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In Light of Another Sun
Friday, February 06, 2009 IV.2.1. Everything's back to normal this week, and here's who I have for you. From friends of "Here and Now" Thane Zander Gary Blankenship Marie Gail Stratford Dave Ruslander From my library Leslie Clark Wesley K. Mather Langston Hughes Albert Belisle Davis Sarah Patton Judith Viorst George Grosz Bertold Brecht Volker Sielaff Philip Nikolayev and me. Here we are.  My first two poems are by Lesley Clark from her book the absence of colour, published by Orchard Press of San Antonio in 2000. Clark was born in Big Spring, Texas, and raised in Aldeburgh, England. She holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Social Psychology and is working toward a master's degree. Her work has appeared in literary magazines and journals and in three anthologies. The Dream Last night I dreamt your mother was young she invited me into your home showed me sepia stained portraits of a little boy I never knew I sat on the saltillo floor fondled the same tiles you little feet wobbled on I looked into the copper mirror imagined your face reflecting before me In the kitchen I looked at the table and wondered which chair you liked to sit in wondered which foods you liked to eat your mother knew me from the moment I walked in the door the moment I saw you a little on I never knew my eyes filled with tears I want to know you when you're awake I want to know you when you sleep and become restless your mother offered me chocolate the same chocolate you asked for when you visited my house you mother was so simple wearing a hint of rouge upon her cheeks carry the sweet smell of vanilla Brown I am brown, he tells me, brown it is my brown skin that covers me from rampant waters, it is my skin that defines me carries me to you and I tell him, I, too, am brown but he does not agree he tells me I am between colours between black and white between negative space & shades of gray I am the absence of colour no term to define me my spectrum is wide from two distant ends papa on one mama on the other I am blended a colour to be measured and mixed I am both black and white becoming brown I tell him that it is my skin that protects me from the sun that carries me across the sand and to the sea the colour that blends the land to the sea, the earth to the sky, the sun to the moon I surface in my perfect shade of blended brown through rain, weather and sunlight through murk and flower gardens he and I are one in the same varying shades of thick, brown, blended skin.  I've been writing my daily poems at Borders in the morning, triggered by what ever catches my eye as i look around me. This poem is about one of the men in a group of old men who meet every morning at Borders to drink morning coffee and talk about the stock market, and, of course, politics and politicians. (They don't like'em.) I've written about them before. Old John's looking kinda worn these days Old John's looking kinda worn these days at 82, he's looking not a day under 70 a good 5 years older than he looked a year ago it might be the hat or the relaxed fit jeans old men should not wear relaxed fit jeans makes'em look like they forgot their ass at home when they left out in the morning producing strong perception of two symptoms of aging in men asslessness and memory loss  The next piece is by Wesley K. Mather from his book Into Pieces published by iUniverse Inc. in 2003. Although Mather has written for a number of publications, this was his first book. A Short Description of Blue It can be pasty And it can be rich The texture of milk curds Can seem very blue To the open hands With no eye to guide them Sometimes the feeling of print on paper Though it cannot be felt in any conventional way Can penetrate the pores You know blue in relation to the other colors Because of its soothing aspect It is somehow on smoother on the paper Still it mustn't be trusted It is as sticky and as clever as they come It can cause lower back pain or kidney problems When you The blind and lucky Reach up the leg of a smooth being Searching for a center to focus on You will encounter perhaps A slight ruffle of lace And you will know is is blue When despite your blindness You become convinced a room is dark You may feel a slight radiation on your shoulders Drying out your skin a little like the sun That will prove to you blue in its palest sense It is very much like menthol Entering the raw nerves of the sinuses The medium shade are easy to find Press hard with a finger Into the tender flesh Just beneath the nail on the large toe The deepest form it can present Will be in the thickest textures Blue is very convenient that way Taking a pair of razor-sharp scissors And slicing with a tremendous force Through rock and iron The forearms will begin to burn from effort The material will tear away slowly That is the deepest shade of blue  Here's a very funny piece by our friend from New Zealand, Thane Zander. Dere's a hole in me pocket I felt in my wet pocket, the one opposite the left so it must be right, which means my right hand is getting wet. Einstein I hear you say! Huh, I'm no genius just a poor fool that has an urgent demand to change apparel. Then it got me thinking, yup, redneck, how on earth did my pocket get wet? At first glance the sky is clear, the street is dry there is no container in said pocket, so where oh bloody where did this god-awful mess come from? Yes I know - I'm a man and could have had a senior moment, but I swing to the left. Hmmph!! I know, I'll stand over the tube exhaust, instant dry. Ok so I'm not Marilyn but I have needs, and mysteries ain't one.  