The Elementals   Friday, April 23, 2010


I feature this week British poet David Anthony.

David was born in Festiniog, North Wales, and soon afterwards his family moved to Hull. He was educated at Hull Grammar School and St. Catherine's College, Oxford, where he studied modern history.

He says his life "has been spent in the near aura of famous poets: Dafydd ap Gwilym, greatest of the Welsh bards; Philip Larkin, one-time librarian of Hull University; Andrew Marvell, a fellow-alumnus of Hull Grammar School, though not my contemporary."

"I live now," he says, "with my wife in Stoke Poges, Buckinghamshire, a stone's throw from the churchyard where Thomas Gray is buried; still hoping that one day something of these poets will rub off on me."

David's first book, Words to Say, was published in the UK in 2002 and his second, Talking to Lord Newborough, in the USA in 2004. Only the second is still in print.

He says his working life has been spent in London, in financial services.

As for my photos this week, they are partially a response to necessity (nobody else has sent me any thing I can use) and partially an attempt at, shall I say it, "art". The idea, assuming I can convince anyone I had one, is that, by obscuring, the "thing" in the image, I can make it easier to appreciate the shape and line and curve and fold of the thing, getting it down to its essential form, interesting because of its form, not for what it is or does.

Also, of course, it's fun to play with the pictures.

The necessities of introduction done, here's what I have for you this week.

and the moral of the story is...

Charles Simic
Love Worker
Small Feast
Stray Dogs
At the Cookout

David Anthony
Summer's End

my work this week

John Engels
Death Trip

rain like a gloomy lover
sin before sunrise

David Anthony
Passing Through the Woods

Carl Sandburg
Ready to Kill
On the Way

David Anthony
Water Bearer

north-south issues

Edgar Lee Masters
Dr. Siegfried Iseman
States Attorney Fallas

David Anthony

Anonymous Hawaiian Poets
A Name Song, and Eulogy (for Naihe)
Forest Trees of the Sea

Piano at Evening


Jacinto Jesus Cardona
Mother Never Read to Me
The Count of Tristeza
Back in '57
La Costa, Texas
La Bomba Atomica

David Anthony
Remembered Wings

Robert Sargent
The View

Edward A. Dougherty
Only This

Derren Welter

Mark White
The God of Creation Confronts His Own Vulnerability

Wednesday ramble on issues of lesser consequence

Mark Nowak

let's go shoot a big fat capitalist

OK, I start the week with, I hope, a little humor.

I must add, if there are any children reading, don't try this at home.

and the moral of the story is...

i could write
a really good poem
this morning
if i could just get
out of my head the one
i wrote last night
just as i was slipping off
to sleep - the one
i can't remember now

i think
it was about the time
in college when
a couple of friends and i
drove up to San Antonio
to do
i don't know what, except
i know
we drank all the way throughout
what ever it was we were doing
and i was so drunk
by the time we got back
to our dormitory that i fell
into a trench that the city had dug
between our parking lot
and the dorm door,
so drunk
that i climbed out of the trench
on the parking lot side
instead of the dorm door side
and in trying to get to the dorm
fell into the trench again
and then, after climbing out again
on the wrong side again and falling in again
and finally getting out on the right side
and making it into the dorm
and falling asleep fully-clothed in the showers
and waking up at dawn wet and fully-clothed
and amazingly hung-over, thinking,
as i though often when waking up fully-clothed
or naked in unusual places with strange people
and truly amazing hangovers,
goddamn, what a good time that was

it was a sordid and mis-spent youth i led,
and maybe that was the point of the poem
i wrote last night while slipping off to sleep
that i don't remember now

maybe the point was that people shouldn't drink alcohol -
which i don't do anymore or maybe it was people
shouldn't drink alcohol when the city has been
digging trenches in their yard

maybe it just had something to do with water
green living in this day of environmental challenge,
you know,
that sort of thing

Here are several quirky little poems from a quirky little book by Charles Simic.

Simic, born in Belgrade, published his first book in 1967 and is considered now by many as one of the greatest contemporary American poets. He received the Pulitzer Prize in 1990 for The World Doesn't End and his 1996 collection, Walking the Black Cat, was a finalist for the National Book Award for Poetry.

This book, Aunt Lettuce, I Want to Peek Under Your Skirt, was published in 2005 by Bloomsday Publishing. The book includes drawings by painter and illustrator, Howie Michels

Love Worker

Diligent solely in what concerns love;
In all else, dilatory, sleep-walking, sullen.
Some days you could not budge me
Even if you were to use a construction crane.
I work only at loving and being loved.
Tell me, people, ain't it right
To lie in bed past noon
Eating fried chicken and guzzling beer?

