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The Bibliography of Strings

Iain S. Thomas   |   April 7, 2015    9:24 PM ET

2015-04-08-1428455233-3098910-xpan_0809_0011.jpg

And you taught me what this feels like.
And then how it feels to lose it.
And you showed me who I wanted.
And then who I wasn't.
And you ticked every box.
And then drew a line.
And you weren't mine to begin with.
And then not to end with.
And you looked like everything I wanted.
And then became something I hated.
And you get thought of every day.
And then not in a good way.
And you let me leave.
And then wish I'd stayed.
And you almost killed me.
But I didn't die.

_____
The picture and words in this poem appear in the book I Wrote This For You. Photography © Jon Ellis.

  |   April 6, 2015    4:16 PM ET

easter in pittsburgh

Even on Easter Sunday
when the church was a

jungle of lilies and
ferns fat Uncle Paul

who loved his liquor
so would pound away

with both fists on the
stone pulpit shouting

sin sin sin and the
fiery fires of hell

and I cried all after-
noon the first time I

heard what they did to
Jesus it was something

the children shouldn’t
know about till they

were older but the new
maid told me and both

of us cried a lot and so
mother got another one

right away & she sent
away Miss Richardson

who came all the way
from England because

she kept telling how
her fiancé Mr. Bowles-

Lyon died suddenly of
a heart attack he just

said one day at lunch
I’m afraid I’m not well

and the next thing they
knew he was sliding un-

der the table. Easter
was nice the eggs were

silly but the big lilies
were wonderful & when

Uncle Paul got so fat
from drinking that he

couldn’t squeeze into
the pulpit anymore &

had to preach from the
floor there was an el-

ders’ meeting and they
said they would have

the pulpit rebuilt but
Uncle Paul said no it

was the Lord’s manifest
will and he would pass

his remaining years in
sacred studies I liked

Thanksgiving better be-
cause that was the day

father took us down to
the mills but Easter I

liked next best and the
rabbits died because we

fed them beet tops and
the lamb pulled up the

grass by the roots and
was sold to Mr. Page the

butcher I asked Uncle
Robert what were sacred

studies he said he was
not really sure but he

guessed they came in a
bottle and mother sent

me away from the table
when I wouldn’t eat my

lamb chops that was
ridiculous she said it

wasn’t the lamb of God
it was just Caesar An-

dromache Nibbles but I
couldn’t I just couldn’t

& the year of the strike
we didn’t go to Church

at all on Easter because
they said it wasn’t safe

down town so instead we
had prayers in the library

and then right in the mid-
dle the telephone rang it

was Mr. Shupstead at the
mill they had had to use

tear gas father made a
special prayer right a-

way for God’s protection
& mercy and then he sent

us out to the farm with
mother we stayed a week

and missed school but it
rained a lot and I broke

the bathroom mirror and
had to learn a long psalm.

James Laughlin, “Easter in Pittsburgh” from Poems New and Selected. Copyright © 1996 by James Laughlin. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.

Source: Poetry (March 1940).

This poem first appeared on www.poetryfoundation.org.

  |   April 6, 2015    3:49 PM ET

new york

Curtains forcing their will
against the wind,
children sleep,
exchanging dreams with
seraphim. The city
drags itself awake on
subway straps; and
I, an alarm, awake as a
rumor of war,
lie stretching into dawn,
unasked and unheeded.

Maya Angelou, “Awaking in New York” from Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing? Copyright © 1983 by Maya Angelou. Used by permission of Random House, Inc.

Source: The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou (1994)

This poem first appeared on www.poetryfoundation.org.

Austin Allen   |   April 6, 2015    3:26 PM ET

soldier dusk

From an early age, Wilfred Owen seems to have demanded a lot out of the people around him. His younger brother Harold, as Philip Larkin recounted in a review of Jon Stallworthy’s Owen biography (1975), claimed that: “[Wilfred] as an adolescent veered from ‘too high spirits’ to depression and attacks of bad temper in which he was inclined to lecture the whole family furiously for their failure to attain proper standards.” Harold also recalled that Wilfred seemed to enjoy pointing out Harold’s errors in his schoolwork and reveling in “the pleasures of his destructive criticism.” If these recollections are accurate, Wilfred would hardly be the first poet to turn the flaws of his character into the strengths of his art.

In the Great War, Owen found an ideal object for his withering condemnation. Unprecedented in its brutality and—as one of Owen’s titles had it—“Futility,” World War I was not the “war to end all wars” but the beginning of modern, mechanized, cataclysmic warfare. Owen himself witnessed some of its worst slaughter, joining the Western Front in 1917 and suffering shell shock before achieving his artistic breakthrough. Killed a week before the Armistice in November 1918, he became one of the war’s great martyrs; arguably, in English-speaking culture, he is the symbolic sacrifice to its cruelty.

