Changes
Mail call, salvation in the field
Look, another book from my aunt
Shit. More poetry
and I thought I asked her to
send me dirty magazines
like she used to for my uncle
She says that was another time
Another place
Another war
Sandburg, is this guy Jewish?
Whatever, I’ll take a look
Bunch of stuff about Chicago
and I’ve never even been there
Whatever
A phrase catches my eye
“A Million Young Work Men”
First, I thought it would be like
A Million Elvis Fans Can’t Be Wrong
but I was wrong and now
I wish I’d never read it
Shit about dead young men from
two sides of a war and all of them
cold underground, slaughtered each other
for no reason at all except to make
their leaders fat and happy and rich
And then this poet, Sandburg
dreams of their bloodgutted ghosts
They all rise up out of graves and scream
Damn the czar and Damn the Kaiser
(I thought that was a roll, whatever)
But that was another time
Another place
Another war
We’re not in this because anyone
is gonna make money or score points
We’re in this because we are patriots
and we’re gonna teach these muzzlims
democracy, even if it kills us
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Fireblossom’s prompt at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads is tricky today: Find a poem you love, then write a poem about that one, first person, third person, fiction or real, anything goes. Hers, about a man reading Byron to a young woman, seducing her with the words of a long-gone poet, really hit home. Read it HERE, it’s terrific. This is also “in the margins” at Poets United.
I love Sandburg in all his incarnations, especially his Chicago poems, because he deals with social justice in layspeak. Never talking above the reader, his words are carefully chosen and deceptively ordinary; yet, the power of his convictions is clear. I wrote this as an aunt trying to connect with a nephew serving in Afghanistan. His through brainwashing makes it clear: The Powers That Be have won… again.
Thanks for reading, and peace, Amy
Watercolor by Joseph William Arcier, my uncle
Uncle Joe
Rags-to-riches to rags and sandals…
The millionaire, bouncing carefree
around posh New Canaan in Bermuda
shorts. Wife said, “Joe, that’s not right.”
He succeeded at iconic artwork,
but his real artistry was in the stock market:
A short, stubby man, possessed of a brain
lithe, literal, and shining bright.
Uncle Joe hung with Robert Frost and
the edgy, eclectic artsy set. We’d visit
each summer; Joe and my mom, Charlotte,
sat up drinking, crooning tunes out of spite
for his wife Caroline, virtuous virago, waving
her washed-out Mayflower credentials. The
Barlows looked down at Mom, the sister-in-law
who sang in clubs, hair bleached Harlow white.
Joe and Charlotte both married into this
marred mix of thoroughbred and “We
Lost it all in the Crash.” My dad was
the only anti-snob we girls could cite.
Joe, cigar in the ashtray and a
parchdry martini close by,
taught me to dance, my small bare
feet on his Fred Flintstones each night.
Up late, singing show tunes; Caroline
would appear, her long (natural) blonde hair
pulled into a bun so tight – severe as
Judgment Day. We singers got tight
as beer and vermouthless martinis.
Olives floated easily, like our voices.
Dad couldn’t keep up, nor my sisters.
Just the three of us howling at moonlight.
When Joe died, it was quick as his smile.
The twinkle in his eye dimmed, he coughed
and fell off the chair face down. His
cigar butt burned a hole in the white white
carpet, and Caroline fretted about it
throughout the funeral. I stayed back home
to tend dear old Auntie Ruth. Didn’t
have the courage to see Joe dead, not quite.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter J; also for Three Word Wednesday, who gave us Edgy, Iconic, and Lithe as prompt challenges.
Uncle Joe was indeed a fine watercolorist, as you can see in his work above. He considered himself an artist first and a rich man second. Funniest moment? In the expansive, expensive back yard, which sported a huge glacial rock and a bocce court, he once took a deep breath and exhaled mightily. “You know what that smell is?” he asked his nieces. Dramatic pause, then his reply: “Money.”
His idea of the perfect martini was a lot of gin and then the cap from the vermouth bottle waved somewhere over the top of the shaker. He was a funny, wry, clever man who drank to excess and invested in the post-Depression market to unbelievable success.
