On this day after Independence Day - I hope you had a good one! - here is a snapshot of America in 1860, by her greatest poet, Walt Whitman: more...

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You know when I post a poem at night, it means I've either been really busy, the blog's been acting up, or I just couldn't find any inspired choices. Today was a perfect storm of all three reasons.

Since the most important news item of the day was the Star Jones bullshit - more important than Korean missiles or Iranian bombs or terrorist sleeper cells or treasonous papers and politicians or Iraqi amnesty or Israel kicking ass.

Star Jones, Star Jones, Star Jones!

Star Jones, Star Jones, that's what's important. But how does one best glean clues about Star Jones's mysterious exit friom the View? One need look no further than the newest Viewchik. And how better to stay informed about Star Jones lore than by reading some more bad Vogon poetry from the poet laureate of the Vogons herself, Rosie O'Donnell.

Star View

there is drama at the view
regis went on yesterday
and said
hey there is an elephant in the living room

no one likes to pretend
as if it were real

there comes a point
where u become complicit

star jones had weight loss surgery
she had part of her stomach bypassed
that is how she lost 1/2 herself

she refuses to say this
which is her right
but we do not have to pretend
we do not know

any fatty will tell u
it is nearly impossible to go
from where she was
to where she is
without medical intervention

dats da fact jack
and it is ok
talk to ur doctor
decide for yourself
if this is the option for u
by all means do it

it is hard to be fat
u get tired
ur knees hurt
people stare at u
think u less then
u feel less then

when i see one of r own
fly away from planet plus
i wave with misty eyes
proud astonished worried

we have a high recidivism rate
we us r tribe
sis and bros

so star shrinks b4 our eyes
we know the truth
but nod as she talks about
pilates and will power

i am sure star jones
beneathe the beyonce bravado
is a scared lil girl
who grew her body big
strong and safe

there is no delete button
in real life

george bush
talking about the success
in iraq
with star like showmanship
he thinking we still believe
what we know is not true

we dont buy it

peace to star jones
every wave hits the shore

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1 I can't wait until she chokes on a ham sandwich. Like her superego is going to fit with that grotesque manage of bitchy twats.

Posted by: Casca at June 29, 2006 06:14 AM (rEC2k)

2 I think my brain tried to crawl out of my ear halfway through the poem.

Posted by: Jess at June 29, 2006 07:57 AM (m4pDe)

3 Holy crap. I really had to CONCENTRATE to get through that.

Posted by: red at June 29, 2006 09:35 AM (rNgdr)

4 I'm beginning to wonder if I made a mistake by directing you to that site.

Posted by: Victor at June 29, 2006 10:55 AM (L3qPK)

5 Annika: You're wrong, I CAN live without Rosie wisdom.

Posted by: JJJET at June 29, 2006 03:42 PM (LNyv5)

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I hate spiders. This morning after my shower, I grabbed some underwear out of the drawer, and as I was putting it on a spider fell out of it and landed on the floor. How does a spider get into the underwear drawer? And no, I do not live in the basement.

I hate spiders because they are sneaky. At least a bee will let you know it's there before it stings you. But spiders are always crawling around where you can't see them. They're like the viet cong.

I hate spiders almost as much as I hate sappy poems.

Spiders

by Janet Bruno

Spiderlings hatch from eggs.
Each one has eight tiny legs.
A spider has more eyes than you.
Most have eight, and you have two.
A spider has two body parts.
Across its web it quickly darts.
From a spider's spinnerets
Sticky spider silk jets.
Spiders feel the frantic tugs,
Of their favorite food; it's bugs!

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Hear Johnny Cash reading this poem in in his inimitable voice here. It was a hit record in 1974.

Ragged Old Flag

I walked through a county courthouse square,
On a park bench an old man was sitting there.
I said, "Your old courthouse is kinda run down."
He said, "Naw, it'll do for our little town."
I said, "Your flagpole has leaned a little bit,
And that's a Ragged Old Flag you got hanging on it."

