by Carol Elizabeth Owens
Halliburton “said it was making the moves [from Texas to Dubai] to position itself better to gain contracts in the oil-rich Middle East.” [CNN.com – Mar. 12, 2007]
a figurehead is lurking as we sleep
but some of us refuse to close our eyes
we contemplate him shadowing the veep
while up for sale our tolls of death arise
with oil incorporated in the east
amidst such profit margins that expand
on winds of war as compromised is peace
& devastation’s raze obtains command
imagine if the white house truly cares
about democracy beyond these shores
or if instead america holds shares
in assets which the target country stores
so let us understand thru common cents
when money moves along lines of defense
Carol Elizabeth Owens is an attorney and counselor-at-law in Western New York (by way of Long Island and New York City). She enjoys technical and creative writing. Her poetry has been published in several print and virtual publications. Ms. Owens loves the ways in which words work when poetry allows them to come out and play.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
IN GUATAMALA CITY TODAY
by Earl J. Wilcox
In the glare of media hype,
Mr. Bush tours a farmers’ market,
touts his program to help aliens
make a life for themselves in America.
In America, at the Piggly Wiggly Supermarket,
the Guatemala produce guy hides
his broken down Honda in the shadows,
where he lives, hardly ready for prime time today.
Earl J. Wilcox founded The Robert Frost Review, which he edited for more than a decade. His poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
In the glare of media hype,
Mr. Bush tours a farmers’ market,
touts his program to help aliens
make a life for themselves in America.
In America, at the Piggly Wiggly Supermarket,
the Guatemala produce guy hides
his broken down Honda in the shadows,
where he lives, hardly ready for prime time today.
Earl J. Wilcox founded The Robert Frost Review, which he edited for more than a decade. His poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
BLACK IS WHITE, DAY IS NIGHT
by Anne G. Davies
White House definitions of winning
Keep apparatchiks madly spinning:
Blair's withdrawing British forces?
Cheney says: "It's the best of courses.
Deriders may think it indicates stress
But Deciders know it means success
Basra's becoming a haven of peace,
Why else would British troops decrease?
Iraqi units have been trained and burnished
The deadliest weapons have been furnished
Now they can handle their own defense."
The President agrees this makes perfect sense:
"Around Baghdad," he admits, "things are iffy,
And our surge won't fix them in a jiffy
But two or three years are all we need
For the Pax Iraqus to succeed.
Gates, my new Rummy, assents absolutely
(I didn't appoint him to dispute me.)
Condi concurs when I say dross is gold
And tells world leaders what she's been told.
With advisors like these, steady and strong
No way my decisions can ever be wrong."
Honesty is the grimmest fatality
Of an Administration mired in unreality.
If we don't defuse this obsessive warrior
We're going to be infinitely sadder and sorrier.
Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published on local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.
White House definitions of winning
Keep apparatchiks madly spinning:
Blair's withdrawing British forces?
Cheney says: "It's the best of courses.
Deriders may think it indicates stress
But Deciders know it means success
Basra's becoming a haven of peace,
Why else would British troops decrease?
Iraqi units have been trained and burnished
The deadliest weapons have been furnished
Now they can handle their own defense."
The President agrees this makes perfect sense:
"Around Baghdad," he admits, "things are iffy,
And our surge won't fix them in a jiffy
But two or three years are all we need
For the Pax Iraqus to succeed.
Gates, my new Rummy, assents absolutely
(I didn't appoint him to dispute me.)
Condi concurs when I say dross is gold
And tells world leaders what she's been told.
With advisors like these, steady and strong
No way my decisions can ever be wrong."
Honesty is the grimmest fatality
Of an Administration mired in unreality.
If we don't defuse this obsessive warrior
We're going to be infinitely sadder and sorrier.
Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published on local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
SOFTBALL IN BAGHDAD
by Paul Brooke
On the grounds of Saddam's
largest and most
impressive palace,
The soldiers divide into teams,
one softball, one bat,
three gloves.
Everyone swings easily, no
homeruns, just liners
or grounders.
Somewhere a roadside bomb
explodes. Beyond,
a sniper waits.
The game drags on, all tied up.
No one wants to win.
Inside the palace,
Marble fades, coated
with plaster dust, desks
overturned, piss in the fountain.
The men rankle when a shot
rings out and when one soldier
bare hands the softball
Near the wall. Still tied.
Night drops in the 12th.
"We'll finish it tomorrow."
Paul Brooke lives in Ames, Iowa, where he counts the days until his two younger brothers return from Iraq. His work has appeared in numerous literary journals including The North America Review, Rocky Mountain Review, and Isotrope.
On the grounds of Saddam's
largest and most
impressive palace,
The soldiers divide into teams,
one softball, one bat,
three gloves.
Everyone swings easily, no
homeruns, just liners
or grounders.
Somewhere a roadside bomb
explodes. Beyond,
a sniper waits.
The game drags on, all tied up.
No one wants to win.
Inside the palace,
Marble fades, coated
with plaster dust, desks
overturned, piss in the fountain.
The men rankle when a shot
rings out and when one soldier
bare hands the softball
Near the wall. Still tied.
Night drops in the 12th.
"We'll finish it tomorrow."
Paul Brooke lives in Ames, Iowa, where he counts the days until his two younger brothers return from Iraq. His work has appeared in numerous literary journals including The North America Review, Rocky Mountain Review, and Isotrope.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
A NEWT IS A SMALL LIZARD-LIKE CREATURE
by SuzAnne C. Cole
[A found poem based on Newt Gingrich’s comments after being asked about having an extramarital affair while leading the charge against President Clinton over Monica Lewinsky, and if that might be considered hypocritical.]
Certainly
at times I’ve fallen short of my own standards.
at times I’ve fallen short of God’s standards,
there were times
when I was praying,
when I was doing wrong things
but
I was still doing them.
I look back on those times as
periods of weakness,
periods I'm not proud of.
I ran the risk of
being deeply embarrassed,
but
the president committed a felony.
I did not render judgment
on another human being;
I drew a line in my mind.
As a leader
of the government
trying to uphold the rule of law
I had no choice
except
to move forward—
you cannot accept perjury
in your highest officials.
“The honest answer is yes.”*
SuzAnne C. Cole writes from a studio in the woods in the Texas Hill Country and finds herself, a bit to her surprise, becoming more and more liberal as she ages. Perhaps it's thinking about the world her three grandsons and forthcoming granddaughter will inherit. A writer for many years, she's published more than 300 poems, essays, short stories, and plays in a variety of publications from commercial to academic. She was a juried poet at the 2003 and 2005 Houston Poetry fests and a featured poet at the 2004 event.
[A found poem based on Newt Gingrich’s comments after being asked about having an extramarital affair while leading the charge against President Clinton over Monica Lewinsky, and if that might be considered hypocritical.]
Certainly
at times I’ve fallen short of my own standards.
at times I’ve fallen short of God’s standards,
there were times
when I was praying,
when I was doing wrong things
but
I was still doing them.
I look back on those times as
periods of weakness,
periods I'm not proud of.
I ran the risk of
being deeply embarrassed,
but
the president committed a felony.
I did not render judgment
on another human being;
I drew a line in my mind.
As a leader
of the government
trying to uphold the rule of law
I had no choice
except
to move forward—
you cannot accept perjury
in your highest officials.
“The honest answer is yes.”*
*Newt Gingrich, 3/9/2007
SuzAnne C. Cole writes from a studio in the woods in the Texas Hill Country and finds herself, a bit to her surprise, becoming more and more liberal as she ages. Perhaps it's thinking about the world her three grandsons and forthcoming granddaughter will inherit. A writer for many years, she's published more than 300 poems, essays, short stories, and plays in a variety of publications from commercial to academic. She was a juried poet at the 2003 and 2005 Houston Poetry fests and a featured poet at the 2004 event.
Friday, March 09, 2007
YES, MY IRAQ
by Robert Anbian
Yes. Hello. How are you? What’s the news?
We don’t have electricity, there are bombings and
shootings, what are you talking about?
Yes. Early this morning. Assassinated. Yes.
These are the fruits of democracy…rubble, tanks,
barbed wire.
No, the bodies are quickly removed.
Take a breath. Slowly. Open your mouth.
People are not going to Friday prayer, afraid of
explosions or arrest.
As for my leg…the doctors cannot do the surgery.
Yes. Helicopters are flying over the city, above the
chaos.
Brother, I recorded everyone in the neighborhood with
chronic disease, everyone too old to walk, the
orphans, the wounded, the maimed, the released
prisoners, the widows.
Excuse me, brother, we recorded them day after
day…they never stopped….
We tried to give everyone something, a bit of food,
medicine, a blanket, or hope, God willing.
Why shouldn’t we help them, even if they are three
hundred or three thousand or three million?
Brother, tell me, do religions preach injustice?
Do they call for killing, raping, and abusing other
people?
I tell you, brother, my leg hurts but my heart hurts
worse.
My leg turns gray but my heart turns black.
My brain is always pounding.
Don’t listen to the news reports, brother.
Don’t listen to the exiles in Amman or New York,
or to the people with too much money.
The inhabitants of Falluja are suffering shortages of
drinking water, food, medicine.
The American Army forbids entry.
Nobody sees, nobody hears.
Falluja, Ramadi, only a short time ago the Americans
never heard of them,
now they must possess them at all costs.
Our doctors were bombed out the first day.
Over 100,000 people fled to Amiriyya.
They brought with them the sick and wounded,
what belongings they could carry.
Tell me, brother, when can I ask George Bush why he
sent soldiers all this way to kill Iraqis and destroy
their homes?
Saddam Hussein killed many Iraqis,
so the Americans say, kill more Iraqis!
The foreign jihadis kill Iraqis,
so the Americans say, kill more Iraqis!
I ask you, brother, where is the justice in a bomb?
Where is democracy in a hail of bullets?
George Bush can say what he likes, but he cannot
control the situation.
He can bring war, but not peace.
He can say ‘freedom’ but no one feels free,
even to venture into the street or onto his roof.
They call the main street here, ‘Vietnam Street,’
and the graffiti says, ‘fake USA.’
Well, they don’t have the spelling down to say ‘fuck
USA,’
so they say, ‘fake USA,’ okay?
I tell you, the word ‘democracy’ will bring a bitter
taste to Iraqi mouths for generations.
Yes? No! Yes! What can we expect?
We are an occupied country with a puppet government.
Open your hands. Close your hands.
We won’t vote for anyone from outside,
no matter how many car dealerships he owned in
California.
Honestly, extremism turns me off. People should be
moderate, live and let live.
Even now, we see ourselves as a civil resistance.
But when they bomb you…moderation is the first thing
to blow up in your face.
Then how can I neglect my brother?
We have the same religion, the same country, we drink
water from the same river.
Even our blood is the same.
How can my brother’s life not be as sacred as my own?
God has entrusted us with this country.
How can we let someone steal it?
Yes, I need to eat, sleep, stay alive.
Take a deep breath, please, yes, thank you.
Open your eyes. Open your mouth. Exhale.
Peace be upon you.
Brother, you ask me if I can go on living in this
country,
and I say, yes I can.
My daughter says, please, there is no country. Our
country is lost.
My wife says, don’t be suicidal!
My Iraq, my Iraq…
God willing;
God willing.
Edgetone Records is releasing the poetry and jazz CD Robert Anbian and the Unidentified Flying Quartet this April. Robert Anbian has published four collections, most recently WE, Parts 1 & 2 (Night Horn Books) and the chapbook Blame the Powerful: Political Poems (War and Peace Press). His work appears in the anthologies Beyond Lament: Poets of the World Confront the Holocaust (Northwestern) and Practicing Angels: A Contemporary Anthology of San Francisco Bay Area Poetry (Seismograph), and in periodicals including City Lights Review, North Coast Literary Review, and the online Rif/t.
Yes. Hello. How are you? What’s the news?
We don’t have electricity, there are bombings and
shootings, what are you talking about?
Yes. Early this morning. Assassinated. Yes.
These are the fruits of democracy…rubble, tanks,
barbed wire.
No, the bodies are quickly removed.
Take a breath. Slowly. Open your mouth.
People are not going to Friday prayer, afraid of
explosions or arrest.
As for my leg…the doctors cannot do the surgery.
Yes. Helicopters are flying over the city, above the
chaos.
Brother, I recorded everyone in the neighborhood with
chronic disease, everyone too old to walk, the
orphans, the wounded, the maimed, the released
prisoners, the widows.
Excuse me, brother, we recorded them day after
day…they never stopped….
We tried to give everyone something, a bit of food,
medicine, a blanket, or hope, God willing.
Why shouldn’t we help them, even if they are three
hundred or three thousand or three million?
Brother, tell me, do religions preach injustice?
Do they call for killing, raping, and abusing other
people?
I tell you, brother, my leg hurts but my heart hurts
worse.
My leg turns gray but my heart turns black.
My brain is always pounding.
Don’t listen to the news reports, brother.
Don’t listen to the exiles in Amman or New York,
or to the people with too much money.
The inhabitants of Falluja are suffering shortages of
drinking water, food, medicine.
The American Army forbids entry.
Nobody sees, nobody hears.
Falluja, Ramadi, only a short time ago the Americans
never heard of them,
now they must possess them at all costs.
Our doctors were bombed out the first day.
Over 100,000 people fled to Amiriyya.
They brought with them the sick and wounded,
what belongings they could carry.
Tell me, brother, when can I ask George Bush why he
sent soldiers all this way to kill Iraqis and destroy
their homes?
Saddam Hussein killed many Iraqis,
so the Americans say, kill more Iraqis!
The foreign jihadis kill Iraqis,
so the Americans say, kill more Iraqis!
I ask you, brother, where is the justice in a bomb?
Where is democracy in a hail of bullets?
George Bush can say what he likes, but he cannot
control the situation.
He can bring war, but not peace.
He can say ‘freedom’ but no one feels free,
even to venture into the street or onto his roof.
They call the main street here, ‘Vietnam Street,’
and the graffiti says, ‘fake USA.’
Well, they don’t have the spelling down to say ‘fuck
USA,’
so they say, ‘fake USA,’ okay?
I tell you, the word ‘democracy’ will bring a bitter
taste to Iraqi mouths for generations.
Yes? No! Yes! What can we expect?
We are an occupied country with a puppet government.
Open your hands. Close your hands.
We won’t vote for anyone from outside,
no matter how many car dealerships he owned in
California.
Honestly, extremism turns me off. People should be
moderate, live and let live.
Even now, we see ourselves as a civil resistance.
But when they bomb you…moderation is the first thing
to blow up in your face.
Then how can I neglect my brother?
We have the same religion, the same country, we drink
water from the same river.
Even our blood is the same.
How can my brother’s life not be as sacred as my own?
God has entrusted us with this country.
How can we let someone steal it?
Yes, I need to eat, sleep, stay alive.
Take a deep breath, please, yes, thank you.
Open your eyes. Open your mouth. Exhale.
Peace be upon you.
Brother, you ask me if I can go on living in this
country,
and I say, yes I can.
My daughter says, please, there is no country. Our
country is lost.
My wife says, don’t be suicidal!
My Iraq, my Iraq…
God willing;
God willing.
Edgetone Records is releasing the poetry and jazz CD Robert Anbian and the Unidentified Flying Quartet this April. Robert Anbian has published four collections, most recently WE, Parts 1 & 2 (Night Horn Books) and the chapbook Blame the Powerful: Political Poems (War and Peace Press). His work appears in the anthologies Beyond Lament: Poets of the World Confront the Holocaust (Northwestern) and Practicing Angels: A Contemporary Anthology of San Francisco Bay Area Poetry (Seismograph), and in periodicals including City Lights Review, North Coast Literary Review, and the online Rif/t.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
ENVIRONMENTAL REPORT
by Michael Shorb
Celebrating synapses of dubious
authenticity the upcoming
vote in the Congress of Clowns
heavily lobbied by well-dressed and
well-endowed slaves of
the meat and sugar industries-
Investment strategies are swept from
coffer tables of the rich and fatuous,
ground into floors of the Age of Reason-
Caught in the maw of global
warming the rabbit-eyed wetlands
shrink to a torrid vanishing point.
That's not fair in the witch's mirror
or the evaporating glacier
or anywhere else by the time
dusty African villagers starve and
the last light bulb for 100
miles flickers out-
But the sermon's been canceled in favor
of 24-hour barbecue and polar
bears smoke cigarettes in the shade
of Alaskan taverns and you,
if you carry a six figure
mortgage, watch yourself-
they're itching for a fight.
Michael Shorb's work has appeared in a wide range of publications, including Nation, Michigan Quarterly Review, California Quarterly, and The Sun. He writes frequently about political, historical and environmental issues, and lives in San Francisco, CA.
Celebrating synapses of dubious
authenticity the upcoming
vote in the Congress of Clowns
heavily lobbied by well-dressed and
well-endowed slaves of
the meat and sugar industries-
Investment strategies are swept from
coffer tables of the rich and fatuous,
ground into floors of the Age of Reason-
Caught in the maw of global
warming the rabbit-eyed wetlands
shrink to a torrid vanishing point.
That's not fair in the witch's mirror
or the evaporating glacier
or anywhere else by the time
dusty African villagers starve and
the last light bulb for 100
miles flickers out-
But the sermon's been canceled in favor
of 24-hour barbecue and polar
bears smoke cigarettes in the shade
of Alaskan taverns and you,
if you carry a six figure
mortgage, watch yourself-
they're itching for a fight.
Michael Shorb's work has appeared in a wide range of publications, including Nation, Michigan Quarterly Review, California Quarterly, and The Sun. He writes frequently about political, historical and environmental issues, and lives in San Francisco, CA.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
MOUNTING MEAT
by Spiel
i just don’t care about the daily hundreds of…
how can i care about another hundred casualties
piles and piles mounting up in pounds of
dead meat on their streets
i don’t care if the meat is theirs or ours
i don’t care if it is men or women
chickens or children or donkeys
same as i don’t care about the heaps of pounds of burgers dispensed
by mcdonald’s in one year or twenty years or fifty
i am certain it must be in the billions by now but i will say this
at least that fast-meat giant puts out
for real exchange in return for its primetime
to show off its meat
only it’s we who have to cough out the billions
for the tens upon tens of thousands of pounds of bloody
somewhat skinned and oft-times conveniently partially boned
and much too often so blown-to-bits-it-can’t-be-shown
raw man-meat voraciously consumed by our t.v.s
to teach us not to care
where our consumption dare not matter anymore
and it does seem that it is working
because i do not care
but i do wonder
might the fluid nature of blood plasma become more frightening
in the last days when we all cave to wal-mart
each of us squeezed into its aisles there and hacking
out bucks for a high-wired much wider so much flatter new plasma t.v.
or might that fluidity become even more delicious more and more
thus suspending the red of its reds
even more extravagantly than ever before
like gloss lipstick on the whore we have not yet dreamed
because she can only be seen IF one is wide-awake
as she torpedoes thru our own front door
the poet Spiel is a tight-wired author painting naked portraits of humankind, thin-layering its hirsute beastiness and, on rare occasion, revealing its humanity. his spoken word c.d. "breathing back words," a collaboration with music/soundman Jack Moss, will be realeased in late 2007. his most recent chap, "come here cowboy: poems of war," is available from www.puddinghouse.com.
i just don’t care about the daily hundreds of…
how can i care about another hundred casualties
piles and piles mounting up in pounds of
dead meat on their streets
i don’t care if the meat is theirs or ours
i don’t care if it is men or women
chickens or children or donkeys
same as i don’t care about the heaps of pounds of burgers dispensed
by mcdonald’s in one year or twenty years or fifty
i am certain it must be in the billions by now but i will say this
at least that fast-meat giant puts out
for real exchange in return for its primetime
to show off its meat
only it’s we who have to cough out the billions
for the tens upon tens of thousands of pounds of bloody
somewhat skinned and oft-times conveniently partially boned
and much too often so blown-to-bits-it-can’t-be-shown
raw man-meat voraciously consumed by our t.v.s
to teach us not to care
where our consumption dare not matter anymore
and it does seem that it is working
because i do not care
but i do wonder
might the fluid nature of blood plasma become more frightening
in the last days when we all cave to wal-mart
each of us squeezed into its aisles there and hacking
out bucks for a high-wired much wider so much flatter new plasma t.v.
or might that fluidity become even more delicious more and more
thus suspending the red of its reds
even more extravagantly than ever before
like gloss lipstick on the whore we have not yet dreamed
because she can only be seen IF one is wide-awake
as she torpedoes thru our own front door
the poet Spiel is a tight-wired author painting naked portraits of humankind, thin-layering its hirsute beastiness and, on rare occasion, revealing its humanity. his spoken word c.d. "breathing back words," a collaboration with music/soundman Jack Moss, will be realeased in late 2007. his most recent chap, "come here cowboy: poems of war," is available from www.puddinghouse.com.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
IN CASE OF EMERGENCY
by Rochelle Ratner
1.
Use duct tape. Secure the wrists and ankles, wrapping tape around several times. Make sure the astronaut's hands are tied behind his back. Duct tape, once started, rips easily. Talk softly but firmly while restraining him. Or her. Say you are doing this to insure his safety.
2.
Was it The Bell Jar? David and Lisa? I Never Promised You a Rose Garden? She's fairly certain it was The Bell Jar. There was a scene near the start of a woman packed in ice to calm her down. Better than shock treatment, she supposes. Her aunt got shock treatments for years before she killed herself.
3.
Once the person stops screaming or crying or flailing about, offer a Haldol pill. This should dispel whatever monsters are in his arms and legs. If he or she refuses, feel free to crush the pill and inject it. Remember that anti-depressants take weeks to become effective, and therefore won't be of use here.
4.
Haldol. Mellaril. Tuinal. She's been on all the antipsychotics around in the early Sixties. The doctor told her they were sleeping pills and, like the child she was at the time, she believed him. She gulped Mellaril that time she tried to kill herself. She should have realized then there was something wrong.
5.
In the Fifties, when she was growing up, wives and mothers kept their psychiatrists hidden in their closets. Divorce was all but unheard-of, and one couple who separated then tried to reconcile was killed when their house caught fire. In the Fifties, when NASA compiled this 1000 page manual, astronauts were heroes. John Glenn was elected to congress and was close friends with the Kennedys.
6.
Everything in that manual was based on the Army's guidelines, then never updated. She read an article in yesterday's paper about how soldiers in Iraq with severe but not life-threatening head wounds were being observed for a day then rushed right back into battle. Surprise, surprise. All in the mind. Shock.
7.
Love him. Feed him. When you aim that high, carry food that makes you smile. Curry dishes brought by the son of an Indian. The imitation sushi with pre-packaged salmon and wasibi sauce brought by the Russian. Wasabi squirting everywhere. The smell uncontained. Better to have taken along dried wasibi peas. That would be her comfort food. The spice heading her headache off somewhere between the nose and eyes. She used to think it was sinus, but knows better now. And she used to dream of a space helmet contraption, air conditioned, keeping her cool in summer. Everything would have been fine were there not this heat, these hot flashes.
8.
She travels too, you know. Her plane delayed nearly three hours, a later plane getting out on schedule while she nurses a few grapes in the lounge. She understands what the astronauts must feel, waiting for shuttles that don't take off. Just waiting. She understands anger, she understands disgust. Then to find a woman already in her seat, a computer case there's no room for, all because she waited until her row was called: she understands Haldol. But at least they get to fly off into a sunset, weak though it is.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.
1.
Use duct tape. Secure the wrists and ankles, wrapping tape around several times. Make sure the astronaut's hands are tied behind his back. Duct tape, once started, rips easily. Talk softly but firmly while restraining him. Or her. Say you are doing this to insure his safety.
2.
Was it The Bell Jar? David and Lisa? I Never Promised You a Rose Garden? She's fairly certain it was The Bell Jar. There was a scene near the start of a woman packed in ice to calm her down. Better than shock treatment, she supposes. Her aunt got shock treatments for years before she killed herself.
3.
Once the person stops screaming or crying or flailing about, offer a Haldol pill. This should dispel whatever monsters are in his arms and legs. If he or she refuses, feel free to crush the pill and inject it. Remember that anti-depressants take weeks to become effective, and therefore won't be of use here.
4.
Haldol. Mellaril. Tuinal. She's been on all the antipsychotics around in the early Sixties. The doctor told her they were sleeping pills and, like the child she was at the time, she believed him. She gulped Mellaril that time she tried to kill herself. She should have realized then there was something wrong.
5.
In the Fifties, when she was growing up, wives and mothers kept their psychiatrists hidden in their closets. Divorce was all but unheard-of, and one couple who separated then tried to reconcile was killed when their house caught fire. In the Fifties, when NASA compiled this 1000 page manual, astronauts were heroes. John Glenn was elected to congress and was close friends with the Kennedys.
6.
Everything in that manual was based on the Army's guidelines, then never updated. She read an article in yesterday's paper about how soldiers in Iraq with severe but not life-threatening head wounds were being observed for a day then rushed right back into battle. Surprise, surprise. All in the mind. Shock.
7.
Love him. Feed him. When you aim that high, carry food that makes you smile. Curry dishes brought by the son of an Indian. The imitation sushi with pre-packaged salmon and wasibi sauce brought by the Russian. Wasabi squirting everywhere. The smell uncontained. Better to have taken along dried wasibi peas. That would be her comfort food. The spice heading her headache off somewhere between the nose and eyes. She used to think it was sinus, but knows better now. And she used to dream of a space helmet contraption, air conditioned, keeping her cool in summer. Everything would have been fine were there not this heat, these hot flashes.
8.
She travels too, you know. Her plane delayed nearly three hours, a later plane getting out on schedule while she nurses a few grapes in the lounge. She understands what the astronauts must feel, waiting for shuttles that don't take off. Just waiting. She understands anger, she understands disgust. Then to find a woman already in her seat, a computer case there's no room for, all because she waited until her row was called: she understands Haldol. But at least they get to fly off into a sunset, weak though it is.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.
Monday, March 05, 2007
MY SPIRITUAL MAKEOVER
by Debora Lidov
I empowered myself today
by turning Oprah off
after the first five minutes.
I watched the fifty thousand dollar
Amazon.com Use Your Life Award
go to help fifty thousand
dollars worth of women
get cancer treatment this week,
and then I turned it off. I walked away
from the rest of the hour,
from Dr. Phil’s win-win conflict
resolution training. I confronted
my talk-show codependence, the corporate sponsors, and all
the helpyourself helpyourself first philosophy
I’d swallowed to date. Oprah, I said, No more.
I can no longer abide by your contradictions.
It is no longer okay to talk about the history of slavery
and planters that block your parking space
with the exact same urgency anymore.
It isn’t okay to celebrate charity and say nothing
of the Clintons killing welfare. I
refuse to be moved
by the woman selling used bridal gowns
to pay the mortgages of strangers.
She’s an example to us all.
But bridal gowns, Oprah?
You might be much smarter than I am
and have done more with your pain
than I’ll ever do with mine.
But think of it this way:
If I give up the show
I’ll have more time to cook healthy
and to write in my Gratitude Journal,
which I will always be grateful for
and where I am writing this now
with its soft cloth binding and purple leaves.
Just like the Use Your Life Award recipients
and the people they help will always be grateful,
as will all the Penguin Putnam authors you’ve pushed
to date. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful
for the Book Club, Oprah. It’s good
to get America reading, but why tell me
every book is made to make me think
more about me? Maybe it’s just me
but I’ve noticed the more I think of me
the more depressed I get. And that’s why it’s time
to pull the plug, to cut the cord, to take back the hour
between 4:00 and 5:00 p.m.
and to try to inspire others to do the same.
Thank you bringing Tina Turner’s Dream Tour
into every American home
and for reminding us to change our clothes
first thing after work. America needs
transition, you said. So now when I come home
and run my essential salts bath
or slide into my best silk boxers,
I will face and embrace my aloneness alone.
How I will miss your laughter
and seeing what guests you pick
and the audience’s
rainstorm of claps and cheers
their tears of surrender
their tears of surrender
their tears.
Debora Lidov is a hospital social worker, living and practicing in Brooklyn . She has taught poetry and fiction workshops at Hunter College, City University of New York, and her poems and reviews have appeared in Descant, Entertainment Weekly, Threepenny Review, and Sojourner. She holds writing degrees from Hunter College and Sarah Lawrence College , as well an MSW from NYU.
I empowered myself today
by turning Oprah off
after the first five minutes.
I watched the fifty thousand dollar
Amazon.com Use Your Life Award
go to help fifty thousand
dollars worth of women
get cancer treatment this week,
and then I turned it off. I walked away
from the rest of the hour,
from Dr. Phil’s win-win conflict
resolution training. I confronted
my talk-show codependence, the corporate sponsors, and all
the helpyourself helpyourself first philosophy
I’d swallowed to date. Oprah, I said, No more.
I can no longer abide by your contradictions.
It is no longer okay to talk about the history of slavery
and planters that block your parking space
with the exact same urgency anymore.
It isn’t okay to celebrate charity and say nothing
of the Clintons killing welfare. I
refuse to be moved
by the woman selling used bridal gowns
to pay the mortgages of strangers.
She’s an example to us all.
But bridal gowns, Oprah?
You might be much smarter than I am
and have done more with your pain
than I’ll ever do with mine.
But think of it this way:
If I give up the show
I’ll have more time to cook healthy
and to write in my Gratitude Journal,
which I will always be grateful for
and where I am writing this now
with its soft cloth binding and purple leaves.
Just like the Use Your Life Award recipients
and the people they help will always be grateful,
as will all the Penguin Putnam authors you’ve pushed
to date. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful
for the Book Club, Oprah. It’s good
to get America reading, but why tell me
every book is made to make me think
more about me? Maybe it’s just me
but I’ve noticed the more I think of me
the more depressed I get. And that’s why it’s time
to pull the plug, to cut the cord, to take back the hour
between 4:00 and 5:00 p.m.
and to try to inspire others to do the same.
Thank you bringing Tina Turner’s Dream Tour
into every American home
and for reminding us to change our clothes
first thing after work. America needs
transition, you said. So now when I come home
and run my essential salts bath
or slide into my best silk boxers,
I will face and embrace my aloneness alone.
How I will miss your laughter
and seeing what guests you pick
and the audience’s
rainstorm of claps and cheers
their tears of surrender
their tears of surrender
their tears.
Debora Lidov is a hospital social worker, living and practicing in Brooklyn . She has taught poetry and fiction workshops at Hunter College, City University of New York, and her poems and reviews have appeared in Descant, Entertainment Weekly, Threepenny Review, and Sojourner. She holds writing degrees from Hunter College and Sarah Lawrence College , as well an MSW from NYU.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
HOME WITHOUT A HOME
by Timothy M. Connelly
I travel with a heavy backpack
strapped across my shoulders,
and a plastic bag of clothes.
When you are homeless,
these are the things you carry.
And tucked away somewhere
are the memories of a war
that are still fresh.
No yellow ribbons greeted me
when I returned home.
Now I soldier on each day
trying to find some place to call my own,
riding late night buses to shelters
only to be rousted out at dawn.
A private first class,
now a second class war veteran
walking the dark streets.
Home but without a home.
Timothy M. Connelly has been a soldier, a reporter, and without a home. He now has a home and has discovered poetry as a way of expressing his feelings about war, poverty and the human condition.
I travel with a heavy backpack
strapped across my shoulders,
and a plastic bag of clothes.
When you are homeless,
these are the things you carry.
And tucked away somewhere
are the memories of a war
that are still fresh.
No yellow ribbons greeted me
when I returned home.
Now I soldier on each day
trying to find some place to call my own,
riding late night buses to shelters
only to be rousted out at dawn.
A private first class,
now a second class war veteran
walking the dark streets.
Home but without a home.
Timothy M. Connelly has been a soldier, a reporter, and without a home. He now has a home and has discovered poetry as a way of expressing his feelings about war, poverty and the human condition.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
BASEBALL BUS TUMBLES OVER EMBANKMENT
by Gary Lehmann
I was asleep when the bus hit the wall on the overpass and tumbled,
God I have no idea how far down slowly rotating up side down.
I looked out of the window and saw the pavement rushing toward me.
What did it feel like? Well, it felt like I was suddenly trapped
inside a Jackson Pollack dry point etching, c. 1944, with all sorts
of black figures jumbled in a twirl of heads and arms thrown into free fall.
In one terrible moment, I suddenly realized that I was going to die.
Then I had a sense of resolution and peace, even though I was going to die.
Then I felt like I was being compacted into a ball of bones and blood.
What? No I haven’t been seen by my trauma counselor yet.
Do you think I’m all right? Yes, I do feel different. I suddenly have
a need to articulate the darker side of post-war abstract expressionism.
I hope Coach doesn’t find out.
Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Gary Lehmann’s poetry and prose is published in literary and popular journals all over the world, over 100 publications per year. His most recent book is Public Lives and Private Secrets [Foothills Publishing, 2005]. Look for his forthcoming book entitled American Sponsored Torture [FootHills Publishing] in May 2007. Visit his website at www.garylehmann.blogspot.com.
I was asleep when the bus hit the wall on the overpass and tumbled,
God I have no idea how far down slowly rotating up side down.
I looked out of the window and saw the pavement rushing toward me.
What did it feel like? Well, it felt like I was suddenly trapped
inside a Jackson Pollack dry point etching, c. 1944, with all sorts
of black figures jumbled in a twirl of heads and arms thrown into free fall.
In one terrible moment, I suddenly realized that I was going to die.
Then I had a sense of resolution and peace, even though I was going to die.
Then I felt like I was being compacted into a ball of bones and blood.
What? No I haven’t been seen by my trauma counselor yet.
Do you think I’m all right? Yes, I do feel different. I suddenly have
a need to articulate the darker side of post-war abstract expressionism.
I hope Coach doesn’t find out.
Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Gary Lehmann’s poetry and prose is published in literary and popular journals all over the world, over 100 publications per year. His most recent book is Public Lives and Private Secrets [Foothills Publishing, 2005]. Look for his forthcoming book entitled American Sponsored Torture [FootHills Publishing] in May 2007. Visit his website at www.garylehmann.blogspot.com.
Friday, March 02, 2007
TAKING CARE OF WOUNDED SOLDIERS
by Diane Elayne Dees
A few miles from the White House, in Building 18,
a soldier sits in his wheelchair, drooling, but is alert
enough to hear he has been ordered to report
to a base in Germany. No one can find his paperwork;
no one will fix his wheelchair. His platoon seargeant
was just discharged from another wing of Walter Reed.
His eyes are blank, his speech slurred, his concentration
tenuous. The mice are in better health, and show up
more often than the doctors. The roaches, on the other
hand, lie belly up on rotting boards, waiting for someone
to finish their paperwork so they can have proper
autopsies and free up space for the next occupants.
Diane Elayne Dees recently received two Pushcart Prize nominations for poetry. She publishes a blog, The Dees Diversion, and is also a regular contributor to Mother Jones' MoJo Blog.
A few miles from the White House, in Building 18,
a soldier sits in his wheelchair, drooling, but is alert
enough to hear he has been ordered to report
to a base in Germany. No one can find his paperwork;
no one will fix his wheelchair. His platoon seargeant
was just discharged from another wing of Walter Reed.
His eyes are blank, his speech slurred, his concentration
tenuous. The mice are in better health, and show up
more often than the doctors. The roaches, on the other
hand, lie belly up on rotting boards, waiting for someone
to finish their paperwork so they can have proper
autopsies and free up space for the next occupants.
Diane Elayne Dees recently received two Pushcart Prize nominations for poetry. She publishes a blog, The Dees Diversion, and is also a regular contributor to Mother Jones' MoJo Blog.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
CLARITY
by Margarita Engle
Exhusted by war news
I watch the aquarium
instead of television
only to discover
that the lunar eyes
of captive fish
make me think
of children
caught between armies
this life of glass
imagined, a fragile
view of wishful peace.
Margarita Engle is a botanist and the Cuban-American author of three books about the island, most recently The Poet Slave of Cuba, a Biography of Juan Francisco Manzano (Henry Holt & Co., 2006). This historical novel-in-verse has received various honors, including awards from the International Reading Association, and the American Library Association. Short works appear in journals such as Atlanta Review, Caribbean Writer, and Hawai'i Pacific Review, as well as Poets Against the War, and other online journals. Recent literary journal honors include a Pushcart Prize nomination, and semi-finalist selection for the Nimrod/Hardman Pablo Neruda Poetry Prize. Margarita lives in central California, where she enjoys hiking and helping her husband with his volunteer work for wilderness search-and-rescue dog training programs.
Exhusted by war news
I watch the aquarium
instead of television
only to discover
that the lunar eyes
of captive fish
make me think
of children
caught between armies
this life of glass
imagined, a fragile
view of wishful peace.
Margarita Engle is a botanist and the Cuban-American author of three books about the island, most recently The Poet Slave of Cuba, a Biography of Juan Francisco Manzano (Henry Holt & Co., 2006). This historical novel-in-verse has received various honors, including awards from the International Reading Association, and the American Library Association. Short works appear in journals such as Atlanta Review, Caribbean Writer, and Hawai'i Pacific Review, as well as Poets Against the War, and other online journals. Recent literary journal honors include a Pushcart Prize nomination, and semi-finalist selection for the Nimrod/Hardman Pablo Neruda Poetry Prize. Margarita lives in central California, where she enjoys hiking and helping her husband with his volunteer work for wilderness search-and-rescue dog training programs.
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