He also became a representative figure of what we now call “poetry of witness.” The poems he wrote in 1917–18 are uncompromising works, steeped in pity and fury, crackling with purpose as their author writes almost literally under the gun. The fist-shaking conclusions of “Insensibility” and his famous poem “Dulce et Decorum Est” have been models for generations of writers who aspire to save or at least shame the world. Yet like all such poems, they call to mind W.B. Yeats’s distinction between rhetoric (“the quarrel with others”) and poetry (“the quarrel with ourselves”). What makes “Insensibility” a poem and not a plain sermon—or a sour “lecture” of the kind he supposedly loved giving in childhood?

Insensibility” begins by stating its theme in the negative. This will be a poem about a lack of something: sensibility, which Merriam-Webster defines as “ability to receive sensations” and, metaphorically, “refined or excessive sensitiveness in emotion and taste.” We sometimes hear the word in phrases like “artistic sensibility” or “poetic sensibility,” which imply a heightened receptiveness to creative inspiration. Will Owen’s poem concern the lack of this quality?

Only partly. As it turns out, “Insensibility” is a war poem: published in 1918, it is one of the greatest of the World War I era, and of any era. It’s a study of not one but several forms of insensibility—a whole range of ways to avoid feelings, especially your own and others’ pain. Numbness can be physical, psychological, or both; for soldiers, it can be a trauma response (“shell shock”) or coping mechanism; for civilians in wartime, it can manifest as denial or indifference toward human suffering. Owen sketches the tragic isolation of these various states as he builds to a passionate affirmation of human connectedness. Writing in the midst of the war that will ultimately kill him, he applies his own fierce artistic sensibility—his deepest reserves of feeling—to the theme of insensibility.

The poem plays out over six sections, each brief but densely woven. The first five describe soldiers at war, with the fifth also turning inward to address the speaker and his fellow writers and intellectuals. The sixth shifts to a denunciation of civilians who turn a blind eye to war’s devastation.

The poem’s structure is also founded, with caustic irony, on a biblical model. From the first lines onward, Owen imitates the Beatitudes of the Gospel of Matthew, as well as their equivalent in the Gospel of Luke: “Happy are men who yet before they are killed / Can let their veins run cold.” The Greek word that is traditionally translated as “Blessed” (as in the biblical phrase “Blessed are the meek”) can also be rendered as “Happy.” The eight “blessed” groups in Matthew are “the poor in spirit,” “they that mourn,” “the meek,” “they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness,” “the merciful,” “the pure in heart,” “the peacemakers,” and “they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake” (King James Version). Within this allusive framework the poem spins a dense web of parallels and contrasts.

Which of the Gospel’s labels might apply to combat veterans, according to the poet? Not the peacemakers, one would think—although some military slogans would disagree. They that mourn often fits. The others are more ambiguous, or debatable. Some of Owen’s battle-hardened men are poor in spirit in a different sense than Jesus meant: not spiritually humble but spiritually emptied, soldiers who have “cease[d] feeling” and “los[t] imagination.” Others, like the young recruit “whose mind was never trained” and who “cannot tell / Old men’s placidity from his,” are meek in that they’ve been taught unthinking obedience. Soldiers drilled in such meekness may be happy, or at least blissfully ignorant, but as Owen knew from the carnage he witnessed, they probably won’t inherit the earth.

At the end of the poem Owen turns to curse the “wretched” who not only are sheltered from the realities of war, but ignore them altogether. The biblical parallel here is with the “four woes” after the Beatitudes in Luke: four curses against the rich, callous, and complacent. Owen’s “dullards,” too, reject the ethics of humble compassion. In particular, as we’ll see, they fail to mourn.

In the popular poetry of World War I’s early years, the soldier was a man who exalted his country and whose country exalted him in return. “If I should die,” the speaker of Rupert Brooke’s “The Soldier” pleads, “think only this of me: / That there’s some corner of a foreign field / That is for ever England.” Loved and nurtured by England, he returns that love even in the afterlife. The dead in John McCrae’s “In Flanders Fields” remain so committed to their cause that they “shall not sleep” if the living betray it.

The whole arsenal of Owen’s war poetry is aimed at exploding this sentimental myth. In “Dulce et Decorum Est,” he famously slams the Roman poet Horace’s “old Lie”—“Sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s country”—by evoking the senseless horrors of modern warfare. In “Insensibility” his attack is less visceral but no less frightening. Here he portrays an atmosphere of universal war fatigue, a jaded world in which both soldiers and the home front are completely drained of passion. In this world, there are no stout-hearted corpses cheering on their living brothers under picturesque poppies:

… they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets’ tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.

Ideals are dead, killed in action. There is no suggestion of a higher cause, or any cause; the war has become a murder machine running on sheer inertia. The dead are “gaps for filling” in the eyes of their superiors—or, worse, their comrades and the public. Veterans numbed by repeated traumas no longer register pain (“their old wounds”) or fear atrocities (the “scorching cautery of battle”). Doomed themselves, they “can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.” Young recruits are docile idiots, neither “sad, nor proud, / Nor curious at all.” All are “happy” in the meager sense that they’ve been spared the worst alternative: feeling the full extent of the nightmare.