Consider the many evils thus avoided
While finding new places to kiss
   with greasy lips.
Easier for Schwarzkopf to take Kuwait
Than for us to draw the curtains.
The sky is blue. It must be summer already.
The blind street preacher is shouting down below.
Your breasts and hair are flying -
Like the clouds, the white clouds.

Small Feast

Naked at the table,
Face to face,
Eating grilled squid
With our hands.

She licks olive oil
and garlic
Off her long fingers.
One by one.

Eat some bread, I say.
She just laughs at that,
A hot pepper flake stuck
On the tip of her tongue.

Stray Dogs

The way we stripped and embraced in that field,
Three stray dogs came by
To see what our moaning was all about.
I saw their worried eyes
As I parted your legs with kisses.

And then your tongue went around mine,
And you pulled my hair till it hurt,
And there were broken blue flowers
Under your white ass and the mutts
Sniffing all around us in wonder.

Once started on these, it's hard to stop. But here's the last.

At the Cookout

The wives of my friends
Have the air
Of having shared a secret.
Their eyes are lowered
But when we ask them
What for
They only glance at each other
And smile,
Which only increases our desire
To know...

Something they did
Long ago,
Heedless of the consequences,
That left
Such a lingering sweetness?

Is that the explanation
For the way
They rest their chins
In the palms of their hands,
Their eyes closed
In the summer heat?

Come tell us,
Or give us a hint.
Trace a word or just a single letter
In the wine
Spilled on the table.

Here's my first poem from British friend and featured poet, David Anthony.

Summer's End

stealing from the sun,
lit the shaded path
briefly. Now they're gone.

Hurry through
faded meadows, while
light still holds.
Days grow shorter; how
quickly evening comes.

Stirred to rise
by a falling foot,
feathered seeds,
graceful on the breeze,
drift towards the dawn.

Here's another of the poem I wrote this week, this one, maybe, with a little more heft than the first one.

my work this week

this is my 3rd poem

the first was about
my dog

and the second
about that kiss-ass Lot

who did what he was told
when his God of Vengeance

told him his home towns
were going up in fire and brimstone,

leaving only his wife
with human heart and soul enough

to look back
to see and feel the human agony

of the fiery death of all her friends
and family and everything

she had ever known and valued

a pillar of salt -

that's what being human got you
from that God

who saw his human creations
as like disobedient livestock

fit only to be put down
should they ever demonstrate a will of their own -


i threw both those poems

so crabbed and cramped
i felt nothing of them

nothing for them -

a poem
should swing naked
through the trees, roaring,
as Whitman taught us -

timid little verses
in argyle socks and
paisley jackets,
quietly and fearfully
along the jungle floor

and without blood
there can be no passion
and without passion
no blood

and that has been,
despite all my strained
ambition, my work this week,
shriveled little cardboard boxes,
flypaper caskets
for dead ideas, mouth-

like the two i started today
and tossed away

a practice
i might better have started
earlier in the week

Several years ago when I visited the small town where I grew up, I drove past my parent's old house, a frame house, small, but with a large kitchen and dining room - preparing food and eating it was important in our house - on an acre lot, always green grass and trees and well-tended flowers. It was the pride of my parents until the day they both died.

The new owners had painted the house an awful baby-shit brown and the yard had been let go to dirt and weedy flower beds and it was like my parents had died all over again.

That bad memory brought back to mind by this next poem by John Engels from his book Sinking Creek.

Engels taught English literature for many years at St. Michael's College in Vermont, as well as St. Norbert College, Sweet Briar College, Randolph-Macon Woman's College, Middlebury College, Emory University, and the University of Alabama. published ten books of poetry, including Weather-Fear, for which he was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. He died in 2007.

This book was published by The Lyons Press in 1998.

Death Trip


for a long time the family kept it from em,
later said they'd thought I'd had it bad enough
the baby not yet even six months dead,
so that by the time they couldn't put it off

for one more day, finally called, and I'd
bullied the Credit Union to open up
at 9 P.M. and made the loan, and bought
the ticket, managed to get out

to the airport onto the last
flight to Chicago, then barely caught
the commuter to South Bend, she'd died,
it was over - or probably just

about Pittsburg it was over, me
forking up cold eggs from a chilly plate,
listening to the stewardess announce
she was sorry, no help for it, we

were a little behind, nevertheless
thought there was a better than good chance
we'd make up our lost time, said we had
a powerful tailwind, didn't see

how after all we could be too very late.


Back in south Bend after twenty years,
first thing got the cab to swing by
the old place,knew every corner, every
tree, saw one or two who

might have been neighbors once,
turned onto East Napoleon
Boulevard, and there it was -
or something like it anyway,

house numbers gone, porch pillars painted
some godawful blue, the willows, grown
from slips she'd brought
from Mt. Vernon back in '42

gone; lilacs, flame bush
gone; got out, stood there
by the cab, our meters
ticking, engines cycling -

some plastic drapes kept me from seeing in,
thank God, perhaps.


