Herpes Facilitates HIV Transmission
Systematic Theology
30.9.09
25.9.09
Dirty Magazines
In praise of ekphrasis
how many posed for that one
ready to go on your honor?
The last laugh guilt by association
Michelangelo. WonderBra.
Isn't that strange?
National Geographic Kids
, streetlights at six.
But I like the Reader's Digest
rollingstone ringtone!
Jane's and Oprah.
Martha Stewart Living,
Cooking Light
how do you do that?
Better Homes and Gardens
, really now. I thought so.
In praise of ekphrasis
how many posed for that one
ready to go on your honor?
The last laugh guilt by association
Michelangelo. WonderBra.
Isn't that strange?
National Geographic Kids
, streetlights at six.
But I like the Reader's Digest
rollingstone ringtone!
Jane's and Oprah.
Martha Stewart Living,
Cooking Light
how do you do that?
Better Homes and Gardens
, really now. I thought so.
24.9.09
Doog's Masterpiece
(Riyadh, late entry 1999)
Not sure if you remember
but I keep going back to it
reminding everybody
of the goblets banging
the night before the war,
the method of my classical training.
At the embassy the food was good,
the cakes were fabulous
on theme nights we were
all interested in the next drink,
never left until the last bottle
was down to fill quotas
of the forbidden and girls
hauled in for the conversations.
The bar, Uncle Sam's, everyone
wanted to go, they'd follow her
around begging for tickets
her phone never stopped ringing
and the Chattanooga Choo Choo.
We would go up and down,
people would stop by,
all manner of friendliness
over those invitations.
During this time, the babies
took their last breaths,
some went home and others
just lay there carrying on,
it was our job to keep
them warm, quiet and clean
if we weren't on royal duty.
Our flat was well appointed
and part of the process,
most of the time
it was tidy and barren.
We waited a few months
before hanging up anything
that was ours
or might be sold
if the locals climbed in
after scaling the walls
to look for the money
and Raymond Weil's
we purchased through
someone we knew
or as one of us went home
to the old Indians.
Every day someone
would announce, get ready,
be alarmed and relax.
Servants had first names
only and peculiar tendencies
like the old days.
There were drivers and nannies,
cooks and seamstresses,
most of them Filipino and said
prease and madam and smiled.
No one worked very hard
yet they discussed all of it
with great precision, terrific grace.
I was not seeing him much
then but talking to him alot,
our letters never ended
and the paychecks were enormous.
The shine on the car was impossible
for an old guy with rags,
he held on and no one knew
how to drive, the maps
lied if they existed
at all and this is how that works.
On Sundays, the diplomats
attended church on campus,
the Germans and French held festive
get-downs in their digs,
hosting Jewish bellydancers
on the sabbath
and the crowd piled up
fascinated, almost tipped over.
The lean wife of the commercial
attaché and Charlie in a back corner
under ficus and palm
got soused so she kept it going.
Rumors thrived in the gardens
there were cells deep inside the earth
near the borders and dark
in the downtown
where they hung prisoners
and let vermin feast
on the feathers, their last drips.
Poor old Paul Johnson.
The guards outside knew
what went on,
stood at attention, fully formed,
evolved from their ancestors
and passed secrets without adjective.
There where the goblets did all the talking
and there are still things I cannot say
or was told, do not remember.
I get the shakes all over.
(Riyadh, late entry 1999)
Not sure if you remember
but I keep going back to it
reminding everybody
of the goblets banging
the night before the war,
the method of my classical training.
At the embassy the food was good,
the cakes were fabulous
on theme nights we were
all interested in the next drink,
never left until the last bottle
was down to fill quotas
of the forbidden and girls
hauled in for the conversations.
The bar, Uncle Sam's, everyone
wanted to go, they'd follow her
around begging for tickets
her phone never stopped ringing
and the Chattanooga Choo Choo.
We would go up and down,
people would stop by,
all manner of friendliness
over those invitations.
During this time, the babies
took their last breaths,
some went home and others
just lay there carrying on,
it was our job to keep
them warm, quiet and clean
if we weren't on royal duty.
Our flat was well appointed
and part of the process,
most of the time
it was tidy and barren.
We waited a few months
before hanging up anything
that was ours
or might be sold
if the locals climbed in
after scaling the walls
to look for the money
and Raymond Weil's
we purchased through
someone we knew
or as one of us went home
to the old Indians.
Every day someone
would announce, get ready,
be alarmed and relax.
Servants had first names
only and peculiar tendencies
like the old days.
There were drivers and nannies,
cooks and seamstresses,
most of them Filipino and said
prease and madam and smiled.
No one worked very hard
yet they discussed all of it
with great precision, terrific grace.
I was not seeing him much
then but talking to him alot,
our letters never ended
and the paychecks were enormous.
The shine on the car was impossible
for an old guy with rags,
he held on and no one knew
how to drive, the maps
lied if they existed
at all and this is how that works.
On Sundays, the diplomats
attended church on campus,
the Germans and French held festive
get-downs in their digs,
hosting Jewish bellydancers
on the sabbath
and the crowd piled up
fascinated, almost tipped over.
The lean wife of the commercial
attaché and Charlie in a back corner
under ficus and palm
got soused so she kept it going.
Rumors thrived in the gardens
there were cells deep inside the earth
near the borders and dark
in the downtown
where they hung prisoners
and let vermin feast
on the feathers, their last drips.
Poor old Paul Johnson.
The guards outside knew
what went on,
stood at attention, fully formed,
evolved from their ancestors
and passed secrets without adjective.
There where the goblets did all the talking
and there are still things I cannot say
or was told, do not remember.
I get the shakes all over.
23.9.09
The Psychological Burka
(The psychological burka was mentioned on Nancy Grace by her stand in who was commenting on the murder of the Yale PhD candidate who was throttled and stuck into a wall to conceal her remains. The commentator said that American women have on this burka (or rather I think, they don't have on anything, not even a lowered glance) and because of it, are suffering through a tremendous outbreak of violence. Much of that violence, if not all, involves the sequestering of live women or dead in suitcases and spaces, under cloths and in the most recent abduction, in a man's back yard under the supervision of his own "elder" wife for nineteen unbelievable years!)
Everything that happens, before
the mirror happens
thus far will become
a natural self image.
The girl children who find
mirrors too soon
will be corrupted.
Damage the mirrors
if you know
what is good
for the people,
cover the faces
of the girls
with concealants
to ward off
the evils of never getting
out of here purified
of this ignorant contagion.
The windows shall be curtained,
and all fixated glass shall be
broken
if you know what is good for you.
Lights should be dimmed
only enough let in for the simplest tasks
which she can manage
if taught well
by her ancestors
and only the most important
visitors shall be allowed
to enter into the enormous
unknown of their eyes
that are preserved
as are the eggs
which these are given
to carry at birth, to protect
inside of the deep tissues
and thus far, cannot be replaced.
The Elizabeth Burqa Story
The Burqa morphs into the Elizabeth Smart story and a man with a Messianic Personality Disorder somehow gets equivocated with the average Afghani burqa owners of the world. We get analysis from the depths of the land of the free and home of the brave and contemplates the interior spaces of women.
The First Thing You Saw
What was it?
You saw yourself in the mirror and said something.
What was it?
I asked my husband this question this morning. Let me say, I wake up about a half hour before he leaves at four thirty a.m. to manage one of several convenience stores (typical foreigner that he is) and although another person might not comprehend this, it is an important thing to understand who he is. I've known him for more than half of my whole life. At this point in our marriage, it will now always be more than half of it. He is who he is and he suffers no illusions about that.
Charismatic and accepting of his own charismatic nature. People adore him even when he's mean and he often is but it is countered with the same devil may care caringness. He knows best and is always right about everything because he takes things simply as they are. He asked me several times when I explain to him what it is I attempt to do in poems, how could a person like you be with a person like me? Good question I think and every married couple should ask this of each other. How could you! There's a line in a movie that I never really finished and can't even remember the name of...Billy Crystal (I think) is speaking to Danny Davito and admits that men are so awful that even they wake up one day and look in the mirror and it's a wonder they don't vomit. But it isn't really about men in general, it's men in specific. People in specific.
I put my head on his back. He was making the coffee. Whereas I would drink whatever was left behind he has to have his fresh and will throw out enormous amounts of coffee whenever he wants a cup. Afrugal. Not just not frugal but afrugal. Not concerned with anything but his own cup.
As I leaned in he said that I didn't sleep well and that it applied to my beauty rest. I need some even though he knows I wake up every day too early in order to work on poetry. I won't have time when I come home and when I'm at work I am not the type to steal hours and work on poetry there even though I probably could.
I indicated that I am not concerned and the lost cause of my youth...is a lost cause. He said he wondered why people don't think they are good looking.
Why indeed. I asked him if he could remember the first time he ever looked in a mirror and contemplated himself, really contemplated or rather, really remembers having contemplated his good looks. Truth of the matter, he isn't all that good looking but he appears to be quite so. His teeth are deranged, his forehead too high, chin too round, in fact it is inherently doubled and has been so forever regardless of his weight. He couldn't ever be declared classically handsome but all the same, he appears to be good looking.
He said that it was in one of the shops and he remembers his uncle Abdullah and he looked into the mirror in one of the dressing rooms there (Liberia) and thought, I'm good looking.
I was surprised. High school? You were that old before you ever considered what Allah had given you i.e. your face?
I told him why this is an important thought and to all people it is so. Even if most people never get around to contemplating it, they will be contemplating it for the rest of their lives subconsiously.
My first memory was looking into the big round mirror in our bedroom (my sister Radiann and I shared a room at that time and the dresser was full of the glasses she had to wear since she was very young and I used to try them on and was jealous of her possession of so many wonderful ways of seeing the world). I was on my knees, about seven years old, nearly hiding from seeing my own self and I picked up a brush, smoothed my hair and said, you aren't that bad. My husband, when I recounted this, didn't get it right away. Because he is that way. Simple. Admits it. Not afraid of it nor ashamed of it and often we laugh at things other people take way too seriously. I laugh with him but am one of those who takes things way too seriously most of the time. Have to fight it really. But I understand his laughter completely. He isn't a poet and confesses that life for him is really easy. For me though, I still hide from my own self in mirrors..don't like them much at all unless I am completely alone and have only to do the necessities of hygeine and baseline acceptable presentation. I analyse everything that I see and sometimes, that is way too deeply. But that is where poems are.
This is a poem.
You don't get it I told him. I said, you are not that bad! In other words, the others in the world hadn't been so generous with me and I told them that I was not that bad. Not that ugly or unpleasant to look at. I also told him that adolescence seems a bit late to be considering one's looks. Had it not occurred to him to look sooner into his own reflection? I told him, even dolphins do better than that and we both laughed and held each other for a few minutes.