He was Aunt Caroline’s polar opposite. He was the rain forest to Caroline’s Arctic; the happy-go-lucky slob to her pearls and tortoise shell hair combs. His habit of bopping around New Canaan, Connecticut (home to IBM scion Thomas J. Watson and many others) in shorts, Hawaiian shirt, and sandals drove my aunt nuts. This only made me love him more. He was an iconoclast: Well-read, poorly bred, bald head, lots of bread. Frost was indeed a friend, but he never bragged about it. Man, I miss that little big man. Peace, Amy
Click on link to play. Amy on keys and vocals, Riley on drumset, Rob on tenor sax. Photo by Donna Dajnowski, used by permission of photographer.
FAMILY AFFAIR
Mother and daughter
Keyboardist and drummer
Our yearbooks diverged:
Mine said, “You are so weird,”
and her entries were all about
her coming out and being cool.
Years ago, the dissolution of
the marriage of her parents
put Riley in a tricky spot.
Years later, rarity of rarities:
Her dad, a great saxophonist,
joined us on a session.
Vintage jazz cut with
a medium beat, but
vintage Amy to the core.
We all felt vibes surfacing.
Felt the delirium of healing.
Created a legacy of friendship.
Sessions are not just for
the psychologist’s office.
Jams are not only spread
on whole wheat toasty bread.
Jazz has that knack of pushing back
what’s in the way; music, here to stay.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Jasmine Calyx, who printed an amazing list of words, including some of the above: Songwriter, surfacing, yearbook, drummer, keyboardist, rarities, delirium, legacy, dissolution, and vintage. She has a knack for highlighting the blogs of other poets… a truly selfless blogger. I dig her style – check her out! Also for Wonder Wednesday at Poets United (proud to be a member!), asking for poems about wonders of the world. I think that two exes and their daughter performing in one space, making great jazz, is a WONDER!
Riley, Rob Weinberger, and I did record this piece in a Binghamton, NY studio. Rob’s wonderful wife, Donna Dajnowski, took some pix. Lex was stuck upstate, but he thought it was a great idea. The cut needs some editing, but you get the idea. Peace, Amy
For Poets United, who asked for words about gifts, a different take.
MY GIFT TO YOU THIS THANKSGIVING: The gift of awareness, of the lies we have been taught in our schools, of the ways we can open our eyes and take action, even this late in Gaia’s game.
Call me a spoilsport, but, speaking as a person whose ancestors (ugh) came over on the (yikes) Mayflower (apologies to all Native Americans), the Thanksgiving we celebrate every year never happened. Actually, while the indigenous peoples taught the invaders (Columbus didn’t “discover” America, after all) how to plant the seeds and cultivate crops, as well as introducing them to the most hallowed of all indigenous creatures, the turkey… The Anglos paid back by enslaving their hosts, cheating them out of land “rights.”
Native Americans didn’t understand the concept of land ownership – although there were vague understandings of tribal boundaries, tribes would emigrate to the South during cold months and travel North for the yearly planting and hunting. They felt they were guests on this earth, and they treated the environment with much respect, always thinking generations ahead.
It has taken little more than two hundred years for our European ancestors to lay waste to most of this country. Even the pristeen wild fields are now endangered by hydrofracturing (creating earthquakes in order to release “natural gas.” It’s only natural if it’s underground, where it belongs… and drilling through bedrock and water tables is polluting millions of gallons of our only sources of potable water. Soon, you may see yourself buying it all from the Big Guys, who are bottling it out from under us as we speak.).
SO WHY GIVE THANKS? Because we have choices, voices. We can stop war, stop the rape of our environment, stop all the destruction, if only we get off our butts after Black Friday and Turkey Day and the ensuing football games.
WE CAN HOLD OUR ELECTED OFFICIALS ACCOUNTABLE. And yes, that includes President Obama, who needs to be reminded that there is no such thing as “clean coal,” same as “natural gas.” We need to start hunkering down on AMERICAN-MADE solar panels and wind turbines, get them onto the main power grid. We can work for better conditions for the people “on the rez,” from whom we stole the land in the first place.
