The gorgeous work collected in Vwa: Poems for Haiti can now be purchased. All proceeds go toward Haiti’s charity relief.
(Available on Barnes & Noble and Amazon soon!)
Vwa: Poems for Haiti . . .
is almost ready. It’s in its final proofing stages and can be purchased in about a week or so. Thank you to everyone who requested copies, written about it, spread the word and inspired us writers to keep writing.
Check out “What People Are Saying” tab to read a few of the blog posts. And check out the CreateSpace link to check out the contributor list!
Remember to leave your name if you’re interested in being notified about copies here.
Are you interested in purchasing Vwa: Poems for Ayiti? It’s a gorgeous, compassionate collection of poetry by 30+ writers from all over the world, edited by Lisa Marie Basile and released by Caper Literary Journal.
There are words from doctors, desert dwellers, Haitians, laywers, educators, mothers, lovers, friends, professors, and poets. There are words from people who are affected by the tragedy, and words by those who have seen it. There are emerging authors and published poets. But what each writer has in common is their desire to give light to something dark. Won’t you be a part of that?
The proceeds go to charity. Sadly the printer will take their cost. However, royalties will be given to American Red Cross, Doctors Without Borders and Yele.
Support Haiti by purchasing this book. Why?
- You get some spectacular work to read,
- it’s cheap (under 10 dollars)
- and it will support the beautiful, strong people of Haiti.
It’s not available online just yet, since it’s in its final stages of proofing. But, you can let us know you’re interested, and we’ll email you when the book is available!
LET US KNOW YOU WANT THE BOOK
CONTACT CAPER (just fill out the form, mention Haiti) OR LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS POST WITH YOUR NAME AND EMAIL.
Cheers, and thank you.
Lisa Marie Basile
Vwa: Poems For Haiti is coming along! Caper is proud to feature several poets for this project,
with more coming along today. The print anthology will be available soon as well!
A sincere thanks to all readers, writers and bloggers,
Lisa Marie Basile — Caper Literary Journal Editor
Come to Haiti’s bruised buildings of rubble
Grab hands to help those underneath
Sing and pray together as you labor
Tunnel deeply below for the hearty souls
Who still harbor the furious will to live
Use your backs and prayers to dig deep
So beautiful black souls can survive
Watch and listen to faint sounds of hearts
Of those still living in the depths of the debris
For they have the resiliency to survive
Bring your doctors to heal their wounds
Bring your goodwill and caring acts
To help those who have gone through hell
So often during dark times of broken thunder
Provide steadfast optimism so hopeless minds
Can develop optimism for better tomorrows
Bring your nation’s riches to this poor land
Bring your ships laden with food and water
Bring your cooks clergy and counselors
To find feed and console those that survive
For they are a resilient and deserving people
Do not forsake the hearty souls who
Have gone through such agony and pain
Watch over their crying scarred children and
Aid the mothers with bitter tears in their eyes
Stay until all is well again in this broken ragged city
Remain until the misery and sorrow is gone
Help them rebuild a bright future of possibilities
The cinder block are crying out.
It is nothing more than my imagination
after digging out so many bodies
only to bury thousands of chalky dusted limbs
in a mass grave using a bulldozer.
The cinder blocks are crying out for rescue.
A person has been digging in a rubble for someone missing,
hands clawing and tossing the shattered pieces
like chicken wing bones, besides himself with frenzy.
The cinder blocks are losing their voice.
It longs for some water where there is only cinder.
A woman is wailing after finding a rag-doll of a child.
She thinks the smashed face belongs to her.
A reporter records the facts, numb as a laptop keyboard.
The cinder block asks for a few pieces of rice.
The ground shakes with a bulldozer, or is it an aftershock.
The jail has fallen into itself and there is no order.
There is restlessness in long lines waiting for assistance.
A doctor does not know where to begin.
The cinder blocks have resigned to despair.
Miracles are things no one can afford.
There is shock on many faces, the color of soot.
There is a shortage of everything essential.
The only things in abundance are death and uncertainty.
A Marine is too late to rescue anyone.
There are more orphans than a person can count.
I have been removing death through sleeplessness.
A cinder block died under the weight of other blocks.
Or was it another crushed arm?
I have lost my voice in the unsettled crowd.
The shovel is heavy from so much digging, it sighs.
Someone thinks they have found a survivor.
By the time we begin removing piles,
the person passes away. A wail sounds like a poem
no one wants to write. It shrieks
as a seagull without a port.
I have forgotten what it was like to rest
and it reminds me I am still alive,
scratching at the scab of rubble.
It is the digging that matters now, the endless
digging, the drumming of fingers on bricks,
the heartbeat of digging. I think the cinder blocks
communicate with the dead.