No llores, América
No llores, América
No llores, América, no llores
por la sangre vertida en las
esquinas
del Sur, no llores por los hijos
de tus mercenarios, no llores
por tus bombas, tus cohetes,
tu napalm,
tus viajes a la luna, tus calles
de navaja,
tus dólares amargos, tus negros
de precinto
con sus bastones relucientes como
krugers
golpeando a sus hermanos de
algodón,
no llores por los amos de Wall
Street,
su polvo del mejor, sus trajes bien
cortados,
sus tiradores de pelo de gacela,
no llores América, no llores,
tu atronadora voz es la más bella
entre los tules del sol,
no llores, dueña del mundo,
amada América, no llores,
irás al cielo cuando mueras,
tienes los ojos azules como Dios.
“No catalogue of horrors ever kept men from war. Before the war you always think that it’s not you that dies. But you will die, brother, if you go to it long enough.” – Ernest Hemingway
What I’m listening to right now.
Unknown, “Байрактар.” This song is quite morbid, and glorifies death and war and patriotism, which are dangerous sentiments. I freely acknowledge that it is Ukrainian war propaganda, which makes me uncomfortable. Yet I found myself transfixed by it – as a composition (video and song, together), it’s coherent and well-crafted, though insanely simple. I’d hazard the opinion that it’s a kind of 21st century bardism. The title, Bayraktar, is the name of a high-tech, Turkish-made, drone-based weapons system, which the Ukrainians have been deploying to devastating effect on Putin’s columns of tanks and supplies.
текст:
Прийшли окупанти до нас в Україну
Форма новенька, воєнні машини
Та трохи поплавився їх інвентар
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Російскі танкісти сховались в кущі,
Щоб лаптем посьорбати довбані щі
Та трохи у щах перегрівся навар
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Зі сходу припхались до нас барани
Для вастанавлєнья велікай страни.
Найкращій пастух баранячих отар
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Їх доводи – всяке озброєня різне:
Потужні ракети, машини залізні.
У нас на всі доводи є коментар –
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Вони захопити хотіли нас зразу
І ми зачаїли на орків образу.
З бандитів російських робить примар
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Російска поліція справи заводить
Но вбивцю рашистів ніяк не знаходить.
Хто ж винен, що в нашому полі глухар?
Байрактар… Байрактар…
Веде пропаганду кремлівський урод,
Слова пропаганди ковтає народ.
Тепер нове слово знає їх цар:
…
This Economy
In all my years as a pedestrian
serving juice to guests, it never occurred to me
thoughtfully to imagine how a radish feels.
She merely arrived. Half-turning
in the demented twilight, one feels a
sour empathy with all that went before.
That, needless to say, was how we elaborated
ourselves staggering across tracts:
Somewhere in America there is a naked person.
Somewhere in America adoring legions blush
in the sunset, crimson madder, and madder still.
Somewhere in America someone is trying to figure out
how to pay for this, bouncing a ball
off a wooden strut. Somewhere
in America the lonely enchanted eye each other
on a bus. It goes down Woodrow Wilson Avenue.
Somewhere in America it says you must die, you know too much.
굶는 집
다섯식구
옥순이 아버지
옥순이 어머니
옥순이
옥순이 동생
옥순이 둘째 동생
더 낳을 힘 없어 둘째가 막내인지
배고파서
하루 이틀 꼬박 굶고
물배만 채워
다섯식구
서로 얼굴보고 앉았다
옥순이 둘째 동생
그 어린 것이 한 마리
소가 되어 짚도 풀도 먹고
고구마 덩쿨도 먹을 수만 있다면
– 고은 (한국시인 1933-)
A Starving House
This family of five
Ok-soon's father
Ok-soon's mother
Ok Soon-yi
Ok-soon's brother
Ok-soon's other brother
Lacking the strength to have more children,
the third is the youngest
Hungry
Just starve for a day or two
Just drink some water
This family of five
Sat face to face
Ok-soon's second brother
The little one
Could become a cow, eat straw and grass
If only one could eat the sweet potato vine
– Ko Un (Korean poet, b. 1933)
This is my own translation, with quite a bit of assistance from my grammar book and google translate and Naver’s online dictionary. I make no claim to professionalism or accuracy. But it is a quite simple poem, so I thought I’d give it a try.
Buddha
Swooning swim to less and less,
Aspirant to nothingness!
Sobs of the worlds, and dole of kinds
That dumb endurers be--
Nirvana! absorb us in your skies,
Annul us into thee.