I explained to my husband that we all have first impressions of others but what about our first impression of ourself? How important is that! It is really hard to divorce ourselves from our first impressions, nearly impossible for some people it seems. Not everyone and I think that those of us who are able to combat negative first impressions by looking deeper....simply must be on the right track. For a person like him over confident to the point of carelessness even, he wouldn't understand nor would he have to understand in order to survive this life with an intact psychological framework. He simply doesn't bother and hence, he is seemingly good looking.
He has begun to change a bit though. Trying to retain his youth via beauty products for men. The Grecian Formulas and Minoxidil routines. I dab a bit of smooth hundred dollar a bottle serum on my face (my daughter bought it for me, I would never indulge in such excess on my own). When my serum is gone it won't be replaced and it has nothing to do with my comfort level about getting old. Nothing. I just know that it doesn't matter so much nor is it a redeemable quantity of something. Even if others keep trying to redeem it for me, that is just a hope that the past might come back by and remind us of something that we must have forgotten.
In Saudi Arabia once, I spoke to a woman who believed that the djinn live in the mirrors and when a person looks too often in there, the djinn will enchant the careless individual and they will become forgetful. They might even become senile.
For me, all that matters is that I can make him laugh about the dolphins and their self awareness. Making him laugh makes me laugh and that is what it is all about because smiles are a girl's best friend and the djinn's worst enemy and this I learned
from the Arab to whom I'd been given
through means I cannot quite explain.
What was it?
You saw yourself in the mirror and said something.
What was it?
I asked my husband this question this morning. Let me say, I wake up about a half hour before he leaves at four thirty a.m. to manage one of several convenience stores (typical foreigner that he is) and although another person might not comprehend this, it is an important thing to understand who he is. I've known him for more than half of my whole life. At this point in our marriage, it will now always be more than half of it. He is who he is and he suffers no illusions about that.
Charismatic and accepting of his own charismatic nature. People adore him even when he's mean and he often is but it is countered with the same devil may care caringness. He knows best and is always right about everything because he takes things simply as they are. He asked me several times when I explain to him what it is I attempt to do in poems, how could a person like you be with a person like me? Good question I think and every married couple should ask this of each other. How could you! There's a line in a movie that I never really finished and can't even remember the name of...Billy Crystal (I think) is speaking to Danny Davito and admits that men are so awful that even they wake up one day and look in the mirror and it's a wonder they don't vomit. But it isn't really about men in general, it's men in specific. People in specific.
I put my head on his back. He was making the coffee. Whereas I would drink whatever was left behind he has to have his fresh and will throw out enormous amounts of coffee whenever he wants a cup. Afrugal. Not just not frugal but afrugal. Not concerned with anything but his own cup.
As I leaned in he said that I didn't sleep well and that it applied to my beauty rest. I need some even though he knows I wake up every day too early in order to work on poetry. I won't have time when I come home and when I'm at work I am not the type to steal hours and work on poetry there even though I probably could.
I indicated that I am not concerned and the lost cause of my youth...is a lost cause. He said he wondered why people don't think they are good looking.
Why indeed. I asked him if he could remember the first time he ever looked in a mirror and contemplated himself, really contemplated or rather, really remembers having contemplated his good looks. Truth of the matter, he isn't all that good looking but he appears to be quite so. His teeth are deranged, his forehead too high, chin too round, in fact it is inherently doubled and has been so forever regardless of his weight. He couldn't ever be declared classically handsome but all the same, he appears to be good looking.
He said that it was in one of the shops and he remembers his uncle Abdullah and he looked into the mirror in one of the dressing rooms there (Liberia) and thought, I'm good looking.
I was surprised. High school? You were that old before you ever considered what Allah had given you i.e. your face?
I told him why this is an important thought and to all people it is so. Even if most people never get around to contemplating it, they will be contemplating it for the rest of their lives subconsiously.
My first memory was looking into the big round mirror in our bedroom (my sister Radiann and I shared a room at that time and the dresser was full of the glasses she had to wear since she was very young and I used to try them on and was jealous of her possession of so many wonderful ways of seeing the world). I was on my knees, about seven years old, nearly hiding from seeing my own self and I picked up a brush, smoothed my hair and said, you aren't that bad. My husband, when I recounted this, didn't get it right away. Because he is that way. Simple. Admits it. Not afraid of it nor ashamed of it and often we laugh at things other people take way too seriously. I laugh with him but am one of those who takes things way too seriously most of the time. Have to fight it really. But I understand his laughter completely. He isn't a poet and confesses that life for him is really easy. For me though, I still hide from my own self in mirrors..don't like them much at all unless I am completely alone and have only to do the necessities of hygeine and baseline acceptable presentation. I analyse everything that I see and sometimes, that is way too deeply. But that is where poems are.
This is a poem.
You don't get it I told him. I said, you are not that bad! In other words, the others in the world hadn't been so generous with me and I told them that I was not that bad. Not that ugly or unpleasant to look at. I also told him that adolescence seems a bit late to be considering one's looks. Had it not occurred to him to look sooner into his own reflection? I told him, even dolphins do better than that and we both laughed and held each other for a few minutes.
I explained to my husband that we all have first impressions of others but what about our first impression of ourself? How important is that! It is really hard to divorce ourselves from our first impressions, nearly impossible for some people it seems. Not everyone and I think that those of us who are able to combat negative first impressions by looking deeper....simply must be on the right track. For a person like him over confident to the point of carelessness even, he wouldn't understand nor would he have to understand in order to survive this life with an intact psychological framework. He simply doesn't bother and hence, he is seemingly good looking.
He has begun to change a bit though. Trying to retain his youth via beauty products for men. The Grecian Formulas and Minoxidil routines. I dab a bit of smooth hundred dollar a bottle serum on my face (my daughter bought it for me, I would never indulge in such excess on my own). When my serum is gone it won't be replaced and it has nothing to do with my comfort level about getting old. Nothing. I just know that it doesn't matter so much nor is it a redeemable quantity of something. Even if others keep trying to redeem it for me, that is just a hope that the past might come back by and remind us of something that we must have forgotten.
In Saudi Arabia once, I spoke to a woman who believed that the djinn live in the mirrors and when a person looks too often in there, the djinn will enchant the careless individual and they will become forgetful. They might even become senile.
For me, all that matters is that I can make him laugh about the dolphins and their self awareness. Making him laugh makes me laugh and that is what it is all about because smiles are a girl's best friend and the djinn's worst enemy and this I learned
from the Arab to whom I'd been given
through means I cannot quite explain.
No
Does it matter I'm up now
it doesn't I'm up now
we have the day
18
more times considered
mark that one
do not want
to read
this one no more
silly lunches we
sit hunched and munch
these packages
why not pickle
do not go away do not
pavement lawn porch door
the up on in
they grieve already
the heart is heavier
than all the rocks in the world.
Does it matter I'm up now
it doesn't I'm up now
we have the day
18
more times considered
mark that one
do not want
to read
this one no more
silly lunches we
sit hunched and munch
these packages
why not pickle
do not go away do not
pavement lawn porch door
the up on in
they grieve already
the heart is heavier
than all the rocks in the world.
22.9.09
21.9.09
Poets In Love
The Reason He Went To Hell
Then started he on an expedition
to find, start and end a great love affair
filial the heart hurt all along
before and after it drown
in it's own sweat
the first, second and third person poultice
lost in the lapel
dissimulating all the damn time
serial killer of comfort
with one goal in mind
to find, start and end a great love affair
the great stages of barbarism
tight in his tiny loins expressive
wanderers whose hopes
fall gently into well arranged lines
they must meet in a station
they will and forage for pleasure
as insects do at the body of another bug
not one at a time in stages
or two at a time in stages
or a simple process dragon lust
he began to write with great satisfaction:
crybabycrybabycrybabycry.
The Reason She Left Him
She tended to the chores
of love on a wintry day
mended the mishaps sewed
into little knapsacks of flour
twisted all the bottles
and set them in the fridge
nothing left to tidy up
in the kitchen where she wept
over someone else's misery
for the very last time
caught up in the deadly newspapers
identified only by the numbers
on a false breast, her last wish
in a suitcase, dis-remembered
and she wrote:
I'm just getting started.
The Reason He Went To Hell
Then started he on an expedition
to find, start and end a great love affair
filial the heart hurt all along
before and after it drown
in it's own sweat
the first, second and third person poultice
lost in the lapel
dissimulating all the damn time
serial killer of comfort
with one goal in mind
to find, start and end a great love affair
the great stages of barbarism
tight in his tiny loins expressive
wanderers whose hopes
fall gently into well arranged lines
they must meet in a station
they will and forage for pleasure
as insects do at the body of another bug
not one at a time in stages
or two at a time in stages
or a simple process dragon lust
he began to write with great satisfaction:
crybabycrybabycrybabycry.
The Reason She Left Him
She tended to the chores
of love on a wintry day
mended the mishaps sewed
into little knapsacks of flour
twisted all the bottles
and set them in the fridge
nothing left to tidy up
in the kitchen where she wept
over someone else's misery
for the very last time
caught up in the deadly newspapers
identified only by the numbers
on a false breast, her last wish
in a suitcase, dis-remembered
and she wrote:
I'm just getting started.
20.9.09
As The Angel Watched
Certainly, you will understand it after some time. (Qur'an, 38:88)
And now for the information about
all of them did it differently
but returned with the same message,
the widow turned her cap
or tucked a shirt with a little bit
of the old pride sticking out.
Coming up the hill in lock-step
it's all a bit mad but I'm not against it
not anymore
the bikers the sportscars the lucky tickets
and the smell of roasted meats wafting
through the early evening air
near the old man's rose bushes
no one seems to notice anymore,
left to their own devices and bittersweet
activities, budging at the wasps.
The kids are up the street talking tough
but they've lost all the corners
don't know what an old place looks like.
At least the girl flips her hair and looks
away from the truck where
the star hitching takes place,
gets her out of town.
Don't pretend the sky isn't that wonderful
colors and types deal that goes on
unless you are used to it and then
nevermind, this isn't in the specs
placed in the hands of newborn sons.
The world up on that end
is comfortable now, used to
match-making and dog letting,
used to all the forgetting
that leaves sofas and big iron gadgets
out there for penny-wise marketeers.
I've done that too, made use
of each sticky situation, seen
every piece of jewelry melted
into golden milkers and beer cans.
Note here, the disagreement
is on the same black page,
there isn't any other option
but to erase the cloud cover
and open the heavens
for one more try, all a bit disheartening
when you hear about it the first time
and the devil clears his salt throat
before the last eulogy
every other Saturday.
