October 16, 2016

Ned Balbo

CRYBULLY

after the second 2016 Presidential debate

Crybully never hits. He hits you back.
He’s got to. You spoke out, and started it.
You’re wrong again, he’s happy to admit.
He’ll tell you so before your next attack,

which he’ll insist is anything you say.
Don’t show them any weakness is his motto.
Crybully’s favorite tactic is bravado.
He punches hard, so get out of his way!

Does he apologize? What do you think?
He spits out answers, fully automatic.
If speech were radio, he’d be the static.
He’ll trip you with a handshake and a wink,

then tell the world you brought it on yourself.
Crybully knows no limits except yours.
Are you the vacuum that his power abhors?
He read a book once, tossed it on the shelf,

but still remembers some of what it said—
Something about a big lie, or the rate
at which the gullible may procreate—
(A minute: that’s one more!) And yet his dread,

shameful and dark, is obvious to all—
The whole world’s ganging up on him again!
In victory, he’ll prove the better man
by jailing the vanquished as they fall—

Crybully’s sure of this, and other things:
The whole world envies him, including you.
He’ll touch and grab you if you want him to,
or if you don’t. That’s how it is with kings,

and why Crybully follows you around.
He hears you talking calmly, and he seethes
self-righteously, or roars. Sniffs when he breathes.
He’ll deafen us before you make a sound,

destroy your life and family, burn your town
because you stood your ground and met his gaze.
Crybully even scares his friends these days,
but will he lift a finger when they drown?

fromPoets Respond
October 16, 2016

[download audio]

__________

Ned Balbo: “The last debate just got me so angry I had to get it out of my system with this poem.” (website)

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October 14, 2016

Ned Balbo

RARE BOOK AND READER

Helen D. Lockwood Library,
Vassar College, September 1977

Back in the days when we called freshmen freshmen,
I was one, a lank-haired Vassar co-ed
newly landed, searching for the reason
I was there. Before me, dead ahead,
the future held its promise like the shaded
vistas in brochures, or like an album
on the rack the moment you’ve decided
that you have to buy it, take it home—

and so I felt (caught in that no man’s land
of post-arrival limbo, nothing sure
except how much I didn’t understand
of privilege, wealth, and class), this much was clear:
the album’s title—Past, Present, and Future
and the cloak of Marvel’s Doctor Strange
vanishing through some portal on the cover
promised an escape—at least a change.

The last track was inspired by Nostradamus,
Gallic seer and astrologer
who wrote The Prophecies, mysterious
quatrains of cryptic riddles that declare
foreknowledge of disaster, plague, and war,
offering hints that tease and tantalize
(through allegory, tangled metaphor)
the gullible who read with opened eyes—

Hister (Hitler?), three brothers (Kennedys?)
world wars (all three?)—well, sure, he could be wrong,
but if Al Stewart thought the prophecies
troubling enough to put them in a song,
what else would time confirm before too long?
I sat, the huge book open to a page
five hundred years old, in a foreign tongue
(French mostly), brought out carefully from storage

by a young librarian, or senior,
watchful and amused at my expense.
Who wouldn’t be? She knew I was no scholar
steeped in sixteenth-century charlatans,
but just some boy who’d wandered in by chance
or impulse, new to college, drifting still,
his mind enraptured by coincidence
proclaimed as proof, each generation’s will

to buy such bunk, as always, bottomless.
Now I’d beheld an ur-text, reassured
it did exist. A reader under glass,
I sat, sealed in the hush, but not one word—
archaic, clue-encoded—struck a chord:
I’d never studied French! And yet I’d seen
the priceless artifact kept under guard
in some dark vault climate-controlled within

the labyrinthine archives I envisioned;
briefly exposed to light and then returned
to deep oblivion, the world’s end
unknown and waiting. What else had I learned?
That where the distant future is concerned,
no language equal to it can exist
nor is there language clear and unadorned
to show how time recedes into the past

—or if there is, it’s written not for us
but for the eyes of one whose practiced gaze
sees farther than our own—who knows that loss
becomes the weight and measure of our days—
who, in the hidden turnings of a phrase,
detects a revelation cast in code
we almost grasp but which remains, always,
unbroken, like the mercy that we’re owed.

from Rattle #53, Fall 2016
Tribute to Adjuncts

[download audio]

__________

Ned Balbo: “In 2014, I was dismissed from my position as an adjunct associate professor after 24 years at a mid-Atlantic Jesuit university. Administrative turnover and the Great Recession had led to policy changes that prohibited contract renewals for full-time adjuncts in my category, and I was only one of many who lost a place during this period. AAUP (the American Association of University Professors) intervened on my behalf, to no avail; so did many tenured colleagues who found their voices ignored when they spoke out to defend the full-time adjunct colleagues whom they valued. In the end, their efforts succeeded in reversing university policy, but not before most of the full-time adjuncts affected had already been dismissed. (In the two years since, a few have been rehired at reduced status.)” (website)

