The Chilean secret police
searched everywhere
for the poet Neruda: in the dark shafts
of mines, in the boxcars of railroad yards,
in the sewers of Santiago.
The government intended to confiscate his mouth
and extract the poems one by one like bad teeth.
But the mines and boxcars and sewers were empty.
I know where he was. Neruda was at Fenway Park,
burly and bearded in a flat black cap, hidden
in the kaleidoscope of the bleachers.
He sat quietly, chomping a hot dog
when Ted Williams walked to the crest of the diamond,
slender as my father remembers him,
squinting at the pitcher, bat swaying in a memory of trees.
The stroke was a pendulum of long muscle and wood,
Ted's face tilted up, the home run
zooming into the right field grandstand.
Then the crowd stood together, cheering
for this blasphemer of newsprint, the heretic
who would not tip his cap as he toed home plate
or grin like a war hero at the sportswriters
surrounding his locker for a quote.
The fugitive poet could not keep silent,
standing on his seat to declaim the ode
erupted in crowd-bewildering Spanish from his mouth:
Praise Ted Williams, raising his sword
cut from the ash tree, the ball
a white planet glowing in the atmosphere
of the right field grandstand!
Praise the Wall rising
like a great green wave
from the green sea of the outfield!
Praise the hot dog, pink meat,
pork snouts, sawdust, mouse feces,
human hair, plugging our intestines,
yet baptized joyfully with mustard!
Praise the wobbling drunk, seasick beer
in hand, staring at the number on his ticket,
demanding my seat!
Everyone gawked at the man standing
on his seat, bellowing poetry in Spanish.
Anonymous no longer,
Neruda saw the Chilean secret police
as they scrambled through the bleachers,
pointing and shouting, so the poet
jumped a guardrail to disappear
through a Fenway tunnel,
the black cap flying from his head
and spinning into center field.
This is true. I was there at Fenway
on August 7, 1948, even if I was born
exactly nine years later
when my father
almost named me Theodore.
-- Martin Espada [Connie Breece]
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
When You Are Old
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.
-- William Butler Yeats [Elizabeth]
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.
-- William Butler Yeats [Elizabeth]
Forgetfulness
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
-- Billy Collins [Fred Elliott-Hart]
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
-- Billy Collins [Fred Elliott-Hart]
Mossbawn Sunlight
1. Sunlight
There was a sunlit absence.
The helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed
in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall
of each long afternoon.
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove
sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.
Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails
and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.
And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.
-- Seamus Heaney [Liam O'Connor]
There was a sunlit absence.
The helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed
in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall
of each long afternoon.
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove
sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.
Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails
and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.
And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.
-- Seamus Heaney [Liam O'Connor]
The Ides of March, 2008
Wouldn't it take a certain arrogance or pride to hold a party on the Ides of March?
Or, for that matter, to attend one?
Are we too busy to heed the signs? To unaware of portentous omens? Too lacking in simple humanity?
If this were a Greek tragedy, the gods would certainly punish such hubris:
-- there'd be salmonella in the artichoke dip
-- the keg would run flat, or worse, dry
-- Jerry's falsetto during "Danny Boy" would shatter our windshields
-- the stage, at the end of Act V, would be littered with corpses
But, then again, the Irish have been beating the odds for centuries.
They majored in tragedy, minored in hard knocks.
And a wiser poet than I once said, "I'd walk a longish road, through drear, hard rain, and fog, for a well-pulled pint."
Who am I, a New York Jew, to argue?
Was it Yeats? Or maybe Brendan Behan?
Either way, it was another scribe - a Brit - who coined for us "the Ides of March."
I first read it in 10th grade English class of Mr. Wills,
Who, if the second-floor bathroom stall was accurate, eats pills.
In Act 1, Scene 2 of Julius Caesar, a Soothsayer, yes, a soothsayer, (Rome was lousy with them in those days) cries, "Beware the Ides of March!"
He says it three times before exiting stage right, and we all know that bad luck runs in threes, like the number of leaves on the much more common, unlucky clover.
Caesar, stubborn as an Irish mule, pays no heed.
But there are, to be sure, other signs.