But the second time, ah, the second time.
Certainly, you will understand it after some time. (Qur'an, 38:88)
And now for the information about
all of them did it differently
but returned with the same message,
the widow turned her cap
or tucked a shirt with a little bit
of the old pride sticking out.
Coming up the hill in lock-step
it's all a bit mad but I'm not against it
not anymore
the bikers the sportscars the lucky tickets
and the smell of roasted meats wafting
through the early evening air
near the old man's rose bushes
no one seems to notice anymore,
left to their own devices and bittersweet
activities, budging at the wasps.
The kids are up the street talking tough
but they've lost all the corners
don't know what an old place looks like.
At least the girl flips her hair and looks
away from the truck where
the star hitching takes place,
gets her out of town.
Don't pretend the sky isn't that wonderful
colors and types deal that goes on
unless you are used to it and then
nevermind, this isn't in the specs
placed in the hands of newborn sons.
The world up on that end
is comfortable now, used to
match-making and dog letting,
used to all the forgetting
that leaves sofas and big iron gadgets
out there for penny-wise marketeers.
I've done that too, made use
of each sticky situation, seen
every piece of jewelry melted
into golden milkers and beer cans.
Note here, the disagreement
is on the same black page,
there isn't any other option
but to erase the cloud cover
and open the heavens
for one more try, all a bit disheartening
when you hear about it the first time
and the devil clears his salt throat
before the last eulogy
every other Saturday.
But the second time, ah, the second time.
19.9.09
Norma Cole Reads in Bisbee
Attending Norma Cole's reading last night was fantastic. Not because of the poems (they were quite fine and finely chosen and executed) but because of the poet. Ms. Cole is diminutive, coal eyed and fine boned and carries a beautiful black cane. She holds her right arm which has grown slack and the hand contracted since her stroke several years ago, the way all people with left-sided brain injury do, at a ninety-ish degree angle starting at the elbow. She gathers her work with one hand and speaks carefully with hard won grace in an error prone but steady diction.
She was accompanied last night by Mr. Charles Alexander of Chax Press who drove her down from Tucson yesterday afternoon. He introduced her work and described her poems as delicate and finely-tuned pieces of visual art and that is quite apt. A truly nice guy, editor and poet who read with Ms. Cole in Tucson the night before but chose to sit the reading out last night. I spoke with Mr. Alexander for a few moments at the reception after the reading and offered to give him a flu shot today. We discussed H1N1 a little bit. Before the reading, I had to shsh my husband who tried to peddle the book I am working on right now, afterall, he doesn't know any better.
I then took my turn in front of Ms. Cole with my copy of Where Shadows Will, Selected Poems 1988-2008 in hand. There isn't much to say to a poet whom you've never heard of, never read and of whom you are asking an autograph. I held the book so that she could scrawl her signature and enter the perfunctory greetings that poets of stature usually enter onto the first page of a book and thanked her. I asked her if it had been a stroke and when it had happened. "It must have been hard" I said. Hard isn't the word for aphasic. Aphasic is the word for aphasic and for a poet who has been described as a "powerhouse" reader, it doesn't begin to describe the agony this poet must have been through as she struggled to regain the use of her instrument: her language, both literally and figuratively.
As I turned to leave, I stopped, turned back and said, "I liked "before the war". I told her that yes, all my work is "before" and "after" the war and explained in a few short words what I meant by that. She took my book from my hands and opened it immediately to the page and showed me a poem titled Sumoud. I looked at it and read it out loud to her and to my husband who was standing dutifully by and he was the one who insisted I go to the reading in the first place, he knows my tendency to avoid such things overall. I choked a bit on the words:
"A stranger of mine, he spilled his drink. I took it as a sign. My village was erased from the map."
Who wouldn't choke on such a thing and me in particular. It is the same choking I get when trying to read the poem of Taha Mohamed Ali in which he describes the feeling of not saying good-bye to the people you adore when running from a village or city that is being attacked by an oppressor.
The poem Sumoud (which means Resistance in Arabic my husband informs me) begins with the epigraph, a quote from Jean Said Makdisi's Memoir, Beirut Fragments (reviewed here by the typically Awful and Arabophobic Daniel Pipes who simply cannot understand the attraction of Beirut or the bitter attraction of war (for poets/writers/memoirists) because he is an amoral idiot):
"Once I saw a bride standing on the sand..."
Ms. Makdisi relates, "How can this be? How can brutal warfare and beachcombing co-exist in adjacent streets?" My point exactly when I wrote this poem in February 2008, a full year and a half after our flight from Beirut:
Sawridge Hotel, Fort McMurray
When I think of Beirut
I think of hair,
of weddings and war.
A never-ending cycle
of hair, weddings and war.
On our way out
we spoke to a man
on his fourth or fifth
flight from an Israeli
incursion.
I think of hair, weddings and war.
Ms. Cole's beautiful line in which she finds a sign in a stranger who spills something (the truth): his village is erased from the map, and I find my own sign there. This is how poetry is for me. It ought to touch a stranger and certainly, Ms. Cole not only touched me but inspired me. She has struggled no doubt to regain her ability to read her work aloud in public. It was just as strenuous to hear, just as strenous to watch her climb the three flights of stairs to the Central School auditorium and the few steps that lead up to the stage. I hope she thinks it was worth it because it certainly was worth it to me.
I only stayed a few minutes more at the reception. Although there were a handful of poets present that I know, I cannot say I know them well enough to chat and wanted to go home and nudged my husband that we'd pay our respect to the poet once more. I returned to Ms. Cole and as people ought to do if they have any manners, I bid her adieu and thanked her for coming once again.
Salaam wa alaikum I said. Her very beautiful face lit up and her body lurched forward and she gave me her best Salaam. I returned home with such a precious feeling and a book in hand. Such a precious sign.
Attending Norma Cole's reading last night was fantastic. Not because of the poems (they were quite fine and finely chosen and executed) but because of the poet. Ms. Cole is diminutive, coal eyed and fine boned and carries a beautiful black cane. She holds her right arm which has grown slack and the hand contracted since her stroke several years ago, the way all people with left-sided brain injury do, at a ninety-ish degree angle starting at the elbow. She gathers her work with one hand and speaks carefully with hard won grace in an error prone but steady diction.
She was accompanied last night by Mr. Charles Alexander of Chax Press who drove her down from Tucson yesterday afternoon. He introduced her work and described her poems as delicate and finely-tuned pieces of visual art and that is quite apt. A truly nice guy, editor and poet who read with Ms. Cole in Tucson the night before but chose to sit the reading out last night. I spoke with Mr. Alexander for a few moments at the reception after the reading and offered to give him a flu shot today. We discussed H1N1 a little bit. Before the reading, I had to shsh my husband who tried to peddle the book I am working on right now, afterall, he doesn't know any better.
I then took my turn in front of Ms. Cole with my copy of Where Shadows Will, Selected Poems 1988-2008 in hand. There isn't much to say to a poet whom you've never heard of, never read and of whom you are asking an autograph. I held the book so that she could scrawl her signature and enter the perfunctory greetings that poets of stature usually enter onto the first page of a book and thanked her. I asked her if it had been a stroke and when it had happened. "It must have been hard" I said. Hard isn't the word for aphasic. Aphasic is the word for aphasic and for a poet who has been described as a "powerhouse" reader, it doesn't begin to describe the agony this poet must have been through as she struggled to regain the use of her instrument: her language, both literally and figuratively.
As I turned to leave, I stopped, turned back and said, "I liked "before the war". I told her that yes, all my work is "before" and "after" the war and explained in a few short words what I meant by that. She took my book from my hands and opened it immediately to the page and showed me a poem titled Sumoud. I looked at it and read it out loud to her and to my husband who was standing dutifully by and he was the one who insisted I go to the reading in the first place, he knows my tendency to avoid such things overall. I choked a bit on the words:
"A stranger of mine, he spilled his drink. I took it as a sign. My village was erased from the map."
Who wouldn't choke on such a thing and me in particular. It is the same choking I get when trying to read the poem of Taha Mohamed Ali in which he describes the feeling of not saying good-bye to the people you adore when running from a village or city that is being attacked by an oppressor.
The poem Sumoud (which means Resistance in Arabic my husband informs me) begins with the epigraph, a quote from Jean Said Makdisi's Memoir, Beirut Fragments (reviewed here by the typically Awful and Arabophobic Daniel Pipes who simply cannot understand the attraction of Beirut or the bitter attraction of war (for poets/writers/memoirists) because he is an amoral idiot):
"Once I saw a bride standing on the sand..."
Ms. Makdisi relates, "How can this be? How can brutal warfare and beachcombing co-exist in adjacent streets?" My point exactly when I wrote this poem in February 2008, a full year and a half after our flight from Beirut:
Sawridge Hotel, Fort McMurray
When I think of Beirut
I think of hair,
of weddings and war.
A never-ending cycle
of hair, weddings and war.
On our way out
we spoke to a man
on his fourth or fifth
flight from an Israeli
incursion.
I think of hair, weddings and war.
Ms. Cole's beautiful line in which she finds a sign in a stranger who spills something (the truth): his village is erased from the map, and I find my own sign there. This is how poetry is for me. It ought to touch a stranger and certainly, Ms. Cole not only touched me but inspired me. She has struggled no doubt to regain her ability to read her work aloud in public. It was just as strenuous to hear, just as strenous to watch her climb the three flights of stairs to the Central School auditorium and the few steps that lead up to the stage. I hope she thinks it was worth it because it certainly was worth it to me.
I only stayed a few minutes more at the reception. Although there were a handful of poets present that I know, I cannot say I know them well enough to chat and wanted to go home and nudged my husband that we'd pay our respect to the poet once more. I returned to Ms. Cole and as people ought to do if they have any manners, I bid her adieu and thanked her for coming once again.
Salaam wa alaikum I said. Her very beautiful face lit up and her body lurched forward and she gave me her best Salaam. I returned home with such a precious feeling and a book in hand. Such a precious sign.
18.9.09
Lailat ul-Qadar
It is difficult to explain the prayer
to those who hold contempt in the heart
in the diseased heart, those who cannot
render an important fixation
that nestles between want and is
who do not remember the catch phrases.
We were left with two things,
the lesser and the greater
and our unholy mind to deal with.
These sickly minds of ours stock up
on junk and destitution,
store memory and vicissitude
and trade cash for cash, they cannot
comprehend destiny before it is discovered,
landed on, described and by then
replaced with fond memories
punctuated by dreams and startled by chance.
Prayer then is the cohesion of forces
and the expert is one who knows
which thing might actually be allowed,
knows which thing is not in the making
because they have paid attention
and rather than believed, have known.
