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PoetsWest Selected - a page for poetry and essays
(Authors retain copyright to all poems and writings posted on this page.)
POETSWEST ONLINE
Volume XIII, No. 2
Poems by J. Glenn Evans, Christopher Luna, Jed Myers, Mike O’Connell, Charles Portolano, Carl Sloan, Natalie Abou Shakra, Len Tews, Raya Ziada.
And a special message from John Peterson of Poetic Matrix Press http://www.poeticmatrixpress.com/.
If poets and lovers of poetry don't write, publish,
read, and purchase poetry books then we will have
no say in the quality of our contemporary culture
and no excuse for the abuses of language, ideas,
truth, beauty, and love in our cultural life.
WAL-MART
As you barrel down the tunneled aisles of Wal-Mart
Harnessed to a cart pulling you to more stuff
Do you feel the misery and pain
Suffered by those who made this stuff
Who worked 12-hour shifts with no breaks
Ate stuff that you would throw away
While Wal-Mart chiefs luxuriate in splendor
Their associates burden county health clinics
Your neighbors go hungry for lack of work
Because their work places have closed
How much do those bargains really cost
Someone else beside yourself
Walk through the old part of town
Listen for the voices of those merchants
From boarded up stores who once served you
As you barrel down the tunneled aisles of Wal-Mart
Harnessed to a cart pulling you to buy more cheap stuff
Do think about these things
J. Glenn Evans
******************
A GRAIN OF SAND,
I am a grain of sand
I move with the wind
The waters on the byway s
I am an irritant in the eye of evil
I am grit in the gears of war
Alone I am the tiniest of rocks
Joined together we are the boulders
That stop the tanks of destruction
J. Glenn Evans
J. Glenn Evans is founder and managing director of PoetsWest. Has written three books of poetry Window In The Sky, Buffalo Tracks and Seattle Poems and a novel, Broker Jim.Has written several local histories under the name Jack R. Evans, and two local biographies. A former stockbroker-investment banker, he has engaged in mining and co-produced a movie, Christmas Mountain, featuring Slim Pickens. Widely published in magazines and anthologies. Awarded the 1999 Faith Beamer Cooke Award by Washington Poets Association in recognition of service to the poetry community of Washington State. Listed in Who’s Who in America and Who’s Who in the World. Past president of Seattle Free Lances, Academy of American Poets. On the advisory board for the University of Washington Extension Writing Program. Producer and host of weekly radio program on KSER 90.7 FM.
Beware of Definitions
A Poem to be Read with One Hand
for David Meltzer, Michael Rothenberg,
& the gang at Cover to Cover Books
I declare the Dawn of a New Age of eternal silliness,
and mushrooms, and punk rock banged out on an acoustic guitar
actively living
actively dying
our profound scribblings
connect the dots
arouse the senses
awaken the pink guitar strummer
in each of us
and make us forsake our day jobs
get it down—
on a receipt
or the inside of your hand, if you must
and when you are exhausted
at the end of a week
spent toiling for The Man
rest easy in the
open, outstretched
palm of your tribe
step up
to the mic
it is completely safe
we love you
it is OK to speak freely here
you have found us
Welcome
Christopher Luna, Vancouver, WA. May 14, 2009
Poet, editor, and collage artist Christopher Luna is a graduate of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics in Boulder, CO. A New York expatriate, he currently lives in Vancouver, WA, where he is the host of a monthly open mic poetry series at Cover to Cover Books. His most recent chapbook, Ghost Town, USA, which features poems and observations of Vancouver, is available at Cover to Cover Books and Angst Gallery, or through the author. His blog link is http://christopherluna-poetry.blogspot.com or contact christopherjluna@gmail.com.
Each of Us Knows
Each of us, even in our playfulness, fears
saying, or hearing, the first, the next,
or the last—that one—wrong
thing, the single dark barrage
of words, whose impact fractures
the fragile architecture of a self,
the already-tilted-with-doubt, vaulted
(with the loft of breath and hope), faulted
(from the ground up since the old quakes) self,
who leans dumbfounded into the pummel
of the sudden assault a slowed moment before
the bone pain, till the unbuttressed tiers
shear and crumble in the cold of numb
collapse. Each of us knows
how, in love, we are exposed
to such an even-unwitting attack.
