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Thursday, November 14, 2024

HOW DO I, A SOLDIER, DESTROY THEE?

by Lavinia Kumar






 
How do I destroy thee? Let me count the ways.
I kill thee by bombs, and drones from great height—
my mind out of reach, yes, I stay out of sight
for the ends of being in this race
to destroy, to level thee and thine, each day
where there’s no quiet, and only candle-light.
I destroy thee freely, as you strive for what is right.
I destroy thee completely, and I am praised.
I destroy thee with passion and put to use
my grievance, so with my childhood faith
I destroy you, with a will I shall never lose
with my bullets. I destroy thee with each breath,
each gun—with all my might; and if God choose,
I shall destroy thee even after death.


Lavinia Kumar is author of poetry and flash fiction. Her latest book is a reprinting of her short book Beauty. Salon. Art.

Wednesday, November 13, 2024

DOG HOUSE ODE

by Indran Amirthanayagam




I branded you old and tired, sleepy,

your sex unable to rise. I called you 

fool, idiot, champion of dog and cat 


eaters, and I defeated you in these 

elections; and in January I will 

return to the White House. I have 


achieved exactly what you feared. 

And now your country’s in my doghouse. 

And I am about to sit down to eat.



Indran Amirthanayagam has just published Seer (Hanging Loose Press) and The Runner's Almanac (Spuyten Duyvil).  He is the translator of Origami: Selected Poems of Manuel Ulacia (Dialogos Books). Mad Hat Press published his love song to Haiti: Powèt Nan Pò A (Poet of the Port). Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (BroadstoneBooks) is a collection of Indran's poems. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly and helps curate Ablucionistas. He hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube and publishes poetry books with Sara Cahill Marron at Beltway Editions.

THE DEMOCRATS' POST-MORTEM 2024

by William Aarnes


Graphic credit: Eniola Odetunde  Axios


That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  
What tactic worked? Beyoncé’s walk-on song?
We have nobody but ourselves to blame.

Resentful people rule. So why inflame
them more with hopeful talk they hear as wrong?    
That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  

You’d think by now we’d play a better game.    
Why hint at climate? Why not go along—
back fossil fuels? We have ourselves to blame.

The ads we ran were far too nice. So tame.
Why not something like Haitians don’t belong?
That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  

Our nuanced stances came across as lame.    
Why didn’t we present ourselves as strong  
enough to bring—in days!—world peace? We’re to blame.

Next time let’s make attracting men our aim.
Why didn’t we bring up that golfer’s schlong?
That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  
We have nobody but ourselves to blame.


William Aarnes lives in Manhattan.

Tuesday, November 12, 2024

WELBY

by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons


The archbishop of Canterbury, the Most Rev. Justin Welby, on Tuesday announced his resignation, days after a report concluded that he had failed to ensure a proper investigation into claims that more than 100 boys and young men were abused decades ago at Christian summer camps. —The New York Times, November 12, 2024



Welby may have seen faith as the key 
English Church teaching: faith means to be-
Lieve what cannot be seen—
But does not also mean
You can then not believe what you see!


Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus at Florida State University who has returned to live in his native England. His acrostic poems have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Better Than Starbucks, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Daily Mail, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, The New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, The Satirist, The Washington Post, and WestWard Quarterly.

WHAT I NEED TO HEAR

by Stacie Somerset




Two weeks before the election, I visited my hometown—

a conservative Texas suburb of little appeal.

I went to see two queer YouTubers I’d grown up watching.

The YouTubers came out five years ago, shortly after I came out.

Their fanbase is queer and liberal, even in Texas.

At the show they dressed in the queerest outfits they’d ever worn

and announced proudly, “Yes, we are dressed like this. IN TEXAS!”

The audience went wild.

The queer joy was unparalleled. 

I looked at the cheering fans around me and thought,

These are my people.

My people.

I belong here.

After every election, everyone jokes about eliminating the red states.

“Imagine if all the people in Texas, Oklahoma, and Florida just died”

“The country would be so much better without them”

“Those places are hellholes anyway”

And fuck, part of me agrees—Texas is a hellhole,

but it’s a hellhole full of my people.

Good people, queer people, liberal people who can’t leave

or choose to stay and fight.

Part of me is proud of them,

and ashamed I didn’t stay to fight with them.

Over four million Texans voted blue.

Over six million Texans voted red, true,

but four million people is SO MANY PEOPLE.

Too many people to dismiss or ignore.

I will always remember that I can go to Texas

and be surrounded by liberal love and queer joy.

Hate won, but we still exist.

We exist everywhere

—even in the darkest hellholes—

and they cannot erase us.



