by Robert M. Chute
Sticks and stones may be less dangerous
than words. Does it matter whether the bomb
that killed Ali or Andrew was an act
of terror or of warfare when it blossomed
in all its brutal brilliance in Baghdad?
Even something as simple as stopping defies
definition. To disengage suggests a mutual
return of rings rather than retreat, and
giving up (I mean withdrawal) can easily
become new policy, the new way forward.
Somewhere between mission accomplished and
cut and run there must be an exit strategy.
(We've done our part, Iraq, now it's your turn.)
You can be sure we'll never say defeat.
The country's brightest seek a better word for it.
We need an answer urgently, before
Operation Iranian Freedom leads the news.
Robert M. Chute’s new book from JustWrite Books, Reading Nature, poetry based on scientific articles, is available from Amazon or Barnes and Noble.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
ON TETHERS TO TEXAS
by Carol Elizabeth Owens
germans
have their beamers
the japanese – lexus
but our motors cross with fuel
between the middle east
and texas. bush
has burned
our mid-
night oil, melted
candles vex us. the lamp
encamps a conflict in such heat
as scene in texas. grease
those southern palms
and pump
that gas—
to yield profits
post a fresh militia
at the pipeline, lest they stop it
this flow of politics
is a real hot
topic
fire’s
never friendly
if the battleground’s false
and our nexus to the saudis
is one cause to give pause
when will texas
withdraw?
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. The poem "on tethers to texas" is written in a form called eintou (which is West African for "pearl," as in "pearls of wisdom").
“Saudi Arabia has been a key ally of the United States and is the world's top oil exporter.”
(Dec. 12, 2006 – CNN.com ‘Saudi Ambassador to U.S. Resigns’)
(Dec. 12, 2006 – CNN.com ‘Saudi Ambassador to U.S. Resigns’)
germans
have their beamers
the japanese – lexus
but our motors cross with fuel
between the middle east
and texas. bush
has burned
our mid-
night oil, melted
candles vex us. the lamp
encamps a conflict in such heat
as scene in texas. grease
those southern palms
and pump
that gas—
to yield profits
post a fresh militia
at the pipeline, lest they stop it
this flow of politics
is a real hot
topic
fire’s
never friendly
if the battleground’s false
and our nexus to the saudis
is one cause to give pause
when will texas
withdraw?
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. The poem "on tethers to texas" is written in a form called eintou (which is West African for "pearl," as in "pearls of wisdom").
Friday, December 22, 2006
DECEMBER WALK
by David Chorlton
Beside a slender river
that mumbles to the stones
we walk in quiet shoes
with winter thoughts
and eyes for the silky light
falling on the cottonwoods
still holding to a few
last russet leaves.
One falls for the Chilean general
and a flurry scatters
for those who still support
him. It was right, they say,
to do the things he did
and not apologise. A tree shakes
unexpectedly
for the war that continues
without explanation
and we follow a dusty path
that tells us how long it has been
since rain or diplomacy.
Among the bare-limbed textures
of mesquite we are at peace
for a while. Nobody awaits
execution, nobody is tortured
until they cough up a reason
for it to stop, and nobody
stands in our way
prepared to strip us to our souls
before we continue
the journey. Along an uphill trail
we become ambassadors
from the country of grass
to that of rock and air. Back
in the shadows we report
to the water that clouds
are dispersing and the year
is drawing to a close
with unsettled accounts
and unburied dictators.
But as long as it flows
we will come here
to be with the trees
each one of which stands
as if nailed
to its place in the universe.
David Chorlton lives in central Phoenix where he keeps watch for hawks and other urban wildlife. He has published poems in magazines including Slipstream, Main Street Rag, Poem, Skidrow Penthouse and Parting Gifts, and has several books and chapbooks the most recent of which is Waiting for the Quetzal from March Street Press.
Beside a slender river
that mumbles to the stones
we walk in quiet shoes
with winter thoughts
and eyes for the silky light
falling on the cottonwoods
still holding to a few
last russet leaves.