At the end of this grim list, the poet pauses to take stock. In such a blighted moral landscape, where lofty ideals are useless and terrible ideas can cause the deaths of millions, what kind of vision should the artist or thinker strive toward? Owen ambivalently suggests that “we wise” must try to identify with the naïve young trainee, if only to comprehend the nature of the world he faces:

We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?

In The Poetry of Shell Shock (2005), Daniel Hipp examines the “state of paradox” the poem creates here—one whose resolution, for Owen, could not have been more urgent:

To see and communicate means that Owen must see through eyes incapable of poetic vision … The poet is an intermediary between the soldier and the homefront, a spokesperson but potentially a fellow sufferer himself. The question remains, within this poem, one of perspective—“How should we see?”

Yet, according to Hipp, Owen “deflects the conclusion” he might have offered, instead ending the poem with a blazing volley of indignation:

But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever moans in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears.

Hipp contends that this provides “no final resolution … to the question [Owen] poses to himself,” only a slight clarification of his poetic mission. Owen’s alert, unflinching “sensibility” will exempt him from his own curse, “enabl[ing] him to possess ‘whatever’ moans, mourns, and shares” the interconnected sorrows of our moral ecosystem.

It’s possible, however, that this stanza answers Owen’s question implicitly rather than explicitly, by demonstrating a stance and style adequate to his “task.” “That they should be as stones” echoes King Lear’s indignation at the failure of those around him to grieve sufficiently for Cordelia: “Howl, howl, howl, howl! O! you are men of stones.” Perhaps the image of a dangerously ignorant young soldier compels Owen—and should compel us—to similar urgency, anger, and compassion.

Either way, the ending keeps ambiguity alive; the crucial word clearly is “whatever.” Owen can’t quite pin down the proper response to mass tragedy—won’t label it precisely as “compassion” or “empathy,” or claim that it can save us, or even bless it along with the Gospels. But he’s quite clear about cursing those who lack it.

This complex and resonant ending is one answer to our earlier question: what makes “Insensibility” a work of art, instead of a plain sermon or lecture? True, Owen unequivocally denounces moral complacency, the refusal to confront or even acknowledge widespread human suffering. In this he echoes John Donne’s insistence that “I am involved in Mankinde” and anticipates Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s appeals to “the great decent majority who through blindness, fear, pride or irrationality have allowed their consciences to sleep.” But like these poet-preachers—Owen himself had considered a career in the church—he delivers a wake-up call far transcending its immediate occasion. “Insensibility” avoids explicit references to the Great War, and broadens in its last lines to encompass all mass tragedies (“… when many leave these shores”) and finally tragedy itself (“The eternal reciprocity of tears”). Again, Owen recruits us to no positive action, leaving us to locate the appropriate response (“Whatever mourns”) in ourselves and for ourselves.

Then too, there is the sensuous artistry of Owen’s language. His sonorous, slant-rhymed lines unscroll with Shakespearean grandeur:

Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.

“The last sea and the hapless stars” rivals the apocalyptic best of Shelley, Keats, Crane, and Plath. Like those four, Owen is one of the tragically snuffed-out talents of English literature. What might he have written if he hadn’t died at age 25, his voice conscripted by historical accident to a narrow thematic cause? On the other hand, the work of poets who died young inevitably gains drama from our knowledge of their doom, and “Insensibility” moves us with an especially eerie combination of anguish and poise in the face of personal danger.

Finally, the poem fulfills Yeats’s maxim about poetry versus rhetoric by embodying a tense inner conflict, rather than speechmaking or grandstanding. For Owen the ironies of the “Happy” refrain must have been deeply self-wounding: as a traumatized soldier he knew that to “cease feeling” is not happiness but hell, and as a writer he knew that to “lose imagination” is to lose everything. The section beginning “We wise” is equally cutting, implicating the speaker in the bloody follies of his era even as he confronts his “task” as resistant witness. Both weary and fiery, autobiographical and impersonally grand, “Insensibility” seems to command its author as well as its reader to keep feeling, keep imagining, and keep fighting the artist’s fight.

This piece first appeared on www.poetryfoundation.org.

Nate Marshall   |   April 6, 2015   10:32 AM ET

poetry

I was born in 1989 at the end of hip-hop’s infancy. By the time I dropped into being, hip-hop had a Grammy and platinum records. Reagan had already wreaked his brand of havoc on the American underclasses and crack was well integrated into our communities. By the time I came of age, much of the cultural context for hip-hop was already in motion — drug war, mass incarceration, neoliberalism, post-Civil Rights respectability politics, urban divestment and subsequent repatriating gentrification, zero tolerance schooling and 
policing. I don’t have a particular moment when I “discovered” hip-hop or saw it take over the world. For folks of my age bracket (born in the late eighties to early nineties) hip-hop was a central part of the zeitgeist; the rapper was just as viable a musical star as the singer. I was a child when hip-hop surpassed country as America’s biggest selling music genre. The centrality of hip-hop to cultural identity isn’t an argument to me so much as it’s the up that is sky.

