Sunday, October 4, 2015
From David Baker's new book, Scavenger Loop (2015), "The Quiet Side Street" the ghostliness and permeability of selves beneath some hovering gaze, which is alternately ominous or consoling--marking this poem as part of our digital, panoptic age. Two very different kinds of homing in. In the first section, what is a "quiet side street" is also marked, in the speaker's awareness, by what happens "over there" beneath the surveillance of drones--which is not just "over there," but increasingly over here. In the second section, the poet explores the uncanny infolding of time and space, as the poem slips between the present--in which his father is aged and half-shade--and the past, in which the father is robust and carrying the speaker in his arms. Here, too, the sense of death is not far off. A remarkable poem for its dialogue between the personal and political, showing the permeability and frailty of our mortal, earthly flesh. (n.b. in the second section, the columns should be lined up perfectly, as they are in the original, but the formatting is not lining up properly. My apologies.)
The Quiet Side Street by David Baker
where we live is lined
with dogwoods and maples
with old man’s beard
lined with many blue
bins to recycle
things we cast away
from us and gladly
that’s how quiet
you can hear crickets
a hundred feet above
in a glister of
leaves leathery there
with dew or brushed moon
bees mumbling at a
hummingbird tube or
in spiked flowers of
ivy crawling crazed
up the body of
each dying maple
when had you thought to
tell me meanwhile
deer so still in the
one hawk overhead
no one hears a thing
sometimes no one says
one thing until it’s
too late here or there
we think we are fine
we are not as somewhere
in a room beneath
the clover meadow
a hand a joy-stick
guides the news a drone
unmanned far away
or quietly above us
even now as we
call it homing in—
He walks back from the window in half-shadow
a half-shade himself who first called them shades
who people the place bereft of long life
he comes back he feels with the fingers of one
hand the soft hem bed’s high edge to settle
back my father now his bed his home or
we are walking now he is walking carrying
me under starlight under willows swept
with high wind crickets two whippoorwills far
like two bells one bell across the night hills
these long hills I am so tired he thinks
I am sleeping who peoples the night river
riffle of water here over the newest stones
in the river all night to the other side
okay he says at last or I say okay go
to sleep old man and when you waken on
the other side I’ll be there we’re there now
see our shadows where they have been waiting
as long as we’ve been here—
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Okay, I'm aware the U2 is a decidedly uncool band; they were uncool before they signed their souls over to Apple, thus causing a generation of iUsers to associate them with musical spam. Still, it's hard to think of many bands who have been as successful in bringing protest into mass culture, in ways that do justice both to pop music and to the cause against violence and injustice.
"Peace on Earth" was Bono's response to the Omagh bombing in Northern Ireland in 1998, by a member of the so-called Real IRA, just a few months after the Good Friday Peace Accords had been signed. It was a particularly brutal bombing, killing 29 and injuring 200 others. Names of the dead are shared--both Protestant and Catholic names--as well as little details of particularity about the victims. "She never got to say goodbye / To see the color in his eye / Now he's in the dirt" comes from the funeral of James Barker. The Irish Times quoted his mother as stating, "I never realised how green his eyes were."
Later, the song became associated with the 9/11 attacks, thanks to U2's performance during the telethon fundraiser "America: A Tribute to Heroes."
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
George W. Bush Debuts New Paintings Of Dogs, Friends, Ghost Of Iraqi Child That Follows Him EverywherePosted by The Onion on Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
THE MAKING OF A PROPHET by Corey Van Landingham, from Antidote
for Adrienne Rich
Keep it small they said Keep it small
or the city will form a mouth Be careful
not to say mouth or world Don’t say
body Drink your coffee Fuck it
There are gum wrappers on the sidewalk
that reflect all those predator drones
You can almost see them see you You
flip your hair You preen You touch
yourself but you can never see them They
can always see you There is a room
full of men making anything possible It is
the loneliest thing making up worlds
Watching others live their little lives Keep
it small the men are telling you Wave to
the sky No to a bird you are no longer
allowed to name and may no longer exist
You’ve been selected for a very particular
task All you have to do is talk and talk
and talk and not say anything at all This
should be easy They say that too
Monday, May 11, 2015
Ascension by Elmaz Abinader, from This House, My Bones (2014)
For Mahmud Darwish
What do exiles do but continue to walk
in countries where they were not born?
And when they leave are their ghosts alone,
Wandering routes river to home to horizon?
Breath visible from the cold of death
I call you to smoke and vapor
We search for the lost through shards of cement
a crusty coffee cup impossible to read.
The cities are homes as much as they are tombs
you draw the map, a longitude of loss
The names of the storytellers will be catalogued
next to saints, teachers, revolutionaries, and bread makers
How many times can your heart break?
How many ways is writing a surgery?
Mahmud, is it too much to hold
I stand in the square and call for you
You pierce the voices of this city—
the sky over Ramallah is refrain.
Friday, April 24, 2015
"Relentless" by Zeina Hashem Beck
“Stop writing about war,” he said. “Stop
writing about borders and blood. Stop writing
about revolutions and revolvers, about cities,
rooftops with antennas and snipers.
