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Jane (From Primer Days) Thinking about Events in Staten Island, December 2014

December 6, 2014

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Jane (From Primer Days) Thinking about Events in Staten Island, December 2014

Hi. I’m Jane as in Dick-and.
And I’m a wreck.

Even though the curbs of my world are perfectly
squared off and all my streets have just the right
amount of shade.

This is because the trees here manage always
to maintain
the optimal height for a nice new subdivision–not too tall but also not
too small–sort of like
Goldilock’s porridge, only
with leaves.

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Sometimes, a cat scrambles up one–such fun–
and Mother, who wears high heels
with her apron, calls
the fire department or, if the firemen can’t come,
the police.

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The police, who wear blue jackets with yellow
buttons, always have time
for cats, and if you ever somehow stray
in your play, hopscotch
a square too far,
they walk you back
below those just-right trees,
sometimes touching your hand
but never more than–

Unless you are lost with your baby sister,
in which case, the policeman carries her and showing,
just over the crook
of his dark blue arm, are ruffles.

Even with the ruffles, it’s a world
that’s flat–
pretend pressed onto
a pre-Columbus
page–we, its only
natives.

Yes, I know, some people leaf through
my old world and think it was not
pretend,
because our pages showed stuff like
red balls that are real enough–
the red balls that only Dick tossed, caught, lost–
(Me, I never got to toss
a Dick-lost ball.)

There was also our hard cover,
yellow and blue, just like
our hair/eyes, the policeman’s
buttons,
sky.

But oh, you’ve got to know–
we were pressed
so flat in here–I’ve made myself
as flat as they come
and believe me–that is not a kind of flatness
that comes just from holding
my breath.

Speaking of which–breath, I mean.
You know, breathing–

I mean, here I am speaking–speaking
of which–
and yet I can’t, you know,
breathe.

Because when you are pressed flat, see,
that’s what happens.

*********************************

Here’s a drafty poem of sorts for Shay/Fireblossom’s prompt on With Real Toads so write a “mash-up” poem putting some character/ historic figure in an unusual context. I had a hard time thinking of what to write; my mind has been very taken up with the recent events in New York City concerning the death of Eric Garner, and I could not really think of anything else to write about.  That said, I really do not want to seem flippant about these very serious events.  I sincerely hope this doesn’t come across that way. The illustrations are mine, in pencil–so sorry that the erasures show!   

Process Note–Primer here is pronounced “primmer” and is a word for a primary level text-book.  For those who don’t know or remember, the Dick and Jane books were primer reading books, popular in the 50’s and 60’s.  

For those of you who are outside the U.S., or haven’t been following the Garner case within the U.S., here’s a timeline of events around the case, with links to articles–timeline. 

Categories: children's illustration, drawings, New York City, news, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 21 Comments

Somewhere a fly

October 29, 2014

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Somewhere a fly

Somewhere, a fly walks face,
proboscis probing
like a dowser’s forked stick,
as it will,
the plain of cheek,
the ridge of nose,
edging tarsal lace
about the pit of mouth,
cutting a slant
through stubble.

Somewhere, there is a great buzz
over a bulged belly
and a foot that was pounded board
rots to punk,

and a person–somewhere, a person,
becomes less human–
and now, I don’t speak of the dead–
by pinching others apart
as if these others were
flies on the face
of this planet, plucking

would-be wings, hanging limbs
as things, targeting with slews
of water, currents
of all sorts; somewhere,
someone is
stomping, starving,
caging, stomped,
starved,
caged–

and maybe acts of cruelty
are all too human,
even children trained
in their commission, wires
strapped to small waists,

and that feels the absolute worst,
though, in the area of treating people
like flies, turning people
into fly fodder, it’s kind of hard to say missiles are better,

just because they don’t have waists.

 

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Here’s a very drafty poem, for Gabriella’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub to write about war.  I had some further lines about waste, but well, didn’t put them in, as the point seemed clear.  I find it very difficult to write about this type of topic.  

And since I am in rant mode:  in terms of  war (and other things of that nature),  I urge everyone to get out and vote. I also urge everyone to support voting, and to call out voter ID laws for what they are–acts of suppression.  I have worked at polling sites, and can tell you that it is not only hard for some (especially the poor, the old and the young) to get original IDs, but also hard to maintain a current ID, especially if you don’t own a car, have some instability in your residence or don’t maintain an independent home (because you live, for example, with family members.)