Hip-hop is an imperfect culture, reflective of an imperfect people. Hip-hop, like the dominant worldwide culture, is cis-male-hetero dominated. This is wack. This is a vital point to start with and one that I will return to later, one that we all must return to in every conversation.

Hip-hop music is an ecosystem. Hip-hop speaks to multiple artistic media and an entire shifting coda of language, dress, attitude, and political thought. Hip-hop music also falls at the intersection between musical form and political/poetic speech because much of the music is especially text heavy. Hip-hop is as much about what is being said as it is about how it sounds. In traditional poetry we express this spectrum as lyric versus narrative. While we recognize some rappers as important because of their sonic genius rather than deep content (Missy Elliot or Biz Markie), we recognize others as vital because of what they had to say despite a limited sonic or rhythmic range (Tupac or Chuck D). Each rapper carries elements of both properties but it is important to point this out for critics who might question the level of artistic value in some of hip-hop’s more textually simplistic figures.

But the central question of my work as an editor and poet remains: What does any of this hip-hop shit have to do with poetry? The 
answer is, quite simply, everything. W.E.B. Du Bois, when he writes his early masterpiece, The Souls of Black Folk, takes up the task of theorizing how black folks got over, how they made it to his early twentieth century present day. His first answer and recurring refrain is music. He positions the sorrow songs as central to the culture of black folks through and rising out of slavery, and he points out the direct tie between Black America’s artistic value and their ability to educate themselves (e.g. The Fisk Jubilee Singers as the foundational fundraising arm of Fisk University).

Du Bois wrote, “the problem of the Twentieth Century is the problem of the color-line.” He posited that after the broken promise of Reconstruction, the quandary of what to do with the new semi-free black class of Americans would be the central question for the country to answer. America answered. America’s answer to Du Bois’s “problem of the color-line” was death. Economic, civil, sexual, psychic, and physical death were the strategies employed in that century through sharecropping and debt peonage, ghettoizing and redlining, lynching and rape, over-sexualizing and asexualizing, mass incarceration and police brutality, poll tax and offender disenfranchisement, suburbanization and gentrification, etc.

However, the conversation between power and the disempowered does not end with America’s answer. Black folks responded artistically and politically by asserting the importance of their lives. This assertion of life is present in every major black artistic movement from the Harlem Renaissance to the Black Arts Movement to the current movement of BreakBeat poetics. This assertion of life may be best articulated in Lucille Clifton’s masterwork, "won’t you celebrate with me," where she says,

come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

For Clifton, celebration is central as a non-white, non-male person who defies the odds by continuing to draw breath. This declaration of living and the resolve to celebrate that life is in direct opposition to the dominant American agenda.

Hip-hop would pick up this mantle in full almost immediately because of its genesis as a party music of the divested urban underclass. The Notorious B.I.G. insightfully raises this exact point when he borrows the ending of The Last Poets’ important composition “When the Revolution Comes” to serve as the centerpiece of his early solo track “Party and Bullshit.” In this song, Biggie describes the before, during, and after of a hypothetical party scene as a means to contemplate his own mortality and the mortality of his peers. Biggie’s potential violence in this record is not senseless; it’s a strategy to preserve his life and the lives of those he loves. The listener looking to dismiss this song as shallow is not listening.

BreakBeat writers are the offspring of Clifton and Biggie. We are the offspring of Nathaniel Mackey and Missy Elliot. Phillis Wheatley and Lil’ Kim. Pablo Neruda and Rakim. Carl Sandburg and Common. Frank Marshall Davis and Melle Mel. Essex Hemphill and Queen Latifah. The Dark Room Collective and the Wu-Tang Clan. Carl Phillips and MF Doom. James Baldwin and Tupac Shakur. Nikki Giovanni and Kendrick Lamar. Li-Young Lee and MC Lyte. The Native Tongues and the Nuyoricans. We are many.

We write to assert the existence of ourselves, to assert our right to our own lives and bodies. These considerations influence not only the subject matter but also the aesthetic approach to making poems. I understand this influence to manifest itself in a number of ways:

1. We believe in the necessity for poems to live in multiple 
media (page, performance, video, audio, various multi-genre presentational forms).
2. We believe in work rooted in a democratic cipher of ideas rather than privileging high intellectual or artistic pedigree. For us everything is on the table and equally valid until proven wack.
3. We believe in a foundational canon that is multicultural and multiethnic by definition and that celebrates and elevates the art and lives of people of color.
4. We believe in art that speaks to people’s lived personal and political experience.
5. We believe in art that invites, acknowledges, and celebrates the voices of poor people and other disenfranchised people.
6. We believe in art that samples, steals, and borrows to create the most compelling and important work possible.
7. We believe in Ezra Pound’s charge to “make it new” and/or Andre 3000’s revelation that “you only funky as your last cut.”

