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Sometimes (Unsweetened) – Englyn unodi union

October 11, 2012

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Sometimes (Unsweetened)

I sometimes understand that we’ll all die,
without last try-again.
No refill of siphoned sand,
do-over (do what we can).

And that I too, and all I love, will die.
And my cry does not call
like the mourning dove, a fall/
rise, but has no interval.

—an Englyn unodi union

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Here’s my attempt at an Englyn unodi union (whatever that is!), a Welsh form, for dVerse Poets Pub. Form for All.  For more info, check out the wonderful article by Sue Judd and Gay Reiser Cannon at dVerse.  All I can say is that it’s a syllabic form with a slightly odd rhyme scheme that probably works better in Welsh or in someone else’s hands. 

But since my two-stanza version has (with the title and little identifying material at the end, exactly 55 words, please also tell it to the G-Man.)

P.S. The photo is of the old Domino Sugar Factory in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.  

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 23 Comments

“Can’t Resist Myself” – Unreliable Narrator/Good Old Etch-a-Sketch

October 11, 2012

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Can’t Resist Myself

I’ll lower all taxes zippity doodah-
but it will be oh so reveney neutrah–
(and I sure know about revenue hoohah
‘Cause I was once a leveraged poobah.)

Close them loopholes fee-fum-fo–
But not a hole that you might know.
(If you deduce which deductions go
It won’t be cause I told you so!)

Now listen up good, while I get this right–
I will not change a thing you like!
(Least not while talking in this mike.)
(Least not in the middle of this fight.)

Leader leader zing zing zing!
Let my etch-a-sketch ring ring ring!
(Shake – is that how you work this thing?)
(Okay, got it, bingity bing.)

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I am posting this for the With Real Toads challenge to write a poem in the voice of an “unreliable narrator.”  To be read in the rhythms of Vachel Lindsay.

(Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

P.S. I appreciate that it may be a bit cryptic for those reading outside the U.S.  Again, apologies.

Categories: news, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 20 Comments

In Swat Valley, Pakistan, October 2012 (For Malala Yousafzai)

October 9, 2012

In Swat Valley, Pakistan, October 2012  (For Malala Yousafzai)

She wanted to go to school.
(They shot her in the head and neck.)
She could read and write
and did.
(They pulled her off the school bus.)
Cardboard journals and online, from age 11 to 14–
(Which one is Malala? they demanded,)
pushing for the education–
(gun muzzles ready–)
of her fellow girls.
(“Let this be a lesson,” they said.)

One wants to respond with something ringing
about the power
of a schoolgirl’s voice, but this is a real
schoolgirl–her voice sweet,
slightly nasal,
accented
with sincerity–and one needs
to just weep
for a while, all the time
vowing to learn from her,
a lesson.

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I’m trying, but can’t really write a poem about something as raw, unspeakable, heartbreaking as the shooting of Malala Yousafzai, age 14, by Taliban gunmen in the Swat Valley, Pakistan earlier today.  Malala became famous in 2009 at age 11 because of her part in a short documentary film about the closing down of girls’ education in the Swat Valley in Pakistan by the Taliban (made by Adam B. Ellick.)  The link above is to a portion of the film.  This is the link to the longer version:  “Class Dismissed” Swat Valley  
Since the  film, Malala (who is a captivatingly brave and perceptive child) has became a spokesperson for girls’ education in Pakistan, even winning a national youth prize.  Taliban gunmen forced their way onto her school bus today, shooting her in the head and neck.  She has survived the shooting.  (The Taliban said earlier that if she survived, they would continue to target her.)  
Thoughts and prayers go to Malala and her family; her father, also loving, brave, articulate, was highlighted in the film.  (He ran a girls’ school in Swat before it was shut down by the Taliban, and largely destroyed by the Pakistan Army.)   I don’t quite know what one can do about these things – other than to try to stay informed and possibly give to charities that focus on similar issues?  Nicholas Kristoff of the NY Times tends to be a source of information on such charities. 
(P.S. – I find the situation in Swat and for girls in Pakistan and Afghanistan incredibly  painful, but don’t mean to suggest here that American troops are the answer.  I don’t know what the answer is – I think knowledge and outrage help–) 

Categories: news, poetry
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“The Girl Not Wearing (At Just This Moment) The Pearl Earring” (From Steen to Vermeer)

October 8, 2012

Jan Steen, “Sick Woman,” 1665

Every week Tess Kincaid of Magpie Tales posts a pictorial prompt to be used as a writing exercise.  This week’s was a very cool painting by Jan Steen which brought to my mind a similar painting (at least in terms of costuming) by Johannes Vermeer (posted below.)  I am also linking this to dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night, hosted by Joe Hesch.

