be wringing blood from a rock for me to achieve as much. The other two stories by Updike assured me that prose story-telling is as hit or miss as poetry. Bulgarian Poetess and How to Love America and Leave It At the Same Time made me think how fortunate I had been to find Tomorrow on the first try.

Not so much luck. I was attracted like a bee to a blossom to Shakespeare's lines in my personal anthology. No anthology and the poetry dependency it has created and I might have passed over the story. But now there is this conversation between me and all other writers. The anthology helps me know what I like but now I am tempted to try to articulate why I like what I like. Like the calendar, time and all else man lays his mind to it is a matter of bringing order from chaos by naming things according to our observations.

First, I like to understand what's going on in the poem. Not paraphrase it but describe the action. In Yeats' Lapis Lazuli, in the first paragraph, strophe or stanza, he talks about a community, a city or country, in which people, the women especially, high-toned maybe?, are upset about a political or wartime situation and are too hysterical for art or grace. Then he talks about actors playing Hamlet and Lear holding it together even though their characters die at the end of the play. No shouting, no crying. Then a paragraph or stanza about how whole civilizations are transitory too. Finally, in a reference to one of our oldest civilizations, two old Chinamen and their retainer are in the mountains. From their perspective, calm acceptance and longevity, perhaps some sadness, they look on all of history and non-history with something like gladness.

From there we can appreciate the artistry -- in Yeats' case the interesting rhymes and variable line lengths -- recognizing, however, that the artistry is not so much a demonstration of skill or a performance as the particular vehicle or discipline by which this artist discovered the content of his mind. It little matters whether verse is free, rhymed, blank, or formed as long as it is understandable and meaningful. Understandable to anyone, meaningful to someone.

The oldest formulation I have is Pound's -- the great themes of literature can be written on the back of a postage stamp. Until recently, I thought you could do it but you'd have to write very small. Now I know you can do it in your normal handwriting. I think they are Love (how we come into the world), Death (how we leave the world) and Governance (how we live in the world together). It may be possible to group Love and Death together, coming into and going out of life being similarly unknowable mysteries. The ways of talking about this one same mystery are apparently endless and endlessly fascinating. We cannot leave it alone. Almost all the greatest poems are about this mystery. Life is but a dream.

Then there is Governance -- how we live in the world together -- about which there are far fewer great poems. And usually they are about how our failure to live together leads back into the unknowable mystery through premature and sometimes mass death. Siamanto's The Dance comes to mind. I think the best poems of this type are written by so-called oppressed people.

Many poems treat both themes. But on the question of content, Pound is where I begin. My anthology -- Whole Wide World -- has a section which I'll call Double & Triple Features: Poems to Read Together, which pairs and groups poems according to my feeling that they share something -- theme, voice, structure -- in common. Subject matter is, I think, the commonest sharing. If I tried to name each pairing or grouping I might then have a hundred or more themes. Naming them adequately would be difficult to impossible. But why? And why not try? It would be a necessary start to talking about the poems: I read these poems together because....

Prose doesn't have to be beautiful, sometimes it's best when it's flat as Hemingway conclusively proved and one of its attractions is you can run on and on as long as the mind goes on following a thought without a stop sign for a whole page of books like Proust or Faulkner or Joyce.

Auden's is the second useful formulation that comes to mind (besides his chummy reverence for Shakespeare in naming him Top Bard). He classifies poems five ways:

            1. A good poem that's meaningful to him;
            2. A good poem that's not meaningful to him;
            3. A good poem that may someday become meaningful to him;
            4. A bad poem that's meaningful to him;
            5. A bad poem that's not meaningful to him.

I find I do about the same. But I discard all poems, good and bad, that are not meaningful to me. I have little taste for artistry for art's sake. The poem must speak to me or awaken me. Dickinson's formulation -- takes the top of your head off -- is the same as We can't define ******* but we know it when we see it.

A short aside: it feels inappropriate to answer the question What do you do? by saying I'm a poet. It would be like saying I'm a leader or I'm a prophet. You cannot anoint yourself a poet, a leader or a prophet -- others must do it for you. I wonder if I would be more comfortable if I had a larger audience (following) like Billy Collins for example. I think not. It would be like being a rock star, not a composer.

