JANUARY 20, 2021 / DATE POEM

by Ethan Thayumanavan

Born November 20, 1942.

Inaugurated on January 20, 2021.

 

Born June 14, 1946.

Inaugurated on January 20, 2017.

 

Ruby Bridges: Born September 8, 1954.

First day in a white classroom on November 14, 1960.

 

Angela Davis: Born January 26, 1944.

Became the third Woman on the fbi’s most wanted list on August 18, 1970.

Released on bail after 16 months of incarceration on February 23, 1972.

Acquitted of all charges by an all-white jury on June 4, 1972.

 

Marsha P. Johnson: Born August 24, 1945.

Stonewalled the nypd on June 28, 1969.

The nypd ruled Marsha’s death a suicide on July 6, 1992.

 

Martin Luther King Jr: Born January 15, 1929.

Had a dream on August 28, 1963.

Went to the mountaintop on April 3, 1968.

Assassinated by white supremacists on April 4, 1968.

 

Emmett Till: Born July 25, 1941.

Whistled at a white girl on August 28, 1955.

He was two years older than

 

Tamir Rice: Born June 25, 2002.

Murdered by a white man with a badge on November 22, 2014.

 

jim crow: Born Juneteenth, 1865.

just won’t fucking

die

 

I imagine that mista past president has sat

underneath palms in the Middle East

but has never tasted the warm sweetness

of a date

 

can’t bring himself to put his lips on

Worn Leather and Scar Tissue and Age Lines

and Exhaustion and Folk Music and Survival

 

classrooms shove dates down my throat

put their hands over my mouth

so I have to swallow

don’t even prepare ‘em right

 

leave pits in my stomach

forget the date came from the tree

came from the seed

came from the pit

came from the date

 

which is to say that linearity and

history are both constructed.

what is a date

without person and place?

time does not march forward

unless we do

 

I hold a date in the palm of my hand

sink my teeth into it

bite down into the gooey, sticky sweetness

savor the moment

write my own History

write my own poem

call this a radical act

Ethan Thayumanavan is an aspiring poet of Indian descent, from Amherst, Massachusetts. He is a full-time student at Columbia University. His exploration of poetry began when he joined a collegiate spoken word poetry team, but his love for the written word has influenced his transition from performance to writing.

INAUGURATION DAY HAIKU

by Jimmy Pappas

a red rose 

and a white lily 

Gaga and JLo 

Jimmy Pappas can be found on YouTube interviewed by Tim Green at Rattlecast #34. Jimmy is now writing at least one haiku a day for the rest of the year. Wish him luck with that one.

DEAR FLAVIA

 by Paul Smith

 

Today I saw a guy on TV

about my age

a little older, white-haired

who put his hand on a Bible

and took an oath

to uphold democracy

build national trust & unity

etc., etc.

it was a nice speech

he also said something about us

being able to take whatever fate throws at us

I liked this part

it didn’t sound like

it was written by a speechwriter

and it made me think of what

fate has thrown at us

more at you than me

so, although you are not here today

you might smile a bit

knowing

that people like you

you know

skin the color of a lunch bag

who came from far away

who became citizens of this land

supposedly made for you and me

but also a land visited by a terrible plague

that took you away from me

maybe, after smiling that sly tropical smile

you’ll worry less about us

and enjoy whatever was prepared for you

by the One you’re with

on that other faraway shore

with the One we say

sheds His grace on us

Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has traveled all over the place and met lots of people. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. His poetry and fiction have been published in Convergence, Packingtown Review, Literary Orphans, TheNewVerse.News, and other lit mags.

POEM FOR THE INAUGURATION

by Amy Elizabeth Robinson

So much blood

on his lie-drenched tongue.

Too much

to explore

in a poem. This poem

chooses

to turn in a new direction. 

It hears 

the heavy gates

of justice 

closing 

on his reign of infancy 

and terror.