He said, "Have a seat", and I sat down.
"Is this the first time you've been to our little town?"
I said, "I think it is." He said, "I don't like to brag,
But we're kinda proud of that Ragged Old Flag.

"You see, we got a little hole in that flag there
When Washington took it across the Delaware.
And it got powder-burned the night Francis Scott Key
Sat watching it writing 'Oh Say Can You See.'
And it got a bad rip in New Orleans
With Packingham and Jackson tuggin' at its seams.

"And it almost fell at the Alamo
Beside the Texas flag, but she waved on though.
She got cut with a sword at Chancellorsville,
And she got cut again at Shiloh Hill.
There was Robert E. Lee, Beauregard, and Bragg,
And the south wind blew hard on that Ragged Old Flag.

"On Flanders Field in World War I
She got a big hole from a Bertha gun.
She turned blood red in World War II.
She hung limp and low a time or two.
She was in Korea and Vietnam.
She went where she was sent by her Uncle Sam.

"She waved from our ships upon the briny foam,
And now they've about quit waving her back here at home.
In her own good land she's been abused--
She's been burned, dishonored, denied, and refused.

"And the government for which she stands
Is scandalized throughout the land.
And she's getting threadbare and wearing thin,
But she's in good shape for the shape she's in.
'Cause she's been through the fire before,
And I believe she can take a whole lot more.

"So we raise her up every morning,
We take her down every night.
We don't let her touch the ground,
And we fold her up right.
On second thought I do like to brag,
'Cause I'm mighty proud of that Ragged Old Flag."

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As Tony noted, Saturday was Allen Ginsberg's birthday. There must be a Ginsberg bug going around because Strawman also suggested a poem by the great one. I can't abide his political stuff, but Ginsberg is a genuine literary icon, and a fearless poet. He's also an interesting guy to boot. Here is a perfect poem for today.

A Supermarket in California

      What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
      In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
      What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?

      I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
      I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
      I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
      We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

      Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
      (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
      Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.

      Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
      Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

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I blogged about starlings once before. I guess it's time to do it again.

If you love birds like I do, check out Joelle Biele's poetry.

To a Group of Starlings

All day youÂ’ve chased the nuthatch, the titmouse,
the purple finches in the trees, and now
you strut down the street like overgrown boys,
raccoon coats hiding your matchstick legs,
the sidewalk your grand runway, and youÂ’re
boys on newspaper boxes, little drummers
playing buckets and pails, shoe-shine men calling,
hustlers, shiny watches, the old shell game.
Bird of midnight sheen, of oil and ink,
of trashcans in the alley, youÂ’re
my hard-times bird, my handÂ’s shadow.
You swarm over the roofs like thought
before it falls, you shoot from the furnace
with the coming rain, dirty stars, faraway flames.

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Here's a little piece of doggerel I came across, which will probably only appeal to my fellow aviation nuts. I found it in Clash of the Carriers, a great book I'm reading about the First Battle of the Philippine Sea (otherwise known as the Marianas Turkey Shoot).

Oh Mother, dear Mother, take down that blue star,
Replace it with one that is gold.
Your son is a Helldiver pilot;
He'll never be thirty years old.
The people who work for Curtis
   are frequently seen good and drunk.
One day with an awful hangover,
   they mustered and designed that clunk.

Check out the animation section in this link. If you follow the "planes and commanders" link, then click on "radio newscast of the battle," there's a pretty cool vintage audio broadcast.

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Check out Smallholder, layin' down a Ben Franklin rap over at Naked Villainy.

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Today's poem is by Sugawara Takesue no Musume, 11th Century Japanese poetess.

