Tuesday Poem: "Hipster Cancer" by Paul E. Nelson

July 26, 2014 - Dear T. -

"bright eyes in wells

watch for the sun's assassin;"

                 - Denise Levertov

"The past can wait," she'd

say - even today where his

hipster cancer can't be hid

in his giant beard, where

a toddler only a nuisance

not a direct link to the

numinous.

                  I'd've wanted

a cannabis boutonnières at 17

 but long lapsed my High Times

subscription. Call it Skywalker

 but only yr head's in the clouds

   not yr jiwa.*

*jiwa = Indonesian for "soul" 

Paul E Nelson, June 2019, photo by Philip Brautigam

Poet & interviewer Paul E Nelson founded SPLAB (Seattle Poetics LAB) & the Cascadia Poetry Festival. Since 1993, SPLAB has produced hundreds of poetry events & 600 hours of interview programming with legendary poets & whole systems activists including Allen Ginsberg, Michael McClure, Joanne Kyger, Robin Blaser, Diane di Prima, Daphne Marlatt, Nate Mackey, George Bowering, Barry McKinnon, José Kozer, Brenda Hillman & many others. Paul’s books include A Time Before Slaughter/Pig War: & Other Songs of Cascadia (2020) American Prophets (interviews 1994-2012) (2018) American Sentences (2015) A Time Before Slaughter (2009) and Organic in Cascadia: A Sequence of Energies (2013). Co-Editor of Make It True: Poetry From Cascadia (2015), 56 Days of August: Poetry Postcards (2017) and Samthology: A Tribute to Sam Hamill(2019) Make it True meets Medusario (2019), he’s presented poetry/poetics in London, Brussels, Nanaimo, Qinghai & Beijing, China, has had work translated into Spanish, Chinese & Portuguese & writes an American Sentence every day. Awarded a residency at The Lake, from the Morris Graves Foundation in Loleta, CA, he’s published work in Golden Handcuffs Review, Zen Monster, Hambone, and elsewhere. Winner of the 2014 Robin Blaser Award from The Capilano Review, he is engaged in a 20 year bioregional cultural investigation of Cascadia and lives in Rainier Beach, in the Cascadia bioregion’s Cedar River watershed.

 

Paul is an active member (since 2004) of the Subud spiritual community, serving as Local Helper and Rental Agent of Subud Greater Seattle, webmaster of Subud Pacific Northwest, Secretary and webmaster of the Subud International Cultural Association’s USA chapter and has many other positions in the past.

Tuesday Poem: "Ghost Town" by Andrew M. Bell

Picture Clint’s flinty-eyed stare

as he squints into the harsh sun

down an abandoned street.

Ears attuned for the chink-clink of the villain’s spurs

hear only the eerie moan of the nor’wester.

 

Silt swirling in small twisters is

flung like an insult into Clint’s eyes,

the grey, turgid liquid that spewed forth

now desiccated by the unforgiving Canterbury sun.

Cue tumbleweeds,

but the sole arrival is a family carload 

seeking the solace of the state-sanctioned sea.

Dad winces as he drives through Dodge City,

and his suspension surrenders to another pothole.

 

Dusty venetian blinds are

closed like the eyes of the dead,

the blanched grass clutches at the windows,

and weeds suffocate once proud gardens,

fissures scar the lawn

with the earth’s vengeance.

 

Clint springs like a cougar at

a shadow in his peripheral vision,

but the villain is already out of range,

running carelessly towards a life full of promise.

by Andrew M. Bell

Photo Credit: Joe Hayes

For more information about poet, Andrew M. Bell, see:

https://www.read-nz.org/writer/bell-andrew-m/

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The poet would like to acknowledge the editor of The Press in whose pages this poem was first published in 2013.

Tuesday Poem: "Forget About Healing" by Jeff Foster

Some days, you just have to forget about ‘healing’.
You have to stop trying to feel better, trying to overcome your emotional wounds, or trying to be anywhere other than where you are.
You have to embrace the day as it is.
And you have to give yourself the most sacred permission of all:
To shatter. To break. To be an ugly mess.
To lean into a place of utter humility and powerlessness in yourself.
To cry out to the heavens, “I can’t do this!”
To admit utter defeat in the loss of the life you had imagined.
To crumble to the ground, lonely and hopeless and profoundly ruined.
To want to die, even.

