I Wish I'd Written This

Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan
Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation


By Natalie Diaz

Angels don't come to the reservation.
Bats, maybe, or owls, boxy mottled things.
Coyotes, too. They all mean the same thing—
death. And death
eats angels, I guess, because I haven't seen an angel
fly through this valley ever.
Gabriel? Never heard of him. Know a guy named Gabe though—
he came through here one powwow and stayed, typical
Indian. Sure he had wings,
jailbird that he was. He flies around in stolen cars. Wherever he stops,
kids grow like gourds from women's bellies.
Like I said, no Indian I've ever heard of has ever been or seen an angel.
Maybe in a Christmas pageant or something—
Nazarene church holds one every December,
organized by Pastor John's wife. It's no wonder
Pastor John's son is the angel—everyone knows angels are white.
Quit bothering with angels, I say. They're no good for Indians. 
Remember what happened last time
some white god came floating across the ocean? 
Truth is, there may be angels, but if there are angels
up there, living on clouds or sitting on thrones across the sea wearing
velvet robes and golden rings, drinking whiskey from silver cups,
we're better off if they stay rich and fat and ugly and
'xactly where they are—in their own distant heavens.
You better hope you never see angels on the rez. If you do, they'll be marching you off to
Zion or Oklahoma, or some other hell they've mapped out for us.

(from When My Brother Was an Aztec. Port Townsend, Washington, Copper Canyon Press, 2012)



Not that I could have written it, not being Native American — but that doesn't stop me from loving the sentiments, the language, and the poetics. It's not easy to write a convincing abecedarian, let alone one so brilliant as this.

It may be that Natalie Diaz is very well-known to American readers. This particular poem, which received an Honorable Mention in the James Hearst Poetry Prize for 2011, has been shared widely on the net, and tweeted. But I only just discovered her, and it. I saw her book reviewed — can't even remember where — and thought I must have it. I'm not sorry! It's a very new purchase and I haven't even read half the poems yet, but already I know this book is a treasure. It's also one I don't want to race through; I'd rather savour and ponder. I think you can tell by the piece I've shared that this doesn't mean it's dull, but full of riches.

She got an Honorable Mention in a 2009 War Poetry contest too, for an astonishing prose-poem called A Wild Life Zoo.

You can see her in conversation with an interviewer and/or read the transcript, with links to more of her poems, here.  And here is a long article detailing interviews about her writing, with a link to one of her short stories. Yes, she writes fiction too.

Googling her, I found a wealth of material and learned that she is working with Mojave elders to preserve the language — an important step in preserving the culture — and that she used to be a pro basketballer. She has a basketball poem too. (Read the preceding piece by Sherman Alexei as well.) You can find some more of her poems here. I expect and hope there will be even more to come.

The Think Tank Thursday #98 Honor

In the United States, this weekend will mark the holiday, Memorial Day.  It is a day to honor and remember those who fought, gave their lives in the duty of battle.  Where I grew up, there was a parade and we placed flowers on our all of our loved ones grave stones.   

Today,  it seems to be the weekend, that marks the beginning of Summer.  There are lots of cookouts, picnics, and gatherings. I still think of it as a day of remembering our loves ones, who have died.  I found this interesting tidbit, about how the holiday use to be celebrated:

"In cases involving a family graveyard where remote ancestors as well as those who were deceased more recently are buried, this may take on the character of an extended family reunion to which some people travel hundreds of miles. People gather on the designated day and put flowers on graves and renew contacts with kinfolk and others. There often is a religious service and a "dinner on the ground," the traditional term for a potluck meal in which people used to spread the dishes out on sheets or tablecloths on the grass. It is believed that this practice began before the American Civil War and thus may reflect the real origin of the "memorial day" idea."  via Wikipedia 

 

The Honor and The Homeland IIIby =WojciechDziadosz

 weddingby ~radrancidrocker

 

the dirt pathby ~1000ships

 

