'All a poet can do today is
warn. That is why true poets must be truthful'
Wilfrid Owen WWI Poet Died November, 4, 1918.
I had originally thought my theme was going to be on
the newness of the season. We bid farewell to the summer and the relaxed
days but then a thought. I reminded myself of the significance now of September,
that of 9-11. For those of us in North America, it is a shared memory,
we all know where we were when the news of the first attack on the World Trade
Centre reached us. We may have been at work, or on the way, or getting
ready for a busy day, from that moment on we were captivated by the pictures
and the events. Then, when the towers began to collapse, the horror
gripped us all.
We have in 2003 witnessed the start of a war and while
it seems to be concluded, it appears only the major fighting is over, there
is still a great deal to do. To rebuild, but I don't want this to become
an editorial of American Policy in the nation of Iraq. This was a war
that divided many people into the camps of for or against. However it's
not just the war, it's the general condition of the world. We are a
planet still gripped in war, consider what we read, Liberia is exploding and
is not at peace; much of Africa still has problems and while the Congo seems
to have reached a conclusion, we should realize that much of the peace may
be more due to exhaustion then anything like a desire for stability. The
Asian continent must be looking at North Korea with some concern, a country
with nothing to lose is dangerous, but when you place in the mix a nuclear
bomb, the risk is enhanced many times over.
What is the answer, what is the question? We see
the death and destruction, live 24 hours on our televisions, have we reached
the point of saturation, where it is now just white noise? How can we
tolerate this much death and destruction, for what? I look at the poorer
nations of this world, why is it they always seem to have an unlimited supply
of ordinance. This is not simply to condemn them for I realize that
my nation Canada has always been a major supplier of weapons. We claim
to be the peaceful nation, a country of peacekeepers, but are hands are bloodied
too by our involvement. The answer is to limit the military industry
but who am I kidding, there's a lot of money to be made, keep them fighting
they'll run out of ammo is probably the talk in all the boardrooms of these
corporations.
I wish the answer could be found in simple terms and
easy solutions, if waving a white flag was sufficient, I'd be there waving
it with all my strength. We could march, write letters, yell, scream,
but our voices would be silent upon the mute ears of those who benefit from
the hate of others. What can stop the insanity, what can stop the madness,
I have only the questions, I'm afraid the answers elude me.
On September 11th, I don't plan to watch anything that
has to do with 9-11 I don't need to, my memories are still fresh of
my two weeks at ground zero. I shall pause, light a candle and say
a prayer for those who still experience the hatred that is deep in the hearts
of humanity. I shall remember those who lost loved ones on that day
of horror. I shall pray for those who lost loved ones due to violence, I
shall pray for the countries still ravaged by war, and I shall repent for
my nation's involvement in this madness. Will you join me, you may
not pray, then just pause and remember them,. I looked up the words
of John Donne: "All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when
one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into
a better language; and every chapter must be so translated...As therefore
the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon
the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me,
who am brought so near the door by this sickness....No man is an island,
entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in
mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls
for thee." I can't say this will do anything, it won't stop one
bullet from being fired, or one more life from being taken. But we need to
remember, we need to be agitated so that we MUST do something. Does
lighting a candle work? If it causes me to remember and think to myself
there has to be something I can do, then I can start to make a difference.
Remember the words : "visualize World Peace", we must never lose that
vision.
Jeffrey Mackie sent me his poem and a link to a work
called: "100 Poets against
the War"
WHAT DID ADORNO SAY?
Do you think anything really matters
In the extreme?
Do you think (country)
Should be capitalized?
Is it any different
Now that the war is over?
And the bodies found
And the bodies counted
And the bodies
Continue to be found
Will continue to be found
Do you think civilians
Should be bombed from the air?
Running again
As they did from snipers in the hills
Its all the same
Bodies are collateral
Is there a flag in the world
Without the colour red?
Without
The colour of blood.