This list is not perfect, but it is intended to gesture toward the foundational ethics that I’ve observed in my generation of makers born directly into hip-hop. The poems we have worked to compile are not perfect. Hip-hop is an imperfect culture, reflective of an imperfect people. The BreakBeat Poets, from which the poems in this issue are taken, is an anthology edited by three cisgender, hetero men who claim Chicago as their personal artistic capital. I think it is 
important to name. I hope that by doing so we can continue the conversation and encourage others to add to the incomplete cipher we’ve set forth. That is, for me, the ethic of hip-hop. The most primary rule is that the cipher must expand and must stay current. Hip-hop is shark art; when it stops moving it dies. We aim for this portfolio to add to the conversation about hip-hop and literature and life. Most of all, I aim for this writing to be an expansive invitation for all.

This piece first appeared on www.poetryfoundation.org.

What to Read When You Don't Read Poetry

Iain S. Thomas   |   April 2, 2015    1:44 PM ET

Maybe you don't read poetry. That wouldn't make you unique by any stretch of the imagination. But allow me to be bold and suggest that maybe you just haven't found the right poetry yet.

Poetry is a continent with many countries and you could never hope to visit them all. And while I can't prove it, I think there's a kind of poetry for every kind of person on this planet, and a poem for every mood and situation they find themselves in.

Here are some people and places you should consider visiting during National Poetry Month 2015, from the local and familiar to the foreign and exotic.

Start with a classic. Get acquainted with 'Leaves Of Grass,' by Walt Whitman, considered by many to be the father of both free verse and American poetry. He spent his life refining and perfecting this book and you owe it to yourself to read it. It's a universe of perfectly broken language.

Or maybe you'd like something grittier. Seedier. Less noble and more contemporary.

At the darker end of the rainbow to Walt Whitman, there's 'You Get So Alone At Times' by Charles Bukowski. It's filled with alcoholism, sex, gambling and the flotsam and jetsam of the human condition, all of it superbly and almost casually observed. It's like listening to someone describe the end of the world while making a sandwich.

If you're looking for something with a sense of purpose, give Saul Williams' 'Said The Shotgun To The Head' a chance. It's a brilliant and brutally inspiring example of poetry as commentary and protest.

On a similar note, 'The Rose That Grew From Concrete,' by Tupac Shakur contains the early thoughts of one of hip-hops greatest lost talents.

While still in the world of music, how do you feel about Leonard Cohen or Yoko Ono? Leonard Cohen was an award winning poet way before he started writing music. His latest, 'Book of Longing,' from 2006 will give you a rare insight into the man behind the legend and the heart that occupies his chest. And Yoko Ono's book, 'Acorn,' is a kind of magical set of directions, exercises and experiments, with the directions and exercises themselves being poetry.

Or maybe you're looking for something to move you closer to yourself, something philosophical and spiritual. If you are, read the 'Tao Te Ching.' It's speaks to the poetry of a life well lived in short, bite sized bits, like Psalms or Proverbs.

On the other hand, how about video games? If you like video games, listen to the author of 'Ready Player One,' Ernest Cline, in his early slam poetry days. I heartily recommend his spoken word album, 'Ultraman is Airwolf' (available for free on his website) and, regardless of whether you're a nerd or not, the poem 'Dance Monkeys Dance.'

Have you lost someone you loved? 'Crush' by Richard Siken, which was heavily influenced by the death of his lover, is a heartbreakingly beautiful catalogue of sorrow and loss. It plays with light and shade in a way many writers and even painters could only hope to.

Maybe no one died. Maybe you're just being trolled. Listen to the poem 'Troll' by Shane Koyczan. It's an incredibly moving portrait of Internet trolls, who they are and what they mean.

For me, personally, my current favorite poem is 'Lighght' by Aram Saroyan. You've just read the whole thing. It's one word long.

There's a lot out there, some strange and some familiar. But whatever you decide to read, let me give you one rule to keep: If you're not enjoying it, stop reading it.

It's art, not work, and if it's not working for you, it's not your art. Move on to something else. Skip. Jump around. We don't, or at least, shouldn't, read poetry to impress others or to try and prove something to ourselves.

We read poetry because it's exhilarating to recognize ourselves in someone else's words, and it delights some sacred part of us when we see a familiar part of the world in a new and strange light.

So start searching wherever you want but whatever you do, start. Because if you're lucky, somewhere on the continent of poetry, you will find yourself, living and breathing as someone else.

_________

What book would you give to someone who doesn't read poetry? Let us know in the comments.

The Fur

Iain S. Thomas   |   March 23, 2015    9:16 AM ET

2015-03-23-1427095764-9066341-1131446306_ba3845da4f.jpg

Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.

_____

The picture and words in this poem appear in the book I Wrote This For You. Photography © Jon Ellis.

Sunrise at High Noon

Amy Elias, MS   |   March 2, 2015    5:05 PM ET

Read More: poem, poetry, huffpoetry

2015-03-02-ScreenShot20150302at9.46.48AM.png

Sunrise at the high noon
Angels sent you to my side
Doubts arising like the full moon
As our hearts silently collide.

