Kaci Elder
Christina Pacosz
Mary Dingee Fillmore
Joan Mazza
Gene Tanta
Gabz Ciofani
Michael Lee Johnson
Peter Goodwin
Encouraging activism and poetry among young people: Jasmine Baumgart
Christina Pacosz
The Mother of Violence
Now I am seeing
the natural blackness
of this world
not only objects
illuminated by light.
How to measure the darkness
lingering beneath the trees –
the imported silk, the native oak –
even as their upper-
most branches
are a green blaze
in the sun.
Remember the iridescent
plumage of the hummingbird
is black
without the light.
Black like a branch
bereft of the life of the living
leaves, charcoal waiting
for the flame.
This is not the time
for debate: which came first –
the light, the dark
but recall how shadow
is at the beginning
before the word.
The vinyl appliqué
a black silhouette
of a hawk
on the window.
A warning for birds
to stay away.
How the shadow
of the predator
troubles the dreams
of its prey.
The swift darkness
of the mongoose
darting across
the blacktop road
on the path
of lava erupting
from the molten void
at the center
of the earth.
In the Garden
“In Baquba a woman and her four children were killed when a bomb went off in a neighbor’s house bringing the ceiling down on the family sleeping in the garden.”
A hot house in Baquba
Only a week after Zarqawi is killed
The stars shining like lanterns
In the night sky
Jasmine scents the air
Figs and tomatoes ripen
In the warm dark
Here in this country I am even now trying to reach this family
A woman and her four children
Buried under bricks and debris
From the ceiling of the bombed-out
Neighbor’s house
It is too late to rescue them
Too late when they closed their eyes to sleep
On pallets near the cucumber and chard
“The Mother of Violence,” first appeared in Kritya April 2007
"In the Garden” first published in Downgo Sun, March 2007
Christina Pacosz has been writing most of her life. Her most recent book of poetry is Greatest Hits, 1975-2001, Pudding House, 2002. (A by invitation only series.)
(author retains copyright)
Gabz Ciofani
Funk the War 2008, a political sestina
We walk heatedly with clenched fists.
Pushing through intersections
we proudly display our picket signs.
Disregarding our individuality for the greater sake of unity
we create human chains
to barricade ourselves on the streets of DC.
Our voices ring through the streets of DC
together we raise our fists
to protest your war, and using human chains
we enclose our demonstration inside an intersection
and wait as your eyes adjust to our idea of unity
reacting to the words on our picket signs.
Onward we march, raising high the picket signs
stopping traffic on the streets of DC.
As someone clicks 'play', we all dance in unity
in the spirit of change, we raise our clenched fists.
A success at each claimed intersection,
riot police struggling to break our human chains.
They wrap yellow tape around our chains
and reporters photograph our picket signs
the cops fully block off the intersection
while we demonstrate on the streets of DC
responding to the megaphone with raised fists
we show them that democracy looks a lot like unity.
For the greater sake of change, we stand united
willing to be taken by police in chains
but not without a fight- we refuse to lower our fists
or drop our picket signs
because we can be seen out of every window in DC
and they can't clear all of us from this intersection.
We continue to rush inside each intersection
and 20 students bring desks and hold hands in unity
with strength in our numbers on the streets of DC
we stand, surrounding the students in human chains
chanting for this war's end with raised picket signs
not even the pouring rain can stop us from raising our fists.
On the streets of DC, we dance inside intersections
Fists firmly raised for the sake of unity.
Chained to desks we wait, waving our picket signs.
Gabz Ciofani is a junior English major currently attending Kent State university. She writes for Kent State's largest magazine, The Burr, and will be editor-in-chief of Kent State's literary magazine, Luna Negra, this upcoming spring. She wrote this poem upon attending a protest in Washington DC this past April because of the impact the protest had on her. She loves experimenting with different forms in her writing and aspires to be an established poet before she dies.
(author retains copyright)
We walk heatedly with clenched fists.
Pushing through intersections
we proudly display our picket signs.
Disregarding our individuality for the greater sake of unity
we create human chains
to barricade ourselves on the streets of DC.
Our voices ring through the streets of DC
together we raise our fists
to protest your war, and using human chains
we enclose our demonstration inside an intersection
and wait as your eyes adjust to our idea of unity
reacting to the words on our picket signs.
Onward we march, raising high the picket signs
stopping traffic on the streets of DC.
As someone clicks 'play', we all dance in unity
in the spirit of change, we raise our clenched fists.
A success at each claimed intersection,
riot police struggling to break our human chains.
They wrap yellow tape around our chains
and reporters photograph our picket signs
the cops fully block off the intersection
while we demonstrate on the streets of DC
responding to the megaphone with raised fists
we show them that democracy looks a lot like unity.
For the greater sake of change, we stand united
willing to be taken by police in chains
but not without a fight- we refuse to lower our fists
or drop our picket signs
because we can be seen out of every window in DC
and they can't clear all of us from this intersection.
We continue to rush inside each intersection
and 20 students bring desks and hold hands in unity
with strength in our numbers on the streets of DC
we stand, surrounding the students in human chains
chanting for this war's end with raised picket signs
not even the pouring rain can stop us from raising our fists.
On the streets of DC, we dance inside intersections
Fists firmly raised for the sake of unity.
Chained to desks we wait, waving our picket signs.
Gabz Ciofani is a junior English major currently attending Kent State university. She writes for Kent State's largest magazine, The Burr, and will be editor-in-chief of Kent State's literary magazine, Luna Negra, this upcoming spring. She wrote this poem upon attending a protest in Washington DC this past April because of the impact the protest had on her. She loves experimenting with different forms in her writing and aspires to be an established poet before she dies.
(author retains copyright)
Mary Dingee Fillmore
Still (1604-2009)
You are still hunting moose
and making drums
from its hide.
You are still teaching whites
how to heal with alder and herbs
we crush as we walk.
You sing friendship songs,
paddle your birch canoe out
to greet the new Tall Ships so
like Champlain's.
We've stopped calling you savage
but still keep you reserved.
Now we want back
everything we tried to steal,
everything we lost.
Just read this poem:
we are still thieves.
Two Airports
1968, Dayton, Ohio, Departure
the woman's splotched and red with soggy sobs
...... he, in uniform, can't wait
...... ...... for this to be over
...... ...... ...... already he's starched
....now the pink baby howls too
I marched and marched
against this and still
...here they are this couple tearing
...... apart perhaps for good
...... ...... here is this baby
...... ...... ...... turning red
2008, Burlington, Vermont, Arrival
you, a teenager, wince on the stairs,
....your cane shaking, a torn crimson line
...... stitched from ankle to knee
it's midnight, I wonder why the lounge is full,
...... then everybody claps, uniforms encircle you
...... ...... but your eyes are only weary
we tried again
to keep you home...... at peace
instead we sent you off to kill
...... to rip open your leg that may never
...... ...... heal, and who knows
...... what you did...... there
least of all...... you
Mary Dingee Fillmore earned her M.F.A. at Vermont College after a twenty-five year career in organizational development and a hidden life as a writer. Her poetry about the Holocaust in the Netherlands and other subjects has appeared in Upstreet, Pearl, Diner, Westview, Main Street Rag, Pinyon and Blueline among other venues. She won the Poetry Grand Prize in the 2007 Tallgrass Writers' Guild Contest, and is a winner of the 2006 Iowa Source contest. Her essay, "Freeing the Hidden Camp," won Honorable Mention from The Journal (Ohio State University) in 2008.
(author retains copyright)
You are still hunting moose
and making drums
from its hide.
You are still teaching whites
how to heal with alder and herbs
we crush as we walk.
You sing friendship songs,
paddle your birch canoe out
to greet the new Tall Ships so
like Champlain's.
We've stopped calling you savage
but still keep you reserved.
Now we want back
everything we tried to steal,
everything we lost.
Just read this poem:
we are still thieves.