It applauds 

the sharp-shinned 

hawks 

of empathy

who guard the precarious 

scales. This poem

will not forget, yet

it turns

towards 

the dawn. 

You know this dawn, this

tender filigree of

sun-soaked web. 

The spiders have been spinning

all through the night.

Their webs of diligence,

and promise, and 

shimmer of delight. This poem 

insists on making

a plea deal

with the moment. Guilty

of exhaustion, 

it ends its 

fractured sentences

with care. 

Amy Elizabeth Robinson is a poet, writer, historian, mother, and many other things. She did live in the eastern mountains of Sonoma County, California, but her collectively-owned community recently burned in the Glass Fire. She is a community leader at Flower Mountain Zen, and her work has appeared in Literary Hub, Literary Mama, West Marin Review, West Trestle Review, Vine Leaves, Rattle’s Poets Respond program, and elsewhere. She blogs at www.turningplanet.org.

HERE WE ARE

by Dan Brook 

here we are

we must do

what is difficult

we must do

what is necessary

we must be

we must be

the bay

polluted & pissed in

used, abused

trying to support life

we must sustain

we must be

the rainforest

slashed & burned

choking, smoking

trying to breathe

we must regenerate

we must be

the ocean

jumped in & dumped in

crashing, thrashing

trying to wash

we must cleanse

we must be

the Earth

ridden roughshod

quaking, spinning

trying to survive

we must live

we must be

the worm

stepped over & on

wiggling, wriggling

trying to burrow

we must be humble

we must be

the other

feared & hated

mistaken, misunderstood

trying to communicate

we must be compassionate

we must be

democracy

inefficient & empowering

attacked, defended

trying to survive

we must act

we must be

ourselves

proud & vibrant

scarred, scared

trying to be

we must be better

we must be

who we are

together & alone

all of us, together

trying to thrive

we must be the best us

Dan Brook teaches in the Department of Sociology and Interdisciplinary Social Sciences at San Jose State University and is, most recently, the author of Sweet Nothings (Hekate Publishing).

THE FLAG OUTSIDE A NEIGHBOR'S DOOR

by Jean L. Kreiling

Just down the street, outside a neighbor’s door, 
it reaches up and out, as if for hope 
or heaven, in an effort to restore 
its honor and resist the downward slope 
traversed by those who lied, who followed liars, 
who beat a man with those same stripes and stars, 
who lit and fanned and spread murderous fires 
that left some dead, the rest of us with scars. 
I see Old Glory fluttering in the breeze— 
but elsewhere, desecrated by a gang 
of thugs, it symbolized not liberties 
and laws, but rage, and justice by flash-bang. 
I miss the days when I was confident 
about what flags by neighbors’ front doors meant. 
 

Jean L. Kreiling is the author of two collections of poetry: Arts & Letters & Love (2018) and The Truth in Dissonance (2014).  Her work has been honored with the Able Muse Write Prize, the Great Lakes Commonwealth of Letters Sonnet Prize, the Kelsay Books Metrical Poetry Prize, a Laureates’ Prize in the Maria W. Faust Sonnet Contest, three New England Poetry Club prizes, the Plymouth Poetry Contest prize, and the String Poet Prize. 

AMERICAN HERO

by Dawn Corrigan

Officer Daniel Hodges gained notoriety after footage of him circulated being crushed by a door during the capitol riots. Photo: CNN via WCVB.

Dawn Corrigan has a crush on an American hero.

THINKING ABOUT LOVE DURING COVID AND COUPS

by Susan Vespoli

I’ve been thinking about the Hopi Prophecy as told to me

by a friend, how we would find ourselves in a rushing river,

our body a soggy vessel careening toward the unknown. And the Hopi 

instruction was to notice who traveled beside us, not to flail 

or cling to the shore, but to trust the water. I’ve been thinking 

about the deep bass voice and compelling smell of an armpit, a man 

who sang lyrics into my ear, leaned around me as I washed a pan, 

crooned, I just can’t live without you, sister golden hair surprise, 

how he vanished with that torso he’d spooned around me, 

strapped into his own life vest, his SUV growing smaller 

as it exited the street in front of my house where I’ve stayed 

mostly alone since March, and how the ones who’ve held 

my hand and head above water have done so through Zoom

screens or contained in chiweenie fur or while flouncing 

around the living room in a size 6x little girl’s net skirt. How comfort 

has come via iPhones on speaker, text boxes, Words with Friends 

app chats, or from the masked employees at Jiffy Lube, 

a uniformed ballet of them who unscrew, drain, pour fluid, 

bow, you’re welcome, smile with eyes, say, you’re okay now,

reset the Need Maintenance light that flashed on my dash.

Susan Vespoli has been holed for almost a year in Phoenix, where she's written poetry, led writing circles on Zoom for writers.com, ridden her bike, and walked her dogs. Her work has been published in The New Verse News, Rattle, Nasty Women Poets Anthology, Mom Egg Review, Nailed Magazine, and others.

PEOPLE LIKE US AND THE DAY YOU WERE BORN

by John Hodgen

Heading in to the Quickie Mart I can tell right away something’s wrong, 

the kid behind the counter with the plexi-glass wrap-around going at it  

with a customer, giving him a piece of her mind, or more. I think perhaps  

she caught him stealing, or worse, but he’s a business guy, gray suit, gray tie,  

and when I open the door it’s not anger at all, it’s passion I’m hearing,   

passion in a Quickie Mart. She’s just a kid, early 20’s or so, hair pulled back,  

masked, oversized glasses fogged up. She’s saying, …when even we can see  

what’s going on, us average people, people like us, then you know something’s wrong.  

And the man doesn’t speak, just nods and turns away, goes past me  

like a broken ghost, back to the world again. And I turn to her in this  

tiny temple where we all come and go for milk and tickets and cigarettes  

and gas, and ask her what it is that all of us should know, all us average people  

who gas and gulp and come and go. She says, …the Capitol, what those people did. 

And I tell her I agree, it’s a sacred place, that they call it the People’s House, 

that Lincoln ended slavery there with the 13^th Amendment in the Capitol,  

that when you’re actually there it feels more like a church. And then I can’t stop.  

I tell her it’s good what you did, speaking up like that. I tell her Siddhartha  

says your birthday isn’t really the day that you’re born. It’s the first time  

you stand up to your parents, to anyone with power over you, and tell them  

the truth. That’s the day when you’re truly born, when you first come alive.  

I want to say she was smiling, gleaming like a newborn held up to the light,  

but she was wearing a mask. I gave her a twenty for pump number five. 

John Hodgen, Writer-in-Residence at Assumption University, won the AWP Prize for Grace (University of Pittsburgh Press). His new book is The Lord of Everywhere (Lynx House/University of Washington Press).