Ah me ah me

Ah, me! Ah, me! My weary doom to labour here in the Palace!
Seven good wine-jars have I - and three in my province.
There where they stand I have hung straight-stemmed gourds of the finest -
They turn to the West when the East wind blows,
They turn to the East when the West wind blows,
They turn to the North when the South wind blows,
They turn to the South when the North wind blows.
And there I sit watching them turning and turning forever-
Oh, my gourds! Oh, my wine-jars!

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Three poems by Randy Jackson, via Popwatch:

Yo, yo

Yo, yo.
Yo, yo.
Amazing, amazing.
Loved the jacket.
Loved you.
Amazing.



Yo, baby, Elliott

Yo, baby, Elliott
So check it out, dawg
Elliott
So check it out, man
I hated
Check it out
Did not like the arrangement

Yo, Taylor, man

Yo, Taylor, man
I don't know what's goin' on, man
I don't know if it's me tonight or whatever
But dude, that was completely the wrong song
For me
For you
I didn't get it
It wasn't half as good as the original
It felt like weird karaoke to me
I don't know what's happenin' here
I don't know what's goin' on here

Even Paris Bennett Gets the Blues

I felt like it was kind of a struggle
For you to find that place
Where you own the stage
Like you always do
Week after week

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Thirty-six years ago, what has become known as the Kent State Massacre took place.

On May 4, 1970 members of the Ohio National Guard fired into a crowd of Kent State University demonstrators, killing four and wounding nine Kent State students. The impact of the shootings was dramatic. The event triggered a nationwide student strike that forced hundreds of colleges and universities to close. H. R. Haldeman, a top aide to President Richard Nixon, suggests the shootings had a direct impact on national politics. In The Ends of Power, Haldeman (197 states that the shootings at Kent State began the slide into Watergate, eventually destroying the Nixon administration. Beyond the direct effects of the May 4th, the shootings have certainly come to symbolize the deep political and social divisions that so sharply divided the country during the Vietnam War era.

It's still hard to believe I had to write this song. It's ironic that I capitalized on the death of these American students. Probably the biggest lesson ever learned at an American place of learning. My best CSNY cut. . . . David Crosby cried after this take.

On the web, I found a couple of poems dedicated to the Kent State shootings. They range from the ironic to the angry. Allen Ginsberg references the incident in his poem "Hadda Be Playin' On A Jukebox," which was later set to music by Rage Against The Machine.

The most interesting poem to me was the one published immediately after the shooting in the Soviet propaganda newspaper Pravda. Over on our side of the Iron Curtain, the event instilled greater momentum to the peace movement. But for most adherents, it always remained a peace movement, except for those on the radical fringe.

On the Soviet side, the incident seems to have been a call to arms, judging by the crazy warlike imagery in this propaganda poem. Also take note of the clumsy materialist stereotypes of American youth by the communist poet.

Flowers And Bullets

by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
(English translation by Anthony Kahn)

Of course:
Bullets don't like people
   who love flowers,
They're jealous ladies, bullets,
   short on kindness.
Allison Krause, nineteen years old,
   you're dead
for loving flowers.

When, thin and open as the pulse
   of conscience,
you put a flower in a rifle's mouth
   and said,
"Flowers are better than bullets,"
   that
was pure hope speaking.

Give no flowers to a state
   that outlaws truth;
such states reciprocate
   with cynical, cruel gifts,
and your gift, Allison Krause,
was the bullet
   that blasted the flower.

Let every apple orchard blossom black,
   black in mourning.
Ah, how the lilac smells!
   You're without feeling.
Nothing, Nixon said it:
   "You're a bum."
All the dead are bums.
   It's not their crime.
You lie in the grass,
   a melting candy in your mouth,
done with dressing in new clothes,
   done with books.

You used to be a student.
      You studied fine arts.
But other arts exist,
      of blood and terror,
and headsmen with a genuius for the axe.

Who was Hitler?
      A cubist of gas chambers.
In the name of all flowers
      I curse your works,
you architect of lies,
      maestros of murder!
Mothers of the world whisper
      "O God, God!"
and seers are afraid
      to look ahead.
Death dances rock-and-roll upon the bones
      of Vietnam, Cambodia -
On what stage is it booked to dance tomorrow?