It's much more acceptable to say I'm a writer. Then when you answer the question Oh, what do you write? with Poetry, you are not self-aggrandizing, merely irrelevant, effete. Being a poet is viewed as being a flasher or nudist, exposing parts of yourself others would rather not see, at least not up close and personal, providing more information than others need or want to have. Maybe that's a good definition of a bad poet. Self-revelation dressed in verbal prowess is acceptable but naked, abject confession is unpardonable, tedious.

Although content is requisite for a poem to be meaningful, a poem is not really a communication like fiction or essay. It is more like an object, like a painting or sculpture, and perhaps like a musical score, sheet music. Yet I would still instruct students of poetry to first read each poem by the sentence, not the line, to derive its meaning, understand its argument, visualize its action. Then one might ask how and why is it sculpted, structured, with line breaks and strophes. Ultimately, the form of the poem is nothing more or less than the method by which the poet discovered his meaning. Although it is arbitrary -- it could have been said another way -- it is the only way it could be said by this person in this time and place. I have always liked the idea of a sculptor carving away stone or wood to reveal the form inside the block.

The poem lives on as an object, recognized by many or few or none. Like art or furniture, most are briefly useful then are moved to the attic or shed where they gather dust and mouse turds then break, dry and decay and find their way to the dump, the dust heap of history, only not even human history, just your personal history.

The anthology has made me an antiquarian -- one who cares as much for objects made by others as if I had made them myself.

So how can one talk about poems? The argument that any attempt to discuss or describe a poem is better served by simply reading the poem, perhaps memorizing it, has merit. Except in one respect -- the process can take you to undiscovered and half-discovered country within yourself. Always, first, you must understand the action otherwise we are just re-reading ourselves in our own tried and untrue ways. We must not mistake an old dog dying for a puppy being born. Misunderstanding the words is like constructing a science experiment with a flawed methodology and then using the results to shape or live in the world. It can be dangerous. Therefore reading poetry is a mental discipline worthy as the scientific method itself. It takes you out of yourself.

The fun of criticism comes in examining why and how the poem made you feel or think as you did. You can read closely for the chosen words, rhythms, lines and stanzas. You may admire the skill or wit of the poet. And you can refer to your own experience to understand your reaction. You can even disagree with the poet's thought or perception, or reject the sentiment. You can say that's him, not me.

Then there are Bloom's formulations of which I am wary, he being a critic not a poet. Yet here they are. Three sources of healthy complexity or difficulty in poems: 1) Sustained allusiveness -- cultural references that require the reader to be educated beyond the poem's content, for which he cites Milton as an example and could have Dante; 2) Cognitive originality -- leaps of perception and depths of understanding that startle, enlighten and take off the top of your head, for which he cites Shakespeare and Dickinson as examples and to which I would add much of what is memorable in modern poetry; and 3) Personal mythmaking -- whereby the poet constructs over time a system of images and personal (more than cultural) references that with familiarity become understandable and meaningful, citing Yeats and Blake as examples. How to make this formulation useful.

A second formulation by Bloom discusses poetic figures or the indirect means by which poetry uncovers truth, dancing with and romancing language rather than wrestling and pinning it down like philosophy tries. There are four: 1) Irony or saying one thing and meaning another, usually the opposite; 2) Symbol (synecdoche) or making one thing stand for another; 3) Contiguity (metonymy) or using an aspect or quality of something to represent the whole; and 4) Metaphor or transferring the qualities or associations of one thing to another.

Meanwhile, here's my **** poetica:

1) Poetry is an acquired taste, like golf or wine, with no obligation to appreciate it.

2) Poetry is divination; prose explains what we think we know but poetry discovers what we didn't know we thought.

3) Poetry is one of many man-made systems, like baseball or the scientific method, for producing knowledge, meaning and pleasure. Or are they all natural as ***?

4) Of all the other arts, poetry is most like sculpture; the word "poem" comes from the Indo- European root meaning "to make, to build."

5) It is impossible to write exactly what you mean or be accurately understood; poetry uses this to its advantage.

6) Line length -- enjambment -- is the single most important feature of poetry.

7) Poems are made from ideas; poetry is philosophy but where philosophy wrestles language down, poetry romances language.

8) Meaning is the most important product of poetry but it's completely personal; poems almost always say one thing and mean another but the poet often doesn't know what he meant.