Hidden somewhere ?
Jeffrey Mackie
(reprinted with permission)
these names
this cenotaph
this sacred place
contains the names
of young men
boys really
who left with sound
of a cheering crowd
ringingin their ears
and on their minds
"of king and country"
to avenge the honour
and strive for greatness
when death came
there was no crowd
they died alone
their thoughts if they had time
were not of the sacrifice they were about to make
or the rightness of their cause
they may have thought of the mothers and girlfriends
who'll get the news
of how they died the heros death
but perhaps
their last thought
was of the pain
that filled their bodies
the fear
the tears
these young men
boys really
were shedding
as life left them
these young men
boys really
gave themselves
that their names would be inscribed
upon this lonely monument.
Paul Gilbert
Poetry
I am fortunately this month to have a number of new contributors,
enjoy their work and if you can, send them a note of appreciation.
The crisp chill air of winters
decline
as it drives me to seek the freedom
of the open road outside
stretching befor me like a
black broken beacon
perpetually upon the horizon
it reminds me of past paths traveled
As I have walked
The crisp chill air of winters decline
as it drives me to seek the freedom
of the open road outside
stretching before me like a
black broken beacon
perpetually upon the horizon
it reminds me of past paths traveled
.
As I have walked
down the cool repose of the Americas
I have seen such beauty
in the simple roadside blackberries
and kind faces of drivers lonely
awaiting their call to open roads
far from the solace of the final cup
and word of warmth from waitress weary
Northampton, MA - 8-20-01-*
The grand spatter contentious
of droplets patient caress
to concrete majesty fashioned,
the innumerable content of sand
Solvent, swaths of light
break towards unification
Primrose streaks highlight
the tears in blue nimbus
Amazing grace, the chortles of colour,
murmuring, shatter upon my flesh.The beads streaming down
my grand arch and hollow
are immaculate conceptualsReunite, again
invigorating florin senses
of life recreated
in each solidified breath
Ascension
each empirical blessing
strewn upward through sinew
are drawn blades of grass.We paint the skies
with the blood of warriors,
the scent of funerary pyres,
and the cries of buzzards
All eyes must someday
leak again into the stratum
to fall again,
tears in heaven.
City Lights 50th Anniversary: * published on
Poet's Page
In a land where one finds the most maligned of indignities, and
thus struggles and falls. A few more feathers fall from my back by the abhorrent
San Francisco debaucheries, and yet, I've held the esteem and loathing alike
of numerous nationals. Here for your pleasure is a story of the psychical
enclosure which I build to that clarion firmament, my ivory tower to the heavens,
if you will.
The masses milled about, enjoying the martinis for which the Vesuvio was
so well reputed, the poetry of City Lights, from Ferlinghetti, Diane De Prima,
David Amram, and a bevy of other vestiges from the esteemed past. They listened
to Kevin Starr as he pontificated upon the widespread social impact of Howl
and it's landmark ruling. The case was never quite well established, being
spearheaded by arguments that the D.A. could write better works rather than
the actual content of Ginsberg's infamous Villanelles. It occured to me that
this might be something of a farce, as the Scopes Monkey Trials or the modern
contrivances of pop stars to get the impossibility of bad publicity. Nonetheless,
the point rang through. No work with some socially redeeming value could be
considered obscene. That was the ruling and writ, and that is which we must
pay the most reverent heed to.
Eventually, having made a sizeable amount from the sales of poetry to numerous
fans, I deliberated and proceeded upon a course of action. The Vesuvio had
my table open, be it for an instant, and I swooped down with a carrion call
of "My Usual, Mike!"
My usual was a pitcher of beer and a martini, and I proceeded to quaff
it wholeheartedly while comosing the newest poetry which I would inflict upon
the adoring masses. Eventually, becoming quite taken with the intoxication
of my words, I decided it prudent to take a breath of air outside the hallowed
confines, and was immediately confronted with the sight of a man with microphone,
another with camera, and a third with a cigarette. Decisions had to be made.