The Gods must know the plan --
That higher power thinking of us
As we meet, greet and take command
Of the free, take holds of everlasting lust.

Look way up high, so far above
the stars realign like jupiter and Mars
Showing me the magnetic love
that tugs my orbit like strings on your guitar.

We don't have to speak
We mind meld with eyes flirt
You touch me and my soul gets weak
You hold me and I never feel hurt

We grew up near, yet so far
you lived, you loved and I prayed
That someday, under the brightest star
You'd come, as love, as a total fair trade.

Been years without love,
Been years without you
finally got my chance, love
To fall head over heels, with you

Sunrise at the high noon
Angels sent you to my side
Doubts arising like the full moon
As our hearts silently collide.

To fall head over heels, with you.

Draw

Logan Nakyanzi Pollard   |   February 25, 2015    1:36 PM ET

2015-02-25-IMG_5087editcropwtr2.jpg
Self-portrait, copyright Logan Nakyanzi Pollard


I met a homeless man once
who drew my picture in pencil on a subway
street people I have encountered
strangely have been the most peaceful people
to me
this man who drew me
it was beautiful
and yet weirdly
I got up and walked away
How could that be me?
I was lost then.

So one day I said Self
Draw a picture of yo-self.

[If u ask a child s/he will not say
Oh I can't draw!
They just do.

Or, are.
I'm a fireman!
a butterfly!
and a doctor!]

Remember your own
Beauty
Even if it's a dream
That was lost
Or taken
Find it again.

The world can lie
when silly and fearful and jealous
But --
you are brave
and wise and generous.

We are what we make ourselves
And true vision is seeing the light
And the unseen.

I have scars
the time I tried parcours -- running
scraping swing-set bike surgery
the battle and other things
I wear them like ransom
but now I see beyond this
I see what overcame
why I lived
what I learned
what never, never gives in
I see what is peaceful
I see what the artist saw
finally --
and I know.

B. told me long ago they fade with time
she was so right.
Such a profound statement from my friend, who had no faith
but I know she had it --
once, I've found it like a jewel.
now I can finally see for both of us
for many of us
not always looking outward
But inside.
Look inside.
And draw.


--Originally published at findcreatejoy.com © Logan Nakyanzi Pollard. All rights reserved.

Two Poems Commemorating Vietnam's End

J. Randall O'Brien   |   February 20, 2015   12:57 PM ET

Read More: Vietnam War, huffpoetry

On Coming Home From Nam

She cried as he left
clinging to his Saint Christopher chaining around her neck
eyes kissing his as he pressed his face against the bus window for one last embrace.

He cried as he read her letter
clinging to his dreams dying in the important war
eyes waterfalling as he pressed his nose against her perfumed envelope for one last taste.

She cried when he came home
clinging to her prayers that the shrapnel had not been hers
eyes begging as the soldiers pressed the flag over the box and lowered it to its resting place.

END. J. Randall O'Brien

* * * *


Ode to Nam on the 40th Anniversary of its End

He came home from Nam
but never made it back.
I saw him last just before he left for the war.

We all celebrated his return
his presence being our only lack.
Glasses with cheers were raised repeatedly before

We noticed his eyes and long hair were with us
but not his mind.
After the party he walked to the local Vietnam Memorial
and killed himself real fine.

END

J. Randall O'Brien
February 20, 2015

We Have to Stop Meeting Like This

Lisa M. Sodeika   |   February 18, 2015    4:44 PM ET

So many meetings, so little time. We've all been there -- from the PTA to the corporate board room -- we're drowning in ineffective, poorly planned meetings, frustrated that we can't get better organized to save ourselves precious time for innovation and implementation.

If you can find at least five problems with Mary's Little Meeting, there's hope for you yet!

Mary Had A Little Meeting

Mary had a special Project,
its mission big and bold,
And everywhere that Mary went
she dreamt of Project goals.

Wanting lots of buy-in
fear of failure at the core,
Mary set her first team call
inviting thirty-four.

Attendees living coast-to-coast
received a one- day notice;
No time for proper protocol,
the Project was her focus.

A report laid out the problems
and described the project needs;
Forget that it was way too long,
the key points lost in weeds.

Adding an agenda,
Mary rushed to start her meeting;
Then waited for her peers to join,
but they were few and fleeting.

Oh so many no-shows
and four attendee "fill-ins,"
volunteered by managers,
but could not make decisions.

Another five said Hello
then put themselves on mute,
unhappy they were asked to join
during their 6:00 a.m. commute.

Three over-achievers studied the report
And read the agenda in advance;
they debated Mary throughout the call,
saying her Project had no chance.

Mary tried to explain why she scheduled the call,
desperately noting Project completion by Fall.
The meeting ran over, her colleagues squirmed --
Mary summed up next steps; no one confirmed.