One falls for the Chilean general
and a flurry scatters
for those who still support
him. It was right, they say,
to do the things he did
and not apologise. A tree shakes
unexpectedly
for the war that continues
without explanation
and we follow a dusty path
that tells us how long it has been
since rain or diplomacy.
Among the bare-limbed textures
of mesquite we are at peace
for a while. Nobody awaits
execution, nobody is tortured
until they cough up a reason
for it to stop, and nobody
stands in our way
prepared to strip us to our souls
before we continue
the journey. Along an uphill trail
we become ambassadors
from the country of grass
to that of rock and air. Back
in the shadows we report
to the water that clouds
are dispersing and the year
is drawing to a close
with unsettled accounts
and unburied dictators.
But as long as it flows
we will come here
to be with the trees
each one of which stands
as if nailed
to its place in the universe.
David Chorlton lives in central Phoenix where he keeps watch for hawks and other urban wildlife. He has published poems in magazines including Slipstream, Main Street Rag, Poem, Skidrow Penthouse and Parting Gifts, and has several books and chapbooks the most recent of which is Waiting for the Quetzal from March Street Press.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
IT FELL TO ME
by Michael Shorb
It fell to me
to express the confused
rage of the drowning
Polar bear battling
chemical winds and widening
water, its strength
exhausted by two hundred
miles of suddenly open ocean,
its mind unraveled by
the mystery of breaking
white ice canyons
teeming with easy prey
like ringed seals now vanishing
It fell to me to find
a calculus of the great creature's
final bellowing cry,
its final vision of glowing
cod and halibut slinking away
as it sank down
into cold darkness
it once had ruled
to find some explanation
for this vagrant,
unnatural sight:
colored waves dashing on leaden rocks
a massive white pelt
floating on the ocean's
warming surface.
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.
It fell to me
to express the confused
rage of the drowning
Polar bear battling
chemical winds and widening
water, its strength
exhausted by two hundred
miles of suddenly open ocean,
its mind unraveled by
the mystery of breaking
white ice canyons
teeming with easy prey
like ringed seals now vanishing
It fell to me to find
a calculus of the great creature's
final bellowing cry,
its final vision of glowing
cod and halibut slinking away
as it sank down
into cold darkness
it once had ruled
to find some explanation
for this vagrant,
unnatural sight:
colored waves dashing on leaden rocks
a massive white pelt
floating on the ocean's
warming surface.
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, December 20, 2006
BOY GETS HANDCUFFED TO STUFFED REINDEER
by Rochelle Ratner
What he'd wanted for his sixth birthday was a toy gun, a
police badge, and handcuffs. But his parents didn't want
him playing with guns so he just got the handcuffs and a
stuffed reindeer. The reindeer's been a problem from the
start, hiding under the bed last week, and this morning he
found him crouched behind the door to his room. So the
boy decides to handcuff him, slipping the cuff first around
the reindeer's neck. He slaps the other cuff on his own
wrist, and so they stay until the reindeer promises to
behave. Then he can't get the cuff off. His mother can't get
the cuff off. His father can't get the cuff off. And the honest
to God policeman who comes to the house has a key that
doesn't fit and is worried bolt cutters might slip and injure
him. While they're waiting for the firemen his mother sits
him down, dries his tears, and tells him that there is no
Santa Claus.
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.
What he'd wanted for his sixth birthday was a toy gun, a
police badge, and handcuffs. But his parents didn't want
him playing with guns so he just got the handcuffs and a
stuffed reindeer. The reindeer's been a problem from the
start, hiding under the bed last week, and this morning he
found him crouched behind the door to his room. So the
boy decides to handcuff him, slipping the cuff first around
the reindeer's neck. He slaps the other cuff on his own
wrist, and so they stay until the reindeer promises to
behave. Then he can't get the cuff off. His mother can't get
the cuff off. His father can't get the cuff off. And the honest
to God policeman who comes to the house has a key that
doesn't fit and is worried bolt cutters might slip and injure
him. While they're waiting for the firemen his mother sits
him down, dries his tears, and tells him that there is no
Santa Claus.
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.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
BECAUSE OF THE NUMBERS
by David LaBounty
The boss called me on Friday
and told me I had to do it
on Monday
and it didn’t matter
what I said, he said.