– Herman Melville (American novelist and poet, 1819-1891)
This World is not Conclusion
This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond -
Invisible, as Music -
But positive, as Sound -
It beckons, and it baffles -
Philosophy, don't know -
And through a Riddle, at the last -
Sagacity, must go -
To guess it, puzzles scholars -
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown -
Faith slips - and laughs, and rallies -
Blushes, if any see -
Plucks at a twig of Evidence -
And asks a Vane, the way -
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit -
Strong Hallelujahs roll -
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul -
Chartres
I do not wonder, stones,
You have withstood so long
The strong wind and the snows.
Were you not built to bear
The winter and the wind
That blows on the hill here?
But you have borne so long
Our eyes, our mortal eyes,
And are not worn -
The Mamas and The Papas, “Creeque Alley.” Although this song was not part of my childhood soundtrack, its zeitgeist was. I feel like I could have been one of the small children in the video. The look and feel of it all, and the Dylanesque lyrics, all are profoundly nostalgic.
Lyrics.
John and Mitchy were gettin' kind of itchy
Just to leave the folk music behind
Zal and Denny workin' for a penny
Tryin' to get a fish on the line
In a coffee house Sebastian sat
And after every number they'd pass the hat
McGuinn and McGuire just a-gettin' higher
In L.A., you know where that's at
And no one's gettin' fat except Mama Cass
Zally said "Denny, you know there aren't many
Who can sing a song the way that you do, let's go south"
Denny said "Zally, golly, don't you think that I wish
I could play guitar like you"
Zal, Denny and Sebastian sat (At the Night Owl)
And after every number they'd pass the hat
McGuinn and McGuire still a-gettin higher
In L.A., you know where that's at
And no one's gettin' fat except Mama Cass
When Cass was a sophomore, planned to go to Swarthmore
But she changed her mind one day
Standin' on the turnpike, thumb out to hitchhike
"Take me to New York right away"
When Denny met Cass he gave her love bumps
Called John and Zal and that was the Mugwumps
McGuinn and McGuire couldn't get no higher
But that's what they were aimin' at
And no one's gettin' fat except Mama Cass
Mugwumps, high jumps, low slumps, big bumps
Don't you work as hard as you play
Make up, break up, everything is shake up
Guess it had to be that way
Sebastian and Zal formed the Spoonful
Michelle, John, and Denny gettin' very tuneful
McGuinn and McGuire just a-catchin' fire
In L.A., you know where that's at
And everybody's gettin' fat except Mama Cass
Di-di-di-dit dit dit di-di-di-dit, whoa
Broke, busted, disgusted, agents can't be trusted
And Mitchy wants to go to the sea
Cass can't make it, she says we'll have to fake it
We knew she'd come eventually
Greasin' on American Express cards
It's low rent, but keeping out the heat's hard
Duffy's good vibrations and our imaginations
Can't go on indefinitely
And California dreamin' is becomin' a reality
Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
- Wallace Stevens (American poet, 1879-1955)
The Apparition(A Retrospect)
Convulsions came; and, where the field
Long slept in pastoral green,
A goblin-mountain was upheaved
(Sure the scared sense was all deceived),
Marl-glen and slag-ravine.
The unreserve of Ill was there,
The clinkers in her last retreat;
But, ere the eye could take it in,
Or mind could comprehension win,
It sunk!—and at our feet.
So, then, Solidity’s a crust—
The core of fire below;
all may go well for many a year,
But who can think without a fear
Of horrors that happen so?
A Portrait in Greys
Will it never be possible
to separate you from your greyness?
Must you be always sinking backward
into your grey-brown landscapes—and trees
always in the distance, always against a grey sky?
Must I be always
moving counter to you? Is there no place
where we can be at peace together
and the motion of our drawing apart
be altogether taken up?
I see myself
standing upon your shoulders touching
a grey, broken sky -
but you, weighted down with me,
yet gripping my ankles, - move
laboriously on,
where it is level and undisturbed by colors.
– William Carlos Williams (American poet, 1883-1963)
(This joke only works if you’ve studied formal modal logic.)
Second joke:
A: What sport do you play with a wombat?
B: Wom.
Lo que escucho ahora.
José José, “El Triste.” Me acuerda de viajes en autobuses de tercera clase en el México rural de los 80.
Letra.