At the wake, my dear
old fluttery grandma who though it all
kept busy, anxious that everyone
be fed sufficiently and well,

quite suddenly, both hands full
of plates and napkins, stopped
dead to cry aloud into
the convivially feeding crowd, oh




At the funeral home the old man said
it was a good thing I'd missed her,
hadn't seen her like she was, she was
so bad, the pain

had changed her so. My sister said
she wouldn't have known me anyway,
my brother explained
several times in his most reasonable voice

how she wouldn't have wanted me
to see her that way, he
was sorry, though, took all
the blame, should have called me

sooner. Next day came
the wake. I urged myself
up there to stand beside her
in her coffin, though in the end

neither of us looked the other's way.

These are a couple of other little poems I did this week.

rain like a gloomy lover

like a
gloomy lover

hangs on
and hangs on
dour face

a veil of tears

hanging on
and hanging on

no fun for anyone
until the sun


sin before sunrise

bananas foster & granola
whipped-cream waffle

before sunrise

how fat
and wanton i become

in the face
of temptation

Here's another poem from David Anthony, our feature poet this week.

Passing Through the Woods

It's hard to see my way because
the leaves have fallen. Now
they're drifting where a path once was -
it's hard to see my way. Because
the light is brief I dare not pause;
I'll find the track somehow.
It's hard to see my way because
the leaves have fallen now.

Next, I have two poems by Carl Sandburg in full, Sandburgian roar.

Ready to Kill

Ten minutes now I have looking at this.
I have gone by here before and wondered about it.
This is a bronze memorial of a famous general
Riding horseback with a flag and a sword and a revolver
    on him.
I want to smash the whole thing into a pile of junk to be
    hauled away to the scrap yard.
I put it straight to you,
After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the factory
    hand, the fireman and the teamster,
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,
Shaping them on the job of getting all of us
Something to eat and something to wear,
When they stack a few silhouettes
        Against the sky
        Here in the park,
And show the real huskies that are doing the work of the
    world, and feeding people instead of butchering
Then maybe I will stand here
and look easy at this general of the army holding a flag
    in the air,
And riding like hell on horseback
Ready to kill anybody that gets in his way,
Ready to run the red blood and slush the bowels of men
    all over the sweet new grass of the prairie.

Sandburg was a true, ardent, radical populist, with a very strong affection for and faith in the "people," or as he described them in this poem, "the mob."

You hve to wonder what he would have thought of today's mob - the tea party people who despise everything he ever valued about the United States and, if they every met him, would call him a Marxist and worse.

What poems would Sandburg write today about those who deny the bounty history and the struggles better men made for them?

On the Way

Little one, you have been buzzing in the books,
Flittering in the newspapers and drinking beer with law-
And amid the educated men of the clubs you have been
    getting an earful of speech from trained tongues.
Take an earful from me, go with me on a hike
Along sand stretches on the great inland sea here
And while the eastern breeze blows onus and the restless
Of the lake waves on the breakwater breaks with an ever
Let us ask ourselves: What is truth? what do you or I
How much do the wisest of the world's men know about
    where the massed human procession is going?

You have heard the mob laughed at?
I ask you: Is not the mob rough as the mountain are
And all things human rise from the mob and relapse and
    rise again as rain to the sea?

Here's our third poem this week from feature poet David Anthony.

Water Bearer

Each dawn, before the sun devoured the shade
and seared the arid land, a potter strode
down to the well along a dusty road
to fill a well-used water jar he'd made.

As he returned one day a stranger said,
"Your jar is fractured. Anyone can see
you waste your time and labour fruitlessly.
The water spills along the track you tread."

The potter answered, "Though it leaks it still
retains enough for me, and I would not,
for all its flaws, discard my battered pot.
It has a further purpose to fulfill."

Where he had passed a radiant display
of flowers bobbed to greet the breaking day.

I was having my breakfast at my breakfast place this past Monday, waiting for the preacher-group that comes in on Monday, supposedly for learned discussion. Listening in on them has provided me with ideas for a number of poems and they, themselves, as the "religiosos-mosos-babosos" have become semi-permanent characters in my catalogue of recent poems.

This week, as in the past couple of weeks, they failed me, restricting their discussion to basketball and church politics.

So I had to come up with something on my own. This is the best I could do.

north-south issues

the morning
somewhere between
and gloom

dark clouds
while the sun shines
in the south

as is said
God is in the clouds
then he is a God of the North
where clouds abound this morning,
cloud upon cloud
piled high
toward heavenly shores

a god
rarely south, like today,
not in evidence
in the southern lands of brighter skies
and darker people

that, as people who live
in South Texas know,
God is seldom
in the land of cactus
and caliche

for occasionally passing through
in the form of a blue norther
or Caribbean hurricane,
leaving his children
praying in vain
for a kinder god than the one
they most often see

i am a child of that south,
to the higher power's meaner moods,
and to poverty and heat
and poisonous serpents and
venomous insects
that are his beneficent gifts
to his faithful abused

it's all just his way
to find those among us who are strong enough
for hell
so that he may bless them
with a more interesting everlasting
among the fires pots of his descended

Here's another golden oldie, Edgar Lee Masters, with two characters from his Spoon River Anthology.