Rise up, Tokyo girls,
      Roman boys,
take up your flowers
      against the common foe.
Blow the world's dandelions up
      into a blizzard!
Flowers, to war!
      Punish the punishers!
Tulip after tulip,
      carnation after carnation
rip out of your tidy beds in anger,
choke every lying throat
      with earth and root!
You, jasmine, clog
      the spinning blades of mine-layers.

Boldy,
   block the cross-hair sights,
   drive your sting into the lenses,
      nettles!
Rise up, lily of the Ganges,
      lotus of the Nile,
stop the roaring props
   of planes pregnant
      with the death of chidren!
Roses, don't be proud
   to find yourselves sold
      at higher prices.
Nice as it is to touch a tender cheek,
thrust a sharper thorn a little deeper
   into the fuel tanks of bombers.

Of course:
   Bullets are stronger than flowers.
Flowers aren't enough to overwhelm them.
   Stems are too fragile,
   petals are poor armor.
But a Vietnam girl of Allison's age,
   taking a gun in her hands
is the armed flower
   of the people's wrath!
If even flowers rise,
   then we've had enough
   of playing games with history.

Young America,
   tie up the killer's hands.
Let there be an escalation of truth
to overwhelm the escalating lie
   crushing people's lives!
Flowers, make war!
   Defend what's beautiful!
Drown the city streets and country roads
   like the flood of an army advancing
and in the ranks of people and flowers
   arise, murdered Allison Krause,
Immortal of the age,
   Thorn-Flower of protest!

Correction: I must apologize and amend what I said up there regarding the poet. When I wrote this last night, I cut and pasted the name Yevgeny Yevtushenko without really thinking, although the name sounded familiar. This morning John's comment inspired me to look up his stuff, which I was able to do, since I have a very fine book of contemporary world poetry, which Shelly sent me last year.

The truth is, the poet was not some unknown communist hack for Pravda, which I thought at first. Yevtushenko is one of the best known and controversial Russian poets of the twentieth century. Here's his Wikipedia entry.

Reading "Flowers And Bullets" alongside Yevtushenko's more famous protest poems like "Babii Yar" (which laments the Nazi execution of 96,000 Jews near Kiev) or "The Heirs Of Stalin," I was able to place the above poem in better context. The poet had a history of using his art to condemn atrocity.

That's what happens when you critique the poet instead of the poem. A common mistake. But I still stand by my criticism of the poem, which really fails to understand the American "peace movement" of the '60s and '70s. And it really was a socialist propaganda piece, which urged violent retaliation against a capitalist enemy. Whether Yevtushenko really held the same sentiment, or whether he just knew how to market a poem, is an open question I suppose.

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Something different this week. Fifty-three years ago tomorrow, Sylvia Plath attended a party at which W.H. Auden gave a reading. Using her own distinctive style, Plath described the great poet in her Journal.*

To set the scene, Plath was 20 years old, and a junior at Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. Auden was 46 years old and a visiting professor at Smith, although I don't know whether Plath took his class. 1953 was also the year that Auden moved in with his longtime companion, the poet Chester Kallman.

The party took place at the home of Sylvia Plath's English professor, 66 year old Elizabeth A. Drew. That semester, Plath was enrolled in Drew's Modern English Poetry class.

Finally, a bit of foreshadowing. Four months after this party, Plath would survive the first of her many suicide attempts. Despite missing a semester after her near overdose of sleeping pills, she graduated in 1955, summa cum laude. She would go on to study at Cambridge, meet and marry poet Ted Hughes, and the rest is history.

