Politics

August 27, 2017

“The Year of the Eclipse” by Elizabeth KnappPosted by

Elizabeth Knapp

THE YEAR OF THE ECLIPSE

The moon was so quiet, we hardly
noticed the sun’s absence. Gradually,
the land went dark, pasture by steaming
pasture. One could step outside
and everything would seem normal—
the hedged lawns, traffic lights
still blinking as they should under a sky
we never assumed to be permanent.
But one by one the candles burned out,
city grids flickered in the mist, until all
that was left of love was the idea of love
behind the curtain of sudden nightfall,
shadow draped over the earth as if over
a casket. Then the closing of the lid.

—from Poets Respond

__________

Elizabeth Knapp: “The year 2017 will henceforth be known as the year a literal and metaphorical shadow fell over America. The literal one lasted only a few hours. How long before the figurative darkness dissipates?” (web)

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August 20, 2017

“Killers” by Stephen GibsonPosted by

Stephen Gibson

KILLERS

Nuremberg Museum

Göring leaned over to Hess to crack a joke—
they’re with those other killers who meant no harm:
everything Nazis did, they did for blood and volk.

I grew up in the Bronx. Jews went up in smoke.
My neighbors had numbers tattooed on forearms.
Göring leaned over to Hess to crack a joke.

The woman giving testimony hardly spoke
when Göring moved to grab Hess by the arm—
everything Nazis did, they did for blood and volk.

Hess didn’t move—he looked comatose—
Göring elbowed: the third time was the charm.
Göring leaned over to Hess to crack a joke.

My father was at Bastogne—something broke
(after the war, electroshock intended to calm).
Everything Nazis did, they did for blood and volk.

America’s Neo-Nazi White Supremacists stoke
fear: they bear torches to bring on the storm.
Göring leaned over to Hess to crack a joke.
Everything Nazis did, they did for blood and volk.

—from Poets Respond

__________

Stephen Gibson: “Charlottesville, Boston—the poem is self-explanatory.”

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August 17, 2017

“I Know All Mothers Say Their Children Are Sweet,” by Raquel Vasquez GillilandPosted by

Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

I KNOW ALL MOTHERS SAY THEIR CHILDREN ARE SWEET,

but Ansel is sweet like raw raspberry pie.
He hugs and kisses my breast before latching
for his morning milk. When we last left
New York City, he whispered goodbye
to it as though he wished it would
remember him kindly, sticky on my lap at
Columbus Circle, delighted with each
of the hundreds of vehicles.

I think to when I was sixteen: walking my
dog down the street. A man angled his
white truck at us, stomped on the gas
and charged. Headlights ablaze like
orbed torches. I ran, pulled the leash
and screamed for my mother. He stopped,
backed up and laughed so hard as he sped off.

Now I wonder if he went home to children.
Did he cradle them with the same hands
that gripped the steering wheel, read
Green Eggs and Ham to them with
the same voice that cackled at my terror?

Then there’s me at eighteen, walking to
the grocery store in Kansas City for
navel oranges. A man grabbed my
shoulder and waist, pressed his erection
into my hip. My spine became stone and
stayed that way for so long I couldn’t
cry or it would shatter.

Now I wonder if this man was ever sweet.
Did he hug his mother with the same body
he assaulted me with. Did he nurse while
looking at her as though she were all
that’s good and wonderful in this universe?

As I watch footage of men whose faces
curl in smiles at violence, who believe
power can only come from subjugation,
I feel desperate.

How do I get my baby to remember his
sweetness. How do I get my baby to remember
his sweetness?

—from Poets Respond

__________

Raquel Vasquez Gilliland: “This poem began with me outlining the ways I have been terrorized by men on the street, as triggered by the Charlottesville violence. I encountered a Twitter thread by @boguspress that made me consider how aggression is encouraged in boys from such a young age, which changed the poem to a mother’s voice.” (web)

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August 14, 2016

“Olympia” by Jackleen HoltonPosted by

Jackleen Holton

OLYMPIA

The news has gone so far beyond absurd
that I can’t watch it anymore; the little boxes
with their talking heads all talking
about the same damn thing. So I switch
the channel again, let myself be mesmerized
by the swimmers with their exquisite butterfly
wings, the way their bodies undulate
through the water, rising open-mouthed,
as if in praise, then diving down, making it seem effortless.
And I’m reminded of Leni Riefenstahl’s film Olympia,
documenting the 1936 games in Berlin,
and how, as the movie progresses, the athletes, in shadowy
black and white, leave the stadium behind, turn
godlike, their sculpted bodies blossoming
like time-lapse flowers in the sky.
Yesterday, scrolling down my Facebook feed,
I read about a woman in Missouri who saw Donald Trump’s
likeness in a tub of butter, the way once-upon-a-time
somebody was always glimpsing the Virgin Mother
in everything. But there it was, the face
I see in every other post, bubbling up in the yellow
spread, bulbous mouth frozen mid-holler.
The swimmers in the individual medley form a graceful V
like a flock of soaring geese, the pool morphing into
Riefenstahl’s majestic sky. I have a friend who can see
the spirit animal in everyone. For her, every trip
to the grocery store is a safari. But I understand it now,
watching these swimmers mount their blocks;
this one’s a gazelle, that one, a panther.
Leni Riefenstahl loved Hilter. Her beautiful films
were the glorious Aryan face of his regime.
And before the ceremonies began, her camera lingered
on him, his right arm raised to a surging sea of outstretched arms.
Though the mood is festive, her chiaroscuro
montage takes on the somber tones of history.
But today, I love the swimmers for what our animal bodies can do
when the spirit wants it enough. I lean forward as the one
in the middle lane closes in on the world record line.
Someone strung up a confederate flag at a Trump rally
yesterday, which, I told my husband is exactly what I would do
if I were a protester: I’d disguise myself as an asshat,
hoist it up and wait for the cameras.
But of course that wasn’t a joke, either.
Riefenstahl disavowed the Nazis after the war,
but I wonder if her love lived on in some secret bunker
of her heart where she only dreamed in black and white.
Another record is broken, a new medalist stands
on the platform. I can’t help it, my eyes well up.
The lady in Missouri says she thought for a moment
about putting her tub of butter on eBay
to see what she could fetch for it, but in the end
she just wanted buttered toast, so she dipped a knife
in, and handily scraped away the apparition
of that little, angry face.

—Poets Respond
August 14, 2016

[download audio]

__________

Jackleen Holton: “The Trump campaign imploded this week, although it has been headed in that direction for some time, and although the media continues to milk the sideshow for ratings. If there is any symbolic meaning to the butter sighting, it may be, as Jan Castellano, the woman who found the contorted face looking back at her from a tub of Earth Balance said, she hoped his campaign ‘melts away like butter.’ But that can’t happen if we continue to give this candidate our attention and energy. Meanwhile, the Olympic games provided a welcome, sometimes inspiring distraction. While the precise nature of filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl’s relationship with Adolph Hitler was not known, she did praise him effusively in a letter she wrote during the war, and she benefited greatly from the Nazi regime in a way that only a few individuals can with such a system in place.” (website)

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