Dr. Siegfried Iseman

I said when they handed me my diploma,
I said to myself I will be good
And wise and brave and helpful to others;
I said I will carry the Christian creed
Into the practice of medicine!
Somehow the world and the other doctors
Know what's in your heart as soon as you make
This high-souled resolution.
And the way of it is they starve you out.
And no one comes to you but the poor.
and you find too late that being a doctor
Is just a way of making a living.
And when you are poor and have to carry
The Christian creed and wife and children
All on your back, it is too much!
That's why I made the Elixir of Youth,
Which landed me in the jail at Peoria
Branded a swindler and a crook
By the upright Federal Judge.

State's Attorney Fallas

I, the scourge-wielder, balance-wrecker,
Smiter with whips and swords;
I, hater of the breakers of the law;
I, legalist, inexorable and bitter,
Driving the jury to hang the madman, Barry Holden,
Was made as one dead by light too bright for eyes,
And woke to face a Truth with bloody brow:
Steel forceps fumbled by a doctor's hand
Against my boy's head as he entered life
Made him an idiot.
I turned to books of science
To care for him.
That how the world of those whose minds are sick
Became my work in life, and all my world.
Poor ruined boy! You were, at least, the potter
And I and all my deeds of charity
The vessels of your hand.

Now, another poem from David Anthony, this week’s feature poet.


Why are you weeping May Tree, May Tree,
why are you weeping May?
Springtime's fresh and the sun is high,
there is no blue like the morning sky
and winter's far away.
The season's glad so why be sad?

Why are you weeping May?

Why are you weeping May Tree, May Tree,
why are you weeping May -
shedding tears of perfect white,
pure as sorrow and white as light,
in garlanded decay?

Is it care for seasons yet to be?
Let's look away and refuse to see:
the year's young and so are we
and winter's far away.
Thoughts so cold never trouble me,
so cease your weeping May.

Please cease your weeping, May.

'Illima Stern, one of my house mates on the Blueline "House of 30" forum is a native Hawaiian. She is very interested in her culture, including the Hula and its accompanying chants which she both performs and teaches. It was through her that I began to see that, though I've spread my net widely with "Here and Now," I’ve never done anything relating to either ancient or more recent Hawaiian poetry. At 'Illima's suggestion, I ordered two books from Amazon. The first of the books, Unwritten Literature of Hawaii - The Sacred Songs of the Hula arrived today.

The book was originally published in 1909 as a bulletin of the Bureau of American Ethnology. The chants and other material in the book was collected and translated by Nathaniel B. Emerson of the Smithsonian Institution who was born in 1839 in Waialua, Oahu and died at sea in 1915.

The book includes Dr. Emerson’s notes and material on the Hula, including this in his introduction.

"The hula stood for very much to the ancient Hawaiian; it was to him in place of our concert-hall and lecture-room, our opera and theater, and thus became his chief means of social enjoyment. Besides this, it kept the communal imagination in living touch with the nation's legendary past.

"The most telling record of a people's intimate life is the record which unconsciously makes in its songs. When we ask what great emotions stirred the heart of the old-time Hawaiian as he approached the great themes of life and death, of ambition and jealousy, of sexual passion, of romantic love, of conjugal love, and parental love, what is his attitude toward nature and the dread forces of earthquake and storm, and the mysteries of the spirit and the hereafter, we shall find our answer in the songs and prayers and recitations of the hula."

That is true not just of the ancient culture but of all ancient cultures who, most often, speak to us only through their poems and songs. It is why I often include ancient poetry in "Here and Now." Such ancient poetry is the best, most human record of our kind.

Here is a chant that Dr. Emerson imagines might have been used by young dancers making their debut before an audience.

A Name-Song, an Eulogy (for Naihe)

The huge roller, roller that surges from Kona,
Makes loin-cloth fit for a lord;
Far-reaching swell, my malo streams in the wind:
Shape the crescent malo to the loins -
The loin-cloth the sea, cloth for king's girding.
Stand, gird fast the loin-cloth!
Let the sun guide the board Halepo,
Till Halepo lifts on the swell.
It mounts the swell that rolls from Kahiki,
For Wakea's age onrolling.
The roller plumes and ruffles its crest.

Here comes the champion surf-man,
While wave-ridden wave beats the island,
A fringe of mountain-high waves.
Spume lashes the Hiki-au altar -
A surf this to ride at noontide.