Oh why did Mary love this special Project so,
but had no idea which way to go?
After much reflection, Mary conceded --
another meeting was just what was needed.

The Wet Foot / Dry Foot Song (With Apologies to Dr. Seuss)

Alfred J. López   |   February 18, 2015    2:40 PM ET

Wet foot, wet foot,
Dry foot, Dry.
Beach in the morning.
Beach at night.
Wet foot, wet foot, wet foot, Dry.
This one can stay,
Those go bye bye.

Sand feet, surf feet.
White feet, black feet.
Right foot, wrong foot.
Feet, feet, feet.
How many feet
The Coast Guard meet.

Slow feet, Quick feet.
Tricked feet, sicked feet.
Free feet, caught feet.
Sold and bought feet.
Small feet, big feet.
Capitalist pig feet.
His feet, her feet.
Famous Elian feet.

On the beach,
Then on the street
How many, many
Feet we meet.
Havanan feet,
Cap Haitien feet.
More and more feet
Can't-keep-score feet
Here come
More and more...
...and more feet!

Wet foot. Dry foot.
Feet. Feet. Feet.
How many feet
The Coast Guard meet!

The Bachelor Recapped in Rhyme

Samantha Rodman PhD   |   February 16, 2015   10:24 PM ET

rose

Chris walks down the streets of his town

And Becca turns his frown upside down

She wears yellow and radiates serenity

Or maybe that's actually a halo of virginity

Chris and Becca recline and canoodle

She's very sweet, so I think he'll say toodle

Since as we know from seeing him with Britt,

He only likes ladies who pull dramatic s%&t.

Becca is behaving pretty sycophantically

Which leads Chris to lean in and kiss her romantically.

In the women's house, the drama is back.

Britt says she's leaving, is she on crack?

Britt cries and cries about being Chris's wife

Which shows she is a wackadoo in real life.

Carly tries to strangle herself with her own hair

Sadly enough I doubt Chris would care.

Britt's delusions become paranoid

If she leaves, Carly will be overjoyed.

Jade the porn star is wearing high socks

Even in a stupid outfit she is a fox.

At the ceremony, Chris starts his speech

And Britt sucks up the spotlight like a crazy leech

She asks to have a moment alone

In a very dramatic tone

Britt apologizes to Chris from the bottom of her heart

And he doesn't know what to say, since he's not smart

Whoa- he may be shooting her down!

Maybe Prince Farming isn't such a clown.

Holy moly Britt is done!

She may be crazy but she was fun.

She cries as loudly as she's able

But Chris is unmoved, since she's just too unstable

I guess Kaitlyn is now the front runner.

She is smart, friendly, and a stunner.

Thus I hope she is sent home

So she won't have to live where the buffalo roam.

Britt keeps crying hysterically for a change

But Chris doesn't go back out, because she is deranged.

Who else will Chris now send packing?

Carly, because her sexiness is lacking.

My husband says Carly was the most compatible with Chris

And I'm all like WTF are you even watching this??

Men don't understand reality TV

But at least he usually watches with me.

Now hometown dates begin

And we'll get more clues about which girl might win.

Chris and Becca kayak with joy

As she has never previously brought home a boy

He sits at dinner with all of her relations

The family is bigger than many small nations.

Chris gets along with these affable folks

They would be the type to laugh at his "jokes."

"She's not an intimate person," says Becca's bitchy sis

Who is so jealous she could nearabout piss.

Now Chris talks to Becca's momma bear

Who tells Chris not to touch any other women or beware

The undermining sister tries to get in Becca's head

And ensure that she doesn't take Chris to bed.

Chris steals Becca from her family's clutches

And on a Ferris Wheel they share lingering touches.

In the land of the fried gator

Chris may end up being a devirginator.

Next, Whitney welcomes Chris to Illinois

And they look like J Crew models full of joy

She brings him to her place of work

Which is ironic as she would leave her career for this jerk

"I make corn, I can't imagine what it would be like to make babies," Chris states

And we all hope that he really doesn't know how to procreate.

Chris asks Whitney for her family's blessing for marriage

And Whitney visualizes the baby carriage.

Whitney's family seems pretty great

Chris is thinking he wants her to be his mate.

Then her sister brings up the idea of the small town

What's up with all the sisters cutting the women down?

It's Whitney's choice if she wants to hitch her wagon to a fool

Her sister is definitely not acting cool.

Whitney's sister won't say she approves of Chris

And Whitney is extremely pissed.

Whitney says she loves Prince Farming

Everyone seems to, which is alarming.

Now Chris goes to Canada to a recording studio

His rapping is bad but it puts Kaitlyn in the mood-io

Kaitlyn says her feelings for Chris are scary

I couldn't agree more and hope they don't marry

Kaitlyn's family seems supportive while they are dining

Maybe they won't be horrible and undermining.

 

Kaitlyn's mom seems warm and kind

And genuinely is letting Kaitlyn make up her own mind.

Kaitlyn surprises Chris with a billboard

So she loves him too, Oh Lord.

