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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The fool’s creed?

I didn’t know of Padraic (Patrick) Pearse as a poet until a couple of days ago. I am fool-140229_640.jpgguessing that name is not popular in the UK at a time like this – given recent events –  and his poetry may not be presented for public celebration.  Regardless, I read and was touched by his poem, The Fool. Perhaps it speaks to an interior conversation I have, about when to accept the fall as something that goes with the territory, brush the dust off and keep going in the same determined direction, or decide it’s time to pack it in, give it up, drop it down, let it go…and so on. Gwaaad, I have been foolish, as in this chunk of Pearse’s poem:

Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;
Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;


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A String of F Words (that mean fondness)

By M.G. Daniel

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Loves, let us learn to love with love – and freedom, not with fear or fights or fisticuffs or threats or throwing shade or fuming (about posts on social media for example), thinking we can truly know the message or meaning of another’s thoughts. Loves, love. Not with constant finger-pointing, fright or festering fury, forcing famines of affection, or forgetting our form, for it is forever Love. Loves, will we find fidelity if we go fast and too furious fanning flames of fantastical fables in the fluttering green eyes of faithful fiends, falling into furrows flailing and fixing failures, or furthermore fathering the flight to fame and fortune of fillies fleecing the folly of forsaking, the fated and the fêted:
Frenemies
Foreigners
Financiers
Families
Futures
Friends
Fulsome fools
The flight of the foraging, flapping about your foyer, forging peace, fomenting fun.


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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