Stacie Somerset lives in Athens, Ohio with their wife, dog, and two tortoises. They recently received a PhD in English/Creative Writing from Ohio University. Their work has appeared in Arts Against Extremism and elsewhere.

WHEN I SAW TRUMP'S ANTI-TRANS CAMPAIGN ADS

by Janice Lloyd




I

I remembered the 1960s

when I would count the seconds

walking home from elementary school

until mom handed me my blue overnight bag

with my favorite flannel pjs and drove me

on Fridays to my girlfriend’s house.

How their home was like ones mom fantasized

about in Better Homes & Gardens magazine.

Upstairs had three bedrooms with full baths for kids,

and downstairs, off a marble foyer with a chandelier,

was a living room half the size of our house. 

How ladies in cocktail dresses and high heels

would sit straight-backed on the edge

of puffy sofas and chairs with their ankles crossed. 

Husbands in suits & ties would bring them drinks.

How we tiptoed by to gaze at elegance, respectability.

Her mom ushered us to my friend’s bedroom 

to play Candy Land or with Barbies.



II

Her younger brother John, alone in his room,

started screaming: No, Dad, please no

How my friend kept on playing with Barbie,

said, John wants to wear dresses, be called Suzy

and visit with the party guests. Dad gives him a shot,

lets him sleep it off so no one knows about him. How I lay awake 

in her poster bed that night wondering about John, 

went home the next morning, told mom.

She struck a match, lit a Tareyton cigarette,

said nothing. She started driving me 

to the skating rink to meet new friends. 

A few years later, she showed me John’s obit. 

No cause listed. We thought—suicide?


III

How I wish my friend and I could have played

dress up with Suzy the night of  her parents’ party.

Helped her put bright red lipstick on her lips.

Wear mascara.

Her favorite dress.



The Advocate, November 7, 2024


Janice Lloyd is a former journalist who spent her career at USA TODAY, is a married lesbian and writes poetry she workshops with other poets.

AMISH GOLDEN AGE

by James Schwartz 


America's famously private Amish people are unreachable by phone or email and refuse to have TVs in their homes. But that didn't stop members of the conservative Christian group turning out on polling day in a trend that appears to have helped Donald Trump win Pennsylvania. —MailOnline, November 6, 2024



I'm walking down Piquette,  
& John R.
Past abandoned Harris-Walz signs,
& ochre brickwork,
On a crisp afternoon, 
After the election 
In Motor City,
Coffee & Sugar Sweet Donut ™ 
In hand,

Heading to work, 
Past the 
Construction workers,
Who shout,
Over their machinery din,
"What the election?!...
I'll tell you what happened with the election...

The Mexicans & those racist ass 
Amish people!"
Their laughter,
Carried by the wind,
In our coming Amish Golden Age,
Or 
Old Order Apocalypse. 


James Schwartz is a Detroit based poet and author of various poetry collections including The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay and Amish in America (2011), Punatic (2019), Motor City Mix (2022) and most recently Some Are and Most Aren't and It's Always Been Like That: Selected Poems 2004-2024 from Alien Buddha Press. @queeraspoetry 

A WOMAN SO STRONG

by Diana Morley




The one with dyed blonde hair
decrees that in the new world order 
immigrants—but only those
of color—will be swept up,
removed from a land no longer free

the decree rubs my skin raw,
sets ice in my belly 
as my friend must now carry
her passport for officials 
stopping her for her brown skin 

this, after she’s known thinly veiled
correction, shunning and denial 
of equal treatment for routine behavior,
a woman so strong, she holds in pain
holds in fury, then digests it all
through mastered meditation.


Diana Morley publishes poetry online and in journals. She published Spreading Like Water (2019), a chapbook; Splashing (2020), a poetry collection; and Oregon’s Almeda Fire: From loss to renewal (2021), a documentary of photos and poems.

I AM NOT ALONE: THE DAY AFTER THE 2024 ELECTION

by Guillermo Filice Castro




José     our delivery man
drops off a package
José who of late 
has begun calling me 
by my given name
not the shortened version I usually offer 
to those who cannot roll their R’s
Oh what are you bringing me today? 
I ask José in a way befitting our 
developing chumminess 
jovial (I suppose)
workplace banter

José responds with a feisty What’s up Papi!
“I’m bringing the vote that made us win,” he adds.
Takes me a second or two to process that.
“Us?” I say as I sign for the soft pack. “Win?”

The reality I was keeping at bay 
swoops right back down
claws extended open beak 
letting out a hellish screech
the reality that filtered into my sleep
last night 

as if water through strata and monsters
as votes were being counted:

The sweaty
bald man  a cross 
between a comic book villain
and a Bond baddie
in whose servitude I seemed to be
genuflecting and smiling as I fanned
the villain’s ego with nodding approval
as he pulled me into his chest
squeezing out my breath

José     who the other day told me 
he had a daughter 
(I’m thinking of his daughter)
and once tried to serve 
in the military 
smiles and pops back 
into the freight elevator

Us? Who’s “us”? 
All I do is smile back, 
parcel in hand, 
doors closing.