IN-SUH-REK-SHUHN

by Rémy Dambron

they said this man was just like them we said he doesn’t feel the same

they said he said that’s just fake news we said this is a dangerous game

they said he’s making us great again while we witnessed his power abuses

they diminished and deflected delivering his excuses

we called this pattern treacherous nefarious hateful nasty

they called him biblical 

patriotic bold and crafty

we said he’s promoting violence 

they said he doesn’t mean it

we showed them clips of footage 

they said we just don’t see it

we said hands up don’t shoot 

black lives matter me too

they said shut up and dribble 

all lives matter back the blue

we plead for justice 

but just us took a knee

so they beat us up with shields batons and false decrees

we said we have our rights 

they said well not today

we said these were our streets 

so they gassed us all away

we protested peacefully 

get your knees off our neck

they called us anarchists

then wrote themselves some checks

we turned out in record 

to win the election

they claimed there was fraud 

pledged their objections

we agreed to a recount 

they cried stop the steal

maskless they rallied 

refusing to heal

they threatened more violence despite our constitution

we said he’s propagating 

they called it lib delusion

then hundreds and hundreds 

with his flags and motifs

assailed the steps

of our nation’s top chiefs

we cried this is madness 

the building’s not secured

they said our take-back has begun and we will not be deterred

we said look at the police 

they’re like ushers in disguise

allowing them to enter 

with insurgency supplies

we saw gates open wide 

with a skirmish or two

then a lonely black cop

with just a stick and film crew

never drawing his firearm 

just clutching his baton

yelling and retreating

his leverage too far gone

they paraded their faces 

took selfies and stole files

besieged and disgraced

our nations state house defiled

they were released without consequence 

set free without question

acquitted of their felonies 

at forty fives direction

we watched in horror for hours

what we had known would come true

his fascist america 

executing their coup

Rémy Dambron is an English teacher, proud husband, and activist whose poetry focuses primarily on advocating for social justice and denouncing political corruption. His work has been featured on What Rough Beast, Writer’s Resist, Poets Reading the News, and The New Verse News.

WILDER MANN

by Martha McCollough

zombie daddy trudges on / grudges flying / bringing you your big chance / to shit in marble hallways / what a land of opportunity / for a sweaty daddy / poor daddy / his pinhole hungry-ghost mouth / starving starving / rubbing up against the teevee / daddy eating up the low-class love / slabface swelling & yelling / nooooooo / bloody crash of murder clown car / tactical antlers tangled / kevlar hooves sliding on the pedals / daddy’s at the wheel singing / all the way to / mother of mercy / is this the end of daddy

Originally from Detroit, Martha McCollough now lives in Amherst, Massachusetts. She has an MFA in painting from Pratt Institute. Her poems are forthcoming or have appeared in Radar, Zone 3, Tampa Review, and Salamander, among others. Her chapbook Grandmother Mountain was published by Blue Lyra Press in October 2019.  

IT'S THE EXOTIC, THE FOREIGN...

by Phyllis Wax

who rouse fear—                                                           

the Egyptian cobra, the black mamba,                                                  

the pit vipers of Pakistan and Afghanistan—                                        

and nativists lump the unfamiliar benign 

with these toxic snakes, want to fence them all out. 

                                                         

But what about the homegrown “patriots”—the domestic

side-armed sidewinding rattler, chattering and clattering           

its venomous views, sowing discord wherever  it chooses?

What about the skin-headed southern cottonmouth

with its deceptive languid accent and aggressive

lashing out?  The klanned coral snake, venomous,         

yet anonymous?  The paranoid tea-                                

stained copperhead?  The credulous shrug them off,                        

consider them crazies,

not dangerous species

to be monitored and tracked.

They slither from under rocks and brush piles                            

in the western hills, cluster in nests in lowland swamps,

ooze out of slimy mics all over the homeland.

The willfully oblivious ignore them—              

even when they rear back and strike.                                                                                                     

Phyllis Wax writes in Milwaukee, WI, where she is now watching in horror as the homegrown snakes are all slithering out at once. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, both online and in print.

BELLY OF THE BEAST

by Donna Katzin

                                             

 

The violence was barely visible to law-makers                                                 

when police squeezed out George Floyd’s last breath

with a knee to his neck, shot their way

into Breonna Taylor’s home,

left her dead on her floor, clicked off

the too-short lives of Tamir Rice and Trayvon Martin

with flicks of a trigger.                                        

 

They scarcely discerned it in the eyes of children     

ripped from fathers’, mothers’ arms,

caged at the border, never to see

their parents again.

 

It was not obvious to them when 350,000 souls—       

disproportionately black and brown, immigrant, indigenous—

were extinguished by the virus

the president heralded as a “hoax,”                      

as ICU’s, hearses, morgues choked on bodies

and ambulances were ordered not to stop

for “low-probability” passengers.                                    

