For Honorable G Jamie Dedes ~ The Poet By Day ~ How It All Began and Poems Were Written ~ The Full Story ~ Of A Collaboration Offered by Respected Mr Paul Brookes of The Wombwell Rainbows for 2019 ~ NaPoWriMo Challenge

NaPoWriMo for short the National Poetry Writing Month’  is an event I eagerly await  ever since I have come  to know about it. My love of writing and poetry is the force behind the acceptance and meeting of the challenge. This year it took a miraculous turn for which  the first credit  goes to Respected G Jamie Ji  , The Poet By Day, the multi talented  writer and a profound inspiration whose tremendous motivation  guided  helped and encouraged me to write. The Wednesday Writing Prompt  was the starting point where I got the chance to read many  great writers poets and artists who shared their excellent work, among them I came to know Mr Paul Brookes a prolific writer poet and Interviewer.
Mr Paul had asked if any writers were interested in taking part in the poetry writing challenge …I typed ‘yes’ in the response box and soon enough received the answer, which was another question asking for confirmation.
‘Hi Anjum, do you still want to take part in the challenge?’
‘Yes’ I replied, ‘Response in poetic form ? ‘ I asked because I had some art work in mind.
poetry of course, the artwork will be by Synaesthetic Artist Sammy-John. Thank you for the brilliant idea. I shall add your responses  quoting your name.’ 
‘ I feel it’s a great honor and opportunity to write  Thank you so much, Mr Paul’

My National Poetry Month Challenge to Myself has become a Collaboration between Synaesthetic Artist Sammy-John, Myself, Anjum Wasim Dar and Jay Gandhi:
Day One
A Gust Shaped
What are we in color
blue yellow purple or black
what are we in form ,
tall  short  huge or fat,
what are we in mind,
brave bold or angry,
patient loving or mad
what are we in status,
kings queens or pages,
lords ladies or sages
what are we in real,
soft tender, spiritual, dying,
eternally mortal.
why do we then, make hate, envy and war
why do we then, love and kindness, ignore
why of all the prohibited, we ask for more
why of Death and Heaven, we are not sure.
Pompei, Nagasaki, Moenjodaro, naming the few
Oblivious nations , pleasure drenched,
who knew Power, pressure, public protests,
day by day new war, war destruction,
torture afresh, yet grew-
We are then, the same, born in pain
We are then, the insane, of mind again
Are we the ungrateful , in loss to remain?
Are we the lost , our Eden, never to regain?
And yet again we make the fiery red
with weapons hot,spill innocent cold blood
find joy in seeing, falling bodies, lifeless, dead
we all have forgotten the Fall and the Flood
Let us turn before it’s too late
Let us learn and try to relate
Let Us think of The Almighty Great
Bow for forgiveness pray and meditate.
I can now see The prism , no color do I perceive
Up on the blue sky , the sun does not deceive
The real is dark , the immortal , white
With All the colors together , All Blessings I receive.

Day Two 

 In Grandma’s Garden


Every time a tiptoe sounds,
I close my eyes to see
as I feel the page, as words
take shape and form

my thoughts encircle the song,
inside the circle of the dance
in a  soft move in a semi trance
is it the dancer or the dance?

I reach out to touch- Nothingness ‘

Ah! only my soul knows only
my heart can see- I close my eyes
to look up from the book at the love
                                                    of purity which is but a scent sweet,

I reach out to touch- Nothingness ‘

Ah, The presence in Nothingness’
Love of Eternity, close closer than the
thorn is to the rose, growing from dust
glowing in the dust, dust to dust, we rose

Reaching out to touch- Nothingness’

engulfed spirits in time, destined to be
together to repose, arms spread out
to receive like the scattered petals
of the beloved rose, eyes on the look

reaching out to Nothingness’

I now close, the dancer moved bent
and rose, life went on, life goes on,
To Nothingness  unseen, serene, sent
far far away, forever on, up to heaven

Into Nothingness yet into Everything

Day Three

F Minor Key

f-minor key

Sounds of teargas shots are heard, a regular feature

come, it’s on again, everyone together, in unison

We are strong now’, she knew, many long years,

of bearing riots attacks and facing uniformed men


where are our boys and men, blinded and tortured

missing or hiding in the surrounding hills, O Kashmir

Thy sacred freedom is a sad song , tuneless chanting

it is now, a freedom chant in harmony , in F Minor key


we sing in closed doors , beating the tin trays, ‘we want

freedom’ we will win freedom one day, we sill sing free

Our lakes shine in the sun a sparkle of hope, they give

our kids smile , shiver , hunger , run hope to live on


Pellets may rain, in blind pain Kashmir you bleed still

how much blood will freedom need how many notes

In F Minor Key to complete the song of liberty

Hope till eternity as many fight for rights, to be free

Day  Four

In Grandpa’s Garage


A sacred temple it seems to be, or perhaps
Plato’s cave illumined by the good sun,
enlightenment streams upon precious relics,
contraptions to some, laid in order,

nuts bolts tools nails and pails,brushes brooms
and sticks collected in time,oleaginous ?
No, polished defying destructive distortion,
ask the one who perceives them

