Tribute to the late Darcy Trie by Wanda Brayton

Darcy Trie (onerios13) E. Darcy Trie
Darcy Trie was one of my first readers on the poetry site where we met over eleven years ago. Her unique talent was so obvious, it was intimidating. Her insights were keen, intelligent, witty and bright with creative energy. Her comments on my poems are incredibly astute, funny, intuitive and enlightening, causing me to read my own work in a different light. She had so many friends and admirers from all over the world. I’m happy that now she knows, without a doubt, her effect on so many and the inspirational seeds she planted. On a poem written by one of her friends, he replied to my comment by saying “her poetry writes fires”. My response was “Her poetry burns houses down. Entire subdivisions.” My bones ache with missing Darcy, yet I know our spirits are bound to reconnect someday on another sojourn on a different path.
Darcy Trie (1975 - 2016) onerios13
This column is about Darcy and her writing; I sent her the questions and she replied in her own original way.—ONERIOS13-by-WandaLeaBrayton
I created a list where I will add poems inspired by and/or written to Darcy as they’re discovered. As of now, there are 84 poems, but it will continue to grow.
E. Darcy Trie’s poems found online
Her best friend Nicole Hanna created this website for Darcy:
Facebook Poetry Life&Times
Sara Russell’s Twitter page (Tribute) Trie.htm

Poem for Darcy Picture
“Ophelia [lying in the meadow]”, 1905 by John William Waterhouse
Poem for Darcy by Wanda Brayton
The One who softly calls for you to come at night
hears the wind roar as sudden storms flow through your bones;
an oasis of laughter, quiet whispers fluttering upon your hips
where sustenance may be found without a compass,
only murmurs cast into shadows to reveal the light you weave
with terrible truths and beautiful sorrows before dawn
You spend odd moments wailing wildly, walking in silence,
singing beneath moonlit stars, gathering madder,
crisped leaves fallen from sacred trees
to make your precious poultice; you create mandalas
made of jasmine ash, of myrhh’s seduction,
of frangipani memories, of green apple seeds
When you sleep, you travel swiftly, a bright arc
through time’s geography, tracing latitudes and longitudes
with purpose in your flight, fires lit within your belly,
love in your fingertips so deep, oceans rise
in envious whirls, tidal beasts howling admiration
for she who wears invincible wings
You are every woman history had once forgotten,
their existence erased by cruel men’s aspirations;
still, in their slumber, they moan your secret name –
yet, when they awaken, they cannot describe
those dire disturbances they felt so keenly,
their blood surged toward an invisible ache
Even now, they are haunted, their flesh dark with restlessness,
longing for a single glance of a beautiful bird they’ve never seen,
its song their only savior, their only sweetness, their mightiest woe –
Ophelia knew, Lilith knew, Delilah knew, and yes, even Medusa knew,
long after they’d tangled her silken hair with curses, then refused
to look into her eyes, understanding all too well
what burning thorns they’d find

Wanda Lea Brayton after wedding
Wanda Lea Brayton is a lifelong scholar, a prolific poet and a former college librarian who has been writing poetry since 1973 and columns since 2004. She’s done extensive editorial work and has assisted others with editing, compiling and promoting their own manuscripts. She married a brilliant writer in April 2009; they’ve disproved the theory that two artists cannot live together in harmony, let alone with only one computer between them. Her poems have been published by Clackamas Literary Review, Main Street Rag, World Poetry, Hudson View Poetry Digest, The Pedestal Magazine, Poetry Life & Times, Oak Bend Review, Aquillrelle, Stone Voices and other anthologies. She is a featured poet on a number of websites. A large volume of her poetry is available, titled “The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton”.
Various links: Allpoetry author’s page: (member since June 2004)
Allpoetry columns link:
Book: “The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton”
(8 1/2 x 11″, 556 pgs, approximately 1500-2500 poems, print and pdf)
Facebook profile: All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk

When comes a day. Poem by Sheikha.A


You query me :
how staunch I’ve been?
I would say:
I have wrestled with luck,
and hid from watchful stares,
and called unto
only when life appeared scarce,
and forgot swiftly,
and remembered only at my will,
and cried when I had nothing,
and abolished most refrains
for the benefit of my stakes
ever since the day of love
and heartbreak
multiplying by each night
I remember You;
I query You.
Sheikha A. comes from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her work has appeared in numerous magazines, ezines and anthologies and hopes for her work to be read and discussed widely. More of her work can be found on her blog All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk

A Story. A Poem by Rana Pratap Nandi

Once a Lord went with a bowl
Asked for money, but received a scowl.
Tried and tried, again and again
Managed to grind a fat bargain.
A balanced deal was designed and done
The Lords smacked their lips and fawned.
Though much will redirect to the scowl
Enough will still be left in the bowl.
“To form a trainer core
Let’s spend a few crore”.
Scent of blood sends predators on prowl
The story is one of blood and gore
The very material of great folklore.
Bulls and hounds ripped in a bloody brawl
While dingoes look on, yelp and growl.
Paid monotonous babbling maniacs
And snored the most confirmed insomniacs.
All nursed from the same shore,
Lord to serf:”Must come and train
And sow the pennies in the drain.”
Serf to Lord, “My Lord said pennies but there are crores!”
“You fool! Forget ponies and crows” the Lord roared.
“My lord thou art so right”
Said the serf, with a face so bright.
The light of knowledge illuminating his face
He is ready to go out, enlighten his race.

WP_20151213_11_40_19_Pro 2
Bio: My name is Rana Pratap Nandi. I live in Shillong, India and teach literature in a residential school. Several of my articles and poems have been published in different newspapers, literary supplements, literary e-magazines and an anthology of multi-lingual poetry. I love reading poetry and exploring and experimenting with folk culture. The North Eastern part of India, where I have spent most of my life is blessed with a wide variety of fascinating cultures still waiting to be meaningfully explored and interpreted. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk

Transforming with Poetry at Inkwell Arts Centre Leeds UK

Transforming with Poetry-a








  All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk

Discovering God. – Poem by Ananya Guha

      In all
      those harangues
      about life,

politics, caste and death
there is a logic. We have to justify the intellect and existence.
We have to eke out a way of living, intellectual, creative.
It is not only writing, it is also talking.
Today a man is bludgeoned to death, because of wrong ideology.
No one fears the ghost. One life taken, cannot be given.
The internet will burgeon. There will be meetings, protests
and slogans, till one day we are tired of ideologues and rogues.
If we take to the streets armed with poems, the poem will not speak.
What will, is rabid hatred. The here, there and now.
In an impoverished country, what else can we do?
Who will listen?
The man on the street pushing the tenacious cart does not know
who is killed and for what.We know, and we know how seeds of malfeasance
have been thrown, scattering ashes in drowning water.
Let’s pause for some breathless surprise. Suppose a mosque is shattered,
the temple will have breathing space in colours. Suppose
inevitably suppose we have all religions in one,
then the spaces will move away into a cauldron of one in many, many in one.
We must have one, the leader says. First eradicate poverty
but in doing that let a corporate structure capture imagination
of doting people.We need to show, show the West. We are the East.
Intellectuals sporting beards must show the way.
The way to doom and blood. They can do it. We must follow
voices, and an ancient culture, waiting to be beheaded.
Don’t panic. Mine is not a dirge. My voice is not funereal.
I am only trying to look at rationales, and why people are despised
amidst cosmopolitanism. They were iconoclasts, someone say.
Some don’t. They keep quiet, and wait for the whistling wind
to discover God.


Ananya S Guha: The killing of a man over supposed beef eating is one of the most atavistic incidents I have come across in recent history. I hang my head in shame.

Ananya S Guha has been born and brought up in Shillong, India and works in India’s National Open University, the Indira Gandhi National Open University. His poems in English have been published world wide. He also writes for newspapers and magazines/ web zines on matters ranging from society and politics to education. He holds a doctoral degree on the novels of William Golding. He edits the poetry column of The Thumb Print Magazine, and has published seven collections of poetry. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop