by J. T. Brown
Sleep Elvis
Dream of summer days gone by
In the heated beat of promise
The anticipation of something new
Dancing on endless highways through the dashboard radio
Dream Elvis
In the Land of Summer now
On the road of Gilgamesh and Enkidu
In the heat of hair dryer winds
Kicking blind in a simoon, the sheath of a grim giant
Shake it over the Tigris
Rock in the Abu Ghraib
Wattle and wail to tears and mourning
In a pink Cadillac jihad
Blast 'em inta tha space age, baby oily pelvis
Rock and roll forever
In shifting desert sands
Awash with the blood of ancients
From your guitar hands
You are dancing in a dark dream
Where is the idol we once knew
Where has the song gone to
Take the road home to the land of promise
Give us back our dreams
We'll be waiting for you
Tom Brown is a writer living in Richmond, Virginia. His works include Journey to Cherchen and Other Tales and an audio collection entitled Dreams of Dreams.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Saturday, October 15, 2005
COUPS IN THE NEWS
by Paul Hostovsky
Don't you love a good coup?
I don't mean the fascists
and generals with mustaches
who overthrow them on the
front page. I mean
David. Right here
in the Metro section
of today's Herald:
"Deaf-mute motorist
proves in traffic court
that the hand signals of the cop
at Commonwealth and Main
where the accident occurred
were ambiguous
from a linguistic point of view."
Deaf David. I love it.
Says here he had a
PhD from BU
in applied linguistics.
The undefeated held scoreless
by who-would-have-guessed-it,
underscoring once again
life's fundamental who-the-hell-knew.
Paul Hostovsky has recent work in Spoon River Poetry Review, Poet Lore, ByLine, Switched-on Gutenburg, New Delta Review, Alimentum, White Pelican Review, FRiGG among others. He works in Boston as an interpreter for the deaf.
Don't you love a good coup?
I don't mean the fascists
and generals with mustaches
who overthrow them on the
front page. I mean
David. Right here
in the Metro section
of today's Herald:
"Deaf-mute motorist
proves in traffic court
that the hand signals of the cop
at Commonwealth and Main
where the accident occurred
were ambiguous
from a linguistic point of view."
Deaf David. I love it.
Says here he had a
PhD from BU
in applied linguistics.
The undefeated held scoreless
by who-would-have-guessed-it,
underscoring once again
life's fundamental who-the-hell-knew.
Paul Hostovsky has recent work in Spoon River Poetry Review, Poet Lore, ByLine, Switched-on Gutenburg, New Delta Review, Alimentum, White Pelican Review, FRiGG among others. He works in Boston as an interpreter for the deaf.
Friday, October 14, 2005
VACATION
by Renée Guillory
If you want to find Tony Blair
look nowhere, man - then look at the
Sardinian Cliffs, which draw beleaguered
ministers like a magnet.
If you want to find George Bush, check
under Lance Armstrong's saddle, and then
in the ditch where the soldier's mother
decided she's had enough and
took out a handful of shiny nails, and -- when
the secret services were getting their autographs --
laid them across the road.
She's not malicious or violent.
She just needs to give good ole boy
George an earful.
And she likes her world leaders
with a bit of slapstick.
"Brush off the dust, Mr President,"
she might have said. "And while my
mother lies quietly in the hospital
and my son screams from his grave,
talk to me about how much you
need this war."
The force of her challenge knocks him
over and the president implodes in just
3 ... 2 ... 1
A puff of smoke and an unsettling dream
are all he leaves behind.
But the beat goes on all over the world.
"The U.S.," our Voice of America announcer
keeps insisting, "is YOUR DESIGN SOURCE for
DEMOCRACY".
And where still is Tony Blair?
Has he gone? Or gone mad? Has his sycophancy
finally been punished by angry Londoners,
who recently woke again to their long-sleeping nightmare
of terror and falling rubble. A nightmare of dark skies
and hunger
that had been forced back by the
psychedelic lights and glowing Apples of
It-dom in the 60s.
Has the prime minister been kidnapped by Karl Rove?
Is he Bible-tied, pistol-whipped?
Isolated in a hell of his own making by
kowtowing in the first place?
Has he passed the loyal opposition's torch,
or doused it?
Where is the dream for our Reconciliation Park? Has it
reached the all-important model-building stage?
Is it a dusty diorama, a Sabbath fancy--
this comical idea of peace in our bloody time?
Is it a punch line?
Is it still a living hope?
Is it a paint-splattered scar on the walls of the hanging
garden?
Or is it some other wall we need to build,
or tear down?
Renée Guillory is an author, musician and grassroots organizer. Her latest book is Best Hikes with Dogs - Arizona.
If you want to find Tony Blair
look nowhere, man - then look at the
Sardinian Cliffs, which draw beleaguered
ministers like a magnet.
If you want to find George Bush, check
under Lance Armstrong's saddle, and then
in the ditch where the soldier's mother
decided she's had enough and
took out a handful of shiny nails, and -- when
the secret services were getting their autographs --
laid them across the road.
She's not malicious or violent.
She just needs to give good ole boy
George an earful.
And she likes her world leaders
with a bit of slapstick.
"Brush off the dust, Mr President,"
she might have said. "And while my
mother lies quietly in the hospital
and my son screams from his grave,
talk to me about how much you
need this war."
The force of her challenge knocks him
over and the president implodes in just
3 ... 2 ... 1
A puff of smoke and an unsettling dream
are all he leaves behind.
But the beat goes on all over the world.
"The U.S.," our Voice of America announcer
keeps insisting, "is YOUR DESIGN SOURCE for
DEMOCRACY".
And where still is Tony Blair?
Has he gone? Or gone mad? Has his sycophancy
finally been punished by angry Londoners,
who recently woke again to their long-sleeping nightmare
of terror and falling rubble. A nightmare of dark skies
and hunger
that had been forced back by the
psychedelic lights and glowing Apples of
It-dom in the 60s.
Has the prime minister been kidnapped by Karl Rove?
Is he Bible-tied, pistol-whipped?
Isolated in a hell of his own making by
kowtowing in the first place?
Has he passed the loyal opposition's torch,
or doused it?
Where is the dream for our Reconciliation Park? Has it
reached the all-important model-building stage?
Is it a dusty diorama, a Sabbath fancy--
this comical idea of peace in our bloody time?
Is it a punch line?
Is it still a living hope?
Is it a paint-splattered scar on the walls of the hanging
garden?
Or is it some other wall we need to build,
or tear down?
Renée Guillory is an author, musician and grassroots organizer. Her latest book is Best Hikes with Dogs - Arizona.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
CONFIDENCE
by Maureen Tolman Flannery
The insular life finds it surprisingly easy
to sleep through
remote imploding of bedroom walls,
throbbing in some phantom limb
missing from another man’s body,
blood it cannot see
turning the dust vermillion
on a distant road
it feels certain it will never
have to travel down.
Maureen Tolman Flannery’s Ancestors in the Landscape: Poems of a Rancher’s DaughterA Fine Line was also published this year and produced as musical theatre. Her other books are Secret of the Rising Up: Poems of Mexico; Remembered Into Life; and the anthology Knowing Stones: Poems of Exotic Places. Her work has appeared in forty anthologies and over a hundred literary reviews, recently including Midwest Quarterly Review, Amherst Review, Calyx, Atlanta Review, and North American Review. was nominated for the 2005 Pulitzer Prize. Although she grew up in a Wyoming sheep ranch family, Maureen and her actor husband Dan have raised their four children in Chicago.
The insular life finds it surprisingly easy
to sleep through
remote imploding of bedroom walls,
throbbing in some phantom limb
missing from another man’s body,
blood it cannot see
turning the dust vermillion
on a distant road
it feels certain it will never
have to travel down.
Maureen Tolman Flannery’s Ancestors in the Landscape: Poems of a Rancher’s DaughterA Fine Line was also published this year and produced as musical theatre. Her other books are Secret of the Rising Up: Poems of Mexico; Remembered Into Life; and the anthology Knowing Stones: Poems of Exotic Places. Her work has appeared in forty anthologies and over a hundred literary reviews, recently including Midwest Quarterly Review, Amherst Review, Calyx, Atlanta Review, and North American Review. was nominated for the 2005 Pulitzer Prize. Although she grew up in a Wyoming sheep ranch family, Maureen and her actor husband Dan have raised their four children in Chicago.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
IOWA MAN WALKS OFF WITHOUT PAYING FOR LEG
by Rochelle Ratner
Because he wants to. Actually, he'd briefly considered
hopping out. He'd considered becoming a stunt man,
maybe someone shot out of a cannon like the Quaker Oats
soldiers. Except the metal plate in his head intolerably
echoes even the sound of breathing. No one seems to care
about the circus these days, just as no one cares what
happens in Iraq. Or rather, what happens to people in Iraq.
Little American boys in G. I. Joe outfits carrying toy rifles.
The recruiter never told him this would happen. His
mother tugged at his jacket, trying to keep her with him,
promising to get a second, even a third job. Not wanting
her to see this proof that he should have listened, he
crouched for three days in a cornfield near the house.
When you come right down to it, he's owed this leg. It's
been fitted and refitted, so it's almost comfortable for a few
hours at a time. There was no other way, short of crawling.
Or maybe getting a crutch and dirty coffee cup and leaning
against a building two or three towns away where no one
knows his family. But yes, he just walked off. And he didn't
walk, he ran.
Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage: www.rochelleratner.com
Because he wants to. Actually, he'd briefly considered
hopping out. He'd considered becoming a stunt man,
maybe someone shot out of a cannon like the Quaker Oats
soldiers. Except the metal plate in his head intolerably
echoes even the sound of breathing. No one seems to care
about the circus these days, just as no one cares what
happens in Iraq. Or rather, what happens to people in Iraq.
Little American boys in G. I. Joe outfits carrying toy rifles.
The recruiter never told him this would happen. His
mother tugged at his jacket, trying to keep her with him,
promising to get a second, even a third job. Not wanting
her to see this proof that he should have listened, he
crouched for three days in a cornfield near the house.
When you come right down to it, he's owed this leg. It's
been fitted and refitted, so it's almost comfortable for a few
hours at a time. There was no other way, short of crawling.
Or maybe getting a crutch and dirty coffee cup and leaning
against a building two or three towns away where no one
knows his family. But yes, he just walked off. And he didn't
walk, he ran.
Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage: www.rochelleratner.com
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
JOHN BROWN CABIN ATTACKED
by Thomas D. Reynolds
For all terrorists who justify their cause,
this monument is dedicated.
This cabin owned by a distant relative
and visited occasionally by Brown
when he traveled through the area
in his efforts to free the slaves.
The "Battle of Osawatomie" was fought near here,
though no one was actually killed.
I say the burning was a proper re-dedication.
The arsonist who stole two Civil War rifles
and then torched the cabin to cover his tracks
provided what no mayor's speech ever could:
the presence of Brown's anarchic spirit,
his passion, the scarred leathery skin.
The rather mundane assortment of artifacts
and printed cards didn't belong in a shrine
Even the grim portrait over the hearth
with beady eyes and gaunt face
couldn't have enticed Brown's ghost to visit
so far away from Harper's Ferry.
A thousand John Brown Jamboree Parades
couldn't accomplish as much as a cheap lighter
and a gallon of unleaded gasoline.
What would Brown think of the arsonist?
He would have admired his methods,
but would have thought he got little return.
Several guns over a century old
and a reputation among local law enforcement.
An inauspicious start for a cause of freedom.
Next time, scout the arsenal more accurately,
chose your strike for maximum impact,
and kill an innocent, say the caretaker,
to punctuate your will and intent.
Not bad for your reputation either.
Maybe Brown was even in the passenger seat
holding an old rusty musket with bayonette
watching the fire in the rear view mirror
as they headed for the Missouri border.