I've used poems by Langston Hughes many times on "Here and Now," from a number of different sources. The next several poems are from The Dream Keeper and other poems published in 1994 by Alfred K. Knopf. Irish Wake In the dark they fell a-crying For the dead who'd gone away. And you could hear the drowsy wailing, Of those compelled to stay - But when the sun rose making All the dooryard bright and clear The mourners got up smiling, Happy they were there. Beggar Boy What is there within this beggar lad That I can neither hear nor feel nor see, That I can neither know nor understand And still it calls to me? Is not he but a shadow in the sun - A bit of clay, brown, ugly, given life? And yet he plays upon his flute a wild free tune As if Fate had not bled him with her knife! Parisian Beggar Woman Once you were young. Now, hunched in the cold, Nobody cares That you are old. Once you were beautiful. Now, in the street, no one remembers Your lips were sweet. Oh, withered old woman Of rue Fontaine Nobody but death will kiss you again. Mexican Market Woman This ancient hag Who sits upon the ground Selling her scanty wares Day in, day round, Has known high wind-swept mountains, And the sun has made Her skin so brown. Sea Calm How still, How strangely still The water is today. It is not good For water To be so still that way.  Sometimes, looking around from my table at Borders in the morning, I run a bit dry on inspiration, a situation that calls for theft when nothing else helps. resorting to drastic measures there it is again - that damn blank screen i'm supposed to fill with... insight? not likely grace? even less likely passion? occasionally - usually when i'm really pissed about something no one else cares that much about, which makes me look foolish? often humor? sometimes, like a man walks into a bar asks the bartender if he could get a free drink if he showed him something special bartender says, sure man pulls a mouse out of one pocket and a tiny piano out of the other the mouse stretches, cracks his knuckles, sits down and plays the blues wow! the bartender says and gives the man a drink would you give me free drinks for the rest of my life if i showed you something really, really, really special the man asks the bartender says, sure, if you can top that last trick ok the man says pulling the mouse out of his pocket again and the tiny piano out of another pocket and a bullfrog out of a third pocket the little mouse stretches, cracks his knuckles, sits down at the piano and plays the blues while the bullfrog sings along with the music another customer in the bar rushes over says that's terrific, tell you what, i'll give you $5,000 for the frog ok the man says gives up the frog and takes the money the other customer leaves with the frog the bartender says $5,000, are you crazy you could have made millions with that frog oh the frog's not so great the man said it's just... the mouse is a ventriloquist commit silly joke theft - yeah, that too  The next poem is by Albert Berlisle Davis from his book What They Wrote on the Bathhouse Walls, Yen's Marina, Chinese Bayou, Louisiana. Davis received a Master of Arts degree in creative writing from Colorado State University in 1974. His poetry has been published in numerous journals and his novel, Leechtime won the 1984 Deep South Writers Conference novel competition. This book of poetry won the Deep South Writers Conference poetry competition the next year. Davis teaches at Nicholls State University and lives and writes on Bayou Terrebonne in Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana. Cypremont Point Place names are often backdrops for deception. Here, the Point is called the Cypremont but do you see any trees alive or dead? and the bay, the beach - everything is blunt. Last year the man in that car took his student as a lover. Tonight he takes her again, to the edge of the water. He plans to make an end where they began at the beach where he found her walking the Gulf before dawn the first night they were together. They have driven all night, have talked of his daughters and of her father aging away in Paris. They have spoken too of how they are able to do so. With both of them, age is not the point. They have just stopped. To make him laugh, she asks "Who was it on another shore, who? Who was it also