Without so much as a spot of hesitation, I leaped upon the opportunity
for another little death, nevermind the phallic inferences of Freud, death
is intimate as sex to me, at least my personal, so I proceeded to ejaculate
the phrase "Hey, do you enjoy poetry?" to the lady with the cigarette. He
affirmed it, and I proceeded to buffet him with my work "pier 39" in exchange
for a smoke. Naturally, this piqued the immediate interest of the reporter,
and he solicited me to read for the occasion of City Lights 50th Anniversary.
Who would I, poet of national foundation, be to deny any request for poetry?
I had to oblige him, and thereby, after moving some way down Jack Kerouac
alley, read Jewel III, Pier 39, and finally, When Rabbit Howls which both
took sheer delight in. So much was the enjoyments, in fact, that they asked
for a second take.
Now, for the benefit of those who haven't had the opportunity to hear it,
the end truly does howl, and as it turned out by the second reading, a woman
who lives directly across from the poetry room cried out "If you scream again
I'll call the cops!" to which we were compelled to scream assurances
that there would be no further disturbances.
We then bid each other well, where I returned to my libations, and they
their hounding. As it stood, I believe the experience satisfying on not only
an interpersonal level, but national, for I was thereafter featured on NBC's
coverage of the anniversary, nationally syndicated and vindicated. It was
quite delightful altogether.
Tyler Joseph Wiseman
the next two works are from Steve Sharp and Aurora
Antonovic. The pictures enhance their wonderful words"
Aurora also forwarded these works for your consideration and enjoyment.
She says this about herself: "I am a Canadian writer, visual
artist, and the former co-editor and columnist for the now-defunct GT Times.
My poetry has recently appeared in ThunderSandwich, Megaera, The Sidewalk's
End, Makata, The Moriarty Papers, and Poetic Voices, the latter where
I appeared as featured poet for May 2003. I currently reside in Ontario."
Femme Fatale
Yeah, well, the truth sure can cut,
But I made you no deal,
That this could turn into
Anything real,
I slip through men
Like pearls on a string,
And you were just one more --
Didn’t mean a thing.
Now come on, wipe that hurt look
From your eyes,
How could this come
As a big surprise?
I’ve had my share,
I thought you knew,
It’s time for me
To be passing through.
So cut the act --
It’s so pathetic--
Did you think that I’d be
Sympathetic?
This is how
I play the game,
Now onto my
Next passing flame….
Whoever can fast
Grab my attention,
Will be next to win
My brief affection,
For just a quick
Song and a dance,
Then I’ll leave him, like you --
Not a backward glance.
Sandalwood
The sweet smell of sandalwood rises
Up from your beard,
More intoxicating than any incense
I’ve ever known,
More enveloping in its subtle, pungent lure,
Calling me to come wrap myself in your arms
And lose myself in your scent.
Shattered Ming
You treated our friendship
As thought it were a vase of
Priceless worth,
That you failed to esteem,
Until the day you carelessly brushed against
it,
And shattered it.
Now, you suddenly want it back together,
Exactly as it was before,
Not taking into consideration it cannot ever
be the same.
The question, now, is:
Can it be put back together again at all,
Function again,
And, do I even want to bother trying?
You’re not the only one who can be
Careless,
You know.
Crossing the Street
As we came upon the busy intersection,
You reached for my hand and held it
Surely;
Suddenly, I was dizzyingly surrounded
By golden paisley prints with the finest
of
Black-edged swirls, encasing amber hues
Of splashed curly cues,
As we cascaded backwards to every first thing
I had ever done, but this time you were alongside
me.
I looked into your eyes,
The light turned green,
And we moved forwards.
V.
Slush at the bus stop
Cars whiz, the grey sky
Early winter thaw.