Thomas D. Reynolds received an MFA in creative writing from Wichita State University, currently teaches at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas, and has published poems in various print and online journals, including New Delta Review, Alabama Literary Review, Aethlon-The Journal of Sport Literature, Flint Hills Review, The MacGuffin, The Cape Rock, The Pedestal Magazine, Eclectica, Strange Horizons, Combat, 3rd Muse Poetry Journal, and Ash Canyon Review.
For all terrorists who justify their cause,
this monument is dedicated.
This cabin owned by a distant relative
and visited occasionally by Brown
when he traveled through the area
in his efforts to free the slaves.
The "Battle of Osawatomie" was fought near here,
though no one was actually killed.
I say the burning was a proper re-dedication.
The arsonist who stole two Civil War rifles
and then torched the cabin to cover his tracks
provided what no mayor's speech ever could:
the presence of Brown's anarchic spirit,
his passion, the scarred leathery skin.
The rather mundane assortment of artifacts
and printed cards didn't belong in a shrine
Even the grim portrait over the hearth
with beady eyes and gaunt face
couldn't have enticed Brown's ghost to visit
so far away from Harper's Ferry.
A thousand John Brown Jamboree Parades
couldn't accomplish as much as a cheap lighter
and a gallon of unleaded gasoline.
What would Brown think of the arsonist?
He would have admired his methods,
but would have thought he got little return.
Several guns over a century old
and a reputation among local law enforcement.
An inauspicious start for a cause of freedom.
Next time, scout the arsenal more accurately,
chose your strike for maximum impact,
and kill an innocent, say the caretaker,
to punctuate your will and intent.
Not bad for your reputation either.
Maybe Brown was even in the passenger seat
holding an old rusty musket with bayonette
watching the fire in the rear view mirror
as they headed for the Missouri border.
Thomas D. Reynolds received an MFA in creative writing from Wichita State University, currently teaches at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas, and has published poems in various print and online journals, including New Delta Review, Alabama Literary Review, Aethlon-The Journal of Sport Literature, Flint Hills Review, The MacGuffin, The Cape Rock, The Pedestal Magazine, Eclectica, Strange Horizons, Combat, 3rd Muse Poetry Journal, and Ash Canyon Review.
Monday, October 10, 2005
EVENTS LEADING UP TO AN AFTERLIFE MEETING BETWEEN TERRI SCHIAVO AND MANADAL AL-JAMADI
by Ann Tweedy
the woman who committed a kind of extended suicide
clings to life in a hospice, her feeding tube removed,
after state courts and federal courts
refused to intervene. fifteen years earlier, while the eating disorder
ravaged her, before it stopped her heart
and killed her brain, she might have been savable.
the president who flew home early from his texas ranch
to sign the legislation that gave the federal courts jurisdiction
to review the state court’s life support decision
is the same man whose navy seals and CIA officers beat
an iraqi war prisoner near death with fists and gun muzzles,
then shackled him to the wall,
palestinian style, to die of complications.
Manadal al-Jamadi went from “ghost prisoner”
to ghost in less than an hour, a flexibility
that demonstrates the advantages
of “ghost prisoner” status.
and so a white woman in a self-induced
vegetative state, who didn’t want to be on life support
but whom our government nonetheless
sought to forcibly keep alive, and an arab man,
taken prisoner by our country and immediately
murdered by our soldiers, both take off,
maybe to the same place, to face whatever’s next,
leaving us with our silence.
Ann Tweedy grew up in a small town in Massachusetts. She has been writing poetry ever since she moved to the West Coast in 1996. Over fifty of her poems have been published or are forthcoming in publications such as Clackamas Literary Review, Rattle, Avocet, Harrington Lesbian Fiction Quarterly, Berkeley Poetry Review, and The Awakenings Review. For her day job, she works as a public interest lawyer in rural Washington State.
the woman who committed a kind of extended suicide
clings to life in a hospice, her feeding tube removed,
after state courts and federal courts
refused to intervene. fifteen years earlier, while the eating disorder
ravaged her, before it stopped her heart
and killed her brain, she might have been savable.
the president who flew home early from his texas ranch
to sign the legislation that gave the federal courts jurisdiction
to review the state court’s life support decision
is the same man whose navy seals and CIA officers beat
an iraqi war prisoner near death with fists and gun muzzles,
then shackled him to the wall,
palestinian style, to die of complications.
Manadal al-Jamadi went from “ghost prisoner”
to ghost in less than an hour, a flexibility
that demonstrates the advantages
of “ghost prisoner” status.
and so a white woman in a self-induced
vegetative state, who didn’t want to be on life support
but whom our government nonetheless
sought to forcibly keep alive, and an arab man,
taken prisoner by our country and immediately
murdered by our soldiers, both take off,
maybe to the same place, to face whatever’s next,
leaving us with our silence.
Ann Tweedy grew up in a small town in Massachusetts. She has been writing poetry ever since she moved to the West Coast in 1996. Over fifty of her poems have been published or are forthcoming in publications such as Clackamas Literary Review, Rattle, Avocet, Harrington Lesbian Fiction Quarterly, Berkeley Poetry Review, and The Awakenings Review. For her day job, she works as a public interest lawyer in rural Washington State.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
THE NEW BARBARIANS
by Marguerite Bouvard
Envoys didn’t crowd the horizon with their ships
or trample the plains on horse back.
There was no jingling of spurs,
no wind gusting against our doors.
When they arrived, mothers
were driving their children to school
and the man across the street
was loading his golf clubs
into his car, the grocer was stocking
his shelves with cereal boxes
and the dress shop manager
was changing the display in her window.
When they arrived our ears were tuned
to our own footsteps, our thoughts
bounded by our ordinary days. Men
in well-pressed suits and carrying briefcases
slipped from their high-rise offices
and entered the wide open gates
of our city. This was no Troy
no Jericho. They spoke to us
about new dangers. They told us all
would be well now and we believed them.
They spoke a language
we thought we understood, assuring us
we would be safe now
from the barbarians far across the world.
Marguerite Bouvard is the author of five books and three chapbooks of poetry and several books on human rights and one on grieving. She is a resident Scholar at Brandeis Univeristy's Women's Studies' Research Center.
Envoys didn’t crowd the horizon with their ships
or trample the plains on horse back.
There was no jingling of spurs,
no wind gusting against our doors.
When they arrived, mothers
were driving their children to school
and the man across the street
was loading his golf clubs
into his car, the grocer was stocking
his shelves with cereal boxes
and the dress shop manager
was changing the display in her window.
When they arrived our ears were tuned
to our own footsteps, our thoughts
bounded by our ordinary days. Men
in well-pressed suits and carrying briefcases
slipped from their high-rise offices
and entered the wide open gates
of our city. This was no Troy
no Jericho. They spoke to us
about new dangers. They told us all
would be well now and we believed them.
They spoke a language
we thought we understood, assuring us
we would be safe now
from the barbarians far across the world.
Marguerite Bouvard is the author of five books and three chapbooks of poetry and several books on human rights and one on grieving. She is a resident Scholar at Brandeis Univeristy's Women's Studies' Research Center.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
WATCHING THE NEWS AFTER KATRINA
By Barbara Schweitzer
In the world I don’t know,
frightful images rule,
desires confuse the senses
so that hunger can become
a new iPod or sneakers
with red lights that dance
on four year old’s feet, cardboard
can be disguised as food,
bread is money, money is
paper thin and easily
becomes mere blow in the wind.
I don’t know this world,
I don’t know. I’ve glimpsed
it iconically, only
felt it in mornings after
too much cheer or in frittery
sleeplessness or in gizzardy
stirrings of knowledge that
I am the Other of it.
I know how the body craves
balance even if it is
akilter and dangerous.
It will fight change to death
even the good and healthful
change, like a child who wants
a nickel ‘cuz it’s bigger
than the dime. Life, life
is lusty, so gregarious, so
full of itself and blustery,
so magnetically driven,
it can throw itself away
without so much as a
fare-the-well, leaving behind
the rest of us tut-tutting
studying, reveling,
so often waxing poetic,
lapping luxuries we
take credit for.
