Complications   Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Just give me the simple life.


damn complications
and I'm a simple kind of guy
who could live alone and happy on a beach
except I hate
so I'm more a simple kind of guy
who could live alone and happy on a mountain top
in a simple house
with three to seven dogs
and a cat
who hates dogs and sulks
when they're around
and sleeps purringly on my lap
when they're not...

a satellite antenna, of course,
with WIFI and NCIS reruns and Netflix
and a coffeehouse
half way down the mountain
with an elevator I could
take down for morning coffee
and restricted contact with other simple
folks living high in the mountains
and who don't talk to me unless I'm feeling gregarious
and talk to them first...

Oh, and dancing girls to come up
to make sure my flag's still
and why not maybe a swimming pool
and hot tub
right outside the backdoor
of my simple house...

a simple life,
I bet I could live to a hundred and ten
living like that,
a simple man in my simple house
on a simple mountain's
simple top...

but all these complications,
social security, IRS, wild, ravaging Trumpistas
and saxophone players,
the breakfast cereal aisle at the supermarket,
the metric system, argyle socks, pants with button flies,
chances for Democrat renewal
in 2018 or any other year...


my old brain,
thick as coagulated oatmeal,
just not up to complications

I have a few "travel moments" this week from my book of travel poems, Places and Spaces.

People often ask me why I don't fly (last time in 1971, to Baltimore for several days of a job interview with NSA). I don't like to fly, but I'm not afraid to. It's just that I don't like it, almost as much as I hate airports.

It's because I enjoy the drive, preferring to see the country close up, not from 30,000 feet, preferring the mystery and surprises that come from days on the road. My "travel moments" below are the  best explanation I can give for why I always drive.


doing business on the border

from "Well Begun"

from "On the Cusp of Confederate Winter"

Michael McClure

roadside bar-b-que in South Carolina

Anna Akhmatova
Tashkent Breaks into Blossom
Everything is Plundered

from "Ruidoso"

Naomi Shihab Nye
inside the riddle

my first

James Richardson
Northwest Passage

from "To the Rockies"

Claudia Emerson
My Grandmother's Plot in the Family Cemetery

three of ten

John N. Morris

from "Sleeping with Andy Divine"

Patrick Donnelly
Corpse Flower

East Texas pines

John Ashbery
Tension in the Rocks

from "Silver City and Beyond"


First up for the week.

doing business on the border

the smell of
low-grade diesel
from Mexican buses
across the river
in Piedras Negras
steals the morning sweetness
of sage and huisache
on the caliche flats
of Eagle Pass

I spend the night
on a business trip,
make my official
quarterly visit
with staff
and move on,
Del Rio next,
and the less noxious
smells of 
Cuidad Acuna

in between,
the pecan groves
lining the highway
in the river valley of
tiny Quemado...

An introduction

dark as the devil's black eye
as we race to clear skies

from Well Begun.

These are a few moments from the first trip I tell of in my book, Places and Spaces a round-about journey to the Blue Ridge Parkway, traveling along the way through eight states.

From On the Cusp of Confederate Winter.

a pick-up
pulling a horse trailer,
alone in the back
one horse,
a palomino,
golden mane and tail
and eyelashes
in the wind,
brown eyes watching
as I pass


a hawk
slips slowly from the air
to land on a fence post,
sees all with yellow eyes
that view all that moves
as potential


orange sky
like mist
through a forest
of orange leaves


lakes and ponds
and waterfowl,
a crane passes over the road,
long neck outstretched
wings spread,
a dark shadow
a nearly dark sky


and in the middle
of all that gold and yellow
and red-brown, 
some low brush that's flaming  bright red
scattered among the trees
like little fires
burning in the woods


on a hill
surrounded on four sides
by forest
a horse enjoys a pasture
all his own


in a dell
green as spring,
a small church,
white clapboard with a white
wooden steeple
rising twice the church's height

on a hill behind the church
rows of tombstone
in rank and file,
the hillside like steps
to an afterlife that,
if we are all lucky, will look
exactly like this green little dell
and this white little church


just across the highway,
three cows
line a ridge, dark cut-outs
against the sky


the moon rises in front of me
bordered, as always, by red and brown forests,
a the top,
 silver-dollar moon
on a pale blue sky


a white house
on a hill
surrounded by leaf-bare trees,
and behind them
showing bits and pieces
through the fog

