Category Archives: Poetry

“Clan” – Poem by Jamaica-born Colin Channer

30 Sunday Sep 2018

Posted by in Poetry

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Front Cover - Providential - Poems by Colin Channer

Front Cover: Providential: Poems by Colin Channer
Photo Credit: Akashic Books

 

My Poetry Corner October 2018 features the poem “Clan” from the poetry collection, Providential, by Colin Channer, a novelist and poet born in Kingston, Jamaica. At eighteen, upon completion of high school, he migrated to New York to pursue a career in journalism. He earned a B.A. in Media Communications from Hunter College of the City University of New York. Father of two, he currently lives in New England.

When Channer was six years old, his father, a policeman, left the family, forcing his mother to work two jobs. After her daytime job as a pharmacist at a local hospital, she worked nights in a drugstore. Channer’s collection explores the violence of policing that ruined his father, their fractured relationship, and the challenges of being a better father to his own teenage son.

Channer’s teenage years contrasts with that of his American-born son. In his poem “Mimic,” he observes his son, born with the ears of a mimic: 

Makonnen, Brooklyn teenager
with Antillean roots
replanted in Rhode Island,
a state petiter than the country
where my navel string was cut.

After guiding his son through the roots of the civil war in Liberia – founded on the coast of Guinea / by ex-chattel – Channer reflects on his kinsmen in Jamaica.

How they discuss a slaughter
with ease, by rote,
never as something spectacular,
absurd. And I belong to them,
on two sides, for generations,
by blood. 

My kinsmen aren’t poets.
They’re cops. Continue reading →

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“Mary Comes Down” – Poem by Jeannine M Pitas

02 Sunday Sep 2018

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Immigrant Women in Line for Inspection at Ellis Island - New York

Photo Credit: The Newberry Digital Collections for the Classroom

 

My Poetry Corner September 2018 features the poem “Mary Comes Down” from the poetry collection Thank You For Dreaming by Jeannine M. Pitas. Native of Buffalo, New York, Pitas is a poet, writer, teacher, and Spanish-English literary translator. She holds a PhD in Comparative Literature from the University of Toronto, Canada. She currently lives in Dubuque, Iowa, where she is an Assistant Professor of English and Spanish at the University of Dubuque.

Pitas dedicates the poems in this collection “to those who dream.” She writes in her poem, “thank you for dreaming”:

you have made it to this adopted country
with your heart intact
and you will use it to find people
like you, once silenced –
touched and held
by your dreams

In “Just after my mother tells me she voted for Trump,” Pitas questions her mother’s xenophobia. Had her mother forgotten that she had sent Jeannine to Polish Saturday School and that Jeannine’s Polish great-grandmother had refused to speak English?

America First, American carnage, make America
great again, pass the ban, build the wall,
Mama, Mamusia, tell me –
Where on earth do you think we came from?
Who the hell can we say we are?

Rejecting the divisive politics of xenophobia and hate, Pitas seeks connection with the Other. “I want to touch your life with mine,” she repeats twice in her poem, “To an Immigrant.” Continue reading →

“International Congress of Fear” by Brazilian Poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade

05 Sunday Aug 2018

Posted by in Brazil, Poetry

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Statue of Carlos Drummond de Andrade - Copacabana - Rio de Janeiro

Bronze Statue of Carlos Drummond de Andrade – Copacabana – Rio de Janeiro – Brazil
Photo Credit: Viagens Vamos Nessa! (Alexandre Macieira/Riotur)

 

My Poetry Corner August 2018 features the poem “International Congress of Fear” (Congresso Internacional do Medo) by Brazilian poet, journalist, and literary critic Carlos Drummond de Andrade (1902-1987), born in Itabira in Minas Gerais, Southeast Brazil. Considered one of the most influential Brazilian poets of the twentieth century, Drummond remains well-loved by the people for his humility and concern with the plight of modern man and struggle for freedom and dignity. 