The coral, horned coral, it sweeps far ashore.
The gaze at the surf of Ka-kuhi-hewa.
The surf-board snags, is shivered;
Maui splits with a crash,
Trembles, dissolves into slime.

Glossy the skin of the surf-man;
Undrenched the skin of the expert;
Wave-feathers fan the wave-rider.
You've seen the grand surf of Puna, of Hilo.

The second book 'Illima recommended came later the same day as the first. I have two songs from that book this week as well.

The book, The Echo of Our Song - Chants and Poems of the Hawaiians, published in 1973 by the University of Hawaii Press, is more modern than the first book as well less academic and more attuned to the beauty of the songs. The songs were translated by Mary. K. Pukui and Alfons L. Korn.

The book notes that the date of this first song is believed to be the early 1860s. Though the whaling industry was well on the wane in the 1850s, the old sailing ships with their towering masts continued to be seen in Honolulu harbor through the 1880s.

Forest Trees of the Sea

No, it is not too soon.

I have seen in my heart
that sea of forest trees
of tall-masted ships returning
to Honolulu's harbor of Mamala,
making every sea-murmur a word -
Mamala's murmur of unresting love.

Love's home is Diamond Head.
Love's shelter is where Pearl Harbor hills reach of
   to sea.
Love's gaze is keen and long.

Perhaps I should write a letter.
Perhaps I should show my love by asking his:
Come back, dear love, bring ease to me,
comfort of mind.

For you I sing my song
of forest trees on the unresting sea..

*Mamala - Old name for the channel entrance to Honolulu harbor.

*Diamond Head - The Hawaiian text gives the old name, Le'ahi.

*Pearl Harbor Hills - The Hawaiian text gives Pu'uloa, literally, "long hills", the old name for Pearl Harbor and the surrounding area.

The composer of the next song, a Hawaiian poet and chanter named Palea, was a native of Ka'u island of Hawaii born in 1852. He was already a young man when he went down to a village and heard a piano for the first time. After he arrived home, he immediately composed the chant, which became popular throughout the Ka'u region. In the poem, he also mentions another "first," the time he and his wife first saw a mirror.

Piano at Evening

O Piano I heard at evening,
where are you?

Your music haunts me far into the night
like the voice of landshells
trilling sweetly
near the break of day.

I remember when my dear and I
visited aboard the Nautilus
and saw our first looking glass.

I remember the upland of Ma'eli'eli
where the mists creeping in and out
threaded their way between the old
houses of thatch.

Again I chant my refrain
of long ago and a piano singing
far into the night.

*The old-style houses were clustered along the cindery slopes above Wai-o-hinu.

I slipped into a rare, for me, sentimental mood last week and wrote this.


family -
those who gather with you
on both sad
and wonderful occasions

family -
those who remember
when others cannot

who forgive
when others will not

who welcome
when others shut
their minds and doors

family -
those who defend
when others denounce

your bridge
over time
and troubled waters

a living part of you
from first to final days

your history, your present
and your future

family -
those who sing to you softly
when first you wake

and rock you slowly
until finally you sleep

Jacinto Jesus Cardona was born in Palacios, Texas, but grew up in Alice, "the Hub of South Texas." He teaches English at Palo Alto College and at the Trinity University Upward Bound Program, both in San Antonio. In addition publishing his poetry, he has read his work on National Public Radio and PBS Television.

He writes down-home poems about places and times where I grew up. I was particularly moved by the extensive notes on every page written by an earlier reader, a young woman who recognized her own life in the poems - the power of poetry revealed.

The following poems are from his book Pan Dulce, published by Chili Verde Press of San Antonio in 1998.

Mother Never Read To Me

Mother never read to me.
The first time she ever saw
the inside of a school
was when she took me by the hand.

She was more into the blue
indigo of Monday morning laundry.
With radio Jalepeno on her window sill,
she was more into the sizzle
of cominos and picadillo plates,
more into the grip
of an early morning broom,
sweeping dustballs
across linoleum floors.

She was more into standing
by her ironing board
under a single light,
pressing sleeves and cuffs
late into the night.

No, mother never read to me,
but in her eyes I could see
her dreams were puffs
of past cotton fields.

The Count of Tristeza

Under a canicula sun,
my skin is a scorch of scorpions
Ando triston.
El son del zenzontle no longer hums in my blood.
I am the Count of Tristeza
walking down my unpaved street
under Aztlan azul skies.
Caught between anil and caliche,
I am lost in the sweep of dry mezquite.

Back in ‘57

I was just another Latin American boy
deep into khaki pants, steam-iron pleats, gaudy cufflinks,
impressed by the passive parking meters on Main Street,
mesmerized by the chrome spokes of customized wheels.

and yes, I would laugh and laugh at how I took my black shellac,
celebrating the edges of my orange Stacy's, my dancing shoes
anxious to shake lose the alkaline kiss
of caliche down my unpaved streets.

