My Mind

Personal website of M.G. Daniel. Sharing poetry, my writings, snippets from my life and whatever's on my mind.

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High Horse Fall

By Melania Daniel

Fall Bike Mountain Bike Accident Fell Down

Bruised and broken is learning

What life is really about;

All this longing come to nought,

All this aching discomfort


Ends in unsated yearning

Of fine youth turned stale and stout;

They whom misfortune has sought,

They moored in a stormy port


To know the grace of earning

In voices that softly shout;

The way life’s victories are fought,

The racers slowed to a trot.


For information on how to read more of my poems, please visit my writings page.


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Steal, the Twilight says

Pinching is sound poetry-writing practice, Derek Walcott says, in his What the Twilight Says..or what I say he says regarding a poet’s knowledge of the history of the poetic tradition.

It proves that the truest writers are those who see language not as linguistic process but as a living element; it more closely demonstrates the laziness of poets who confuse language with linguistics and with archaeology. It also annihilates provincial concepts of imitation and originality. Fear of imitation obsesses minor poets. But in any age a common genius almost indistinguishably will show itself, and the perpetuity of this genius is the only valid tradition, not the tradition which categorizes poetry by epochs and by schools. We know that the great poets have no wish to be different, no time to be original, that their originality emerges only when they have absorbed all the poetry which they have read, entire, that their first work appears to be the accumulation of other people’s trash, but that they become bonfires, that it is only academics and frightened poets who talk of Beckett’s debt to Joyce.

(From “The Muse of History,” collected in What the Twilight Says)

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An impending doom

I have been meaning for some time to read all the winning poetry collections of the Cute Baby Small Baby Shoes Shoes CharmingBocas Lit Fest but only manged one so far – read last year. I finally got into a second one, Tiphanie Yanique’s Wife, the 2016 poetry winner. She does have a deft and delicate hand. There is one poem that refuses to leave my mind, and I don’t even think it’s the most noteworthy of the collection. The things that jack up our adrenaline can do that to us: danger, a small sense of impending doom in an otherwise tranquil mind, one traumatic experience in a sea of 1000 beautiful ones. Sharing stanzas 1, 4 and 6 of the 6 verses of that poem.

Things the baby put into his mouth
by Tiphanie Yanique

Your shoe, my shoe and the baby’s own shoe, all with the grime of
street baked into the bottom

The tiny white book with its twelve brown matches, each waiting to
ignite a hungry blazing tip

The chewy black electric cord and glinting steel prong all attached to
the heavy glass dome of the blender

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but Sunday – Sundays…

…according to poet Ishion Hutchinson. I’m reading him now…picked him up again. Liking the flashbacks of school days, Sunday church and small churchcommunity life in his The End of Play:

Sunlight refracted on the playing field, khakis
pinned with poppies, red eyes, noon bells snorted
the end of our play and we entered homerooms,

uniforms badged with stains, a dunce scent swimming
in our heads, milk breath purred curses picked
up from cane cutters, the crocus spirit-talk of women

broken by the crack they work everyday in the earth
but Sunday – Sundays the Quaker Chapel bell
quiescent with God’s love and wrath, the pews’ silence

like graves eroding around the stone church –