Introduction
It was Charles Peguy who said, "A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it
from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket." How very true, indeed.
From a young writer who gives us a whimsical glance into life from the perspective of a vegetable to more traditional poetry about nature and love, I attempted to select poetry for this anthology that is
as varied as the writers themselves.
Some of the poets featured here are seasoned writers with a lifetime of experiences and poems behind them. Others are new to the pen and offer a fresh take on the long revered art form that is poetry. Here, you will find the work of both published and previously unpublished writers, all of them with one thing in common: a love for words.
It was my honor to meet, talk to, and correspond with hundreds of poets from around the globe as part of this anthology project. They each possess a unique view of the world. Each taught me something new and allowed me a glimpse into their worlds. It is my hope that their poetry will do the same for readers of Cafe Musings.
Poets featured here hail from three continents and range in age from 18 to 65. Their experiences, authentic voices, and views of the world each take us on different journeys.
Relax. Sit back. Allow the poets to show you their worlds through their eyes and words, from wherever they've come.
-Erin L George
For all the poets and dreamers out there.
And, of course, for those who appreciate our art.
The Ode Less Traveled
by Nik Dendera
And thus I sit, engaged in the purest of wonder
Of the manner of words and in sleep, I ponder,
The spectacle of love for a written reason,
In a forest of tales and literary season.
Divine sonnets of iambic metre spoken,
In whispered tones, the dusty twilight hour woken.
Brought back to dear life, the pentameter breathes and grown,
In shadowed attic, inspirations seeds be sown.
Ideas are born in the starless abyss of night,
Upon a blank page, my secret sorrows take flight.
I desire only the sweetest of serenades,
Lyrical acrobats of Heaven's angels made.
And thus I sit, beyond this realm of sanctity,
Far from a maddening world of pitfalls aplenty.
Lost in a maze of stanza romance and dreaming,
Trying to find a foothold of hidden meaning.
Slowly now, the dawn breaks over this cold city,
Where the damned roam the streets of dirt and pity.
Beauty means nothing to those who abhor verses,
No art lies within the demons empty curses.
But the poet who dreams is the poet who knows
Of magical means where hope thrives and grows.
I sit here and watch the distant road, untraveled,
As I make my way along an ode less traveled.
Le Petit Morte
by Nik Dendera
1
Our love affair began just like they always do.
We met some fateful night beneath a tragic moon.
She was clad in black leather tight,
A dominatrix of cyber orgies fright.
In one skilled hand she held her thrash,
One arm outstretched to receive my payment of cash.
In my room of bare canvas and paint,
My Lady taught me of love so quaint.
Upon the sheets of paper plain,
She told the secrets of her domain.
Into the night we made love,
Dominatrix of blood splattered doves.
Her whip of blades, a sting like a kiss,
“Darling, without me, life you would miss.”
Through the bondage of words and literary sex,
We battered the dark and light became a hex.
Restraints of scarves of neon blue,
You were me and I became you.
Twisted fetish of a dictionary grin,
My life became nothing but maltreated sin.
My mistress tormented and whipped me till I bled
As I lay tied to the fine sculpted bed.
2
Our love affair lasted from dusk until dawn,
When each night we would lay upon the silken lawn.
My wounds were deep and painful to bare,
Her face became the visions of a loveless nightmare.
Till one night, in the darkness cold,
My mistress came with word I’d been sold.
“You made me a pledge of total dependence,
But now you abuse like its your acceptance.”
The pain was so real, I forgot how to feel.
Blind was I to her reasons why.
I heard her scream of artistic rape,
As she was violated by her chosen fate.
Through sodomy and knife
Through terror filled strife,
I cut her down and laid her waste.
Forgetting our child of such chastity and chaste.
My lady lay dying and weeping,
Through the leather her blood was seeping.
Crimson paint of soulless rage,
Words of hate became an odor filled haze.
From her lips came the sighs
The sort Art makes as it dies.
“Why did you betray me?
Couldn’t you let this simple gift be?”
With a strangled choke on thick scarlet