on the road,
short, thick-foliaged pines
stand crowded side by side,
like spectators
standing shoulder to shoulder

watching a passing parade


a half dozen
wild turkey
along the roadside,
undisturbed by our passing

a fat deer
I see ahead
leaps across the road
and through the trees


grand visas
across green and gold hills around us,
cleared pastures,
little villages
with little white houses
and broken down barns
and church steeples
and yellow school buses
parked behind school closed
for the weekend


a fierce cold wind
blows through the wooded valleys
and across the high crests
so strong
it billows my Levi jacket
out from my back like blue wings,
almost lifting me over the edge

the chill factor is in the teens


(note: my reaction to New Orleans)

the seediness
behind the facade,
like a middle-aged beauty queen
showing the sag
of body and spirit that  comes
from too many nights
closing too many bars
with too many men

First from my library this week, I have a poem by Michael McClure from The Wisdom Anthology of North American Buddhist Poetry. The book was published by Wisdom Publications in 2005.

Born in 1932, McClure, poet, playwright, song writer and novelist, was one of the five poets who read at San Francisco Six Gallery Reading in 1955. The event fictionalized in Jack Kerouac's The Dharma Bums. McClure, a key member of the Beat Generation, was immortalized in Kerouac's Big Sur  as "Pat McLear."


The Calico Cat lies
on the high ledge
in the darkness
the huge space,
at light
in the crack
under the door
a shudder of pleasure
the sense
of something
beyond self
filling emptiness
among cartons of old books,
a stored
vanity table
and an antique sewing

polliwogs in cold
spring ponds


their big

dark eyes

New memories from old road trips.

roadside bar-b-que in South Carolina

on the road 
in South Carolina

sitting at a rough,
scarred bench
at the edge of thick

rich, sweet bar-b-que
and the sting
of cold, golden

gray mist of early evening
drifting softly
through the trees

gray uniforms
behind every tree, 
the future they fought
to the death

Next, from another anthology, two poems by my favorite Russian, Anna Akhmatova. The anthology is Poetry for the Earth, "a collection of poetry from around the world that celebrate nature." The book was published in 1991 by Ballantine Books.

Tashkent Breaks into Blossom


As if somebody ordered it
the city suddenly became bright -
every courtyard was visited
by white, light apparitions.
Their breathing is more understandable than words,
but their lightness is doomed to lie
at the bottom of the ditch
under the burning blue sky.


I will remember the roof of stars
and the radiance of eternal glory,
and the little kids
in the young arms
of dark-haired mothers.

     translated by Richard McKane

Everything is Plundered

Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold,
Death's great black wing scrapes the air
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?

By day, the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town:
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.

And the miraculous comes so close
in the ruined, dirty houses -
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breast for centuries.

     translated by Czeslaw Milosz

These short pieces are from a trip I made to Ruidosa, New Mexico, mainly because I had never been there. It was just my dog, Reba, and I on the trip, brief and not one of my most interesting.

From Ruidoso.

an hour north
of Pecos,
a congregation of buzzards,
gathered in the middle of the highway
in their Sunday-best black, our scavenger
cousins, dependent, like us
on meat killed by others


no sign of life in Olna
but a single tarantula making
its creepy, crawly way
across the highway, a cheering sight,
this fuzzy, black nightmare
extinct now where I grew up,
along with the horned toad and the
red-wing blackbird, a survivor here
where little else finds a home


across the road
from the Tribal Center,
two Apache boys
play King of the Hill,
over and over each other
in the rose-colored dust


the down slope
from Mescalero to Tularosa
opens up between wooded mountain sides
to the desert below,
desert grasses so dry
they are white
in the morning sun,
like sand,
like a wide ribbon of white sand
between the mountains


a single deer,
a doe,
grazing on a green hillside


clear overhead
but all around,
dark clouds,
lightning flashing
within the clouds,
blossoming pools of soft white light
through dark gauze


in the east, a small
break in the clouds,
like a knothole in a fence,
and through it, the peach-orange
of the rising sun

Next, a poem by one of my favorites, Naomi Shihab Nye, from her book Red Suitcase. The book was published by BOA Editions in 1994. Nye is a San Antonio poet who travels around the world to promote her poetry and the poetry of many others, especially poets from the Middle East, otherwise unknown in this country.