As priceless treasures.
what tins and cans magically dark
what pieces white in artistic grandeur
wires draping coiled or swinging low , like lace,

and on golden black patched carpet rests
the sharp tailed royal Chevy so loved valued ,
a vintage, a passionate Revelation,
engulfed in oil scented aura

tranced in multifarious colors- transformed-
Ah to another garage in another time
where a jute woven charpoy, an Indian hookah placed
As serving guard, a pair of rubber slippers on the floor,

packing crates stacked with some old used leather suitcases ,
a small wooden table a jug and glass and some books,
was all the label, door less space but with a roof,
illumined by the good sun, smoke rising from the mud stove

The aura of freshly cooked wheat filled the air.


 In Asia the garage culture is different.
My grandfather a teacher smoked a hookah, and  sat on a charpoy



Neolithic  hunters,
found power of life in red
Romans loved war Ares

Anemone turned red
as Adonis died, lost the white
to grace, sacred blood.

War weapons painted
Erik the red, found Greenland
penguins bears captured

Rebellion is red
rosy red  is for love and beauty
making red, evil doing.

Be a bride, wear red
gift red eggs to first born child
avoid red affairs wild.

Day  Six

D Major Fur Mo


No glory, nor pride in fires of violence ever exists;
Transformed into myriads of granule dust,
Innocent lives to eternal slumber sent
With brave last words they went–

Not to their Earthly abode, but to the celestial
Spheres to twinkle and shine and guide
The world to a higher call from a higher ground.
Once that stood tall was forever destined to fall,

Unnoticed, autumnal traces become visible,
Harbingers of the changing fall, remember ye all
The blaze metamorphosed to flowers?
Darkness white, casting a gloomy pal,

But the crashing of the wall
Was a higher call from a higher ground
To the heavens bound,
Where there are glorious towers.

There will be, there are
unforgettable flowers.
myself in race,
color, creed, and freedom fetters–

Could I have served God better?

Day 7

The Willow Tree


Birds chirp, is it dawn ?
it’s still dark, leaves invisible,
murmur shiver, tremble,
will we get rain today, it’s so dry –

Someone’s tears may fall
someone may cry, but where?
in a dream, with a willow wand
under the pillow, or on a boat

drifting along the river, afraid
of hidden serpents, spellbound
by the moon, what lies beneath
who knows but Hecate , sound

O’ Orpheus, come play the lyre
so silent is the world in grief,
seems you have seen magical
colors in harmony, play relief-

The world needs you, play
for hope, we are still green,
green is all they see, no-
not the pale, hanging low

the mournful wailing boughs
For whom do they weep ?
for thousands lost at sea ?
or buried in rubble heaps –

a home a place a country
food sanctity security liberty,
cutting sawing chopping up
our green growing solid family,

O Hecate what do you teach
magic for ? We write poetry,
play music do spells for good,
See the hanging willow tree-,

waits for one who planted it free,
by the river calm, as birds chirp
as dawn breaks, now they fly
with the unseen breeze, up high

with a message to return
to brighten the colors, on the
silver river, in the moon light
O Helice’ let the colors shine

Make Happy the lovely Willow Tree


The First Week Ends here successfully
The musical terms were new for me. Thanks to Mr Paul Brookes for the cues he provided for their symbolic meanings.

Please wait for the Second Week’s Results




4 thoughts on “For Honorable G Jamie Dedes ~ The Poet By Day ~ How It All Began and Poems Were Written ~ The Full Story ~ Of A Collaboration Offered by Respected Mr Paul Brookes of The Wombwell Rainbows for 2019 ~ NaPoWriMo Challenge

Add yours


    Ah, Jamie, I think you would have loved this walk today,
    if I had flown you here on this grateful poet’s
    magic carpet, here to the heart of England,
    to this ancient woodland steeped in Spring,
    muddy, yes but the birdsong eggs you on
    and up, past the hillside robed in clouds
    of bluebells, through the liquid green of hazel leaves
    and sights of the rolling hills beyond.
    But why look there when round your feet
    are the season’s gentle colours co-existing:
    campion pink and pure white stitchwort,
    yellow archangel’s dabs, soft beneath its mottled leaves
    and the deep peace which holds you
    when you stand and look around. Gracias.
    I hold your hand across the ocean
    and wish you endless Springs like these.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Respected Mr Frank
      Thank you Your beautiful comment has been forwarded to Respected G Jamie Dedes


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