Grave Stone Handsby ~seiyastock

I want you to pen a poem in regards to honor. It doesn't have to have to be war, military related. It can a poem about a loved one, who is living.  It could be a poem to honor someone's memory, you have lost.  I want you to reflect your admiration of this person in your poem.  Our #98 prompt is Honor.  I know for me, the word conjures up military, marriage, and my neighbors. What do you think of when you hear the word.  You can pen a poem, about the general feeling or a specific person. The choice is yours. It will be a honor to read these poems~

"Life every man holds dear; but the dear man holds honor far more precious dear than life. "
William Shakespeare

" You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honor. "
Aristotle

"Confidence... thrives on honesty, on honor, on the sacredness of obligations, on faithful protection and on unselfish performance. Without them it cannot live. "
Franklin D. Roosevelt 

 

If you have a prompt idea (even a Music or Film inspired one) that you would like to suggest or share with us please send it to poetsunited@ymail.com . We keep a folder set aside with all your suggestions and just might use it one day.

There 3 simple rules:

1. Don’t link to more than 3 poems per week.

2. Please visit some of the other poems linked here when you link to yours.

3. Leave a comment after you have posted your link

Poet At Work

Hi kids, I had an interview ready for today, but the poet has asked me to delay it while he works on the publication of his first book of poetry. Then Poets United will have the honor and privilege of announcing its release. I have some other people in the wings, writing furiously. But lash them as I might with wet noodles, they weren't ready in time either.


So today we will take a little break from interviews. So sorry, kids. But do come back, as we have some great ones coming up! I can hardly wait!


Have a great week, one and all! See you at the Think Tank!


Sherry

Classic Poetry - "To See a World in a Grain of Sand" by William Blake

William Blake
1757 - 1827

To see a world in a grain of sand
and a heaven in a wild flower,
hold infinity in the palm of your hand
and eternity in an hour.

William Blake was a man after my own heart, producing a large body of work in both poetry and the visual arts. He painted with temperas and watercolors, and mastered the arts of etching and engraving. He explored the meaning of life and God and spirituality, and considered moral and social repercussions of politics and government. A romantic, a philosopher, a scholar and a mystic, Blake was the ultimate creator.

I Wish I'd Written This

Shit Poem
by Jas. H. Duke (1939-1992)

I'm in the shit business
I work for the sewerage department
I analyse experiments
I draw graphs and flow charts
and conclusions
today I was sitting at my desk
trying to explain
the dissolved air flotation process
where streams of little bubbles are released
into a tank full of sewerage
to float the suspended solids up to the surface
to be skimmed off
but what I was really thinking about
was lunchtime
the canteen cook
caters to the ethnic multitudes
by putting on Italian eats most days
I was thinking of ravioli
with meat sauce
but I was writing things like
"The sludge produced by this process
is grey-brown in colour
and does not produce
offensive odours
provided anaerobic conditions
can be prevented"
the sludge is really composed of
my used ravioli
and the Boss's used steak
and your used hamburger
and the vegetarian's used brown rice
all mixed up together
and when it gets in this state
no one wants to know about it
except me
I don't find shit offensive
most people do
they can'y wait to push the button
or pull the chain or something
and then they think the shit has vanished
into the centre of the earth
it hasn't really
it just floats up somewhere else
However
it's all biodegradable
I reckon most people think
that shit is the most deadly poison
on the face of the earth
they'd rather face ten tons of plutonium
than half a bucket of shit
even their own
no curse in the English Language
is complete
without "shit" included in it somewhere
lunchtime arrived
I ate my ravioli
I had a shit
it was brown in colour
I felt a lot better

This poem by the unforgettable Jas. H. Duke is actually autobiographical. (He really did work for the Sewerage Department, as a draughtsman.) It had the distinction of being censored by the ABC, our national broadcaster, which evidently agreed that most people find shit offensive. You can read the details here, including Jas’s own comment:

It is not a poem in bad taste. It is not written to get a cheap laugh by using a taboo word, but is a serious look at a serious subject. After all shit is a very common household substance being produced by every person, dog, cat, sheep, horse, cow, and every other animal every day. (The way it is collected and disposed of is a big factor in determining what sort of community we live in). Why should we be ashamed to mention the name of something our own bodies are producing every day? Why are we pretending that shit doesn't exist? Why are we denigrating the word "shit" to a curse?

