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Today's News . . . Today's Poem
The New Verse News
presents politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues.
Guidelines
Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com. No simultaneous submissions. Use "Verse News Submission" as the subject line. Send a brief bio. No payment. Authors retain all rights after 1st-time appearance here. Scroll down the right sidebar for the fine print.
Monday, December 09, 2024
THE JOB INTERVIEW
Sunday, December 08, 2024
DRONE SIGHTINGS REPORTED OVER NEW JERSEY
looming through night, leaving by morning.
No one can explain them, not even those
in official suits talking to the cameras.
And for days before they were noticed
people dreamed of large bees pollinating
their minds like open flowers. But the memory
of those wonderlands wilted in the mystery
that consumes their sleep. Now they spend
their nights watching and listening,
the drone of their suspicions growing
larger than all the wishes on all the stars
that they no longer wish on or even
take notice of. It’s all about the drones
and why they’re hovering. Although,
the exhaustion and fear is not
because their faults will be discovered,
that we’re being watched—we already know
there’s no place that does not see us,
though Rilke never imagined it so literally
as we do: cameras buried in Apollo’s hip,
relaying messages about what we mortals
are up to. No, we know we’re being watched
and by nothing numinous, but just people
as flawed as we are, and just as mistaken as us
that there are things we can keep to ourselves.
Saturday, December 07, 2024
MELTING OF ARCTIC SEA ICE
a |
(Image credit: SeppFriedhuber via Getty Images via Live Science.) |
Another warning,
Red flags up in the scientific
Community, sea ice melting
Faster than an ice cube on
An Arizona day. Polar bears
Shifting their weight on legs
The size of tree trunks while
Balancing on the moving chunks
Of frozen water over a million
Years old. With each piece
Of ice shrinking over time,
How will the polar bear find
Food if he can’t travel far
From his glacier home?
Meanwhile, land torn up,
Only a commodity in a world
Based on capitalism. Imbalance
Between humanity and the earth
Causes the dis/ease of fear, anxiety
And consumerism. What comes
From the ground is a commodity,
Something to sell, to buy, to use up.
The air warms the melting masses
But so far away from here, how can
Anyone care about this? No plans
For the future. Carpe Diem without
The seizing. Brain rot eats away at
Sanity and intention. Useless images
And misinformation to distract, to
Entertain, to confuse. Abstract words
Populate the language resulting in
Generalization, stereotypes, prejudice,
Bias, and ignorance. Not enough time
To think. Only to react. Tik Tok goes
The Earth’s clock. The air polluted,
The breath compromised, the ice melting,
Polar bears weeping in a cold puddle
Of water swishing at their feet.
Ron Shapiro, an award-winning teacher, currently mentors college essay writing as well as teaches Memoir Writing through George Mason University. He has published writings in Nova Bards 23 & 24, Gatherings, Poets of the Promise, Poetry X Hunger, Minute Musings, Backchannels, Gezer Kibbutz Gallery, All Your Poems, Paper Cranes Literary Magazine and two chapbooks: Sac
Friday, December 06, 2024
GEORGIANS ON MY MIND
by Jacqueline Coleman-Fried
George Balanchine with, Mourka, his cat. Photo by Martha Swope (1964). NYPL Digital Collections, Image ID: 5120841 |
Police behind riot shields beat protesters facing Europe,
robed in Georgian flags, calling for new elections.
Sometimes Russia moves with planes and tanks.
Sometimes it strangles slowly, so no one notices.
Cat floats around my home like a ballet dancer
waving her curved plume tail, padding on velvet paws.perfume,
Sinking on velvet paws, she pliés
before jumping, leaping.
Choreographer Balanchine used to throw his cat
in the air and photograph her on the way down.
Threw his cat in the air to watch her gymnastic grace.
Taught his dancers to move like that.
Taught them, too, the perfume of Russian ballet.
Though his real name, Balanchivadze, was Georgian.
Jacqueline Coleman-Fried is a poet who lives in Tuckahoe, NY. Her work has appeared in The New Verse News, Nixes Mate Review, Streelight Magazine, Witcraft, and The Orchard Poetry Journal.
Thursday, December 05, 2024
WITH CHILD
Arizona for Abortion Access supporters carry photographs of women who died because of abortion bans during the 35th annual All Souls Procession—a two-mile long march for community members to honor ancestors and loved ones who have died—on Nov. 3, 2024, in Tucson, Ariz. (Mario Tama / Getty Images via Ms. Magazine) |
was a dangerous
condition to be in.
I would have died
in childbirth like my
grandmother
if I’d given birth
a hundred years ago.
My daughter, breach,
but barely six pounds.
Small enough
for the doctor to
reach in, position her
for delivery.
How would it have ended
without his help,
called in from fishing,
smoking a pipe.