Inside the Riddle

It's blue in here.

There are grocery stores, with soap.

I'm looking for someone
who might have an answer
big enough not to be insulting,
but everyone looks preoccupied,
blankly solemn.

I'm staring at an umbrella,
a yard shrine on El Paso Street.
What is it keeping away?
Vagrant dogs, dogs with shark's teeth,
men with anchors blurred
beneath their sleeves.

This little house of Mary,
this concrete grotto studded
with seashells or chipped glass,
I would like to be a Catholic
with such a straight faith.

Or a Muslim, fasting and praying -
I would kneel of stones
beside the men of Cairo.

To believe God has reasons
seems too petty for God.

Close to home, seeing a new world.

my first


blanket of snow
covers the hills from dorm
to classrooms

along the way,
the bronze mustangs,
strong legs
pulsing muscle,
rearing in defiance
of the weight
of their own

snow down their back,
in their manes, atop their
head - I imagine
the fog of their breath
blowing from their nostrils

snow - at 18,
my first

Here are three short poems by James Richardson. The poems are taken from his national book award finalist, By the Numbers published in 2010 by Copper Canyon Press.

Born in New York in 1950, Richardson is a poet, critic, and Professor of English and Creative Writing at Princeton University. He earned his Ph.D. at the University of Virginia.

Northwest Passage

That faint line in the dark
might be the shore
of some heretofore unknown
small hour.

This fir-scent on the wind
must be the forests
of the unheardof month
between July and August


Flashing vehicles, unurgent lounging
tell you what it's too late for.
Don't rubberneck.
Don't look down the front of death's dress.
Don't say that white oblong on a gurney
looks like a bobsled, looks like room service.
Don't say it looks like a man,
all bright days jarred from his brain
like droplets from a branch.


Oh dear, say the Tyrants, sex
is naughty and intense
and might save you.
Please mistake it
for what you're not supposed to do.

These moments from a trip to Denver. As usual, Reba and I drove alone to Denver, where Dee joined us at the Denver airport.

From To the Rockies

a palomino
with twin colts -
gold dancing
on a green field

a gathering
of buzzards, fifteen at least,
o  a little hill on the side of the road

so unusual 
to seem them together like this
with no carrion


the Iraan/Sheffield exit.
I look south,
toward Big Bend Park,
the Chisos Mountains -
just a smudge on the horizon


little twisters cross brown fields
on both sides of the highway,
most throwing up clouds of dust
that move with the wind, but one,
a smaller one, forms a perfect funnel
about five feet across, keeping its shape
up to a hundred or more feet
above the ground

a tumbleweed the size of a beach ball
blows in front of me,
seems to pace the car for several seconds
then crosses the road


further north,
as we cross  into Colorado,
the winter grass is almost white,
the almost white of sand 
on Gulf beaches,
broken here and there
by red barns
like umbrellas
on a vast beach that has no sea


from the coffeeshop window
I see a small boy
climb into the back seat
of his family's sedan,

closes the door

a conversation with his mother in the front seat

a moment passes,
the car does not move

the boy's door opens again
and a snowball drops
from the car


twelve bison
in a line across
a snowy slope,
each following the tail
of the other -

at the head of this strung-out regiment
a bull,
the leader,
knows where to to
and when to go there

and two or three miles
down the road
elk scatter among
a stand of pines,
pushing aside the snow
and pine needles
to graze


at ten thousand feet
the snow melt
sloshes down the rocky mountain side
in a torrent, at eleven thousand,
hick icicles, 
long as tall man,
hand from clefts
in the canyon walls,


El Paso,

deep desert blue
seeping through the black
nigh sky

the air is desert chill -
a pink thread
on the east horizon
suggests the coming
of a rising sun 


the pink thread
widens -
a shadowing light

from the north foothills
a coyote

This poem is by Claudia Emerson, taken from her book, late wife, a Pulitzer Prize winner, published by Louisiana State University Press in 2005.

Emerson, winner of a Witter Bynner Fellowship from the Library of Congress and fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Virginia Commission for the Arts, is associate professor of English at Mary Washington College in Virginia.