9) It is almost impossible not to rhyme or write rhythmically in English or any other language.

10) The forms poets use are how the poet gets to his truth and are basically arbitrary choices.

11) Poems may be difficult and complex and irrational but they must be comprehensible.

12) Just describing the action of the poem will take you where you need to go.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Chloe Zafonte Feb 2016
We're not allowed to mention Christianity
A Muslim man discusses Allah, we can't judge.Black people have pride in themselves, so do white people .We're automatically racist and unaccepting. A man gets hired for a high paying job instead of the women.This is a case  for feminism because it's injustice. A man cheats on his partner, he has hormones.A woman cheats on her man, she's a *****! A woman is ***** she's making it up.A man is ***** no one believes him. A gay person is disliked by a certain individual .It's homophobia, a black man kills someone and the whole race is blamed, a white man kills someone he's just a ******. You say crusty old white men are making decisions about your body.Should he change his race then decide if you can reproduce? I'm eating Sushi and I'm not Asian, it's cultural appropriation and it's  offensive so only Asian people can eat at Asian restaurants? That reminds me of when segregation was going on. We have a right to our opinion but I say something I'm instantly prejudice and you don't want hear it. I made the wrong assumption now I'm a horrible person because you feel that you can monitor my thoughts. You all think that you're all for social justice but it's really going to come back and bite you in the ***.
India is the biggest democratic state
The voters always decide her fate
The fate of a political party depends on its popularity
The powerful and tactful party gets the majority

One party discusses the construction of Rama’s temple
Its political, hidden agenda is very simple
The other parties talk about secularity
It always tries to woo the considerable minority

The other leftist parties often talk about the poor
But they never get their votes for sure
Before the election liquor flows like a river
Voters get money notes in a beautiful cover

The luckiest party grabs the power
The elected members try to climb the tower
Corruption seems to be the order of the day
No part is likely to show the right way

In democracy, parties are meant
To be different. But that is not quite apparant
judy smith Apr 2016
Reality star Khloe Kardashian is empowered by her gym-honed curves... and hoop earrings.

The 31-year-old has transformed her figure in the last year and her success has landed her the latest cover of Shape magazine, in which she discusses how she feels about her new body, while insisting she didn't hate her fuller figure before she started on her workout regime.

"I love my shape because I've earned every curve," she said. "I work hard in the gym to get it. But I also loved my shape before, when I was even curvier. I was always incredibly comfortable in my skin. Everybody else saw me in a different way, but I didn't see myself that way... Today I put in the work to get the curves I have and every bit of firmness.

"I feel empowered and bada* that I was able to accomplish everything I have."

While Khloe is happy to work hard in the gym, she isn't willing to compromise on her style, and recently showed off a walk-in-wardrobe dedicated to her gym clothes on her mobile app.

"When I buy a cute outfit, I'm superexcited to go to the gym the next day," she explained. "And when I look good at the gym, I'm inspired to do an extra squat or an extra lunge. Just because you're going to work out, you don't have to look like a slob.

"I also always wear hoop earrings; they're like my security blanket. I'm inspired to do an extra squat or an extra lunge. People laugh at me, but why not? They make me feel more dressed up.

The star also insists on wearing make-up when she plans to work up a sweat.

"I put on a tinted moisturiser, mascara, and cherry lip balm, and fill in my eyebrows," she adds. "If I feel cuter with a little lip colour and mascara, why should anybody else care?"

While Khloe is thrilled to be on the cover of the health magazine, she's not thrilled with the image chosen.

She took to Twitter on Tuesday (12Apr16) to share her disappointment, writing, "Love Shape mag & I'm thrilled to be on the cover but we took so many better cover images.