Guillermo Filice Castro is the author of Mixtape for a War and Agua, Fuego. His work appears in many journals, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and featured in The Best American Poetry 2023. Born and raised in Argentina, he lives with his husband in New Jersey.

Monday, November 11, 2024

THE MORNING AFTER

by Donna Katzin


The New Yorker cover by Malika Favre

 

We celebrate Hartz Mountain worker-women

in the pet food factory in Hackensack,

treated worse than the dogs they fed,

their every move, bathroom break

surveilled by bosses when they

dared to organize a union.

 

We give thanks for Irene Eaglin,

who came north on rails of Jim Crow,

scrubbed white women’s floors with calloused hands,

wore a pink uniform that marked her as a servant,

taught the pale child in her charge

about the Klan and apartheid.

 

We remember the children of Soweto,

commemorated by museum garden stones,

who marched by the hundreds in blizzards of bullets,

armed with chants and posters claiming

the right to learn in their own tongue

and to grow up.

 

In solidarity, we honor Victor Jara,

in the Santiago stadium, where he sang

against the dictator to horror-stricken fans

who looked on as torturers mangled his body,

and he played liberation songs on his guitar

with broken hands.

 

We bow our heads today

for 18 year-old Neveah Crain,

hours after her Texas baby shower,

when sepsis set in, lingered, and doctors

refusing to remove the “unviable fetus”

from her womb, let them both die.

 

We write epic poems to Kamala, a woman of color

who ran to run our fragile, fractured nation

 where men afraid to let a woman lead

chose instead to listen to propaganda

to hide the timorous family member

trembling between their own legs.

 

We welcome them all to stand with us now

in a parched land we scarcely recognize,

scarred by the lust for profit and power,

oil and blood, that has left us searching

for our voices and each other,

thirsting for the rain.

 


Donna Katzin is a published poet and contributor to The New Verse News. She served for 26 years as executive director of Shared Interest, which does community development and investment work in South Africa, having previously worked for the Interfaith Center on Corporate Responsibility as director of South Africa and International Justice Programs, after organizing for the UAW. She is a member of the Reforming Judaism's Tikkun Olam Commission, working on reparations in the U.S., and co-chairs Tipitapa Partners, empowering grassroots women in Nicaragua. Her book of poems and photographs With These Hands chronicles post-apartheid South Africa's process of giving birth to itself.

WHAT I TELL MYSELF

by Marjorie Tesser


 


That it’s all right to mourn. Okay to take a day to grieve. Okay to take it slow,

to do some yoga, take a nap; you know last night you didn’t sleep, the writing

on the wall a tale of loss on loss writ with excruciating slowness, unrelenting speed.

 

I warn myself not to indulge in doom prescience, worrying each bead

of a litany of despoliations sure to come. Try not to guess how they’ll pervert 

the name of freedom, desecrate “liberty,” have their nasty fun.

  

...women’s health and status racism xenophobia homophobia transphobia environmental waste bizarre quasi-scientific theories conspiracy book banning religious hegemony distasteful alliances impetuousness anti-intellectualism clannishness cronyism greed shitty “jokes” glorification of the mean spirited the sociopathic the stupid....

 

(I remind myself I was not going to do that. Tell myself it’s okay 

to backslide, as long as I catch it). Caution myself: anger can spark, 

but combust and turn to ashes.

 

Remind myself I can’t be so surprised; numbers show 

what I already knew in my heart: we’re still a misogynistic, 

racist nation in significant part. Remember that they feed 

 

on negative attention; deny them that sustenance. 

Command myself not to freeze in terror or wallow in despair; 

not to always blunt feelings with self-soothing behavior.

 

I tell myself my job’s the same: to be present, kind, true to my values

and respectful of others’, to support those that champion such aims 

and care for those who need. To uphold ideals, to interpret with empathy. 

 

To try to put it into words. To remind myself of bright points, precious few 

though they may be. I tell myself to write a poem take a walk talk with friends 

spend moments with an animal or tree.

 

The only way is forward.

 

Eyes and mouth, heart and hands and feet.



Marjorie Tesser’s poetry and fiction have appeared in Molecule, Cutleafpoets.org, SWWIM, and others. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, The Important Thing Is, winner of the Firewheel Chapbook Award (Firewheel Editions 2010), and The Magic Feather (FLP 2011). She has co-edited three anthologies of poetry and prose, and is editor in chief of MER - Mom Egg Review.