st george
in the front
window.this
is my
white house
& red
across a toy
globe.is what
we own.picture
this
a palette
a broken artist
there are people
who think in colour
very separate
they do not paint the changes
© Reuben Woolley
Project Type: The BeZine, Jan. 2017, Vol. 3, Issue 4
darker applications
not always the words
have any meaning.they
fill the slots as long
as all the numbers
are not counted
they just complete
the hours / the days
go on
& die.they have
their mobile connections
the touch of a voice
i watch your screened
conversation ticking.your
simple
pictures
hanging
now
this glass is made of ice
a cold
intonation.cut
deep i do not bleed
© Reuben Woolley
Deconstruction
I’ll take your hyper-inflated
phallus, ego-distended balloon,
id-fueled hot-air engine
that fills super-ego daydreams
to dizzying-heights of power—
and throw your craven, carved
wind on the fire of this year’s
revolution. Such a useless
log, poorly fit for fuel, and
barely at that, must burn
to ash before this dawn
comes, must rise in smoke
signals to call poets and
painters from themselves.
Then you can raise your
indistinguishable flags,
try to wave the smoke
from your eyes. We
will not be deceived—
we know who feeds
this all-consuming blaze.
And we will have
already come for you.
As you crawl out of your
wrecked ship of state,
we come for you.
As your cracked currency
drops from you, we come
for you. As you fall,
we come for you.
We come, not as you
imagine. With arms open,
we welcome you back to humanity.
—Michael Dickel
So Thirsty —poem
I am almost back perhaps. The long summer ordeal
of stress, rockets, war, death, killing has moved off
into Syria and Iraq and left us barren for a moment.
A bit of rain falling today hints at winter being
wet. We need water. We always need water. So thirsty.
The brown hills will green again, and the dry beds
recently run with blood water will wash thoroughly
so flowers may wave their red-yellow-white-purple
cacophony of emotions in winter’s permissive grace.
We need the water. We always need water. So thirsty.
Since between last-summer’s war and the next,
whenever it might fall upon us, this brief moment
flickers—a satellite-pretense of being a star gliding
across black night—a mere reflection of sunlight.
We want water, we always need more water. So thirsty.
The desert will preserve these battles, mummify
the narratives, and wait as scorpions and seeds wait.
And to this I return. Almost. Maybe. Turned back
from the sea and step-by-step making my way to sweet
water. Always water. Like the night sky, I am so thirsty.
—Michael Dickel
This poem will be read at Baltimore’s Writers Resist event (Jan 15 2017) by Maryland poet Laura Shovan, author of The Last Fifth Grade of Emerson Elementary, a novel in poem form. Michael wrote this poem a while after the 2014 Hamas-Israel War—other poems, from the war, appear in his book War Surrounds Us.
Circulating Language Manifesto
“…the New Economy as convention is language itself, language as means of production and circulation of goods.”
—Christian Marazzi, qtd. by Joshua Clover
An unrealized hunger chews against ribcages of ravens in flight
as flash floods erode history in the Wadi, flushing it to the Salt Sea.
There is no food on the table and the poet goes unpaid.
These words fill an empty plate, overflowing commerce,
an exchange rated for evaporation and condensation, loss
and replacement. This moment transforms nothing into labor.
Rising water drives thirstiness to drought even as it races forward
to parched bitterness that holds ordered tourists on its surfaces.
Order falls away with things, things lost in dreams, dreams
foretelling futures past. Electrons drove the Philosopher’s Stone,
golden silicone in bits and bytes flying past geographies of object,
flowing with subject, absent verb. What is it we pay for in this life?
Red anemones contradict drenched grasses. A small blue iris sways.
Hot dust storms coat the machinery that has frozen to our city streets
as the poet peels potatoes and pauses to reevaluate golden hues.
Sentences collapse under the weight of real prisons, unfolding
the crusty earth’s constant over-turning—geological composting
as surfaces rise up and bury themselves back into the hot mantel.
Potato skins skim vodka from decay; hungers twist into shadows.
Too many dimensions in set space reduce everything again.
Orbits drop toward gravity, the strength of the iron fist clamping
down on tomorrow. Poets remain unpaid; still words overflow
into nothingness with no value placed upon added desire or its
lack. Well-written banknotes are not poems;
poems are not without a price.
