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Showing posts with label fight. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fight. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 10, 2024

A NEW DAWN

by Dick Altman 



As the poet might have awakened to it…


After an historic,
all-night zoom
with world’s leadership,
she—America’s new president—
stood on California’s shore,
sun rising directly behind her,
ray’s emanating
from her silhouette,
as from the Statue
of Liberty’s crown,
to announce America’s
new proclamation
of emancipation.
 
An emancipation,
she exclaimed,
that would usher in
a new era
of global freedom,
not imposed,
but welcomed,
in every corner,
and at every level,
of humanity.
 
We need to fight,
she said,
not each other,
but for each other,
for the planet,
to sustain and nourish
each other,
for the world of work
to offer dignity
and opportunity,
for economies to thrive,
as they compete,
with best ideas,
realized at best price.
 
We need to recognize,
she went on,
to honor
our collective individuality,
our shared commonalties,
the dissonant music
that entwines,
and enriches our lives,
rather than fractures,
if we let it.
To recognize the need,
she stressed,
for borders of heritage,
rather than walls
of defense,
for borders of possibility,
rather than denial.
 
We can all wish
for a perfect world,
she said,
in that dream
we all inhabit,
each in our own measure,
loving thy neighbor,
and the flowers
always in bloom.
Yet it is imperfection
that permeates life,
and the striving
to overcome it.
In that we are all joined.
 
Let America,
once again,
by word and deed,
by shake of hand,
hug or clap on shoulder,
remind we breathe
the same breath,
share the same night,
wake to the same sun,
shining on similarity
and difference,
without exception.


Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, riverSedge, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Blue Line, THE Magazine, Humana obscura, The Offbeat, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The RavensPerch, Beyond Words, The New Verse News, Sky Island Journal, and others here and abroad. His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 250 poems, published on four continents.

Sunday, June 16, 2024

SMALL DIFFERENCES

by Moira Magneson


AI-generated image by Shutterstock for The New Verse News.


Three days
we've watched
the acorn
woodpecker
perched atop
the telephone
pole
bright red
crown
black beak
driving
into
the glass
insulator
over and over.
His fury
for the bird
who looks
just like him—
side-eye
glittering—
knows
no bounds.
He refuses
to give up
the fight
with his own
reflection.
He will win 
this war.
He will not 
surrender.
Each will hammer
the other down.
They will stop
at nothing.


Author’s Note: "Small Differences" addresses the June 12, 2024 Hezbollah rocket attacks on Israel which came after Israel killed a senior Hezbollah commander in southeastern Lebanon in a June 11 airstrike.  The poem's title is based on Sigmund Freud's psychoanalytic concept of “the narcissism of small differences" in which he proposes that people tend to amplify the minor differences between themselves, leading to feelings of hostility, estrangement, and contempt.


Moira Magneson's full-length collection of poems In the Eye of the Elephant will be published by Sixteen Rivers Press in 2025. Her novella A River Called Home—a river fable illustrated by Robin Center was released by Toad Road Press in early 2024. She is currently working as the poet-in-residence for ForestSong, artist Andie Thrams' project exploring solastalgia, biophilia, and resilience in the face of wildfire devastation and the climate crisis.

Thursday, May 05, 2022

HOW TO HANDLE A LEAK

by Ann E. Wallace




My daughters and I live in a leaky 
old house. The three of us have 
learned how to handle a plumbing 
emergency, to spring into action, 
sop up the mess, cut the water lines,
track the source, mend the seams.
 
This is what women do.
We live in bodies that bleed,
are vulnerable, that give life 
but also betray, and we have 
passed down the fortitude 
to handle leaks and other messes. 
There is wisdom in our living, 
and we know how to act 
when a leak is sprung, exposing 
the ill intentions of those 
who do not live in our bodies, 
those who spout 
outrage at the egregious 
betrayal—as if they know 
what betrayal is—of being 
caught with the pipe cutters 
in their bloody hands.
 
As they sputter and point fingers, 
we—the women—are gathering 
our tools, our rage, and our ballots, 
like we have so many times before, 
ready to fight for our freedom.


Ann E. Wallace is a poet and essayist from Jersey City, New Jersey. Follow her on Twitter @annwlace409 or on Instagram @annwallacephd.com.

Thursday, September 02, 2021

MY BODY

by Claire Sapan




In bed each night I am grateful for the body that is mine: 
Skin that protects me, allows me to feel 
Tongue that gives me taste 
Heart that allows me to feel 
But somewhere along the way you decided my body
Was yours
You disassemble me 
Like a Barbie
Bending me in your direction 
At your discretion
Breaking off what you don’t like 
And today you took my choice 
You took autonomy away from me, 
From my body 
So tonight in bed I will mourn 
But tomorrow I will fight 
For at the end of the day, 
This body is mine


Claire Sapan is an avid writer and feminist, hoping and fighting for a better world. 