watched the French on the coast, the gleam that went, the ages of the sea while his mistress waited, moonblanched by Dover?" You see, he does not answer. Both know the answer. That knowledge and more is the gift he has given her. That gift is the teacher's only certitude. Tonight, he is sure, he will watch a different woman and seeing this change is all he needs to recover. Look. It is she who runs first, into the wind. Now he is also running, far behind yet ahead of his thoughts, until a thought catches up. That is why he stops, in the sand. He is thinking. Perhaps about the notion we considered. About the place names, you remember, about deception. But that is not important. What is important is that he decides to give the gift again. He turns his head to where he hears her calling. He begins to speak, but stops. He is angry, look, flinging sand into the wind with his shoe. Right now he is facing the teacher's ageless deception. Everything is the same, around her, about her. The waves reach, recede, just as before. She wades, as before, parallel to the horizon. Ignoring the chill the night leaves, she smiles. ""Have you found what you've come to discover?" Let us agree with them. Age is no point. But this man is old enough to catch the point: Who gives the girl knowledge alone gives nothing. Is he old enough to blunt anger at the bay? Again, this time in French, she calls him over. Look. He flings again. No, not sand. He shouts to the wind, "It was Matthew Arnold on another shore who watched the French and thought and continued to think while his mistress waited moonblanched, patient as chalkwhite Dover." does he think she is too young to catch his point? Look. Around her, the Gulf is calm this morning. You can see her now, wiping the spray from her face. She shivers. Behind her, the sun, half-risen, rages. There, behind him. The black marsh loses cover.  Next, I have five short poems by our friend Gary Blankenship that, together, make up his series inspired by the legends of the five suns of the Aztecs. Gary includes with the poems reference to this brief explanation from "The Legend of the Five Suns" by Alan J. Seeger. They say the sun that exists today was born in 13 Reed [751], and it was then that light came, and it dawned. Movement Sun, which exists today, has the day sign 4 Movement, and this sun is the fifth sun that there is. In its time there will be earthquakes, famine. This vision of doom belongs to the Aztec legend of the Five Suns. In the Aztec tradition, the universe was not permanent or everlasting. Like all living things it would someday have to come to an end. But the Aztec cosmos doesn't have a single destruction. They pictured time as a cycle of births, destruction, and rebirths. But this cycle couldn't continue for ever; there would only be five ages or "Suns." Each of these ages had its own name, sign, and ruling divinity. Much of the mythology and ritual revolving around this legend took root in Aztec society and thought. http://www.spiritpathways.com/5suns.html Here are Gary's five poems. The Five Suns of the Aztecs I Sun of Water Three rivers converge below the passes, one flows west to sweep away farm village A Holstein and calf graze encircled by flood A dented blue Buick floats by, all traction lost From a roof, a family waves for rescue delayed to pull a truck out of a sinkhole As the torrent recedes through levee breaks we return by broken debris laden roads to throw out soaked throw rugs couch and instant oats milk the herd gather eggs and soggy mail Three rivers converge below bare ski slopes one meanders west past crows and otter dens II Sun of Jaguar The avenues alive with the city's sounds - snicker of high heels, screech of brakes, horn on horn. The streets busy with a neighborhood's noise - bells, laughter, gossip "shud''p" from the fourth floor Down alleys home to rats of every size, cigarette butts sizzle in greasy puddles, a dying junkie sleeps behind a dumpster vaguely aware of footpads that silent pass him Creatures of the dark and dank wait with relish for the tang of blood and offal that transpires when the hunter strikes his cornered quarry certain giants no longer work the avenues III Sun of Earth He speaks to the team to turn brace and plow, acres to cover before this day's work done and the ground can be seeded to coax life from the earth while still damp with spring vole tunnels ruined shrew homes upended worms left to lie naked in the sun He listens for the sound of distant thunder his wife's call to supper and hears the yells of town folk - barber doctor bartender and town idiot of a farmer who is almost a neighbor who should be behind a plow and brace astride his workhorse instead of behind it He hears their cry lays down the reins and follows the mob to the lure of yellow in the ripples of a far-away river IV Sun of Wind I listen for gales to raise surf and tide, to bend pines like old men rising from dreams. Gray gulls may complain but their squawks are lost in the