Poetry Reading/ Workshop: Chapel Hill area: Jan. 30, 2010: Featuring Jean Jones and David Capps">Poetry Reading/ Workshop: Chapel Hill area: Jan. 30, 2010: Featuring Jean Jones and David Capps
Published January 6, 2010 | 
">Bruce WhealtonPoetry Workshop Followed by a Poetry Reading
Poetry Reading will Feature Jean Arthur Jones and John David Capps
Poets Jean Arthur Jones, Word Salad’s co-editor, and John David Capps, will be reading their poetry in the Chapel Hill/Carrboro area on January 30, 2010. We also will be having a poetry workshop hosted by these poets, with myself, Bruce Whealton assisting with hosting and organizing the event. Bruce Whealton is pictured below Jean.
We will kick things off with a poetry reading and poetry workshop. Guest poets, Jean Arthur Jones and John David Capps will be coming from Wilmington, NC. Both poets have English Degrees and Jean Jones has his MFA (Master’s in Fine Arts) from Bowling Green State University in Bowling Green, OH. More information about Jean Jones is available here.
David Capps has been publishing poets for his company, Shakin Outta My Heart Press. Pictured on the right is David Capps. Pictured below is Jean Jones. This event
Participants are asked to bring about 15 copies of their poems for the workshop portion of the event, where they can get feedback from others in the group. This will be from 7:00-8:30pm. At 9pm we will start with Jean Jones and David Capps reading their poetry. Following that we will offer an open-mike for others to share their poetry.
If you have any questions, please contact me, Bruce Whealton at 919-636-5809 or on my cell at 919-428-0943. Of course you also can contact Jean Jones or Bruce Whealton directly from our website for Word Salad here. or you can email me.
If you have any questions, please contact me, Bruce Whealton at 919-636-5809 or on my cell at 919-428-0943. Of course you also can contact Jean Jones or Bruce Whealton directly from our site here.
Wow! 9 of my Dark/Horror poems being published">Wow! 9 of my Dark/Horror poems being published
Published January 4, 2010 | ">Bruce WhealtonI just got news that I have 9 more publications to add to my credits! Nine, that’s a pick me up for the day/week. Aphelion, the Webzine of Science Fiction and Fantasy is going to publish in February, my poem “The Angel of Death Offers Consolation.” In addition to this, I am having 8 other poems, similar dark poems published, including the following: “Shelter,” “A Warning,” “The Lingering Scent,” “The Name,” “The Great Escape,” “A Modern Day Van Helsing,” “Sensuous and Strong as the Serpent,” and “Becoming.”
That poem appears again below with the introductory information that goes with the poem.
“Courtland Smith died after being shot by an Archdale police officer. Smith had
called 911 threatening suicide, and adding that he had a gun and had
been drinking.” For a full story read here:
http://www.wral.com/news/local/story/5880002/
This poem is inspired by the Angel of Death series of poems by Jean Jones. Read more of the Angel of Death poems by Jean Jones here:
http://wsmagazine.net/VolumeXIVNoIV/books-published-by-word-salad/book/4-the-angel-of-death-by-jean-jones/4-other-poetry-publications.html
The Angel of Death Offers Consolation
The Angel of Death approached
Courtland
as he stood holding a drink
alone, crying, hoping no one would see him.
“Let’s go for a ride.”
“Who are you?”
“Someone who loves you,
who understands you
and what you are going through.”
“I can’t see your face.”
“That’s ok, I can see you.”
So they got into his car
and began a long talk
as Courtland drove through
the dark streets.
Observers would have said he was alone
in the car but Courtland would have
told them differently…
he would have told of a beautiful woman
riding with him.
“They don’t understand you
and won’t take you seriously…
Go ahead…
Call 911 and tell them what you are going to do!”
“I can’t do it.”
“Go ahead, call them, you’ll see.
They don’t understand you like I do…
No one ever will…”
So he did call 911.
The Angel of Death kept speaking to him
as he drove,
as he became more
desperate.
“There’s only one way you can be
with me forever,” the Angel of Death told Courtland.
“I can’t do it,” he answered.
“They’re not going to take you seriously
just because you cry.
Make them understand the depth of your pain…
Tell them you have a gun with you
and you’re ready to end your life now.
Then they’ll listen.”
So, he told them 911 operator
just what the Angel of Death had said.
The next several moments
he spent listening to the 911 operator
in one ear
and the Angel of Death in the other,
until all he could hear
was the soothing hypnotic voice
of the Angel of Death.
When he came to a traffic light
he didn’t hear the police man telling him
to stay in the car.
“Do you really want to be with me,
forever?” the Angel of Death asked him.
“Then take this and go.
Go ahead. You can do it.
They’ll remember you now!”
The next
sounds to be heard
were from the police.
Four gunshots.
“Shots fired.”
“Man down.”