Now Chris visits Jade the Playboy Bunny

She hasn't told him that yet though, so that should be funny

Jade's dad says she's "too much" for other guys

The brother calls her a "wild mustang" which "opens Chris's eyes."

It seems to be time to tell him about the nudes

But that could put a damper on the overall mood.

Jade tells her dad she's changed and loves Prince Farming

Her dad cries, which is sweet and charming

Jade starts to tell Chris she's posed nude

Let's see if Chris is a laid back dude.

She offers to show him the naked shots

Chris can barely look her computer and is blushing lots

Chris says it doesn't bother him if she has posed nude

Whatever he is, at least he's not a prude.

Jade is relieved and loves Chris even more

Now that he didn't call her a whore.

Rose ceremony, what do you know

I say Becca will be the one to go

Holy moly he eliminated Jade

Guess the nude pictures made him afraid.

A girl willing to model that way

Isn't going to be fulfilled by cows and hay

Moral of the story is:

Tell guys earlier about your nude photos, gee whiz.

Jade cries and seems really upset.

I think she'll meet a new man while her tears are still wet.

Jade cries attractively as she departs

And Chris goes back in to his remaining sweethearts.

Next week Chris takes the ladies to Bali

And I will continue to document this folly.

However, the hell if I will ever rhyme again

My life is not long enough to stay up past ten.

Till we meet again, I remain

The Blogapist Who Hopes You Didn't Think This Was Lame

For more, visit Dr. Rodman at Dr. Psych Mom, on Facebook, and on Twitter @DrPsychMom.

Reaction Action Time

Amy Elias, MS   |   February 12, 2015    4:46 PM ET

What you do to pull me through
the reaction, the positioned postured action
of devolving, evolving spiraling
down to the bottomed out triangulation-
That's your action... Reaction.
Your step by step.

No action... reaction.
Placed just at the right place
with sticky tape stuck with old thoughts
stale air and crusty old hair stuck on your face
to silence the love action that could have come... but ne'er.

You avoid, you slack, you push away and back,
You slur, you stir, you're curt, you cry UNFAIR
To make even the field of team-playing stale, mate
for your own inside-out lack that you stack
the times you hurt -- against me, choke me, against you
all you and all those record times of reaction.
The attack and the smack away of
the new and the good- and them good ol' days-in a new way.
Thats your action. Reaction.

Chokeholds of no air
in a room where pointed fingers stare
into my face -- dare to not breathe -- in and out
While I listen to you shout with no doubt-
loud, as you breathe in a new reaction,
of no action -- with no oxygen even for a crowd
that stuns, stops and stalls and promises
more times of stave offs of the begin agains...
Action. Reaction.

Timekeeper, where are you?
Who has the stop watch that clocks
the match, the game, the mocks?
The words, the labels, the tables
uneven, still... I can't fight.
I'm no rock, nor the cock in the morning light
doodle-doing and only screwing
and fighting, as cocks do...like you.

No, I have a light, an empowered light
turned on by the moonlit sun
that promises new days begun, yet spun
with gifts of golden courageous might
to grow old, up and over-not having to be right, but together as one.

I take the flight up, and out of my life
and whisk up the stairs
to the depth in the deep dark
to the breath of fresh free air
to the pitch of the ebony-toned char nightlight
to be with you, my partner in a midnight kind of love --
and into my mind I play you -- again, on repeat.
You are the song within me, sung into me, sweet --
Your song in me with you -- oooh, my vision
Out of my misery... no longer your mission.

Action. Action up and away
to the promised land of the everyday
And of the hopeless chase,
the illusion of the fusion, again,
that time can't erase, yet one I must face.

I wait. I wish. I wonder
through the slumber
that is at best-unrest -- as my chest
rises and falls to the beat you make
of a heart broken off the wall like
Humpty Dumpty and his great fall.

In the springtime or the fall of my life
waiting for an action of no reaction.
Waiting for actions of utter delight
Given open-handedly, most candidly
in the airy free space of my bed, with room
presented free, embraced by the night
time of action, a-loving reaction action.
Never taken back by the lack of your
inside, your pride, as a continued moral deride.

No more heaves of swallowed tears
Or imaginings of another year.
No more wallows in the chase, the face of fear...
Or fearlessness of soft action, your one-of-a-kind desired suave reaction.
Hope ran dry as I reached out to the colors in your eyes, cold and cool, to leer.
But I heard them calling... I did.

I am free to be, oh so loved.
I am free to love and receive you from above.
I am free to be gently lured into the criss and the cross
of intersected strings of fuzzy, moist, potently wet life-giving earthy moss
that you plant around me, in me and water, with your sweet dripping heart.
I am free to be it all by the fullness of you.
I beg. Still.

My dream?
Go find you, that true blue cool you -- the fullest you.
Stop looking out, to see in.
And give that to me.
One Day. Any Day.
Live to Give. Give to Live.
Act. React. Attract.
Me, in every way.

Act.

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