"I wish they would have used the other set ups over that simple grey look. But how f
*king crazy that me... 'The fat one' is on the cover of Shape!!! Ha!"Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
brokenperfection Sep 2014
patterns reflect patterns reflect history repeating itself
I see problems in humanity because humanity corrupts
seriously, we can't have a movement for "better" without making it worse
listen, slavery, right?
whites hated blacks
deemed them lesser
deemed them nobodies, nonexistent
that's putting it generic
so what do we have now?
an era of white-haters!
so many "minorities" standing up and saying
"I hate the whites"
we have done a 360 and it kills me
it was supposed to be about blacks being seen as equals
being seen as people instead of blacks
and now, yeah, I'm going there
gays
I love gays, man
but y'all are killing me too
this is what I see
gays oppressed, dismissed, told they're sinners
unholy, bad, gross, wrong, backwards, ugh
they were beaten, bloodied, bruised, murdered, silenced
so the gays stand up
what do I hear?
"I hate Christians"
"I hate straights"
"I hate everyone who is not gay"
people hating on macklemore because
he tried to stand up
for THE PEOPLE!
they say
"a straight white man cannot represent the gay community"
I'm sorry

WHAT????

we act like no one has gone through HARDSHIP
we act like if you're white, straight, and a male, you're golden
free
happy
perfect
wake up.
what no  one discusses
is that the issue is right vs wrong
right vs wrong
right vs wrong
I'm not a straight white male but I know right vs wrong
I'm not an Irish Jew but I know right vs wrong
I'm not a Haitian Creole Indian goddess but I know right vs wrong
you don't have to BE the oppression to SPEAK on the oppression
you have to know right vs wrong
I say macklemore knows
I know
you know
let's speak up
what is wrong is discrimination
what is right is taking a stand to end it
so please
blacks,
gays,
minorities,
whites,
humans,
majorities,
stop obliterating good
or else you'll be confined to the chains of oppression and silence until the day you die and so on amen

I'm a human being
tell me what I cannot speak on
no one will care for this one because it goes "there".
isn't that how the world goes?
I would say it's fine and I just wrote it for me...
but in all honesty, I wrote it for us.
xmxrgxncy Jan 2016
Yellow congregation
Discusses their front lines
Lawn mower arrives
you may be entitled to a cash settlement you know when you walk passed another person you say hi then they say hi as you go by you realize you wish you could know more about that person perhaps wish you had said more (could’ve should’ve would’ve if only)

April is the cruelest month breeding out of lifeless land mixing memory desire stirring dull roots with spring rain

i’ve always had a problem taking my existence the world too seriously i’m way too sensitive way too longing dreaming praying hoping wishing

winter kept us warm covering earth in forgetful snow feeding little life with dried seed summer surprised us coming over rain showers we stopped in walkway went on in sunlight into the garden drank coffee talked for hours

a strong metal material which can morph shape based on heat cold transference

a pill that makes you smart brilliant genius a pill that makes you eye-catching handsome gorgeous a pill that makes you strong slim sinewy a pill that makes you young a pill that makes you rich successful powerful a pill that makes you loved respected imitated a pill that makes you godlike a pill that makes you disappear

a new form of *** more wild mysterious ***** sensual intensive explosive gratifying than current ***

a painting that changes colors forms images yet remains intriguing unsolved pushing the viewer to make up imagine answers outcomes possibilities

a song that joyfully melts the heart of every person in the world causing each to blissfully dance deeply bow in reverence build a sustainable bridge of appreciation

and still she cried and still the world pursues jug jug to ***** ears and other withered stumps of time we’re told upon the walls staring forms leaned out leaning hushing the room enclosed

a neighborhood where white males between ages 21 to 40 are given carte blanche all other men discarded based on age ethnicity income a street where females are rendered undesirable after age 45 a town where no one reads books discusses psychology sociology philosophy ideas dreams war a wall with no windows door that never opens ceiling that inches downward

my nerves are bad tonight yes bad stay with me talk with me why do you never speak? speak what are you thinking about what thinking what i never know what you are thinking think

i think we are in rats' alley where dead men lost their bones

the smell sight sound taste feel acknowledgment of dying

what is that noise wind under door what is that noise now what is the wind doing nothing again nothing do you know nothing do you see nothing do you remember nothing i remember pearls that are your eyes are you alive or not is there nothing in your head

shattered casualties along the road people who once believed they would be successful winners making difference in this world another drink another smoke another night week month year gone another life envisioned planned strived for lost job lost house lost another baby born

twit twit twit jug jug jug jug jug jug so rudely forced river sweats oil barges drift with turning tide red sails wide to leeward swing on heavy spar barges wash drifting logs down reach past isle of dogs weialala leia wallala leialala
La Mer Sep 2014
Arrested and convicted of sabotage,
Madiba resists the Apartheid.
We live and rest in good company,
while counterparts seek new shelter to hide.
Time has elapsed, and man discusses these changes,
of the past that has rotted away, which builds upon our ignorance.
Do you not see the same in existence,
the backwards, in truth, which our skin folk arranges?
Rewind or fast forward, backwards will remain the truth,
I will remain Madiba, President of Belief.
Trusting enough minds with similar desires,
may place an unwarranted end to all others’ grief.