Que triste fue decirnos adios
Cuando nos adorabamos mas
Hasta la golondrina emigro
Presagiando el final
Que triste luce todo sin ti
Los mares de las playas se van
Se tiñen los colores de gris
Hoy todo es soledad
No sé si vuelva a verte despues
No sé que de mi vida será
Sin el lucero azul de tu ser
Que no me alumbra ya
Hoy quiero saborear mi dolor
No pido compasíón ni piedad
La historia de este amor se escribió
Para la eternidad
Que triste todos dicen que soy
Que siempre estoy hablando de ti
No saben que pensando en tu amor
En tu amor
He podido ayudarme a vivir
He podido ayudarme a vivir
Hoy quiero saborear mi dolor
No pido compasíón ni piedad
La historia de este amor se escribió
Para la eternidad
Que triste todos dicen que soy
Que siempre estoy hablando de ti
No saben que pensando en tu amor
En tu amor
He podido ayudarme a vivir
He podido ayudarme a vivir
Zhingwaak gaa-ozhibii’aan
Zhingwaak! Zhingwaak! Ingii-ikid,
Weshki waabamag zhingwaak
Dagoshinaan neyab, endanakiiyaan.
Zhingwaak, zhingwaak nos sa!
Azhigwa gidatisaanan
Gaagige wezhaawashkozid.
Mii sa naa azhigwa dagoshinaang
Bizindamig ikeyaamban
Geget sa, niminwendam
Miinwaa, waabandamaan
Gii-ayaad awiiya waabandamaan niin
Zhingwaak, zhingwaak nos sa!
Azhigwa gidatisaanan.
Gaawiin gego, gaa-waabanda’iyan
Dibishkoo, ezhi-naagwasiinoon
Zhingwaak wezhaawashkozid
Wiin eta gwanaajiwi wi
Gaagige wezhaawashkozid.
- Jane Johnston Schoolcraft
AKA Bamewawagezhikaquay
(Ojibwe poet, 1800-1842)
To the Pine Tree
Pine! Pine! I said,
The one I see, the pine
I return back, to my homeland.
The pine, the pine my father!
Already you are colored
Forever you are green
So we already have arrived
Listen in that direction
Certainly I am happy
And I see
He was there I saw it myself
The pine, the pine my father!
Already you are colored.
Nothing, you did show me
Like that, the way it looks
Pine he is green.
He is beautiful
Forever he is the green one.
- translated by Margaret Noodin
Published 2020 by poets.org in their Poem-a-day feature.
What I’m listening to right now, as snow falls outside.
If I Were Called In To ConstructAnd I should raise in the east
A glass of water
LARKIN
If I were called in to construct a religion
I would start with opposition.
Pick an established faith, like Larkin's Water,
and attack it as insufficiently aquatic.
I would bewail the drowned
and blame Larkin;
and gather an army and make war
upon the Larkinians,
kill them, seize their Larkwives
and their Larkine.
I would establish the Holy Romarine Empire,
crown my good with brotherhood
from land to shingly land.
Scorch my enemies and parch my friends.
After that comes expansion, missionaries,
elaborate ritual, green-and-purple robes,
High Holy Days to mark the fullest tides.
Then a long period of decline
as theologians bicker over
increasingly crumbling minutiae
and ordinary people live by
a calcified version of the once flowing spirit
(stalactites, coral, ice)
when I will walk the beach, with all the stiffness of age —
as the breakers come and keep coming
bowing before the land like heretics —
and contemplate Mystery, salt and unsustaining.
- Adam Roberts (British author and poet, b. 1965)
I read a short story just now, that I enjoyed. It’s… difficult. It’s speculative fiction, of a sort. It reeks of Borges and postmodernism and pays homage to the recent developments in neural-net “artificial intelligence” (GPT-3 – not yet intelligent, but definitely something new and emergent).
Give it a try if you want. This is not a recommendation (in the spirit of the story itself). The link: Tropic of Zamza
Best quote:
Tropic of Zamza is only a book. It contains many words—92,581 of them, to be exact—but it is, mercifully, only a book. Being only a book, it lacks the capacity to physically injure you. You should remind yourself of this fact regularly, in the event that you make the horrible mistake of reading it.
The Stone’s Throw
Tell me something. I don’t care what.
Tell me despair is a dress that opens;
The nail, doubtless, is driven straight down
Into the twisted cedar post.
Say death is listening at the door.
Tell me how, between opposites, to tell
The relative from the absolute;
Why the creek sobs out at the start of spring,
Though the spring sun, among stars, is undistinguished.
