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Veteran Poet David Leo Sirois, you are not  only wearing  your poetry robe  but  you  have also  donned  a teaching garb.  Your  poetry carry that  verve  of moral instruction.  Your thought provoking  biblical allusions  and  head tilting imagery  are a refreshment  of social consciousness . Iam  thoroughly   wowed  by your choice  of  diction and the  word economics thereof  places  you into the  class of extraordinary English  page poets   ,  a special mention  to  Robert Frost and TS. Elliot  . As  such ,I have again picked and pocketed from your metaphoric fruit tree, some  literary  wisdom  of  John Donne , Yeats and Keats , the metaphysical poets . Your hybrid fusion  of  traditions , your own  ingenuity  and modernistic writing  is mesmerizing  and fulfills  the consumer , the reader the way  original fruit juice  does to   ever gormandizing kindergartens , And then  followed  by   a loud belch  there after , a natural  signal of fulfillment and  satisfaction. We continue to  imbibe  your verses of wisdom and graze through  pages with that  willing  keenness of  a new lover  , we greedily  gormandize  your moral instruction and  social consciousness  like monkeys fervently  shelling  peanuts in fields of promise or  like bees  passionately drinking  sweet honey from the hive of plenty .TIME OF THE POET  REPUBLIC   is honored to feature and profile  above all excellence and prowess  in the personality , international renowned spoken-word arts curator  and acclaimed   literature hub producer  Poet David Leo Sirois

 

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Turning

It is not so difficult to endure bullets in your chest; but it is extremely difficult to work

daily on a schedule, to fight with yourself at every moment, and in this way, to purify

yourself.

  • Mahatma Gandhi

 

The sky slowly   lowers its gaze

handed to a row of old indigo windows

 

Time conserves its endless strength

conversing with each passerby

sacred words & arcane signs

intimating times of rough good fortune

 

I am now unreachable   to all but the lowest

heavens

 

Seconds beat   against my brow

willing a spiraling universe

 

These cars create   hypnotic quiet

wise machine’s lilting roll

 

The river speaks   unintelligibly

& bridges tread water always

 

Wooden cross   upon my tongue

haunts my speech with melodies

of sorrow swallowed   & transformed

by words of wood   that burn & lighten

 

Silence spoken to hours found

in time to be devoured

 

Now night envelops every eye

tiny globes   in sacrifice

 

Windows drink the darkest wine

 

Luminous form   the human face

in shadow lit   phosphorescent

 

The skin of counting   canvas stage where

minute months show themselves   as roads revolve

round the planet   clouds pursue at their own pace

 

I walk abstract edges

of falling hills   lit green crosses

glass-roofed aquamarine door

red yellow white on pine-colored trellises

 

Crescent moon   cast in silver

as café customers   unroll their tongues   or steep in silence

conjuring cloudy atmospheres   to crowd themselves

into one sculpture

 

The radio center  its circular structure

embracing Mahatma’s “human truth”

which changes day by day

while divine truth is absolute

 

I remember   learning to fall

without resistance   landing gently

on padded floors   nothing in hand

to prevent me from rising again

 

The black pearlescent scent of espresso

welcomes me back

 

Even the dark shimmers violet

 

Everything’s turning

Time is awake   throughout this night

through all our dawns

 

This wind is saying

It is time to MAKE

 

but witty conversation   will not suffice

 

What you create   ethereal names   a room in space

 

 

 

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Nectar Is the Best Medicine

 

Dearest Ghost,

whose name

I’ve never known,

tell me what you must

teach at this time…

 

David, the world leans its loud mind

against our windows,

puts us in a trance of trepidation,

a palpable presence in our heads

fed on statistics of illness

& images of violent unrest –

sword to wield against ourselves,

threaten our weakest moments

with wounds of uselessness,

& cowardice,

as we exile our own power

because we can’t see we have any.

 

We are not the slain victims

of the nightly news report,

catalog of atrocities that keep us

held by beds where we don’t

want to wake up yet,

threatened by the thought

of what the day ahead harbors,

duties done with distaste

& frightening surprises

that might hide in blind spots.

 

What are you afraid of, David?…

 

You meet that question with mute musings.

The deepest answer is “Nothing.”

 

Thread the eye of your heart’s needle

with the string of continuous awareness,

& stitch a richer fabric of reality

than what you now wear

as worldly work uniform,

customary costume.

 

We are all cut from the same cloth…

 

Bring your attention to the baseline of

your humanness –

skin, bone & blood.

Heart that still beats its bass drum.

Mind that makes you see what you believe.

Soul steeped in light that turns the universe.

 

Underneath the showy poet costume

of the character you play

on the stage of the spoken world,

jacket, tophat, & twilight dress-shirt

unbuttoned down to your heart ~

far behind your indigo eyes

shines fluid, formless Consciousness…

 

Seven billion minds

of people planted on this planet,

but only one Awareness.