It didn’t matter because
the numbers,
the numbers
just weren’t there.
It’s the way it goes, he said.
It’s not like it’s by design, he said.
It’s not like we planned to lose
our ass this quarter and it’s
not our fault your store
couldn’t put up enough
numbers to save everybody.
He has a family, I said.
We have bills, he said.
He’ll lose his insurance, I said.
You’ll keep your job, he said
and he hung up the phone and I had been
looking forward to the weekend
but I kept that conversation
with me as I spent time with
my children, taking them
to the zoo and for ice
cream while grinding my
teeth and acting like I didn’t have
a care in the world.
David LaBounty's poetry has recently appeared in Four Volts, Boston Literary Magazine, The Verse Marauder and in upcoming issues of Autumn Sky Poetry and Pemmican. He served in the navy for four years and has worked as a miner, a mechanic, a reporter and a salesman.
The boss called me on Friday
and told me I had to do it
on Monday
and it didn’t matter
what I said, he said.
It didn’t matter because
the numbers,
the numbers
just weren’t there.
It’s the way it goes, he said.
It’s not like it’s by design, he said.
It’s not like we planned to lose
our ass this quarter and it’s
not our fault your store
couldn’t put up enough
numbers to save everybody.
He has a family, I said.
We have bills, he said.
He’ll lose his insurance, I said.
You’ll keep your job, he said
and he hung up the phone and I had been
looking forward to the weekend
but I kept that conversation
with me as I spent time with
my children, taking them
to the zoo and for ice
cream while grinding my
teeth and acting like I didn’t have
a care in the world.
David LaBounty's poetry has recently appeared in Four Volts, Boston Literary Magazine, The Verse Marauder and in upcoming issues of Autumn Sky Poetry and Pemmican. He served in the navy for four years and has worked as a miner, a mechanic, a reporter and a salesman.
Monday, December 18, 2006
TOO QUIET
(ODE TO SILENT AMERICAN NIGHT)
“…for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it…”
--Erich Maria Remarque All Quiet on the Western Front (1930)
--Erich Maria Remarque All Quiet on the Western Front (1930)
by Robert Emmett
it’s a little too quiet on the western front
all festooned with swag
while over there
it’s just another scene
the fervor of our handiwork
is enough to make you gag
stamp no return
on the invoice for the keen
the waking nightmare
seems so real
except they speak in tongues
and hot-spun cotton
makes it hard to breathe
a smirking cheek
a winking eye
all stuffed with glee
casts you aside
wipes bible spit
across a silken sleeve
somnambulists tote glitter in
the desperate bleed their poor hearts out
and strew forsaken children
in the street
don’t bother to give it another thought
the mindless chatter is already bought
your boundless bounty
puts fleece
on fortune’s feet
so tiptoe to the goody bag
you can have your choice
polish the pater’s pate
until it gleams
his pugnacious noggin’s noddin’ now
but you have lost your voice
you traded it on the cheap
for sugarplum dreams
Robert Emmett sifts dreams from waking nightmares under a blanket of heavy snow in the silent woods of Michigan.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
ADDENDA TO GREENSLEEVES
by Louie Crew
"Why hang AIDS bells on our green tree?"
the State the leper is asking.
"I dare to claim that God loves me
and in this hope I'm basking."
This, this is Christ, the King
whom peasants guard and angels sing:
Haste, haste to bring God laud,
The babe, the child of Mary.
"Your plastic bag is rude and smells,"
the Church the beggar is chiding.
"It's all I have; a manger tells
I'm safe in God confiding."
This, this is Christ, the King
whom peasants guard and angels sing:
Haste, haste to bring God laud,
The babe, the child of Mary.
"Why lie you down before the tanks
we use exporting freedom?"
"The ox and ass to God give thanks
and we are here to feed 'em."
This, this is Christ, the King
whom peasants guard and angels sing:
Haste, haste to bring God laud,
The babe, the child of Mary.
