Janice D. Soderling

September 20, 2022

“War as a Spectator Sport” by Janice D. SoderlingPosted by

Janice D. Soderling

WAR AS A SPECTATOR SPORT

Oh, let the ground be muddy.
Oh, let the mild rains fall.
It’s winter in the oblast
And there’s writing on the wall.
 
But no one can interpret it.
A threat? Or folderol?
Only Putin in his fox lair knows.
En garde? Advance? Withdraw?
 
Oh, may oil be delivered
On bobsled or on skis.
Winter war like winter sports
Requires an awesome freeze.
 
So let the ground be muddy.
Let the Arctic tundra thaw.
Let’s fly the aspidistra now
And frack one last hurrah!
 
Bow down before the money god.
We’ve worshipped there before.
Excuse me one brief minute.
Someone’s knocking on the door.
 
Back now. It was that Orwell chap
With pizzas, strangely grinning.
Turn up the heat. And pass the beer.
What did I miss? Who’s winning?
 

—from Poets Respond
September 20, 2022

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Janice D. Soderling: “In winter wars, as in winter sports, weather is often a determining factor. As cold weather approaches, there is considerable speculation about the future of the war in Ukraine and Europe’s ability to withstand the impending energy crisis, about Putin’s next move, about which countries might choose oil over promises, about future energy sources (nuclear plants reopening, fracking, Arctic drilling). In much of the reporting, as in private opining, the war is entertainment. George Orwell wrote a socially critical novel, Keep the Aspidistra Flying, in which the protagonist declares war on the money god, but later surrenders his ideals.”

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March 22, 2015

“Dolphin Legend of the World Before” by Janice D. SoderlingPosted by

Janice D. Soderling

DOLPHIN LEGEND OF THE WORLD BEFORE

In the world that was before ours,
In the warring age of walkers,
There were many wondrous weapons
But the boom-boom was the greatest.

Many walker lands had boom-booms,
The most powerful kind of kill-kills.
It could out-boom other kill-kills.
It could melt their eyes to jelly.

When the first boom-boom exploded,
It was for the great god True Man
And his people were the greatest
And his people ruled our seas.

They had many wondrous engines
That held voices in flat boxes,
Handsome captive heads in boxes
To praise boom-boom and make rain.

Other countries had the boom-boom,
And still others wanted boom-booms
But they feared the True Man people
But they feared their nation-building.

Fearless was the droll god Put In
Who rode stallions through the desert,
Wrestled wild bears in the forest,
Who could disappear at will.

Mighty Put In god said, “Got it.
I got boom-boom-boom. I got it.
I will Put In it your walk land.
Hear my thunder, True Man people.

First one thing and then another
As the heads escaped their boxes,
As the voices turned to silence,
As the walker lands all warred.

So the True Man era ended.
So all walker countries perished.
So the golden age of Dolphin.
So our thumbless golden age.

—Poets Respond
March 22, 2015

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Janice D. Soderling: “This poem is in response to the news revealed this week in a documentary that Putin was ready to put his nuclear forces on alert to deter possible intervention by Western powers in the Crimean takeover. Two references, one BBC and one the New York Times. This is particularly interesting because much of Europe is now waiting for his next step.”

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December 30, 2014

“The Diminishing Politics of Senator Les S. Moore” by Janice D. SoderlingPosted by

Janice D. Soderling

THE DIMINISHING POLITICS OF SENATOR LES S. MOORE

He promises, he pleads, he plies.
No matter that his truths are lies.
He has the future in his eyes.

Exuding witty, city charm,
he claims just once will do no harm
and soon she’s leaning on his arm.

Says he, My sweet, I know not where
I’ve seen such breasts or silky hair.
Your very breath refines the air.

Cream and peaches is your skin.
I die of love. Our souls are kin.
Of course the goose will vote him in.

This is, of course, a metaphor.
You know who senators pimp for,
who screws both ends of either/or.

Where there’s a con, there is a shill.
Who rides the jet? Who slogs the hill?
Who’s doing great? Who’s faring ill?

Who reaps the kale our country grows,
that shiny green in endless rows?
Who sells their souls? Who owns? Who owes?

Behold the Politic Noblesse
they smile and wave, they scam and bless.
The rich get more, the poor get less.

Each self-excusing sneaky cheat,
just grins when life turns up the heat
and shrugs: Hey folks, I gotta eat.

—from Rattle #44, Summer 2014

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Janice D. Soderling: “The impetus for this poem was, sadly, the US government shutdown of 2013. Although John and Jane Doe were trying to recover from the recession, a majority of Washington politicians declined to do the job they were elected to do. I am a huge admirer of Sinclair Lewis, whom everyone should be reading in these confused times. I write a lot of poetry and stories with a political edge because I think it is my duty. I also write the other kind.”

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March 12, 2013

“Real Men Don’t Take No Shit From Nobody” by Janice D. SoderlingPosted by

Janice D. Soderling

REAL MEN DON’T TAKE NO SHIT FROM NOBODY

White man
Black man
Yellow man
Grief.

Doctor
Farmer
Soldier
Chief.

Hittin’
Spittin’
Cussin’
Hard.

Bury
Their wives
In the cold
Graveyard.

—from Rattle #37, Summer 2012

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Janice D. Soderling: “Unless they have been sanitized, nursery rhymes have a dark edge. The cradle will fall; the cupboard was bare; she had so many children, she didn’t know what to do. I overheard someone claim wife-battering was a class and ethical issue. I’ve worked at a shelter and know better. The old rhyme ‘Rich man, poor man’ popped into my mind and I heard the trochaic punches: POW and POW and POW and the metrical change of the finale, the spondee closure—graveyard. It writ itself; I just got it down on paper.”

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