pepper of sand against my coat. I listen for gusts to rush from the mountains, to drop maples like young men too long at war. Ravens may protest but their caws are lost in the scuttle of leaves to find their lost hold. I listen for the winds to loosen shingles scatter garbage can lids release the screen door for rain to recover carpet and couch my voice mute. V Sun of Movement a piano concerto in D-flat in 3C newlyweds in the flat next door furniture and crates from 2B loaded into a rental van only one set of dishes broken a raggedy ann left on the bare floor a taxi stuck in traffic at 3rd and Main a bus sliding past double parked vans bike messengers' dance through gridlocked commuters timely delivery the difference between indictment and release clouds disappear over the horizon winds die in the summer heat the van devours sun fueled miles on its way across wheatland clearcut and reservoir to harvest a thin crop of change letters march like ants across soiled glass war-painted indians line ridge tops  The next two poems are by Sarah Patton, taken from her book The Joy of Old Horses, published in 1999 by Scopcraeft Press of Portales, New Mexico. The book includes no information about the poet and neither could I find much of anything on the web. It does appear she was originally from Texas, she published frequently in well known poetry journals, and this is her first book. I could find no information on what has happened to her since the book was published in 1999. I do enjoy her poems, though, so hope there are other books out there I just haven't found yet. The Joy of Old Horses The moon is for horses that cannot sleep I've seen them on October nights gathering that light. I've seen the joy of old horses, the sudden flare of eyes like matches in the dark. seen them take from these dying leaves the weight of autumn without protest as if to have reflected the full face of the moon were not enough. I've seen unbridled hair the color of roan horses in rain. The Humility of Old Horses in Snow In October the old trees weep at night. They've waited so long they can't remember what for, waited with the humility of old horses in snow. I remember how a norther shrieks through branches like a woman crazed with war and gathering her dead, remember how cold stills white moths folded like snow against a wall glazes sunlight on red geraniums and cobalt butterflies, how autumn rocks the light so deeply roots can't plumb it.  I wrote this next poem the day after I wrote the poem I used last week, from where i sit, about people traveling east and west on Interstate-10. Again, it is so dry here, with no relief predicted for the foreseeable future, rain and thoughts of rain make it hard to enjoy the beautiful weather we've been having for weeks. an unsunny day yesterday i could see past the red oak grove to a steady stream of east-west traffic today, cocooned in mist and thick winter fog, i can't even see the trees after weeks of bright sun and cloudless clear blue skies, a damp overcast day is welcomed, reminding us that though we haven't see it in months there is a chance of rain in the world some of it, possibly, falling on us two days of rain would be nice, as, with aquifer refreshed and prospect of green somewhere in our environment returned, we could open our arms and hearts to more cloudless, sun-bright days, fear of fires and desertification set aside for another couple of weeks at least  The next three poems are from a book I almost didn't buy because of the dorky illustrations on the cover and inside. I'm glad I ignored the irritation of the art long enough to read a couple of the poems. The book is When Did I Stop Being 20 and Other Injustices and the poet is Judith Viorst. The book was published in 1987 by Simon and Schuster; Viorst, it turns out, is very well known and considered very hip. Being neither in the know nor hip, I had to find her the hard way. Viorst was born in Newark, New Jersey, in 1931. She is the author of several works of fiction and nonfiction, for children as well as adults. Her most recent work of nonfiction, Imperfect Control, was published by Simon and Schuster in 1998. She is also the author of Murdering Mr. Monti (1994) and Necessary Losses (1986) which appeared on The New York Times bestseller list in hardcover and paperback for almost two years. Her children's books include The Tenth Good Thing About Barney (1971), The Alphabet From Z to A (1994), and the "Alexander" stories: Alexander, Who Used to be Rich Last Sunday (1978); Alexander, Who's Not (Do Your Hear Me? I Mean It!) Going to Move (1995); and Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (1972). A graduate of the Washington Psychoanalytic Institute, she is the recipient of various awards for her journalism and psychological writings. she lives in Washington, DC. Seems strange that, as much as I like her book of poetry (the word here is "fun"), there's no mention of poetry in the bio from Poetry.org. Maybe they're too much fun. Henry