Stop writing about bread
and barefoot children with their dark
skin, their hair blond from too much sun.
Stop telling the story of how your friend
bought hats for them and gave them out
from her car window, saying put this on
put this on. Stop telling the story of the gates
your grandfather painted on his wall
to remember, and the gates he painted
on his heart to forget. For God’s sake stop
writing about religion, I’m tired
of minarets and crosses, even the prayers
are tired and want to sleep. Just write
some shade for me to sit in.”
So I drew him a tree without roots
and a street with enormous wings and said, “Here
is a tree that cannot be uprooted
and a street that will take flight
before it explodes.” And I drew myself
some mud, two strong legs, a clothesline
upon which to hang my drenched words,
to see what this sunlight would make of them,
and black birds on a fence
like the pattern of a kufiya.
This poem originally appeared in Rusted Radishes
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Sand Opera--my attempt to make sense of the post-9/11 years--came out a couple months ago, thanks to Alice James Books.
I'm grateful for the good review from Earl Pike in the Cleveland Plain Dealer, who wrote: "The contrast, a brief moment of tenderness amidst the brutal depositions about war's collateral, is striking. The cumulative effect of Metres' collection, its testimonies and gaps, its forms and disassemblies, is operatic and often incendiary, generally discomforting, and nearly always powerful. It is worth reading, and re-reading, to unearth the buried words."
Thanks as well to Fady Joudah, with whom I had an extended conversation over at Los Angeles Review of Books about Sand Opera. Along the way we discuss quite a bit—including love and politics, Elaine Scarry and the theology of torture, the Oliver Stone Syndrome and American Sniper, empire, the Iraqs I carry, 9/11, Standard Operating Procedures, black sites, docupoetics, trance states, recursion, poems about children, the vital vulnerability of the human body, the openness of ears, the sound of listening, the War Story and its exclusions, the Umbra poets and the Black Arts Movement, Claudia Rankine’s Citizen, RAWI (the Radius of Arab American Writers), and the state of Arab American literature.
This is the beginning:
My hope is that Sand Opera can help be the start to a new conversation about the state of poetry, American life, and the role of Arab American literature in our ongoing cultural and political debate about U.S. foreign and domestic policy regarding the Arab world. We welcome further conversation. More to come....
I came across this curious parable in The Way of Chuang Tzu, translated/interpreted by Thomas Merton. It seems to apply to everything from personal to political decision-making. Would that our leaders carried themselves with as much integrity.
"Advising The Prince" by Chuang Tzu (translation by Thomas Merton)
"Advising The Prince" by Chuang Tzu (translation by Thomas Merton)
The recluse Hsu Su Kwei had come to see Prince Wu.
The Prince was glad. "I have desired," he said, "to see you for a long time. Tell me if I am doing right. I want to love my people, and by the exercise of justice to put an end to war. Is this enough?"
"By no means," said the recluse. "Your 'love' for your people puts them in mortal danger. Your exercise of justice is the root of war after war! Your grand intentions will end in disaster!"
"If you set out to 'accomplish something great' you only deceive yourself. Your love and justice are fraudulent. They are more pretexts for self-assertion, for aggression. One action will bring another, and in the chain of events your hidden intentions will be made plain."
"You claim to practice justice. Should you seem to succeed, success itself will bring more conflict. Why all these guards at the palace gate, around the temple altar? Everywhere? "You are at war with yourself! You do not believe in justice, only in power and success. If you overcome an enemy and annex his country you will be even less at peace with yourself than you are now. Nor will your passions let you sit still. You will fight again and again for the sake of a more perfect exercise of 'justice'!
"Abandon your plan to be a 'loving and equitable ruler.' Try to respond to the demands of inner truth. Stop vexing yourself and your people with these obsessions! Your people will breathe easily at last. They will live and war will end by itself.
Monday, February 23, 2015
High-Risk Activism and Popular Struggle Against the Israeli Occupation in the West Bank
Professor Joel Beinin, Stanford University
Scholars have longed distinguished between normal political protest and what can be termed "high-risk activism," best exemplified in the Mississippi Freedom Summer Project of 1964. The International Solidarity Movement consciously invoked the precedent of Mississippi Freedom Summer by designating its 2002 campaign of Palestine solidarity action "Freedom Summer." Protesting the occupation in any form has always been a high-risk activity for Palestinians, who have regularly experienced tear gas, beatings, torture, incarceration, and live fire from Israeli security forces, as well as indefinite administrative detention and other judicial procedures based on secret evidence.
, CWRU, Tinkham Veale University Center, Ballroom A
Professor Beinin will discuss a new phenomenon: the participation of Israelis and internationals in qualitatively new ways involving high risk - not only social reprobation, but arrests and trials, tear gas asphyxiation and other forms of severe physical discomfort, serious bodily injury, and in a few cases of internationals, death.
Joel Beinin is the Donald J. McLachlan Professor of History and Professor of Middle East History at Stanford University and a past president of the Middle East Studies Association of North America. His research focuses on workers, peasants, and minorities in the modern Middle East and on Israel, Palestine, and the Arab-Israeli conflict.
Sponsored by Department of Political Science, Department of History, NOCMES, and Kent State University.