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Nat Lipstadt Aug 29
again, madness!

one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?

why?

must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>

he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:

“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”

no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!

your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.

the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.

here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>

But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:

”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.


A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out

these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.

<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.

a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
the days has come when I can only write of others, this is the only shade of my voices that survives.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 5
Pradip is newborn (impossible wisdom)

“a new day, a new chance for my soul... to heed
a small voice ... to give flowers, to plant new seeds.
to not trample on wildflowers and unwanted weeds...” Sally

“Sweet baby
with your head on my shoulder
I'm no more growing older...” Pradip

~

the unpredictability and randomness of the winds,
seed carriers, of small voices, yearning to be heard,
powerless in appearance only, for within are powers superior heroic,
           who can grow others       who can feed    
                             who can sustain multiple living creatures

each seed unique, a poem composed and complete,
authored by precedents, authorized by predecessors,
utilizing the cocoon of soil and sun,
rainwater from space and deep driven to
the clear milk of underground railroad rivers,
to give nurture to its revisional generational code

these new children of an old mix,
are quiet lifesavers giving proofs positive,
that those who will one day grow old,
with deep gnarled roots, are most capable
of finding ways of manufacturing fresh youth whim within,
to those who give babies homage, in attendance

this then the newborn miracle, the new seed,
wind borne, replants itself in old soil,
taking but more so giving,
injecting bits of vitality into its arterial ancestry,
how can this be?


I do not know the why or the how,
but am evidence of the therefore,
and the thereafter, of impossible wisdom




7:07am 4-5-19 a newborn poem for poetry passing grandparents
the dawn here is hours behind their sunsets, this then, a refreshment for the
wisdoms of their evening prayers
Nat Lipstadt Sep 14
~for Sreetama Chatterjee, granddaughter of Pradip Chatterjee~

A first time grandfather observes,
“that one path ends, a new one begins”

A philosophy, an observation shared,
one that I am, in multiplicity acquainted

Sources inform me that Sreetama is
of Sanskrit origin, the meaning is
“gift of god”

how wonderful are the mysterious coincidences in this world!

For my Hebrew name,
Netanel, given to me at my birth, the meaning is
“gift of god”

Sources inform me that name of Sreetama has given you
the desire for creative, artistic or musical expression
in an original way.

I can pretend to be surprised, but who would I fool?

you, granddaughter of my friend, an esteemed poet,
Pradip Chatterjee,
who delights in you,
you, an exquisite of the small
you, so powerful already,
that he has shelved his writing,
(temporarily I suspect)
to tend to your upbringing

You, so powerful already,
you, will break his will, command his attention,
demanding, bringing out his issuance of a thousand poems,
all revealing and reveling in your mastery,
over him!

You, so powerful already,
in secret concert, listening secretly,
already composing silently, smilingly,
awaiting the arrival of your fine,
very fine, motor skills,
to grasp, own! his writing utensils,
with the strength of a child insistent

You, feeling the power within those instruments,
sparking a commencement and a continuation of
the generational gift residing in your senses

I await those artistic creature creations
most impatiently...

—————————————————————————————
“the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.”

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3299027/pradip-im-a-charming-man-with-a-fragile-patience/

<>
छोटी की उत्तमता
[ *~ बालिका श्रीतमा चटर्जी के लिए कविता ~
]

प्रथम बार दादा ने महसूस किया,
"एक पथ पड़ाव तक पहुंचता है, एक नया प्रारम्भ होता है"

एक दर्शन, एक अवलोकन साझा करता हूँ
जिससे मैं भली भांति परिचित हूँ| कई गुना

स्त्रोत बताते हैं कि शब्द 'श्रीतमा' संस्कृत मूल का है,
जिसका अर्थ है - "ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद";

दुनिया में होने वाले रहस्यमय संयोग, कितने अद्भुत हैं!
मेरे हिब्रू भाषा के नाम - 'नेटानेल'

जिसे मेरे जन्म के समय, मुझे दिया गया
उसका भी अर्थ यही है - " ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद"

मुझे, सूत्र बताते हैं कि 'श्रीतमा' नाम ने तुम्हे
रचनात्मक, कलात्मक या संगीतमय -

अभिव्यक्ति की इच्छा दी है
बिलकुल नैसर्गिक और मूल तरीके से।

मैं आश्चर्यचकित होने का नाटक कर सकता हूं,
लेकिन आखिर मैं किसे मूर्ख बनाऊंगा?