I have fallen in love. His name is Henry and he is against all my principles. He is not an older man. He does not have a beard. He likes his family. He eats his meat well done. He thinks the country is better than the city. He thinks ice hockey is better than poetry readings. He doesn't believe one must fight to the death against all bourgeois values. He doesn't even smoke. Henry says I'm a nice girl even though I live in the Village. He says I will make a fine mother. He says I will adore skiing. This is not the image I intended to project But I have fallen in love. And I will have to choose between Sheridan Square and Henry, Between paella a la Valenciana and Henry, Between buying books and records and a quarter's worth of daffodils at two in the morning and Henry. I never dreamed I'd end up marrying a man My parents would approve of. Marriage and the Families My mother was grateful He wasn't barefoot. His mother was grateful I wasn't pregnant. My father was grateful He wasn't a different race, color, or creed. His father was grateful I wasn't tubercular or divorced. My sister was grateful Her husband was richer and taller. His sister was grateful She had a master's degree and a better nose. My cousin in luggage was grateful He didn't expect a discount. His cousin the dentist was grateful I didn't need a root canal. My aunts and uncles were grateful He came from a nice family in New Jersey even though he wore sunglasses in the living room which is usually a sign of depravity. His aunts and uncles were grateful I came from a nice family in New Jersey even though I lived in Greenwich village which is usually a sign of depravity also. I should be pleased. But when I think of the catered wedding in Upper Montclair, With the roast Sirloin of beef dinner, The souvenir photo album, And the matches with the raised gold letters, And when I think of the savings bonds, the china, the cut glass, and the sugars and creamers both sterling and silver plate, Then I wish That they weren't So grateful. The Honeymoon Is Over The honeymoon is over And he has left for work Whistling something obvious from La Boheme and carrying a brown calfskin attache case I never dreamed he was capable of owning, Having started the day with ten push-ups and a cold shower Followed by a hearty breakfast. (What do we have in common?) The honeymoon is over and I am dry-mopping the floor In a green Dacron dry-mopping outfit from Saks, Wondering why I'm not dancing in the dark Or rejecting princes, Or hearing people gasp at my one-man show. My god, so beautiful and so gifted! (The trouble is, I never knew a prince.) The honeymoon is over And we find that dining by candlelight makes us squint, And that all the time I was letting him borrow my comb and hang up his wet raincoat in my closet, I was really waiting To stop letting him. And all the time He was saying how he loved my chicken pot pie, He was really waiting To stop eating it. (I guess they call that getting to know each other.)  Marie Gail Stratford, one of my poem-a-day friends, has one of those calendars that have all the special designations for each day. She has begun a series of poems based on the special designation of the day she's writing. It's a fun prompt. Here are several of my favorites. January 23rd Measure Your Feet Day For me, a twelve-inch ruler would do. My sister needs to use the yardstick. We'll wait 'til after dinner for the ceremony. First the children will take off their shoes. We will joke about how smelly they are. The youngest will stand very still while Mommy slides the traditional yardstick along the inside of her left foot. "How much have I grown?" Mommy will make a fresh black mark next to this year's measurement. The older children will follow, then the adults (who won't make new marks - our feet are out of the habit of growing). Ooohs and ahhs will follow the laughter - amazement as to how much the little feet have grown. The yardstick will take a place of honor, on display for a week or so before being stored for next year's observations. January 24th (Beer served in a can for the first time January 24, 1935 Beer Can Appreciation Day Nothing is on tap today. Chug from a can instead. Smash that can on your forehead. Down another. Later in the evening the bartender will set up bowling lanes. Come away from your darts and pool. Try to knock down ten cans of lager. When you're drunk enough, someone will suggest building pyramids with the unsmashed cans from the recycle bin. You will think it's a good idea. A stop watch will emerge. The contests will begin. Two a.m. will come too soon. Be sure to take a taxi home. 4th Monday of January Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day Today is a good day to send cookies to the troops. Chocolate chip, peanut butter, and even sugar cookies will hold together through customs, across the Atlantic, back through customs yet again, and even along the pothole-pocked road to some off-the-map village where your soldier is