Louie Crew has edited special issues of College English and Margins. He has written four poetry volumes: Sunspots (Lotus Press, Detroit, 1976) Midnight Lessons (Samisdat, 1987), Lutibelle's Pew (Dragon Disks, 1990), and Queers! for Christ's Sake! (Dragon Disks, 2003).
"Why hang AIDS bells on our green tree?"
the State the leper is asking.
"I dare to claim that God loves me
and in this hope I'm basking."
This, this is Christ, the King
whom peasants guard and angels sing:
Haste, haste to bring God laud,
The babe, the child of Mary.
"Your plastic bag is rude and smells,"
the Church the beggar is chiding.
"It's all I have; a manger tells
I'm safe in God confiding."
This, this is Christ, the King
whom peasants guard and angels sing:
Haste, haste to bring God laud,
The babe, the child of Mary.
"Why lie you down before the tanks
we use exporting freedom?"
"The ox and ass to God give thanks
and we are here to feed 'em."
This, this is Christ, the King
whom peasants guard and angels sing:
Haste, haste to bring God laud,
The babe, the child of Mary.
Louie Crew has edited special issues of College English and Margins. He has written four poetry volumes: Sunspots (Lotus Press, Detroit, 1976) Midnight Lessons (Samisdat, 1987), Lutibelle's Pew (Dragon Disks, 1990), and Queers! for Christ's Sake! (Dragon Disks, 2003).
Saturday, December 16, 2006
TANOREXIA
by Mary E. Weems
It’s another Geraldo “and around the world”
The three white girls, without curls
Stand in front of the camera dressed
in swimsuits that look like skin
like they wear them even when not grinning
like clueless Cheshire cats.
They are all meant to be white-skinned,
white as the moon when she’s full of herself.
They have a look in their eye, a tunnel vision
of outside looking in, of dissatisfied,
of we don’t know, except what we want to know.
So, while the world spins on a billion behinds
all turning the soil in a different direction,
AIDS takes center stage with rage, poverty
and what should we care for, while the innocent
repeat the role of invisible sacrifices to the oil
gods,
and fake Bush gives a nod to drill addiction;
while new diseases are quickly added to all the
diseases
we already have, while in the middle of the mix
every day continues to amaze, affirm, and thrive;
they seek the ultimate tan, huddle in their basements
at night
whispering on cell phones, sharing the newest liquid
enhancements,
ways to hide their tanning time from parents, the
credit card bills
that come every month. They match arms, legs, faces in
mirrors
compare the results of the latest session to the
cutout gossip magazine
images of their latest tan-idols, look adoringly at
themselves each time
they pass anything that reflects. They are the tan.
Mary E. Weems, Ph.D. is an accomplished poet, playwright, author, performer, motivational speaker, and scholar of urban education. Weems’ work has been widely published in journals, anthologies, and several books including Public Education and the Imagination-Intellect: I Speak from the Wound in My Mouth (Lang, 2003), developed from her dissertation which argues for imagination-intellectual development as the primary goal of public education. She won the Wick Chapbook Award for her collection white in 1996, and in 1997 her play Another Way to Dance won the Chilcote award for The Most Innovative Play by an Ohio Playwright. Her most recent collection of poems Tampon Class (Pavement Saw Press, 2005) is in its second printing. Mary Weems currently teaches in the English and Education departments at John Carroll University.
It’s another Geraldo “and around the world”
The three white girls, without curls
Stand in front of the camera dressed
in swimsuits that look like skin
like they wear them even when not grinning
like clueless Cheshire cats.
They are all meant to be white-skinned,
white as the moon when she’s full of herself.
They have a look in their eye, a tunnel vision
of outside looking in, of dissatisfied,
of we don’t know, except what we want to know.
So, while the world spins on a billion behinds
all turning the soil in a different direction,
AIDS takes center stage with rage, poverty
and what should we care for, while the innocent
repeat the role of invisible sacrifices to the oil
gods,
and fake Bush gives a nod to drill addiction;
while new diseases are quickly added to all the
diseases
we already have, while in the middle of the mix
every day continues to amaze, affirm, and thrive;
they seek the ultimate tan, huddle in their basements
at night
whispering on cell phones, sharing the newest liquid
enhancements,
ways to hide their tanning time from parents, the
credit card bills
that come every month. They match arms, legs, faces in
mirrors
compare the results of the latest session to the
cutout gossip magazine
images of their latest tan-idols, look adoringly at
themselves each time
they pass anything that reflects. They are the tan.
