Two Poems

Here are a couple of my poems from the last open mike night.  I don't normally share these just anywhere - either because I think they are not good enough or I want to save them in the hopes that one day they might get published somewhere (I got two being published later this year in a regional journal....might get some sandwich money out that!).

These went over well but are very much in the moment, with a political reference in the one and a reference to Billy Collins and Sharon Olds who both have new (or at least newish) books out right now.  

So, preamble complete, the poems:

Summer 2016

All Summer I scurry from

One air conditioned way station 

To the next; from house to car

To store and back again.  

Across the sea, people risk their lives

In small, crowded boats

Under a hot Mediterranean sun,

Thousands of Mayflowers setting sail

For a better life.

All summer we talk of

Building a wall

To make us great again.

We better build it high enough

So we can't peer over the top

To see those people on the boats,

Yearning to be free,

Lest we look greatness in the eye

And feel ashamed.

A Toast to Some Old Poets

A toast to Sharon Olds,

Gifted with the brashness 

To write about anything,

And to Billy Collins, who has

The wisdom and grace 

To often write about nothing,

Reminding all middle class

White suburbanites that

As demographic drift

Signals only slow decline

Of old norms, dusty ideals;

As new artists challenge

Deep rooted prejudices

Of a society built in the quicksands

Of supremacy and inequality;

That there are still things 

To write about, be it the 

Well mapped contours of your own body

And the tired glory of human sexuality,

Or the thoughts that sift through 

Your mind while standing

In the kitchen on a fall morning,

Listening to the dog snoring,

Lost in his own happy dreams.

The very stuff of our lived experiences,

So accessible it seems you can just

Reach out and grab it, spin words into 

Gold on a blank page.

Ah, but you will never write it so well.

The Relevance of Poetry

If you want to gain a little perspective, then I'd highly recommend you find a local open mike poetry night.

The group I am a part of (more or less) had it's 8th anniversary open mike a week and a half ago, and it was....pretty incredible.  So many different voices: perspectives from blacks, whites, latinos, believers, non-believers, liberals, conservatives. There is nothing really quite like it, where you have people who are so willing to share their experience so openly, and you have people who more importantly are willing to quietly, respectfully listen.

Listening breeds understanding, understanding empathy, and empathy?  Peace.  Nothing could be more relevant today.

Here are a couple of excellent poets that were good enough to share with the group.  First is Dayana Lee,  the current young poet Laureate of Hampton Roads, an award winning international poet.  The other is her mentor and coach, Nathan Richardson.  Check it out, support your local poets, and gain a different perspective.  I don't think you will be sorry. 

Poem - Triumph

So something else I did while I wasn't posting was I finally finished watching The Sopranos.  That is what sort of started the whole thing, really, the writer's block.  I couldn't figure out exactly what to say about it.

The only thing more prodigious than the deli meats was the ample cleavage

It was one of the first things I started watching when I got my Kindle Fire in December 2014.  It took me over a year to get through it, the series running hot and cold with me, but always waiting to be picked up again like one of Tony's needy mistresses or a nice big plate of Gabbagool.

I never really did figure out exactly what to say.  But it, plus reading Mary Beard's SPQR, did inspire a poem.

So in honor of National Poetry Month, which has now worn down to its noble end, here is what I came up with.  First read at Word for Word Open Mic Night, Aroma's, Newport News.  Sometime in March, I think.

Triumph

382 days after having begun and

Nine years after the last episode aired,

I finally close the book on The Sopranos.

I feel like I’ve accomplished something;

86 Episodes, over 4600 minutes of sometimes

Brutal TV, digested like a bad meal from

Nuovo Vesuvio; rich, delicious, upsetting,

Hitting back with bilious acidity,

Leaving one retching with disgust yet

Somehow wanting more all the same.

In ancient days I’d demand a Triumph,

A parade through the streets showing off

Spoils from a long campaign while

Vestal Virgins toss heaps of Gabba-gool into

Throngs of adoring masses.

There stand statues from Jennifer Melfi’s

Office, nudes in German Impressionistic style,

Angular, intimidating, serving as a first warning

That behind the door they guard is a lousy,

Self-centered therapist. 

There is the body of Sal Bonpensiero,

The severed head of Ralph Ciffareto,

The pomade can of Paulie Walnuts Guiltierri,

The ghost of Christopher Moltisanti,

Seeking our sympathy, asking to

Nevermind a life of casual brutality

Cut short in kind. 

And there’s me!  Sitting in my chariot,

Covered in glory, clad in a well tailored suit,

Two of many nameless strippers from the Bada Bing

Standing behind me in topless tableau holding

Wreathes of cigarettes and whisky over my head,

Whispering in my ear over and over again

“You are just a man.

You are just a man.

You are just a man, and you’ve accomplished nothing.”