Like many, I feel often overwhelmed by the realities in front of us these days, and also by the sheer volume of words pouring forth from everywhere, in an attempt to cope with all and to try to fix it all.
Among all of the excellent analysis and research and essays and calls to arms, I also hear the cry, roar and laughter of the poets, those to whom truth often arrives in short form: whose pain and hope emerges in verse. Whether fancy, plain, polished or not, poets voices are also needed now. I invite you all to join me in an occasional Poets Voice Diary.
An unpolished poet myself, I’ll get us started. This dark piece came yesterday as I sat thinking about the role greed plays in the unhappy state of our nation.
Greed
gentle words of prophets old
lost in the roar of greed
More! More!
yet more is not enough
in greeds gaping maw
principles perish
people are crushed
peace cannot survive
great jaws rip and grind
seeking the heart meat
spitting out the sour bones,
swallowing the carcass of freedom
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One more, on a bit lighter note:
Defending my Prez
my heart, she bleeds for our innocent Prez
always the last to know
when things go wrong, it’s not HIS fault,
it’s others that must go
and not his fault when people die
in lands across the way
or even when they die right here
on any given day
from lack of shelter, food or care
his duty lies not there
but with the need to help the rich
to keep and grow their share
so Patriots rise and gather round
support this wondrous man
for he alone can keep us safe
from other evil lands
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ok, who’s next?
Thanks for the peoms. I appreciate them.
Ah what the hell, since I seem to be busy pimping myself all over the place today, I may as well admit: the only thing I’m more ashamed of than being American are my pathetic attempts at poetry.
Nevertheless, this one actually managed to make its way into print a little over a decade ago…. (as a companion piece to the piece I posted today in my diary on the A-word
(Note: I am a self-described lousy poet, emphasis on the lousy part; however, I do not think I’m doing too badly as a translator of poems, and so will post one of those translations–from the recently released volume “Last Living Words: The Ingeborg Bachmann Reader”, available at Green Ingeger
PS: personal note to scribe–my author copies of this volume just arrived and I would like to send you a copy in appreciation of all the wonderful inspiration you have been. If you could email me at the coordinates listed under “justlilolme” that would be great)
Thank you so much. Info is on it’s way.
BTW, in my world there is no such thing as a lousy poet. There’s just thoose who write them down and those who don’t. You did, therefore you area poet, and a darned good onem, if you ask me!
Problem: Mine eyes cannot read anything against a dark background, so please send me your addy at scribe40@aol.com. Tnanks.
Make no mistake, I have written a lot of poems, but most of them will go to the grave with me….I figured since that one had somehow slipped by the “self-censor” (back when I was young and more foolish)….what the heck. 😉
I just sent you an email.
I also have a very stern self censor, so I don’t know if it’s courage that is allowing me to finally ignore her, or senile dementia. In either case, I’m having a very good time.
on the fly…. gotta run here, but just by way of suggestion, here’s a journal you may want to check out (you can tell her who sent ya, and she won’t think to herself….Oh THAT, racist hate-monger fucking lunatic nutcase….au contraire!)
I think SallyCat also is linked up to her….we go back many years…I’m sure she would like your stuff….
http://www.sondra.net/al/
Wow! What a great poem. I don’t often encounter anyone who knows her work. Haven’t seen the Green Integer book yet (& happy Messeerli managed to salavage that) but I will certainly look for it, & I can’t find my Selected bilingual edition here, but here’s an anotherwise unpublished version, translated by SF poet/painter/translator/editor Norma Cole & pub’d in Dark Ages #2, 1990:
“I”
Prison I will not endure
I am always me
If some thing ever means to bend me
I would sooner break
Should fist of fate or hand-made
Adversity show up
Here I am and so I stay
And so I stay as long as I can
For that I am always ever only one
I am always me
Climbing, How I climb
Falling, I fall all the way
(“Ich” from Jungendgedichte 1942-1948)
It was a hell of a battle, and indeed, Douglas is my hero!! -:)
It’s just been released. Last week.
In order to survive
And to thrive
We must keep hope alive
She said
Yet my heart is filled with dread
As the darkness looms ahead
In order to survive
And to thrive
We must keep hope alive
Yet I wonder what’s left unsaid
And if I choose to push ahead
Will I still be held by this thin thread
In order to survive
And to thrive
We must keep hope alive
I hear it in her voice
Urging all around to rejoice
As we have no other choice
In order to survive
And to thrive
We must keep hope alive
Wow, does that ever capture beautifully where so many of us are today. Thanks for sharing it with us.
When I was writing a piece called “Shades of Africa”, I wanted to provide the definition of ‘shade’ that I was using, so I consulted a dictionary. Anyway, parts of it just stood out, so I made it into a poem, sort of. Except I know little about poetry ;). So, it’s not quite mine and not quite a poem but it spoke to me, so… (and I am not sure why I always feel the need to explain everything), but anyway… here it is:
shade
An area or a space
partial darkness –
in obscurity
Dark shadows gathering at dusk
The abode of the dead
the underworld.
Part of a picture
depicting darkness
a shadow.
The degree to which a color is mixed
with black
decreasingly illuminated
gradation of darkness
A slight difference
a nuance, shades of
meaning a small amount
a trace
A disembodied spirit
a ghost.
I know little to nothing about poetry either, in terms of the proper or accepted rules, but I know when a poem speaks to me, and yours did. I saw "shadow" the way you were seeing it, and then then I wanted to think about shadows some more. If that’s not part of what a good poem should do, it should be. :)Thanks!
Thanks! and thanks for doing this diary.
I think it’s so important to sometimes reach for other spaces within besides those connected to anger and/or despair. Well, maybe that’s not the right way of putting it, as so much of poetry and other art comes out of those places… maybe I mean channeling the feelings into positive (or creative) directions.
Anyway, great idea for a diary, in my opinion :).
Oh I so agree, Nanette. If I didn’t allow the creative energies inside of me to flow on out, I doubt I’d still be here at all. Being creative in any way I can lifts me up over dispair, and gives me the energy to go on and on.
return what’s lost
as if memory
–to recall all those “wrong” notes–
might
or thoughts of
–yearning–
what’s left off the map–
fuels the blaze
–self-design–
the imprints left
–how’d they get across?
(copyright 1990, first pub’d in Dark Ages Clasp The Daisy Root #4, Sept. 1990)
I posted another poem yesterday, Big Sur, which I now realise was written circa ’86, ’87 & not the 90’s.
I really liked Big Sur, and am blown sidewise by this one. (I shall do my very best to not make a comparison between your work and mine, or never another poem would I write.) 🙂
Thanks for the kind words.
I know what you mean; in a period of deep depression I stopped writing, partly out of the perception that my own work just didn’t ‘measure up’ to that of those peers I most admired.
We may say & do bad things to others, but do the most terrible things to ourselves.
Do keep writing!
I’ve never written any poetry, and only in the last few years have come to appreciate it. One of the reasons that happened is because I heard David Whyte, who has now become one of my spiritual mentors. Here’s one of his that seems appropriate for this diary:
The Lightest Touch
Good poetry begins with
the lightest touch,
a breeze arriving from nowhere,
a whispered healing arrival,
a word in your ear,
a settling into things,
then like a hand in the dark
it arrests the whole body,
steeling you for revelation.
In the silence that follows
a great line
you can feel Lazarus
deep inside
even the laziest, most deathly afraid
part of you,
lift up his hands and walk towards the light.