Poem by Bruce Whealton
August 31, 2009
Finding something creative to say…">Finding something creative to say…
Published December 24, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonHow does a poet find something new and original to say?… something creative? Something that will astonish the reader? I think one idea is to write what is personal – personal experiences and perspectives. Jean Jones said to be honest. I think the “Confessional Poets” were great at this. Confessional poetry involves thoughts, feelings and experiences that are quite personal, certainly honest. In some cases these might be quite unflattering things that the poet is sharing.
This is similar to the idea of what separates a poem from greeting card verse. A greeting card is generic and can be used, applied to an occasion and given to anyone that fits the occasion. For example, a father’s day card could be given to any father, or if not any father, any number of fathers. Sure, not every father’s day card works for anyone and any father, and for that reason we spend time finding “the right one.” However, there is a generic, if not cliché nature to greeting cards. In contrast, if I write a poem about my father, I’m going to be talking about my own unique experience of having known one person in particular. These are very much my own feelings, experiences, thoughts and memories. Maybe others can relate to what I write, and we do hope experience is universal and shared. However, such a poem, if I do it well, or right, expresses something unique; unique about my memories, the relationship, and about my father in particular.
I think this is partially what we seek to publish. I don’t mean specifically, poems about fathers. I mean poems that avoid generalities, cliché, greeting card verse.
Maybe this can be helpful for people to know who might want to get published on Word Salad.
TAZ – Poem by Bruce Whealton">TAZ – Poem by Bruce Whealton
Published November 13, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonTAZ
He goes by the name
Taz.
Only a few know
his real name -
he wants it that way.
That’s the homeless man,
laying in a tree bed
wearing a coat
too heavy for a warm day
like today…
That’s the homeless man
asleep on a gray November day
on Franklin Street.
That’s the homeless man
who goes by the name
Taz -
decorated Vietnam War Veteran,
trained in our country’s
Special Forces
many, many years ago.
That’ the homeless man
seen on Franklin Street often…
I imagine many
in this town
have seen him
many times
and probably have heard
something about his bravery
many, many years ago
in another life -
I am not sure where
I, myself, heard these things.
That’s the homeless man,
Taz is his name,
alone, asleep
on Franklin Street.
Bruce Whealton
November 13, 2009
An As-If Person – Poem by Bruce Whealton">An As-If Person – Poem by Bruce Whealton
Published November 5, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonAn As-if Person
He lived an as-if life
He asked himself
what was different about himself
now versus just six months ago.
He held two contradictory beliefs at once…
He knew there was nothing different
about his nature or character
than existed just six months ago.
Now he was homeless though,
he had lost his job
and his home.
He didn’t look any different,
though indeed he could not dress
quite so nicely.
He wasn’t a different person,
he had the same character,
the same morals.
But he began to see himself
the way he knew others saw him.
And thus he held two contradictory views
at the same time
about himself.
The reality he knew
and the as-if view of himself
that he held -
the view of himself
based on the assumptions
he felt others sure held
about him,
as if these assumptions
were true.
He began to think of himself
as-if he was a different person…
as if he was an alcoholic
or an addict,
though he knew he was neither of these…
as-if he was lazy
though, while he certainly wasn’t lazy,
he was losing hope, and thus motivation.
Little by little, he began to hold these
dialectical attitudes about himself,
at once believing in the truth
about himself
and the false assumptions
he felt sure that others held about him,
as-if these beliefs
were true.
By Bruce Whealton
November 5, 2009
Immediacy – Poem by Bruce Whealton">Immediacy – Poem by Bruce Whealton
Published November 5, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonImmediacy
As a homeless person
he had no sense
of past of future…
the past was mourned
the past was lost
the past was pain…
the Present was so all
encompassing,
so overwhelming
so challenging…
the only future
was immediate.
Bruce Whealton
November 5, 2009
Desolation – Poem by Bruce Whealton">Desolation – Poem by Bruce Whealton
Published November 5, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonDesolation
To be homeless
is to know utter desolation
and a persistent
overbearing sense
of fear.
Anxiety and stress were constant
but overshadowed by fear -
terror.
The terror of utter desolation;
the feeling of vulnerability -
unprotected, abandoned and
alone.
No one to run to
to cry to…
No one to hold you and tell you
all would be ok.
Your mere existence
is a burden to all
those who once cared.
This
is what ran through
John’s mind,
as he walked the city’s streets,
looking for some place
to rest – a place that be safe
and offer comfort,
a place where he might not be seen.
He hated being alone
and only noticed
as a nuisance.
His brother and cousin
had reminded him
of this crushing, terrifying reality.
“I can’t keep helping you,” they said.
He wanted to explain
that he had put off calling them
for two hours, until
he just became so desperate
and scared,
but he didn’t say anything,
feeling that there just was no way
he could convey his reality,
or fearing they wouldn’t believe him.
That’s what he feared -
that feeling of trying to explain
his reality and the feeling
that they just weren’t wanting to listen -
it hurt, not just that they couldn’t help
but that they didn’t seem to want
to listen and really hear him.
The feelings he now felt
drove him to keep walking,
he was too driven to stop,
though he had no real
destination.