Jas was a well-known performance poet. An anarchist influenced by Dada, his sound poems were a revelation. Listen to this unfortunately brief snippet from his Stalin, and blow your mind! Please stop and do it now before reading on. 

It really went on much longer, and he managed to say everything about Stalin by repeating that one word with different inflections, conveying a range of emotional reactions from dread to derision.

Here is an article he wrote about sound poetry. Don’t miss page two, with instructions for performing another of his own sound poems.

The shit poem, however, he read in an affable, conversational tone. 

He was also a concrete poet. From what I see online, many poets nowadays seem to understand that term only as shape poetry (which is indeed one form of concrete) but it can be far more pictorial. The graphics in his sound poetry article give you some idea of what Jas’s version was like. Indeed, his concrete poems went even further, with letters in fantastic typography coiling right across the page.

Here’s an interesting reminiscence by someone who knew him in England. It is strange to me to see him called Jim, as when I knew him — later — everyone called him Jas. Even odder to read that he was not well known in Australia. He was very well known indeed to other Australian poets and spoken poetry audiences, and the wealth of material found on Google suggests his importance. (The picture with this article is not from his days in England. It shows a group of Australian poets from that later era, and Jas is the one in the foreground with beard and cap.)

Sadly, I don’t think his books are available any more; but if you’d like to explore further, here’s the text of another poem, here’s another, and there is also material on Youtube. 

Finally, for a real treat — saving the best for last — do have a listen to the shit poem here — and to all the others at this link. (It won't take long.) Jas's poetry needs to be heard.

The Think Tank Thursday #97 Playground

     I had another idea this week, but somehow my attention leaned on this prompt.  Remember the playground of your childhood, what was it like?!   Was it in a park, in your neighborhood, did you have your own swing set?   Playgrounds have changed a lot, since I was a kid. My kids played on ones with twisting, turning slides and special ladders to climb.  There are even plastic bubbles to enter and tubes to crawl through. My children's favorite park had a huge castle with many nooks and crannies. The designs are amazing, such bright happy colors.  Maybe the world is your playground?!

Playgroundby ~freakinrainbow

 

my playground.by ~Bucikah

 

Playgroundby ~aveo1010

      My favorite for the most part was the swing. I loved all of it, but the swing was my chance to have wings and soar away from the pack. Someone was always trying to push or force someone down the slide. It was too high for the little kids, eventually they put in another one.  The Monkey bars were fun, till your arms felt like they were pulled out of socket. The Merry Go Round usually made me ill, but so fun when you had the right kids. The ones that respected you needed to get off, as you walked sideways to the picnic table or draped yourself on the fresh, green grass. You laid there watching the world tilt around you. 

     What was your favorite?  Do you take your kids or grandchildren to the playground?  What are your memories of outdoor play?  I want you to pen a poem surrounding your memories of the  playground.   C'mon let's climb, jump back to our youth...
 

swingby ~caycee

"I'll race ya!"

"The true object of all human life is play. Earth is a task garden; heaven is a playground."
                                                                                                         Gilbert K. Chesterton

"The world is a playground, and life is pushing my swing."

                                                                              Natalie Kocsis  

 

 

 

"Writing is very much a playground - an artistic playground. It's the most fun thing I do."
                                                                           Shania Twain 

If you have a prompt idea (even a Music or Film inspired one) that you would like to suggest or share with us please send it to poetsunited@ymail.com . We keep a folder set aside with all your suggestions and just might use it one day.

There 3 simple rules:

1. Don’t link to more than 3 poems per week.

2. Please visit some of the other poems linked here when you link to yours.

3. Leave a comment after you have posted your link.