But here's what she thought of Auden:

April 27 [1953] - Listen and shut up, oh, ye of little faith. On one certain evening in a certain year 1953 a certain complex of pitched tensions, physiological urges, and mental dragonflies combined to fill one mortal imperfect Eve with a fierce full rightness, force and determination corresponding to the ecstasy experienced by the starving saint on the desert who feels the crackling cool drops of God on his tongue and sees the green angels sprouting up like dandelion greens, prolific and infinitely unexpected.

. . .

Tonight, spring, plural, fertile, offering up clean green leaf whorls to a soft moon covered with fuzz-fractured clouds, and god, the listening to Auden read in Drew's front living room, and vivid questioning, darting scintillant wit. My Plato! pedestrian I! And Drew, (exhuberant exquisitely frail intelligent Elizabeth) saying, "Now that is really difficult."

Auden tossing his big head back with a twist of wide ugly grinning lips, his sandy hair, his coarse tweedy brown jacket, his burlap-textured voice and the crackling brilliant utterances -- the naughty mischievous boy genius, and the inconsistent white hairless skin of his legs, and the short puffy stubbed fingers -- and the carpet slippers -- beer he drank, and smoked Lucky Strikes in a black holder, gesticulating with a white new cigarette in his hands, holding matches, talking in a gravelly incisive tone about how Caliban is the natural bestial projection, Ariel the creative imaginative, and all the intricate lyrical abstruosities of their love and cleavage, art and life, the mirror and the sea. God, god, the stature of the man. And next week, in trembling audacity, I approach him with a sheaf of poems. Oh, god, if this is life, half heard, glimpsed, smelled, with beer and cheese sandwiches and the god-eyed tall-minded ones, let me never go blind, or get shut off from the agony of learning, the horrible pain of trying to understand.

Tonight: the unforgettable snatching of toothpicks and olive pits from the tables of the ambrosial gods!

* The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath, pp. 179-180.

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Is there any subject that can't be examined by a poet? Here we have biology, in a Shakespearian sonnet by English poet John Masefield (1878–1967):

What am I, Life?

What am I, Life? A thing of watery halt
Held in cohesion by unresting cells,
Which work they know not why, which never halt,
Myself unwitting where their Master dwells
I do not bid them, yet they toil, they spin
A world which uses me as I use them;
Nor do I know which end or which begin
Nor which to praise, which pamper, which condemn.
So, like a marvel in a marvel set,
I answer to the vast, as wave by wave
The sea of air goes over, dry or wet,
Or the full moon comes swimming from her cave,
Or the great sun comes forth: this myriad I
Tingles, not knowing how, yet wondering why.

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You may remember the great KISS haiku contest of 2005. The winner of that contest was Cameron who used to have a blog called Way Off Base. Now he's blogging with his brother at Woody's Woundup.

Anyways, I once called Cameron "the Mark Russell of the Blogosphere." Of course nobody knows who Mark Russell is, so it's not much of a compliment, if it ever was one. But Cameron is still writing poetry, and I loved his latest one so much that I chose it for this week's selection.

On the Morning of A Day Off, A Little Wind and Rain

An old, missed friend wakes me up, politely
Tapping my window with soft fingers,
Whispering the new stories she has learned.
And IÂ’m all ears, warm under my blanket,
Sitting up with my back against the cool wall,
Listening, trying to find a rhythm
In her words, perpetually relieved
To never discern any noticeable pattern.
It would ruin the instance if I did;
Like hearing a drumbeat put to an aria.

ThereÂ’s no sorrow, no worsted gray buttoned up
Over the colorful promise of her mysteries.
Beneath my closed eyes, her words become
An intimate canvas primed and waiting for
Some improvised brush of . . .
Life, she taps on my window. Laughter. Love.
Each flurry of words brings me
Closer to new than I have been in years.

My windowÂ’s open; she enters on the breeze.
Such a scent she brings, clean and real,
The scent wild things know after the snows melt,
And with her comes the lush green certainty
Of something taking root in me,
Like a seed pushed into readied earth by
Some wise old farmer in the North Forty,
And I imagine that when my friend and I
Meet again in the spring, in a rambling conversation
About wild sprouts and raucous blooms,
IÂ’ll be glad then that I donÂ’t now close my window
Just to avoid her random, friendly kisses.

