week's theme: Ars Poetica: Poetry about poetry.
to all who generously permit me to publish your work!
#60 - What are you doing New Year's Eve?
#61 - New Years Resolutions: Honey, I promise to change my lowdown
#62 - Cartwheel-Challenged Poets (All submissions eligible for
anthology: "Why I Wasn't A Dallas Cheerleader or It's Hard to
Write When Spinning")
(Drumroll!) From Guy LeCharles Gonzales of 1998 NPS's #1 Team New
York. Guy performed this piece at the NPS finals:
Revolutions Per Minute
love poem for Friday night revolutionaries...
revolution has been--
revolution has been--
revolution is in danger of becoming a has-been.
has failed its mission
from its destiny as the poetry of the people
& roll's sequel in its soulless quest for mass appeal.
around the world and I I I
seen history repeated too many times by
should know better.
was replaced by the music industry
niggers go to the highest bidders
the revolution underground
I'm tired of waiting for poets to open their eyes
reject the status quo.
is an angel of light
not all right 'cause the CIA could be tapping my phone.
false move and my death becomes a mystery
Las Vegas police won't bother to solve
though I'm ready to die
realized that the revolution does not need another martyr.
failed to see this reality
he'd get money from his playa-presidency to buy it back.
caught up in stereotypical fantasies
killing us softly
the DEATH of the revolution is televised nightly
number-one rated show on MTV
Puff Daddy and family
thick bass licks from '80's pop hits
from the lips of Versace-branded slaves
my stomach late at night when I find myself
in that bass line
shrouded my mind clouded
hands where my eyes CAN'T see
how it used to be
all about the Benjamins now
hip-hop heads become wannabe's
Heron collects his royalties
the revolution is a commercial property
by Sprite and the NBA...
got another ring and
plight is a hollow slogan to hook a poem on
the revolution is compromised
wannabe rap stars disguised as slam poets
to the crowd
them what they want to hear
of what they need to hear.
words like mad-cow disease
out an entire generation
I poke you in your third eye to clear your vision
that you're the problem
not a poet you just slam a lot
a lot of senseless rhyming
shit like Tommy Kills-niggers
it always fashionable to lay blame elsewhere
if it'll get a laugh and a couple of extra points.
politics from brain-washed hypocrites
disguised as calls for revolution
to win the Slam
a blunt and a forty and that bleach-blonde shorty you dissed from
the black woman's rage
damn well that you got milk.
the thieves in the temple are the priests themselves
despite my own glass house I dare to throw stones
it takes a clean break to heal right
I can't let the revolution go on without you...
1998 Guy LeCharles Gonzalez
From our friend in Dublin, Audrey Kaufman:
once wrote a poem.
brought me many friends.
the poem was about death and destruction.
was about love and compassion.
we shared an uncertain future.
once wrote a poem and it brought me many, many friends ....
day I will tell you about it.
And then there's the rascally, adorable Nicki Miller of
Night, Missing You After Poetry
plastic cups, crumpled napkins,
exiled stuffed mushroom peeks out from
hiding place near the end table,
runaway earlier this evening.
cracker crumbs, idle plates,
wine bottles stacked forlorn, forgotten
the kitchen sink.
and contagious still,
I collect the bones of another
wrapped in the arms
luxurious words, montrechet,
off to another space within
one, tucked away only in me,
envision you here, too.
private desire roots,
were you here;
see you, club chair cross-legged,
my side, presiding.
eyes felt on the back of my neck,
through my hair.
can hear your voice ...
the ears of all, but
you read only to me;
your words, squeezing your
They could only grasp a hint
your magic. I would later
it softly, in sweeter light.
white dots of dissolution melt,
I sigh, come back to them,
deep in your embrace.
30 degrees outside, two plastic
kitchen bags still need hauling out,
kitchen swept, the wine stems and
washed. I don't mind
ritual housekeeping afterwards.
all, my soul has just been fed.
night of poetry, one night of magic.
So soon, but not soon enough,
1998 nicki miller
From Chuck Rice, another fine poet:
As Only Our Eyes See
skyscrapers low on the horizon
the fizzling sun.
wonder, wander through crowds
face, on a corner,
you one of us-
in a business suit,
rags, old woman, teenage girl,
in clever disguise?
you scanning me also,
as only our eyes see,
and sensing pain-
to the deafening cry
every rock, tree, the pain
every face, the fear
hopelessness in every eye?
I move through random streets
of tall clawing concrete
the heartbeat of each building,
chaos in every cloud,
tranquil order in each frenzied pulse
traffic, every sound screaming volumes
questions, each moment
story begging not
be forgotten, to be told.
your mind's eye already been here,
your sixth sense already probed
fixtures of normality,
this hall of fury and emotion
a blind sage,
its cries of life,
windows faces cigarette butts
what they cannot feel,
what they cannot see?
us- cursed with this unrest
(piercing) reflects back,
us to walk alone.
this alien world
and alone on some dark beach
back my thoughts reach up
caress the moon like a lover.
the hands of your mind silently there
some similar darkness?
longing, I search faces
you one of us?"
we must remain silent, secret
of all creatures,
to be uncovered, revealed,
to risk death of the soul.
forms clever, diverse,
in our defenses
prejudgements, preconceived ideas
could not even spot one another,
at some vulnerable place,
the risk of a notion
perhaps exchange pleasantries,
I too am a poet."
poem first appeared in Private Crystallography, an anthology
by Cosmic Trend of Canada.