My Grandmother's Plot in the Family Cemetery

She was my grandfather's second wife. Coming late
to him, she was the same age as his first wife
had been when he married her. He made
my grandmother a young widow to no one's surprise,
and she buried him close beside the one whose sons
clung to her at the funeral tighter than her own
children. But little of that story is told
by this place. The two of them lie beneath one stone,

Mother and Father in cursive carved at the foot
of the grave. My grandmother, as though by her own design
removed, is buried in the corner, outermost plot,
with no one near, her married name the only sign
she belongs. And at that, she could be Daughter pitied
Sister, one of those who never married.

Mid-way views.

three of ten

driving through rolling hills
and dark woods of Arkansas
at day break

the road,
razor sharp cut through the trees,
like a funnel

straight ahead at the neck

of the funnel,
a red sun rises, a fireball

through early morning 

day three
seven days yet to drive

This short poem is by John N. Morris, from his book, Green Business, published in 1970 by Atheneum.  I don't know why I like the poem, except that, like the poet, I hate August.

Morris, born in 1931 in England died in 1997 in North Carolina. Never widely known, he was highly regarded by many of the greatest poets of his time.


Even the cattle do not like it,
This dirty quiet,
The air a bronze green.

The wind marches,
It smashes the grass,
That great man.

It is meant
This multitudinous intent.

The fourth of the road trips I write about in my book, Places and Spaces, took me, my dog Reba and, for part of the way, my wife, Dee, to Lake Tahoe. The dog and I took a straight route to Reno where I picked up Dee, then the rest of the way to Lake Tahoe, and, after several days, to California where we caught I-10 all the way back to San Antonio.

From Sleeping with Andy Devine

on the right
a Rio Grande River delta valley,
green and cultivated
pecan orchards,
church steeples
yellow school buses
flashing red lights
on two lane highways

hanging over all this


a hawk
dead in the middle of the road,
a casualty
of flying too low,
flying too slow,
a single wing
like a flag stands
above the mess  of bloody
mangled meat and bones -

brown and white feathers
in the wind


nearing  Gallup, 
I reach the snow level.
patches first,
mostly in shadowed areas
where the day's sun
could not reach

the more and more,
until the desert is covered in white,
a thin layer,
little individual sprigs
of desert grass poke through
in small patches,
like Kilroy
with a really bad haircut


through the high desert,
as far as one can see

then mountains
on the horizon, north and west,
snow capped


I see a buffalo
in its shaggy brown coat,
eating green sprouts
between giant red boulders


dense white clouds
cover the horizon ahead -
or dust storm...

the strong winds
even stronger
ice pellets like BB shot


moving on,
through the national forest
and between the mountains
the snow gets much worse,
blowing hard across the road,
the sky closes in
and the temperature
drops to near freezing


the clouds clear,
the temperature goes back up,
and fat driving snowflakes
hitting my windshield
turn to fat splashing raindrops


snow clouds

over mountain peaks
on both sides of me

like buttermilk
over hot cornbread

light snow
dusts desert stones and plants
with points of silvery

the snow falls
and soon they all
sport white caps

they all disappear
under the white sea


a herd of horses,
twenty or thirty of them,
chase and play
in a field of snow


from my tenth floor window,
I watch snow clouds
cross the north mountains,
then begin a slow
drift across the water
toward us

the "little cat feet"
over cold water


we are not the first
to break the snow, little
duck tracks, triangles
divided by a line
from point to base,
and tracks of another bird
of a larger sort, tridents
in the snow

a white sailboat sits
half hidden in the


the mountains
are a majestic spectacle that lifts the heart,
but they're more than 1,700 miles
from home

I can get bigger and better mountains
500 miles closer


white-robed mountains,
the virgin-brides
of western California

past San Bernadino
and the car-choked debris
of Los Angeles,
to the dry brown
hills of northern Arizona

bright yellow flowers,
bushy and thick,
climb he hills like
the rising drab and dreary


(note; after ten days, five states, returning home)

where days are measured
not by calendars
and dates
and miles past
and to-dos done,
but by the passing of the sun,
east to west,
and cycles of the moon,
full to dark,
and by poems written
and quiet moments,
when a contemplative life
not a waste of time
but a harvesting
of the fruits of time

Next, this poem by Patrick Donnelly from his book Nocturnes of the Brothel of Ruin, published by Four Way Books in 2012.

Born in 1956 in Arizona, Donnelly appears frequently in poetry journals and anthologies and has published four of his own books. He earned his MFA at Woodrow Wilson College MFA Program for Writers and has taught at writing at several colleges. His work has received numerous awards and honors.