stationed, so long as each cookie is carefully cushioned in bubble wrap. For fun, order colored bubble wrap - it has patriotic potential to which clear wrap alone will never aspire. Wrap those cookies in red, white and blue. In their spare time those Marines can use the bubble wrap to make voodoo dolls of Hussein or Bush or Bin Laden or the Jihad militant of the week. Save some of the bubble wrap for your own voodoo pleasure. Form the head and body of your boss (or your ex) - a little packing tape will help hold the form together. Go ahead, paint on a grimace with your Sharpie. Then pull out a straight pin and pop the shit out of those bubbles! January 30th Answering Message Day - Waiting for the Beep dial hear the succession of buzzes that indicate ringing in a remote location a mechanical click indicates you've been transferred to voicemail a staccato automated voice tells you the name of whom you've reached you knew this already but wait patiently if you wish to page this person... the voice continues a menu of non-vocal options is listed you just want to talk finally the automated voice says... just wait for the beep you have been waiting you will wait longer when the beep comes spend fifteen seconds leaving a brief message telling the other party to call you back hang up the timer on your phone indicates the call took two minutes and thirty-three seconds. January 31st International Seed Swap Day - Sharing Petunias Last night, in the heart of winter, I dreamed of a pot of petunias hanging on my sister's deck, just outside the kitchen window where they winked at me while I did the dishes. I want a pot of petunias, hanging in the corner of my little apartment, close enough to the window to get sunlight; so I asked her for a slip, and she agreed. I woke before I learned if it would grow for me.  Here's something interesting, three poems from The Faber Book of 20th Century German Poems. The book was published by faber and faber in 2005. My first poem from the book was written by poet George Grosz who lived from 1893 to 1959. Grosz was a German artist known especially for his savagely caricatural drawings of Berlin life in the 1920s. He was a prominent member of the Berlin Dada and New Objectivity group during the Weimar Republic before he emigrated to the United States in 1932. The poem was translated by Michael Hofmann. Hymn to the World I O whizzbang world, you luna park, You delicious cabinet of horrors. Watch out! Here comes Grosz. The saddest man in Europe, "A phenomenon of sadness." Hard hat pushed back, By no means a softie!!! A skull full of black blues. Bright as fields of hyacinths Or rushing express trains Clattering over bridges - Ragtime dancer, Waiting with the crowds by the picket fence For Robert E. Lee. Horido! By the beard of headmaster Wotan - Afternoons of prettified sewers, Painted over putrition, Perfumed stench - Grosz can smell it. Parbleu! I smell roast babies. II Get yourselves together, lads! Crank up the Benz - 150 km Down the ribboning roads! You too are disgusted by the cold sweat On your flaccid features! Turbulence of the world! My dear friends! Ahoy! Greetings, y'all, boys over the water! I.W. Hurban, Lewis, Abraham. Theo F. Morse, Lillian Elmore. You converted the jungle into notes With your New World banjo music. Stiff standing skyscrapers. The grey eye at liberty. Cleanshaven and broad. The houseboat glides down the Hudson - With dark nights And Negroes in black hats! The next poem, is by Bertolt Brecht who lived from 1898 to 1956. Brecht was a poet, as well as a hugely influential avant garde playwright, and theatre director. A committed Marxist most of his life, he is most famously known for his plays Mother Courage and A Threepenny Opera. The poem was translated by John Willett Apfelbock, or the Lily of the Field 1 Mild was the light as Jakob Apfelbock Struck both his father and his mother down And shut their bodies in the linen press And hung about the house all on his own. 2 The clouds went floating past beneath the sky Around his house the summer winds blew mild Inside the house he passed the time away Who just a week before was still a child. 3 The days went by, the nights went by as well and nothing changed except a thing or two. Beside his parents Jakob Apfelbock Waited to see what time would do. 4 The woman still delivers milk each day Sweet thick cool skim milk, left behind the door. What Jakob doesn't drink he pours away For Jakob's hardly drinking any more. 5 The paper man still brings the paper round He steps up to the house with heavy tread And stuffs the paper in the letter box But Jakob Apfelbock leaves it unread. 6 And when the smell of corpses filled the house Jakob felt queasy and began to cry. Tearfully, Jakob Apfelbock moved out and slept henceforth on the balcony. 7 Up spoke the paper man then on his round: What is that smell? Something gone off. I'd say. The light was mild as Jakob Apfelbock Said: Just some dirty clothes I shut away. 8 Up spoke the milk woman then on her round: What is that smell? I'd say that something's died. The light was mild as Jakob Apfelbock Said: Just some meat my mother put aside. 