Reaction to a spirited debate regarding politics and poetry.
WHATEVER COMES
Whatever you think about me
I am human
I have feelings
Feelings that have been stomped on
or caressed
depending on the person and circumstance
I am an American from Europe
whose white skin
and heterosexuality
and youth in the suburbs
gave me advantages
over those who weren’t dealt the same cards
or even given cards from the same deck
I am a woman who still doesn’t have
the same Constitutional rights as males
but who can vote and speak her mind
who doesn’t have to wear a burqa
who doesn’t risk being stoned to death
because she dared leave the house without her husband
I am not threatened by TV personalities
who admit they don’t believe half their hate speech
(they are just doing what their sponsors tell them)
who have no degrees in journalism
(one a college dropout, the other a deejay)
They don’t speak from their hearts
but from their wallets
and they freely admit it
Sure, it’s mercenary and incites violence
But it’s a living
Powers of such as these are limited
only by the willingness of their listeners
to be sheep, to blame the least in our society
for their current woes
(this time it’s Mexicans and gays; last time it was Jews;
before that, Armenians, before that…)
When Jesus was surrounded by “unclean” street urchins
he told the disciples not to chase them away
but to let them come closer
He didn’t want them deported to another town
He didn’t call them unclean or unworthy
He didn’t charge copays when healing the poor
He acted out of love
He also raised a ruckus
that resonates to this very day
for to love one’s enemies is an almost impossible task
and to love one’s neighbor,
harder still when he brags he ran them over,
but they were “just Mexicans”
Jesus was hung because of words
and all his words were loving
If our poetic world was only Whitman, Dickenson, Dickens
bereft of Ginsburg, Baraka, Gwendolyn Brooks
how poor this world would be
Provocation is healthy
What makes one’s blood coarse faster
makes one’s mind more nimble
Sure, I get provoked
But I stand by my right as an artist
to call out powerful hatemongers
Plato banned poets because
he claimed they drew their inspiration
from imaginary worlds
Those of us who draw from the real world
do so in the name of justice
of compassion for the Other
regardless of religion or color
regardless of the consequences
in spite of whatever comes
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
We were asked to write about winter or cold. Poets went from temperatures to coldness of heart to…
COLD AS A SWASTIKA
And when they had gathered all the books
Works of Jewish and other subversive writers
Thoughts of Einstein
Dark musings of playwright Bertolt Brecht
(every time you hum “Mack the Knife,” remember him)
Lenin, Trotsky, Zola (politics)
From Sigmund Freud to Ernest Hemingway
Ironically, Jack London’s Arctic went into the pile
And then the pyre – everyone pulled out matches to participate in
a funeral worthy of a ship-bound Viking
The death of thousands of words
too dangerous to read
Thoughts polluting the minds of
pure-blooded, ‘real’ Germans
The chill pored over intellectuals
Jews and Christians alike
Frozen in time, these works
Alive elsewhere, but here during the Nazi regime
forbidden fruit
Icewater veins of torch-wielding youth
who, had they read the books
might have understood what was going wrong
Here, in America
that same icy atmosphere prevails
over “Harry Potter”
over “Huck Finn”
over “Catcher in the Rye”
We don’t burn ’em; we ban ’em
And the North wind keeps on blowing
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
PalinDrone
I ran for Vice President
while killing a moose with an assault rifle
from a helicopter
during labor for my 28th child!
But my daughter flunked her abstinence class
While not as glamorous as the White House
Fox News gives me lots of air time
I go to lots of Tea Parties
and I finally got rid of Todd
Running for President? I’ll get back to ya!
I like to shop at consignment stores
like Bonwit Teller, you betcha
and Macy’s and Tiffany’s
But my favorite accessory is Trig
I carry him around like a badge
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
written for the Pyramid prompt at Poetic Asides
The prompt today was “After the Rain.” Took it to this past weekend in water-starved Philly; a mudslide in Topanga Canyon; and a flood in Attica, in which two people lost their lives trying to save animals from a vet’s office. But this one seemed apropos for today.