Barbara Schweitzer is a poet and playwright living in northern RI. Her work has won numerous prizes including a merit fellowship from RI's NEA allotment. Her first volume of poetry, 33 1/3 (Little Pear Press) will be released in spring 2006.
In the world I don’t know,
frightful images rule,
desires confuse the senses
so that hunger can become
a new iPod or sneakers
with red lights that dance
on four year old’s feet, cardboard
can be disguised as food,
bread is money, money is
paper thin and easily
becomes mere blow in the wind.
I don’t know this world,
I don’t know. I’ve glimpsed
it iconically, only
felt it in mornings after
too much cheer or in frittery
sleeplessness or in gizzardy
stirrings of knowledge that
I am the Other of it.
I know how the body craves
balance even if it is
akilter and dangerous.
It will fight change to death
even the good and healthful
change, like a child who wants
a nickel ‘cuz it’s bigger
than the dime. Life, life
is lusty, so gregarious, so
full of itself and blustery,
so magnetically driven,
it can throw itself away
without so much as a
fare-the-well, leaving behind
the rest of us tut-tutting
studying, reveling,
so often waxing poetic,
lapping luxuries we
take credit for.
Barbara Schweitzer is a poet and playwright living in northern RI. Her work has won numerous prizes including a merit fellowship from RI's NEA allotment. Her first volume of poetry, 33 1/3 (Little Pear Press) will be released in spring 2006.
Friday, October 07, 2005
TRAGEDY BUILDS
by Bill Costley
Our future is quickly getting far
bleaker than we'd ever imagined.
All old assumptions are off &
all new assumptions, barely-on:
What our parents thought is absurd;
what we now think is ridiculous, but
there’s nothing laughable about it.
Irony fails; tragedy builds; an empire
gone nuts can’t stop itself; its
propaganda fails; tragedy builds;
future History will record this
as our 2nd Greatest Delusion,
after A New World Order.
Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union.
Our future is quickly getting far
bleaker than we'd ever imagined.
All old assumptions are off &
all new assumptions, barely-on:
What our parents thought is absurd;
what we now think is ridiculous, but
there’s nothing laughable about it.
Irony fails; tragedy builds; an empire
gone nuts can’t stop itself; its
propaganda fails; tragedy builds;
future History will record this
as our 2nd Greatest Delusion,
after A New World Order.
Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
TUNE OUT
by Doris Henderson
Imagine cotton fields: pure white puffs.
Like those cumulus clouds this morning;
you could reach up and squeeze them.
Connie claims she has no breasts.
She underestimates herself.
Connie, you don't need watermelons.
Compared to you I am a small boy.
But those clouds:
like cotton candy
like whipped cream
piled to infinity
for the gods to feast on.
You must try this restaurant.
Excellent pizza, succulent pasta.
They let you stay and talk all afternoon.
Or you can read your newspaper,
listen to your tiny ipod,
criticize the latest political speech.
This afternoon our President spoke
to an audience of poets. Well, he thought
it was the military he was addressing
but the poets were listening too,
thousands of us, seated before our TV sets,
waiting for the P word (peace, remember?)
But it never came.
We are going to stay right there,
taunt our enemies into attacking us
on foreign ground, where our skyscrapers aren't,
then destroy them, with all their sympathizers.
(This could take another 50 years, at least.)
So just hold fast, don't watch too much TV,
turn up the music on your tiny ipod,
think clouds, breasts, watermelons.....
Doris Henderson’s poems have appeared in numerous journals including Slant, Comstock Review, Connecticut River Review, and in collections such as Red Flower and Heartbeat of New England. Her poem "Distances," published in the anthology Caduceus in 2004, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. A recent winner of the Wallace Winchell Poetry Competition, she facilitates a writing workshop, volunteers for liberal causes, is active with the Unitarian Universalist United Nations Office in New York. "After years of doing social commentary," she says, "I find a little humor sometimes helps!"
