Keep in touch

Poems - Publish my poems

New Atheism

Bestseller books
'God is not Great'
'The God Delusion'
O ignorance of people!
That lend their ears
To this new atheism
Spiritual pieties will cure us
Be wise
New atheism is another fundamentalism
Fear the wrath of Jove


No Nietzsche
No Kant
No rhetoric of Marx
'Religion is the opium of people'
Only simple truth I have in mind

Solid truth

Sermon on the Mount takes care of us

No Freud, no Derrida's clap-trap

I find the key

A golden key

There it is

Ten Commandments

What are you waiting for
How far away from truth new atheists are
The solution , find at last

Think of the Ten Commandments

Beautiful earth is paralyzed

Because you don’t remember Sermon on the Mount
Because you don’t remember Ten Commandments
Come home out of dragon’s trap

Come home

You say: religion has created
Violence and cruelty in the past and present
We have no other way

Be righteous, humble, pure in heart



Dr. Santosh Kumar
Allahabad, India

I Miss You Janis 

Dear Janis where are you 

When a world we know

Is coming apart at the seams

Janis Where are you 

Needed are the voices of past

Ones that warned us of the present 

Janis Where are you 

That we may make it to the future

Your words were, hard yet true

Janis Where are you 

Made us look inward at ourselves 

You suddenly joined the 27 club

Janis Where are you 

Left in a music, philosophical void

No more, Cry Baby

Janis Where are you 

Left in a Kozmic Blues funk

Brother’s, we are stuck and holding 

Janis Where are you 

Voices that cried out, with warnings 

We need today, tomorrow, and more

Pearl,  Where are you 

I miss you Janis 

D Everett Newell 9/25/2014

Dedicated to the Memory of our Pearl, Janis Joplin


Rule One by Eric Mottram: 'Stop writing Literature, you garrulous Indian!'

T. Wignesan

For Michael Hrebeniak's jazz saxophone

[This memorial poem was published in Radical Poetics (Inventory of Possibilities), Issue One (London), Spring 1997, n.p., edited by one of Eric Mottram's former students at King's College, University of London and who now teaches at Cambridge University. Mottram for whom a special Chair (Professor of English and American Literature) was created in 1983 passed away on January 17, 1995, the year when, finally, the Nobel Literature Committee's attention was focussed on him. He left behind an enormous corpus: some thirty odd books of poems and some fifteen books of criticism. He was unanimously recognized as one of the leading authorities on American Literature and United States Studies. His teaching career extended over half a century and over nearly half the world. He obtained a double-first for his Cambridge English Tripos after serving out the War in a minesweeper in the North Sea and the Bay of Bengal. He was the recipient of absolutely no prize whatsoever, for the Establishment everywhere gladly shunned him.]


a life of toil for the man in the centre
a hub in the peripheral tireless wheel

where he go then where he go this working man
he go on waking people working at waking man


no words cling now no words meant in blame
the tongue he lash the words they now tame

no shock of blast open laughter rock the hall
everyman there say there sure were a man

a man no fear cowed in communion to other
made for no gods made for no demons either

all men he know best when he see just once
no second thought resurrect the man if bad

so go tell the magi no trek in sight in sky
here a man be born here he so sure die

other no like see one so bright stand up high
other no like feel like sky fall low into ocean

what make 'm i say with feeling so just
is sure he different he force hisself work

work work work work an' again work
he work nite an' nite so 50-hour in day

where he go then where he go this working man
he go on waking people working at waking man

where you go from word born here now
turn and twist all whoring the alphabet


'don't write anything you can get published'
so publish only what you can't call your own

writing like reading's a public coital act
so showing your work is exhibitionism

'why don't you send your stuff around
keeping it to yourself's sheer masturbation'

reading-watching-listening's just voyeurism
so sending wares around is prostitutionism

                                           where he go then where he go this working man
                                           he go on waking people working at waking man


he it was in minesweeper capture aurora borealis
message from extrasensory enter into he word

in Bengal waters alone he hear No-man cry
only in deepdown psyche water drip drip dry

then on land he no see reason to the fight
so he let he wrists spill he guts to the fill

then he take the world on all by he torn self
he spare no skin in dug-Malayan-jungle-out

what he do what he think he do he no tell
everybody meet man an' no see albatross hang

he no tell story like ol' mariner in dream
he go wake people from dumb dead trance

many many people high up no like this act
some call him stuckup other just 'im damn

where he go then where he go this working man
he go on waking people working at waking man

is all he do then what kind of working this
is big work man 'cause most body dead sleep

where he go then where he go this working man
he go on waking people working at waking man