Looking out on a violent storm, here is Casca, a conspirator, talking to Cicero, a Senator, in Act 1, Scene 3:
"Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth
Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero,
I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds
Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen
The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam,
To be exalted with the threatening clouds:
But never till to-night, never till now,
Did I go through a tempest dropping fire.
Either there is a civil strife in heaven,
Or else the world, too saucy with the gods,
Incenses them to send destruction."
And, if that's not enough, here's the dream of Calpurnia (wife of Caesar) from Act II, Scene 2:
"Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies,
Yet now they fright me. There is one within,
Besides the things that we have heard and seen,
Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch.
A lioness hath whelped in the streets;
And graves have yawn'd, and yielded up their dead;
Fierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds,
In ranks and squadrons and right form of war,
Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol;
The noise of battle hurtled in the air,
Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan,
And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets.
O Caesar! these things are beyond all use,
And I do fear them."
So the heavens are raining fire and blood; ghosts and the undead are strolling about; Lions are whelping in the town square,
And what does Caesar do?
Ignores it all. He might just as well have gone to a St. Patrick's Day party for all he cared.
"Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once," he smugly answers his spouse.
"Of all the wonders that I yet have heard.
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come."
You can say that again. He gets it in the back nine times at the start of Act III.
Always, as my Calpurnia would say, listen to the woman.
But here I stand, despite the Soothsayer's prophesy, on the Ides of March.
What's a Roman with an omen to do?
I could cite my father, a voluntary poet in his own right, when he heard me practicing Marc Antony's soliloquy for Mr. Wills' class:
Quoth he: "He who drinks beer, Shakespeare."
-- Steve Hodin
Or, for that matter, to attend one?
Are we too busy to heed the signs? To unaware of portentous omens? Too lacking in simple humanity?
If this were a Greek tragedy, the gods would certainly punish such hubris:
-- there'd be salmonella in the artichoke dip
-- the keg would run flat, or worse, dry
-- Jerry's falsetto during "Danny Boy" would shatter our windshields
-- the stage, at the end of Act V, would be littered with corpses
But, then again, the Irish have been beating the odds for centuries.
They majored in tragedy, minored in hard knocks.
And a wiser poet than I once said, "I'd walk a longish road, through drear, hard rain, and fog, for a well-pulled pint."
Who am I, a New York Jew, to argue?
Was it Yeats? Or maybe Brendan Behan?
Either way, it was another scribe - a Brit - who coined for us "the Ides of March."
I first read it in 10th grade English class of Mr. Wills,
Who, if the second-floor bathroom stall was accurate, eats pills.
In Act 1, Scene 2 of Julius Caesar, a Soothsayer, yes, a soothsayer, (Rome was lousy with them in those days) cries, "Beware the Ides of March!"
He says it three times before exiting stage right, and we all know that bad luck runs in threes, like the number of leaves on the much more common, unlucky clover.
Caesar, stubborn as an Irish mule, pays no heed.
But there are, to be sure, other signs.
Looking out on a violent storm, here is Casca, a conspirator, talking to Cicero, a Senator, in Act 1, Scene 3:
"Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth
Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero,
I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds
Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen
The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam,
To be exalted with the threatening clouds:
But never till to-night, never till now,
Did I go through a tempest dropping fire.
Either there is a civil strife in heaven,
Or else the world, too saucy with the gods,
Incenses them to send destruction."
And, if that's not enough, here's the dream of Calpurnia (wife of Caesar) from Act II, Scene 2:
"Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies,
Yet now they fright me. There is one within,
Besides the things that we have heard and seen,
Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch.
A lioness hath whelped in the streets;
And graves have yawn'd, and yielded up their dead;
Fierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds,
In ranks and squadrons and right form of war,
Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol;
The noise of battle hurtled in the air,
Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan,
And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets.
O Caesar! these things are beyond all use,
And I do fear them."
So the heavens are raining fire and blood; ghosts and the undead are strolling about; Lions are whelping in the town square,
And what does Caesar do?
Ignores it all. He might just as well have gone to a St. Patrick's Day party for all he cared.
"Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once," he smugly answers his spouse.