We need to honor this country, the country we praise, this precious land, the reason we give thanks in the first place.
I will be taking a break this weekend to count my blessings (especially for my community of poets, my groups of rowdy activists, and the results of the last election, as well as Lex, Riley, and my wonderful birth family and family through two marriages). And I will be reading, only. Catching up on what others have commented on my blog, reading work on sites to which I have contributed but whose lists of poets I have not completely read.
Peace now – action to come… Amy
I love the blog, “Imaginary Garden with Real Toads,” several writers who toss out different prompts. I saw Kerry’s challenge to write from the oral tradition, a story one would tell a small audience seated on the rug all around. Instantly I heard my grandma Blanche and imagined how she might tell of her long-ago relatives in the old country. I don’t do prose very often, but I do hope you enjoy this, offered with all my Shanty Irish heart. Peace, Amy
Long Ago and Far Away (the soil from which I spring)
Long ago, our ancestors dwelt far away, in a harsh land. Soil so rocky, for every shovel that dug in, two stones came out, and the walls and cottages were built with these. What was a hindrance became a treasure.
Men and tall enough boys tilled the landlords’ fields or worked the mines. Hardship was their way of life; the flintiest labor therefore must be rewarded in a friendly, communal atmosphere. Those who had pushed a plow or descended into the pitch black nether to dig for coal gathered nightly at the public meeting house, which was meant for all meetings pertaining to village life, but mostly beloved for its bar. Every village had a “pub,” as well as a church or two (the second being Anglican, depending on how England’s will held sway in town).
Soon, a tankard was banged on the bar and silence would come over them like a fog. A singer – Lord, you cannot toss a pebble in all of Eire without hitting a fine tenor! Someone offered a song. The verse was his to sing, and all voices joined in on the chorus. Some were mournful, in minor key, recalling a death or the loss of a plot of land, such as “Four Fields.” Others were rollicking, bawdy reels sung so loud they’d bring on the need for “just one more drink, and then I’ll see the missus.”
Meanwhile, the lady of the house, having milked the cow, drawn water from the well for washing faces of little ones, cleaning clothes, and scrubbing floors on her knees; having beaten blankets, spanked a naughty one or cupped another’s face in her palm, chopped wood for the fireplace to keep the house warm and roast the meat, stoked the stove for baking and invited the widow over to gossip over a cup of tea; having worked miracles with the potatoes yet again, fed the children, told them a story before prayers and kisses… After all this, she’d sit in her rocking chair, waiting for her man to stumble in, doff his hat, and eat his portion.
Then it was up the stairs together and, should the drink not have deprived him of his manhood, they would have a go at making another baby. As for how that happens, my dears, well, that would be a story for another day…
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic pub, Poets United, for their Poetry Pantry!
For Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, ancestry, oral tradition
Hello all, from our new digs here in Madison, home base for recalling the governor of Wisconsin; protecting the environment of our state and others; protesting the war in Afghanistan (this includes Veterans for Peace); and sheltering the homeless during the bitter cold that comes and goes.
During my vacation from blogging (and while my computer crashed with one of those “phishing” viruses – I never fall for that), I composed a ditty for my good friend, Buddah Moskowitz, of I Hate Poetry and Virtual Poetry Reading. Thought it would be a nice “dipping of the toe in the poetic waters” to post it here. He’s SO worth it!! Peace, Amy
SILK THREAD (for Moskowitz)
There is a long, silken heartstring
Starts in the Midwest
Stretches to the Coast
(The Left Coast, not the other one)
Connects me with my
brother from another mother
in ways gutty, gutteral, giddy
and good
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
As always, posted at my “nest,” Poets United.
