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The Terrible Truth

I have been marginally involved (as in marginalized) with the poetry scene in the Mendocino County area since about 2000. It’s strange how self-proclaimed anti-elitists tend to form their own little elitist circles. And their only bragging rights, really, are that they had enough money to be able to self-publish through a vanity press. Wow. Hmm. How impressive.

Several members of the anti-elitist circle of elites here in the area have tried to pin me to a particular school or discipline, which I’ve felt ambivalent about. On the one hand, this indicates that they’re at least aware of me and perhaps even respect some of my efforts. On the other hand this illustrates that they see my work as beneath theirs because it does not conform to their idea of what poetry should be.

Ah well. Reflecting on all this recently sparked this small write.

The Terrible Truth

Try not to confuse me
   with the Formalist
       the Classicist
           the Structuralist
               the Neo-something

                       I am merely an explorer
                   a piece of yourself left
               beneath the rain-soaked coals
           of a distant childhood
       campfire

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To the Postmodernist

To my mind, postmodernism represents, above all, the birth of modern mediocrity, especially with regard to poetry. It has its points of interest, which I take and use in my own way and for my own purposes; but the rest I happily leave.

To the Postmodernist

your hands wave
       in a sea of swaying hands
   through cold dark waters
       kelp shifting under swells
lost in formation

your voice howls out
       against rocky cliffs
   drowned in the crashing parade
       of white-noise waves
lost in the drone

your words flash
       briefly into view
   on the tops of curling waves
       a moments notice
lost in the tide

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The Man with the Scanner

There is an unusual personality who frequents one of the coffee houses I like to go to. His presence is always disruptive—Not just to myself, but in general. He brings a police scanner with him, sets it on the table while he drinks his coffee, and plays it very loudly so that everyone can hear from all parts of the store.

The Man with the Scanner

His face is smug, arrogant
    Ghoulish and gray against the high-backed café chair
He watches rain drool down picture windows
    Listens to the popping drone of a scanner

His features are fixed in a cold state of rage
    Bitter malcontent gouges grooves in his skin
This seems to make sense
    For one who brings a scanner to a public café

What tragedy has scarred his mind?
    No-one sits near him
Avoiding his belligerent gaze
    The harsh sound of his scanner

License plate numbers fight their way in
    To darken this bright little café
Calls to dispatch for ID checks
    Shoulder their way into the room

He is alone in this place
    His only companion a little black box
Hollow voices churned in darkness
    Poured like cement into the frame of his soul

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Pestilence

Faith and conviction are powerful forces of human nature. They can work to heal and sustain an individual in the face of terrible trauma and adversity. But there is a dark side to this force. In the hands of dogmatists faith and conviction become a pestilence, rained down upon those who do not share their beliefs or who cannot adhere to their ideals.

There was a man who committed suicide. He was deeply religious and he strove with all his might to be what he was told was a good Christian. But when his personal writings were found after his death, it was discovered that he was homosexual. Outwardly there was no way to know. He was married with two children. Inwardly he lived in shame and terror. Shame at being something the dogmatists told him god despised and terror at the thought of spending eternity in hell. Eventually this torment drove him to his end.

I was on the outskirts of this disaster as it unfolded, listening, observing. Eventually I found myself overcome with rage at those who sent him to his death, and so I wrote to them. This, my 19th terzanelle, is written to all those who would use their dogmatic self-righteousness to destroy the hearts, minds, and spirits of others.

Pestilence

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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Balancing Hook and Pan

She has two pen-names and she loves the movies Hook and Peter Pan. As I got to know her, I thought I’d write her a Peter Pan themed poem comprised of acrostics—from her two pen-names and her given name.

Balancing Hook and Pan

For Jenna Joslyn

Hook

Bitterness curled his hair and turned it black
Enveloped in a lonesome burning rage
Zealously he fights to kill his youth
Obsessed with flying taunts that haunt his rest
Aboard his galleon pirate ship he schemes
Relentless plans to ruin his lighter half
 

Pan

Absorbed in endless play and make-believe
Begrudging any hint of love or care
Serene he plays in trees and cotton clouds
Inventing games with boys who have no home
No memories can haunt his innocence
The thought of growing up is but a myth
He toys with shadows and with pirate ships
Endlessly anguishing his darker half
 

Wendy

Just when she learned about her hidden kiss
Entangled in a nest of doubt and dread
Never-land became her place to learn
None other than the truth she held within
A way to hold forever dear her youth

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Los Angeles

I spent a significant portion of my childhood in Los Angeles, and as a ward of the Los Angeles Juvenile Courts. Perhaps it’s a good place to be from, but it is no place to live.

Los Angeles

concrete blight on barren land…

sometimes i dream of you…

i see the earth
crack a colossal smile
grinning beneath your grids
swallowing with giant gulps
gnashing roads and towers with granite teeth
then in the end
chasing her putrid meal
she drains a cleansing drink from the sea
and seals her rocky lips once more
leaving only desert

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Pulp

Psychology has its merits—That is when the psychologist is knowledgeable, experienced, and compassionate. But, to my mind, psychiatry has very few merits, no matter how well-intentioned its practitioners may be. I have watched the infusion of psychiatric drugs destroy the minds of those around me, and it has also destroyed most of what potential I was born with and began to develop as a child.