Crocuses bud
Slowly lift shy heads
Peek from the
snow
Orange skies at sunset
Ocean tugs at my toes
Slice of my life
Stretch on the beach
Sand diamonds on my thighs
Sparkle in the sun
Silver slips of ice
Light dazzles on surface
Quick end of road
Auror Antonovic
I.
you I don't think
are the thing
no you do elsewhere
what you do
me I think I'll
write a paper
cut me a stick and
peel me a caper
and that's the dry end of the thing
this dictum mewling and
carping aftward
in dull disinterest
II.
you I don't think so I am all things so there
ask I again
of you these summer words ahem tree bark tree bark tree bark
that's a question I put you all these things in a barrel and push it off
Niagara there it goes again whew
III.
you I don't think so
no not quite it's the difference between
day and night
between clod and clodbuster
and clodhopper
IV.
you I don't think so at all
no no I send it back to the store
I want it all
except for so many things
Christopher Mulrooney
Goddess
of Love
No mere face can compare
To the sweet goddess of love.
Her fair delicate touch
Will charm you throughout your days
And swelter your lonely nights
With her febrile amatory.
Her voice flows in seduction
Circling your soul with her opal fingers.
A song of lust combined with Pan's playful flute
Like a child embracing the evils of man.
Her lips,
Those wine tinted lips
Can only interpret my devotion
Within my heart.
Her charming smirks
Can only embrace the human rage
With bemoans us in affairs.
Pure love itself was born
Through the glance of Mediterranian blues
And the laugher of church bells
Which clasps spiteful malice
Amoung the women with disgrace.
She will make you cross the boundary
Of dreams and reality.
With one simple snap
Between her angelic wings,
Someone will die for you.
Someone will yearn for you.
Someone will give you
Everlasting heartache.
Once her woven locks of gold
Touches your oblivious skin,
You will never see the world again
Through the eyes of mere mortals.
You will find the gift we cannot explain.
A gift only poets can savor in words.
Sadly,
The purity of love
Will grant you happiness,
While the curst of lust
Will abandoned you in woe
And the goddess in bliss.
NOTE:
This is a classical imagery
of the famous goddess from Greece. It's an inspiration from Alexander Pope,
who elated me with classical mythology as a poetic license.
Stephanie Nolasco
Piles of hoarding and neon signs
Lost me from myself beneath
The skyscrapers where
Crowds of men found a way of life,
And to my disgrace, I lost one.
None seemed to care
Even the arrival of dawn,
Since the difference in night and day
Were none and still like fools
All loved the joy of being artist
Of the unending drama.
Dollars and pounds, rupees and francs
Love lost existence in the far off ground
Which had sunk so deep that only few fairy tales
Could name, and it ‘just seemed Interesting’
To hear the same.
Losing all hope in the polluted air,
I dreamt of beauty I could find in love
Till a sound of coins woke me up
Thrown at me by passer-by
Thinking me to be a beggar,
Calling it to be a token of love.
At last I realised love’s existence still remain
But the way of loving has met an unprecedented change.
............................................................................
....
CHILDHOOD DAYS
The story is of two young girls
Who met in the road and stared at each other.
One was jealous to see other's ring
The other stared at the other's shoe
And at last they could realise
That they were unconditional friends.
They shared their laughter
And poured their tear,
Talking about their childhood days
When none had rings
In their delicate ears,
When both ran bare-footed
And enjoyed their plays.
....................................................
BELIEF
Far high in the sky a dim cloud looked
Like a shy princess adorned with smile
And which turned me blue.
A mild wind changed the very view; the princess
To a scary witch. My face turned black .
How do we cling our belief in things
When our eyes start
Singing the song of betrayal
When so long history
Which we've learnt and admired
Turn out to be a story of a drunken man!
.............................................................
ASHAMED SUN
Early morning when the sun comes up,
And to its misery finds the earth burning.
Hears the news of bomb-blasts in the night.
Sun feels ashamed and tries to hide.