Also, I don’t buy this business about there not being a difference in politicians.  I agree that there is a lot of venality in politics, but that is not an excuse not to vote. (And not to take efforts to stay informed.)  There are differences in politicians; your vote does make a difference.   Ask any woman who has ever taken birth control or needed it, or any woman who has been habitually paid less than a man doing the same job (i.e. ask any woman.)  Ask any one, like me, who has been able to have major cost savings relating to children’s health care because of the expansions allowed by the Affordable Care Act. 

Finally, please in the midst of this, consider checking out my new book, Nice, which takes place in the time of the Vietnam War.PP Native Cover_4696546_Front Cover

Categories: news, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 22 Comments

Newsprint Past

October 26, 2014

Junk News Speak

Newsprint Past

There were times and places
when what you purchased
came wrapped in old newspaper
folded as neatly around–let’s say–
your nubby mandarins
as a steam-pressed collar buttoned
over an Adam’s apple,
only tied with a string
and covering everything.

At the end of shopping,
you might carry a stacked jam
like so many ironed shirts
tailored for people with trapezoidal
torsos, or if you lived in Great Britain,
fish and chips.

As you unwrapped
your fine print sacks, sitting at a table bare but for
peel curls, chip chips, you could, between whiffs
of orange or vinegar, peruse
an origami of ads, articles,
the snipped obits of those who some time recently
had died
and the whom they were
survived by,
phrases that kept
you company, quiet companions with interesting
asides,
while from outside,
came muted cries–
for those were also times and places
of open windows–not of anguish typically,
or not of extreme anguish–the crows of children
over rules, the hawking
of other vendors,
the banter of true bird, the
hum of machines
on the fly,

sweat nestling at the back
of your neck and inner arms, and,
if you were eating fish and chips,
probably also
your upper lip.

And, believe me, I am not in any way touting
those times –I am pretty sure
that while you were sitting there eating, some woman
in the background
was scrubbing pots, and some person of color
mopping stairs, and while there’s nothing wrong
with pots or stairs, scrubbing  and mopping,
they are not so great
as ultimate options, not to mention the fear stored in
closet shadows,
along with the broom handles, buckets, lye.

I’m just saying that newsprint seems a
helluva lot better to me
than plastic, no matter how
it’s used, and by plastic I don’t just mean
what now wraps all we buy,
but also what we see–that transfixed hair
upon the screen, the fake smiles,
smirks, the scooped pronouncements passing
as some synopsis of
the world’s long day, so much shiny
cheap, thin,
packaging, so much
to throw away.

*******************************

This isn’t so much a poem as a rant.  I wrote it originally for Mary’s prompt on dVerse Poets to write about news – and am posting it on dVerse’s Open LInk Night. 

This is an old drawing, but seemed to fit. 

Categories: news, News Media, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 12 Comments

Hobby Lobbied

June 30, 2014
Johannes Vermeer, "Woman Holding a Balance", around 1665

Johannes Vermeer, “Woman Holding a Balance”, around 1665

Hobby Lobbied

Amazingly close to the date she gave birth, my mother,
who never showed,
applied for a job.
She held a large purse
over that part of her
that was me
because her soon-to-be employer
automatically paid new mothers
substantially reduced pay,
whether or not they missed
a single workday.

When she started the job,
three months after I was born,
my mother kept mum about me
for more than a year, not alluding to my
existence all day, any day,
so that she would be paid
in full.

The employer believed, see,
that new mothers
should stay at home.
I’d like to believe that my mother
would have stayed home if she could,
but the fact is
my mother needed to work
for the money
and for more than
the money.

But my mother’s needs are not wholly the point
of this poem.
The point, which I would like to be sharper
than any knitting needle–certainly sharp enough
to pierce the corporate veil–is that I–and every woman I know–
have been affected by this crap since
before we were even born.

Employers are not
intrauterine devices.

Corporations are formed
to make money, my friend,
and to limit the losses of
those making it,
while women are formed for more
than making
babies,
as wonderful as
they are, as lost as we would be
without them.

****************************************
Here’s a poem of sorts written in reaction to the Supreme Court’s Hobby Lobby decision today.  (The photo above if of a painting by Johannes Vermeer, woman holding a balance.)    I think it’s bad law;  I commend Ruth Bader Ginsburg, for her intelligent and spirited dissent.  

Categories: news, poetry
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Comments: 15 Comments

Epiphanies (of Sorts) around Easter

April 21, 2014

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Epiphanies (of Sorts) around Easter

Easter, as a child, meant ham,
a family tradition,
which I thought back then
was a subtle declaration
that we were not Jewish
though I realize now
was probably the only big meat to hand as Spring sprang
when my parents grew up in Midwest farm country.