“Rather, there is before us the flight to a new capital, the brutal work of tearing apart and reassembling the great gears of accumulation and setting them in motion once again—if such a thing is still possible…Or there is the flight to something else entirely.”
—Joshua Clover
—Michael Dickel
Quotes from: Clover, Joshua. “Value | Theory | Crisis.” Publication of the Modern Language Association of America. 127.1 (January 2012). 107-114.
First appeared: Dickel, M. (2013). Circulation Language Manifesto. Diogen pro kultura magazin / pro culture magazine. No. 32 (February). Print and Online. p. 96.
Dovetailed
Uncover the striated complexity
Of the ethnically diverse
Like compressed layers
Of sediment
Accumulated by every person
Over the vast expanse
Of time carrying
Us forward
Where there is, no playing field
But only discovering
Dovetailed links
One beginning
Do not espouse your perfection
But embrace all hearts
Open all doors
To differences
Skin colors bright as rainbows
Lifestyle only as life
All disabilities
Works of art
To those who hold disease
As angels upholding us
Giving us strength
To carry on
Strength is only in creation
Of those understanding
acceptance as grace
with eyes open
do not eschew sameness of all
but uniqueness of design
remembering beauty
of complex diversity
these are the coalesced wonders
bringing all life together
increments of being
pinpoints of light
© January 2017 Renee Espriu
Firesong
Fire in the belly of a one-man relief army
in Gatlinburg. Fire in the wounds of the locals
who fled the burning hills and hollers
of those Tennessee towns. Fire won’t ask you
who you voted for before it consumes
everything you knew.
Fire in the words of the digital
battleground. Civility and friendships charred
among the remains. Fire on the tongue
of a construction worker singing folk
songs in Detroit while nobody knew
but for the whole country of South Africa
and they turned him into an Anti-Apartheid
icon. Fire in the sheets of a bed-in
lasting two weeks. Fire in every syllable of a civil
rights savior—come to Memphis to stand
with the sanitation workers. Fire in the thin bones
of a liberator making his own salt from the sea,
in the restless hands of a nun in Calcutta, in the
fire dancer’s visions of co-mingling
cultures. Creating a world without collisions.
Fire in the feat of the marching protestors
on Fifth Avenue, building their tower
of song for the South Shore social
workers and teachers, singers and Salutatorians.
Marine Biologists too late to save
the washed up whale. Chants for the word
mavens telling it slant. Fire in the third chakra
on a yoga mat in Killington
channeling the chi, the life force—balancing
the breath into hope.
© Russ Green
Fear Poem
“Because of the fear monster infecting this country, I have been asked for this poem, this song. Feel free to use it, record it, and share. Please give credit. This poem came when I absolutely needed it. I was young and nearly destroyed by fear. I almost didn’t make it to twenty-three. This poem was given to me to share.” —Joy Harjo
Fear Poem, or I Give You Back
I release you, my beautiful and terrible
fear. I release you. You were my beloved
and hated twin, but now, I don’t know you
as myself. I release you with all the
pain I would know at the death of
my children.
You are not my blood anymore.
I give you back to the soldiers
who burned down my home, beheaded my children,
raped and sodomized my brothers and sisters.
I give you back to those who stole the
food from our plates when we were starving.
I release you, fear, because you hold
these scenes in front of me and I was born
with eyes that can never close.
I release you
I release you
I release you
I release you
I am not afraid to be angry.
I am not afraid to rejoice.
I am not afraid to be black.
I am not afraid to be white.
I am not afraid to be hungry.
I am not afraid to be full.
I am not afraid to be hated.
I am not afraid to be loved.
to be loved, to be loved, fear.
Oh, you have choked me, but I gave you the leash.
You have gutted me but I gave you the knife.
You have devoured me, but I laid myself across the fire.
I take myself back, fear.
You are not my shadow any longer.
I won’t hold you in my hands.
You can’t live in my eyes, my ears, my voice
my belly, or in my heart my heart
my heart my heart
But come here, fear
I am alive and you are so afraid
of dying.
c Joy Harjo and W.W. Norton, from She Had Some Horses
“…With a double shot of heart, beauty, freedom, peace and grace that blends traditional Native rhythms and singing with jazz, rock, blues and hip-hip,
Harjo is right at the top of the best contemporary American poetry and music artists.”
—Thomas Rain Crow, The Bloomsbury Review
On her Facebook page, Joy invited us to share this work on our sites (thanks, Michael Dickel) and we’ve taken her up on it, a poem for our times. Let us all give back the fear.