"Of all the wonders that I yet have heard.
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come."
You can say that again. He gets it in the back nine times at the start of Act III.
Always, as my Calpurnia would say, listen to the woman.
But here I stand, despite the Soothsayer's prophesy, on the Ides of March.
What's a Roman with an omen to do?
I could cite my father, a voluntary poet in his own right, when he heard me practicing Marc Antony's soliloquy for Mr. Wills' class:
Quoth he: "He who drinks beer, Shakespeare."
-- Steve Hodin
Rocket to Space
NASA built a rocket to space
And everyone wanted to go
So they had a very big race
To see who would run round Mexico
Who won but a simple millipede with many many legs
And they decided to let him go, despite the others' pleas and begs
He shot past Mars
Quickly passing our stars
Now he sends postcards from Zigzagabaroon
Telling NASA "Hope to see you soon!"
-- Matthew Rappe
And everyone wanted to go
So they had a very big race
To see who would run round Mexico
Who won but a simple millipede with many many legs
And they decided to let him go, despite the others' pleas and begs
He shot past Mars
Quickly passing our stars
Now he sends postcards from Zigzagabaroon
Telling NASA "Hope to see you soon!"
-- Matthew Rappe
Magdalen Walks
THE little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.
A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze, 5
The odour of leaves, and of grass, and of newly up-turned earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.
And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rosebud breaks into pink on the climbing briar, 10
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.
And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen 15
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.
See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing a-down the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air. 20
-- Oscar Wilde [Becky Miller]
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.
A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze, 5
The odour of leaves, and of grass, and of newly up-turned earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.
And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rosebud breaks into pink on the climbing briar, 10
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.
And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen 15
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.
See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing a-down the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air. 20
-- Oscar Wilde [Becky Miller]
O Captain, My Captain!
1
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart! 5
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
2
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck, 15
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
3
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
-- Walt Whitman
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart! 5
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
2
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck, 15
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
3
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
-- Walt Whitman
Portrait With Still-Life
I find no reason to distract my father who is yelling at the empty prescription
bottle. After he returned from the war, which he didn't find to his liking, he
operated a drill press without distinction for nearly fifty years. He raised a
family that was barely passable. He strode forth only when the weather fit
his shoes. He stood in the backyard and painted all the landscapes that
passed through his head, "like tulip petals on their way to a farter version of
heaven." He learned to read when he was a very young child, but found this
was an impediment later in his life. He was not my father, but a kitchen
appliance in need of repairs.
-- John Yau [Jan Reitsma]
bottle. After he returned from the war, which he didn't find to his liking, he
operated a drill press without distinction for nearly fifty years. He raised a
family that was barely passable. He strode forth only when the weather fit
his shoes. He stood in the backyard and painted all the landscapes that
passed through his head, "like tulip petals on their way to a farter version of
heaven." He learned to read when he was a very young child, but found this
was an impediment later in his life. He was not my father, but a kitchen
appliance in need of repairs.
-- John Yau [Jan Reitsma]
Saturday, July 12, 2008
There Once Was an Irish Mechanic
There once was an Irish mechanic
Who was not very prone to a panic
When I heard this I thought
I might give him a shot
At a problem I knew was satanic.
Cars and trucks and bikes, you see
Are serviced every day
With logic and a diagram
You’ll soon be on your way
But mobile homes are different,
They’re relatively few,
And mine was even further rare,
There was no number 2.
For years I’d felt a growing pride
In my country, right or wrong,
And wrote a lot of glowing words,
I even tried a song
But the battle groups and radar domes
Could not be contained
The anti anti missle missles,
The rays that leave no stains
What concept could I summarize?
What image could I use?
To show the world the way I felt
That we’re not going to lose
The way of life so righteous
So pure and worry free
That paper bags or plastic are
Of no concern to me.
The seasons came the seasons went
And still the struggle grew,
My eyelid started quivering
And then my gums withdrew
But late one night it came to me
The thing our nation lacked
A symbol of the leadership
To get us back on track
A vision of the future
The way we must be led
A mobile home, of stainless steel
In the shape of Cheney’s head!