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The Girl Not Wearing (At Just This Moment) The Pearl Earring

She found a model’s life not as portrayed.
Hours sitting passed as years – her mind glazed
like the buffed veneers –
And talk about Vermeer–Johannes V.==
He demanded picture perfect, that was he!
She had to stand too==ugh!  While jolly old Jan S.,
leavened sessions with a partner, so, “why, yes,”
she’d said, to the palpating of posed wrist,
and yes again when palpate took a twist
from arm to breast to hip to inner thigh
as they’d played ‘doctor’–not so patient–(sigh….)

Which meant:  she stood once more for Master V.
who didn’t mind the curve of tummy’s “C.”
The jacket still fit great–okay, so maybe
the skirt waist had to be let out–”Don’t worry,” Johannes said,
“for now just please, oh please, don’t move your head.”

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

Check out both dVerse and Magpie Tales. And, also, if you have time, check out my books! Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape. Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

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“School Cafeteria” (Breaking of Ice Cream Bar)

October 6, 2012

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School Cafeteria

In the jimjam
din and smell,
he stood up
to peel the chocolate shell
off of his ice cream bar,
to squeeze on
ketchup,
mustard, layering the chocolate
back, the mucked and barked
vanilla gooing as if
it bled, pussed,
or stuck
its tongue out–then
bit down.  A boy,
he was,
who needed attention.

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I am posting the above (based on a memory from first grade) for dVerse Poets Pub’s Poetics Challenge on Foodloose – hosted by the wonderful Claudia Schoenfeld.  Sorry that it’s a bit less than appetizing! 

Check out the great poets at dVerse.  Also, if you have time this Columbus Day weekend – check out my books! Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape. Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 28 Comments

Leaves Land (Friday Flash 55)

October 5, 2012

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Oh Leaves

Leaves land
on land
on leaves
(grass sleeves)
on rock
(where they lie stock
still),
or on hill
(where they spill
and turn)
on fern,
fall from high
to cow pie
or get caught
on some sly
twig–not
their own–which
they’ve flown–oh
leaves–till they land
on land
and leaves, other
leaves.

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The above is my extremely belated Flash Friday 55 for the wonderful G-man. Go tell him even late! And rub some leaves in his hair!

Also, if you have time this Columbus Day weekend – check out my books! Poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, (by Karin Gustafson, illustrated by Diana Barco). 1 Mississippi -counting book for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel that is perfect for a pool or beachside escape. Nose Dive is available on Kindle for just 99 cents!

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My Fair Ladies? No Room For Their Own (Securing the Chaste in Prose/poetry)

October 4, 2012

My Fair Ladies?  (No Room For Their Own)

My female ancestors from the far North were lucky, I realize of late.

Living in a raw climate, they could tolerate the extra layer of chastity belt.

Sure, it clanked when they walked, but the red hot poker up the janzi and similar genital reconfigurations were saved for royalty and,
occasionally, the psychically inclined.

All I want is a room somewhere–

While my particular ancestors were none of these, but commoner sorts.

Far awaiiy
from the–
 
Born into an age and place that needed women able to walk (even if clanking)–

cold night air–

a barren landscape where the few females were valuable, if chattel,

with one enormous chairrrrrr—

whereas in the more populated world of today, it seems that women are sometimes

Ow–

expendable chattel. 

And, what with scrap metal so precious and thorns and threads and knives and other young girls so cheap,

no one even bothers with–

loverly–

clanking.  Cutting straight to the–

loverly–

chas(t)e.

While in my so-lucky case,  I can worry about

a room somewhere–

So way beyond unfair,

heart hurts.

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I’m sorry to those who follow this blog that I am still thinking a lot about the oppression of women – a very big and grim subject.

The above is a draft poem for dVerse Poets Pub Meeting the Bar challenge hosted by Anna Montgomery which is a challenge to mix up poetry and prose.  In this case, my poetry owes a debt to Alan Jay Lerner, the lyricist of “My Fair Lady.”  

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This Is Not Really About Pleasure (FGM)

October 3, 2012

This Is Not Really About Pleasure (FGM)

Cuttings’ stitched wounds
don’t leave much room
for babies, pee, their own
seepage, periods–
though, yes, penises
apparently–
Cuts made by other women, cut
scarred
women.
140 million.

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I am still in the throes of  “Half the Sky” a documentary about the oppression of women made by Nicholas Kristoff and Sheryl WuDonn.  One focus – female genital mutilation (FGM) – the cutting and sewing up of the vaginas of very young girls. Many think the practice, also called female circumcision, only (ONLY!) cuts away the clitoris of girls so that they will not be tempted by sexual pleasure, but in many cultures, the cuts are far more expansive with horrible consequences for women’s health, particularly their reproductive health, for their lifetimes.  The World Health Organization estimates that there are currently living 140 million women who have suffered some form of this cutting.  

Some talk of respect for the traditions of different cultures; I can’t think of that applying here. 

I am linking this to With Real Toads, a prompt by the wonderful Mama Zen to write something about conflict in less than 30 words.  (In my case – not including title!) 

 

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In “Honor” of “Half The Sky”

October 2, 2012

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Honor killing

The knife slides in
with force.
She is thinner than he’s remembered,
collarbone sharp
as hook he thrashes
against.
Mind snags heart, but
cannot aim for breast;
only knife can look
past nipple.
Smaller than
he’s remembered,
with too-soft skin that folds within
whites of eyes big as
blade.
He tries to think
of flame, the veiled
body of smoke, the dried
bone of ash, but blood–
fountains,
in honor of
the righteous
fountains.
Why has she made him
righteous
do this
with force.

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I’ve revised and rewritten this older poem (from my book, Going on Somewhere) after seeing the first half of the wonderful documentary by Nicholas Kristoff (of The New York Times) HALF THE SKY – about the opppression of women around the globe.   (The name comes from the idea that women hold up half the sky.)  The second half of the film will be on PBS tonight.  It is inspiring/heart-breaking.  My poem happens to deal with honor killings, but there is plenty of other violence and oppression of women going on among communities of many different cultural and religious backgrounds – unprosecuted  rape, sex trafficking, neglect.   Awful stuff; important to know–and do something– about; helping/educating women a key to helping the planet on almost every level.

I am posting this for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night, hosted by the marvelous Hedgewitch, a/k/a Joy Ann Jones.

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Fear and Loathing on the Number 4

September 30, 2012

Boy on Number 4 Train

“The people here
are f—ing animals,” says hard-
creased mom to youngish son
as they slip between
double rubber, closing doors.

The boy, buzz-cut (mom holding Yankees cap), edges
uneasily through the crush
towards center pole–

Mom hooks him
before he can latch on–“These people push you,”
she snarls,
“I’ll push ‘em back.”

I try to angle smile that only boy
will see (so that the mom
won’t slug me), but boy
turns face to door where, nothing
to hold, he lists with the tight
lurches
till mom’s boa arm heavily
steadies.

Then, even as train
smooths, even as she
releases, he bangs
his head against the dark glass—-

The bangs are soft below the train’s
clatter–
now again–but
definite–now
again–eyes lowered–

Mom’s harsh lines
limp; she spans one hand
to his forehead as if
to take the hits herself–
now again–

In the jumble of next,
seat empties – I point it out–
boy sits; she smiles at me,
sort of.

Then each of us consciously
looks neither at the other or
the boy,
peering instead
through the translucence of
train fug–the rumple of so many–

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I am posting the above – a re-write- very belatedly for dVerse Poets Pub’s Poetics prompt about people watching hosted by the very good people-watcher Brian Miller.  

Categories: New York City, news, poetry, Stress
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