Home of Carlos Drummond de Andrade - Itabira - Minas Gerais - Brazil

Home of Carlos Drummond de Andrade – Itabira – Minas Gerais – Brazil
Photo Credit: Passeios.org

 

At nineteen, Drummond began his writing career as a columnist for the Diário de Minas newspaper. At his parents’ insistence, he qualified as a pharmacist in 1925 but never practiced the profession. Instead, he cofounded a literary journal and joined the Brazilian Modernist movement. After entering the public service in 1934, he was transferred to Rio de Janeiro where he worked in the Ministry of Education & Public Health, then the National Historical and Artistic Heritage Service. Continue reading →

“Broken System” – Spoken Word Poem by Guyanese Poet Renata Burnette

01 Sunday Jul 2018

Posted by in Poetry

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houston-home-50

Victim of domestic violence with her mother – Guyana

 

My Poetry Corner July 2018 features the spoken word poem, “Broken System,” by young Guyanese poet Renata Burnette. Residing in the capital, Georgetown, she is a second-year undergraduate at the University of Guyana, pursuing a degree in Communications.

Renata’s poetry calls attention to the daily struggles and issues of young Guyanese, especially those in their late teens and twenties. She gained national attention in August 2016 with her poem, “Dear Mr. President,” expressing her challenges in finding a job as an undergraduate.

In “Broken System,” published on Guyana’s Independence Day, May 26, 2018, the poet portrays a system that offers little to no protection to the country’s vulnerable youth.

We have 15-year-old girls being gang raped; boys being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just children running away from their homes because the ones that are supposed to be protecting them, they’re now physically and sexually abusing them… These children, they have no faith in us because we have failed them…

Renata observes that the justice system fails these abused children by either condemning them to the juvenile penitentiary or returning them to their abusers. Further on, she raises the issue of drug dealing and the difficulty of finding work, even for someone with higher education.

So how do we fix the system, the same system that’s putting away our young men for selling or smoking weed, but we’re yet to curb the increase of lung cancer disease that’s mainly caused by tobacco smoking, also known as cigarette smoking. So what do we do? We put a warning label on the pack and just hope that it stops… And even when I graduate from one of the highest institutions in the land, they cannot guarantee me a job…with or without this degree. And you want to know why our young people are out here selling weed. Food for thought. Stay woke. See, plugs make more money than teachers make on their government salaries.

Without a pause, Renata addresses sexual harassment. No subject is taboo for our young poet.

And if you’re a woman in today’s society then sexual harassment is something that you’re almost guaranteed. It’s like a rite of passage, so be careful. Don’t wear anything loose, don’t appear to be too revealing, because when the man across the street shouts for you, calling you every single thing except your name, you better look… But really and truly all our tongues burn to say is just stay away from me. But we’re too scared because our system is broken; it’s backwards…

The system also fails victims of domestic violence. The police, the poet notes, not only show up until after the attack, but there’s also no justice for the woman.

And even though she’s the victim, there would be no justice for he [the abuser] knows people in high positions. You know, that can make a police report disappear regardless of how he acts. Those kind-a people in authority that have a knack for sweeping every single thing under the mat…

Like a maestro conducting an orchestra, the young poet controls the rising and falling rhythm with expressive hands. Without a script. Giving voice to the voiceless.

On America’s Independence Day, I offer these closing words of insight from our young Guyanese spoken word poet (emphasis mine):

If history has proven anything, it’s that the truth would always survive and, if needs be, it would bleed through crooked lines.

You can watch Renata Burnette’s performance on YouTube. For my complete transcript of “Broken System” and to learn more about the poet, go to my Poetry Corner July 2018.

CAPTIONED PHOTO
Victim of domestic violence with her mother, Guyana
In 2013, Natasha Houston’s husband killed their two children, slashed her arm and hand, then killed himself.
Photo Credit: WGVU News

“american child” – Poem by normal

03 Sunday Jun 2018

Posted by in Poetry, United States

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Four-year-old American child learns to us a machine gun

Four-year-old American child – in the age of the National Rifle Association – learns to use a machine gun
Photo Credit: ABC News Video (January 2014)

 

My Poetry Corner June 2018 features an excerpt from the poem “american child” by normal. Raised in Passaic, New Jersey, normal is a poet and registered nurse now retired and living in Saugerties, New York.

As a young poet in the early 1960s, he began reading his work at the Rafio Café in Greenwich Village, frequented by Beat poets and writers. Among the poets who influenced normal’s sensibilities is the American poet, e.e. cummings (1894-1962), whose use of low-case letters and minimal punctuation he emulates.

The following excerpts come from normal’s chapbooks, Blood on the Floor (1999) and American Child (2001).