It calls the cloud to cover it,
And remembers the earth which used to be good.
Hiding from a corner, moon calls the sun,
Tells of horrifying killings that went before the dawn.
Sun melts in tear but truth is truth.
It loves not to shine today, and it seems to brood.
The blame is on us my brothers, he says,
Love and peace lies only in few prayers today.
..........................................................
ME AND YOU, STAR
Bridge the gap between me
And you star, your glitters
Are driving me insane.
My heart is tough to behold
And my explanations are going futile.
Your twinkles have turned
So dear to me but come close
And give me that heat. God gave
Me no wings to fly but the angel
In you have taken me so high and still
You look ignorant about the love within.
My ways in life are dark, enlighten
It through like a guiding star
And turn me true, burn
The evils that may still
Reside in my heart where
A home have I built for you.
But why do we still pretend
And just smile our love off
In this common air?
And I seem a scared butt
To have loved a princess
Above my grade.
Raghab Nepal
India
I open the windows on gorgeousness...raggedy bricks,
a rash of paint, students...
but it's ugly as sin at two.
That's as we wince it
embezzling face-tidying sleep
skin deep under midnight.
A hunk is what it is, a virtue.
The back-end-of-a-bus as an idea, too difficult.
Easier to do just like Jackie O
and consent to live with the beast.
HARA-KIRI ON THE BARRED-WINDOW WARD
Love to Wendy was a magic words vibe,
Spice Girl robot dancing
in blue mould shadows.
Or a smooching crump - rubbery downpours
on a tinnitus window, lateness squirming
around a B-movie weepie.
But death throes to her
were a kooky pop-pop-plunk,
a fowsty inelegance, sullen and red,
a sun in a gas lamp fizzling out,
a scrape of dust, the mintiness of blood.
PARADISIO'S
The ice cream liquors
in the sun rays
which thin out the rush-frisk street
are me etc.
and not me.
In a dip of laminated conversations
"just like the song," she said
"did you ever see a dream walking?"
I pricked -
the anticipation of his shadow
in the blackout of an eye.
SMUDGE
"I often think that the night is more alive
and richly coloured
than the say." Vincent Van Gogh
Starlight is a dye of red bugs,
mandarins in the crock
are forget-me-not blue
and the buttercups whitewashed roses.
I scowl at the bed's shadowing
then, imprison my eyes for a purply tide
unblocking to find a tinkered-with site.
Vivette picks up the pieces
of this night, a slur or red, blue and white
with tipples and Brie,
she lints pea-green from the window.
An odd-stick woman
who seems to tackle chores
without meaning.
DOMESTIC
The fire engine red
of the duvet's hood
woke radiantly
through a fall of leaf
early bird gloom.
In a mouth-foaming state
hate did its rounds,
noosing back
to crippled first words
through knots of spite,
sinister plunges.
Urgently you bolted
with volley and thunder
and now
the prison bars of the cooker shelf,
that came in heaven-sent
and dandy,
are curled around your arm.
Daybreak's splinters
from hot to cold
slap the bed in two.
Under these split horizons
we will be dark
forever.
Christopher Barnes
Closing Words
If you missed it last month, my interview with Sara Russell
can be read at: http://poetrylifeandtimes.com/poetnewsAug03.html
. This is the permanent location for this now back issue.
It was a lot of fun answering her questions and sending her the picture
of myself. I'm grateful for all the new people who submitted their
work. If you submitted something and it wasn't included, I will be
using them in the october issue.
I think I'm back on track to get the issues done in the early
part of the month so you can look forward to each month bringing you a new
issue of abovegroundtesting
The email address is always: pabear_7@yahoo.com
The website is https://www.angelfire.com/on/abovegroundtesting.
I know i have to work on it, anyone creative out there??
If you have thoughts and ideas, email me.
All work is copyrighted by the owner. The rest of
this is copyrighted by myself. (c) 2003