Caught in the vortex of oil wells and taco shells,
Spanish was my first, English was my second,
but Star-Spangled Spanglish became my middle name.
So was I Tex or was I Mex,

part-time Aztec, or was I your classic borderline case?
biped and bilingual, I ever wore bifocals,
but my biceps remained monolingual.
Back in '57 I could care less and less

because I could always laugh
with Cantinflas at the Ranch Drive-In.

La Coste, Texas

    for Don Hurd

Deep in La Coste, Texas
two poets looking for lost love
close the bar with two Lone Stars
and cross the street
over to the lyrical ooze
of a Tex-Mex squeeze box,
witnessing la raza cosmica
wiping dust devil dust,
swaying hard labor hips
to classic conjunto hits,
polkas, boleros, y huapangos
of the VFW concrete floor
while the proverbial young girl
in the romantic red dress
marvels at the cumbia poetics
of the local crazy
who seldom speaks
but keeps on dancing
like waves of summer heat.

La Bomba Atomica

    La Villita, Alice, Texas 1952

La raza cosmica, believers in strong tonics,
spruce up their chinelas
and wait for Tony de la Rosa
to blow into town, to squeeze
from his teclas volcanicas
his famous polka "Atotolnico."
Waves of dancing raza believe
el bajo sexto electronico
will save us all from detonation,
blast waves, and fireballs.

Here's my last poem this week from feature poet, David Anthony.

Thanks for sharing your work, David.

Remembered Wings

Remembered Wings

Year after year their timing was the same.
As early summer took the place of spring
my swallows came, and briskly gathering
would breed, then raise their young, and so proclaim
hope's renaissance. They darted sharp as flame
between the earth and sky, remembering
old haunts despite long miles of wandering.
This year I waited but they never came.

Autumn's a time for leaving: cherished things
are embers, as remembered flames burn low,
and vanish with the chill the first frost brings;
a time to grieve, though now it isn't so:
never to greet those brave arriving wings
spares the pain of parting when they go.

Next I have several poems from the Spring 1997 issue of Poetry East, published twice a year by DePaul University.

The first poem is by Robert Sargent whose biography at the back of the book includes only the information that, at the time of publication, he lived in Washington D.C.

The View

If I, going about my business as usual,
upon making a simple request to a bankteller,
and getting a stupid response (he even argued),
showed no impatience,
and actually felt very little impatience,
and if I, that morning, taking my usual walk,
said to the nibbling, jumping squirrels, their tails an S,
"Run, nibble, mate, do what you must
to keep things going in Squirreldom!"
those two events, I feel, belong together.

the next poem is by Edward A. Dougherty, whose poems had previously appeared in several magazines, including Sojourners, Mississippi Valley Review, Abiko Quarterly, and Japan Environmental Monitor.

Only This

In the beginning there was no time
and nothing to measure it with
there was only this

Darkness closed in around itself
wonderful and perfect

In the darkness there was breathing
it moved through the dark
part darkness and part breath

In the breathing there were waters
over which the breath moved

In the waters there was no violence
as creation had not begun
there was motion but no matter

In the beginning there was radiation
moving in all directions at once

Derren Welter wrote the next short poem. He received an MA in English Literature from Syracuse University and, at the time of publication, lived in Minneapolis.


Where all the people
who bitched about and left here
moved to and live now

Now, my last poem from Poetry East this week, this poem by Mark White. At the time of publication, White had work pending in The Seattle Review and was planning to enter the MFA program at the University of Washington. This credit made me curious so I did a google search and found a Mark White described as "a multitalented performer, known as 'The Extreme Being' who has graced stages nationwide performing comedy, poetry and spoken word..." who may or may not be this Mark White.

I was relieved to discover he was not the Mark White, former governor of Texas, who lost his bid for reelection to the first Republican to become governor of the state since reconstruction. Not a bad governor, except for losing when it counted.

The God of Creation Confronts His Own Vulnerability

I'm an artist.
I find shape within shapelessness,
form from what others perceive as void.
Just consider what I've created from what was once nothing
but a celestial scramble of warring atoms.

Yet this world and these heavens
need so much more.
It's the kind of challenge that usually gives me life,

but I'm no poet.
I'm a god of action,
not of words,

and I'm not about to spend my eternity
finding names for all my creations.

No doubt, it's been fated
that I'll eventually have to shape a being from clay
to help me
but I've been cursed,

for whoever receives my gift of language
will harbor the illusion they can own what they name.

Imagine the consequences, then, of letting man name the rivers,
iguanas, woman, the moon, art, DNA, mountains, baby's breath,
   wolves, me.