His poem “blood on the floor” brings to mind America’s powerlessness to end mass shootings, stealing the future of our children.

don’t slip
there is blood on the floor.

blood of apathy
blood of the dispassionate
the ignoring
blood of those numbed by dumb
life
blood of those who pretend it
never happens / the cheerfully
humbled who go about it all
smiling.

Meanwhile, the raindrops are loaded / with the eyes of children.

The featured poem, “american child,” portrays Americans in all our glory and shame. Penned on Labor Day 2000, the poem begins with the plight of the American worker.

i am the child of america
the sierra madres are bleeding
i am america
the mad & the magnate marry
the factory wolf howls
i am america
the mantra rumbles with the kinds & the cripples.

Trappings of American life ring through the verses: dinty moore stew, soup kitchens, porno talkshows, paparazzi, honkytonk queen, sams club, home depot, tickertape parade, flophouse, and more.

Four stanzas speak of “death to” individuals, special groups, historical events, and man-made systems. Among the targets are lewis & clark, manifest destiny, trail of tears & of schemes, and the american dream. The poet also boots the capitalist, communist, anarchist, antichrist, and atheist. (I would like to add racist and misogynist.)

Apart from lewis & clark, normal mentions several other personalities that make up the American character: joe dimaggio, thomas jefferson, geronimo, benedict arnold, einstein, and chief joseph. (No shout out to Frederick Douglass or Martin Luther King?)   

In the following stanza, the poet captures the schizoid character of the American child and his impact on the world:

i am beauty
i am invention
i am wonder
i am the united fruit company
i am promontory point pikes peak & mai lie
i am the glory
i am the savior
i am the black tide of the acid sky

(mai lie instead of My Lai reframes the massacre in Vietnam.)

[…]

fool / genius // the kind of heaven & hell // the arithmetic eyes of the bureaucrat robot

Yet, for all his flaws, the American child is a fighter and survivor in a crazy world, as normal concludes in his final verses.

i am the feral infant dancing on the freakstage / of the final sunset // i am the child of america.

Much has changed over the past seventeen plus years since normal’s portrayal of the American child. How could he have foreseen Presidents Barack Obama and Donald Trump? I live in hope that an American child – rising from a bloody school floor; less feral and more inclusive – has now embarked on the path to the presidency.

To read the excerpt from the featured poem and learn more about the work of normal, go to my Poetry Corner June 2018.

 

“Poems for the Men of Our Time” by Brazilian Poet Hilda Hilst

06 Sunday May 2018

Posted by in Poetry

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Entrance to Hilda Hilst Institute - Casa do Sol - Campinas - Sao Paulo - Brazil

Entrance to Hilda Hilst Institute – Casa do Sol – Campinas – São Paulo – Brazil

 

My Poetry Corner May 2018 features an excerpt from “Poems for the Men of Our Time” (Poemas aos Homens do Nosso Tempo) by Brazilian poet, playwright, and novelist Hilda Hilst (1930-2004), born in Jaú in the interior of São Paulo, Southeast Brazil. Soon after her birth, her mother moved with her to Santos, a coastal city and port. Her father wanted a lover, not a wife. Having a girl child was “bad luck,” he told her mother. Hilda grew up determined to prove him wrong.

Hilda was seven years old when her mother revealed the truth: Her father suffered from paranoid schizophrenia. Her father’s mental illness and his frequent internment over the years, until his death in 1966, had a profound effect on her poetry and fiction which often drew upon themes of intimacy and insanity with elements of magical realism.

I initiated dialogue a thousand times. It is hopeless.
I prepare and accept myself
Flesh and spirit undone. We could try,
My father, the unequal and tortured poem,
And embrace each other in silence. In secret.
~ Final stanza, “Of the joyful and very unhappy love – 1,” Exercises by Hilda Hilst, 2001.