 

It took broken glass and guns at the Capitol,

ghost-faced rioters in MAGA hats, banners, swastikas,

sporting toxic slogans spawned and spewed

by the Commander-in-Chief.

 

It took hordes single-minded as Atilla the Hun

or shock-troops of the Third Reich storming

up the marble stairs beneath idyllic landscapes,

portraits of iconic heads of state,

pushing past police who never imagined 

the possibility of a white mob

forcing their way into chambers constructed,

polished to protect the rule of law,

wielding shotguns and rifles,

wrapped in bullet-proof vests.

 

It took the legislators in lockdown

little time to detect the pattern,

crouching behind their chairs, calling

loved ones, clutching gas-masks,

as they were herded to hidden locations

while the president’s minions lounged

in their offices, read their mail,       

trashed their papers, took selfies.

In the fray below five people died.

 

It took them only hours to declare a breach,

recalibrate the rules, call for silencing,

impeaching the author of the action

to pluck out the bad seed.

 

But still, in the white wilderness of our minds,

tiptoe home-grown terrorists nurtured                  

with our blindness, lethal legacies,

assumptions of supremacy—             

the hate so deeply sown                                     

in our own hearts.

Donna Katzin is the founding executive director of Shared Interest, a fund that mobilizes the human and financial resources of low-income communities of color in South and Southern Africa.  A board member of Community Change in the U.S., and co-coordinator of Tipitapa Partners working in Nicaragua, she has written extensively about South Africa, community development and impact investing.  Published in journals and sites including The New Verse News and The Mom Egg, she is the author of With the Hands, a book of poems and photographs about post-apartheid South Africa’s process of giving birth to itself.  

NOW THE DYING WHO ARE ALMOST DEAD, ARE DEAD

by DeWitt Clinton

“The end of the earth,” acrylic painting by Tobi Star Abrams

The end?  Well, we could hardly call it that, as if

Whatever just happened, isn’t found in an old

Paper thin tome nobody’s read for a zillion years,

Instead, the end, or The End, just keeps blistering

The heck out of nearly everyone, though some

Are immune, and will never know when any End

Is just around, looking for hopeless dopes like most

Of us are now, prayers done with, floors mopped

With Clorox, as if that would scare anyone away,

But the Bugs like that deep inhalation we take when

We walk into any room, like sniffing lighter fluid

Right into the lungs where it plans to stay and stay

Until all of us are turned over onto our stomachs

By the kindest of medical staff, hoping the deep

Breaths will pull us out, but most of us have already

Died, and had no clue anything was like The End as

So many are whispering about now, as if Breaking

News isn’t about a new political cataclysm, but rather

Breaking the hearts of so many in so many hugely

Different parts of our world, everywhere even in

Antarctica, and who brought the Bugs in to such a

Pristine, icy world anyway?  ICU’s are now in gift

Shops, chapels, parking lots with unique tenting

Materials and refrigerator trucks behind and out

Of sight, keeping all the dead quite cool until we

Find a place that will prepare the dead without

Ending up as the prepared dead.  That’s our new

World with the best hopes of looking ahead nearly

Two or three years out, and even then, new varieties

Will awaken all of us again, those who aren’t quite

Living any more, but just waiting, you know for what

Don’t you, call it what you want but here, it’s The End.

Recent poems by DeWitt Clinton have appeared in Lowestoft Chronicle, The New Reader Review, The Bezine, The Poet by Day, Verse-Virtual, Poetry Hall, Muddy River Poetry Review, Across the Margin, Art + Literature Lab, One Magazine, Fudoki Magazine (England), and The New Verse News.  He has two poetry collections from New Rivers Press; a recent collection, At the End of the War; and By a Lake Near a Moon: Fishing with the Chinese Masters, poetic adaptations of Kenneth Rexroth’s 100 Poems from the Chinese.  He is Professor Emeritus at the University of Wisconsin—Whitewater, and lives in Shorewood, Wisconsin.