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5014. arkymalarky - 6/20/2003 1:50:33 AM Bob's best friend wrote this poem and gave me permission to post it here. It fits in with what Jex was posting earlier.
Never Forget, Never Forgive
You claim the cross, the sword, the arm of the Lord.
Though many may misunderstand,
So much hate in the name of love
For the One enlightened Man.
You curse and you lay non-believers low,
Save center stage for the right-wing band,
Claiming as you charge the Grace of God:
Adjust wrong in the holy land.
You close our eyes and cloud your minds
And kiss blood-bought freedoms away,
Betraying your souls for pieces of gold,
Judas well might be President today.
You abuse the rod in the guise of God,
May the mask never slip away:
Righteous roulette is your bigot's bet;
It's a sorrowful game you play.
You fly your flags and flout your right
To give the devil his due;
You raise one voice and the preachers rejoice,
Aren't you proud to be the Chosen few?
You may maim and kill, have a heavenly thrill,
For God commands what you must do:
Stamp out the scourge, be part of the purge,
Corrupt the Constitution, too.
You buy a Bill of Wrongs while singing sacred songs,
"Onward Christian Soldiers" you call;
Inquisitors storm from door to door
As you watch towers fall.
Your highest court is where the rich resort
When justice must be stalled:
You have no doubt God will sort them out,
So why not kill 'em all. 5015. wonkers2 - 6/20/2003 2:06:02 AM Great poem! I wonder who he had in mind? 5016. arkymalarky - 6/20/2003 2:55:13 AM Hmmm. Bet it was Clinton. Yeah. It must be. 5017. wonkers2 - 6/21/2003 10:20:29 PM After "The Bell Jar" here 5018. RickNelson - 6/25/2003 6:04:59 PM Seamus,
Death via motor bike-
I like the idea of having the police talking like you've done.
I like your line breaks and pauses. The pauses I cannot translate, though it didn't detract the reading for me. I usually just move through when I see a story developing.
The ending is enigmatic.
I'm understanding they're not lovers, but how did she hold him? That throws mystery in the midst of story.
A bit O Sherlock Holmes? Whom I do enjoy by and by. 5019. RickNelson - 6/25/2003 6:06:34 PM Macnas,
I truly enjoy poems like "The Lost Heifer".
Thanks. 5020. RickNelson - 6/25/2003 6:18:25 PM arky,
That's a powerful poem. Smack's the ol W right up side the head.
I ranted a couple of times about his prayer and Bible study goings on at the White House and how he drives his agenda via his (somewhat) new faith. I think he's all politics and uses it to get the right on his side. But, that's nothin'.
Nothing compares to the unleashed power and mighty sword wielding. If there were less impact I would have it.
I'm suprised at myself by my sideline quiet. I know I am against war, but the 911 deal still wrankles me. I don't like protracted ANYTHING when it builds up a monserous military machine. An unwieldy beast, and a long, long term burden to us now and those yet to have a future.
Strong and sad poetry.
I can see each stanza's p.o.v. and the work is good.
Thanks. 5021. arkymalarky - 6/25/2003 10:54:30 PM I'll pass your remarks along Rick. He'll really appreciate them.
I think he's all politics and uses it to get the right on his side. But, that's nothin'.
Dealing with that on the state level too makes it doubly frustrating.
5022. RickNelson - 7/4/2003 12:12:12 AM Canopied Path:
That squirrels dance through the branches
somehow making them more alive.
Limbs full of leaves move in the wind
and the sky behind adds depth perception.
As many make their way into gardens,
I look to treed paths and the canopy.
When I hear the crunch of pebbled
or wood-chipped paths under my boots,
I feel more alive. My movement adds
to the noises above. There are special,
poignant moments during such times.
For example the sun may suddenly
appear from behind clouds and
the rays shoot down through the
canopy. Then the sun and moving leaves
create hypnotic movement. I peer through
the glistening movement for birds and squirrels.
When the small red ones move, my heart
jumps just a bit. These are somehow
important to me, and for no apparent
reason.
I was small once and felt different. One
feels that way from time to time. Out here,
alone on a canopied foot path, being small
takes on new meaning. Letting what is be
and what might be out of the equation.
It’s just now, and with reverence, I open
my little notebook and write .
Inspired by Billy Collins via the Fallible Fiend (in Slate). Good Ol' Billy was on the t.v. with Charlie Rose the other day. Damn he's good! 5023. RickNelson - 7/4/2003 12:36:19 AM Hey! I see a few Moties about. I suppose you might have popped in and read this and others.
Stop and give me a note. Or Seamus or Macnas too. There've been some good poems during this lean time.
I like the one I just wrote and I want to know if others like it or not. Drop me a note. 5024. NuPlanetOne - 7/5/2003 4:03:21 PM Rick…
Well, and you should like ‘Canopied Path.’ That is solid. You moved through it and never strayed. No fillers, and nothing wasted. You have always been a work in progress, my friend, and I have had doubts, I will admit, but I feel with that one, you are at a nice level. Do you feel it?
Anyway, I have been absent as always, not even lurking. The nice thing is though, that aside from seeing you reach a point where putting the words together is finally coming naturally, I am quite pleased to check back in and find that our mutual friend seamus didn’t just drop in with his usual encouragement or good tidings. Seamus, you old dog, that São Paulo piece is just marvelous! All of it, well designed. It is nice, at least, even though we are not here often, that we are working at trying to make the ideas, obtuse or otherwise, come alive. I’m drinking to that!