Though her first love was poetry, like her father, Hilst followed her mother’s advice and studied law at the University of São Paulo (1948-1952). During this period, she published her first two poetry collections (1950 & 1951). After working for a year at an attorney’s office in São Paulo, she abandoned law for the writer’s life. Continue reading →

“This is My Meditation” – Poem by Guyanese-born Author & Poet Sir Wilson Harris

01 Sunday Apr 2018

Posted by in Poetry

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Dawn and Evening Star, Olmec Maya Series by Guyanese-born Artist Aubrey Williams, 1982

Dawn & Evening Star, Olmec Maya Series (1982) by Guyanese-born Artist Aubrey Williams
Source: October Gallery

 

On March 8th, Guyana’s illustrious literary writer, Sir Wilson Harris, died at the age of ninety-six in England where he had lived since 1959. Born in 1921 in New Amsterdam, British Guiana (now Guyana), Harris began his writing career as a poet, obtaining exposure through the colony’s literary magazine, Kyk-over-Al. My Poetry Corner April 2018 features one of these poems, “This is My Meditation,” published in 1947. Since I couldn’t find the original title of this poem, I’ve used the opening words as a substitute.

When he was two years old, Harris lost his father, “a well-off insurance businessman with a chauffeur-driven car.” His mother moved to the capital, Georgetown, and remarried. Six years later, tragedy struck again. His stepfather disappeared; believed drowned in the Interior.

“At almost the same time, I saw a beggar on a street corner, with holes in his face,” Harris tells Maya Jaggi (The Guardian, December 2006). “I came home and couldn’t eat – I never forgot that man.”

After completing his studies at Queen’s College, the prestigious secondary school for boys in Georgetown, Harris trained in land surveying and geomorphology. Beginning in 1942, his work as a government surveyor, charting the great rivers of the colony’s interior rainforest and savanna regions, changed his vision of man’s relation to the planet.

balata_bleeders_shooting_rapids_on_the_cuyuni,_british_guiana_c1908

Balata Bleeders Shooting Rapids on the Cuyuni River, Interior of British Guiana (c.1908)
Source: Overtown Miscellany UK/John S Sargent

 

“The shock of contrasts in river, forest, waterfall had registered very deeply in my psyche,” Harris tells Fred D’Aguiar (Bomb Magazine, January 2003). “So deeply that to find oneself without a tongue was to learn of a music that was wordless, to descent into varying structures upon parallel branches of reality, branches that were rooted in a stem of meaning for which no absolute existed.”

Of equal importance was his discovery of pre-Columbian myth and history gained through his contacts with the indigenous peoples in the region.

In his poem, “This is My Meditation,” the young poet calls out what he sees as the cruelty of the Christian God in the treatment of His beloved son, Jesus, left alone to suffer the painful and humiliating death by crucifixion. Continue reading →

“Camelot or Haunted Eden” by American Poet Angela Consolo Mankiewicz

04 Sunday Mar 2018

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Lancelot_and_Guinevere_-_Herbert_James_Draper - c. 1890
Lancelot & Guinevere by Herbert James Draper (c.1890)
King Arthur’s Court – Camelot
Source: Wikipedia

 

My Poetry Corner March 2018 features the poem “Camelot or Haunted Eden” by American poet, Angela Consolo Mankiewicz (1944-2017). March 7th marks one year since she lost her battle with lung cancer, leaving behind her husband of forty-five years.

In August 2017, Richard Mankiewicz compiled a Limited Edition of his wife’s body of work in the collection The Poetry of Angela Consolo Mankiewicz. In the Foreword, he shares her farewell message to him in which she built upon the poem “Camelot or Haunted Eden,” first published in Summer 1989.

What words say Love the way I feel it? she asks in the opening lines of her farewell message. In the face of death, during this Horror of a year, their love is all that matters.

She then speaks of Gratitude for things born of your true Love… / Who would have thought Gratitude could be so pure, so wonderful…

She returns to the love, quoting from the featured poem, “Camelot or Haunted Eden,” but omitting the final stanza in which she had expressed her fear of him dying before she did. Life can be unpredictable.

In the first stanza, after over sixteen years together – when the poem was first published – Mankiewicz ponders a love that’s attentive to her needs and calms her fears, like a knight in armor, yet doesn’t suffocate or impede her to pursue her own dreams.

What is this love that rests inside his heart,
That succors me but lets me breathe apart?
This well from which I fetch a word, a hug,
A kiss that lets me live this day and shrug
Off demons that invade my artless brain;
This armor plate, this clasp without a chain. 

The day to day stresses of life can gnaw at any relationship. Happy the couple who help each other recover from incoming assaults with a willing ear, a hug, an encouraging word, as the poet shares in the second stanza.

This love that rocks the stress of everyday
Away from me and lightens my dismay.
This love that makes a lap for me to sink
Inside when worlds collide and I can’t think.
A love that sits with ready arms to hold
My weariness when I am feeling old. 