 

Blank canvas we all carry…

 

Behind its pale presence,

& the driftwood of history in our heads,

plus the endless train of

anxious anticipations…

 

Pause to turn within

& taste the fresh nectar

of God’s intoxicating, hypnotic silence.

 

 

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The Most Precious Stone

 

Mahadev, Leonard Saphier, I sense your spirit there.

The sparks of your electric presence

crackle in the room’s stale radiator air,

& leave it charged & clear.

Do you have some words to share?

 

The Earth is far from ready

to hold your body cold

in somber soil & stone.

 

Your chosen reason to exist –

to live for Light, & write of it.

 

Remember the teaching tale

I told you 10 years ago,

when you returned to the Ashram

you’d seen in dreams since the age of 5,

& served selflessly at 25,

doing work I had no muscle for –

activities of daily living,

morning & evening routines

that most perform unaware

of the richness there,

the gift of able movement.

 

In the story, a kind precious stone miner

with no means to survive slim times,

is told by his guru,

with a gentle smile,

Keep going, keep going.

 

The nearly-spent seeker finds

a mine of sapphire, cave of grace

that enables him to save

his wife’s & children’s lives.   

 

Keep going, keep going, David,

now that you’ve found the sapphire mine

of your current kind of song,

along the lines of what you were taught

as a freshman student of beauty,

who wished to frame divinity

with poetry, words for the ineffable.

 

When asked What is the sublime?

your first workshop teacher replied:

 

The Sublime…

(puffs his cigarette)

…is what blows your mind.

 

Later a poet/professor

taught you what to cut away,

& what to cultivate.

 

One winter’s end, at 3am,

you sat with a close friend,

& talked of poetry, & spirituality. 

 

You saw a dove of white fire

appear in still air,

fly across the room toward you

& alight on the crown of your head,

burn its way down

the length of your spine,

throw your body to the bed,

& as if goddess Saraswati danced

on the tip of your tongue,

made a creation poem

play upon your lips…

 

Over the face of naked waters

a nameless breath was blowing…

 

Your friend penned what you said.

In poetry workshop you were advised:

Your vision needs revision.

Your automatic writing

could use some rewriting.

You could leave this

as a piece of trance-channeling,

or go the way of literature,

& I hope you do.

 

Then 25 years of ceaseless editing.

Polish the stone ’til it shines brightest.

 

Enjoy the sapphire here.

Exhaust the brilliant possiblities

of this cave of cobalt blue air,

treasure trove from which you share.

 

At 25, your eyes were wide

about a book upon my shelves –

The Collected Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke.

You exclaimed great praise for his work,

but I offended you

from then ‘til now

with what I said:

“Yes, it is great, but one can feel

the element of trying…

as opposed to enlivened words

of enlightened poet-saints,

like your belovèd Mirabai,

or Rumi.

R U? M I?”

 

Years later, graver times came

for the miner once again, his family poised

on the precarious cusp of hunger.

 

The guru said with a peaceful smile,

“Keep going, keep going.”

 

Months past his last sapphire,

the seeker searched

for farther caves, generous with gems

to keep a few souls warm

with breath’s give-&-take.

 

That day he was surprised by joy

when a mountain’s rocky contours

opened a new eye –

he stepped inside the opening to find

a cave of clustered rubies,

which brought abundant days

& tranquil nights.

 

Discipline will save your life.

 

Blaze the trail of realization

& your poetry will shimmer

with Shakti, pure energy.

 

David, as I said in 2010,

you can always visit the temple.

Though the ashram’s doors were closed,

you glimpsed the gate to your inner temple,

in which God sits in golden steadfastness.

 

You glimpsed the light behind

your indigo eyes,

Consciousness, our true life.

 

Find the ruby mine inside you,

with its deep thirst for words

you can choreograph over the page,

but now include your sense of human

suffering, sickness, old age & death.

All red words of need.

 

From dust to dust,

nothing is lost,

but we must give

the space between

some warm meaning –

poetry of this moment

for which you are here,

for the whole unknown duration,

then the mystery of existence afterward –

one taste of which would arrest your breath.

 

Let natural Power move you farther –

give that ruby cave

your clearest, strongest voice,

student of beauty &

the roots of human pain,

knowing nothing binds us

but inward words, false concepts –

offer the verse of turning deep within,

freedom in the world of form.

 

Do you want your words to live

long after you die?

 

Who else could sing your song

while you sleep long after dawn,

or when you’re gone?

 

Inspired lines can rise off the page,

the spirit’s upward gravity, skyward pull,

& can change our state of consciousness.

 

A true poet is a bridge between worlds.

 

Build that bridge with precious gems,

words of infinite resonance.

 

You remember what I shared –

after the ruby mine’s richness

had exhausted all its usefulness,

the student’s hair a cloud of grey,

the grateful miner went again

to sit in his guru’s palpable peace, 

intoxicating presence.

 

Again the wisdom always true

for us, who must flow with streams of change –

through a sweet & gentle smile

the sage strongly whispered:

Keep going, keep going.