It doesnÂ’t rain enough in Southern California.

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Sheila is doing National Poetry Month the right way, at The Sheila Variations. Go over there and just keep scrolling. She's posted a few from some of my favorites: O'Hara, Bishop, Dickinson, and Oliver, along with some fantastic poetry that I hadn't been introduced to yet.

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In honor of April Fool's day, lets do something different.

Ever wonder what Vogon poetry really sounds like? Check out Rosie O'Donnell's blog. Here's a particularly bad selection from yesterday:

Journalism

so katie mcphee is linda ederish

yo yo dog
youuuu look sssssexyhottt grrreat job
i hate country music

does kenny rogers think
he looks better this way
alien from planet hollywood
almost didnt recognize him

i will reload the art movie
with a non i tune tune
I TUNES SUCK

i am 1/2 way thru
craig fergusons novel
i triple love it
confederacy of dunces
meets geek love
in a dave eggers universe
buy it

a lot of press
gma tomorrow
and i am done
odd
going in and out
of celebville
with an ez pass

there is much i miss
everything barbra
touring again
thank god
i live in a paralell universe
1 where noone spells write
ross the intern
jays colin

colin was 10
yr one
belted ethel merman
had me at hello

he now works for
R FAMILY VACATIONS
everytime i see his simle
i remember the magic

ryan seacrest just said
WITH ALL DUE RESPECT
to simon cowell

5 am
hair and make up
i am getting too old for this

CNN
there is a scary kid
talking to larry king
about internet porn

journalism in america

the ask ro
is highly addictive

Thanks to Victor, for the suggestion.

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Any poem that contains the following bit of wisdom is probably worth a look:

. . . you, Hangover,
are the opposite of Orgasm. Certainly
you go on too long and in your grip
one thinks, How to have you never again?

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The following poem is ascribed to St. Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, born a Roman citizen in Scotland in the year 387 and died at Saul, Downpatrick, Ireland on March 17, 493.

St. PatrickÂ’s Breastplate

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through the belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism,
Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial,
Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension,
Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love of Cherubim,
In obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In prayers of patriarchs,
In predictions of prophets,
In preaching of apostles,
In faith of confessors,
In innocence of holy virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me:
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and those evils,
Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.

Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness,
Of the Creator of Creation.

Thomas Cahill doubts that the poem was written by St. Patrick himself, instead dating it to the 7th or 8th Century.

The earliest expression of European vernacular poetry, it is, in attitude, the work of a Christian Druid, a man of both faith and magic. Its feeling is entirely un-Augustinian; but it is this feeling that will go on to animate the best poetry of the Middle Ages. If Patrick did not write it (at least in its current form), it surely takes its inspiration from him. For in this cosmic incantation, the anarticulate outcast who wept for slaves, aided common men in difficulty, and loved sunrise and sea at last finds his voice. Appropriately, it is an Irish voice.

Posted by: annika at 07:33 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 629 words, total size 4 kb.

Here's a really wonderful debut work by Publicola. It's meter is very musical. Guess I'll have to start calling him the "Bard of Ballistics" now. Or maybe Mr. "Terror Dactyl."