Two Airports
1968, Dayton, Ohio, Departure
the woman's splotched and red with soggy sobs
...... he, in uniform, can't wait
...... ...... for this to be over
...... ...... ...... already he's starched
....now the pink baby howls too
I marched and marched
against this and still
...here they are this couple tearing
...... apart perhaps for good
...... ...... here is this baby
...... ...... ...... turning red
2008, Burlington, Vermont, Arrival
you, a teenager, wince on the stairs,
....your cane shaking, a torn crimson line
...... stitched from ankle to knee
it's midnight, I wonder why the lounge is full,
...... then everybody claps, uniforms encircle you
...... ...... but your eyes are only weary
we tried again
to keep you home...... at peace
instead we sent you off to kill
...... to rip open your leg that may never
...... ...... heal, and who knows
...... what you did...... there
least of all...... you
Mary Dingee Fillmore earned her M.F.A. at Vermont College after a twenty-five year career in organizational development and a hidden life as a writer. Her poetry about the Holocaust in the Netherlands and other subjects has appeared in Upstreet, Pearl, Diner, Westview, Main Street Rag, Pinyon and Blueline among other venues. She won the Poetry Grand Prize in the 2007 Tallgrass Writers' Guild Contest, and is a winner of the 2006 Iowa Source contest. Her essay, "Freeing the Hidden Camp," won Honorable Mention from The Journal (Ohio State University) in 2008.
(author retains copyright)
Joan Mazza
Wearing Khaki
On a plane to Atlanta, two in Khaki, new matching backpacks,
pants tucked into tan boots with pristine laces. I mistake both
for boys with their flat chests and clean faces. The light skinned one
has plaited hair in corn rows, a little knot of braid at the base
of her skull. Her hands, clean and unscarred. The other one,
dark skin shining in eastern light on this morning flight, dimples
each time he speaks to her, earphones down around his neck.
For more than a year, I have had no TV reception,
refuse the dazed and limping images.
I look again, find them sleeping, identical CD players
on their knees, arms crossed on their chests, American flag
stitched above the pocket on their right sleeve. They breathe
steady and deep as we fly at 30,000 feet.
Numbers for the Week
This morning, it was twenty-eight degrees. I photographed
red oak leaves rimed with frost. I made chicken soup, canned
ten pint jars in the pressure cooker at fifteen pounds of pressure
for seventy-five minutes. On the stump near the compost pile,
I left the skin of fourteen chicken thighs for crows and woodpeckers.
Two suicide bombers killed fifty-one people in an Iraqi market.
Twenty-seven men waiting for work in Baghdad were killed
by another suicide bomber. They knew the risks, but needed work.
Three Americans died when an improvised explosive device
detonated at a checkpoint. Three others were seriously wounded.
In preparation for a contest, I revised two poems about my dead
parents and walked up to the mailbox to send them before the deadline.
A flock of about sixty vultures posed in oaks and sweet gum
for fifty photos with my new camera and telephoto lens.
Inside a hunter’s blind, I waited for an hour, hoping to see a hawk.
In search of insurgents, three houses were invaded in Afghanistan.
Four women and eight children died, including two infants.
The army is investigating. The bodies of ten beheaded men
were discovered in Baghdad. They were tortured before being shot.
I took Michi to the groomer at seven-thirty, drove to a yard sale,
bought two paperback novels for snowy days. At Food Lion,
bought whipped cream and the ingredients for thirty-two
chocolate brownies. At one, the groomer called to say Michi was ready.
Carl Shumaker from Bridgeport, Connecticut was killed in Iraq. His death
marks 2900 Americans dead. His family says he was sweet and funny,
loved by all. He was twenty-six, leaves a wife and two-year old daughter.
Completing his third tour of duty, he was to be home for Christmas.
His best friend is recovering after losing one arm and one leg.
I changed sheets, vacuumed six bookshelves in the guestroom,
drafted three new poems, washed five loads of laundry, hung clothes
on a rack instead of using the dryer. I mended the seam on my quilt
and put out two clean towels in each of three bathrooms.