Corpse Flower

         Amorphophallus titanum

If that squeamish virgin Artemis in the Hippolytus of Euripides was right -
           even to look at death makes  you unclean,

If the people were right who hauled Taguchi Shigeyuki nine hundred
           years ago out of their house on a sliding door
so he wouldn't die inside, the they were right to believe death pollutes a house,

if the singing teacher of my twenties last night was right when she scolded
            me at fifty-one you are too young to think of death so much,

even so, soil me, roll me in the funk of it.

No other flower blooms as large. Huge.

Many roads, many miles.

East Texas pines


through thick East Texas pine forest
at daybreak,
tall pine trees on either side,
their long shadows crisscross the road,
a lattice marking the rising
sun racing past,
then behind

deep, dark woods
hiding many
of the Klan
and burning crosses
at the feet
of their hanging

long shadows
that never

Last from my library, this poem by John Ashbery. The poem is from his book Where Shall I Wander, published  in 2005 by Harper Collins - ECCO.

Born in New York in 1927, Ashbery's work has received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Critics Circle Award and the National Book Award. Until his death late last year he was Professor of Languages and Literature at Bard College.

Tension in the Rocks

The changed for dinner. In those days
no one was in a hurry, it was real time
every time. usually the streets were saddled with fog
at night. In the daytime it mostly blew away.
We kept on living because we knew how.
Maple seeds like paperclips skittered in the allees.
We knew not how many enthusiasts climbed the slope,
nor how long they took. It was, in the words of one,
"beholding" not to know. We eased by.

You can see how the past has come to pass
in the ferns and sweepings of ore and text
that shadowed such narratives as had been scratched,
as though any hotel guest could wipe the blight away
and in so doing, be redeemed for the moment.
I tell you it was not unseemly.
Little girls gathered in groves to see the wish spelled out,
yet under the hemlocks all was molting, a fury
of notations, obliterated. We knew who to tank
for the postcard. It was signed, "Love, Harold and Olive."

The last of the travels I wrote of in Places and Spaces was a relatively short trip, my dog, Reba, and me, to Silver City, New Mexico. I had seen notices of it as an "arts city" so I decided to check it out.

Disappointed by what I found when I got there, I decided to use one of the travel days I budgeted to around through Albuquerque instead of going straight home.

From Silver City and Beyond

reminding me of a picture
I once saw
of a lone tree,
bare and burned,
among the ruins of

these trees are like that,
bare limbs
reaching up grasping
at the sky

in the pasture below
a mare and her foal eat grass
generous and green


a cloud billows up
from the Chisos Basin
like a white rose
opening to the sun


three horses
a green pasture
grass high,
up to their knees

single file
one after the other

like carousel horses
with somewhere to go


(note: deciding to take a loop that will lead me right through the Gila Mountains and national forest)

a lone-lane bridge
Mogollon from the national forest

the higher I climb
the heavier the rain falls
and the slipperier the road becomes

setting aside mudslides and other hesitations
- it is now considerably further back than forward-
I come to a beak in the trees
and stop and look out and see that I am
on a high ridge,
above the clouds, churning
white and billowing


a very large buck
and 25 to 30 doe and fawns,
fluffy white, with brown stub-tails flickering
in the wind,
all together as a group,
coming down the mountain side
in great bounds, over the road, then back up
on the other side,
winged creatures who,
through fate or folly,
lost their wings
but still they try to fly, almost succeeding
with each great leap


passing through a burned-out portion of the forest,
pine and aspen tall and limb-less, black as he coal
they have become,
while still
they reach of the sky

I stop and listen to the wind
all around deep-forest quiet but for the wind
passing through these poor, standing dead...

ghost whispers

Counting the ways



warms my back

cold wind chaps
my face

blares its passing
at a crossing
three blocks away
the thin morning hush -

lessons in the multiplicities
of life

If you've a mind to, please comment by clicking on the comment button below and let me know if you have a problem accessing the comment section. I've been told there's a problem but I can't confirm it. I do now that I've not been receiving comments for a while now.

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me

Also as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and a not so diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony accusatory, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad

 I welcome your comments below on this issue and the poetry and photography featured in it.

  Just click the "Comment" tab below.


New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces 

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second


Sonyador - The Dreamer


  Peace in Our Time


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
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