Welcome to my Poet Lady Chat Room. I would like to invite you to click on the chat box and type in a question, a suggestion, submit a poem, in other words – “chat with me.” I may, if you submit a poem, decide to feature it in my Poem of the Week section or, we may simply exchange ideas and suggestions about your poem.

This is a place to “talk” poetry with someone who has loved it all her life. I have a true passion for the possibilities of poetry and would love to hear your thoughts and/or read your poem. I will be happy to offer my reaction to your work and, based on over 40 years of teaching poetry, organizing, and conducting poetry workshops, working as a book review editor for an international poetry magazine, authoring five books of poetry and two textbooks on teaching poetry, send along my thoughts on ways to make your poem stronger and more impactful.

If you’re on my site, you have a connection to poetry. Feel free to connect with me – right here -right now, by typing your message into the “chat box” and clicking send. I’m waiting…


Your friend in poetry, Susan

Back to Poetry Talk...

Blink by Aayudh Pramanik (1 reply)

3 years ago
aayudh 3 years ago

It's honestly unfair, to let the scholars

With all their ranks and distinctions and degrees,

Reserve their,

Platinum thrones,

Wield the right to weave and set fire,

To art.

I met a girl who had lost all her life, 

Poured all of her into

Glasses full of holes.

And she was an artist.

She used to paint in mud with streamlined 

Kanji Brush strokes, 

Carve out cryptic genius 

Through discarded, spat on oak,

Her lead lined eyeballs, 


The most guttural dissimulations

They made my creativity quiver and tremble,

Shatter records and surpass boundaries, they all assembled,

On summer nights and the winter dawn lights

My feet dipped in the cold moist grass.

So many of them had turned a deplorable amber,

Encased in hickory brown borders. 


Her rapidly flaking skin, 

Burnt in napalm hues 

Of anarchy and subservience simultaneously

What a miracle it was

Watching her dismantle herself 

Into infinity all at once

And yet accept incapacitation in a mere vessel

Of blood bones and flesh.


She was an artist

And her art was never certified

And yet the only difference

Between her art and those accepted

Was that, her art explained you

And you explained the others,

And your explaination of the others

Were never yours, but consensus.

Consensus of limited





She brought dead butterflies back to life

With her chameleon water colours

And her fingers were the closest something

Would ever get to perfect.

I often asked her to unscrew jars,

Just to stare at the galaxies of brilliance in them.


Her voice sprouted life,

And was what kept the grasses alive

From the shadow cast over them by,

A very capitalist concept of success. 

Her voice was what kept the clocks ticking in our realities,

They commanded everything that knew what to look up to.


But like I said, she wasted all her life

Poured all her colours into a plastic monochrome

Expectation of art.

You can reduce a spectrum to black and white, 

But there's no going back from there.

Once the colours are lost, sacrificed, they're gone for good.

She lives on in moth eaten, yellowed books

And in the airspace between two teeth flanking a missing one in between.

She lives on in crooked smiles 

And painters and poets and singers and 

Innovation, inchoate. 

She lives on in the locket locking us,

Into the future and branding us into the past.

She was an artist.

She healed the dying one in me,

She was an artist.

Susan Katz
3 years ago
Susan Katz 3 years ago

Thank you so very much for sharing this powerful and beautifully written (some great images) poem for consideration for Featured Poem of the Month for June.  You have captured, not only a mood, but a message and I am truly touched by your words.  Thank you again for sharing, Susan

Back to Poetry Talk...