It is difficult to explain the prayer
to those who hold contempt in the heart
in the diseased heart, those who cannot
render an important fixation
that nestles between want and is
who do not remember the catch phrases.
We were left with two things,
the lesser and the greater
and our unholy mind to deal with.
These sickly minds of ours stock up
on junk and destitution,
store memory and vicissitude
and trade cash for cash, they cannot
comprehend destiny before it is discovered,
landed on, described and by then
replaced with fond memories
punctuated by dreams and startled by chance.
Prayer then is the cohesion of forces
and the expert is one who knows
which thing might actually be allowed,
knows which thing is not in the making
because they have paid attention
and rather than believed, have known.
17.9.09
Friday September 18 @ 7 p.m.
Central School in Old Bisbee
http://www.centralschoolproject.org/exhibits.html
Norma Cole is the author of numerous books of poetry including Where Shadows Will: Selected Poems 1988-2008 (City Lights Spotlight), Do the Monkey (Zasterle, 2006), Spinoza in Her Youth (Omnidawn, 2002), Moira (O Books, 1995), and My Bird Book (Littoral Books, 1991).
As a visual artist Cole has worked in a variety of mediums. Her House of Hope, featured as part of IM- AGEworks/WORDworks, is a suspended sculpture collecting 426 quotes gathered from the artist's notebooks over the past 20 years. Part of the same project and also featured in the exhibit is the fine- press book titled Collective Memory, published by Granary Books (2006), spotlighting in text, photos and drawings the creative process of imagining poetry within a variety of environments. Cole has been the recipient of awards from the Foundation for Contemporary Arts (2006) and The Fund for Poetry (2003, 1999, 1994) as well as a Purchase Award for "They Flatter Almost Recognize", a collaboration with photographer Ben E. Watkins (1994), and the Gertrude Stein Award (1995-96, 1994-95, 1993-94).
She teaches at San Francisco State University, the University of San Francisco, and in the MFA pro- gram at Otis College of Art & Design in Los Angeles. A Canadian by birth, Cole migrated via France to San Francisco where she has lived for the past twenty years.
Review of Where Shadows Will: Selected Poems 1988--2008 from Publisher's Weekly: "A disciple of Robert Duncan, Cole casts her short poems in jagged verse and prose blocks, by turns abstract ("Imaginations law hits frames"), surreal ("Bark grew up over their faces") and painterly in a manner that will be familiar to fans of Barbara Guest: "This is the image of effort." Other pieces work more like disjunctive fables: one such prose poem describes how "A little of life simply escapes from a shallow dish." Cole is far better known on the West Coast and in experimental poetry circles than any- where else; in fact, her work is surprisingly accessible given its avant garde origins and ambitions-- beautiful phrases and lines leap off the page ("Then his/ signature will have taken place," reads one poem)--and this concise gathering of poems from her 15 small press books should bring Cole much deserved attention."
A reception will follow the reading. This event is FREE and open to the public.
For more information, call Melissa Holden at 432-4866, or email info@centralschoolproject.org.
http://www.centralschoolproject.org/exhibits.html
Norma Cole is the author of numerous books of poetry including Where Shadows Will: Selected Poems 1988-2008 (City Lights Spotlight), Do the Monkey (Zasterle, 2006), Spinoza in Her Youth (Omnidawn, 2002), Moira (O Books, 1995), and My Bird Book (Littoral Books, 1991).
As a visual artist Cole has worked in a variety of mediums. Her House of Hope, featured as part of IM- AGEworks/WORDworks, is a suspended sculpture collecting 426 quotes gathered from the artist's notebooks over the past 20 years. Part of the same project and also featured in the exhibit is the fine- press book titled Collective Memory, published by Granary Books (2006), spotlighting in text, photos and drawings the creative process of imagining poetry within a variety of environments. Cole has been the recipient of awards from the Foundation for Contemporary Arts (2006) and The Fund for Poetry (2003, 1999, 1994) as well as a Purchase Award for "They Flatter Almost Recognize", a collaboration with photographer Ben E. Watkins (1994), and the Gertrude Stein Award (1995-96, 1994-95, 1993-94).
She teaches at San Francisco State University, the University of San Francisco, and in the MFA pro- gram at Otis College of Art & Design in Los Angeles. A Canadian by birth, Cole migrated via France to San Francisco where she has lived for the past twenty years.
Review of Where Shadows Will: Selected Poems 1988--2008 from Publisher's Weekly: "A disciple of Robert Duncan, Cole casts her short poems in jagged verse and prose blocks, by turns abstract ("Imaginations law hits frames"), surreal ("Bark grew up over their faces") and painterly in a manner that will be familiar to fans of Barbara Guest: "This is the image of effort." Other pieces work more like disjunctive fables: one such prose poem describes how "A little of life simply escapes from a shallow dish." Cole is far better known on the West Coast and in experimental poetry circles than any- where else; in fact, her work is surprisingly accessible given its avant garde origins and ambitions-- beautiful phrases and lines leap off the page ("Then his/ signature will have taken place," reads one poem)--and this concise gathering of poems from her 15 small press books should bring Cole much deserved attention."
A reception will follow the reading. This event is FREE and open to the public.
For more information, call Melissa Holden at 432-4866, or email info@centralschoolproject.org.
...can't say I'll appreciate her work but all the same, it's good to be there once in a while. Readings at the CSP are where readings should be if they cannot be at the Sacred Heart anymore. Nice big auditorium with lots of seats and windows that still have old fashioned dowels and screens and it's dark in there. The weather no doubt will be fabulous as it always is on evenings in September in this glorious old town. After the reading a person can head on home, go to the Gulch or the Queen or the Grand or, like me, to the Coffee Shop down at the old PD Merc. Better yet, a person is advised to take a nice long walk through the town at night because there is just nothing that compares to a night time walk in Old Bisbee except maybe a Dilly Bar at the Dairy Queen in Bakersville. It's a toss up.
16.9.09
PROSELYTE
There, beyond the vanishing point
of the twentieth where victory
awaits the world's rotten soldiers
who march into ceremony
and public addresses,
there were the children and they drew
armfuls of the contempt
no one can understand.
This is not the mystery
you are used to, not
sorry for the children anymore
the break down of all prices
to be paid that wonder
is given to how come
not why but how come
the shocking strophe length of birds,
the temperature monitored by the cricket
the moth as it clings to light
the leaves as they turn to brown.
A new century weaves on
by taking turns with the last one
in gently uneven steps and
they aren't really ready to cry again
not until the private collection
can be retrieved
and they read the meek history
of the burnt fat offering
and outrageous beheadings.
Until someone looses
the long hair from the cache
of boxes under the alleyways
and the soldier eats his first
homemade meal in an eon.
But no, I don't worry much
about the conformity of their dresses
anymore than that,
it wasn't, afterall
what the Beneficent sent me to do.
Here in this part of the country
the work is never finished
and as it winds down
it winds down, the light changes.
There, beyond the vanishing point
of the twentieth where victory
awaits the world's rotten soldiers
who march into ceremony
and public addresses,
there were the children and they drew
armfuls of the contempt
no one can understand.
This is not the mystery
you are used to, not
sorry for the children anymore
the break down of all prices
to be paid that wonder
is given to how come
not why but how come
the shocking strophe length of birds,
the temperature monitored by the cricket
the moth as it clings to light
the leaves as they turn to brown.
A new century weaves on
by taking turns with the last one
in gently uneven steps and
they aren't really ready to cry again
not until the private collection
can be retrieved
and they read the meek history
of the burnt fat offering
and outrageous beheadings.
Until someone looses
the long hair from the cache
of boxes under the alleyways
and the soldier eats his first
homemade meal in an eon.
But no, I don't worry much
about the conformity of their dresses
anymore than that,
it wasn't, afterall
what the Beneficent sent me to do.
Here in this part of the country
the work is never finished
and as it winds down
it winds down, the light changes.
15.9.09
Israel drops experimental DIME on civilians in Gaza, plans to drop them elsewhere as well.
Israel using new Cancer causing explosive. If it doesn't shred a person to pieces with the first drastic explosion using Dense Inert Metal Explosive, it will cause CANCER to the remaining victims of this vicious and illegal munition.
Why haven't you heard of it? Because the United States allows Israel to commit war crimes. That is because the US has committed war crimes. Sad fact of the matter is, bad people and governments stick together like glue. Even Obama is helpless it seems to do anything about it.
Should we worry?
Fortunately for us, Good People Stick Together Too!
There is growing concern that Israel is planning another attack on South Lebanon. I tend to think that they got their arses whooped the last time and wouldn't risk another humiliating defeat at the hands of Hezbollah but oddly enough, Israel is a glutton for punishment. Hezbollah now has an estimated 80,000 rockets posed and ready to launch into Israel should Israel do something stupid. And Israel is still stupid even if the Israeli people have become wise about their own guilt over so many war crimes it makes a person's eyes water.
They have used the Gaza strip as their own personal in vivo munitions testing facility. Mengele? Oh more than that. Israel makes the Nazi regime look tame and it is no longer an viable comparison.
There is no comparison to the war crimes committed by Israel against civilian populations, infrastructure of neighboring countries and Palestinian prison camps (in Israel and beyond). One day in the not so distant future, people will ask "how did this happen"? Just as people do when considering the war crimes perpetrated by Adolph Hitler against many types of people of whom the Jews composed only a fraction of the number eradicated by his pogroms.
Last week, a group thought to be a small, poorly organized group loosely affiliated with Al Qaeda, fired two home made rockets into Israel and Israel retaliated and blamed the Lebanese goverment for the attack (the only way a legitimate claim of self defense can be made is by assigning guilt to the government of the territory from which a missile is launched). Both Hezbollah and the Lebanese government denied any responsibility for the attack. Meanwhile, Israel fired on a fishing boat in Naqoura which is a small seaside village bordering Israel and Lebanon which is a frank vilation of the UN resolution that ended the horrendous war crime Israel perpetrated on the Lebanese civilian population (collective punishment for ?) in 2006.
Israel you see, does whatever it wants to. Doesn't consult with the UN peacekeeping forces and sometimes even attacks the UN peacekeeping forces.
I personally don't see an Israeli attack in the making but news reports from the ME do suggest that it is highly possible in the near future that Israel may attempt once again to ethnically cleanse the region along it's northern border of the legitimate occupants who are mostly Shia muslims but also a healthy contingent of Maronite Christians. It wouldn't be the first time. Afterall, Israel is built on the blood and bones of people they murdered in order to form the illegal state of Israel which is not recognized by any ME countries save those on the payroll of the United States (client regimes) like Jordan and Egypt.
