Friday, February 29, 2008

Poem by Tom Cassidy





In 1968, a Third Grade Student Reports to His Class on the World Trade Center,
then Being Built
________________________________
History Replies

MY NAME IS BOBBY ACKERMAN AND THIS IS MY REPORT ON THE WORLD TRADE CENTER WHICH IS BEING BUILT IN NEW YORK CITY. IT IS GOING TO BE THE BIGGEST BUILDING IN THE WORLD. THERE ARE GOING TO BE TWO OF THEM AND THEY ARE GOING TO BE BIGGER THAN THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING. LAST YEAR I VISITED NEW YORK CITY AND MY SISTER BECKY SAID THAT IF I WENT UP TO THE TOP OF THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING AND LOOKED DOWN THE PEOPLE WOULD LOOK LIKE ANTS. I WANTED TO GO BUT MY MOTHER WAS AFRAID I MIGHT FALL OFF. MY BROTHER DAVID SAID HE WAS GOING TO THROW PENNIES FROM THE TOP AND WATCH THEM FLY INTO TAXI CABS BUT SHE SAID NOBODY IS GOING UP THERE TODAY. I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE WORLD TRADE CENTER TO BE BUILT. SO I CAN GO UP TO THE TOP AND SEE THE PEOPLE LOOK LIKE ANTS. IT IS GOING TO BE ALMOST A MILE HIGH AND I LIVE A MILE AWAY FROM SCHOOL AND THAT IS A VERY LONG WAY. THIS HAS BEEN MY REPORT ON THE WORLD TRADE CENTER WHICH IS GOING TO BE IN NEW YORK CITY. THE END.


i
My name is Bobby Ack.
My world is being built.
It is going to be big.
I can see the top.
I can’t wait to be.

ii.
The world is bigger than the empire.
I might fall off, and
I can’t trade up.

A mile high and a mile away,
My port on the world
Is going to end.

iii.
In New York City,
The people, like ants, fly high

A very long way.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Poem by Janet Kozachek

Where I Was When the Yong He Gong
Opened its Doors and was Abruptly Closed


The red sun rises over China
in the dawn that brings new arrivals
an east wind blowing across their path
uncovers the relics of old ways

The Temple of Eternal Joy
flings wide its ethereal gates
inviting travelers from the west
into the sanctum of Tantric mysteries

Their rapacious eyes opened wide
disbelief pried their jaws agape
perusing the exotic unimaginable
statues of gods in erotic embrace

painted in blue, emblazoned in gold
and dancing in sinuous lines
with hands held high on multiple arms
delicate fingers folded in secret signs

A womanly body with an elephant head
cavorts in sensual play
her pendulous breasts grazing the chest
of the divine one in her leg's embrace

Couples intertwined in ecstasy
point the way to enlightened glory
man to woman, woman to man
and woman to four-legged beasts

Their unions blazing in fiery halos
emanating from venerated heads
wooden bodies writhing in clouds and rain
falling like torrents in hallowed halls

As secrets seen and heard become secrets no more
and reach the eyes and ears of authorities
the censor dispenser of ordered society
closes the gates to the Buddhist display

The red and the expert behind closed doors
debate on what is to be done
to appease their guests while saving face
committee decisions pleasing all and no one

Seasons come and seasons go
The Buddhist temple opens once more
But all that remains are barren halls
and a few sculptures cloth covered chin to toe

Saturday, February 16, 2008

One Poem Contest

From http://www.thestate.com/weekend/story/317836.html
Calling all poets
Time is running out to enter the 5th annual poetry contest sponsored by the S.C. Poetry Initiative and The State newspaper. Entries will be accepted through Feb. 26. Winners, whose work will be published in The State and who will receive cash prizes, will be announced April 26 at a poetry celebration at the Columbia Museum of Art.
GUIDELINES:
• Poems must be no more than 70 lines long.
• Authors must be at least 16 years old and a native or permanent resident of South Carolina.
• All entries must be unpublished and original poems.
• Each entry is a single poem; authors may submit multiple poems.
• Previous winners must wait a period of two years before submitting work.
• Entry fee is $5 per poem. Make checks payable to the USC Educational Foundation . (You can write one check to cover the cost of multiple entries by the same author.) Entries with checks made payable to other entities will not be accepted.
• The author’s name should not appear on the same page as the poem but should be on a separate cover sheet that includes name, address, phone number, name of the poem, e-mail address, author’s date of birth and a 50-70 word bio.
• Entries will not be returned to the authors.
• Mail entries to:
Poetry contest
c/o The State, Features Department
P.O. Box 1333
Columbia, SC 29202
POETRY BOOK CONTEST: The Poetry Initiative also sponsors a poetry book contest for unpublished collections of original poems. For more information on it or the single-poem contest, call Charlene Monahan Spearen at (803) 777-5492, e-mail her at cmspeare@gwm.sc.edu or view the guidelines at www.cas.sc.edu/engl/poetry

