Archive for the ‘Poems’ Category

Dunya Mikhail – Iraqi Poet in Exile

Saturday, October 9th, 2010

Dunya Mikhail is a remarkable Iraqi poet now working her craft in Michigan. Her poem “War Works Hard” is just stunning.

The War Works Hard
by Dunya Mikhail
translated by Elizabeth Winslow

How magnificent the war is!
How eager
and efficient!
Early in the morning
it wakes up the sirens
and dispatches ambulances
to various places
swings corpses through the air
rolls stretchers to the wounded
summons rain
from the eyes of mothers … read all

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

You can find out more about her at her website http://www.dunyamikhail.com/

Poets:The Far Flung Word

Friday, October 8th, 2010

I can’t say how really amazing it is to be at the GRD Poetry Festival in Newark, to see poets hailed like rock stars, to be with 1,500 people in an auditorium at 9:30 on a Friday morning to hear 3 poets read us their hearts. Two thirds of those 1,500 are high school students from the area sitting in rapt silence except for the whisper of pens over paper, and the thunder of applause after particularly heard poems.

Pod casts are promised but I can’t find them yet. Meanwhile here is one poem by Bob Hicok, a discovery for me, I will keep turning to.

POEM

Feeling the draft

by Bob Hicok

We were young and it was an accomplishment
to have a body. No one said this. No one
said much beyond “throw me that sky” or
“can the lake sleep over?” The lake could not.
The lake was sent home and I ate too many
beets, went around with beet-blood tongue
worrying about my draft card-burning brother
going to war. Other brothers became holes (more…)

The Republic of Poetry

Wednesday, October 6th, 2010
by Martin Espada

For Chile

In the republic of poetry,
a train full of poets
rolls south in the rain
as plum trees rock
and horses kick the air,
and village bands
parade down the aisle
with trumpets, with bowler hats,
followed by the president
of the republic,
shaking every hand.

In the republic of poetry,
monks print verses about the night
on boxes of monastery chocolate,
kitchens in restaurants
use odes for recipes
from eel to artichoke,
and poets eat for free.

In the republic of poetry,
poets read to the baboons
at the zoo, and all the primates,
poets and baboons alike, scream for joy.

In the republic of poetry,
poets rent a helicopter
to bombard the national palace
with poems on bookmarks,
and everyone in the courtyard
rushes to grab a poem
fluttering from the sky,
blinded by weeping.

In the republic of poetry,
the guard at the airport
will not allow you to leave the country
until you declaim a poem for her
and she says Ah! Beautiful.

I’m off for the rest of the week with a couple of friends to a poetry festival in all places, Newark, New Jersey. Many poets and story tellers in a format like a folk-festival. Among the invitees – Martin Espada. Expect some floating words…

Tongue of War: Some Poems

Wednesday, March 31st, 2010

Beach Landing, Iwo Jima

They didn’t shoot at us.  A silent scene
until we clogged the beach, and then–all hell,
potato masher hand grenades, machine
gun fire, artillery.  I swear each shell
passed close enough you could reach up and catch
it like a ball.  I crawled across black sand,
and used each corpse for cover.  Don’t attach
yourself, is what I learned.  Push it down and
crawl in a hole.  Go numb, and you’ll survive,
maybe, as I survived.  I didn’t hate
the man who charged at me with his bayonet.
I crouched and shot him dead so I could live.
But the photo in his helmet cut my heart.
A child smiling at me.  And then I wept.

U.S. Marine, Iwo Jima, 1945

from Tongue of War, Tony Barnstone  Tony is a friend of mine through our translation association [ALTA].  These are original to him, not translations. The are constructed from the journals, diaries, news accounts and oral histories of the (mostly) men who fought, or were caught,  in the Pacific in WW II

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St. Patrick’s Day Remembrance

Wednesday, March 17th, 2010

We had to leave the Hunger
said my Da. We walked
the half of Ireland
trying not to see
what it was we saw. Ditches
filled with bodies
crows and dogs. Potato
patches gone to slime.

We found a ship.
The Hunger came aboard.
The Fever lay in wait
hidden in the holds.
We slept on straw
Ate oatmeal twice a day.

My little brother died
they thew him overboard.
Then I got sick. Clouds covered
all the stars. I saw my Da
no more. We came to land.

They put me in the Quarantine,
My cousin next to me. No one
else we know. The nurse is kind
You’re just a stick, she said. They came
last night and pulled a blanket
over cousin’s eyes and took her out.
I said good bye and slept
and woke in fever dreams.
When you get better you can go
she said. Your Ma is waiting for you
just outside the walls.

*
In all the foolishness and sometimes bacchanalic celebration of St. Patrick’s Day it is good to take a moment to remember the incredible hardship and sacrifice of so many who came to the U.S. from Irish shores, especially in the famine years of the late 1850s.

As a descendant of Murphys, Sullivans, Hogans, McCarthys, McCarvilles, Aherns, Ralleys, Lyons I’ve long had a visceral link to the history of those who got me here. Earlier this year my brother, Larry Kirkland, a widely known and admired public artist, was in the final four of a competition for a memorial to the dead at the Staten Island Quarantine Station — the predecessor of Ellis Island. His concept was a series of marble monuments with draped figures resting on top and text engraved on the sides, entering into and conveying their hopes, dreams, sorrows and lives. I worked with him to provide the text.