तुम, मेरे दोस्त, एक सम्मानित कवि,
प्रदीप चटर्जी की पोती हो

जो तुम्हे देख कर प्रसन्न होता है
तुम, छोटी हो, श्रेष्ठ हो, उत्तम हो

तुम पहले से ही इतनी खुशनसीब हो कि,
उसने अपने लेखन को रोक कर दिया,
(अस्थायी रूप से, ऐसा मेरा मानना है)

केवल और केवल
तुम्हारी अच्छी परवरिश के लिए

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम उसकी इच्छाशक्ति को मोड़ सकोगी

उसके ध्यान को अपनी ओर खींचकर
अपनी महारत से उसके भीतर

हिलोरें मार रही हज़ारों कविताओं को
रहस्योद्घाटित होने का अवसर दे सकोगी

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम चुपके से धीरे धीरे सुन रही हो

तदात्म्य स्थापित कर रही हो
चुपचाप रच रही हो, गढ़ रही हो

इंतज़ार कर रही हो, समय आने का
अपनी मांसपेशियों पर नियंत्रण होने का

जिससे तुम लेखनी को पकड़ सको
सुदृढ़ता के साथ नियंत्रित कर सको

कुशलता से उसका उपयोग कर सको
एक बच्चे की ताकत और जिद के साथ|


तुम उन उपकरणों में निहित शक्ति महसूस कर रही हो,
जो शुरुआत से ही निरंतर तुम्हारे भीतर,

स्फुलिंग उत्पन्न कर, तुम्हारी इन्द्रियों के भीतर मौजूद
पीढ़ीगत उपहार को जारी रखते हैं

मुझे तुम्हारी उन कलात्मक, जीवंत कृतियों का,
इंतजार है, अधीरता के साथ, हाँ, पूरी अधीरता के साथ|


Many thanks to Shiv Pratap  Pal for his translation, advice and exquisite attention to the smallest detail.
False Poets Apr 3
words conveyed with a mutual clarity parity for communication
will end only when the world ends first
and the communitas is no more,and words, exist purposelessly  
for there is no left with whom to communicate, precisely

but now, of this moment,
write words, sentences multiplied but circumscribed,
verses with mystical aura,
whose utility so suspect and multiple meanings hidden within,
taken by you for the specific utility you uncover and create

ah, to write of things clearly visible to all,
but possessed differently, by each reader, this is the greatest commonsensical commonwealth useful
for and of humans indexed by unique word tendons tenderly

when this passes, when literature no longer
can be messengered to 127 Persian provinces,
each the message same,
yet given up in 127 different languages^

when you understand my poems perfectly then,
their utility is inutile,
the usefulness is in the
nth reinterpretation,
a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth wired inner construct,
being pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
a lives paired wine tasting, together believing
in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our armed embrace at last




p.s. Pradip, be careful what you wish for....a poet false...


9:15am  April 3, 2019
^ Book of Esther 1:22 For he (the King) sent letters into all the king's 127 provinces, into every province according to the writing thereof, and to every people after their language, that every man should bear rule in his own house, and that it should be published according to the language of every people.
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
Edward Sep 11
Hellopoetry has the greatest poets of this time.
I am so bless to know them and to share too.
On the site that has the very best of them all.
There are so many to name on here  right now.
Brandon Nagely, TheRaven,CJLove,White Wolf.
Vicki,Bijan Rabiee, Darrell Landstrom, Patty m.
Openworldview,forgotten, samanthax,Arianna, Fawn.
Dennis Willis,Evangeline Ruth Hope,Muzaffer.
Naceur Ben Mesbah, Faizel Farzee, Dan Hess.
Crazy Diamond Kristy, Katja Pullinen, Deb Jones.
M-E, Long Rager,Amulya,Pradip Chattopadhyay.
Madison,Joanna,Sally Bayan, Wendy ,Izzn,Fredrick N.
There are many more praying Blessings upon your works.
There are so many that has left that will be really missed on here.
Like Kim Johanna Baker, I have not seen Bradon Nagley in a while'
God has used them and their poetry to show hope on here to others.
There are more that have Left , I miss Vicki as well she is another.
So many Gifted Poets whom worked hard at showing others Hope here.
Through their keep on pushing through in their Life and Poetry.
Still there are others that are still here sharing their poetry and caring.
I just want you all like Kristy, Pradip, Ryn,Tapiwa,H-B,Rose, Walter, Alyssa.
Valsa,Kikodinho,Jen,Logasn, Ben,Cisco,Timur,Kasidee, J Kleins, Traveler.
Wendy,Wordvango, Timothy, Marian,and many more Powerful Poets.

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