9 and when they came to open the press door Jakob stood by, the light was mild and clear and when they asked him what he did it for Said Jakob Apfelbock: I've no idea. 10 A few days later the milk woman said She wondered what would happen by and by: Would Jakob Apfelbock, the child, perhaps Visit the grave where his poor parents lie? The last of this series of German poets is a contemporary, Volker Sielaff born in 1966. Sielaff works as a writer and freelance cultural journalist in Dresden. Since 1990 he has been publishing poems, essays and criticism in various German literary magazines and in anthologies and newspapers . His poems have already been translated into several languages. His collection of poetry Postkarte für Nofretete was published in 2003. The poem was translated by Michael Hofmann. Sleepless The racket of the birds in the trees at a quarter past three. Cioran complained of sleeplessness all his life. I throw myself blindly into the arms of the morning. No experience is communicable.  Bad economic news all around, hard times right behind. I used to be in the hard times business. I know what it looks like. hard times i read in the papers this morning about the guy who killed his wife and all five of his kids, the oldest, a girl, just 10, a two sets of twins, the youngest 2 lost his job... desperate... hard times... i've seen hard times and stories like this before the oil bust of 1986 when a whole industry disappeared, unemployment rates in some South Texas counties up to 30 percent or more Houston high-fliers selling all their toys, their sports cars and limos, their boats, their million dollar houses, their Rolexes, their $5000 cowboy boots, their custom shot guns and hunting leases in the brush and cactus chaparral (he who dies with the most toys wins - that had been the life for many) suddenly, rich now poor, all the toys gone, living in a one bedroom apartment on the wrong side of the wrong place, driving a 73 Ford Fairlane, engine missing every third stroke, bumper in the rear near dragging, rear windows permanently up or down, stuck in what ever position last passed, side mirror dangling on the passenger side, living on Big Macs, hold the fries, wife gone, kids gone, adios loser, they might as well have said, looking for any kind of job, willing to flip those Big Mac patties if nothing else, but all the burger flipper jobs taken by kids and old people, no one wants to hire a ex-rich man who might still have dreams and the others never rich, but always steady, working the same job since they dropped out of high school, taken to the job by their father or their uncle or a neighbor who vouched for them, got them hired on, never done anything else, never thought of doing anything else, fifty years old, never out of work, never had to look for a job, never understood the gut- paralyzing desperation of true desperation, of no prospects, no options, no chance, no way Jose hard times... back again  Here's a poem by Philip Nikolayev from his book, Monkey Time, published in 2001 by Verse Press of Amherst, Massachusetts. Nikolayev was born in Moscow, Russia, in 1966 and grew up fully bilingual in Russian and English thanks to his father, a linguist. He started out as a Russian poet, but came to the United States in 1990 to attend Harvard University, and has since been writing primarily in English. His poems have appeared in number of literary journals across the English-speaking world. He is the author of three collections of poems, Artery Lumen, in 1996, Dusk Raga, in 1998, and this, his third, Monkey Time, winner of the 2001 Verse Prize. Nikolayev lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. This is the title poem from the collection. Monkey Time for Diana Eck There's a Durga temple in Benares they call Monkey temple, because of the monkeys who inhabit it cheek by jowl with the human race. The monkeys occupy the upper-tier gallery on top of the thick wall enclosing the temple and engineer dazzlingly brilliant sorties into the human world. They wait for prasad to be laid out in front of the ten-handed, multiweaponed goddess, flower-festooned slayer of demons, but not of monkeys. Then they wait for the priest to commence the circling of the lamp and the ringing of the brass handbell, and then with what may have long become a Pavlovian reflex the sly critters descend into the courtyard, forming themselves into two groups. Members of one fling themselves acrobatically upon the temple bells, raising a tremendous racket, inducing considerable annoyance in the humans. The humans, except for the Brahmin at work, act as one herd. They turn and try to shoo the beasts away with harmless stones, while the other monkey platoon overruns the sacramental food, makes tracks with it, sharing with kinsmen bananas and tangerines back at their architecturally attractive, impregnable