Transit of the Gods

Strange that the self’s continuum should outlast
The Virgin, Aphrodite, and the Mourning Mother,
All loves and griefs, successive deities
That hold their kingdom in the human breast.
Abandoned by the gods, woman with an ageing body
That half remembers the Annunciation
The passion and the travail and the grief
That wore the mask of my humanity,
I marvel at the soul’s indifference.
For in her theatre the play is done,
The tears are shed; the actors, the immortals
In their ceaseless manifestation, elsewhere gone,
And I who have been Virgin and Aphrodite,
The mourning Isis and the queen of corn
Wait for the last mummer, dread Persephone
To dance my dust at last into the tomb.

poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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The Wolf

The Breath uprooted withers in the wind
Toiling within the wounds
See- it’s a classic curl, a spiral breath cloud
The wolf ‘neath is whipped
With wisps of wordless worlds
The wolf- a mountain mute memo, you-mime
A classic curl, a spiral breath cloud
The wolf- howls at the moon holes hidden in each hunt
The wolf – hears the horns and hails
An earth risen rose- to survive!

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Backstage

The Pantomime Horse
in the theatre corral
is proving unbroken
a wayward cheval

he's trapped them inside
at the rear and the front
they're no longer amused
by this equinine stunt

he's called for some wild-oats
and now for a mare
Oh who wrote the script
for this torrid affair

so a Rodeo-Vet was hired for the day
and thank God for the curtain
and pretend bales of hay.

poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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The Pantomime Horse

The Pantomime Horse
in the theatre corral
is proving unbroken
a wayward cheval

he's trapped them inside
at the rear and the front
they're no longer amused
by this equinine stunt

he's called for some wild-oats
and now for a mare
Oh who wrote the script
for this torrid affair

so a Rodeo-Vet was hired for the day
and thank God for the curtain
and pretend bales of hay.

poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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Primroses

They moved with grace
on a warm spring day;
the rhythm of nature
in a flowing ballet.

Side by side they moved
in a performance of mime,
until they touched
and became entwined.

A change of direction
by the southerly breeze
separated their stems
by kissing their leaves.

With blushed yellow petals
they recovered their pose
and one again danced
amongst the purple and the rose.

poem by Orlando Belo
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TheAborgines

TheAborgines
PartOne
TheTeacherCome
The men gathered around the teacher come each one thronged and bowed they all had grey hair everywhere the eye could see they held out bowls of wooden hidden insides full of seaming things to eat. Perhaps the fireplace was inside one of the huts perhaps the food was only cold just fruit and nuts. The Teacher sighed then began to speak as each man placed his bowl at teachers feet. He pointed all around the village there here and everywhere until alarmed the men begin to quiver and beware until the Teacher cried out loud “How can eye make them understand to make a sign to make them understand the day time.” He tried his watch. He held up a calendar with all the days of months he even pantomimed the passing of time he tried the whistle of the loon to signal dark; then his eyes light up at something he just thought and so he drew there in the sand seven circles then one more there then starting over with his pidgeon speaching he tried to reach the men again with teaching. Day Day Day Day Day Day Day Day he said this eight times once for each circle pointing to make his point across the men in the glen between the huts were nodding understanding. They understood the teacher. He pointed at the first circle again and just said TODAY and got all excited when they nodded yes they were absorbing all the words then he said day to all the others but the last circle he called NEXT WEEK in a loud loon like voice. There was a hush and then the Spokesman for the tribe said to him in perfect English TIME. The teacher froze. For every aborigine had pulled a watch out from the leather thong and one of them cried out in perfect English as the Spokesman had thus done why that is April Twenty Ninth. The aborigine men all begin to dance now like the loon from side to side they all begin to eat the contents of the bowls at teachers feet the bowls of wisdom which contain the portions of the last teacher come to entertain who also tried to teach them time. For the aborigines were cannibals educated with intelligence complete with watches from the arms they used for cooking meat in pots from bowls they grab the portions out filled with teachers time and time again they come to teach them men the time in land of loon the teacher come?

poem by Charles Hice
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A Poem in Mime

The poetry is in the mime
It has the perfect metre
Such an immaculate rhyme
There is none greater

All in the movement
Although it’s not on a page
Maybe an improvement
Poetry that doesn’t age

Poetry without a word
What a clever notion
It’s not that absurd
It’s all in the motion

A sign of the times
Not like the old days
Poetry without rhymes
Expressed in different ways

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Micmac Mccrory
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The Mimic Harlequin

'I'll make believe, and fancy something strange:
I will suppose I have the power to change
And make all things unlike to what they were,
To jump through windows and fly through the air,
And quite confound all places and all times,
Like harlequins we see in pantomimes.
These thread-papers my wooden sword must be,
Nothing more like one I at present see.
And now all round this drawing-room I'll range,
And every thing I look at I will change.
Here's Mopsa, our old cat, shall be a bird;
To a Poll parrot she is now transferred.
Here's mamma's work-bag, now I will engage
To whisk this little bag into a cage;
And now, my pretty parrot, get you in it,
Another change I'll show you in a minute.'

'O fie, you naughty child, what have you done?
There never was so mischievous a son.