Our country’s been deprived of him
By those who make him stay
In that heavy duty bunker
So very far away
He must be safe from harm of course,
So this could be the thing
To bring his words and spirit out
And let the country sing
The songs of liberation
The terrorists must die
The weapons of mass destruction will be shot into the sky.
I shopped around and found a firm,
A family I could trust
To fabricate and execute
My vision of this bust
This rolling art would incorporate
The latest of today,
The cellular and satellite
And some birdies tucked away
For that special rare occasion
When good friends should happen by
If the urge should come upon us
To shoot at things that fly
The day arrived when it was done
It gleamed and sparkled in the sun
I took the keys
Sat in the mouth
Released the brake
And headed south
I took a route along the shore
Perhaps to hear the ocean’s roar
Instead I heard a sound most queer
Emitted from my hero’s ear
As I drove the volume rose
The sound now bellowed from the nose
I tried to place where I had heard
A sound so like that chilling word
Obama was, it seemed to me the cry
That soon enveloped me.
Where to go to fix this curse
I queried near and far
There’s only one can tackle this,
And he’s likely at the bar.
So many people said the same
I finally headed east
And set a course for sunrise
With hope to slay this beast!
I found him where they said I would
Seated on a stool
Sipping oysters from their shells
And looking rather cool.
I told him what had made me cringe
And begged him for some aid
He said it could be anything
I could not be delayed
He said I’d have to leave it
He’d look it over well
I bit my lip and trembled
My eyes began to well
You don’t know how important
This is to our way of life
Our country and our values
Your children and your wife
He slowly slid another oyster
Off it’s pearly shell
If I can’t fix it mister
I’ll send myself to hell.
For days I gnawed my knuckles
My hair came out in clumps
My lower lip was sushi
My fingernails were stumps.
When long at last the message came
To come and pick it up
I spilled my coffee on my leg
Then tripped upon the cup.
A Larry Craig was on each ear
A Ferraro on the nose
A Clinton clambered on each eyebrow
Grabbing with their toes…..
3/15/08
Ed Braverman
TO BE CONTINUED
Who was not very prone to a panic
When I heard this I thought
I might give him a shot
At a problem I knew was satanic.
Cars and trucks and bikes, you see
Are serviced every day
With logic and a diagram
You’ll soon be on your way
But mobile homes are different,
They’re relatively few,
And mine was even further rare,
There was no number 2.
For years I’d felt a growing pride
In my country, right or wrong,
And wrote a lot of glowing words,
I even tried a song
But the battle groups and radar domes
Could not be contained
The anti anti missle missles,
The rays that leave no stains
What concept could I summarize?
What image could I use?
To show the world the way I felt
That we’re not going to lose
The way of life so righteous
So pure and worry free
That paper bags or plastic are
Of no concern to me.
The seasons came the seasons went
And still the struggle grew,
My eyelid started quivering
And then my gums withdrew
But late one night it came to me
The thing our nation lacked
A symbol of the leadership
To get us back on track
A vision of the future
The way we must be led
A mobile home, of stainless steel
In the shape of Cheney’s head!
Our country’s been deprived of him
By those who make him stay
In that heavy duty bunker
So very far away
He must be safe from harm of course,
So this could be the thing
To bring his words and spirit out
And let the country sing
The songs of liberation
The terrorists must die
The weapons of mass destruction will be shot into the sky.
I shopped around and found a firm,
A family I could trust
To fabricate and execute
My vision of this bust
This rolling art would incorporate
The latest of today,
The cellular and satellite
And some birdies tucked away
For that special rare occasion
When good friends should happen by
If the urge should come upon us
To shoot at things that fly
The day arrived when it was done
It gleamed and sparkled in the sun
I took the keys
Sat in the mouth
Released the brake
And headed south
I took a route along the shore
Perhaps to hear the ocean’s roar
Instead I heard a sound most queer
Emitted from my hero’s ear
As I drove the volume rose
The sound now bellowed from the nose
I tried to place where I had heard
A sound so like that chilling word
Obama was, it seemed to me the cry
That soon enveloped me.