Swimming through a crowd of faces,
painted shades I witness unfolding.
We are but fingers on a hand, separate yet together,
Booker claimed this truth as a new era began molding.
Yet is this era really new; Are we to believe the past is past,
as I witness starvation, corrupt education, and abandoned dreams?
My kin folk inform and educate my evolving mind,
of hidden conceptions that my skin folk blatantly screams!
I am able to speak with my mother, knowing she is safe,
grateful that our family must not live in fear.
But why must some of us remain unused,
when our help is called for year after year?
Indira has communicated,
that you cannot shake hands with a clenched fist.
The fingers, which are part of the whole, clasp tightly,
for my skin folk, not my kin folk, are amidst.

There are racial issues, undoubtedly,
in the land of the free, home of the brave.
And all over the world it reigns,
you cannot be blind to it, that we have a modern slave.
This is not a physical destruction,
you will not witness it branding the skin.
But a mental and spiritual deterioration,
directed, and has infected,
most of my kin.
Aztec Warrior Oct 2015
A JOURNEY**

The night-stone, carefully placed
in the small bear skin pouch,
discusses drum beats with
amulets, charms, powders and
even a small wren’s yellow puff feather.
All creating within the power
of his ancestral soul.
This small obsidian,
chipped and flaked smooth stone
held along its edges the
blood of the animals
sacrificed to keep him alive;
giving him their spirits,
their views on how the Mother evolved
as well as their precious
shapes as he passed
from one world to the next.
His bag was rich medicine
and served him well.
~~~
He stood looking over
a vast valley plain
and could hear the stream
wrinkle smooth the rocks
as its mountain waters
continuously flowed.
He could see the honey bee
making love to the poppies
and clovers as well as
the sweet daffodils.
He could taste the pine needles
dance on the musky,
early morning soil after they
were awakened by squirrels
looking for a game of tag.
And he could feel lightly
the sway of Oak trees
moving slightly by the notes two hawks sung
circling, whispering, hypnotizing
their wary prey.
~~~
Looking out over this
green smelling plain
he could feel the vision swell,
as guided by this trance
he searched his pouch for
the blood star he had captured
one spring day while
riding the back of old Turtle.
Looking out over this
amber hazed horizon
he felt himself walking
talking with Grandfather
asking the meaning of rain,
wind and snow that carried him
gently to Big Mountain.
“Grand Father,
where is the beauty?
Where is the peace
above and below us?
Grand Father,
why are we still blind
to the wolf’s howl
and the cawing of the crow”
~~~
Standing atop Big Mountain,
holding in his left hand
the red star cloth
he begins his journey.
“Grand Father, let the wind beat
this drum of resistance
that is our human essence;
let the rain soak our hearts
cleansing us worthy to find
the path of snow and its soothing
warmth to make the Earth whole.
Grand Father, I only know
Babylon must fall.And this crimson star,
dripping with the people’s tears
can lead us back to the heights
of Big Mountain;
to the beauty and peace
above and below;
to our long lost whale songs
sung by the night sky
and seen in our children’s eyes.”
Carefully placing the medicine bag
around his neck,
holding it and smiling,
he takes the first steps..

Aztec Warrior
Anonymous Jun 2014
I buried all my pain in a 40oz bottle
My mother had once asked me if I was an alcoholic
She found endless bottles beneath the crevice of my bed
It looked like the valley of the shadow of death;
A grave yard of bottles that had been drunk’ to the last drop-
She lined every one across my desk; pleading for some answers
Her eyes were solemn and filled with grief
She must have looked like she aged about 20 years in that moment,
I saw her wrinkles were pained with disappointment
Tears escaped her eyes, I was lost to her.

She walked into my room to watch me sleep for a few minutes and say goodnight,
I was wearing a sweatshirt; only it wasn’t me
It was stuffed with blankets and pillows.
I was in the closet, I felt her disappointed sadden breaths as she peered in at her little girl
She had no idea I was leaving; I left the moment her bedside light when out.
Somewhere there was still a broken little girl who buried her pain in liquor and drugs
When the phone rang during the dead silence of the night she wondered if her little girl would be gone forever
She struck a blow to my sisters face; She had never been faced with a situation like this before
Her first instinct was to blame her for the loss of breath that would not will itself out of my lungs