My in-laws in the East ate lamb,
which always seemed to me
a rather poor-taste communion with Him,
who taketh away
the sins of the world, blood pooling
on the platter,
but I realize now
was likely the least wasteful fresh meat
Springs.

So, with such food for thought nudging me,
I realized, today, Holy Saturday, that the child whose hands glove glow
in a Georges de la Tour painting, my absolute favorite
when I too was about that age,
is not a girl with her father, also bald like mine, but
Jesus himself with Joseph (“Joseph, the Carpenter”).
De La Tour’s Joseph,
according to Wikepedia, uses an auger shaped
like a crucifix–

And all this time, I thought it was simply
a strikingly beautiful painting, showing, amazingly, how light shines
in dark places and can be caught by hands
shaped by pigment, or
the love of it,
and can be fixed too
as long as the hues hold true
and are kept in place by the rabbit-skin glue
used to prepare the painting surface.

Which is something else we don’t really think of much–
the stuff of paintings,
like the sources of ham and lamb–
all flames of a sort that light us,
waxing our grip,
without, we hope, burning
our fingers–

But I wonder, today,
in this Spring sun
so much brighter
than a candle, how we redeem
the squeals, how
are they too deemed necessary?

All I can think of is the word
“painstakingly–”

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Here’s very much of a draft poem for some day of April National Poetry month. I’m sorry if I’ve worn out the Easter theme–but here it is. The painting above is by Georges De La Tour, “Joseph the Carpenter.” I do not claim any copyright in the photograph and think/hope this is fair use. I am linking to the open link night of with real toads. (Again, by the way, I am trying to return all comments, but it is a bit hard right now. I will catch up and I thank you for your kind visits!)

Categories: news, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 13 Comments

One set of thoughts on Nelson Mandela’s Death

December 15, 2013

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One Set of Thoughts On Nelson Mandela’s Death

When I think of them talking about South Africa, we are almost always at the Hot Shoppes, Friday nights, around a circular wooden table, its brown veneer smeared with sponged shine, swirled by demonstrative maple,

eating from gold speckled trays, my mom finally off the next day, mashed potatoes and thick white plates–

and there is always the word “bloodbath”–which seemed the only possible outcome–mixed in with the phrases “beautiful country;” and “such a shame.”

The shame seemed to arise on several levels–some I could not, as a child, quite trace–but the contours of the word “bloodbath” were easy enough to come up with–gorges slit throats, rivers sliced arteries, valleys marooned–

My mother, at least, was of a mixed mind–pained by the injustice–while her widowed friend who came along with us, had a daughter whose boyfriend was a rich South African, white,  and so, there were these sighs–he really was quite rich–that what was going on was terrible, but not perhaps as bad as red-soaked streets–

As I listened, I would think of the guy who’d just cut my Dad’s roast beef–we lived in the semi-South, and all the workers at the Hot Shoppes were pretty much black–his skin shining so warm in the glare of the heat lamps, the puddling of blood on the carving board and the brilliant droplets oozing from the beef’s crimson core, the starched white hat that implied (without my consciously thinking of it) safety, an acceptance of rules and a life of their imposition–

and I thought of how kindly he smiled, looking over to me as my Dad tried to decide how he wanted his meat done–

and of the carver’s hands, the skin translucent below the lamp, the creases of his palms pink against their tan, the fleshy base so soft around the pine stem of the great grey knife–

I did not even know Mandela’s name back then–nine or ten–but when I did learn it, it came to mean one thing to me–”no bloodbath”–

It was something that seemed impossible–I mean, there were race riots the very next year in my home town, me just eleven–

and I write this now not meaning to diminish the suffering, but only to describe my awe at waters that have washed so blue along jagged coasts, green riverbanks, and of a translucence of flesh/spirit/smile that was completely human, yet able, like the divine, to let there be light.

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Here’s a draftish prose poem written for Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on With Real Toads, to write a personal response to the death of Nelson Mandela.  Like all of us, I’ve got many responses, but this was one set of memories that came up.  I’m also linking belatedly to  Mary’s dVerse Poets Pub prompt about light.