And there, in the darkest places, in the blackness of the underworld, you may begin to rediscover... life.
And learn to love the beginnings. A sacred reboot:
A single breath. The way the sun warms your face.
The sound of a tiny bird singing in the tree over there.
The raw simplicity of a single moment of human existence.
Hell has been transmuted, through love and patience.
You have discovered the wholeness in your brokenness.
You have given up your idea of ‘healing’, and you have uncovered something infinitely more healing:
Your authentic self.
Beautiful and true and utterly unfixable.

by Jeff Foster

For more about poet, Jeff Foster, see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeff_Foster_(spiritual_teacher)

Tuesday Poem - Song - "Common People" by Pulp

Not a poem, but a fine piece of social observation nonetheless:

She came from Greece she had a thirst for knowledge
She studied sculpture at Saint Martin's College
That's where I
Caught her eye
She told me that her Dad was loaded
I said "In that case I'll have a rum and Coca-Cola"
She said "Fine"
And then in thirty seconds time she said

I wanna live like common people
I wanna do whatever common people do
Wanna sleep with common people
I wanna sleep with common people
Like you
What else could I do
I said "I'll, I'll see what I can do"

I took her to a supermarket
I don't know why
But I had to start it somewhere
So it started there
I said, "Pretend you've got no money"
She just laughed and said
"Oh you're so funny"
I said "Yeah?
Well I can't see anyone else smiling in here?
Are you sure"

You wanna live like common people
You wanna see whatever common people see
Wanna sleep with common people
You wanna sleep with common people
Like me
But she didn't understand
She just smiled and held my hand

Rent a flat above a shop
Cut your hair and get a job
Smoke some fags and play some pool
Pretend you never went to school
But still you'll never get it right
'Cause when you're laid in bed at night
Watching roaches climb the wall
If you called your Dad he could stop it all, yeah

You'll never live like common people
You'll never do whatever common people do
Never fail like common people
You'll never watch your life slide out of view
And then dance and drink and screw
Because there's nothing else to do

Sing along with the common people
Sing along and it might just get you through
Laugh along with the common people
Laugh along even though they're laughing at you
And the stupid things that you do
Because you think that poor is cool

Like a dog lying in a corner
They will bite you and never warn you
Look out, they'll tear your insides out
'Cause everybody hates a tourist
Especially one who thinks it's all such a laugh
Yeah and the chip stains and grease
Will come out in the bath

You will never understand
How it feels to live your life
With no meaning or control
And with nowhere left to go
You are amazed that they exist
And they burn so bright
Whilst you can only wonder why
Rent a flat above a shop
Cut your hair and get a job
Smoke some fags and play some pool
Pretend you never went to school
But still you'll never get it right
'Cause when you're laid in bed at night
Watching roaches climb the wall
If you called your Dad he could stop it all, yeah

Never live like common people
Never do what common people do
Never fail like common people
Never watch your life slide out of view
And then dance and drink and screw
Because there's nothing else to do

Wanna live with common people like you
Wanna live with common people like you
Wanna live with common people like you
Wanna live with common people like you
Wanna live with common people like you
Wanna live with common people like you
Wanna live with common people like you
Oh, la la la la
Oh, la la la la
Oh, la la la la
Oh, la la la la la la

Oh yeah

Songwriters: Candida Mary Doyle / Jarvis Branson Cocker / Nick Banks / Russell Senior / Stephen Patrick Mackey

Songwriters: Candida Mary Doyle / Jarvis Branson Cocker / Nick Banks / Russell Senior / Stephen Patrick Mackey

Common People lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., BMG Rights Management

Common People lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., BMG Rights Management

Tuesday Poem: "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" by Anne Sexton

No matter what life you lead
the virgin is a lovely number:
cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper,
arms and legs made of Limoges,
lips like Vin Du Rhône,
rolling her china-blue doll eyes
open and shut.
Open to say,
Good Day Mama,
and shut for the thrust
of the unicorn.
She is unsoiled.
She is as white as a bonefish.