I have watched as the mortar of my mouth
launched across the air the dumb force
of an archaic defense (against
a ghost), witnessed my lover
quiver to the blow, then stumble
as if in a darkness thicker than the day’s
bright intensity, enclosed
in a haze denser than the sun’s spray
of original light. I have felt
that thud, the branching spread of cracks
throughout my own frame, fragmented
in one stalled breath under quick-drained skin.
Each word lifts away lighter than sky,
but they come as a volley, the one
wrong thing to say—we watch it fly.
None of us risks love safe from this—
the last thing we wish for, the crash
of words harder than stone.
Jed Myers 4/15/09
Jed A. Myers was born in Philadelphia. Studied poetry at Tufts University and served as editor of the Tufts Literary Magazine. He is a psychiatrist with a psychotherapy practice in Seattle where he lives with his wife and three children. His poems have appeared in Tufts Literary Magazine, This magazine, Innervisions (a spiritual journal), Forum (a psychoanalytic journal), on the Friends Journal web site and on NPR, Families, Systems and Health, Raven Chronicles, and in Poetica. His work also appears in A Shimmering Field from Writer’s Haven. He hosts a weekly venue in Seattle for poetry and music.
Every Generation
Every generation gets at least one war.
It's just one of those things.
A gruesome milepost,
showing just how far they've come,
weapon-wise, and a
puncuation mark
at the end of their hopes and dreams.
The sons and daughters
of every generation
get their own
flag draped coffins,
their own mass graves,
to prove they have participated
in their designated war(s).
Every generation gets at least one war
to acquire for themselves
assorted ideas and other things;
freedom or selected gods,
gold or oil,
land or water,
and other engines of sacrifice
to the certainty of
still more war.
Every generation gets at least one war;
builds armies,
breeds soldiers,
never knowing where their souls may go,
or if they were issued souls at all.
Truth be told,
none of us can tell
where one war ends and the next begins....
Every generation gets at least one war,
even though war logic is fractal,
difficult to measure with only
esoteric quantities of
death and destruction
to calculate the degree of commitment
to their particular war.
Every generation gets at least one war...
Its just one of those things.
Mike O'Connell 5/1/09
Mike O’Connell was born in Montana and began writing poetry in 1964 and has had several poems published in national and regional publications. Married and father of two sons, both in college. Member of Striped Water Poets, PoetsWest and Washington Poets Association. Also a member of Kent Valley Artists and Mountain Valley Artists. See his website http://www.mikeoconnell.org/.
WAR STORIES
My Father has always been
a hawk his whole life,
having been over there
fighting, nearly dying,
in the Battle of the Bulge.
How he loved to show my son,
his well-polished Purple heart;
how he loved to make
the sound of the bombs
bursting all around him
from unseen airplanes
and the rat-tat-tat-tat-tat
of machine gun fire
that whizzed over his head.
Growing up my son
would spend countless
hours listening to stories
of the glory of war
that he never tired of hearing.
I know my Johnny wanted
more than anything to win
his grandfather’s respect, so
he enlisted into the Marines,
the day he graduated
from High School,
just like the old man,
then off to boot camp,
and just as quickly
deployed to far away Iraq,
with a smile as the old man
slapped him on the back
and smartly saluted my boy
as he boarded the plane…
My old man sat hunched over
the casket with an American flag
draped over it , crying for hours
repeating endlessly “why?, why?”
Charles Portolano
Charles Portolano started writing when his daughter, Valerie, was born with life-threatening illness. His collections of poetry include:
All Eyes on Us, Rockford Writers Guild, 2007 (trilogy of three chapbooks: The Devil’s Advocate, Into the Wild, The Triad)
Inspired by Their Spirits, Wyndham Hall Press
The Nature of Darkness, Wyndham Hall Press
The Soul Decision, Wyndham Hall Press, 2003
Firsts (written with Valerie Portolano).
I Gotta Quit This
Books I've spent
a pleasant afternoon with
point me out to
younger siblings.
Every hobby I've ever had
tugs at my sleeve
thrusts a book in my face.
Unread volumes
proliferate in
closets, tables,
night stands, cars.
I'm innocent, you understand.
Brazen hussies ambush me
leap into my arms
right there in the book store
whisper, "Take me home."