Her eyes peered in at her little girl;
But this time it wasn’t from her bedroom door-
It was through her blurred vision standing outside an ambulance.
When a pulse was found my mouth began to foam and my chest heaved in spasmodic compulsions
It took me two days to recover; my mother didn’t leave my side.
She must have instantly grown grey hair the second she laid her eyes on my lifeless body

When I went away to Africa she found my drugs, she flushed them down the toilet
Wishing she could flush away all my bad habits
She must have sat in my room and cried numerous times that summer
Her little girl was still lost, even more than she could have imagined.
She didn’t know what to do, so she did what she could-
So she replaced my drugs with bible verses that had been burned into the back of my skull since I was a kid
I came home that summer to open arms, still full of love
But this time it looked as if she must have aged another decade
I walked into a perfectly clean room;
It must have taken days for her to clean.
She didn’t miss a single spot, my drugs we’re completely gone
And I felt pieces of my heart slip away,
I wondered how I could burden the woman who brought me into this world I wonder if she felt all hope was gone

She asked me if I was an alcoholic again
When she found new liquor bottles stuffed between my clothes
And the 24 pack of beer in the far corner of my closet
This time I left; I didn’t come back
She cried and tired to rip my bag from my hands
But the disappointment of her stare burdened me to no extent.
Her little girl was slowly slipping through her fingers.
When I finally came home she still welcomed me with open arms
She embraced me as if I was the prodigal son who had finally returned She didn’t realize I was still lost-

I told her I was going to my best fiends house
We went to Santa Cruz instead;
I was hyped up on coffee, and would soon be so drunk I couldn’t walk
My mom got another call that night; Her daughter had been in a car accident, it was bad-
The entire car was totaled on one of the busiest highways
I looked to the side and a semi was coming full on
I thought I was going to die;
I prayed that God would give my mother some peace about me
That he would somehow get her through the death of her child that has been long coming;
But I didn’t die, because some part of God’s plan wasn’t over
The semi hit us, our car was slightly underneath it;
Death stared at me inches from my face
Yet all I had was a few broken ribs and a scratch that ran along my forehead
I wonder how much older my mother looked then.
I was still lost, did she wonder if there was any hope of bringing her little girl home?

My mother discusses books with me now;
She hardly brings up my past
I can still see disappointment in her eyes
But she somehow looks younger Because her little girl finally came home-
Because even though her nerves want to wake her up at 3am wondering where I am, they don’t
It sounds like quite the story, but imagine reading it through her eyes.
and we lay pressed together,
he tries to teach me the dialect
of butterfly kisses,
and being so close,
we are no longer a landscape of two mountains and valleys moving,
but we are one,
and its so warm and comforting to feel his weight as he weighs on me,
and he still needs to be closer,
wrapping compact muscles,
around my stumps for legs,
and he is sticky fingers, that bestow solemn pinky promises,
half attempted secret whispers yelled across the room,

he is a sweet sunrise,
when all you have ever known is the blistering loneliness of night.
He is not afraid to talk and to share his thoughts,
and there are moments, snapshots of my failing infrastructure,
that lashes out at his incessant nature, me willing him to stop.

He discusses my beauty with strangers and mid thought tells me that I am so very beautiful,
and when he says it I believe it.

he falls asleep like one who is proud to tell anyone listening he is 3 and a half he had to add.

i wish he were mine,
mine to keep,
mine to trully love,
but I'm just make believing playing wifey to families,
with no need,

but right now its just
you and me
and the me I am with you,
and in this moment i hold your small 3 year old hands in my hand,
and its enough to be.
Àŧùl Sep 24
The sun doesn't revolve around us,
And it was known to the ancient Hindus.

How they estimated precise distances,
It's still an exclusive paradigm of sorts.

This poem is not a nursery rhyme,
For it discusses what went wrong.

Wrong with the history of Hindus,
And with the tapestry of the world.

Hanging down the global gazebos,
Is a wonderful story of lost wisdom.
My HP Poem #1999
©Atul Kaushal
I Believe
While poor in spirit