Once there was a lovely virgin
called Snow White.
Say she was thirteen.
Her stepmother,
a beauty in her own right,
though eaten, of course, by age,
would hear of no beauty surpassing her own.
Beauty is a simple passion,
but, oh my friends, in the end
you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes.
The stepmother had a mirror to which she referred--
something like the weather forecast--
a mirror that proclaimed
the one beauty of the land.
She would ask,
Looking glass upon the wall,
who is fairest of us all?
And the mirror would reply,
You are the fairest of us all.
Pride pumped in her like poison.

Suddenly one day the mirror replied,
Queen, you are full fair, 'tis true,
but Snow White is fairer than you.
Until that moment Snow White
had been no more important
than a dust mouse under the bed.
But now the queen saw brown spots on her hand
and four whiskers over her lip
so she condemned Snow White
to be hacked to death.
Bring me her heart, she said to the hunter,
and I will salt it and eat it.
The hunter, however, let his prisoner go
and brought a boar's heart back to the castle.
The queen chewed it up like a cube steak.
Now I am fairest, she said,
lapping her slim white fingers.

Snow White walked in the wildwood
for weeks and weeks.
At each turn there were twenty doorways
and at each stood a hungry wolf,
his tongue lolling out like a worm.
The birds called out lewdly,
talking like pink parrots,
and the snakes hung down in loops,
each a noose for her sweet white neck.
On the seventh week
she came to the seventh mountain
and there she found the dwarf house.
It was as droll as a honeymoon cottage
and completely equipped with
seven beds, seven chairs, seven forks
and seven chamber pots.
Snow White ate seven chicken livers
and lay down, at last, to sleep.

The dwarfs, those little hot dogs,
walked three times around Snow White,
the sleeping virgin.  They were wise
and wattled like small czars.
Yes.  It's a good omen,
they said, and will bring us luck.
They stood on tiptoes to watch
Snow White wake up.  She told them
about the mirror and the killer-queen
and they asked her to stay and keep house.
Beware of your stepmother,
they said.
Soon she will know you are here.
While we are away in the mines
during the day, you must not
open the door.

Looking glass upon the wall . . .
The mirror told
and so the queen dressed herself in rags
and went out like a peddler to trap Snow White.
She went across seven mountains.
She came to the dwarf house
and Snow White opened the door
and bought a bit of lacing.
The queen fastened it tightly
around her bodice,
as tight as an Ace bandage,
so tight that Snow White swooned.
She lay on the floor, a plucked daisy.
When the dwarfs came home they undid the lace
and she revived miraculously.
She was as full of life as soda pop.
Beware of your stepmother,
they said.
She will try once more.

Looking glass upon the wall. . .
Once more the mirror told
and once more the queen dressed in rags
and once more Snow White opened the door.
This time she bought a poison comb,
a curved eight-inch scorpion,
and put it in her hair and swooned again.
The dwarfs returned and took out the comb
and she revived miraculously.
She opened her eyes as wide as Orphan Annie.
Beware, beware, they said,
but the mirror told,
the queen came,
Snow White, the dumb bunny,
opened the door
and she bit into a poison apple
and fell down for the final time.
When the dwarfs returned
they undid her bodice,
they looked for a comb,
but it did no good.
Though they washed her with wine
and rubbed her with butter
it was to no avail.
She lay as still as a gold piece.

The seven dwarfs could not bring themselves
to bury her in the black ground
so they made a glass coffin
and set it upon the seventh mountain
so that all who passed by
could peek in upon her beauty.
A prince came one June day
and would not budge.
He stayed so long his hair turned green
and still he would not leave.
The dwarfs took pity upon him
and gave him the glass Snow White--
its doll's eyes shut forever--
to keep in his far-off castle.
As the prince's men carried the coffin
they stumbled and dropped it
and the chunk of apple flew out
of her throat and she woke up miraculously.