The Post

Even through the glove I felt it seeping from the metal till my bones ache
Just slightly
The cold is on the metal; the wood, then on my cheek
The almost perfect roundness close to my eye is lost
The bite of the leather in my flesh disappears
Forgotten
As is the cold on my skin and in my bones
Only a tiny column imposing itself on the object I desire to reach has focus
The cold doesn't matter
The feel of the wood doesn't matter
Metal doesnÂ’t matter
The weight of the lever I'm pushing towards myself means nothing
Only the column
The rectangle I know, the rectangle I need
The pillar that my will rests upon
It alone is my world at the same time it isn't alone
Breathe
Stop
The lever lightens, yet becomes the hardest part of my world
Still I only know the rectangle
Nothing else matters 'cept for seeing that little stanchion where I will it to be seen
I don't even notice the break, like a rod
Not like a glass rod but still a distinct and noticeable breaking happens
Yet I don't notice
I only see the rectangle
I know the wood is pushing me back
I hear the muffled boom through my heart as well as my ears
But I only see the rectangle
Rising slightly, lifting itself momentarily above my desire only to settle back down to it again
The metallic shucking of the mechanism tells me it's ready again; that I'm ready again
But there's only that rectangle standing between me and my desire
Bridging the distance between me and my desire
I know the device; I've cleaned it, repaired it, cared for it
I've broken it so that I could build it again
It will not fail me
I can only fail myself
But that rectangle holds my faith, my confidence, my certainty that I won't
It rises again as the boom rolls over me
The boom that I hear but pay no mind to
My heart races, my breath begs for release
I only know the rectangle
Six more times metal slides across metal
Wood heats; expands
Gasses slave to my design; working for me more than against me
Then I heed something other than the rectangle
A ping
A cold metallic sound to others, to me a thing of beauty and sadness at the same time
Whether to fuel the tool or not? Whether to enable the tool to function again or let it rest?
Those are not the questions I would answer here; they are for another time, another tale
Here I speak of the rectangle
What was beyond it? Paper or flesh? Food or enemy?
It did not matter
What I wished it to guide me to was decided long before I gazed upon its sharp lines and flat top
The rectangle will guide me as it always has
A rectangle on a tool made before I was born
Made the same year my father drew breath, years before my mother cried for the first time
A rectangle viewed through a circle; a post through an aperture
Sitting atop a tool made to control burning gas; expanding gas
To direct metal to repeat the task while the wood cradles it; gives it comfort
With leather to bind it to me
Me to it
To make us one
Odes cannot describe it and I when united
Words fail in their vulgarity and barbarism
A rectangle sitting on top of a cylinder made to spew smaller cylinders to affect my will?
How crass that sounds? How empty?
All my eloquence is inadequate to tell of how my eye links with that rectangle
Of how my heart beats inside the wood
How my breath hardens with the metal
How my mind burns the hole that the tool will make real
It is not a mere rifle of which I speak but a Garand
And not a mere Garand, but Mine

I think the best explanation of this poem was from USCitizen, who said: "The Post captures the focus, the essence, the gestalt of the aimed shot. The mental focus that erases the physical, that casts away all peripheral considerations and concentrates all effort on the only thing that matters: the rectangle through the ghost ring."

Posted by: annika at 06:44 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 758 words, total size 4 kb.

Now that Mardi Gras is over, let's have some New Orleans poetry. Gina Ferrara is a poet who was displaced by hurricane Katrina. She evacuated to Jackson, Mississippi, leaving everything behind, including her computer with all her work. She thought she had taken a CD containing all her poetry, but when she arrived in Jackson she realized that she had grabbed the wrong CD. In the interim, Ferrara had to re-learn an old technology.

I bought a red notebook and some mechanical lead pencils, and I began writing poems by hand. . . . I found that this was a totally different process [from] using the computer. Writing poems by hand is slower, and it seems to be more of a permanent process. The page looks like grafitti, with arrows pointing in up and down directions, scratch outs, and edits done in different colored inks.

Close to Zenith

Hearts do not bleed,
there, up in the sky
at the other end of twine.
We are flying a kite
admist rubble
from a demolition
we cannot remember,
past birthdays and ruins
higher than the slipping sun
when we run out of twine.
The blurred kite
with hearts ablaze on gauze,
escapes from our fingers
a curious flag of surrender.

* Poets & Writers Magazine, January/February 2006, p. 59.

Posted by: annika at 07:04 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 247 words, total size 2 kb.