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June 30, 2010

Review by Laryssa WirstiukSomething Must Happen by Ned Balbo

SOMETHING MUST HAPPEN
by Ned Balbo

Finishing Line Press
P.O. Box 1626
Georgetown, KY 40324
ISBN-10 1599244985
2009, 28 pp., $14.00
www.finishinglinepress.com

In a collection that champions nostalgia as a vivid reality, award-winning poet Ned Balbo ignites conversations with the past. Balbo writes, “…everything we hear /is only noise, faint shadows closing in /that fade in fast retreat, as shadows do, /the treasured past more visible, more true.”

Something Must Happen is notable for Balbo’s specificity of language, well-paced lines, grace, and patience for erecting tiny statues in honor of personal and collective memory. The poems in this collection interact with pop culture, reportage, artifact, childhood, friendship, and family.

The poem “Ouija for Beginners” seems to serve as a guide for a reader picking up this collection. How is the reader to interact with the past? Balbo writes: “The Ouija Board requires two believers /seeking favors /of the spirits.” Both the poet and the reader seek some truth, and they must trust that language will help them uncover it in unique ways.

Most of the poems in this collection interact with artifact and memorabilia: newspaper clippings, postcards, and very specific moments in history. “Snow in Baghdad”, which captures a brief snowfall in 2008, was a finalist for the 2008 William Faulkner/William Wisdom Poetry Award. The falling snow is so rare that the city dwellers call it “rain.” Balbo’s sparse yet vivid imagery captures so much more than the weather; it speaks to the political and social climate, surveys the cityscape, and represents a violent clash of cultures.

Characters from past lives inspire questions about morality. “For the Next-to-Last Survivor” is dedicated to Barbara West Dainton, who, at the time of her death, was believed to have been only one of two Titanic survivors still living. Balbo seems to be reminding us that, in the end, each one of us will be the last known survivor of something. The poems in Something Must Happen personalize the survival experience and capture the struggle to survive, even thrive, in both suburban and urban environments.

New York City is a lively and multifaceted character in the series “Times Square Post Cards”, which juxtaposes historical New York City scenes with Balbo’s observations about today’s Manhattan. He reinforces the strong presence and role of language throughout the city’s history. The second poem in the series, “New Times Building, 1900s” asks the reader to consider the energy surrounding the New York Times building when it first opened in a location now known more for its glittering advertisements and New Year’s Eve celebration than brilliant journalism. Almost all Balbo’s subjects are equally influenced by and influencing their environments.

Balbo prioritizes narrative, and his commitment to telling a good story is apparent in “The Woods,” the longest poem in this collection. In this second person poem, the speaker addresses a friend, someone with whom the speaker shared a vivid past. The intimate voice draws the reader into the poem; we consider our own lives, our own childhoods, and the fantasy of growing up in a suburban neighborhood.

Borrowing techniques from fiction and developing a host of characters, “The Woods” brushes against small-town familial conflicts and sex as a mysterious ritual. Balbo writes, “One day, I met your brother’s hippie girlfriend, /midriff bared, disheveled honey-hair /swaying across her shoulders, hips in jeans /as, giggling, she stepped from the used Corvette /who engine Johnny gunned at night for laughs. /We stood together, you and I, bewildered /by this creature: I admired her body, /you, her clothes, your father speaking curtly /on the driveway dirt, mother aghast /at this new adversary.”

My favorite poem in this collection is “A Nonsense Name,” a poem like the others only because it recalls family and home. The way Balbo plays with language and imagery in this poem is unique and extremely memorable. In it, the speaker finds a near-drowned crow with deep blue eyes and names it “Satire,” an homage to both the day (Saturday) and the bird’s sapphire-like eye color.

The bird’s appearance and startling presence in this jewel-like narrative takes flight at the end, jarring the reader. Balbo writes: “Eyes expressionless, /Satire, black feathers slicked down, shook off flecks /of water, glanced up toward the sky, toward us, /head tilted slightly – as if, shocked awake, /he now remembered where he’s meant to go…”. As readers, we can only hope for poetry to awaken us in this way. And remembering the past, as we do while reading Something Must Happen, is the best way to reconnect with the present.

____________

Laryssa Wirstiuk holds an MFA from the University of Maryland, College Park. She is a creative writer and digital marketer obsessed with social networking. In 2008, Laryssa founded Too Shy to Stop (tooshytostop.com), an online arts and culture magazine. She also blogs daily at commansentence.com. Currently, Laryssa is working on a collection of linked short stories called The Prescribed Burn. She can be contacted at: laryssa@laryssawirstiuk.com.

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