Violence in Iraq is up twenty-two per cent since the summer.
This week, the DOW was up 138 points.
[published in Winter Sky, winter 2007 and Skyline Review, January 2008;
and nominated for a Pushcart Prize 2007]
Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, certified sex therapist, writing coach and seminar leader. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Perigee/Penguin). Her work has appeared in Potomac Review, Möbius, Permafrost, Writer's Digest Magazine, Playgirl, The Writer, and Writer's Journal. She’s now a full-time poet in rural central Virginia. www.JoanMazza.com
(author retains copyright)
Gene Tanta
v
back you go to the handle-side of the knife blood-brother
braid of hair to spell in water hissing out in blue cords
bugle calls to maiden tongues blaze
boundary deviled in book-learning
brag of such roughshod beauty coiling out of bombers
v
gaga war is a story about Armistice Day gaff
greathearted do not cry to change the TV channel gay
grinning war isn't all goodbye-kisses
grief the war over what'll I ware gaiter
gravedigger rainfall against my skin gloss
grenade war stories take to their heels heading for the hills glowing
grizzle the war over who shall I kiss glottis
greatness I shall kiss strangers the day the war ends glisten
v
ornamental you search for the shoelace caught in a pulse oh
orator beneath the death-bringing flowers oh
opaque rainstorm blackened onlookers oh
out and out a last embrace between scorched mattresses oh
of tutors and favored pupils oh
ours 12 acetylene torches on Babylon express oh
ornate tornado blinding the patrolman with debris oh
or else the fuselage is burning oh
orbits in pit waste orbits in coal waste oh
outfits the body of my son outfits the body of his guard dog oh
Born in Timisoara, Romania in 1974, Gene Tanta immigrated to Chicago in 1984 with family at the age of 10. He earned his MFA in Poetry from the Iowa's Writers' Workshop in 2000. He translates contemporary Romanian poetry. His publications include: EPOCH, Ploughshares, Circumference Magazine, Exquisite Corpse, Watchword, Columbia Poetry Review, The Laurel Review (forthcoming) and two collaborative poems with Reginald Shepherd anthologized in Saints of Hysteria: A Half-Century of Collaborative American Poetry. Currently, he is a doctoral candidate in Creative Writing (Poetry) at the University of Wisconsin at Milwaukee where he also serves as Art Director for Cream City Review.
(author retains copyright)
Kaci Elder
Coffee
I.
I lean towards earth,
Overfilled baskets hug my shoulders.
Between Guadalupe's rounded belly and Pedro's whistles,
My fingers pick coffee on the finca,
Owned by a company that plays jingles for the rich
To make them drink more.
Five cordobas a pound. Nothing.
Mi familia never hears jingles in the fields.
We hear our history, sung by my Mami
Under rising moons.
Mami's fingers pick beans while her tongue grows stories
Of la granja, our farm, kidnapped by cousins of the great dictator.
She speaks, and I imagine.....chickens..... rows of white beans..... laughter.
II.
Our people rise: peasants, teachers, forgotten warriors
Fool the ruler by pretending to sleep
While he roams, steals, rapes and hoards.
They wake,
Knock him from his tower.
I come from the fields- a carrier of books, not beans,
To teach the poorest to read. By bus,
I go to San Martin, a forest village filled
With the original landowners: Sumus, Miskitos, Mayagnas.
We read manure-stained books over long nights
With tortillas, café y arroz.
III.
One morning Miguel disappears.
Guadalupe bleeds from her leg,
Whispers circle the village.
Men with guns, who knew them?
Five men taken,
And three bodies by the river.
Somebody found a hand.
Then Pedro is disappeared.
Guadalupe.
Jesus.
The Hernandez family, all taken.
IV.
We whisper in fear of men
Given machetes and machine guns
By the North,
Who fears us.
Nights grow small and long again.
I imagine..... chickens..... rows of white beans..... laughter.
