Vijay Seshadri, 2014 Pulitzer-Prize Winner for Poetry

Poet Vijay Seshadri (photo: npr.org)

Poet Vijay Seshadri (photo: npr.org)

Hats off to Vijay Seshadri, this year’s 2014 Pulitzer-Prize winner for his collection of poems, 3 Sections. You can read a Q&A here at NPR with samples of his work.

(Typo in last post: gifts not grifts. Spell checker and edit/update buttons here on WordPress are not working for whatever reasons.)

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“Written on the Wind” (poem)

"Clouds" (photo: PoeticMeditations)

“Clouds” (photo: PoeticMeditations)

WRITTEN ON THE WIND
By PoeticMeditations

Written on the wind, small grifts to the world,
Not valuable like gold, silver or pearls.
Crafted with care; flowing from the heart
According to the laws of poetic art.
Pretty baubles for this world of woe,
Wisps of lyric beauty to feed the soul.
Received with joy or cold indifference,
Freely without cost – not a single pence.
To the giver, a serious matter
For the heart is presented on a platter.
Success, wealth or glory never the aim.
Poetry has nothing to do with fame.
A poet simply has no other choice.
But to sing of beauty with the heart’s voice.

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Arts & Crafts Fair

Table at an Arts & Crafts Fair

Table at an Arts & Crafts Fair

Did another weekend arts & crafts fair peddling broadsheets, original photo poems and woodblock print cards. The weather, although windy at times, was pleasant. One customer asked me if John Keats was Irish. I think she was thinking of Yeats.

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Cellist Leyla McCalla and Langston Hughes

Leyla McCalla (image npr.org)

Leyla McCalla (image npr.org)

Folk cellist, Leyla McCalla performs her song with lyrics from a Langston Hughes’s poem. You can catch her performance on NPR’s Folk Alley Presents on the following link:

http://www.npr.org/event/music/286822396/folk-alley-presents-leyla-mccalla

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“Meditations in a Churchyard”

"St. John at Hampstead" (image: en.wikipedia.com)

“St. John at Hampstead” (image: en.wikipedia.com)

MEDITATIONS IN A CHURCHYARD
By Poetic Meditations

Beneath a shady pine I sit alone
Amidst these silent testaments:
Mere names and dates inscribed in stone
Upon these weathered monuments.

No trace of virtue or vice remain,
No sound of laughter left behind,
Beyond the touch of joy or pain,
Upon the flesh the worm has dined.

Hid in earth’s bosom in dreamless rest,
All strife and struggle forever ceased,
No beat of heart to stir the breast,
For from the clay, the soul released.

Only the merry song of robins fill the air,
While in the town below, play children unaware.

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A Paen to Lost Youth: “The Winter of Our Discontent”

THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT
By Poetic Meditations

We jumped so high, ran so fast
As the years went rushing past
And the seasons changed from summer glories
To the winter of our discontent

We had our time dancing in the sun
Days of pure joy, days of electric fun
Until the fire in our hearts began to flicker out
In the winter of our discontent

Life used to be so much simpler then:
Women, wine, song and one true friend
Seemed like it would all last forever
Until the winter of our discontent

Days of glory now forever spent
Replaced by worries about paying the rent
Restless nights and dreamless sleep
In the winter of our discontent

Looking back, where has it all gone?
Along the way, we had lost our song
Now just endless dull and dreary days
In the winter of our discontent

Peter Doherty’s paen to lost youth with a lovely violin accompaniment/duet by Miki Beavis:

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“The Visions and the Songs”

Image: en.wikipedia.org

Image: en.wikipedia.org

THE VISIONS AND THE SONGS
By Poetic Meditations

In his thirtieth year, the calling came divine,
Leaving all, a towering mountain he did climb,
HIgh above the lofty tree tops and the clouds,
Far from the petty masses and rabble loud,
Where on nuts and wild berries he did feed,
Crystal water from a stream and honey from the bee.
Slept beneath a vast canopy of stars each night
Until the wind sang to him and visions filled his sight.
After forty days and nights, from the mountain did depart
To sing his songs to the people was his burning mission,
But too busy making money, no one cared to listen.
One night, alone in bed, he died quietly where he was laying
With the visions and the songs in his heart still playing.

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