The Door to Deceitful Delights
The door to deceitful delights
she discovered within as she was
plied with that first fizzy fun punch
Pried open wider by a toke of particularly prime pot
Finally flung open with the abandon possessed by
twenty-something Immortals
This same door had dwelt
in her mother and others long passed
Smothering, smoldering smoke and
various places to place opium
by hookah or
by whodahthunkit
Twenty-something was wise
She grew tired of wasting time
Time to grow up
We can’t all be Peter Pan
or Tinkerbell, even
She shoved her full weight against the door
Forced it shut and with it all the shit, shove-stored
She knows she could open it again
on a whim or over a heartbreak
But she willingly tossed the key
into a pool of other bad memories
where she chooses not to swim
knowing she’d only sink like a stone
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse Open Mike Night (check out the links!) and my poetic hearth and home, Poets United.
Poetic Bloomings asked for a poem about traditions; the Sunday Whirl tossed this motley group of words at us: amorous, subtle, genuflect, precipice, inkling, vanilla, mission, December, laden, bark, crusted, trivet. A retelling of the kind of family dust-up that eventually goes from legend to a smile, this is dedicated to the memory of my former mother-in-law, Hanna Weinberger; and in honor of her husband, Len, and Rob and his fantastic second wife, Donna. Peace and twinkly lights, Amy (P.S. Lex and I also light a menorah to this day, in Riley’s honor.)
Christmas Tree With a Schmear
“Will I have to genuflect to it?” she grimaced.
An inking of the controversy to come, December of ’86.
My mission, to host my husband’s folks and to
decorate our Christmas tree. No big deal, right?
Intermarriage: He, a Jew; I, a pseudo-Christian.
(His faith only observed when his mom set
the Passover table, lit by silver candlesticks,
laden with luscious food on fancy trivets.)
But every year, my vanilla faith called for a tree.
My Episcopalian upbringing had brought me to this:
On Christmas Eve I’d sneak into church;
in the spring we watched “Easter Parade” on TV.
Interfaith civil wedding: A generic Man of God
found in the yellow pages; a hoopah in our living room
(no rabbi or minister without promises of Hebrew or
Sunday school… not ready to even have kids!).
We lugged home the best (cheapest) tree in Queens;
its bark shredded during trunk-shoving, leaking
pestilent, resinous sap. My allergic splotches
crusted over just in time for The Big Party.
Mom was less than amorous about the whole affair.
She felt her shiksa daughter-in-law had exposed a subtle agenda:
Trying to make her son revere a tree that (apparently)
was a symbol of Jesus on the cross. With tinsel and lights.
They entered with trepidation; this was a precipice in our
relationship. I had gone to every Seder, Hanukkah… and
my husband loved having a tree (the pagan aspect, too).
Within ten minutes, we had gravitated to places of safety:
Mom, smoking a cigarette, looking at the wall, peeking
out of the corner of her eye in downright disgust. Wife
telling stories of each ornament; husband happy, stringing lights.
Dad, singing along with a Crosby record, “White Christmas.”
Ain’t compromise a wonderful thing?
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I usually don’t revisit the same subject so soon, but Poetic Bloomings had a prompt with such specifics (a great-grandfather, a pocketwatch, a camera, getting film developed) to one I just wrote about my Great-grandpa Dunn that I though he deserved a special remembrance. I’m looking at the portrait as I write this… Mom looks so little, like a puppy standing next to Gary Cooper. So thanks, Marie Elena and Walt, for reading my mind! Peace, Amy
Portrait of Great-grandpa and Mom
Mom told me her Grandpa
died on the tracks
The storied train conductor
lay down to relax
and died as he’d lived
in his suit so fine
Forty-some years working
the Rock Island Line
They found him, right hand flung out
They opened his palm
His prized pocket-watch was
still perfect as a Psalm
They went to the shack
built around his prize
A massive telescope;
Mars seen with his own eyes
and papers lined in ink
detailed her Grandpa’s plan
that someday on the moon
a spaceship we would land
Mom spied a camera
sitting on a shelf
slipped it her in pocket;
this, she’d do herself
Three pictures on that film
One of his cherished Scope
One, her grandma making
homemade lavender soap
The last, my mom and grandpa
Great-grandfather Dunn
In full conductor-timepiece suit…
to his long leg she clung
That picture, now in sepia
hangs upon my wall
A testament to dreamers
no matter how they fall
In death, he chose his exit
In life, he held such hope
Great-grandma washed his broken body
in homemade lavender soap
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 