Argues fiercely
About the novel,
The ballad,
Or elections

While mismatched souls
Discusses
About the fight of the night,
The soccer match, or
The race on Sunday


While ******* with
"Class"
drank cross-legged
And open necklines

While intellectuals
Holding coffee with the pinky,
Influenced voters,
Or explained ideas

As the world be sad
Diving standards,
My friends lost their pose.
After all,
They just wanted
Have fun.

And
They danced,
They shouted,
Discussed,
And they laughed.
They laughed that bunch of problems,
Because they knew that
Smiles, was the best medicine
In the absence of solutions.

To fix this,
Felt disgust of those vile beings,
The go through life
Unassuming.
Or maybe,
feel only
Annihilating a pity.
It was weird, but
At the same time,
It made sense.

The world still can be saved
For a few.
You can not believe,
Nietzsche can not believe,
God can not believe,
But I believe.
Val Dicks Oct 2013
A heated room,
sixteen seats beneath the phosphorous shell,
sixteen minds, exactly the same and yet unique.

Between bites of lobster
and the first entree,
one ***** discusses politics,
while the business has chains and crops
on his mind.

The religious fanatics
can't get his hand out of his pants,
and the proud pagan
pays him to keep them there.

We all have an inkling towards one--
our secret,
divulging desire--
what ailment do you prefer?
Joe Wilson Sep 2014
I've never killed in my long life
neither enemy soldier, politician, nor wife
This feat that causes me no surprise
Is what we call living in its normal guise.

I would never be so naïve as to say
The pen is always the only way
But it seems to me that war only proved
Who will remain, and who is removed.

And all this killing that leaves nations bereft
With the vile bitter cordite smell that is left
Widows lose husbands, fathers lose sons
Babies are dying from the barrels of guns.

To save nations weapons of course must be used
But there are so many people who are being abused
And when one discusses what is now simply absurd
There is nothing that is mightier than the word.

©Joe Wilson - The word is STOP...2014


"War does not determine who is right - only who is left".
Bertrand Russell
River Aug 2015
No, Not me
I would never succumb to Manipulation
I would see right through the disguise--
The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing...
Now wouldn't I?

When You feel like a Stranger
Making your way down a Street
Unfamiliar
And you're feeling so peculiar
And people around you are hollow
They echo with prattling
Words rattling through their mouths
But they cannot comprehend
The sentence they are regurgitating from their head
So,
I'm left to go along with everyone else and Pretend
Or,
Try to Defend my ideals--
My opinions on a reality that is oh so Cruel.

And that is when it's too easy to become Friends
With the disguised Wolf
Because the Wolf understands intimately the most gruesome of realities
For he participates in such atrocities
And so with great ease
He discusses these subjects with you,
Allowing you to ponder together all through the night
About everything that is not right
And before morning comes
And the sun's rays can shed light on your perturbed mind
The Wolf convinces you that instead of living your life to the fullest,
It is best that He devour you,
Because life would be much safer not being lived.
And for some reason,
After mulling over all that is wrong,
This seems like a plausible solution
Sure,
Why not hand over all my rights,
All my dreams and aspirations for the safety you promise.
No, Not Me
Because a safe life is bound to be a short one
But
A brave life--
Full of trying and failing and sometimes succeeding--
is a life worth living.
The poem is about the perceived safety of belonging to a strict religious institution when life seems scary. But the caveat to being a member in a religious organization is that sometimes it requires you to distance or cut off vital parts of yourself that the religious leaders claim to be bad and punishable by God. So instead of running into the arms of a Religion who promises to protect you while insisting that you hand over your control, you can live a satisfying life by embracing your true nature and expressing your authenticity, and by living fearlessly. :)
John Niederbuhl Oct 2016
Those halcyon days of yore
Lost forever like Lenore
And Leda and her godly swan
Forever come, forever gone.
Rough beasts in their hour slouch
But to flop upon the couch,
While memory mixes with desire
In the soul's broke-down empire.
Behold the smile of Ozymandias
(Do you wonder who he is?)
The preserver and destroyer?
Or maybe an ambitious lawyer?
Or the fearful handful of dust
That we wish we didn't trust?