This poem was inspired by the Sandinista Revolution in Nicaragua
An actor, poet and fair-trade coffee drinker, Kaci Elder is learning the long, slow lesson that black lines--magically assembled into letters then words then indented messages on the page--can subtly shift consciousness and the way we see each other. This gives her hope. She manages a hostel in Redwood National Park with her muses, Ryan her husband and Rory her son.
(author retains copyright)
I.
I lean towards earth,
Overfilled baskets hug my shoulders.
Between Guadalupe's rounded belly and Pedro's whistles,
My fingers pick coffee on the finca,
Owned by a company that plays jingles for the rich
To make them drink more.
Five cordobas a pound. Nothing.
Mi familia never hears jingles in the fields.
We hear our history, sung by my Mami
Under rising moons.
Mami's fingers pick beans while her tongue grows stories
Of la granja, our farm, kidnapped by cousins of the great dictator.
She speaks, and I imagine.....chickens..... rows of white beans..... laughter.
II.
Our people rise: peasants, teachers, forgotten warriors
Fool the ruler by pretending to sleep
While he roams, steals, rapes and hoards.
They wake,
Knock him from his tower.
I come from the fields- a carrier of books, not beans,
To teach the poorest to read. By bus,
I go to San Martin, a forest village filled
With the original landowners: Sumus, Miskitos, Mayagnas.
We read manure-stained books over long nights
With tortillas, café y arroz.
III.
One morning Miguel disappears.
Guadalupe bleeds from her leg,
Whispers circle the village.
Men with guns, who knew them?
Five men taken,
And three bodies by the river.
Somebody found a hand.
Then Pedro is disappeared.
Guadalupe.
Jesus.
The Hernandez family, all taken.
IV.
We whisper in fear of men
Given machetes and machine guns
By the North,
Who fears us.
Nights grow small and long again.
I imagine..... chickens..... rows of white beans..... laughter.
This poem was inspired by the Sandinista Revolution in Nicaragua
An actor, poet and fair-trade coffee drinker, Kaci Elder is learning the long, slow lesson that black lines--magically assembled into letters then words then indented messages on the page--can subtly shift consciousness and the way we see each other. This gives her hope. She manages a hostel in Redwood National Park with her muses, Ryan her husband and Rory her son.
(author retains copyright)
Peter D. Goodwin
.
The diplomats deliberate:
another crises
somewhere
another catastrophe
elsewhere
but here
in this same clean room
across this same polished table
they discuss logistics
and money
and food
and who will do what
this time
and who did what
last time
as they have in the past
and will do again
the routine smothering
any urgency
any sense of history
all the particulars
refined into the same
smooth empty language
of crises management
their eyes deliberately turned away
from another image
of the dead scattered
across a desolate landscape
another image
of shattered shapes sheltered
under industrial flotsam
of cardboard, tin, plastic
populations displaced, lost in despair
with yet another image
of another starving child
potbellied
dirty
its face faceless
with flies and mites mingling
on its hollow cheeks
and settling inside
its nostrils and its eyes.
Peter Godwin taught at University in Thailand, elementary school in England, secondary school in America, worked as a playwright in New York, and now writes poetry in Maryland. His poetry can be found in Rattle, Scribble, Luminosity, Delaware Poetry Review, Bent Pin, Twisted Tongue, and others…
(author retains copyright)
The diplomats deliberate:
another crises
somewhere
another catastrophe
elsewhere
but here
in this same clean room
across this same polished table
they discuss logistics
and money
and food
and who will do what
this time
and who did what
last time
as they have in the past
and will do again
the routine smothering
any urgency
any sense of history
all the particulars
refined into the same
smooth empty language
of crises management
their eyes deliberately turned away
from another image
of the dead scattered
across a desolate landscape
another image
of shattered shapes sheltered
under industrial flotsam
of cardboard, tin, plastic
populations displaced, lost in despair
with yet another image
of another starving child
potbellied
dirty
its face faceless
with flies and mites mingling
on its hollow cheeks
and settling inside
its nostrils and its eyes.