Carl Sloan, 2009
Carl and Lida Sloan produce stunning abstract fine art photography, using contemporary techniques to create unique and modern digital and abstract images. Check out their website http://www.electricvoodoo-art.com/index.html.
From the Students of Gaza, to the Students of the World
January 10, 2009
To whom it may concern: my name is… who cares? Dignity, resistance, resilience…
they all drove me nowhere. They are but scribbles on the walls of my history. They are dreams of a people
swallowed by gluttony. They are cause and effect, lies and regrets, to erase and forget.
Shame on those who read me, and turn their backs somewhere. It is I who made history,
past and present, today tomorrow… everywhere.
I hold the word, and fight darkness and despair, from the caves of a wounded people, my ancestors…
I still hear them, sharp and clear.
I hold existence, on papers on the desk, on faces in the crowd, on tombs of the martyrs.
I hold life in bread crumbs, with candles, in books on a rusty shelf.
I hold strife with mirth, with children who have taught me to fight with a smile and kill with a prayer.
I hold justice with memory, with a broken poem, exile and a state of nowhere.
I hold death with eternity, an eternal dream, an eternal love, an eternal struggle, an aim, a cause… I know not despair.
I am the subconscious of every human. You cannot eat, you cannot sleep, you cannot dream, I shall haunt you…
you who stole… stole the world from me, I shall live not to forget.
On my land, you stole the fruit, the work of a day, the days of a youth, time will take note, place will witness.
When our children, in the morning, awaken; when the milk from their mouths is taken;
when the symphonies of tears are shaken; when our mothers and fathers drown,
helpless against their infants; when our candle, at night, have melted;
when our eyes, swollen and tired, in the fields of an endless night, cry blood and lose their sight;
when our bodies from the cold grow weaker; when the only warmth that comes, comes from the elderly that you have broken;
when you sit in your golden haven… sit down and take note of this:
Take note; our pens do sway, in every direction. They insist, persist and spit out the bullets of your oppression.
Take note; our journals are filled with the acts of your wretched intentions, of your day-to-day crimes against our existence,
of your delirious threats and excruciating torture.
Take note; our tongues will live to narrate, tales of the history of your racism, your apartheid world, and your ignorant hatred.
Take note; children will grow, they are the seeds your oppressions sow.
Take note; we, the wretched, the students of strife, hunger, and poverty, will rise and rise and rise above your cruelty,
above your lies, and false "brotherhood" solidarity, we shall rise and rise with the flames of our passionate will to live,
on our land, with our people, against all your traps and deadly mazes.
We shall return to our homes, against your will,
against your bullets and tanks, against your bribes and ranks,
against all of your attempts to makes us beasts,
the savages against your so-called "liberty."
Take note; o you slavish corpses, you dormant rulers, and forgetful masses!
Natalie Abou Shakra, Gaza,Palestine: January 10, 2009
Natalie Abou Shakra is an activist from Lebanon. She arrived in Gaza on the fifth Free Gaza Movement trip. She is part of the Free Gaza Movement and the International Solidarity Movement.
“What we see here in Gaza from determination and resilience is but poetry incarnated in action. Salam from our beloved land of Palestine...”
Evening on Irving Avenue
It’s dusk, and doves descend from a bright sky
to a darkened earth, where the irisis glow,
a zephyr stirs them, shadows on the lawn lengthen
familial chirps arise from birds’nests. Below
children play in the twilight, the news is over.
A fragrance of roses and cedars wafts through the windows.
An after-taste of gin, vermouth and olives lingers.
While the abundance of earth’s summer overflows,
the final explanation is witheld.
Len Tews, 2009
Len lives on Irving Avenue in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.
************************************
Summer Was a Little Girl
She got the bicycle for her birthday,
pink basket - a girl’s bike
that her older brother wouldn’t be
caught dead on. And that was good.
Timid, she always rode atilt,
leaning onto the training wheels.
After dinner, I helped her ride -
ran behind, held her seat,
steadied her, saw she could balance
for moments at a time.
Halfway down the street, I let
go, and she kept on -
not knowing she was riding
by herself, small legs pumping
wobbly, growing more confident,
then the exhilaration when
she realized she could go straight up
on just two, school was out
and summer was a little girl.