Where to go to fix this curse
I queried near and far
There’s only one can tackle this,
And he’s likely at the bar.
So many people said the same
I finally headed east
And set a course for sunrise
With hope to slay this beast!
I found him where they said I would
Seated on a stool
Sipping oysters from their shells
And looking rather cool.
I told him what had made me cringe
And begged him for some aid
He said it could be anything
I could not be delayed
He said I’d have to leave it
He’d look it over well
I bit my lip and trembled
My eyes began to well
You don’t know how important
This is to our way of life
Our country and our values
Your children and your wife
He slowly slid another oyster
Off it’s pearly shell
If I can’t fix it mister
I’ll send myself to hell.
For days I gnawed my knuckles
My hair came out in clumps
My lower lip was sushi
My fingernails were stumps.
When long at last the message came
To come and pick it up
I spilled my coffee on my leg
Then tripped upon the cup.
A Larry Craig was on each ear
A Ferraro on the nose
A Clinton clambered on each eyebrow
Grabbing with their toes…..
3/15/08
Ed Braverman
TO BE CONTINUED
Friday, March 28, 2008
Poker
There were five of us playing that night,
Padge, Kieran, Neal and me --
and, stretched out in his coffin, Uncle Charlie.
We dealt him a hand each time
and took turns to bet for him,
waiving his losses, pooling his wins,
for what good were coins to him?
What could he win but his life?
Still, five of us played that night
and when we stopped it was daylight.
We left the cards with him
to remind him, forever, of that game
and Padge, Kieran, Neal and me
went up the road to our beds
and slept until we buried him,
then played until we had to agree
the good hands had gone with Uncle Charlie.
--Matthew Sweeney [Nora O'Connor]
Padge, Kieran, Neal and me --
and, stretched out in his coffin, Uncle Charlie.
We dealt him a hand each time
and took turns to bet for him,
waiving his losses, pooling his wins,
for what good were coins to him?
What could he win but his life?
Still, five of us played that night
and when we stopped it was daylight.
We left the cards with him
to remind him, forever, of that game
and Padge, Kieran, Neal and me
went up the road to our beds
and slept until we buried him,
then played until we had to agree
the good hands had gone with Uncle Charlie.
--Matthew Sweeney [Nora O'Connor]
Monday, March 17, 2008
The Tree and the Garden
There was an oak tree
In the front of the house
Which blazes forth in spring and is
Struck by changing colors as though
It was lightning instead of time
Which brought the fall
It’s known to all rememberers
Who have ever
Suffered its shade
While out the back
There is a garden, which
With an unassuming, steady gait
Filled plates
And beds of marigolds
Accompanied tomatoes
In a forever dance
Keeping pace, without rest
With never a fallow season blessed
And as for time and passers-by
Who could know? that it was
Neither the sun nor water
Nor seeds nor spring that gave it such
Plenty while
Dispensing safety
But rather
The hoe and rake
And touch
And grace
And give and take
And tender love
Of the gardener’s hand.
Michael O'Connor
In the front of the house
Which blazes forth in spring and is
Struck by changing colors as though
It was lightning instead of time
Which brought the fall
It’s known to all rememberers
Who have ever
Suffered its shade
While out the back
There is a garden, which
With an unassuming, steady gait
Filled plates
And beds of marigolds
Accompanied tomatoes
In a forever dance
Keeping pace, without rest
With never a fallow season blessed
And as for time and passers-by
Who could know? that it was
Neither the sun nor water
Nor seeds nor spring that gave it such
Plenty while
Dispensing safety
But rather
The hoe and rake
And touch
And grace
And give and take
And tender love
Of the gardener’s hand.
Michael O'Connor
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
The Change
The season turned like the page of a glossy fashion magazine.
In the park the daffodils came up
and in the parking lot, the new car models were on parade.
Sometimes I think that nothing really changes -
The young girls show the latest crop of tummies,
and the new president proves that he's a dummy.
but remember the tennis match we watched that year?