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Lamb
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The Superb Lyrebird's Song

Amongst the songbirds of Australia with the superb lyrebird as a mimic there is none to compare
He can incorporate the songs of the local songbirds in his song something that is quite rare
The voices of the kookaburra, blackbird, butcherbird and currawong
Are just three of the many voices in the master mimic's song
With the World's best songbird mimics the lyrebird he does rate
The voices of the cockatoos, rosellas, whipbirds and shrike thrush he can easily imitate
The songs of the robins, magpies and scrubwrens in his song you can recognize
Yes the lyrebird is a mimic who never ceases to surprise,
His varied song is beauitiful and his voice it carries far
He can imitate the noise of a chainsaw or the horn of a motor car,
On his display mound with his lyre shaped tail feathers above his back fanned out in a great display
He imitates the songs of the other birds in the woodland every day
And in his breeding Season he gushes forth in miming song
And the notes of any local bird he never does get wrong.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Tipping Points - Current Version

Mankind has reached a point in time
where we must choose before that choice
is forced upon us. Few rejoice
because the spectral pantomime
is faced with closure, cannot mime
a role with sense, nor find a voice
authentic underneath its grime.

Democracy has called the tune
since communistic threats appeared.
These, proving bankrupt though first feared -
despite the missions to the moon -
are memory. Then silver spoon
resumed brash reign too highly geared
to cope with chaos which could soon

sweep system rash, crashbranches prune
which sturdy seemed - soon to be sheared.
Fee enterprise has engineered
excesses while the baby boom

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Starry Night

My wig is stupendous
My dress so bizarre,
With make-up that's tremendous,
I'm bound to go far.

My shoes are so snazzy,
My bosom is vast,
With colours so jazzy,
I'm ready at last.

The bell rings for starters,
I rush out of the door,
Quick pull on my garters,
And I'm ready, for sure.

I walk into the limelight,
Of this great hall of fame,
Because, just for tonight,
I'm a 'Pantomime Dame! '

poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Kiss: Sonnet 2

If this is love that I feel
When you kiss me
Then my lips are sealed
Because I won't tell you how you bring me to my knees
One little kiss is life altering
It could be a peck or very passionate
I feel like I'm faltering
But soon I regret it
This sounds like lust
A lust for your kiss
I can't stop but I must
Now you're probably pissed
Your kisses are a stolen past time
Our connected lives are like a mime

(3/29/07)

poem by Stacey Gibbs
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On The Boulevard

Oh, it's pleasant sitting here,
Seeing all the people pass;
You beside your bock of beer,
I behind my demi-tasse.
Chatting of no matter what.
You the Mummer, I the Bard;
Oh, it's jolly, is it not? --
Sitting on the Boulevard.

More amusing than a book,
If a chap has eyes to see;
For, no matter where I look,
Stories, stories jump at me.
Moving tales my pen might write;
Poems plain on every face;
Monologues you could recite
With inimitable grace.

(Ah! Imagination's power)
See yon demi-mondaine there,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert William Service
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Ballet Rosette

(dedicated to Ms. Alina Cojocaru, a great Romanian ballerina)

flowing
precise
graceful
ethereal

pointe work
the movements
choreographed
turn-in of the legs

Cecchetti
Vaganova
BalanchineBournonville

setting
narrative
theatrical
flexed hands

[...] Read more

poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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Autocide

Young male did hundred and eighty k
straight into a bloody great tree
absurd police politics state
reckless drunken youthful spree.

Drink driving paranoia campaign
obsession it has to stop
official alcohol blame-all rhetoric
simple minded utter rot.

Accidents caused by slow. Old inadequate roads.
Allows no high density. Modern traffic flows.
Late aggressive drivers. Ignore moral courtesy codes.
Slippery wet conditions. Prove inexperience fatally blows.

Didn’t panic sweating swerve
didn’t final seconds blindly brake
didn’t even see it theory
momentarily asleep awoke too late?

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Thy death seek not

a bottom haunt
each thing sought
brought to naught

seeker's side blind
by mill stone ground
closed eye human kind
eye sages frozen
ginz mindel ris virm
bliss minder kiss hymn
the comfort of a lore
sad sagacious harle-kin mime
sorrow closing the door

the thruth no longer there
the moment it's been grabbed
the grasp no longer dared
heart broken been stabbed

a bottom haunt

[...] Read more

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Lone Bone

and then when we arrive at the prime
after a hard climb only to find nothing but thyme

life tastes like lime and we begin to mime
what to us was all grime and slime

to our face the ill-winds are blown
and what remains is the clown

we feel now that a clone has grown
inside ourselves we find what we own

the seeds have been sown in the throne
of the stone where our lips are sewn

the moan is thrown
& now back to the lone bone

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Disco Queen

I use to be a disco queen
Would bounce from couch
To chair then floor
And boogie around
On our living room floor

The old school music
The disco queens
We use to dance
To the disco beat

The hussle
The shuffle
Are move's we perfect?
And swaying our hips
To the disco beat

The freedom to move
And dance to the beat
Is a teenage dream

[...] Read more

poem by Kaila George
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

[...] Read more

poem by Wallace Stevens
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Must Rhyme Draw Blank..et Criticism?

It’s sad to see that rhyming‘s thought redundant
by those who’s bark can’t steer poetic star,
who grudge, shout out, doubt scope, spout words abundant,
seek validation they’d from others bar.

‘Free verse’ disperse if this your fancy tickles
to jar the winter of your discontent,
with fallen leaves, sheaves garnered, unhoned sickles,
with [f]lagging letters, jagged sentiment.

Rhyme carries more than meaning: music, timing,
pattern, play, holistic core explore,
link sense to ‘whither’, ‘whence’, nor mummer’s miming,
nor lead tread led astray by crow’s harsh caw.

‘Rich rhyme’ or ‘prose’ debate is academic
when eight in ten can’t read three thousand words,
what counts is sense and sentiments – polemic
remains the province of small minds in herds

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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