By Bruce Whealton
November 5, 2009
Bear Kills Militants – by Jean Arthur Jones">Bear Kills Militants – by Jean Arthur Jones
Published November 5, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonBear Kills Militants
By Jean Arthur Jones
For Scott Urban:
“A bear killed two militants after discovering them in its den in Indian-administered Kashmir, police say.
Two other militants escaped, one of them badly wounded, after the attack in Kulgam district, south of Srinagar.
The militants had assault rifles but were taken by surprise – police found the remains of pudding they had made to eat when the bear attacked.”
This reads like one of your poems, Scott-
our AK-47 carrying friends making some pudding,
putting their guns down
and look out!
A bear attacked them,
killing 2 of them,
leaving a 3rd badly wounded.
Remember how you laughed at “The Happening”
and I took it as gospel?
Perhaps the planet itself is rising up to kill us,
tiring of our stupid attempts to eliminate one another,
all in the name of peace.
Now the bears are coming out of their caves to kill us
and with good reason now too.
We bring nothing but death,
do we not deserve it?
In time, the planet itself will rise up against us,
perhaps that is what the Mayans were talking about in 2012.
The aliens will not come back
but this planet, this earth
will wake up,
and like a dog
coming out of a bath,
will shake its fur clean
eliminating all of us fleas on this planet.
The consciousness of one will overshadown the consciousness of us all
and like a boy waking from a dream,
the earth will change direction and all hell will break loose.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/8339549.stm
Bear kills militants in Kashmir
By Altaf Hussain
BBC News, Srinagar
A bear killed two militants after discovering them in its den in Indian-administered Kashmir, police say. Two other militants escaped, one of them badly wounded, after the attack in Kulgam district, south of Srinagar. The militants had assault rifles but were taken by surprise – police found the remains of pudding they had made to eat when the bear attacked.
It is thought to be the first such incident since Muslim separatists took up arms against Indian rule in 1989.
Bodies found
The militants had made their hideout in a cave which was actually the bear’s den, said police officer Farooq Ahmed. The dead have been identified as Mohammad Amin alias Qaiser, and Bashir Ahmed alias Saifullah.
News of the attack emerged when their injured comrade went to a nearby village for treatment. “Word spread in the village that Qaiser had been killed by the bear,” another police officer said. A joint party of the police and army personnel went into the forest and collected the bodies of the two militants.
Police say they also recovered two Kalashnikov assault rifles and some ammunition from the hideout.
Animal attacks
Wildlife experts say the conflict in Kashmir has actually resulted in an increase in the population of bears and leopards. Following the outbreak of the insurgency people had to hand in their weapons to police – which put a halt to poaching. As a result, there has been a greater incidence of man-animal conflict, say experts. There have been many reports of bears and leopards killing or mauling humans in different parts of the Kashmir valley in recent years. Three years ago, residents of Mandora village near the southern town of Tral, beat a black bear to death which had strayed into the village.
Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/south_asia/8339549.stm
Published: 2009/11/03 12:28:41 GMT
© BBC MMIX
Masculine Destruction – Poem by Bruce Whealton">Masculine Destruction – Poem by Bruce Whealton
Published November 4, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonMasculine Destruction
As males we possess
the potential
to create
to join with
become a part of
another -
these are expressions of life
and love.
Instead we fashion
phallic shaped
and formulated
implements -
with explosive force
they spew forth lead.
Intoxicated on
our testosterone
we seem to have forgotten
our feminine side
our ability to
nurture
and comfort.
(Sometimes I want to denounce
my masculinity when I see these
phallic implements).
Bruce Whealton
November 3, 2009
The Dark – Poem by Bruce Whealton">The Dark – Poem by Bruce Whealton
Published November 2, 2009 | ">Bruce WhealtonThe Dark
I had the nightmare again - the same one, though I'm sure there have been variations, that I've had my whole life. It's about the darkness and my fear of the dark. It's not easy for me to admit that as a grown man I'm afraid of the dark. In the dream, I'm in a dark room. My bedroom - I sense a presence in the darkest part of the room. It's the darkness itself that I fear. It's a darkness within the darkness, indistinct in shape. It seems to bring or spread darkness, like some black hole. I'm afraid that it will engulf me. I'm afraid of becoming one with the darkness. That presence, over the years, I've called it many things, Satan, the boogeyman, The Angel of Death, the grim reaper or just The Shape. In the dream, I try to turn on a light knowing that I'll be safe then but the light doesn't work and I'm frozen for a moment. I try to find a flashlight and I try to make it to another room... it's so dark and none of the lights are working... and I'm waiting, terrified, with chills running up me as I imagine what it will feel like when that presence grabs me. I cannot see it, there's nothing to be seen, just a sense of someone or something in the room with me. At some point before the veil of darkness or the reaper's cloak, covers me and after trying a number of lights, none of which work, I awaken. In all the years that I've had this nightmare this darkness, this presence, this grim reaper, has never had any distinguishable features, no grinning skull, no menacing eyes, no face or form. Yet I've known it's there and perhaps, a part of me believes there's something real to this presence and for that reason, no matter how much I deny it, I am afraid of the dark.
November 2, 2009
By Bruce Whealton
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