Imagine cotton fields: pure white puffs.
Like those cumulus clouds this morning;
you could reach up and squeeze them.
Connie claims she has no breasts.
She underestimates herself.
Connie, you don't need watermelons.
Compared to you I am a small boy.
But those clouds:
like cotton candy
like whipped cream
piled to infinity
for the gods to feast on.
You must try this restaurant.
Excellent pizza, succulent pasta.
They let you stay and talk all afternoon.
Or you can read your newspaper,
listen to your tiny ipod,
criticize the latest political speech.
This afternoon our President spoke
to an audience of poets. Well, he thought
it was the military he was addressing
but the poets were listening too,
thousands of us, seated before our TV sets,
waiting for the P word (peace, remember?)
But it never came.
We are going to stay right there,
taunt our enemies into attacking us
on foreign ground, where our skyscrapers aren't,
then destroy them, with all their sympathizers.
(This could take another 50 years, at least.)
So just hold fast, don't watch too much TV,
turn up the music on your tiny ipod,
think clouds, breasts, watermelons.....
Doris Henderson’s poems have appeared in numerous journals including Slant, Comstock Review, Connecticut River Review, and in collections such as Red Flower and Heartbeat of New England. Her poem "Distances," published in the anthology Caduceus in 2004, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. A recent winner of the Wallace Winchell Poetry Competition, she facilitates a writing workshop, volunteers for liberal causes, is active with the Unitarian Universalist United Nations Office in New York. "After years of doing social commentary," she says, "I find a little humor sometimes helps!"
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
THEME FOR MATHEMATICS B
by Anthony Gayle
“You have 15 minutes to complete the next worksheet."
I don’t think. I just move.
Let the pencil lead.
Speed is the key.
Teacher tells me
that this will help me compete
in the real world.
If I can fill out the worksheet
in time, maybe I can fill out the time sheet to work.
At the very least:
I'll be able to recite my DC number during roll call,
the points scored by the local legend
during his first game of pro-ball,
and the amount of money I have left at the commissary
after the bribe to make sure I get to make my phone call.
Is there room for me in Mathematics B?--
In a room that has more students than it has seats.
She works the double shift
at the factory.
15 years on the job
and the supervisor wouldn't know her name
if it weren't sown into the pocket
of her light blue smock.
Stacking/packing
box after box,
exactly 25 minutes for lunch-
1 minute late means 15 minutes docked.
Time to zone out,
mentally fly away
while her body continues to obey.
She's got mouths to feed,
bills to pay--
just sent one out,
the next one's already on its way.
Who, better than her,
knows the Infinities contained within theday?
Is there room in Mathematics B
for someone like me?
Somewhat like you,
and somewhat less free.
Anthony Gayle is a 27 year old math instructor. He states, “I write to learn (about myself) as I learn to write. It is a positive, empowering cycle.”
“You have 15 minutes to complete the next worksheet."
I don’t think. I just move.
Let the pencil lead.
Speed is the key.
Teacher tells me
that this will help me compete
in the real world.
If I can fill out the worksheet
in time, maybe I can fill out the time sheet to work.
At the very least:
I'll be able to recite my DC number during roll call,
the points scored by the local legend
during his first game of pro-ball,
and the amount of money I have left at the commissary
after the bribe to make sure I get to make my phone call.
Is there room for me in Mathematics B?--
In a room that has more students than it has seats.
She works the double shift
at the factory.
15 years on the job
and the supervisor wouldn't know her name
if it weren't sown into the pocket
of her light blue smock.
Stacking/packing
box after box,
exactly 25 minutes for lunch-
1 minute late means 15 minutes docked.
Time to zone out,
mentally fly away
while her body continues to obey.
She's got mouths to feed,
bills to pay--
just sent one out,
the next one's already on its way.
Who, better than her,
knows the Infinities contained within theday?
Is there room in Mathematics B
for someone like me?
Somewhat like you,
and somewhat less free.
Anthony Gayle is a 27 year old math instructor. He states, “I write to learn (about myself) as I learn to write. It is a positive, empowering cycle.”