My son’s cord
wrapped around his neck.
Intervention again.
A healthy baby boy is born.
The third time
I miscarried.
Doctors took care of me,
nuns ministered
to my soul.
No laws prevented them
from saving me.
Wednesday, December 04, 2024
LEVERAGED BY BRAIN ROT
Following a public vote in which more than 37,000 people had their say, we’re pleased to announce that the Oxford Word of the Year for 2024 is ‘brain rot’… ‘Brain rot’ is defined as “the supposed deterioration of a person’s mental or intellectual state, especially viewed as the result of overconsumption of material (now particularly online content) considered to be trivial or unchallenging. Also: something characterized as likely to lead to such deterioration”. —Oxford University Press, December 2, 2024 |
I remember the landscape
before chatbots
After all, it was
only two years ago
My mind is a limited
I take in material
I share material
I forget if I took time
to synthesize the material
My biases and missteps
are not about extra fingers
I fear The Paperclip Problem
less than I fear the race
This race has been trending
towards the bottom
We know major players
but consider a dark horse
It could all go sideways
except for the 1%
Meantime, we’re burning
all available fuel
The deafening buzz—endless
noise on my mind
All I can talk about
is what I consume
While I remain aware
I contain stories
The storyteller in me
is trained by misdirection
I mean the need to hold
irreconcilable truths
While seeking the answer
to some nebulous void within
I know this brain rot
as a weak pulse
I fear mediums
and messages
The troubling satisfaction
of pulled attention
My hacked mind
knows susceptibility
Everything is content
and I am a heavy user
Mark Danowsky is Editor-in-Chief of ONE ART: a journal of poetry. He is the author of four poetry books. His fifth book, Take Care, is forthcoming from Moon Tide Press.
Tuesday, December 03, 2024
OUR LADY’S TRIUMPH
Hot orange flame flew up
melting lead and ancient trees
breaking hearts of Paris.
For eight hundred years
old oaks from vanished forests
served as roof timbers
but no longer able to withstand
the fires of hell, crumbled
to charred matchsticks, as
Our Lady’s backbone,
the vulnerable ridge pole,
tumbled into the holy nave.
• • •
A thin white thread
of smoke rising at the Vatican
signals something new.
The disastrous stream of white smoke,
which roared rapidly to black
then to tongues of fire,
called out every craftsman from
the woodwork, their myriad of skills
rebuilding one great Cathedral,
DON’T MOURN THE THORNS
A smirk tumbling out of simmering glee?
Yes I was among the first 26,743,226
to feel joy when Notre Dame burned,
A spire collapsed shooting fireballs
through the attic, crashing the crosses,
Yellow flames licked the towers
and tickled my giggle bone,
From what abominations the fire sparked?
Of what burnt and musty stench like earth
where children are buried unmarked?
Rats running from their snuggle spots,
The ancient rot to their liking,
Dirty sins in the Savior’s name purified
Plastic icons oozed and bubbled black,
and is the toxic smoke pleasing to God?
The grand Dame’s construction marked
two hundred years of persecution
of expulsion, return and expulsion.
Built on the bones and bank notes
of two centuries of violation,
feeding off the destruction
and exile of the Jews.
I won’t be contributing to the Church
where kings were crowned,
Where the crown of thorns stands in state.
Ask me again when plans include
a health center for family planning
and care for survivors of priestly abuse.
My joy only muted by the despair of the faithful
and knowing the stinking thing will rise as before.
Corey Weinstein’s poetry has been published in Vistas and Byways, The New Verse News, Our California 2024, The Ekphrastic Review, Forum (City College of San Francisco), California State Poetry Society, Visitant, Abandoned Mine, Speak Poetry of San Mateo County, California State Poetry Society and Jewish Currents, and he wrote and performed a singspiel called Erased: Babi Yar, the SS and Me. He has been an advocate for prisoner rights and founded California Prison Focus, and he led the American Public Health Association’s Prison Committee for many years. In his free time, he hosts San Francisco OLLI’s Poetry Interest Group and plays the clarinet in his local jazz band, Tandem, his synagogue choir and woodwind ensembles.
Monday, December 02, 2024
TRASH OF THE TITANS
Elon gladly goes where he goes—
Wait until these mammoth egos
Clash, two bigmouth bros turned bitter,
Trading shots on Truth and Twitter.
Point of fact: They're both a bore, so
One we loathe, the other more so.
Steven Kent is the poetic alter ego of writer and musician Kent Burnside. His work appears in 251, Asses of Parnassus, Light Poetry Magazine, Lighten Up Online, New Verse News, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Philosophy Now, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry, Snakeskin, and Well Read. His collection I Tried (And Other Poems, Too) was published in 2023 by Kelsay Books.