Very, very few losses inflict as much pain and despair as the loss of ones own potential. I know. So, thinking such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 13th terzanelle.

Pulp

they made his mind a molding mess
a slow and solemn nest of thought
a brooding storm of deep distress

confusion ruled his darkened heart
enraged at what his mind became
a slow and solemn nest of thought

as reason weakened and decayed
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh
enraged at what his mind became

his anguish flared a bitter flame
when it would surge with burning force
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh

he wished for death with yearnings fierce
a wish he never could perform
when it would surge with burning force

he longed to leave his broken form
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a wish he never could perform

the poisons flowed within his blood
they made his mind a molding mess
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a brooding storm of deep distress

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

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A Modern Troubadour’s Lament

This, my 12th terzanelle, was written as I struggled to process and accept the inevitable marginalization every poet experiences who takes a keen interest in prosody and structured forms.

A Modern Troubadour’s Lament

A schism rent the quiet past and left behind confusion,
And egocentric demagogues stepped in to fill the void,
Which brought about the gushing flood of poets in profusion.

Imposters seized the Poet’s name with rough and savage noise,
Demoting prosody to verse with ignorant assumption,
And egocentric demagogues stepped in to fill the void.

A few sang random songs of self with hearts full of presumption,
While others clipped and nipped at prose, indignant and inept,
Demoting prosody to verse with ignorant assumption.

The ones who wrote evolving verse, now looked on with contempt,
Were robbed of all integrity and broadly disregarded,
While others clipped and nipped at prose, indignant and inept.

An art emergent and alive had simply been discarded,
For poets wont to learn that art and dream in measured strains
Were robbed of all integrity and broadly disregarded.

So it became unpopular to work in magic frames,
Thus stunting art’s development through future generations
For poets wont to learn that art and dream in measured strains.

The masses heard the demagogues and heeded their frustrations,
And poetry itself became subjected to reform,
Thus stunting art’s development through future generations.

The name of Poet once was rare, not for the average born—
A schism rent the quiet past and left behind confusion,
And poetry itself became subjected to reform,
Which brought about the gushing flood of poets in profusion.

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Culture

I thought I would try building a metaphor for modern American culture. The decaying hull of a scrapped ship seemed appropriate. And so my 10th villanelle.

Culture

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Publication History:

The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005

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Conflicts

As I watched the invasion and occupation of Iraq unfold, I found it impossible not to read between the lines. American citizens had no say on the matter. The corporate-funded Bush administration saw an opportunity to profiteer, and did so without hesitation, remorse, or apology. For me it was impossible not to feel disgusted by it all.

Conflicts

Enlightened nations strive to finalize the fighting;
Corrupted countries seek to formalize the fighting.

Our eyes are shocked by sparks that fabricate a tyrant;
Plantations build machines that specialize the fighting.

In armchair comfort, watch desultory announcements,
As new and modern methods socialize the fighting.

These stucco walls are filled with countless indentations
Where urban drive-by shootings normalize the fighting.

In air-conditioned rooms with ornamental index,
Fat pashas point to maps and analyze the fighting.

We must protect our rights to unfettered consumption;
Such senseless words are used to moralize the fighting.

There waving on the wind in arrogant defiance,
The stars and bloody stripes now symbolize the fighting.

Those ancient words of peace are converted for battle;
Religious reasons rise and catalyze the fighting.

A single life, Zahhar, exemplifying stillness,
A thousand years from now may neutralize the fighting.

This is my 119th ghazal.

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Emaciation

I am going through the poetry I’ve written since ’92 and organizing their titles and properties into a database, as much to learn about Microsoft Access as to organize my writing for keeping track of submissions and for other purposes. When I read this over, I realized it might be worth having here on my blog. I was bold to compare myself with Rumi and Hafez in this ghazal, especially considering my abilities at the time I wrote this, but it does have its redeeming qualities.

Emaciation

Long ago, before her depths fed mad conglomerate needs,
This blood-soaked sand was fertile land that met more moderate needs.

Winds rise up and desert storms destroy ten thousand homes,
And hungry ghosts feed on decay to glut degenerate needs.

All short-sighted might, the Great Machine consumes the world,
Proclaiming all the while to meet the world’s agglomerate needs.

Liberation brought their bane of plunder, ruin and rape,
For raging hearts were finally freed to sate intemperate needs.

Crimson streaks of blood now stain the bedding of our hope,
And fifty bullet holes present the West’s adulterate needs.

Time will sweep the cross and crescent both to forgotten dust;
No-one will remember their strife or their commensurate needs.

Hafez and Rumi, were they here, might have written the same;
You are obliged, Zahhar, to plead the poor’s confederate needs.

This is my 118th ghazal.