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
WOOL AND WAR
by Kathleen Sullivan
The Texas rancher whose cattle roam
where oilrigs bow to the prairie grass
says he’s a “dyed in the wool Republican”
which is not how American boys in Iraq
are dying. They are dying in chichi cotton
camouflage; in flimsy unarmored tanks
and despite the president swearing
he didn’t pull the wool over our eyes.
Outside, the wooly bear crawls on the road:
fat and furry, an omen of an awful winter
to come. Growing up, my mother bought
all the girls “ a good wool coat.” Perhaps
she thought wearing one could protect us from what
she’d seen. Like those wool socks! Mothers
knitting socks, sisters knitting, wives. Socks
sent overseas to Normandy and Flanders. They
died in their socks, in their foxholes, while
we pulled the wool over our eyes, surprised to find
that Bergen–Belsen wasn’t a hot springs spa.
About Iraq, Mr. Bush says he doesn’t need
the facts because he “feels it in his gut.”
He’s wired to the Big Guy in the Sky who’s whispering
in his ear, whispering that he’s Moses, that
he’s chosen to lead those other fundamentalists out
of the hands of heathens, into the Land of Freedom—
no matter how many women and children
he blows up. Soft skeins of llama, alpaca, the yarn
stores are full of worried women buying needles,
knitting, like saying the rosary, praying for
a watchful mother to bring us all a good wool coat.
Kathleen Sullivan lives and works in Maine as a psychotherapist. She is also an MFA student in poetry at Stonecoast, in Maine. She has a poem entitled "Icy Lips" just published in Animus.
The Texas rancher whose cattle roam
where oilrigs bow to the prairie grass
says he’s a “dyed in the wool Republican”
which is not how American boys in Iraq
are dying. They are dying in chichi cotton
camouflage; in flimsy unarmored tanks
and despite the president swearing
he didn’t pull the wool over our eyes.
Outside, the wooly bear crawls on the road:
fat and furry, an omen of an awful winter
to come. Growing up, my mother bought
all the girls “ a good wool coat.” Perhaps
she thought wearing one could protect us from what
she’d seen. Like those wool socks! Mothers
knitting socks, sisters knitting, wives. Socks
sent overseas to Normandy and Flanders. They
died in their socks, in their foxholes, while
we pulled the wool over our eyes, surprised to find
that Bergen–Belsen wasn’t a hot springs spa.
About Iraq, Mr. Bush says he doesn’t need
the facts because he “feels it in his gut.”
He’s wired to the Big Guy in the Sky who’s whispering
in his ear, whispering that he’s Moses, that
he’s chosen to lead those other fundamentalists out
of the hands of heathens, into the Land of Freedom—
no matter how many women and children
he blows up. Soft skeins of llama, alpaca, the yarn
stores are full of worried women buying needles,
knitting, like saying the rosary, praying for
a watchful mother to bring us all a good wool coat.
Kathleen Sullivan lives and works in Maine as a psychotherapist. She is also an MFA student in poetry at Stonecoast, in Maine. She has a poem entitled "Icy Lips" just published in Animus.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
THE NUMBERS
by Paul Hostovsky
A thousand feared drowned.
Two hundred dead.
Nine hundred killed.
The numbers
are so round.
They're like the planets.
Unimaginable.
Uninhabitable.
Out there.
Yet under
foot.
Paul Hostovsky has recent work in Spoon River Poetry Review, Poet Lore, ByLine, Switched-on Gutenburg, New Delta Review, Alimentum, White Pelican Review, FRiGG among others. He works in Boston as an interpreter for the deaf.
Two hundred dead.
Nine hundred killed.
The numbers
are so round.
They're like the planets.
Unimaginable.
Uninhabitable.
Out there.
Yet under
foot.
Paul Hostovsky has recent work in Spoon River Poetry Review, Poet Lore, ByLine, Switched-on Gutenburg, New Delta Review, Alimentum, White Pelican Review, FRiGG among others. He works in Boston as an interpreter for the deaf.
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