Right before our eyes
some tough little European blonde
pitted against that big black girl from Alabama,
cornrowed hair and Zulu bangles on her arms,
some outrageous name like Vondella Aphrodite -
We were just walking past the lounge
and got sucked in by the screen above the bar,
and pretty soon
we started to care about who won,
putting ourselves into each whacked return
as the volleys went back and forth and back
like some contest between
the old world and the new,
and you loved her complicated hair
and her to-hell-with-everybody stare,
and I,
I couldn't help wanting
the white girl to come out on top,
because she was one of my kind, my tribe,
with her pale eyes and thin lips
and because the black girl was so big
and so black,
so unintimidated,
hitting the ball like she was driving the Emancipation Proclamation
down Abraham Lincoln's throat,
like she wasn't asking anyone's permission.
There are moments when history
passes you so close
you can smell its breath,
you can reach your hand out
and touch it on its flank,
and I don't watch all that much Masterpiece Theatre,
but I could feel the end of an era there
in front of those bleachers full of people
in their Sunday tennis-watching clothes
as that black girl wore down her opponent
then kicked her ass good
then thumped her once more for good measure
and stood up on the red clay court
holding her racket over her head like a guitar.
And the little pink judge
had to climb up on a box
to put the ribbon on her neck,
still managing to smile into the camera flash,
even though everything was changing
and in fact, everything had already changed -
Poof, remember? It was the twentieth century almost gone,
we were there,
and when we went to put it back where it belonged,
it was past us
and we were changed.
Tony Hoagland
Note: You can hear this poem read aloud by Garrison Keillor by clicking here and scrolling down a bit.
In the park the daffodils came up
and in the parking lot, the new car models were on parade.
Sometimes I think that nothing really changes -
The young girls show the latest crop of tummies,
and the new president proves that he's a dummy.
but remember the tennis match we watched that year?
Right before our eyes
some tough little European blonde
pitted against that big black girl from Alabama,
cornrowed hair and Zulu bangles on her arms,
some outrageous name like Vondella Aphrodite -
We were just walking past the lounge
and got sucked in by the screen above the bar,
and pretty soon
we started to care about who won,
putting ourselves into each whacked return
as the volleys went back and forth and back
like some contest between
the old world and the new,
and you loved her complicated hair
and her to-hell-with-everybody stare,
and I,
I couldn't help wanting
the white girl to come out on top,
because she was one of my kind, my tribe,
with her pale eyes and thin lips
and because the black girl was so big
and so black,
so unintimidated,
hitting the ball like she was driving the Emancipation Proclamation
down Abraham Lincoln's throat,
like she wasn't asking anyone's permission.
There are moments when history
passes you so close
you can smell its breath,
you can reach your hand out
and touch it on its flank,
and I don't watch all that much Masterpiece Theatre,
but I could feel the end of an era there
in front of those bleachers full of people
in their Sunday tennis-watching clothes
as that black girl wore down her opponent
then kicked her ass good
then thumped her once more for good measure
and stood up on the red clay court
holding her racket over her head like a guitar.
And the little pink judge
had to climb up on a box
to put the ribbon on her neck,
still managing to smile into the camera flash,
even though everything was changing
and in fact, everything had already changed -
Poof, remember? It was the twentieth century almost gone,
we were there,
and when we went to put it back where it belonged,
it was past us
and we were changed.
Tony Hoagland
Note: You can hear this poem read aloud by Garrison Keillor by clicking here and scrolling down a bit.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Make the Pie Higher
A poem in honor of our 43rd President made up entirely of his quotes.
I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
And potential mental losses.
Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the Internet
Become more few?
How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.
I know that the human being
And the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope,
Where our wings take dream.
Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize society!
Make the pie higher!
I am the Decider!
I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
And potential mental losses.
Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the Internet
Become more few?
How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.
I know that the human being
And the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope,
Where our wings take dream.
Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize society!
Make the pie higher!
I am the Decider!
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The Geese Cry Out
Tares make their own way
squeeze into each furrow sown
Wheat,
Rye,
Alfalfa,
Corn, Beets, Spuds.
Uranium,
rich and dangerous,
cuts veins through
Schist, Shale,
Sandstone, Slate.
Irrigation ditches divide pastures
dug at right angles to fences,
laid out just so by pioneer fathers,
demarcate that which concerns us,
from that which does not.
