International Poet

Why did I love and now hate Photojournalism? Always looking back at old snapshots, obsolete, deja vu, caduco, Alter hut. no more the big strugle is there, always standing in front of soon-to-be-shot so-called heroes one is caught in a ring, not unlike Prostitution Which most of the press is more and more becoming back to Stanley and Livingston when it took 2 months for the news to filter out of Africa.

Yperite late at night a mist fills the valley. without knowing it suffocates like a dark power. on the fields our dead bodies and under the grass a brown soil © Ekphrastic poetry (poem + painting) by Jan Theuninck

Memory Is Being Blurred Memory is being blurred. Images are getting dim. I shall forget everything oneday. Everything,everything,everything. I don't want to. But,I'll. New life has so many challenges. Daily new adventures. Daily new behavioural patterns. The present putting the glorious past behind. Bad coin drives the good coin out of use. New patterns,new associates. Responsibility destroying emotion. I am weeping. I want to come back. But how? I can't. I can't. I can't.

An Extra Death For every breath is an extra death For every spice of life taken is another spicy death given For every celebration begat an unborn mourning For every brighter morning lies a darken moaning What joyful tears fall in my shadow of fears? When does my trailer of labour and stress Eventually bore unclaimed bountiful years Why does untold relief come in her brighter colour of deceit? That our unborn years would embarrass us trouble free For every birthday that is here Our deathbeds are near How joyful how sad Whether fat, thin or black White, bad, thirtyfive or ninety five Our every breath sucks our extra life Vanity just vanity, ignore not this pathetic tale Like you ignore you nagging husband or wife.

Penmanship Blues As we consider all we've lost and all we've gained we must recall the cost and pay the debt to whom it had concerned, to whom we owe to those whose soul was earned, and those who stole we know those who convene and dream of life the same as those with fizzled days and burning nights we ask ourselves, tonight a sonnet? perhaps a verse as life proceeds, tonight a blessing? perhaps a curse we all agree what it may be it's certainly avoiding lies it's what we hear when voices lie it's what to do when tongues are tied and quickly we propel to dark even if small, we'll leave a mark we will proceed to write down life even if just by scraps of light.

The Anchor's Song I am the anchor No one touches the depths as I do. Only the waves and water moss know the beauty of my fall. I don't reveal my secrets except to the drowned I don't say goodbye except to the migrating fish. I chose the sea that my echo would not be lost as I hit the bottom. I chose the sea that I may not forget the water as I head for the ground I chose the sea to camouflage my tears with water that no one may see them. I'm the anchor falling freely in countries with no name sea shells and oysters only are my friends and everything hard wrapped in light I was born like you were born from steel, dust, and gold I will die like you will die but the ground will not forget me easily not as long as it is filled with all these scratches that my traversal creates. Translated by Nathalie Khankan Jamal Jumá: Member of World Poets Society (W.P.S.). Bio: An Iraqi poet, born in Baghdad and received his academic education in Copenhagen, where he has lived since 1...

Living Hope When I heard the spurring whisper Like a numinous euphonic jangle My spirit harkened in blithesome tremble The line of nexus Though in swooning spangle Like starry speckle I deciphered, but in eerie medley My heart a glowed But in triumphant bundle!