© T. Wignesan 13-15 October 1995


When I first met Eric in the summer of 1957, in London, at Wang Gung-wu's flat in Shepherd's Bush [Wang a former colleague of Eric's in Singapore - becoming later the Vice-Chancellor of the University of Hong Kong - is now the Director of the East Asia Institute of the National University of Singapore], he had already read most of the manuscript of my first collection: Tracks of a Tramp, and more. He came late for dinner and was so vociferous and ebullient, I had hardly time to think. Now and then he stopped short to shoot a few questions at me, mostly about my educational background, and, finding there was none to speak of in literature, riled me for not having joined Raffles College of the University of Malaya in Singapore where he taught from 1953 to 1955. By the time he had finished raging over my poems, I thought I might be able to see him in a more relaxed mood after dinner [he arrived in the midst of a delicious Chinese dinner prepared by Margaret, Gung-wu's wife, a former student of his], but, instead, he gulped the soup down amidst appreciative munching-crunching sounds, jumped up and excused himself for another appointment. I was feeling quite frustrated for I couldn't even get a word in sideways, but just before he left, he asked Gung-wu to give me his address [for my sleeping quarters then were huddled in the midst of some trees in Hyde Park] but told me not to take any notice of what he had to say about my poems. Both Gung-wu and Margaret tried to console me like the fabulous hosts they were after Eric had left, but I didn't let out the fact that I was secretly delighted: I had at last met a vigorously straight-talking person who knew a hell of a lot about writing and literature [the first I had heard of 'poems are made with words, not ideas', echoing Paul Valéry] and was not afraid to voice his views, even to a stranger.

Some time later, in the mid-sixties, when I had been published and Eric was then ghosting the American literature columns of the Times Literary Supplement, Eric gave me the best advice I've ever listened to in our métier. He said very offhand-like one day, and his demeanour meant every word he pronounced ponderously: 'Don't write anything you can get published!' with the result I've only managed to publish about ten percent of what I've been writing since then.

In the early nineties, Eric seemed to me to soften his anti-Establishment stance. He urged me to publish. He appeared as if he would make certain concessions, and it took me some time to realize that he may have changed course for strategic reasons: you can't fight the Enemy where no one hears of the victory! Paris, France


Dedicated to AZsacra Zarathustra:

Our dance is ritual;
A senseless obsession
Between two moths
Playing with fire.
No chains, no whips.
Just bondage ... and the
Ever-sweet consequence of
A saber's cutting edge.

- Adam Donaldson Powell


If hindsight were foresight
Everything might turn out just right,
I should have done this,
I should have done that,
The future is not in our sight.

Decisions are made, right or wrong
Altering our paths, short or long,
Too late to change it
Or rearraange it,
To the present we all belong.

We must go forward, we can't go back,
We could accept the things we lack
Or we could alter our ways
Perehaps leading to better days
Following a different path.

Look to the future, let go of the past,
Don't stay immerged in dye that was cast,
Have courage to forge on
With a smile you will don,
Forgive mistakes and wrongs that amassed.

Floriana Hall

Floriana Hall will be teaching poetry online at starting October 5

Leadership thralls on a treacherous voyage -

where death steers at the proverbial helm.
Mariners lurk at ocean depth , likened sharks,
swiftly devouring innocent prey, Chaos,
brought upon peaceful seas that cargo youth,
burdened within the wake of their weaponless hearts

Propagandists of whom instruct to 'Kill or be Killed'
Their monstrous airborne machines lay their evil
fertile eggs of death upon the lands of both guilt
and innocence. Driven by the numbed insensitive whom
mislead robotic armies to carry out orders of unknown
retaliating targets, with painful injury, death and destruction.

What then are solutions for Peace?
Why do empowered leaders lack decency and; will they
'Rest in Peace' departing with greedy, worthless legacies,
emitting political and religious discourse , resulting of inhuman
wars and the contaminate malignancy upon restless Earth.

Unless we spiritually choose impassioned leaders with empathy
and human decency among us, our fate will be predictably, on an
irreparable self destructive course. Our treasured planet, ever
devastated, all precious life totally abused and forsaken.

' What for our only World , are we all waiting for ??? '

(c) Louie Levy

America -

for pilgrim sake ,
and land once of 'Native' soil
Allegiance pledged, of
conquest gained, from
Earths borne spirits' bold.

America, proud America

our Earth, need not be harmed
when war tales are often told,
and blood stained flags, unfold

America, we Love thee,
of gifted Earth bequeathed
ne'er we forget , Democracy,
and those enslaved, be free

America America

May true freedom be our Quest
for Love and Peace,
Of Womanhood and Brotherhood
from Shore to Ocean Sea.

Wherever Earth Be Shared
Support Peace!

Louie Levy


Louie would love to hear from you. Please

Include on the subject line

Send to;


Earth hath no remorse for its own terror,
likened upon for the human drilling of its
death laden black sap, making fools of their
feeble science, having done no more than
the atom denting of its crust...

Be they must, war, likened the lunacy of
moon to play with ocean tide, lands belching
of indigestion, puked upon all existing,
showing no bias or prejudice from within its
unpredictable wake...

When will we not see so blindly that all
terror be myopically ill, contaminating
without self immunity, less we deal
empathetically with our ignorance and
hypocritical solutions for peace...

With Love immortal, help enlighten a
darkened awakening, invalidating prophesying
fools, and predictions of Armageddon....

Louie Levy

*Dedicated to;
Dr Santosh Kumar, Editor
Cyberwit, India
for his wise, literary teachings
of Love, and Peace on Earth


Louie would love to hear from you. Please

Include on the subject line

Send to;