The left hand knows not
what the right hand has wrought:
Things knew their places,
Until my generation.
We cry out in confusion as we migrate,
East to Massachussetts,
South to California.
Like so many geese flying overhead,
Cousins honk out secrets,
one did not know that the other didn’t know:
"Honk!...Gave them nothing!"
"Honk!...Died destitute!"
"Honk!... Thru the window!"
Forgive us–we did not,
do not, know the lay of this land.
The clan’s unmentioned names,
the Dead,
furtive amid late
Great Grandmother’s letters,
whisper,
so we did not hear them:
"You kin come home now--
He did not die."
Andrea L. Seek 5/23/2007
squeeze into each furrow sown
Wheat,
Rye,
Alfalfa,
Corn, Beets, Spuds.
Uranium,
rich and dangerous,
cuts veins through
Schist, Shale,
Sandstone, Slate.
Irrigation ditches divide pastures
dug at right angles to fences,
laid out just so by pioneer fathers,
demarcate that which concerns us,
from that which does not.
The left hand knows not
what the right hand has wrought:
Things knew their places,
Until my generation.
We cry out in confusion as we migrate,
East to Massachussetts,
South to California.
Like so many geese flying overhead,
Cousins honk out secrets,
one did not know that the other didn’t know:
"Honk!...Gave them nothing!"
"Honk!...Died destitute!"
"Honk!... Thru the window!"
Forgive us–we did not,
do not, know the lay of this land.
The clan’s unmentioned names,
the Dead,
furtive amid late
Great Grandmother’s letters,
whisper,
so we did not hear them:
"You kin come home now--
He did not die."
Andrea L. Seek 5/23/2007
The Heart Asks Pleasure First
The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering,
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering,
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
Emily Dickinson
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering,
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering,
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
Emily Dickinson
Wild Nights! Wild Nights!
WILD nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port,—
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!
Emily Dickinson
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port,—
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!
Emily Dickinson
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Standing Tall
In honor of Martin Luther King
Some kings rule their kingdoms sitting down
Surrounded by luxury, soft cushions and fans
But this King stood strong
stood proud
stood tall
When the driver told Rosa
"Move to the back of the bus!"
When the waiter told students
"We don't serve your kind!"
When the Mayor told voters
"Your vote don't count!"
And when the sheriff told marchers
"Get off our streets!"
using fire hoses, police dogs and cattle prods
to move them along
This King stood strong
stood proud
stood tall
Speaking of peace
of love
and children
hand in hand
free at last
free at last
When some yelled for violence
For angry revenge
An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
He stood his ground
Preaching peace
And when some spat out hate
He stood there smiling
Spreading love
Until it rolled like the sea across the land
Sweeping away Jim Crow
Breaking down the walls
Ringing the bell
Joyfully
For Freedom
Until
Standing on the mountain top
They shot him
Coldly
Hoping to see him fall
Hoping to put him away
To bring him low
But this King
even in death
even today
stands strong
stands proud
stands tall
And we remember
Jamie McKenzie [Megan Gillis]
Some kings rule their kingdoms sitting down
Surrounded by luxury, soft cushions and fans
But this King stood strong
stood proud
stood tall
When the driver told Rosa
"Move to the back of the bus!"
When the waiter told students
"We don't serve your kind!"
When the Mayor told voters
"Your vote don't count!"
And when the sheriff told marchers
"Get off our streets!"
using fire hoses, police dogs and cattle prods
to move them along
This King stood strong
stood proud
stood tall
Speaking of peace
of love
and children
hand in hand
free at last
free at last
When some yelled for violence
For angry revenge
An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
He stood his ground
Preaching peace
And when some spat out hate
He stood there smiling
Spreading love
Until it rolled like the sea across the land
Sweeping away Jim Crow
Breaking down the walls
Ringing the bell
Joyfully
For Freedom
Until
Standing on the mountain top
They shot him
Coldly
Hoping to see him fall
Hoping to put him away
To bring him low
But this King
even in death
even today
stands strong
stands proud
stands tall
And we remember
Jamie McKenzie [Megan Gillis]
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