Meanwhile the ominous moving finger,
Of truths unalterable the bringer,
Writes and then moves on,
Bitter tears to spawn.
Then there was the heel weak
That didn't get dipped in the creek
And anger over loss that prods
Both loving men and watchful gods.
The skull you hold--alas poor who?
Keep it cool, I knew him too,
Him and his considerable jest--
Some among us are so blessed.
Now in his grave he rests indeed
Where all our paths, alas, must lead;
Except, perhaps, for Humbert Humbert
(Remember that salacious old pervert?)
Scheming to get with his nymphette
In ways impossible to forget?
Outside at night J.J. compares streams
One more sibilant, or so it seems
And discusses Plumtree's potted meat
Ending up with "Yes, oh Yes my sweet".
Aroma from the petite madeleine
Reaches to where recollections begin
Of magnificent asparagus spears
And lesser events of long past years.
But for all that, for every bit of that, Stan
A man is still every bit a man
So get it together and get off the can
And make yourself a brand new plan:
The glowing time of midwinter spring
Has always been its own kind of thing
Don't be a gentleman in that good night
Get down with the program and put up a fight.
Come out strong like a red, red rose
And keep on punching until it snows.
A stream of thought about literature I read in college and some pop songs
Quinn Nov 2016
tonight i count the ties
that keep me coming back
to this point, this place

i realize rope is just that, rope,
and it's my choice whether
i cut it or hold on

the slack loosens it's grip
and freedom unfurls that's
been between my fingertips all along

destiny discusses destination
with me as i sleep and keep
a mind that's as open as blue skies

i wake and sit heavy
in happiness, in understanding,
in self-propelled evolution

i hold myself and finally feel
pride for the strength i've used
to lift myself up time and time again
Matt Apr 2015
At the library I sit
Listening to a podcast
About the Byzantine Emperor Justinian

I think in a bit I will take notes
On a couple of articles
In the Journal of philosophical research

In the first article the author argues
That the existence of evil
Experienced through both human suffering
And human moral struggle

Ultimately benefits each person
By enabling human character to develop into
The likeness of God

The second article
Discusses the problem of weakness of will
In Augustine's struggle for moral growth

It is almost seven years now
Since I received my B.A.
Still at home
Still no career......
I'm 30 now

I suppose America is pretty much done for
Financially ruined

I enjoyed the samples at Costco today
Laughed to myself
As I saw the divine in others

And it is a shame
That I don't have that loving female friend
That I had hoped to meet
It is a shame

I am alone again
I think I will read these articles aloud
And record them on my iphone

4/6/2015
What a thing this life is
Maybe I'll never find a job?
But that's okay
At least I tried
Angela Rose Nov 2019
Maybe he’s just nice

Maybe he talks to everyone in that way
Maybe he always shares eye contact for far too long with everyone he speaks to
Maybe he discusses these little details with anyone who will listen

Or maybe it’s just me

Maybe I have made myself too approachable and too friendly
Maybe I have been creating these scenarios in my head all along
Maybe I talk far too much and he is staring at me telling me to shut the **** up

Or maybe he’s just nice
or maybe not ?
Semihten5 Sep 2017
difficult is written
the poetry of the ruins
suffering is seen only
also dust smoke

half remains
war poems
with a bullet is dropp pens
how peace is written to

short to be
the poetry of though
discusses a lot of few words
real describes

dense must be
love poems
gets into the vortex of every heart
their difficult get rid of effects
Bill
Has this monologue
Where he discusses
How Superman is God,
And he can only blend in
When he makes himself look
Weak.

Clark Kent is imagination.
Superman is still Superman
And he is still God.
Lawrence Hall Mar 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                A Flaneur in Old Khakis

A rustic dilettante, all ready to flirt
In his old khakis and a chambray shirt
Old boots, old gloves, a mattock or rake to wield
A boulevardier of row crops in the field

He tips his old straw hat to the morning sun
Considers the corn silks’ latest fashion for fun
Discusses pitch and tone with a passing breeze
And notes the colours in the apple trees

The latest songs and jokes he very well knows
And shares the latest gossip with clever crows
This rare sophisticate whose sidewalk cafes’
Are nature’s dreamy scenes along nature’s ways
Imagining Maurice Chevalier as a Farmer.

— The End —