And thus Snow White became the prince's bride.
The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast
and when she arrived there were
red-hot iron shoes,
in the manner of red-hot roller skates,
clamped upon her feet.
First your toes will smoke
and then your heels will turn black
and you will fry upward like a frog,
she was told.
And so she danced until she was dead,
a subterranean figure,
her tongue flicking in and out
like a gas jet.
Meanwhile Snow White held court,
rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut
and sometimes referring to her mirror
as women do.

by Anne Sexton

For more information about the poet, Anne Sexton, see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Sexton

Tuesday Poem - Song - "The Disappointed" written by Andy Partridge, performed by XTC

The disappointed
All shuffle round in circles
Their placards look the same
With a picture and a name
Of the ones who broke their hearts

The disappointed
All congregate at my house
Their voices sob with grief
That they want me to be chief
Of the tribe with broken hearts

Once, I had no sympathy
For those destroyed and thrown away by love
Seems, your ring upon my finger
Signifies that I've become the spokesman of

The disappointed
Will bear me on their shoulders
To a secret shadow land
Where a somber marching band
Plays a tune for broken hearts

And day grows darker now
Everywhere, everywhere

The disappointed
Are coming in their millions
They're spilling from the bus
At a monument to us
Made of bits of broken heart

Once, I had no sympathy
For those destroyed and thrown away by love
Seems, your ring upon my finger
Signifies that I've become the spokesman of

The disappointed
Are growing every second
They blot the sun to black
At the bottom of the pack
I'm the king of broken hearts

The disappointed
The disappointed
The disappointed
The disappointed
The disappointed
The disappointed
The disappointed
The disappointed

Written by Andy Partridge

Performed by XTC

Tuesday Poem: "Were You Ever Great?" by Andrew M. Bell

Photo Credit: Andrew M. Bell

Today, along with my youngest son and his girlfriend, I attended a Black Lives Matter protest which gathered in Cathedral Square, Christchurch. Despite it being a day of constant drizzle, what the Irish call poetically "a soft rain", a large crowd of people gathered to express their utter disgust at the murder of George Floyd by white police officers in Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA.

Since the election of Donald Trump as President in 2016, the global community have witnessed a former global superpower which seems to be in rapid decline. Those Americans who never supported Trump feel that he has been both a catalyst and a fomentor of that disintegration of their society.

In response to this ever-escalating situation in America and to George Floyd's brutal murder which is just the latest in a long line of American police killings of African Americans, I offer this poem:

Were you ever great, America?

Were you great when the starving pilgrims

were saved by your indigenous inhabitants?

Were you great when the settlers pushed west

bringing disease and decimation

to the many nations who had been there

for thousands of years?

Were you great when you assassinated

the President who abolished slavery?

Were you great a century later when you assassinated

the President who advocated black civil rights?

Were you great when you dropped atomic bombs

on Hiroshima and Nagasaki?

Were you great when the CIA overthrew

Salvador Allende in Chile?

Were you great when Reagan funnelled arms and money

to the Contras to overthrow the Sandinistas?

Were you great when you defoliated

sixty percent of Vietnam?

Were you great when you invaded Iraq

because a President and his cronies lied?

You cannot make yourself “great again”

because you were never great.

Like the Roman Empire, you merely

possessed superior technology and

an inflated sense of your own importance

so you could bully the world to get your own way.

And now, like the procession of empires before you,

your corruption and decadence have grown

into a cancer that feeds on the venal and inane.

Fellow feeling has dissolved

in your grandiose sense of entitlement

and your outliers are emboldened, brazenly enriching themselves

by enslaving their fellow citizens.

A nation devoured on the pyre of self-interest.

Like a feeble-minded geriatric,

your memory has befogged your halcyon days

so that they lie shrouded in a mist of your own making.

Morality and ethics are but dreams,

once shimmering brightly in the darkness,

but forgotten on waking.

Once leaders of standing and character espoused equality

and the inalienable rights of all your countrymen and women,

regardless of race, colour and creed

to be granted "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness".

Your Praetorian Guard protects the elite

from imagined threats and suspicion falls always

on the proud descendants of the Nubians.

The world recoils as you descend into an abyss

where theft triumphs over generosity,

crime flaunts itself in the face of the law,

rampant egos crush communities

and murder is committed with impunity.

Were you ever great, America,

or were you merely lucky?

One day even the best luck runs out.

Photo Credit: Andrew M. Bell