We weren’t chosen, as perhaps too somber for what the city fathers had in mind — a pleasant tourist destination. But we are proud of what we tried to do. The text above is one of about 10 I did. Others follow, down the page…

By the way, Thomas Cahill, author of How the Irish Saved Civilization, [well worth reading] has a very nice opinion piece in the NY Times today. Read a book!

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The Way

Monday, December 7th, 2009

TaoTeChing Lao Tzu’s (Old Master) Tao Te Ching [Way and Virtue The Ancient Text] is one of the oldest meditations we have on the mysteries of existence and non-existence, light and dark, appearance and reality. Lao Tzu, to whom the text of some 81 verses [slightly different in some editions] is attributed, was likely a man by the name of Li Ehr, a keeper of the Royal Archives in the state of Chou about 516 BCE. He was known in his own time as a formidable intellect, immersed in the shamanistic and in the rationalized and organized systems of the court. He was a seer even Confucius was in awe of.

As the story goes, Confucius, from the state of Lu, came to seek Lao-tzu’s knowledge of the ceremonies and rituals of ancient kings. Li Ehr replied:

The ancients you admire have been in the ground a long time. Their bones have turned to dust. Only their words remain. Those among them who were wise rode in carriages when times were good and slipped quietly away when times were bad. I have heard that the clever merchant hides his wealth so his store looks empty and that the superior person acts dumb so he can avoid calling attention to himself. I advise you to get rid of your excessive pride and ambition. They won’t do you any good. This is all I have to say to you.

Afterwards, Confucius told his disciples: “Today when I met Lao-Tzu, it was like meeting a dragon.”

I have over a dozen translations of the Tao Te Ching, some in Spanish, some over-size gift editions, some miniature pocket editions, most in verse, some in stilted textual analysis.  The touchstone for all has long been the Witter Bynner translation of 1944, still available and still fresh and poetic.  Copper Canyon Press has just released a new edition by Red Pine which may not compete lyrically with Witter Bynner but is a very welcome addition for those of us whose appreciation lies somewhere between the two-verse casual reader and the life-lived-in-the-ideograms academic.

Red Pine is the authorial name of Bill Porter, a Vietnam war resister even as he served in the Army, an independent scholar of Chinese texts, Buddhism and Taoism.   His exhaustive translation and study of the Buddha’s Diamond Sutra [and many who have made commentaries on it] has a place of pride on my book shelf. He has done the same for the Heart Sutra.   His collection and translation of Hanshan‘s Cold Mountain is a must read, along with Gary Snyder’s more selected collection.

In the Witter Bynner Verse 4 goes like this:

4

Existence, by nothing bred,
Breeds everything.
Parent of the universe,
It smooths rough edges,
Unties hard knots,
Tempers the sharp sun,
Lays blowing dust,
Its image in the wellspring never fails.
But how was it conceived?–this image
Of no other sire.

and like this in Red Pine

The Tao is so empty
those who use it
never become full again
and so deep
as if it were the ancestor of us all
it dulls our edges
unties our tangles
softens our light
and merges our dust
it’s so clear
as if it were present
I wonder whose child it is
it seems it was here before Ti.

All translation is difficult. Translation of 2500 year old rational mystics is merely impossible. You’ll want several to support you on your own Way. Red Pine and Witter Bynner are two trustworthy guides. With each verse Red Pine offers commentary to help us enlarge the space in which the cryptic words float. If you like, the ideograms are there, carrying with them nuance and echo of already ancient beliefs and ways of being. The introduction has some fascinating ideas about the place of the moon underpinning many of the images of the Tao — not the bright full moon of western romance but the absent, dark moon between old and new.

You can order the Copper Canyon edition directly from them. I got mine at City Lights in San Francisco. You will try your local books store or Powells, or Alibris or ABE on-line before sending another nickel to Amazon….
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Big Sur in the Autumn on a Birthday

Tuesday, October 20th, 2009

The cliffs of the Santa Lucia Range
in years, a mere 5 million old,
made up of parts 100 million
more –beyond all thought;
carried, cooked, cooled and coated
in the incredible oven
that gave us life and breath
and keeps us forever warm.
And this is just the latest serving
at a table set
four thousand million beyond the beyond.

And I dare to stand on an edge
over the waters similarly old
reincarnated, rain-drop to ocean,
more times than Buddha even knows

And think about my years.

The ice plant of summer, green,
each leaf as thick as fingers
reaching for the sun
in autumn turning red
and yellow, translucent
in the angling light.

The stones below
in granite white, and hard,
green serpentine and slippery soft
let sea-waves scrub them
over centuries of centuries
until we can pocket pebbles
and carry home,
mementos of our times
when we ran free

before the wonders
in the days to come
of contemplation, time
and universe.

These cliffs which we can warm
our backs against as sun set
measures other hours gone
have grown and stood their ground
five million years and only lately
have they begun to bow in their old age
as we all do, eroded by
the wind and rain, the softer stuff
that takes us all
in our good end.

So life, our spark in time,
gives eternities
to each of us
then passes on
and we wing with it
ash and flower
in the wind.

Will Kirkland, Oct, 2009
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