RELATED:
The Taste of Cyanide
What can he “resist” he’s just a feeble man
Who leers at all the ladies, big & small?
Tall or short, a scoundrel he likes them all.
—He quit smoking, but like a boomerang
He returns again and again because,
Because he enjoys each long pungent, kiss
The taste of cyanide burning his lips
That gamble of not pulling the short straws.
What can he “resist” he’s just a feeble man
Down the pub, necks as many as he can
He’s what many might call a journeyman,
Downloads his mug all over Instagram
Thinks he’s the bee’s knees from a bygone age.
A likeable chap some mothers might say
But won’t settle down, gone too far astray
His looks are fading, longings disengage.
What can he “resist”, on the homeless list?
Not those free soup kitchen meals, a blanket
Not those coins tossed aside on his jacket
Nor the knife at his throat, where men subsist.
What can he “resist” he’s just an ex-serviceman
Done his best for queen & country, one time!
—Now praying to survive the wintertime
Find a warm bed, quit smoking, drink his last Dram.
© Mark Heathcote
The Oak, the Man and the Mighty Weed
Even the regal oak,
the mightiest tree
in this forest,
can be felled
by a man,
if he has enough friends or
he’s resolute or arrogant enough
to keep hacking away
until the erstwhile acorn
cries out in its wrenching
death song and,
like its
autumn
leaf,
drops.
But the simple weed
bent by wind,
starved for food and water,
cut off at its knees,
pulled from its home,
even poisoned, still
manages to come back
to stand up to
he who can best
the majestic oak,
vexing Man until
he might drop
like the
autumn
leaf.
Be the weed.
A bit of verse that reminds us to always question authority, always stand up for your rights, always, as the Quakers say, speak truth to power. As individuals or group, we have more dominion and strength than you might think.
© 2017 Joseph Hesch
Into the Unknown Flee
Hovering above
the aft balcony
flocks of seabirds
pillage leftovers
from buffets
of excess.
Bobbing in the
cruise ship’s wake,
brown against
the blue-green Aegean,
Greeks fish them out.
Out of hailing distance
out of time,
brown turns to purple
in the setting sun,
leaving a bruise
on the night sea.
Makes me wonder
how bad life
must have been
to risk life and limb,
and into the unknown,
flee.
– M. Zane McClellan
Copyright © 2016, All rights reserved
War Lore
Games turn into
battles
evils we mean to end
wars
Shell shocked children
wonder what all
the fighting’s for
Stressed out combatants
suffering from PTSD
can’t stop being
afraid of every
bend in the road
potentially paved with
IEDs.
Our tongue thick with
violence
subliminal conquest
Imperialism
far less vestigial
than we care to admit
Video games groom
young minds with
decimation
just for
the fun of it
Subjugation
the flip side
of liberation’s
coin
obliterated histories
assimilated refugees
cultures
natural resources
purloined
Change
we manage to
take to the
World Bank
bargain basement
Real Estate
at favorable
interest rates
Denial
Willful Amnesia
when propaganda
and national interests
conflate
Developing markets
courtesy of munitions
spent
at the cost of
lives
populations displaced
a global economy
A worldwide
disgrace.
– M. Zane McClellan
Copyright © 2016, All rights reserved
This Is Not a Lullaby
This is not a lullaby,
a song to soothe you
when you can’t help
but cry.
This is a dirge,
background music
for when your worst nightmares
and reality merge.
This is the quickening
of your pulse
when you watch
all your dreams crumble
into dust.
Your bedrock fall beneath you,
ironclad agreements,
in time-lapse suddenness,
rust.
Because you put
your faith,
not in man,
but in the care of
the faithless,
a vulpine trickster
talking out of
both sides of his mouth,
bombastic claims
that are baseless.
Completely ignorant of
Chivalric code,
a Knight Errant
chasing windmills
in Berserker mode.
This is the answer
to the unasked question,
“WHY?”
Having no one
but yourself to blame,
don’t know,
don’t care.
This is not a Lullaby.
– M. Zane McClellen
Copyright 2016, All rights reserved
On seas, bicycles and whiskey
“You can’t cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.”