Mary E. Weems, Ph.D. is an accomplished poet, playwright, author, performer, motivational speaker, and scholar of urban education. Weems’ work has been widely published in journals, anthologies, and several books including Public Education and the Imagination-Intellect: I Speak from the Wound in My Mouth (Lang, 2003), developed from her dissertation which argues for imagination-intellectual development as the primary goal of public education. She won the Wick Chapbook Award for her collection white in 1996, and in 1997 her play Another Way to Dance won the Chilcote award for The Most Innovative Play by an Ohio Playwright. Her most recent collection of poems Tampon Class (Pavement Saw Press, 2005) is in its second printing. Mary Weems currently teaches in the English and Education departments at John Carroll University.
Friday, December 15, 2006
MECHANICAL RAIN
by Christopher R. Vierck
Amost
four years running
i’m reminded how people
live in their own prophecies;
it’ll rain in the desert, roses will bloom,
democracy will spread, and everyone will love us…
it’s certainly easy to do… if you just pretend
shrapnel and bombs are just mechanical rain
in another country, nothing to concern our
pretty little wheat-covered american heads with,
it’s just a little lie in the long tall grass…
see all those listless clouds drifting on by?
if you can’t imagaine the dream i’ll whisper
it out for you; these clouds bring no drumming rain,
this one’s a bunny, that ones an emu.
Christopher R. Vierck's poetry has appeared in several Old Mountain Press Anthologies, as well as the upcoming Mourning Katrina: A Poetic Response to Tragedy.
Amost
four years running
i’m reminded how people
live in their own prophecies;
it’ll rain in the desert, roses will bloom,
democracy will spread, and everyone will love us…
it’s certainly easy to do… if you just pretend
shrapnel and bombs are just mechanical rain
in another country, nothing to concern our
pretty little wheat-covered american heads with,
it’s just a little lie in the long tall grass…
see all those listless clouds drifting on by?
if you can’t imagaine the dream i’ll whisper
it out for you; these clouds bring no drumming rain,
this one’s a bunny, that ones an emu.
Christopher R. Vierck's poetry has appeared in several Old Mountain Press Anthologies, as well as the upcoming Mourning Katrina: A Poetic Response to Tragedy.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
DARFUR
by Mary Saracino
Two point five million scattered in the wind
tossed away like brittle leaves, scorched
by the sun, torn from the limbs
of ancient trees.
Bloodied souls in search of
safety
bread
clean water
a place to rest their heads, far
far from the gun barrels of genocide.
Displaced families trudge
through dusty hot noon-times,
huddle under darkened nights,
pray to the moonless heavens, the starless skies,
pray too for the world to give a damn
about human upheaval, about maimed mothers
and disenfranchised fathers
waiting with each step —
each breath — for the world to rage against evil,
end the slaughter.
Men & women, babies flee,
on foot, in haste, no time to gather
anything but their courage, no time
to mourn beloved relatives, savor a final meal,
enjoy the laughter that used to sweeten
the mouths of their sons & their daughters
Who will help them pacify
the hungry howls of children emptied
of food, of hope?
The hellish hounds run rampant:
starvation
disease
rape
torture
murder
despair
On camels and horses, the Janjaweed
raid villages, force boys and girls
into a thatched hut,
strike the fire, burn them alive,
kill their parents who race forward
shuddering in horror to rescue their young.
An ocean away in Denver, a man
in exile recounts the harrowing path
from hell to haven. He escaped with two shirts,
two pairs of pants, the clothes on his back,
grateful for his life, mindful of his country’s anguish.
From time to time, he clutches a phone
listens for the clandestine whispers
of a brother, still trapped in Khartoum ,
a brother who reassures, “Yes I am alive, for now,
for one more day.”
For now his brother rests safely, his hiding place secure.
