The Poetry of the Morning
Written on 09/29 at 02:32 PM by Andy Posner
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poetry
The Poetry of the Morning
The morning repeats itself, its poetry
Heard where feet first touch the floor
Upon which the soldiers of old
March in lockstep, fighting in vain
Against a newer yet ageless force.
The morning reveals itself, its long
Limbs stretching namelessly
Across the face of solitude,
While through a thousand windows
Sunlight makes mist of dreams and dreamers.
The morning teases itself,
Its abdomen pressing against
The smooth back of darkness,
An embrace replete with the hope and fear
Of another day.
Yet the morning surprises itself, too,
Its stark clarity sometimes
Sculpting a lover of longing,
An action of lofty words,
A poem of an idea.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
De camino a la Alhambra
Written on 05/16 at 04:57 PM by Andy Posner 0 comments
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poetry
De camino a la Alhambra
De camino a la Alhambra el sueño se cayó
En manos de la realidad,
Y como no anticipaba la invasión
Me quedé destrozado, buscando
Las esquirlas de un amor
Que había explicado el caos del mundo.
De camino a la Alhambra una promesa
Se sometió a la distancia que la transmitía,
Y yo, desesperado, con una fe incorruptible,
Me puse a cantar como un imán
Que de pronto descubre que los creyentes ya no creen;
Mis palabras cayeron sobre una muralla que desconocía.
De camino a la Alhambra una brisa
Se llevó al pasado una historia
Que había conquistado el tiempo,
Que había establecido un reino
De caricias, de miradas penetrantes,
De la perfección hecha alcanzable.
De camino a la Alhambra mi vida
Cambió para siempre, y aunque
El dolor no me haya vencido,
Las heridas no permiten que me olvide
De la luna que iluminó mi corazón
Aquella noche antigua que pasamos en la Alhambra.
Inspiration and Action
Written on 01/14 at 03:23 PM by Andy Posner 1 comments
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poetry
Inspiration and Action
Late on a winter morning, when through my window
Deceptive sunlight belies the frigid cold,
I hear a retinue of birdsong on whose shoulders
The feathered, colorful, migratory reach
Of responsibility brushes the bristles of thought.
I pause, as though suspended like the steel cables
Of a bridge that crosses a body of gleaming longevity.
The horizon, filled with bare branches, bare sky,
Barely covers the expanse of hibernated longing,
And my hands reach back into summer
To touch the flora and fauna that inspire seasons.
More sunlight, more song leeks into my room
And mixes with the filth I’ve neglected to clean.
A rush of cold air makes me dizzy with existence,
The erotic interplay of wakefulness and awareness.
As I step out into the world my shoes mingle with snow,
And my breath audaciously carries itself skyward.
In dilated, cerebral veins, a kite of sugar
Gyrates in the wind of synapses and electrochemicals.
A foreign force presents a passport, pleading permission
To enter the guarded gates of mystical musings.
Reticent, yet proud to have shirked my duty in favor
Of foraging the forests of history for vials of vitality,
I open the door and get to work.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
10:00 AM
Who Does not Prefer Peace?
Written on 12/28 at 05:54 PM by Andy Posner 1 comments
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Musings
poetry
As fighting flares in the land of monotheism, soldiers mass along the border between two nuclear states, extremism rages in the cradle of civilization, the stuff of life threatens to overheat the planet that sustains life and a superpower continues down its blind path of bombs, I pause to ask a simple question: who among us does not prefer peace? In truth, the answer is very, very few of us, but that extreme minority is responsible for fanning the flames that bring nations to war and destabilize the world. We cannot continue to allow that. It is time for the so-called “silent majoriy” to speak up against unspeakable acts, to leap forth with ideas, protests, actions that will prevent more madness. After all, when the dust settles there is still a gem of an orb rotating a mass of energy that provides so much life with sustenance. The great work of understanding the universe and creating a more just, equitable home for all is held back by weaponry, the people that employ them, and worst of all, the money that finances them. We live in an age willing to enrich itself by tearing others down, where the mindless pursuit of more comfort obscures the suffering of billions of people so deprived as to be unable to feed or clothe themselves. We know enough to understand the irrevocable connection between an injustice in one place and an action in another, yet we have yet to summon the courage to act on that knowledge. Who among us is willing to avoid making money on an investment that is legal, but unjust? Who among us is willing to forego still more luxury to enable that another may enjoy a meal, an opportunity, a life?
This New Year, let us commit to a shared responsibility. Let us recognize that if little girls in Afghanistan die while in school, then little girls in America will inherit a world that has lost their beauty, their ideas, their hope. Let us recognize that where we can we must act and where we cannot we must seek ideas, pressure others, and demand an end to injustice wherever it transpires. The global economic crisis is yet another sign of the way in which a few selfish people--Wall St. bankers, lax regulators--can cause untold suffering. But every day the decisions we make have repercussions around the world, like the proverbial butterfly flapping its wings that creates a ripple of air that leads to a hurricane. We cannot bury our heads in the sand and pretend this is not the case. Let that be our New Year’s resolution.
Read on for a poem I wrote on this matter during the run up to the war in Iraq.
The Gardener
Written on 12/02 at 07:42 PM by Andy Posner 3 comments
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poetry
The Gardener
We have pitched a simple man against the
Thousand blades of grass.
Once a week the battle is waged;
Each green sword glints with dew.
But our man is well armed; we have given
Him motors, gasoline, blades faster
Than the wind, and so he goes trampling
because our yard needs taming.
He leaves the lawn strewn with
Green bodies--their scent reaches up
To my poet’s nose.
For the moment victory smells like sprinklers
And empty fields.
For the moment our house is in order.
Then the grass regroups, sends out reinforcements--
Now the mothers are lamenting for their children;
They are fighting for their existence, for their land,
And they will not be vanquished.
A week passes and the proud grass
Waves beneath its wind.
The grass has a human spirit that
Grows endlessly, sprouts from the soil,
And wonders why we bother to hire
Mercenaries to fight a battle
That can never have an end.
Welcome. On this blog things get a little more personal. This is where I chronicle my struggles and triumphs, my attempts to better myself and my world, my poetry, my prose, my bike rides, my travels, my day-to-day activities. If you want to know more about Andy Posner--that amalgamation of poet and monk--you’ve come to the right place. So have a look around, and enjoy the opportunity to learn what goes on inside my mind--only beware, my mind is quite a place!
- erlyn in Inspiration and Action:
completely agree with the above comment, the internet is with a doubt growing…
- Strategy Name... in The Gardener:
This is a great piec…
- fasat in The Gardener:
Great post! I’m just starting out in community management/marketing…
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Green Microfinance: Advancing Social Equality and Environmental Sustainability in the United States
Click here to download a PDF of my complete thesis. Questions and comments are much appreciated!
My masters thesis in Environmental Studies at Brown University looks at how microfinance--the provision of small…
A Solution to the Limited Success of Micro-Credit in the United States?
Micro-credit has undoubtedly been a runaway success in developing countries as a tool of both poverty alleviation and economic development. To date, some 100 million people have been reached by micro-loans, and Muhammad Yunus, the founder of the Grameen Bank…
Tonight, the Oneness of Things
It is late and my mind should be drifting through the colorful abyss of deep sleep, yet instead i find that tonight sleep will not come. I am like a hungry flower who dreams of bees so ardently that all…