In the Jewish daily Ha'aretz, the language is quite tame and indicates that Israel is on the defensive now rather than the offensive:
"The explosions showed that Hezbollah is arming and getting stronger, but the IDF is organized and ready for everything."
Although Ha'aretz is known for it's liberal and pro peace stand, in this case, it misrepresents the facts indicating weakness of the Israeli people. Hezbollah had nothing to do with the attacks. Of course not. Hezbollah is a professional outfit and doesn't launch "home made" rockets nor does it ever launch piecemeal attacks like this. When Hezbollah has something to do with an attack, it will be and always is obvious because they take their operations quite seriously. They also respect their enemies enough to not lie about actual attacks and counter attacks. That is one of the weapons (truth/honesty) that destroyed Ehud Olmert who has recently been deposed by the Israeli people (for corruption).
Hezbollah has literally changed the society of the Middle East in general and the Levant specifically into one of Resistance rather than Submission to the Israeli War Machine. This article is from the second in command of Hezbollah, Shaikh Naim Qassem who is widely considered the "bad cop" of the good cop/bad cop partnership of Nasrallah and Qassem, Inc.:
http://english.moqawama.org/essaydetails.php?eid=9036&cid=234
He invites all Lebanese citizens, Muslim and Non to participate in the resistance society from which there is "no turning back" and which Nasrallah promises will end the injustice of the Israeli state forever:
"Thus the whole society becomes a resistance society; it provides what is required of it to then go back to the normalcy of daily life. Hence a resistance society is not one in which arms are randomly distributed to all the people, but such a community governs energies and capacities into an integrated process of confrontation."
The Christian president of Lebanon echoes this sentiment when he says that the Lebanese Armed Forces should act as a complement to the victorious party (Hezbollah) who is most likely better armed than the state itself:
"Speaking to graduating officers at the Fiadiyeh Military Academy on Friday in the occasion of Lebanon's 63rd annual Army Day, Suleiman stressed that the army's weapons should embrace the ones addressed against the enemy "that was already defeated by the Resistance and the army"."
"Your duty "goes beyond politics and confessionalism (sectarian affiliation). Maintaining security is your duty, which requires sacrifices," Suleiman told the graduating class, which he named after Brigadier General Francois al-Hajj, who was martyred in a bombing."
President Suleiman goes further to identify internal enemies of the state of Lebanon (Al Qaeda and Christian Lebanese Forces affiliates) as being on the zero tolerance list of every citizen of Lebanon and more importantly, the integrated Lebanese Army which just so happens to be composed mostly although not entirely of Shia muslim soldiers:
"Suleiman urged the army to confront "violators" to avoid civil strife and stressed the need to safeguard the military's unity. "Do not hesitate to curb violators no matter what their affiliations are," Suleiman told graduating cadets at the Military Academy in Fayadieh. "Isn't it a duty to confront anyone who shoots" at his compatriot? Suleiman asked."
"The Lebanese army fought fierce battles in the Nahr al-Bared camp" at this time last year, Sleiman recalle, referring to the Lebanese Armed Forces' summer-long fight against the Fatah al-Islam organization in the northern Palestinian refugee camp, a fight Suleiman himself oversaw, as the army commander at the time. "You have preserved our national unity with your sweat and blood. Do not let it be shaken now," the President said."
The secretary general of Hezbollah, Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah goes on to order that all interal collaborators in league with the Israeli/US plan for the ME which involves direct and indirect internal meddling be given the harshest penalty possible under the law and he suggests that that start not with members of other religious sects but with the Shia themselves (and yes, some Shia are evil doers and traitors to the Lebanese population):
In this issue I want to be frank and decisive, do not play with security or the judiciary, like the old game of '6 by 6 per sect repeated.' In other words placing the treatment of collaborators under the influence of balances religious confessions and sects.
I say begin the death penalty with collaborators from the Shiaa community.
Fourth: An invitation. Today I like to address the rest of the spies and agents who are still on Lebanese territory, who have not been arrested yet. I say to you 'You are completely exposed, the hands to arrest you will soon reach you, it is why I offer you to quickly surrender yourselves to the official security services and the Lebanese judiciary, lest that lighten your penalty, you spies and collaborators must know you have no value to your Zionist masters, because as far as "Israel" is concerned you are worth a handful of dust, that is why you should guard yourself by quickly returning to your home, people and State before it is too late.
Fifth: We in Hizbullah have always cooperated with the security agencies, but I announce today that we in the resistance will maximize the efforts and cooperation, without any reservations with all official bodies, in a comprehensive national public effort to achieve this noble goal, which is to clean Lebanon up from the networks of spies and agents.
Sixth: we must cooperate to mitigate the political environment, to not allow political and sectarian divisions in the country to justify collaboration and treason. I must also draw the people's attention in all areas, especially in towns and large cities where issues quickly dissipate and become forgotten, when in villages a dead person is kept alive in the people's memory for even a hundred after their death.
I want to say we must act responsibly with legitimacy, morally and fraternally.
The Holy Quran says "... no bearer of burdens can bear of burdens the burden of another" Holy Quran 6:164.
The collaborator and spy in one of our villages or families, is not the fault of their father, mother, wife, children or family. It is bad enough that this or that collaborator wronged his own family therefore; it is not permissible for anyone to wrong his family or relatives.
They are our community, people, citizens, neighbours and distant relatives, we must lament their situation, lighten their burden, and stand by their side, because their wound is very painful, it is more painful than any wound, I know as you do, particularly in south Lebanon, the feelings of any family, father, mother, wife, child or daughter whose son, husband or father is a collaborator.
In this regard I hope the collaboration matter is dealt with in complete compassion.
God Almighty calls on us to reflect His characteristics in His creation, He is with great mercy and compassion and strong impunity. I invite you express mercy with the families and severe punishment with agents and spies.
Israel using new Cancer causing explosive. If it doesn't shred a person to pieces with the first drastic explosion using Dense Inert Metal Explosive, it will cause CANCER to the remaining victims of this vicious and illegal munition.
Why haven't you heard of it? Because the United States allows Israel to commit war crimes. That is because the US has committed war crimes. Sad fact of the matter is, bad people and governments stick together like glue. Even Obama is helpless it seems to do anything about it.
Should we worry?
Fortunately for us, Good People Stick Together Too!
There is growing concern that Israel is planning another attack on South Lebanon. I tend to think that they got their arses whooped the last time and wouldn't risk another humiliating defeat at the hands of Hezbollah but oddly enough, Israel is a glutton for punishment. Hezbollah now has an estimated 80,000 rockets posed and ready to launch into Israel should Israel do something stupid. And Israel is still stupid even if the Israeli people have become wise about their own guilt over so many war crimes it makes a person's eyes water.
They have used the Gaza strip as their own personal in vivo munitions testing facility. Mengele? Oh more than that. Israel makes the Nazi regime look tame and it is no longer an viable comparison.
There is no comparison to the war crimes committed by Israel against civilian populations, infrastructure of neighboring countries and Palestinian prison camps (in Israel and beyond). One day in the not so distant future, people will ask "how did this happen"? Just as people do when considering the war crimes perpetrated by Adolph Hitler against many types of people of whom the Jews composed only a fraction of the number eradicated by his pogroms.
Last week, a group thought to be a small, poorly organized group loosely affiliated with Al Qaeda, fired two home made rockets into Israel and Israel retaliated and blamed the Lebanese goverment for the attack (the only way a legitimate claim of self defense can be made is by assigning guilt to the government of the territory from which a missile is launched). Both Hezbollah and the Lebanese government denied any responsibility for the attack. Meanwhile, Israel fired on a fishing boat in Naqoura which is a small seaside village bordering Israel and Lebanon which is a frank vilation of the UN resolution that ended the horrendous war crime Israel perpetrated on the Lebanese civilian population (collective punishment for ?) in 2006.
Israel you see, does whatever it wants to. Doesn't consult with the UN peacekeeping forces and sometimes even attacks the UN peacekeeping forces.
I personally don't see an Israeli attack in the making but news reports from the ME do suggest that it is highly possible in the near future that Israel may attempt once again to ethnically cleanse the region along it's northern border of the legitimate occupants who are mostly Shia muslims but also a healthy contingent of Maronite Christians. It wouldn't be the first time. Afterall, Israel is built on the blood and bones of people they murdered in order to form the illegal state of Israel which is not recognized by any ME countries save those on the payroll of the United States (client regimes) like Jordan and Egypt.
In the Jewish daily Ha'aretz, the language is quite tame and indicates that Israel is on the defensive now rather than the offensive:
"The explosions showed that Hezbollah is arming and getting stronger, but the IDF is organized and ready for everything."
Although Ha'aretz is known for it's liberal and pro peace stand, in this case, it misrepresents the facts indicating weakness of the Israeli people. Hezbollah had nothing to do with the attacks. Of course not. Hezbollah is a professional outfit and doesn't launch "home made" rockets nor does it ever launch piecemeal attacks like this. When Hezbollah has something to do with an attack, it will be and always is obvious because they take their operations quite seriously. They also respect their enemies enough to not lie about actual attacks and counter attacks. That is one of the weapons (truth/honesty) that destroyed Ehud Olmert who has recently been deposed by the Israeli people (for corruption).
Hezbollah has literally changed the society of the Middle East in general and the Levant specifically into one of Resistance rather than Submission to the Israeli War Machine. This article is from the second in command of Hezbollah, Shaikh Naim Qassem who is widely considered the "bad cop" of the good cop/bad cop partnership of Nasrallah and Qassem, Inc.:
http://english.moqawama.org/essaydetails.php?eid=9036&cid=234
He invites all Lebanese citizens, Muslim and Non to participate in the resistance society from which there is "no turning back" and which Nasrallah promises will end the injustice of the Israeli state forever:
"Thus the whole society becomes a resistance society; it provides what is required of it to then go back to the normalcy of daily life. Hence a resistance society is not one in which arms are randomly distributed to all the people, but such a community governs energies and capacities into an integrated process of confrontation."
The Christian president of Lebanon echoes this sentiment when he says that the Lebanese Armed Forces should act as a complement to the victorious party (Hezbollah) who is most likely better armed than the state itself:
"Speaking to graduating officers at the Fiadiyeh Military Academy on Friday in the occasion of Lebanon's 63rd annual Army Day, Suleiman stressed that the army's weapons should embrace the ones addressed against the enemy "that was already defeated by the Resistance and the army"."
"Your duty "goes beyond politics and confessionalism (sectarian affiliation). Maintaining security is your duty, which requires sacrifices," Suleiman told the graduating class, which he named after Brigadier General Francois al-Hajj, who was martyred in a bombing."