Though he’s outsmarted the prowling Janjaweed
one more time, outside his window
the stench of hatred lingers. How long before his time runs out?
How long?
How long?
How long?
Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer, and poet who lives in Denver, CO. Her latest novel, The Singing of Swans was published by Pearlsong Press in October 2006.
Two point five million scattered in the wind
tossed away like brittle leaves, scorched
by the sun, torn from the limbs
of ancient trees.
Bloodied souls in search of
safety
bread
clean water
a place to rest their heads, far
far from the gun barrels of genocide.
Displaced families trudge
through dusty hot noon-times,
huddle under darkened nights,
pray to the moonless heavens, the starless skies,
pray too for the world to give a damn
about human upheaval, about maimed mothers
and disenfranchised fathers
waiting with each step —
each breath — for the world to rage against evil,
end the slaughter.
Men & women, babies flee,
on foot, in haste, no time to gather
anything but their courage, no time
to mourn beloved relatives, savor a final meal,
enjoy the laughter that used to sweeten
the mouths of their sons & their daughters
Who will help them pacify
the hungry howls of children emptied
of food, of hope?
The hellish hounds run rampant:
starvation
disease
rape
torture
murder
despair
On camels and horses, the Janjaweed
raid villages, force boys and girls
into a thatched hut,
strike the fire, burn them alive,
kill their parents who race forward
shuddering in horror to rescue their young.
An ocean away in Denver, a man
in exile recounts the harrowing path
from hell to haven. He escaped with two shirts,
two pairs of pants, the clothes on his back,
grateful for his life, mindful of his country’s anguish.
From time to time, he clutches a phone
listens for the clandestine whispers
of a brother, still trapped in Khartoum ,
a brother who reassures, “Yes I am alive, for now,
for one more day.”
For now his brother rests safely, his hiding place secure.
Though he’s outsmarted the prowling Janjaweed
one more time, outside his window
the stench of hatred lingers. How long before his time runs out?
How long?
How long?
How long?
Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer, and poet who lives in Denver, CO. Her latest novel, The Singing of Swans was published by Pearlsong Press in October 2006.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
THE NIGHT WE MURDERED TOOKIE WILLIAMS*
by Jacqueline Kudler
If the sun ever burned through that day
it happened somewhere else.
All day the deep chill insinuated itself
under doors, through bedroom louvers,
down the backs of our collars.
All day we waited for the clemency
that never came, while the good
folk, fog-cloaked, marched over
Wolfe Grade, gathered at the prison
gates with signs and speeches.
I did not march with them. I'm tired of
candlelight vigils and tired of whining.
I'm tired of not understanding how
half the people anywhere think what
they think about guns or justice.
I'm tired of the cold. So I cooked up
a pot of curried pea soup for supper
and went to bed before the Late News.
But we led him, shackled, down
the long corridor— the big man,
a vast embarrassment of blazing health—
laid him on the table, positioned him
with infinite care, precision, the way
they prep a patient for the OR, only
this time, what he needed to be
cured of was his life.
And all the while, The Select watched on:
the vengeful and the long-aggrieved,
the ever-avid press—watched on
until the last spasm of the chest
the last flutter at the throat.
What part of this procedure, Dear God,
am I not understanding?
Jacqueline Kudler lives in Sausalito, California and teaches classes in memoir writing and literature at the College of Marin in Kentfield. She serves as an advisory director on the board of Marin Poetry Center. Her poems have appeared in numerous reviews, magazines, and anthologies. Her full length poetry collection, Sacred Precinct, was published by Sixteen Rivers Press, San Francisco, in 2003. She was awarded the Marin Arts Council Board Award in 2005 for “an exceptional body of work over a period of time,” and her “outstanding commitment to the literary arts.”
*Executed by lethal injection,
San Quentin, California
December 13, 2005
San Quentin, California
December 13, 2005
If the sun ever burned through that day
it happened somewhere else.
All day the deep chill insinuated itself
under doors, through bedroom louvers,
down the backs of our collars.
All day we waited for the clemency
that never came, while the good
folk, fog-cloaked, marched over
Wolfe Grade, gathered at the prison
gates with signs and speeches.