Len Tews, 2009
************************************
Airport Security
I saw them ordering the kid to take off
his leather jacket, and he stood,
stoic, in a tank top that revealed
athletic shoulders - a West Coast kid
flying from Seattle to Phoenix
who probably called his friends dude.
I saw them telling him to take off
his shoes and belt, pulled
him out of line.asked him to stand,
legs astraddle, arms out, and hold a pose
that reminded me of Leonardo’s
drawing of ideal body proportions.
I saw the fat security guard
move his wand slowly over
the kid’s body - chest, back,
straight legs in faded jeans - hover
around his buttocks and crotch
and tug at the top of the kid’s fly
with his forefinger.
I saw them open his backpack,
turn over his shirts, socks and underwear
scrutinize his books and magazines
and finding nothing, ordered him
to put on his belt, jacket and shoes, and go.
I saw the tormented face of the librarian
telling me shortlly after Nine-eleven
that the FBI wanted the names of people
reading books on gay marriage.
He supplied them and was told not
to repeat what he had been asked.
I have seen political gales blowing
out of dark minds,
fingers pointing from themselves,
to vulnerable faces in the crowd,
seen a photo, faded, of J. Edgar Hoover
on a porch with his lover, sitting
together, in dark suits and ties.
Len Tews
Len Tews retired in 1996 after teaching biology for thirty-two years at The University of Wisconsin. He moved to Seattle where he took up the writing of poetry, first as a genealogical pursuit, believing the most important memories of people are their stories, then moved on to other subjects -- Buddhism and nature particularly.
He became active in the Seattle poetry scene reading at open mikes and publishing. Some of his poetry has been collected into four chapbooks: Family Poems, Dance Steps in Brass, The Moon Is Not Yet and Frayed Ends. His work has also been published in Bellowing Ark, Mid-America Poetry Review, The Wisconsin Review, Fox Cry, HA, Writer's Haven Press's Moons Upside Down, Stars in Rows, Cascade, and other places. His poetry has won prizes from Peninsula Pulse and The National League of Pen Women. He was nominated, but did not win, Seattle’s Poet Populist. He recently moved back to Oshkosh, Wisconsin where he raised a family.
YESTERDAY I DIED!
As an old man buried in his tomb,
A fetus dead in her mother's womb
Last night I had my last drop of coffee
My last dream, my last piece of bread
Tomorrow morning I will witness my last dawn
Listen to my daughter's last heart beat
Say I love you for the first, the very last time
Last year I loved; I hated, laughed, and cried
I whispered, I screamed
I was a genius I was an insane
I was an inhabitant, I was a refugee
60 years ago I saw Haifa for the last time
Lived under occupation for the first time
I was young, I was spoiled
I loved my grand mother's stories
I cherished the summers, I hated the rain
Few hours ago I was cold
I was hungry, I was mad, I was angry
I was dead
65 years ago,
I was a fisherman I had beautiful wife
Three young girls an amazing life
One got married in Jerusalem
The other moved with her husband to Al-Fallujah
The third couldn’t resist the beauty of Tal Al-rabie'a
Last month my grand daughter
Didn’t get a permission to pass
A green ID is what she has
She wanted to visit my grave
They told me we look alike
I would have witnessed that, if I weren’t killed in that air strike
At 4pm I couldn’t believe what happened to me
I became famous on all international TVs
Few minutes ago I was invisible no one knew about me
No one heard my screams, felt my fears
No one held my freezing shaking small hand
No one told me it will be ok
Soon it will be ok
No one saw me, no one felt me
I was invisible, no one knew about me!
Few minutes later I'm on TV
Everyone talks about me
Even the CNN mentioned me!!
I was dead there under the rubble
I bet you still remember
Me with my three other sisters
Maybe now you're hanging our pictures
I even saw my father on TV
It’s the first time I see him crying
Daddy please don’t cry…Daddy please don't cry
I promise next time I will not die!
Yesterday I died!
As an old man buried in his tomb,
As fetus dead in her mother's womb
Yesterday I died 360 times!
Raya Ziada
Raya Ziada is in her early 20s and lives in Ramallah, daughter of Lutfiya whom some of us met when she visited us in Seattle. Fallujah is not only the city in Iraq, but also the village near Gaza in what is now Israel, from which Raya's family was expelled in 1948. [Courtesy of Ed Mast]
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