SALT WATER TORRENTIAL
Tears flow steadily surely certainly
Tissues stack teetering telling toppling
Therapist listens nodding knowing nudging
Time passes slowly softly swiftly
Tourist wonders why when how
she was brought to this strange place
of salt water headaches
of stories that go bump in the night
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Poetic Asides, we’re filling in the blanks: “The Meaning Of _______”
THE MEANINGS OF SUMMERTIME
At three, summertime meant
my sisters stayed home all day
We’d play together, the whole neighborhood
Every mom our mom, watching over us
At five, summertime meant
No more Kindergarten
No more snacks or naptime giggles
I missed my new friends and wondered about first grade
At eight, summertime meant
a nice, long vacation
Swimming in the backyard
Sneaking sips of beer at Mom’s jazz parties
At twelve, summertime meant
the awakening of my body, my first cramps
Denied the pool because I couldn’t navigate tampons
and Mom didn’t want to talk about it
At sixteen, summertime meant
School friends would drive out to see me, the country mouse
I didn’t have to miss them all summer
Backgammon with my best friend John til dawn
At twenty-five, summertime meant
lots of gigs – weddings, bar mitzvahs
Sweating out Village piano bars for extra cash
Saving money because August is dead in the City
At thirty-four, summertime meant
Puerto Rican beaches with my baby girl
Her first swims were off the shore, in my arms
We were always salty, sweating, smiling
At forty-nine, summertime meant
hard times for my girl as she
battled disturbing trends of mindset
She, solitary; me, worried; doctors, experimenting
Now it’s my fifties and summertime means
Hot flashes accentuate the humidity
My days are my own and so is my illness
Tricking myself into getting outside for sunshine
No matter the person, summertime means
different pleasures at different ages
different pressures at different ages
Seasons are like mood swings, summertime having the advantage of sun
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
Poetic Asides prompt. This is what happens when you spend three hours at Barnes and Noble, sipping cappuccino and reading Pablo Neruda love poems!
THE MEANING OF SILK STOCKINGS
Shiny satin garter belts with buttons and clasps
The sexiest, most alluring of fashion details
Stockings that slack a bit during the day
reminding her of their silky selves undercover
Tantalizing tug of war under her skirt
She never knew sensuality until she abandoned L’eggs
and smoothed sheer silk over
sturdy, smoothly shaved legs
Rolling the first carefully over calf and thigh
Easing the hem over the button
latching it securely, then
the other leg, this time more slowly
Later, on the dance floor, he hand on her hip
His eyes flash and she knows that he knows
What’s in store for the rest of the evening
It makes the wait agonizing bliss
He carefully eases the dress off, purring
with the subtle confidence of a true lover
His delight in the details of her undergarments
His appreciation of her shape, her way
Finding the treasure beneath
first teasing, pleasuring, then
slowly, cautiously unwrapping her
an undulating, whispering bundle of lace and linen
No awkward peeling back of pantyhose
She is old-school, The Book of Betty (Grable, Page, and Boop)
He leafs tenderly through the endless pages of her body
The journal of her journey to this timeless moment
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore, Sharp Little Pencil
FUNDAY
Today she will wear pjs to the market
part her hair on the other side
run a teabag through the coffee grinder
and put orange juice on her cereal
Today is a turquiose-eye-shadow kind of day
A braless Wednesday
as The Girls dangle near her belt
A day for Dollar Store shopping
She’ll buy a Liberace DVD
and two cans of Beefaroni, even though she’s vegan
Barefoot on the sidewalk
Deliberately stepping in dog poop just to feel the squish
and leaving human pawprints behind as she
heads for the library to read Ayn Rand
backwards
Today is a day for yodeling
on Main Street
And writing lesbian love letters to Sara Palin
Wednesdays are made for fun
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Last week at Poetic Asides, we were asked to write a poem about three things we could see from our workspace. My computer is set up on an old desk my dad made years ago; the walls are plastered with mementos and pictures, posters and plaques. It was simply a matter of picking the ones that fit together. This is the first of three “threes” I composed! Thanks, Robert Lee Brewer, for the prompt.
THREE IMAGES OF WOMEN GRACE MY WALL
A dog-eared poster hovers near my desk, rebellious wallpaper
Detailed manifesto of the Women’s Liberation Movement
“Because woman’s work is never done and is underpaid…”
Words from a bubbling wellspring of hope and burned lycra
Demand for an equal stake in this country, still unmet
A postcard: Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein
keep me honest in all pursuits, artful and activist
as they stare me down in a loving way, like sisters
heart of depression beside the mother of us all
reminding me that women are worthy of everything
Klimt portrait, foil-embroidered woman
She stands alone, in no man’s embrace
yet framed by flowers, wearing a come-hither robe
Full black hat, ebony halo, distant gaze
Essence of loveliness, an equal part of my soul
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 