I did not march with them. I'm tired of
candlelight vigils and tired of whining.
I'm tired of not understanding how
half the people anywhere think what
they think about guns or justice.
I'm tired of the cold. So I cooked up
a pot of curried pea soup for supper
and went to bed before the Late News.
But we led him, shackled, down
the long corridor— the big man,
a vast embarrassment of blazing health—
laid him on the table, positioned him
with infinite care, precision, the way
they prep a patient for the OR, only
this time, what he needed to be
cured of was his life.
And all the while, The Select watched on:
the vengeful and the long-aggrieved,
the ever-avid press—watched on
until the last spasm of the chest
the last flutter at the throat.
What part of this procedure, Dear God,
am I not understanding?
Jacqueline Kudler lives in Sausalito, California and teaches classes in memoir writing and literature at the College of Marin in Kentfield. She serves as an advisory director on the board of Marin Poetry Center. Her poems have appeared in numerous reviews, magazines, and anthologies. Her full length poetry collection, Sacred Precinct, was published by Sixteen Rivers Press, San Francisco, in 2003. She was awarded the Marin Arts Council Board Award in 2005 for “an exceptional body of work over a period of time,” and her “outstanding commitment to the literary arts.”
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
NO CHILD UNLEFT UNDONE
by Nancy Graham
This text is from section 9528 on pages 559 and 560 they keep
having to xerox pages and send them to us of the 670-page
reauthorization of the Emirate
and Secondary Education Act. So, another reason
to go to the library! commonly known as the No Child
Left Behind Act of 2001: SEC. 9528. ARMED
FORCES excitement! RECRUITER ACCESS
TO STUDENTS It’s really hard when a friend
does that. I’m not even talking about
someone in here I’m talking about having
leftovers. You don’t have to eat that! AND
STUDENT RECRUITING INFORMATION.
Not without parents. (a) POLICY-This operation
is one of the worst: (1) ACCESS TO STUDENT
RECRUITING INFORMATION- Notwithstanding
NOT WITHOUT YOUR PARENTS! section 444(a)(5)(B)
of the General Education Provisions Act and except
as provided in paragraph (2), you can’t just sit
still for a while and read this? each local educational
agency receiving monetary assistance under
this Act must look at the floor
to see where their post-it notes are going shall
provide, as a kind of quid pro quo, on a request
made by you don’t read? military recruiters
or make attempt to hollow out the sound of their
voices or an institution of higher education
access to the nocturnal dreams to secondary
school students’ names, addresses, and telephone
listings. Ah, the marvels of public education!
Nancy Graham's poems have been published in BlazeVox, Chronogram, Eratio and Aught, and her short stories in Prima Materia, Cafe Irreal and Orchid (forthcoming). Her background is in alternative media and the arts, and she currently operates the blogs Alternative Films for Kids and Oswegatchie.
This text is from section 9528 on pages 559 and 560 they keep
having to xerox pages and send them to us of the 670-page
reauthorization of the Emirate
and Secondary Education Act. So, another reason
to go to the library! commonly known as the No Child
Left Behind Act of 2001: SEC. 9528. ARMED
FORCES excitement! RECRUITER ACCESS
TO STUDENTS It’s really hard when a friend
does that. I’m not even talking about
someone in here I’m talking about having
leftovers. You don’t have to eat that! AND
STUDENT RECRUITING INFORMATION.
Not without parents. (a) POLICY-This operation
is one of the worst: (1) ACCESS TO STUDENT
RECRUITING INFORMATION- Notwithstanding
NOT WITHOUT YOUR PARENTS! section 444(a)(5)(B)
of the General Education Provisions Act and except
as provided in paragraph (2), you can’t just sit
still for a while and read this? each local educational
agency receiving monetary assistance under
this Act must look at the floor
to see where their post-it notes are going shall
provide, as a kind of quid pro quo, on a request
made by you don’t read? military recruiters
or make attempt to hollow out the sound of their
voices or an institution of higher education
access to the nocturnal dreams to secondary
school students’ names, addresses, and telephone
listings. Ah, the marvels of public education!