Monday, February 11, 2008

Raise High the Jim Beam ... I Mean the Roof Beam, Carpenters

I love that title of one of J.D. Salinger's stories: "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters" --- but I'm actually going to quote today from another of his stories, "Seymour: An Introduction" because it is full of self-conscious examination (by the narrator) of the writing process, and it makes me laugh. So, here goes:

"I happen to know, possibly none better, that an ecstatically happy writing person is often a totally draining type to have around. Of course, the poets in this state are by far the most 'difficult,' but even the prose writer similarly seized hasn't any real choice of behavior in decent company; divine or not, a seizure's a seizure. And while I think an ecstatically happy prose writer can do many good things on the printed page --- the best things, I'm frankly hoping --- it's also true, and infinitely more self-evident, I suspect, that he can't be moderate or temperate or brief; he loses very nearly all of his short paragraphs. He can't be detached --- or only very rarely and suspiciously, on down-waves. In the wake of anything as large and consuming as happiness, he necessarily forfeits the much smaller but, for a writer, always rather exquisite pleasure of appearing on the page serenely sitting on a fence. Worst of all, I think, he's no longer in a position to look after the reader's most immediate want; namely, to see the author get the hell on with his story. Hence, in part, that ominous offering of parentheses a few sentences back. I'm aware that a good many perfectly intelligent people can't stand parenthetical comments while a story's purportedly being told. (We're advised of these things by mail --- mostly, granted by thesis preparers with very natural, oaty urges to write us under the table in their off-campus time.)"

Hee hee.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

7 MORE RUMORS ABOUT BARACK OBAMA

7 More Rumors About Barack Obama, and
1 About Hillary Clinton:
Coming soon to a Conservative Blog Near You


His friends at Christ Church call him “Barry.” Consequently,
Many don’t know he’s running for president
And think that guy in the news
Must be a Muslim.

He once posed for a photograph in front of the flag, but
Failed to put his hand over his heart during the National Anthem
Because he was turning to face Mecca.

When he was 19, he published a poem about
Underground apes eating figs.
Figs are a conventional metaphor for blessings,
Apes for mindlessness,
And underground settings for the unconscious.
This means he wants to destroy America
(As if we didn’t know.)

Barack Obama writes to Nikki Giovanni every mother’s day.
He signs the cards “Noah.”
She thinks he’s cute.

After hearing Don Imus on the radio,
He called the captain of the Rutgers Ladies Basketball team
To offer some grooming tips.
She hung up on him.

Africans believe that after the US,
He will run for President of Kenya
And combine the two countries.
He has never denied this.

His campaign manager offered me money
Not to write this poem.

Hillary Clinton has put a mob “hit” on him
Like she did with Vince Foster
And Bill’s dog Buddy.
This explains a lot.


***

Go to

http://politicsanew.com/2008/02/07/stop-false-rumors-about-barack-obama/

and you will have an idea as to why I wrote this poem.

Monday, February 4, 2008

Ciliary Body

I am working on the first section of my book of poems possibly titled On My Last Nerve. It is Ciliary Body, and this is the first poem in that section. It is about my fears of Multiple Sclerosis, which took my mother's life --- and is associated with a particular memory of visiting an eye doctor in hopes he could tell me whether my optic nerve had any signs of sclera.

First, however, readers might be interested in knowing more about the actual ciliary body:

http://www.stlukeseye.com/anatomy/Ciliary.asp

Ciliary Body, #1

My inner body is as unknown to me
As the plains of Africa,
Its hills and valleys, crevices
Where mountain lions lie in wait
For the immune system to grow weary
And falter.

The bobcat’s tail swings in anticipation.
The cougar emerges from his nap.
All the cats set to pounce, to kill.
Deep in the night, I cannot rest for fear
They will smell me, they will leap.
My fingers clinch.

I try to think instead of mountain goats,
High, out of reach, sturdy on their feet.
Itinerant. Joyful.

But the king of beasts lazily
Moves toward me, not slouching toward
Bethlehem after all, not to be born
But to slay my paralyzed cells.
He is not to be tamed.
What preventive measures?
I am humbled by these felines,
Vaguely honored, in fact,
To be eaten nearly alive,
Neck snapped, spinal cord useless,
Vertebrae scattered.

Behind the iris,
I wait for those yellow days.