Monday, October 12, 2020

JUMP

 by T. R. Poulson




   for Eddie Van Halen


When I think of punches
I think of unrealized 
dreams and a concert, way back
in 1984, those numbers in lights against
the dark. We could only record
it in our minds. Eddie riffed like a machine

except no machine
could have held its own, punch
for punch, with him. Those songs from records
made even better with so many fans, really
getting into it, hands in the air, hands against
hands, girlfriends held up on the backs

of shoulders. Mom bought us tickets way back
in the seats, safe from those machine-
like fans on the Minidome turf—against
my will. I thought I’d taken my punches
by then, was ripe for real
lessons in love. For the record,

I was a kid, too young even to record
a first kiss or palm on the small of my back.
“I’ll Wait,” I sang, and willed it to be real,
always impatient with the machine
that was time. I believed love had no punches,
just a “Pretty Woman” winning against

mean girls, but what mean girls? Us against
them? Those riffs, both recorded
and live, erased all life’s punches
rendered us all, one of us. I want to go back,
to find a time machine
that will take me away from the real

of today, to the rose-colored real
of then. I want to fight against
the way we inflict pain like a machine
I want to stop and record
that first palm on my back.
This time, I would throw the right punches.

Roll with the punches, get 
to what’s real. I got my back 
against the record machine.


T. R. Poulson, a University of Nevada Alum and proud Wolf Pack fan, lives in San Mateo, California.  A previous contributor to The New Verse News, her work has also appeared in other journals, including Booth, Rattle, The Meadow, The Raintown Review, J Journal, Verdad, and Trajectory.

Thursday, June 11, 2020

A SONNET FOR GEORGE FLOYD AND MANY MORE

by Scot Slaby




Old white knights sit atop white steeds
believing blindly that their deeds
are God-ordained—a Christian right-
ness coupled with systemic white-
ness—ancient notions from the West.
They claim their weapons are the best.
Their helmets shield us from their faces.
Do they protect and serve all places?
Black knights have seen this all before:
refusing to bow before a Moor,
white knights wage wars to hold their power.
They raze our homes; their flames devour.

We must resist. We know it's right
to kneel. To raise one fist. To fight.


Scot Slaby's chapbooks include The Cards We've Drawn (Bright Hill Press, 2013) and Bugs Us All (Entasis Press, 2016). His poems have appeared in The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics Including Odd and Invented Forms, Arcana: The Tarot Poetry Anthology, Like Light: 25 Years of Poetry & Prose by Bright Hill Poets & Authors, unsplendid, and elsewhere. An international educator, he divides his time between Shanghai, China and Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

FASHION

by Victor D. Infante




                                          For Geraldo Rivera

When I was 17
I bought a leather jacket
at a thrift store, affixed
a pair of handcuffs
to the shoulder,
and adorned the lapel
with pins from punk bands:
The Specials, The Clash,
Stiff Little Fingers.

I bought a tattered black trenchcoat
for $5 on a school trip to New York,
got home and paid a Russian woman
15 bucks to repair the tears. Didn’t mind
when the seams unraveled. Wore jeans
which were more hole than fabric.
Scribbled them with anarchy symbols,
clipped bits with safety pins.

My hair was neglect –
neither short nor long,
sometimes spiked,
briefly blue, except
that its natural darkness
resisted tinting. The dye
faded quickly. My hair
remained midnight.

When I was 17,
I couldn’t surf
but loved the ocean.
My skin was golden brown.

Strangers assumed
I was Mexican. Once
a cop half-jokingly
asked me for an ID
when I sold him Doritos
at the 7-11 where I worked.
I had a driver’s license, although
I didn’t drive. I had a history
of walking because I didn’t
own a car. I had a history
of violence, although I’m sure
the cop couldn’t tell that from
my identification, just shrugged
and returned it, and I never
spoke of it again, until now.

When I was 17, I had a problem
with authority. Had a mouth on me
but I wasn’t stupid.
Didn’t bait cops. In fact,
had sworn off fighting entirely.
Each punch seemed to wear
the seams of whatever it was
that held me together.
I was fraying like worn jeans
and a cheap trenchcoat.
I held myself  together
with pins.

When I bumped the crazy boy
while running to class, I took
his hits and kicks, until a teacher
pulled him off me; She had seen
the attack, and saw I didn’t fight,
so I didn’t get in trouble. The lesson:
Don’t fight. Don’t run.

When a jock took some childhood trauma
out on me by the lockers, I ate each fist until,
bored, he wandered away.
The urge to reply pulsed in my fists.
My legs ached with the urge to run.
I counted the cost
of what I was trying to prove.

I’m a long way from 17, now.
Haven’t faced a fight in years. Don’t
know what I’d do if I did. I’m paunchy,
my skin has paled from indoor living. Still
wear leather and trenchoats, wear
my hair long, but cops don’t look at me
funny anymore. Too old, too white.

I read the news about the boy in Florida
with pockets full of Skittles and iced tea;
who wore a hoodie walking home in the rain;
how the TV bobble-head says the hoodie
is as responsible as the gun,
as if damaged children never jump
those they perceive as weaker.

I wonder what, at 17, I would have done
if I’d faced what that boy did,
what words would have burbled
from that teenage cauldron
of combustion and leather.

I’m afraid I know the answer.
I would not fight. I would not run.

“Go ahead, coward — shoot me.
What the fuck are you afraid of?”


Victor D. Infante is the editor in chief of Radius: Poetry From the Center to the Edge , and the author of City of Insomnia, from Write Bloody Publishing.