superior station. When provoked, they are capable of anything, the tricksters. The temple administration tolerates them for theological reasons, but is powerless to impose significant constraint, and the diarchy of hanuman and human stands unshakable. Today I decided to brave the outer gallery and walk all the way around, so as to examine the courtyard from above, armed myself with a thick stick,negotiated the man-betrayed stairs and stepped on monkey turf. All hell broke loose as I took the first few strides into their dominions. There were monkeys screaming from all sides, baring white obnoxious fangs and leaping green indignation. Even the tiny cubs yammered their guts out and came on closer to where I had stopped. I unpocket a breakfast apple and put it down on the floor. How long ago did man walk here last? Ten years? Fifty years? Is this where Kipling found the bandarlog? One must admit he knew his stuff, old Rudyard. On a second's reflection I bail out in self-preservation, my evolutionary brothers ululant in pursuit. Propelled to safety, I then smile and catch my breath, shaking the sweat from my brow. I gaze into the laughing stare of the awesome wife of Shiva, her benevolence permitting me to pass without harm. Leaving 2 rupees for the servants of her house, I bow out. With my right hand I touch the temple step, then touching my forehead. I put on my shoes. Continuing all the way down to the river ghats, I keep on conversing in my head with the monkeys. My intention had been to just use one of Nikolayev's poems, but decide now to add this second, so different from the first, an indicator of the poet's range, as well as his humor. Talking Dirty My dick swells up like a silver spoon in heaven. the angels and archangels will easily recognize my dick. the elegant utensil reaching for its sugar basin, where it belongs. My love will pardon me talking dirty! It's just that I am convinced that poetry can exist at any level because it is absolute and pure. Swear words are perpetually Elizabethan. Forsooth, they hang in mellow clusters. Have I or have I not this welcome transgression made into your pussy, my soulful boner communicating fertility? Naturally, I have. and now, I, doting on your skin and moaning and beloving your tits, know I'm soon to squirt and like to hold off a while with metaphors, as I'm not technically even talking dirty, just telling it like it is.  My next poem is by one of the original friends of "Here and Now," Dave Ruslander. The poem is from Dave's Book, Voices in My Head. Sweetboy I saw him, bright red chestnut with two white feet, seventeen hands and a tapered white blaze. He burst from the barn dancing, flying lead changes around the ring on springs, nostrils flared, snorting steam. His bronze coat reflected the early light. He was a watch spring wound tight about to burst from his coat. His thick neck bowed, chin drawn up beneath its mass, shoulders shifting and wide eyes darting, knees pumping like pistons as he trotted, coat radiating the sheen of a new copper penny. Seized by impulse, I was going to greet this thousand pound lightening bolt. Slowly, I approached, spoke in soft tones, Easy Big Red, I'm coming in now; you behave big boy. Come on down now As though greeting an old friend, he walked up with a poised and playful nature and sniffed my outstretched hand. His wild musk lay in the saddle of my palm; he was inside me. I embraced him, whispering I love you big boy. He let loose a massive sigh from somewhere deep inside. I'll take him, I said, looking over my shoulder at the owner.  I said a while ago that i looked forward to not having to write a political poem for four years. Well, I made it nine days. the sad, sad story of Johnny McBee Johnny McBee worked as a first-shift dishwasher at the Bump and Thump gentlemen's club on Cherry Berry Street for three years until a two weeks ago last Monday when he was laid off not the brightest brick in the brickyard, Johnny is a hard worker and attentive to his duties and though a minor contributor to the nation's GNP, he does his part and above all else, he is honest unlike those New York bankers in their pin-stripped boots and alligator suits who steal with a smile and a stab in the back and the big-talking, broad- smiling, cap-toothed trickle-down let-them-eat-cake political sharks in the G.O.P. back alleys of Washington D.C. who assure him all his problems will be solved as soon as they can find a way to steal more money from regular folks to give to underprivileged rich gentlemen who will surely rush back to the Bump & Thump once they get their Bentleys out of hock and on the road again  Well, time to make tracks until next week when I'll be back with more poems and other stuff as strikes my fancy. In the meantime... Repeat after me - All work presented in this blog remains the property of its creators. The blog itself was produced by and is the property of me...allen itz. |
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