I really am getting impatient with the group of several preachers who eat breakfast together every Monday morning and who I try to sit close enough to for inspiration generating eavesdropping.

Wednesday ramble on issues of lesser consequence

i've been disappointed
of late
with my weekly eavesdropping
on the religiosos babosos
who come for breakfast every Monday -

they still come, but they're always late
and talk mostly about basketball
and churchly politics, and with barely
concealed glee, the unholy mess
the Pope finds himself in with his
of pastoral
perverts a-preying

i like it best when they talk
about what i was brought up to call
the Old Testament, the days of myth
and glory
when God was the baddest bad-ass
on the block, liable to hurl down
plagues and fire and brimstone
and brothers killing brothers
and gunmen blowing down city walls
with mighty blasts on a sheep's horn
trumpet - bluesmen of God's
encompassing vengeance, you might say -
all this at the slightest
provocation - stories lacking only a Kraken
to face in the final battle scene to insure
great weekend grosses

I prefer the New Testament,
myself, less blood and more humanity,
which might make me a Christian
except for the niggling requirement
for faith -

the stories
seem more of a scale where i
might fit, choices more like choices
i might have to make,
less like a Tarantino movie, more PG
with a few intimations of sex, but nothing
you wouldn't take you grandmother to see

some of the stories are a puzzle -

like the prodigal son tale
which seems suspiciously Marxist
to me, rewarding the wastrel laggard
while the diligent and faithful are denied,
but, as Kennedy said -
who said life is fair - a fact taught to us often
in the Old Testament, but making only a rare
and fleeting appearance in the New

and besides
some of my best friends are Communistic,
by nature, if not by name,
stealing music off the internet, reading
newspapers at the news stand that they
haven't paid for, you know,

from those who work and create,
to me who wants,
right now...

but there i go again,
rambling on down the twisty road of
cogitation without a map of relevant
cognition -

i do hope the religiosos babosos
come back next week
and stay on point

i need some guidance
on these issues

The next piece is from Mark Nowak, from his book Revenants. I love the poems in this book, but they are hard to use here, first, because they are long, and second because there is an eccentricity to them that makes me unsure how to transcribe them. For example, Nowak separates parts of his poem by going to a new page. I can't do that here so, instead, I'm going to leave a very large break between those parts he put on different pages.

Nowak is an associate professor at the College of St. Catherine in Minneapolis. His book, published by Coffee House Press in 2000, seeks to explore the Polish American neighborhoods in and around Buffalo, New York.


The goddess of the black fire, behind the window my grandfather's eyes
are sensitive to noise. He whispers novenas to the b lack goddess, he wears
glasses in all the photographs and grimaces. Only to her he confides.

She is undying for him. He is sensitive to noise. Arms wait behind
the houses, a door closing or a barking dog. The goddess of the black fire
is more than a shadow in his thought. My grandfather looks out the window.

We did not move southeast of San Antonio. We did not move to rural Illinois.
The black goddess of the fire listens to his whispered novenas. He believes
that she is undying. In all the photographs my grandfather is grimacing.

He wears glasses because his eyes are sensitive to noise. A dog barking
might be arms right before the key enters the door. Even the refrigerator is
humming too long. The black goddess, the woman that he whispers to.

Crooked arms, crooked canes that she leans on.
Great Bear in the northwest sky.
                                 Curled back her birds,
leans on her back shawl their wings.

In the distance the elevator silo the tracks
maybe of a train. Little Dipper
     in the northern sky. An azure that opens
to her companions opens to her elbows, rowniez:

she is the stretches that time her, their rings.

Talk of witches if you will, eithers that make her
pagan or sane.
     Did I mention she walks with a cane?

Expect the fox at her ankles, the one who
haunts her, outwits a crow bearing cheese.
     At three-thirteenths moon
up from the river watch him creak in his bones:

he comes bearing burdock with Mars
off toward Bismarck, North Dakota.

Craned neck, craned like the water
-animal she's borrowing it from

dark, only, like the very under
-side of her wings.

Craned, crooked, craned:
how Baba Jaga first got named,

My throat the world caught like trees.

Hewn, the word is hewn, pronounced hewn.

Close your eyes you can hear the moon grow larger.

Shut the thunder off like a hose.

Krawcowa, if only against and together.

She wore that dress in the rain.

Not the river that he wanted her to become.

This wind-swept zboze, sown forth in expanse
     in a holy place.
Was to behold the evening (yellow-red & reaching...
     stretching out below the sky.

The Ukraine priest did bless, the Russian priest himself is rolled,
by women, "Without regard to the mud & holes he may encounter
      in his beneficent progress."
In the house your are (as wolf or dog or ox that the wind sets in there...
was built a second, more stable structure, that fears this other home.
      From here, the zboze
it did spring forth & swept the nation clear across,
     between the mouths of the two rivers.