 

With a refreshed spirit, the miner left,

& read the road ahead of him

as an exquisite line of scripture.

Who knew what might be written

on the rugged mountain’s edge?

 

In whichever way they can,

all of nature’s children dance

& climb along the ragged rim of Earth,

holding onto nothing

but the power that held them first.

 

You’re a dancer by birth,

I told you at 25,

after asking What’s it like?to run.

 

Intuition’s dowsing rod

led the diligent disciple

to a cave dotted with diamonds.

 

When you are strong enough 

to keep your heart quartz-clear,

then you can find poetry’s diamond mine,

if you meet all three prerequisites:

 

Words can dance at your command,

your heart can sing about suffering,

& when you are strong enough to surrender,

give the Ghost a voice.

Learn languages of light.

 

I gave up suffering long ago…

 

Inside each one of us,

there’s a place of sublime knowledge,

& anyone who enters it becomes a true poet,

without having to have a degree –

diamond mines of divine words

can be humbly carried from there

into the darkened world.

 

The natural jewels

of the heart’s Heart

call to all of us.

 

Listen closely to silence,

student of Light –

a quiet mind can hear

the highest song.

 

Once I recited a poetic gem

from the back of the wheelchair van,

which you found profoundly exquisite,

though so elusive you could not take

a snapshot of it with your mind,

& I too surrendered it to time.

 

You tasted true astonishment –

& asked if I had written it.

 

Forever remember what I said:

 

Not writing…just reading the heart of God.

 

All your trying cannot take you far.

Wake up to who you truly are.

 

 

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David Leo Sirois is a Canadian-American poet who wrote and performed in Paris for seven years, where he hosted a weekly multi-art open mic on the Left Bank, called Open Secret. He now hosts the global open mic, Spoken World Online. His work has been published in four countries (USA, France, England, and the Czech Republic) in several languages. Poems have appeared in journals such as The Poetry Village, The Sunday Tribune Online, Ariel’s Dream, Winning Writers, The Opiate, Silo, Those That This, THE BASTILLE, Belleville Park Pages, Paris Lit Up, and Terre à Ciel (which also published his translations from the French of Paul Valéry and others). Altogether, he has had 86 publications, including his work in The Keystone Anthology (England), and the anthologies Vignettes and Postcards from Paris and Becoming Fire: Spiritual Writing from Rising Generations (Boston). He is currently submitting two manuscripts for publication and writing two more.

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Mbizo CHIRASHA – UNESCO-RILA Affiliate Artist. 2020 Free Speech Fellow at PEN Deutschland.2020 Poet in Residence of the Fictional Café . 2019 African Fellow of the Ihraf.org. Contributing Writer at Monk Arts and Soul Magazine . Literary Arts Activism Diplomatie at Bezine Arts and Humanities Magazine and The Poet A Day. Featured Poetry Artist at WorlBeyondWar.Org. Arts Features and Political commentary Writer at Cultural Weekly. Featured African Writer at Demer Press International Poetry Series . Featured African Performance Poet at 2020 Medellin International Poetry Festival. Featured Poet/Writer at INKSWEATAND TEARS Journal, Sentinel UK , Wrath-bearing Tree- USA , FemAsia Magazine -UK. Soutrhern Africa Poet  at 2020Festival Internacional de Poesía de Medellín.2019 Live Literature Hub Curator/Producer at Sotambe International Film Arts FESTIVAL. 2009 Poet in Residence at International Africa Culture and Development, ICACD). 2003 Young Literary Arts Delegate of ZimBookFair to Goteborg International Book Fair and was  the Spokenword Artist at SIDA African Pavilion . Co-Editor of a three Languages International collection STREET VOICES with prominent Germany Author Andreas Weiland . Featured Poet at Cervena Barva Press Newsletter. Literary Arts and Poetry Contributor to the Zimbabwean Voice of the Voiceless Newspaper. African Participant to the World Poetry Almanac Book Series in Mongolia. Resident Coordinator for 100 Thousand POETS for Peace- Zimbabwe. Founder and Creative Director at GirlChildcreativity Project . Writer in Residence. Global LITERARY Arts Projects Influencer. Published Author and International Acclaimed Poet. Chronicler and Publisher , AFRICA WRITERS CARAVAN. Chief Editor at TIME OF THE POET REPUBLIC. Projects Curator at WOMAWORDS LITERARY PRESSChief Influencer at Brave Voices Poetry JournalAuthor and Editor at Porcupine Quill.

 

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TIME  OF THE  POET REPUBLIC- An Internet based  Writers  Center,  Archiving Theme based Digital Poetry Anthologies and  publishing Iconic Poets ,Writers and Artists from around the globe. TIME OF POET REPUBLIC was  founded  by  UNESCO-RILA Affliate ARTIST. Freedom of SPEECH Fellow PEN-Zentrum Deutschland.2019 African FELLOW ihraf.org and  Acclaimed LiteraryArtDiplomatie,Mbizo CHIRASHAcropped-writerdesk-1.jpg

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