Nancy Graham's poems have been published in BlazeVox, Chronogram, Eratio and Aught, and her short stories in Prima Materia, Cafe Irreal and Orchid (forthcoming). Her background is in alternative media and the arts, and she currently operates the blogs Alternative Films for Kids and Oswegatchie.
Monday, December 11, 2006
A MODEST FAMINE PROPOSAL
by Bonnie Naradzay
First came four imported breeds
of potato, like the Four Horsemen,
from the New World. The largest
tuber, the Horse Potato, soon
was all the Irish grew. Then,
within days, the withering blight -
and the sickening smell of decay.
The British levied tariffs on imported corn,
formerly used for animal fodder,
and cheaper wheat was diverted
from Ireland’s poor to sell to the Continent.
Sir Robert Peel’s idea, maize from America,
called “Peel’s Brimstone” for the yellow color,
did not catch on. The Chickasaw tribe donated
money and wheat. Then England sponsored
lectures, solely in English, on growing wheat
- to starving tenants farming quarter-acre lots
who spoke only Gaelic. Pamphlets
were handed out on agricultural practices
containing whole passages from Adam Smith.
Lady Gregory’s husband’s clause
in the convoluted Poor Law
forced tenants out of their huts,
newly roofed with boughs and sod,
away from their smoldering fires of peat,
while priests gave last rites in the wind.
In the winter of cholera,
crow-bar brigades pulled apart
the windowless huts of mud and stones,
turned stick-thin families loose
to starve in a ruined country.
Where do rooks go when the trees are felled?
Workhouses, devolved from charities,
were locked down by English landlords
claiming to have no food anywhere.
Whole families, moaning to be let in,
the next morning lay dead outside
the bolted door where they’d lain all night,
too weak to move on. After a week
of building roads to nowhere, famished men
on work crews died before their first pay came.
The Duke of Norfolk then proposed – Why not
curry powder instead of the potato? They could live
on curry powder mixed with water.
Bonnie Naradzay is a degree candidate at the Stonecoast MFA Program, having earned her M.A. over 35 years ago. She has a poem accepted for publication in JAMA and has published in many online journals, including Salt River Review, Beltway Quarterly, Innisfree, Potomac Journal, and Convergence.
First came four imported breeds
of potato, like the Four Horsemen,
from the New World. The largest
tuber, the Horse Potato, soon
was all the Irish grew. Then,
within days, the withering blight -
and the sickening smell of decay.
The British levied tariffs on imported corn,
formerly used for animal fodder,
and cheaper wheat was diverted
from Ireland’s poor to sell to the Continent.
Sir Robert Peel’s idea, maize from America,
called “Peel’s Brimstone” for the yellow color,
did not catch on. The Chickasaw tribe donated
money and wheat. Then England sponsored
lectures, solely in English, on growing wheat
- to starving tenants farming quarter-acre lots
who spoke only Gaelic. Pamphlets
were handed out on agricultural practices
containing whole passages from Adam Smith.
Lady Gregory’s husband’s clause
in the convoluted Poor Law
forced tenants out of their huts,
newly roofed with boughs and sod,
away from their smoldering fires of peat,
while priests gave last rites in the wind.
In the winter of cholera,
crow-bar brigades pulled apart
the windowless huts of mud and stones,
turned stick-thin families loose
to starve in a ruined country.
Where do rooks go when the trees are felled?
Workhouses, devolved from charities,
were locked down by English landlords
claiming to have no food anywhere.
Whole families, moaning to be let in,
the next morning lay dead outside
the bolted door where they’d lain all night,
too weak to move on. After a week
of building roads to nowhere, famished men
on work crews died before their first pay came.
The Duke of Norfolk then proposed – Why not
curry powder instead of the potato? They could live
on curry powder mixed with water.
Bonnie Naradzay is a degree candidate at the Stonecoast MFA Program, having earned her M.A. over 35 years ago. She has a poem accepted for publication in JAMA and has published in many online journals, including Salt River Review, Beltway Quarterly, Innisfree, Potomac Journal, and Convergence.
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