President Suleiman goes further to identify internal enemies of the state of Lebanon (Al Qaeda and Christian Lebanese Forces affiliates) as being on the zero tolerance list of every citizen of Lebanon and more importantly, the integrated Lebanese Army which just so happens to be composed mostly although not entirely of Shia muslim soldiers:
"Suleiman urged the army to confront "violators" to avoid civil strife and stressed the need to safeguard the military's unity. "Do not hesitate to curb violators no matter what their affiliations are," Suleiman told graduating cadets at the Military Academy in Fayadieh. "Isn't it a duty to confront anyone who shoots" at his compatriot? Suleiman asked."
"The Lebanese army fought fierce battles in the Nahr al-Bared camp" at this time last year, Sleiman recalle, referring to the Lebanese Armed Forces' summer-long fight against the Fatah al-Islam organization in the northern Palestinian refugee camp, a fight Suleiman himself oversaw, as the army commander at the time. "You have preserved our national unity with your sweat and blood. Do not let it be shaken now," the President said."
The secretary general of Hezbollah, Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah goes on to order that all interal collaborators in league with the Israeli/US plan for the ME which involves direct and indirect internal meddling be given the harshest penalty possible under the law and he suggests that that start not with members of other religious sects but with the Shia themselves (and yes, some Shia are evil doers and traitors to the Lebanese population):
In this issue I want to be frank and decisive, do not play with security or the judiciary, like the old game of '6 by 6 per sect repeated.' In other words placing the treatment of collaborators under the influence of balances religious confessions and sects.
I say begin the death penalty with collaborators from the Shiaa community.
Fourth: An invitation. Today I like to address the rest of the spies and agents who are still on Lebanese territory, who have not been arrested yet. I say to you 'You are completely exposed, the hands to arrest you will soon reach you, it is why I offer you to quickly surrender yourselves to the official security services and the Lebanese judiciary, lest that lighten your penalty, you spies and collaborators must know you have no value to your Zionist masters, because as far as "Israel" is concerned you are worth a handful of dust, that is why you should guard yourself by quickly returning to your home, people and State before it is too late.
Fifth: We in Hizbullah have always cooperated with the security agencies, but I announce today that we in the resistance will maximize the efforts and cooperation, without any reservations with all official bodies, in a comprehensive national public effort to achieve this noble goal, which is to clean Lebanon up from the networks of spies and agents.
Sixth: we must cooperate to mitigate the political environment, to not allow political and sectarian divisions in the country to justify collaboration and treason. I must also draw the people's attention in all areas, especially in towns and large cities where issues quickly dissipate and become forgotten, when in villages a dead person is kept alive in the people's memory for even a hundred after their death.
I want to say we must act responsibly with legitimacy, morally and fraternally.
The Holy Quran says "... no bearer of burdens can bear of burdens the burden of another" Holy Quran 6:164.
The collaborator and spy in one of our villages or families, is not the fault of their father, mother, wife, children or family. It is bad enough that this or that collaborator wronged his own family therefore; it is not permissible for anyone to wrong his family or relatives.
They are our community, people, citizens, neighbours and distant relatives, we must lament their situation, lighten their burden, and stand by their side, because their wound is very painful, it is more painful than any wound, I know as you do, particularly in south Lebanon, the feelings of any family, father, mother, wife, child or daughter whose son, husband or father is a collaborator.
In this regard I hope the collaboration matter is dealt with in complete compassion.
God Almighty calls on us to reflect His characteristics in His creation, He is with great mercy and compassion and strong impunity. I invite you express mercy with the families and severe punishment with agents and spies.
He goes on to suggest that these collaborators are not merely intelligence agents for Israel but indeed, have harbored TNT in their homes and assisted Isreali operatives in and out of the country and hence, they obviously deserve the death penalty if charged with being "agent executors".
The unification of Lebanon is contrasted with the Disunity of Israel and the people who occupy Palestinian homes and lands. No Occupier in the history of mankind has EVER remained in the land that they occupied. None.
13.9.09
An Evening in September
Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim
So much has been lost
in the paraphrase and I am one of them
now, on the other side
trying not to be a burden
to not
fabricate the evidence
against us all
and if you cannot forgive
yourself, I cannot forgive
you either.
Our dead child
waits for us in her
stony little grave
but I cannot say it.
If three people have the same
conversation, who says
they all have the same one ah'khee?
It was a long time ago
and shouldn't matter to anyone now.
Afterall, she was never born
into such vivid detail
still has the luck of innocence
on her side and the courage
to warm herself in that tomb
with nothing more than
her outlaw hands and messages.
Sure would have done it differently
even though it would have looked
the same and she'd still be in there.
Her little brother, darling boy
made more of an impression
coming in and blessing us
with his unbelievably high hopes
but he died too, left without
telling anyone goodbye
and I turned to the woman
in the cot beside me,
nos son mortificados,
estranged, guilty
and she was the one screaming.
And for this ah'khee, I now
pay for these crimes all alone.
*ah'khee is the familiar form of brother in Arabic, translates literally to "bro"
Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim
So much has been lost
in the paraphrase and I am one of them
now, on the other side
trying not to be a burden
to not
fabricate the evidence
against us all
and if you cannot forgive
yourself, I cannot forgive
you either.
Our dead child
waits for us in her
stony little grave
but I cannot say it.
If three people have the same
conversation, who says
they all have the same one ah'khee?
It was a long time ago
and shouldn't matter to anyone now.
Afterall, she was never born
into such vivid detail
still has the luck of innocence
on her side and the courage
to warm herself in that tomb
with nothing more than
her outlaw hands and messages.
Sure would have done it differently
even though it would have looked
the same and she'd still be in there.
Her little brother, darling boy
made more of an impression
coming in and blessing us
with his unbelievably high hopes
but he died too, left without
telling anyone goodbye
and I turned to the woman
in the cot beside me,
nos son mortificados,
estranged, guilty
and she was the one screaming.
And for this ah'khee, I now
pay for these crimes all alone.
*ah'khee is the familiar form of brother in Arabic, translates literally to "bro"
12.9.09
To WJ Porter's Ashes
And he reviewed the birds, then said: How is it I see not the hoopoe or is it that he is of the extinct? -The Ant in the Glorious Quran
It is the preburn of creation
without the m
and I know all the answers,
there aren't any about that -
is there moisture down there dad?
When it rains do you feel
a little bit better, more yourself
more like a protestant
caught up in the litigation
of certain tribal defamation
suits against the Creator?
I'm not mad at you just
wish I knew you a bit better
than the dust you've become
knew a little more about
how you knew I'd be alright.
Sometimes I think about
your beard, the way we used
to call you Ahab the Arab
so grateful to you for that
time you laughed about his left hand.
You were smiling weren't you
and someday we'll go fishing
up there I promise,
we'll have all day to
spell your first name.
And he reviewed the birds, then said: How is it I see not the hoopoe or is it that he is of the extinct? -The Ant in the Glorious Quran
It is the preburn of creation
without the m
and I know all the answers,
there aren't any about that -
is there moisture down there dad?
When it rains do you feel
a little bit better, more yourself
more like a protestant
caught up in the litigation
of certain tribal defamation
suits against the Creator?
I'm not mad at you just
wish I knew you a bit better
than the dust you've become
knew a little more about
how you knew I'd be alright.
Sometimes I think about
your beard, the way we used
to call you Ahab the Arab
so grateful to you for that
time you laughed about his left hand.
You were smiling weren't you
and someday we'll go fishing
up there I promise,
we'll have all day to
spell your first name.
Teeth
I still would, even if I didn't make it
to the afterhours party, I still would
purchase the hard soap, the green soap
would still make sure that every part
got rinsed off every day. Then
I would keep cautioning my children
to honor me anyway and to look away
if the scene makes them unhappy.
Keep walking brothers and sisters
you used to know me and the stories
are still fragrant, still unfinished
but the last doubt is different,
keeps you hopeful and mellow.
Young son with your facial hair
and daughter with your baby,
it isn't what you expect afterall.
The sky will show you how.
All my teeth are porcelain now
they've shaved off their only shine
been replaced with something
if not better at least it is
more expensive, quality dentition.
I used to think I'd be famous
or beautiful forever, I used to
believe that I could never get
over anything especially love
but I got over you too.
I still would, even if I didn't make it
to the afterhours party, I still would
purchase the hard soap, the green soap
would still make sure that every part
got rinsed off every day. Then
I would keep cautioning my children
to honor me anyway and to look away
if the scene makes them unhappy.
Keep walking brothers and sisters
you used to know me and the stories
are still fragrant, still unfinished
but the last doubt is different,
keeps you hopeful and mellow.
Young son with your facial hair
and daughter with your baby,
it isn't what you expect afterall.
The sky will show you how.
All my teeth are porcelain now
they've shaved off their only shine
been replaced with something
if not better at least it is
more expensive, quality dentition.
I used to think I'd be famous
or beautiful forever, I used to
believe that I could never get
over anything especially love
but I got over you too.
Back to the poetry because afterall, 9/11 is so over. The monsoon isn't though and that is good. Rain is always good, keeps everything fresh if you will.
The Chain Reaction
(for Matt, whoever he is)
It started with the interpreter
then the mayor, where we lived
between Wood and West
long ago everyone was watching,
considering for a few moments
the love that ran between the tall Mexican
and his nurse without any words to fall over,
it was brief and ended nicely
but only went as far as skin.
He likes a little sugar not smoke
but the machine was on all night
and the rest of the world became
silent from pouting, there were no
falling stars, no recorders
but because it was important,
we remembered it and put it into
action for replay in the lives of others.
We are doing such important things here,
taking notes but the archives
put psychology into too many books,
forgot to take our passing thoughts
out for a walk before Mr. Whatshisname
counted the windows and secured
the last door with his arthritic
panhandling wrists, I remember him
I remember all of his children
but never saw them or wanted
to go home with their captives,
didn't eat under their tricky umbrellas.
We took his generation seriously
without making sure first, checking
into what the neighbors said later on.
It happened again with that one too,
he moved in and when it was over
took my two shoulders in his hands
and that was it, we were shaking
and whispering I love you in the car,
I know I could honey but for now
this bed is all mine, is all narrow,
is all made up for the evening,
is all I ever wanted. Just another mistake
but if only you hadn't said
I'm getting better, healing up.
That never works but once.
The Chain Reaction
(for Matt, whoever he is)
It started with the interpreter
then the mayor, where we lived
between Wood and West
long ago everyone was watching,
considering for a few moments
the love that ran between the tall Mexican
and his nurse without any words to fall over,
it was brief and ended nicely
but only went as far as skin.
He likes a little sugar not smoke
but the machine was on all night
and the rest of the world became
silent from pouting, there were no
falling stars, no recorders
but because it was important,
we remembered it and put it into
action for replay in the lives of others.