Peter Godwin taught at University in Thailand, elementary school in England, secondary school in America, worked as a playwright in New York, and now writes poetry in Maryland. His poetry can be found in Rattle, Scribble, Luminosity, Delaware Poetry Review, Bent Pin, Twisted Tongue, and others…
(author retains copyright)
Michael Lee Johnson
Harvest Time
A Métis Indian lady, drunk,
hands blanketed over as in prayer,
over a large brown fruit basket
naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard
inside¾approaches the Edmonton,
Alberta adoption agency.
There're only spirit gods
inside her empty purse.
Inside, an infant,
refrained from life,
with a fruity wine sap apple
wedged like a teaspoon
of autumn sun
inside it's mouth;
a shallow pool of tears start
to mount in native blue eyes.
Snuffling, the mother offers
a slim smile, turns away.
She slithers voyeuristically
through near slum streets,
and alleyways,
looking for drinking buddies
to share a hefty pint
of applejack wine.(author retains copyright)
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fiji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Israel, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Finland, and Poland internet radio. Michael Lee Johnson has been published in more than 280 different publications worldwide.
A Métis Indian lady, drunk,
hands blanketed over as in prayer,
over a large brown fruit basket
naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard
inside¾approaches the Edmonton,
Alberta adoption agency.
There're only spirit gods
inside her empty purse.
Inside, an infant,
refrained from life,
with a fruity wine sap apple
wedged like a teaspoon
of autumn sun
inside it's mouth;
a shallow pool of tears start
to mount in native blue eyes.
Snuffling, the mother offers
a slim smile, turns away.
She slithers voyeuristically
through near slum streets,
and alleyways,
looking for drinking buddies
to share a hefty pint
of applejack wine.(author retains copyright)
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fiji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Israel, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Finland, and Poland internet radio. Michael Lee Johnson has been published in more than 280 different publications worldwide.
Peter D. Goodwin
.
The diplomats deliberate
The diplomats deliberate:
another crises
somewhere
another catastrophe
elsewhere
but here
in this same clean room
across this same polished table
they discuss logistics
and money
and food
and who will do what
this time
and who did what
last time
as they have in the past
and will do again
the routine smothering
any urgency
any sense of history
all the particulars
refined into the same
smooth empty language
of crises management
their eyes deliberately turned away
from another image
of the dead scattered
across a desolate landscape
another image
of shattered shapes sheltered
under industrial flotsam
of cardboard, tin, plastic
populations displaced, lost in despair
with yet another image
of another starving child
potbellied
dirty
its face....faceless
with flies and mites mingling
on its hollow cheeks
and settling inside
its nostrils and its eyes.
Peter Goodwin taught at University in Thailand, an elementary school in England, and a secondary school in America. He also worked as a playwright in New York, and now writes poetry in Maryland. His poetry can be found in Rattle, Scribble, Luminosity, Delaware Poetry Review, Bent Pin, Twisted Tongue, and other journals.
The diplomats deliberate
The diplomats deliberate:
another crises
somewhere
another catastrophe
elsewhere
but here
in this same clean room
across this same polished table
they discuss logistics
and money
and food
and who will do what
this time
and who did what
last time
as they have in the past
and will do again
the routine smothering
any urgency
any sense of history
all the particulars
refined into the same
smooth empty language
of crises management
their eyes deliberately turned away
from another image
of the dead scattered
across a desolate landscape
another image
of shattered shapes sheltered
under industrial flotsam
of cardboard, tin, plastic
populations displaced, lost in despair
with yet another image
of another starving child
potbellied
dirty
its face....faceless
with flies and mites mingling
on its hollow cheeks
and settling inside
its nostrils and its eyes.
Peter Goodwin taught at University in Thailand, an elementary school in England, and a secondary school in America. He also worked as a playwright in New York, and now writes poetry in Maryland. His poetry can be found in Rattle, Scribble, Luminosity, Delaware Poetry Review, Bent Pin, Twisted Tongue, and other journals.
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