bread and roses

APRIL: is national poetry month. Carl Sandburg said,   “Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during the night.”

Sandburg also said: “Poetry is the achievement of the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.”  AND I call it, what every human being needs, ” bread and roses.”

“So many times I’ve read a poem and suddenly felt what the poet’s voice brought to me and I said, ‘yes, that is what I felt but could not find words for the experience, now the poet speaks for me too’.”

Poetry is how our feeling thoughts talk and we share those words with family, friends, and others.


About Ciletti

Jim Ciletti, an award winning poet, filmmaker, and author, is the 2010-2012, Poet Laureate of the Pikes Peak region, and for 41 years, poet-in-residence for the Orme School Fine Arts Festival. Jim gives many workshops on the writing and performance of poetry, and makes poetry house calls to create personal poetry events. Ciletti loves everything Italian, including cooking for family and friends, and loves to plant garlic, make homemade wine, and eating peaches and plums. "Everyday is Christmas, but you don't always get everything you ask for. Sometimes more. Poetry celebrates life."
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1 Response to bread and roses

  1. jhwriter says:

    Or, as Neruda put it:


    To whoever is not listening to the sea
    this Friday morning, to who ever is cooped up
    in house or office, factory or woman
    or street or mine or dry prison cell,
    to him I come, and without speaking or looking
    I arrive and open the door of his prison,
    and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
    a long rumble of thunder adds itself
    to the weight of the planet and the foam,
    the groaning rivers of the ocean rise,
    the star vibrates quickly in its corona
    and the sea beats, dies, and goes on beating.

    So. Drawn on by my destiny,
    I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
    the sea’s lamenting in my consciousness,
    I must feel the crash of the hard water
    and gather it up in a perpetual cup
    so that, wherever those in prison may be,
    wherever they suffer the sentence of the autumn,
    I may be present with an errant wave,
    I may move in and out of the windows,
    and hearing me, eyes may lift themselves,
    asking “How can I reach the sea?”
    And I will pass to them, saying nothing,
    the starry echoes of the wave,
    a breaking up of foam and quicksand,
    a rustling of salt withdrawing itself,
    the gray cry of sea birds on the coast.

    So, though me, freedom and the sea
    will call in answer to the shuttered heart.

    (trans. Alistair Reid)

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