On the day the seed breaks ground, go tell the married couples.
Go tell the old wives & the widows, It is into them that the expanse
     has lain the spell of the earth.

Ram and deer are cake figures
from the Ostroteka District.
          Who shares
the tilled soil shares
their beneficent aspect.

Ram cake, deer cake, song sung
through the throat.

Babka is a round cake because the
old woman's dress was round,
          wore it when she made
that raindeer cake.

Bells jangle the dress she wears
she sewed eggshells on her cape.
          (Each time the doll is
opened, another, inside, appears...

     1 quart scalded milk
     2 dry yeast, 6 eggs
     1/2 lb. butter, sugar, raisins,
          flour & salt

don't forget she was a mid-wife,
          Don't forget to add
one seed of rye.

Don't forget "to let it bake for a while."

In Ostroteka, some say that ram
          got drunk on sweet Hungarian wine.
               Some say
"Raindeer, keep yourself
out of those fields."

Or Babka just might bake you.

It being the week of Earth Day, here's my week of Earth Day poem. It's and old poem, written somewhere around 2003-2004, then published somewhere before I used it in my book Seven Beats a Second in 2005.

let's go shoot a big fat capitalist

the flack for the Safari Club
defends the sporting ways
of his wealthy employers

look, he begins,
with a nod that says
listen up!!!

you tree

there are
and thousands
of elephants in Africa
shooting a few
is no threat to the species

in fact, he adds

shooting elephants
is good for elephants

thins the herd

reduces overgrazing

culls the weak,
don't you know,
before they can transmit
their weakness
to a new generation

insures sufficient resources
for those that remain

we love these elephants,
you see

and only do what we must
for the good of the herd...

of course, i think,

all for the good of the herd

And that's the week.

As always all material borrowed for presentation here remains the property of its creators. My stuff is available, if anyone wants it, though the courtesy of proper credit is expected.

That leaves me, allen itz, as owner, producer, and great admirer of this blog, holding the bag.

at 2:13 AM Blogger Nadeem1414 said...

http://www. i have visited to this site and found to get the latest story which is very impressive.

Post a Comment

May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
January 2010
February 2010
March 2010
April 2010
May 2010
June 2010
July 2010
August 2010
September 2010
October 2010
November 2010
December 2010
January 2011
February 2011
March 2011
April 2011
May 2011
June 2011
July 2011
August 2011
September 2011
October 2011
November 2011
December 2011
January 2012
February 2012
March 2012
April 2012
May 2012
June 2012
July 2012
August 2012
September 2012
October 2012
November 2012
December 2012
January 2013
February 2013
March 2013
April 2013
May 2013
June 2013
July 2013
August 2013
September 2013
October 2013
November 2013
December 2013
January 2014
February 2014
March 2014
April 2014
May 2014
June 2014
July 2014
August 2014
September 2014
October 2014
November 2014
December 2014
January 2015
February 2015
March 2015
April 2015
May 2015
June 2015
July 2015
August 2015
September 2015
October 2015
November 2015
December 2015
January 2016
February 2016
March 2016
April 2016
May 2016
June 2016
July 2016
August 2016
September 2016
October 2016
November 2016
December 2016
January 2017
February 2017
March 2017
April 2017
May 2017
June 2017
July 2017
August 2017
September 2017
October 2017
November 2017
December 2017
January 2018
February 2018
March 2018
April 2018
May 2018
June 2018
July 2018
August 2018
September 2018
October 2018
November 2018
December 2018
January 2019
February 2019
March 2019
April 2019
May 2019
June 2019
July 2019
August 2019
September 2019
October 2019
November 2019
December 2019
January 2020
February 2020
March 2020
April 2020
May 2020
June 2020
July 2020
August 2020
September 2020
October 2020
November 2020
Loch Raven Review
Mindfire Renewed
Holy Groove Records
Poems Niederngasse
Michaela Gabriel's In.Visible.Ink
The Blogging Poet
Wild Poetry Forum
Blueline Poetry Forum
The Writer's Block Poetry Forum
The Word Distillery Poetry Forum
Gary Blankenship
The Hiss Quarterly
Thunder In Winter, Snow In Summer
Lawrence Trujillo Artsite
Arlene Ang
The Comstock Review
Thane Zander
Pitching Pennies
The Rain In My Purse
Dave Ruslander
S. Thomas Summers
Clif Keller's Music
Vienna's Gallery
Shawn Nacona Stroud
Beau Blue
Downside up
Dan Cuddy
Christine Kiefer
David Anthony
Layman Lyric
Scott Acheson
Christopher George
James Lineberger
Joanna M. Weston
Desert Moon Review
Octopus Beak Inc.
Wrong Planet...Right Universe
Poetry and Poets in Rags
Teresa White
Camroc Press Review
The Angry Poet