These words belong to Rabindranath Tagore, and they came to my mind while I was actually looking at an over-water bridge that is currently being consolidated in the area where I live. I looked at the bridge this early morning, seeing it for what it is – a connection between the two shores of the river, meant to ease people’s access from one side to the other. And then I realized that the important aspect of Tagore’s quote was not what was said in it, but what it implied: the idea of moving, of doing something. The idea of not waiting for things to come to you, but of trying to reach those things somehow, whether by building bridges towards them, or by getting around the obstructions.
Man learned to cross seas and mountains because of his need for exploring, for moving, for trying to obtain the “better”. Up until now, evolution was not done only by staying still and admiring the circumstances – although, if sitting still means learning and evaluating the pros and cons of an action, it is also called “moving”, in my opinion.
Seas, waters, obstacles, are always in our paths. Sometimes we see them from a distance, thus having time to prepare for them, other times we wake up right in front of them, and we have to make a decision. And most of the time the decision implies moving – either towards our goal, or away from it. Sitting there and not doing anything about it, although a valid choice, is the worst, because you willingly confine yourself into a dead end. And life is not – or at least it should not be – about dead ends.
“Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving.”
The one who said that was Einstein – and the main word in that quote is the last one, because no matter what happens at a certain point in time, in a specific place, no matter how big the pain, the horror, the joy or whatever the experienced feeling, time, as we, humans, perceive it, continues to flow. Things change. Life goes on – with or without us.
And related to that, I’ll end my today’s pondering with one of the shortest quotes that apply here – Johnny Walker’s “Keep walking”.
© Liliana Negoi
no rain
blades of onyx
sharp
cut the umbilical cord
of sounds and tears
flooding the sea of sorrow
with dryness
the eyes of drought
measure with pride
the parched souls
lined up at the gates of the sun
“no water!”
the sponge drips only sour blood
on the lips of light
“no roots!”
echoes of salt
whirl within voices
and sand stays still
“unworthy!”
the earth screams
muddy with guilt and regrets
someone
somewhere
will carve hieroglyphs
in the stones we become
today…
© Liliana Negoi
congregating war
chippy charmed blade in Moira’s hand
cries for blood,
begs for blood,
slashing carmine canopies
for the sake of the flow,
grinning its ivory fang
at the lavish crimson gush
drenching sands and drowning wills.
on the red river
crucified Jesus floats,
watching clouds on skies in flames
twinning the boulders of coagulated sins
crawling along the muddy shores,
wondering if those were the sins
for which he drank the cup.
in the meantime carnivorous swords
keep fueling the flood,
making sure that the river’s level stays always high
enough,
as if that would get the floating cross closer to the skies.
not that it mattered anyway –
after all, there’s plenty of that bloody slime
smelling like putrid faith
to fuel a thousand more crusades…
© Liliana Negoi
faulty darwinism
chopped and chewed and swallowed—
down we go
on eternity’s throat,
one bite of salty clay after another
to be recycled
and become the burnt sienna skies
of some obscure tomorrow.
fate chimes its’ eyelashes
like some odalisque its’ coin belt—
the boatman’s pockets are always full
with tradition’s eye seals.
we are but stairs
for humanity’s pretended
e-volution,
we circle meanings
like eagles circle unseen angels
up-above,
without ever touching them,
we live to ignore
and ignore to learn
the reason why history is repeating—
and talking tall
we show our real essence—
the spoiled mud flowing in our veins
keeps bringing bitter smiles
on god’s resigned mouth:
ever non-grown-ups, these earthlings…
© Liliana Negoi
Noblesse Oblige
As the planet rages we cry for peace
a river of tears falls from confused hearts
currents of longing swirl craving a past
when sureties ruled both Earth and Hearth.
Men rose slowly on merit and women bloomed
respect was the mantra of man and boy
noblesse oblige the refrain of the high
blessed by success, status among his peers,
he dreamed of helping those who suffered
sought peace in workplace or governance
spoke with discernment, sensitivity, insight
standing between Wisdom’s open hand.
As war rages, regimes rise and break
mirroring breakers crashing on shores
leaders rattle sabres of spleen or silence
or echo the calls of confused birds;
while the people follow the loudest call
they long for the leader who offers acumen
respect, care, judgement, in word and deed
a taste to the Earth of peace and serenity.
Where is the Arthur heading his brave table
or Minerva dispensing her wisdom wide
will they rise to rule and dry tears that drown
both the planet and peoples who suffer now?
© Carolyn O’Connell
The BeZine 