Categories: news, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 23 Comments

November 22, 1963 (if Alive then and Over Five, You Remember)

November 22, 2013

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November 22, 1963 (if Alive then and Over Five, You Remember)

Ushered from pine
desks to blacktop,
the big girls–third-graders–
roamed red-eyed arm-in-arm,
while we, who always spent recess as horses,
studied holding our bowed heads stiff
so that even our hair (the reins)
would not seem to play at anything
but the insurmountable grief
we were only just
learning about.

**************************************
Fifty years. Fifty-five words without the title. I know it’s late in the day but tell it to the G-Man.

I am also linking this to Victoria C. Slotto’s Poetics prompt on calendars over at dVerse Poets Pub.  (Not sure this quite fits the prompt, but it is a day on the calendar that pops up for me.)

(All rights reserved to poem and photograph.).

Categories: news, poetry, Uncategorized
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October (why am I not) Surprise(d) (Dear John) (The Great….)

October 5, 2013

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October (why am I not) Surprise(d) (Dear John) (The Great….)

Come on, Pumpkin.

No!

Seriously, let’s not go through this again.

Wanna!

All we’re doing is going to the doctor, Pumpkin. You heard me make the appointment a long time ago, right? It was all agreed–

Don’ want ‘ppointment.

Remember how even Uncle Roberts said okay–

Hate Uncle Roberts!

–what with that great big hole in your head.

Hate head.

And all those foot wounds–

Wah!

I mean, I told you not to play with those pistols–

Wanna. Wannagun/wannagun/wannawannawanna gun!

And, by the way, Pumpkin–.

Mmmph…..

It’s probably not great to put them in your mouth, what with the 
powder burns and that big toe looking so–

Mmmph! Mmmphmmmphmmmphmmmphmmmph!

Yes, I know you suck, but honestly, Toots–

La La Lalalalalala (hands over ears.)

And blocking traffic is just plain–I mean, look there’s a milk truck waiting to pass; think of all the little kids that need their milk.

LALALALALALALALA! (arms and legs flattening onto the concrete. Correction, legs and one arm.)

Whoa! Could you please stop waving that thing around! I mean, you might actually miss your feet some time.

LA!

Okay, I admit it…so, it’s not just the hole in your head the doctor should see–there’s this other huge hole that’s opened up–you know, on your–

(Hands go to backside, face turns even more orange–)

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Here’s my offering for Brian Miller’s dVerse Poets Pub prompt on pumpkins.

Categories: iPad art, news, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 27 Comments

Malala Yousafzai – links to videos of U.N. speech and “Class Dismissed”

July 15, 2013

Malala Yousafzai is the young Pakistani girl who was targeted by the Taliban, pulled from her school bus in the Swat Valley in Pakistan in October 2012, and shot in the head and neck because of the advocacy of herself and her father of education for girls in Pakistan.  Here she is speaking to the U.N. yesterday last Friday, July 12.  (I believe it was n her 16th birthday.)  Her recovery if, of course, remarkable, but what is even more remarkable are her words and her delivery of them.  (It’s worth taking a look at some of the terrible comments that have been made to this remarkable video.)

We talk about a war against women in the States – and one is very conscious of this as a woman.  But it seems important to keep the context of the bigger picture in mind, which involves the subjugation of women, girls, children all over the world.  This subjugation relies on the denial of education for girls as well as opportunity  and freedom of women – every day, there are stories of  schools being blasted, teachers, social workers, students, parents, threatened and killed.   The speech is about 17 minutes long.  Even a few minutes is well worth your time.

If you do not know Malala’s story (or much about the plight of girls’ education in Pakistan), here is the link to the original New York Times documentary that initially garnered attention to her; a wonderful film by Adam B. Ellick.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9F5yeW6XFZk

Here’s finally a link to a not-very-good poem by me (well, okay poem) written about Malala right after she was shot.

Finally, we are, thankfully, in a whole different ecosystem re women and education in the United States.  But here too there are continual assaults on education, especially on education related to science, but also on education generally:  school budgets slashed, early childhood education attacked, teachers demeaned, loans for college made unaffordable, and a culture that increasingly denigrates the importance of facts, knowledge, study.   This is important stuff.  We are so lucky to have the possibility of education here – let’s take advantage of it, and try to help others also (i) have a chance for it, and (ii) see the importance of it.

Categories: news
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Comments: 4 Comments

Beyond Imagining (Oklahoma Tornado)

May 21, 2013

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I don’t have a TV so have not been able to see much video coverage of the Oklahoma tornado. It seems just beyond conception, at least my conception. Thoughts, prayers, go to everyone out there.

Categories: news, Uncategorized
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Comments: 8 Comments

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