We are doing such important things here,
taking notes but the archives
put psychology into too many books,
forgot to take our passing thoughts
out for a walk before Mr. Whatshisname
counted the windows and secured
the last door with his arthritic
panhandling wrists, I remember him
I remember all of his children
but never saw them or wanted
to go home with their captives,
didn't eat under their tricky umbrellas.
We took his generation seriously
without making sure first, checking
into what the neighbors said later on.
It happened again with that one too,
he moved in and when it was over
took my two shoulders in his hands
and that was it, we were shaking
and whispering I love you in the car,
I know I could honey but for now
this bed is all mine, is all narrow,
is all made up for the evening,
is all I ever wanted. Just another mistake
but if only you hadn't said
I'm getting better, healing up.
That never works but once.
11.9.09
IT CAME OUT OF THE SKY
Oh, it came out of the sky, landed just a little South of Moline.
Jody fell out of his tractor, couldn't b'lieve what he seen.
Laid on the ground and shook fearin' for his life.
Then he ran all the way to town screamin' it came out of the sky.
Well, a crowd gathered round and a scientist said it was marsh gas.
Spiro came and made a speech about raising the Mars tax.
The Vatican said, woe, the Lord has come, Hollywood rushed out an epic film
and Ronnie the Popular said it was a communist plot.
Oh, the newspapers came and made Jody a national hero.
Walter and Eric said they'd put him on a network TV show.
The White House said, put the thing in the Blue Room, the Vatican said, no, it belongs to Rome
and Jody said, it's mine and you can have it for seventeen million.
Oh, it came out of the sky, landed just a little South of Moline.
Jody fell out of his tractor, couldn't b lieve what he seen.
Laid on the ground a shakin', fearin' for his life.
Oh, then he ran all the way to town screamin' it came out of the sky.
- John C. Fogerty
The Banksters and the Tangled Web They Weave
"In any case, it’s scary: you’ve got a good segment of the American population that is completely impervious to any kind of evidence, any rational argument. I mean, who collects statistics? People in black helicopters!"
http://krugman.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/08/12/bernie-madoff-and-the-birthers/
_______________________________________________________________
"How many small towns with barely ten thousand people “boast” a tiny local airport which play host to terrorist hijackers? Or been run by a heroin trafficker disguised as a flight school owner, or a man accused of stealing $300 million in a huge financial fraud?"
"DuBain later founded a San Francisco supper club with oilman Gordon Getty and Reagan Secretary of State George Shultz; his "Pacific Institute" kept former Bush Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld busy in the 1990s."
http://www.madcowprod.com/03202009.html
"One answer has already become obvious. Nadel spent an enormous amount of money on airplanes and aviation facilities."
______________________________________________________________________________
"These reports further state that Madoff was ‘convicted’ in a ‘one of a kind’ designed trial in which his guilty plea kept all evidence against Israel’s betrayal of the United States from being entered into official American records as it was deemed by the Obama administration as ‘too incendiary’ for the American people to know about and would, most certainly, unleash an Israeli backlash many Russian Military Analysts state would leave ‘many US cities in ruin’. ”
http://us.altermedia.info/news-of-interest-to-white-people/bankster-coverup-on-bernie-madoff_4919.html
Now, I was going to write a poem about this and I might indeed do that but not before I reprint a 9/11 classic. One of my favorite poems of all time and it is what it is. It's about truth and the right of "freedom of speech" CONSISTS IN telling the truth according to Ali Mu'mineen, Commander of the Faithful, pbuh. Many of the first Imam's quotes are taken for granted and this one needs to be examined thoroughly by all readers (close reading). Freedom of Speech isn't about just saying whatever you want. Not at all and afterall, it doesn't exist (the so-called Freedom of Speech in the USA) or we'd already have put these culprits all to bed. Osama is dead...has been for quite some time. But the truth isn't well liked by the sentimentalists in the world who hold on to their own misguided notions too tightly regardless of their self declared affinity for "truth". Historically speaking, this is what happened to Moses, SA when the Pharoah got a bit anxious about Moses' revelation before the nation that magicians are just magicians. Moses threw his staff into the ring and it turned into a snake and ate the fake snakes of the magicians (who were merely propagandists for the Pharoah) whole. The point of that parable which is found not only in the Quran but the Bible is simply this, TRUTH TRUMPS FALSEHOOD ON CONTACT. Falsehood ...well falsehood. What about falsehood and it's many sided variations on the truth? It mixes fact and fiction, just like Mr. Krugman said but he ends up being just another part of the act. This is, for those who have spent any time at all perusing the Protocols of Zion, the trick. At the end of that parable, the magicians themselves admit to the truth and in fact, so does the Pharoah but for him it was a bit too late as the Red Sea came crashing down upon him. He pleaded with Allah to accept his apology and Allah just said, "Nope." Just a simple, "Nope."
Liars tell such a fabulous tale that they literally force a truther to look bad if and when they question the facts of the case. In the case of the Pharoah, he threatened the turn-coat magicians of his with CRUCIFICTION (basically). Ouch! No sane person can say that this isn't exactly the case with such "truther"movements post 9/11. The "truthers" have been tarred and feathered, ignored and even ousted from popular poetry boards (Amiri Baraka by Mr. Ron Silliman) for merely stating the facts. Of course, Mr. Silliman has forgiven Mr. Baraka (LeRoi Jones) for his act of defiance and Mr. Baraka has held his tongue after having his Laureate-ship revoked.....but this story just won't die. That is because the fake snake isn't able to eat the real snake. That reptile is Divine Powered you know and has a HUGE stomach. Just huge. The only thing the real snake likes to eat is the thing that satisfies it's hunger and that would be the lie. The real snake food.
Haha...that third article might even be part of the parade...oh...it tells the "conspiracy theorists" which like to think they know (and end up in the forest of mirrors all the same)..if anyone finds out, RUSSIA tells us that it will leave all our cities in ruin! It basically says, we're gonna tell you the truth here but at the end of it we'll put in this fabulous assumption just in case you "get any ideas" about how secret this all is and has to remain.
What utter bullshit. Israel will beat us up...hahaha. And that's exactly what Ahmadinijad said when threatened with Israeli airstrikes....hoho he said. Israel? That tiny little country? Will attack the mightly nation of Iran? Oh...hohoho. He had the usual sparkle in his eye that so many of us teary eyed Shia get now days when faced with the moronic afterglow of 9/11 and Israel's now famous defeat in Lebanon in 2006. What pranksters!
My favorite truther is this young man who goes into Walmarts and Kmarts and watches employees enter their secret intercom code. He then commandeers the intercom and announces to the Kmart blue-light shoppers that 9/11 was a coverup. What chutzpah! What sheer valor.
The Wondrous Magico
Most things never really happen
to us and those that do
are truly remarkable.
The tired old promise
once the war is fought
and supposedly won, as planned
before the corpse wrecks
the best-laid plans
with clockwork and clairvoyance,
that dreadful pose staged
on the triage of life
and death innuendo
are a pleasant compromise
for the real thing
as it fiddles and burns,
cuts everything in half
and disappears the rabbit
from the land of the living.
Those that shake the snakes
from bags and wave their
crooked old sticks
past all our pleased
and dumbstruck faces
say like this:
and and and and and
Voila! Lo! Behold!
The Chain Reaction
It started with the interpreter
then the mayor, where we lived
between Wood and West
long ago everyone was watching,
considering for a few moments
the love that ran between the tall Mexican
and his nurse without any words to fall over,
it was brief and ended nicely
but only went as far as skin.
He likes a little sugar not smoke
but the machine was on all night
and the rest of the world became
silent from pouting, there were no
falling stars, no recorders
but because it was important,
we remembered it and put it into
action for replay in the lives of others.
We are doing such important things here,
taking notes but the archives
put psychology into too many books,
forgot to take our passing thoughts
out for a walk before Mr. Whatshisname
counted the windows and secured
the last door with his arthritic
panhandling wrists, I remember him
I remember all of his children
but never saw them or wanted
to go home with their captives,
didn't eat under their tricky umbrellas.
We took his generation seriously
without making sure first, checking
into what the neighbors said later on.
It happened again with that one too,
he moved in and when it was over
took my two shoulders in his hands
and that was it, we were shaking
and whispering I love you in the car,
I know I could honey but for now
this bed is all mine, is all narrow,
is all made up for the evening,
is all I ever wanted. Just another mistake
but if only you hadn't said
I'm getting better, healing up.
That never works but once.
It started with the interpreter
then the mayor, where we lived
between Wood and West
long ago everyone was watching,
considering for a few moments
the love that ran between the tall Mexican
and his nurse without any words to fall over,
it was brief and ended nicely
but only went as far as skin.
He likes a little sugar not smoke
but the machine was on all night
and the rest of the world became
silent from pouting, there were no
falling stars, no recorders
but because it was important,
we remembered it and put it into
action for replay in the lives of others.
We are doing such important things here,
taking notes but the archives
put psychology into too many books,
forgot to take our passing thoughts
out for a walk before Mr. Whatshisname
counted the windows and secured
the last door with his arthritic
panhandling wrists, I remember him
I remember all of his children
but never saw them or wanted
to go home with their captives,
didn't eat under their tricky umbrellas.
We took his generation seriously
without making sure first, checking
into what the neighbors said later on.
It happened again with that one too,
he moved in and when it was over
took my two shoulders in his hands
and that was it, we were shaking
and whispering I love you in the car,
I know I could honey but for now
this bed is all mine, is all narrow,
is all made up for the evening,
is all I ever wanted. Just another mistake
but if only you hadn't said
I'm getting better, healing up.
That never works but once.
10.9.09
GOOD BUY at Abe's
Here's the deal....I collect old books. Some of them rare and some not so rare, just good reads. One of my favorites is a children's book with an illustration done by a very young Andy Warhol. And in that soup can band illustration...you guessed it....the famous can of tomato. I gave away my Durant signed first edition but held on to TE Lawrence...couldn't part with that! I still can't find any copies of the Longfellow for sale so mine must be worth at least a dollar or two. It's obviously rare.
Today I found a really grand piece of historical literature.
I don't know if the link will last because I've purchased the piece but here it is:
http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=769774467&searchurl=sts%3Dt%26tn%3DSalted%2BFeathers%2B10%26x%3D0%26y%3D0
From Mimeo Revolution...and the youngish Flarfists would be tickled to know that the wheel was already invented hahaha. Those old mimeograph machines and what I wouldn't give for one now! Hot tip: buy one. They will be worth a fortune or at least as much as one of the old Pong games.
This issue of Salted Feathers which was co-edited by my old friend Dick Bakken, features a nice selection of the soon to be famous and very famous poets we know of today.