Yet, the greatest challenge to an enduring marriage is often our character flaws, whether the size of a lime or grapefruit, that can corrode a fragile relationship. In the last stanza of her farewell message, Mankiewicz expresses her good fortune in finding a lifelong partner who loves her with all her human frailty.  

A love that loves my pride and childish grins.
A love that knows my soul and shares my sins.
A love that brought me more than one can earn,
That only luck’s good fortune can discern. 

Camelot or Haunted Eden? Over the years, life-threatening health issues haunted their Eden. No marital relationship, even one that endures forty-five years, is perfect. Life has its pain and anxieties. What makes the difference is the love and gratitude that we sprinkle daily along the journey. Mankiewicz’s farewell message to her husband says it all.

To read the complete featured poem and learn more about the work of Angela Consolo Mankiewicz, go to my Poetry Corner March 2018.

 

“Theology of Junk” by Brazilian Poet Manoel de Barros

04 Sunday Feb 2018

Posted by in Poetry

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Giant Water Lily - Victoria Amazonia - Pantanal - Mato Grosso do Sul - Brazil

Giant water lily, Victoria Amazonica – Pantanal – Mato Grosso do Sul – Center-West Brazil
Photo Credit: Andre Dib/WWF

 

My Poetry Corner February 2018 features the poem “Theology of Junk” (Teologia do Traste) by Brazilian poet, lawyer, and farmer Manoel de Barros (1916-2014). Born in Cuiába, Mato Grosso, he was a year old when his father decided to start a cattle ranch in Pantanal, the world’s largest wetland area, in Mato Grosso do Sul. The young Manoel grew up playing in the yard, between the pens and the “unimportant things” that would influence his poetry.

In “Manoel by Manoel,” he describes his childhood experience:

… I used to play pretending that stone
was lizard. That a can was a ship. That the sloth was a
little problematic creature and equal to a young grasshopper.
I grew up playing on the ground, among ants. Of a
childhood free and without comparisons. I had more
communion with things than with comparison.

When he moved to the city to go to school, Manoel found it a strange and complicated world. In the countryside, they had to make their own toys: small bone animals, sock balls, tin can cars. In “About Scrap Metal,” from his book Memories Invented for Children (2006), he observes:

I saw that everything that man makes becomes scrap metal: bicycle, plane, automobile. What doesn’t become scrap is only bird, tree, frog, stone. Even a spaceship becomes scrap metal. Now I think a white swamp heron is more beautiful than a spaceship. I beg your pardon for committing this truth.

Great uses for scrap metal
Photo Credit: Premier Metal Buyers

  Continue reading →

Planet Earth: Our Home & Resting Place

28 Sunday Jan 2018

Posted by in Nature and the Environment, Poetry

≈ 47 Comments

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View of Earth from Space - NASA

View of Earth by the Apollo 17 Crew while traveling to the Moon on December 7, 1972
Photo Credit: NASA

 

Planet Earth
Mother Gaia to the Ancient Greeks
goddess and primordial power
to emerge after Chaos

Spinning and hurtling through space
at about 66,600 miles per hour
always in motion
trapped in orbit around the Sun

Earth your home and mine
no escape
gravity holds us all hostage
except for

Astronauts and cosmonauts
in their rocket ships
a privileged few
to view Earth from space
a tiny, fragile, blue ball of life
with a paper-thin shield
hanging in the void
exposed & vulnerable to

Solar flares and radiation
reflected and absorbed by a 300-mile-thick atmosphere
holding the life-giving air we breathe
a ticking time-bomb with rising carbon dioxide levels
as of January 25, 2018
the Doomsday Clock moved to two minutes to midnight
a notch closer to the end of humanity
from looming threats of climate change and nuclear war

Doomsday Clock updated to two minutes to midnight - 25 January 2018

Doomsday Clock updated to two minutes to midnight – January 25, 2018
Updated yearly by the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists since its creation in 1947
Photo Credit: Science Magazine

 

Spaceship Earth
one living, breathing organism
with one destiny
the “overview effect” causes
a cognitive shift of self-awareness
as part of the larger whole 

Mother Earth Gaia
our home and final resting place
if we the people of Earth don’t take care of her
if we don’t set aside our differences
and work together
who else will

Watch the Video: The Overview Effect