The Great Hunt, by Carl Sandburg

Read by Xe Sands

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Xe writes…

Don’t we all have someone to whom we owe something – an explanation, a declaration…even if they are oblivious to it? And will we tell them, before it becomes moot not to?

No. Most likely, we won’t.

Image credit: Varun Suresh
License: CC BY 2.0




Emma, by Wayne Gatfield

Read by Wayne Gatfield

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Wayne writes…

A poem of mine with music (not mine)








Ani Poem. Goddess Thoughts. New Moon in Cancer, Amani O+Poetess

Read by Susan Marie

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Amani O+Poetess writes…

Why Ani Poems?

Ani (also known as Ala, Ana, Ale, and Ali in varying Igbo dialects) is the Earth Mother Goddess; female Alusi (deity) of the earth, morality, death, and fertility in Odinani.
The Igbo people of Nigeria call Her the mother of all things, but She is both the fertile earth and the empty field after the harvest. She is present at the beginning of the cycle of life, making children grow in their mother’s womb, and She is there at the end of the cycle, to receive the souls of the dead into Her own womb.
Her name literally translates to ‘Ground’ in the Igbo language, denoting Her powers over the earth and Her status as the ground itself.
Ala is considered the highest Alusi in the Igbo pantheon and was the first Alusi, daughter of Chukwu, the supreme god. Ala’s husband is Amadioha, the sky god.
We each are the beginning, middle and end. We are light and dark. Womyn in particular . In this ircle, among other things, Ani Poems represents the cycle of creation, critique and sharing.
Ani Poems, Goddess Thoughts aims to foster a space for Women of Color in Upstate NY that celebrates the beauty of each moment and at every stage of life while recognizing the value of what we each bring to the table. We are the green garden, we are the empty garden, we are everything in between and we are all beautiful.
Photo Cred: juachiobi.deviantart.com/…/Ala-Earth-…ess-3361791…
More Here en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ala_%28Odinani%29



Gleaming Eyes and Shining Teeth, George MacDonald

Read by theshadowlands

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theshadowlands writes…

My poetic rendering of George MacDonald’s “The Gray Wolf”

—Gleaming Eyes & Shining Teeth—

The old woman pointed to a heather bed
As the place for the night to lay his head
Weary, the young man, from this day
Wrapped himself in his cloak to hit the hay

The moment his head to lay
A fresh storm was underway
The wind blew through the cracks of the hut
His cloak over his head, for the noise to rebut

Unable to sleep, he listened away
As the window held back the sea and spray
The door opened, the young woman came in
Curled up on the bench with her hand on her chin

In that same strange posture as before
Her face turned towards the young man all the more
If he moved, she would drop her head
Yet still she quietly, keenly peering towards his bed

The mother soon to disappear
Drowsiness and soon sleep was drawing near
A move from the bench, the boy to excite
Thinking a four-footed creature, was drowsily in sight

Hazily dreaming a large dog to trot across the floor
Then with stealth to quietly exit the door
In the darkness, he felt a rising dread
The fixed gaze of two eyes upon his bed

He stared at the fire, then was soon aware
The bench was vacant, and the young woman, not there
Wondering, what reason to enter a storm so deep
Soon reposing, the young man fell fast asleep

In the depth of that stormy night
Awakened in pain at what was in his sight
A deep ache in his shoulder to be
With gleaming eyes and shining teeth…to now…see…(-bc)



Tom Jones, Book XIV, Chapter 1, by Henry Fielding

Read by Mark Turetsky


Mark writes…

Book 14 Chapter 1 of Tom Jones.

This is part of an ongoing project in which I will record and post one chapter per week of Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones over the course of four years.

It’s the start of another book of Tom Jones, meaning once again, Fielding takes a break from the narrative to expound on a certain idea. In this chapter, Fielding discusses the need for a certain level in expertise in the subjects one writes about to write effectively. The greatest problem he sees in the writing of his contemporaries, is that nobody knows how to write the genteel class, since no writers are of that class.




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