5025. NuPlanetOne - 7/5/2003 4:04:09 PM
/
These Things
I must agree, that our beginnings
And endings appear to be unique
That our collection of cells, smells
Sights and sounds, recollection
In a conscious way, the ability to say
To wonder, to try to explain, to pray
These things, and our blind empathy
With a universe, perhaps wholly alien
Yet made of the same stuff, it brings
Me to clichéd conclusions, full of fluff
The usual suspected illusions, the grand
And expected delusions, repackaged
Algorithmic denials, the false hopes
Or eureka pained smiles, all symphonized
By digitally perpetuating files. What
Else to call the universe, but our own
I swat a bug because it annoys me. I hug
The icon so that nothing destroys me. I chug
Along like a car in the train and I refrain
From circumspection, that upon intense
Inspection, these things, are, one definable
Continuum. And so I morph into oblivion
Into the obvious, like ants or bees, those
Clichés hung on trees, all alive in a hive
In a line with a purpose with a point. Yes,
Having a point is our purpose. It ought never
Be proved that life is meaningless, we are alive
And death is beside the point.
5026. RickNelson - 7/5/2003 11:24:28 PM NuPlanetOne,
Thanks my friend! This one does give me that feeling. You're praise adds volumns to my well being around it.
Then you grace us with another poem, alive and to the point.
Damn you're talented! I just happen to mention you, cigarlaw and Hashke' to Seamus' post to 'Canopied Path' poem in Slate's P-Fray. You've strong influence with me. I wish you all the best, always.
I've been busy in Slate's P-Fray, and I was inspired as I said by a Billy Collins style poem by The Fallible Fiend.
I've some long-winded sharing to relate also. (Smiling, and thinking how others will think about me being long-winded). I'm the epitome of long-winded.
5027. RickNelson - 7/5/2003 11:24:55 PM So, without more ado here is Linda Patson's: 'Cousins'
COUSINS by Linda Pastan
We meet at funerals
every few years – another star
in the constellation of our family
put out – and even in that failing
light we look completely
different, completely the same.
"What are you doing now?"
we ask each other. "How
have you been?" At these times
the past is more palpable
than our children waiting
at home or the wives and husbands tugging
at our sleeves. "Remember…?"
we ask, "Remember the time…?"
And laughter is as painful
as if our ribs had secret
cracks in them.
Our childhoods remain
only in the sharp bones
of our noses, the shape
of our eyes, the way our genes call out
to each other in the high-pitched notes
that only kin can hear.
How much of memory
is imagination? And if loss
is an absence, why does it grow
so heavy? These are the questions
we mean when we ask: "Where
are you living now?" or
"How old is your youngest?"
Sometimes I feel the grief
of these occasions swell
in me until I become
an instrument in which language rises
like music. But all
that the others can hear
is my strangled voice calling
"Goodbye …" calling
"Keep in touch…"
with the kind of sound
a bagpipe makes, its bellows heaving,
and even its marching music funereal.
And then my related prose: 5028. RickNelson - 7/5/2003 11:25:36 PM I must first speak to "Cousins" by Linda Patson.
It probes my heart and my psyche. How I want to know all about those who are connected to me. It's akin to my heartbeat, always palpable.
For example, my long absent cousin who played bass for Vixen, her oldest brother and family, and her other elder brother who has passed away. The family he created is also to know and my aunt and uncle, now frail. Then my mother’s younger sister passed away not long ago, how I hated to have her die! I miss contact with her three children, but one of them is doing some contact, and some is better than none. None is what I get from the California cousins. Man! I hate that. But, I've seen their father and mother on a few reunions in the 90's.
Furthermore, missing those who've passed goes without saying. But, missing those I've barely met, one aunt, whose hateful and abusive husband and son don't allow her to participate in anything drives me to distraction. I would literally punch them to death if I had my way. So violent I can be when my family is threatened. These two, these imbecile humans, treat my mother’s sister like dirt and that her son is directly related by our genetics wouldn't stop me from smashing him to bits. He and the fists that caused so much hurt.
Lastly, my dear cousins whose mother, my aunt just passed. How I want to be around them, how it hurts not to be. All this on my mother’s side.
CONT.- 5029. RickNelson - 7/5/2003 11:25:50 PM Somehow, on my dad’s side I am more in tune. No, it's not somehow, I know how to be with them. They are around and they want to be around. Therefore I am around. It's not like my mother whose aloof attitude toward a lot of her kin causes so much distance. My mother angers me for this attitude. Hurt or not, just get the fuck over it! My dad hasn't been the dad most know, but I'm getting over it. I must and I am doing the best I can. I want to see him and we do. I get to know all his cousins too. See, it's like that on his side. So, when a Nelson passes, I cry and cry.
When the maternal side passes away, with the exception of my maternal grandmother and my mom's youngest sister (I cannot stand their absences), I've not known my connection to those others as well.
All this is with me and I know it. Then considering Linda’s poem, I can address the notion of commonality. I’m reading that she knows me, that then lead to my knowing her. So, thanks extended human family for being like me.
5030. RickNelson - 7/5/2003 11:51:29 PM There is some significant news out of New Jersey.
Amiri Baraka has been fired as Poet Laurette. I've not read the article, but I welcome ideas about his approach to Isreal, poetry, attitude and how he was ousted.
http://www.amiribaraka.com/dispatches.html
Read what Amiri says about it here 5031. judithathome - 7/5/2003 11:53:47 PM I thought someone named Billy Collins was Poet Laureate? 5032. judithathome - 7/5/2003 11:56:02 PM Ah, I see Mr. Collins is US Poet Laureate and Mr. Baraka is New Jersey's. 5033. RickNelson - 7/6/2003 12:14:00 AM Yes both have the status, Collins I aspire to with style, and Amiri is having trouble expressing himself.
Amiri's political slant has gotten negative reaction from the powers of N.J.
Joy-zzeee don't want no Baraka slamming politics.
Ha, what did they think would happen?
Nuts!
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