"Stapled Mimeo Sheets. Contributors include: Padraig O Broin, Carol Berge, Allen Ginsberg, Howard McCord, Galway Knnell, Charles Bukowki, Pamela Bakken, James Hazard, Larry Eigner, Carlos Reyes, Arthur Vogelsang, Dick Bakken, George Dowden, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Norma Ceaser. This issue also a portfolio of photos of poets. Cover lightly faded. Bookseller Inventory # 3103"
Here's the deal....I collect old books. Some of them rare and some not so rare, just good reads. One of my favorites is a children's book with an illustration done by a very young Andy Warhol. And in that soup can band illustration...you guessed it....the famous can of tomato. I gave away my Durant signed first edition but held on to TE Lawrence...couldn't part with that! I still can't find any copies of the Longfellow for sale so mine must be worth at least a dollar or two. It's obviously rare.
Today I found a really grand piece of historical literature.
I don't know if the link will last because I've purchased the piece but here it is:
http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=769774467&searchurl=sts%3Dt%26tn%3DSalted%2BFeathers%2B10%26x%3D0%26y%3D0
From Mimeo Revolution...and the youngish Flarfists would be tickled to know that the wheel was already invented hahaha. Those old mimeograph machines and what I wouldn't give for one now! Hot tip: buy one. They will be worth a fortune or at least as much as one of the old Pong games.
This issue of Salted Feathers which was co-edited by my old friend Dick Bakken, features a nice selection of the soon to be famous and very famous poets we know of today.
"Stapled Mimeo Sheets. Contributors include: Padraig O Broin, Carol Berge, Allen Ginsberg, Howard McCord, Galway Knnell, Charles Bukowki, Pamela Bakken, James Hazard, Larry Eigner, Carlos Reyes, Arthur Vogelsang, Dick Bakken, George Dowden, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Norma Ceaser. This issue also a portfolio of photos of poets. Cover lightly faded. Bookseller Inventory # 3103"
7.9.09
As The Plane Flew Over
I want to learn how to contact
them tell them how do you do
via signal per madman
all the movement in the ligature
of the city runs round
the battleground in stages
they only could hear
the word mindsmart
the plastic peel or definite
character under our fountain
heads please tell them so
no one will worry
force them to get up to
gerryrig their address
but how can we return
to work knowing all this
has happened
down there as descending
over the activated bodies
bending in time
the aperture widens
and closes in to focus
remembers the sound of the beast
as that heart goes one two three?
Spirit of organization goes on
believe it or not
and the poets talk to it forever.
I want to learn how to contact
them tell them how do you do
via signal per madman
all the movement in the ligature
of the city runs round
the battleground in stages
they only could hear
the word mindsmart
the plastic peel or definite
character under our fountain
heads please tell them so
no one will worry
force them to get up to
gerryrig their address
but how can we return
to work knowing all this
has happened
down there as descending
over the activated bodies
bending in time
the aperture widens
and closes in to focus
remembers the sound of the beast
as that heart goes one two three?
Spirit of organization goes on
believe it or not
and the poets talk to it forever.
6.9.09
Terminal Humming, received, read and want to forget about it really and it won't be too hard to do so. The apologetic ending is apt because this is where save a tree comes in handy. There isn't much in this book that excites me either as a progressive or radical or conservative flame thrower. I've no doubt that it is a hit in the five minutes of fame sort of way that feminist literature can be...no doubt at all but in that it is a parody of what it wishes to acknowledge. As is most feminist literature so there you have it, it fits the type that it hopes to either discover or parlay into a new language of rational output albeit communicated irrationally.
Where's the beef in this? All angry protestations or rather, sentimentalistically inclined and very standard vignettes of the no holds barred Ann Murray hairdo sensationalism of yesteryear.
I should recuse myself from reviewing anything of the feminist genre by saying that I hate feminism as it is in our modern world. It is misguided babble and will eat its own tail whether it likes it or not. Therefore, a willing audience to such clap trap you won't find in me.
The chapbook (aptly self defining) is one of those books you'll find on thrift store shelves...the poet wondering where did all my copies end up? Where they should. I started reading it on my way to San Antonio, still bristling over the fact that a person has to pay for luggage and no bite to eat when the steward reminds us that flying isn't as glamorous as it used to be. Great fellow and quite gay, he waxed on about his Fwitzy (his wiener dog), his 22 year union with a partner but stopped short because of the look on our faces over this admission. Later during the flight he whispered to my husband after I returned a little bottle of chardonnay he tried to hand to me for free but I retorted, I'm muslim and don't drink to which he replied, "I'm Catholic and an alcoholic." Thought I'd bust a rib on that one...but he whispered to my husband that he was indeed gay. I took his hand as I left and wished him peace.
Feminism. More gay men should write or rather, right the wrongs of such self indulgent fantasies of hard core or not so hard core feminist rabble rousing. Where to send the troops now? They've all gone home to file their nails once again. As women always do find the safest place to be is where you expect them to be and in the case of Terminal Humming it is full of the usual old diatribes and diagnostic conundrums of women who like to write literature for the sake of informing men of all the hassles they have to endure. But why do they?
How many of them have the courage to stand up to the beast and tell it, if you followed the word of Allah, we wouldn't need to hassle you so hard or hustle to the next technobeat of our rage.
But there isn't that kind of rage in this tome. It's a pitiful meaow and ends up with an apology...not sure why that had to happen but feel totally confident that administering the last touch ups to the drafts of this was not only easy but worse, it was not necessary. I doubt the poet even remembered which words were switched or why.
Unleashing inner badness? Are we to assume this is the spiteful self hatred of our own gender talking? I certainly hope not although I must admit, I get a bit hot under the collar sometimes as a wife of a domineering arab man for 28 years and mother to his three children. That doesn't mean I hate being what I am but rather, I hate having to pretend not to notice all the time. What kind of inner badness is there really if a woman is so wise as to be able to reflect at length on the meaning of gender inequality or rather, her gender inequality because it certainly isn't mine. There is no such thing then if we are all at home in this skin but that is the best thing that can be said about experimental poetry. That is, experimental poetry ought to expose that which hasn't thus far been exposed adequately enough or in the language of our peers.
I do like certain things, certain lines...especially the part where a peaceful nuclear device is uncovered in the forest. That's nice but problem is, a whole book of poetry needs to have something to recommend itself on. And a few nice lines just isn't enough for me.
I have to say I might pick it up again and give it one more chance but all things considered....it is better left as is with hope for the future of this type of thing which isn't new at all. It's more of the same old tired Ai drivel. Alas. It's not even possible to reproduce excerpts to dissect for review because the act would be fruitless and entirely subjective. This morass of work needs to grow up first, to experience the ledge of the expected before trying to fly into the world of the intellectually courageous where obviously, this poet wants to project herself. There is no such thing as being too smart to handle, too brave to be believed or too contemporary to be understood and by the same token, misunderstood to the point of brilliance. No such thing.
What there is out there is too many up and coming poets to be believed. And if that's the case we can most definitely assume that the poet herself produces boredom as an act of sheer defiance. I think though that is giving way too much credit to the accidental good close reading that a poet with at least a little experience might endeavor to provoke in order to sell a book for a hopeful stranger.
5.9.09
Flarf, is it real or is it memorex? The jury remains hung but the culprit was arrested during the jahaliyya times while exiting the courtroom, nine people dead or at least dying somewhere else there's an earthquake but rather by the department of education. Write letters to themselves.
Has tweeked the language the whitehouse announced they will post the speech online to appease at least one outspoken critic stay in school what's wrong with that?
Parents across the country but what about the schools, the Dewey Decimal system? In some places Arlington just outside of Washington a logistical thing we've been asking this morning.
I must say this is what they listened to but what did they hear? The Time person of the year is you it says and flarf is all about that sort of thing. Someone apparently thinks criticism is you don't understand us and that's final if you don't like it/us. Exclusivity is universal where I stand Adorno. My Adorno, the fire was caused by someone and they have posted a reward for this.
I like to hear not listen, to see but not watch, to feel without touching here at the Gateway to the Air Force where a configuration of four planes flew over the tiny recruits on the field, our son one of them and I wonder is this him, them? One mother arrived in her gypsy clothes and a family of five could not afford to go to Six Flags Amusement Park, the similacra is now too dear. That's what they say in the White Man's Graveyard, too dear and you can find that in the Graham Green. Humbug me.
This generation is just too generation for me, too hopeful about the newness in the jahaliyya times. In Kunduz the metal is sharp and hot for the dress blues and I wonder where will he go? We've already been there and back in again we don't want to go too much into that if we can't get out again all over.
Flarf, my flarf. My flarf isn't as wonderful as theirs is because I cannot drone terribly on without at least one answer and five primary colors. A trip back to the wild wild west transplanted palm trees the most lucsious desert on the planet a must see. A zoo al in one. A giant puma in the headquarters Atlanta this whole debate really rages on.
And on and on.
Walden
My first deal in my teens
over the next eighteen months
in a trailer park as a kid
but I stumbled
down real estate market
he's trying to help us
just like you
what we did just a few weeks ago
six houses all at once
no money down
Huge financial debt
super super wealth
it's attached to
the best part
close to one million dollars
I don't teach you how to buy
an enormous discount
down here to get one deal
the greatest time in history
no money down strategies
on their books nobody bid
anything they can
desperation is huge
opportunity is enormous
twenty years to figure these things out
it's going straight up,
a buying frenzy as many as they can
ten years to cash out
strategy number two
teaches you
I know it's hard to find someone
who owns property free and clear.
The only person that can give
security to you and your family is you,
no one else is selling this
one time deal, self reliance
any desire to get rid of that knot
in your stomach, going to college
will get you a tiny little raise
I don't know what else to say
people just like you took action
directly to you, no middle man
not in stores call the number
on the screen because no one
is going to do this for you,
don't be paralysed, take the first step.
Resurgence With Joan London
in Candlewood Extended Stay Suites, San Antonio
(for Lawrence Ferlinghetti)
Our security clearances pending all the time
we want our baby lisas
this window where his shadow runs
watches from on location
churlishness aside, biting fingers off
aside do you have any idea
how to get to Lackland without the machine
to point you and the changes
in your skin?
I noticed my skin changing
when I was about twenty eight
I have a funny story about
why I am sitting here today
skin care junkie
the most expensive to completely
organic and natural.
If we do that we are gonna
feel great about that glow
you start to lose that.
Refreshing and enlightening
from one product, especially.
Highly concentrated
apricot and primrose oils,
papaya algae and plant extracts
soy wild yams alpha hydroxy
polypeptides
instantly shea butter
ruduces the appearance
even the most sensitive
in the next six minutes
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