Paper rose, stone’s throw: show me the smallest necessities
Joining to complete the world.
- James Galvin (American poet, b. 1951)
Comunicado
Nada
podrá
contra esta avalancha
del amor.
Contra este rearme del hombre
en sus más nobles estructuras.
Nada
podrá
contra la fe del pueblo
en la sola potencia de sus manos.
Nada
podrá
contra la vida.
Y nada
podrá
contra la vida,
porque nada
pudo
jamás
contra la vida.
- Otto René Castillo (poeta guatemalteco, 1934-1967)
The Dead South, “In Hell I’ll Be In Good Company.” I really like the bits of Saskatchewan countryside alternating with Canadian urban landscapes in the video, too.
Lyrics.
Dead Love couldn’t go no further
Proud of and disgusted by her
Push shove, a little bruised and battered
Oh Lord I ain’t coming home with you
My life’s a bit more colder
Dead wife is what I told her
Brass knife sinks into my shoulder
Oh babe don’t know what I’m gonna do
I see my red head, messed bed, tear shed, queen bee
My squeeze
The stage it smells, tells, hell’s bells, miss-spells
Knocks me on my knees
It didn’t hurt, flirt, blood squirt, stuffed shirt
Hang me on a tree
After I count down, three rounds, in hell I’ll be in good company
Dead Love couldn’t go no further
Proud of and disgusted by her
Push shove, a little bruised and battered
Oh Lord I ain’t coming home with you
My life’s a bit more colder
Dead wife is what I told her
Brass knife sinks into my shoulder
Oh babe don’t know what I’m gonna do
I see my red head, messed bed, tear shed, queen bee
My squeeze
The stage it smells, tells, hell’s bells, misspells
Knocks me on my knees
It didn’t hurt, flirt, blood squirt, stuffed shirt
Hang me on a tree
After I count down, three rounds, in hell I’ll be in good company
Not what you think. Though I have been dealing with mosquitoes, lately.
I was waxing nostalgic this morning, because while doing some routine maintenance on this here blog thingy™, I ran across this unexpectedly well-made video I put together while sitting in a hotel room in Japan in September, 2009 (below). The music aspect is from a kids musical about a mosquito that I had seen earlier that year, starring one of my students.
It occurs to me that most of these students are finished with college, now. I know this for a fact, as I’m still in touch with a few of them.
What I’m listening to right now.
Music: 극단 날으는 자동차, “워워워 (지구를 지켜라 : 100살 모기 소송사건).” Video by me. This is a re-post, but 11 years later.
Белая зима, ой, пришла да не спросила,
Лютая пришла, серебром снегов укрыла.
Превратила в лёд мою душу и сердечко,
Замерзшими слезами покрыла речку.
Белая зима принесла недобры думы.
Солнце спряталось, да на небе полнолунье.
В полутьме брожу, слышу, смерть крадется тихо.
Снежная метель все свистит да кружит лихо.
Лютая зима холод в сердце поселила.
Хладная пришла, ой, пришла да не спросила.
Принесла печаль, забрала все мои силы
Белая зима.
Ели снежные на ветру качаются,
Да лютая зима в сердце не кончается.
Да вьюгою в окно постучалася нежданно
Лютая зима.
Ой, не спится мне, душу полонила вьюга.
Увела зима за собой милого друга.
Погубили душу зимы недобры чары,
Лютая зима забрала в объятия Мары.
Кто ж так на последних строках годно груванул? Ооочень бы хотелось побольше.
Un lápiz
Por diez centavos lo compré en la esquina
y vendiómelo un ángel desgarbado;
cuando a sacarle punta lo ponía
lo vi como un cañón pequeño y fuerte.
Saltó la mina que estallaba ideas
y otra vez despuntólo el ángel triste.
Salí con él y un rostro de alto bronce
lo arrió de mi memoria. Distraída
lo eché en el bolso entre pañuelos, cartas,
resecas flores, tubos colorantes,
billetes, papeletas y turrones.
Iba hacia no sé dónde y con violencia
me alzó cualquier vehículo, y golpeando
iba mi bolso con su bomba adentro.
- Alfonsina Storni (poeta argentina, 1892-1938)
There is a joke about the importance of punctuation in English. It contrasts different meanings that the same words can have with only changes to punctuation:
Let’s eat, Grandma!
Let’s eat Grandma!
Well, Korean has a similar issue, but at the level of spacing between words, which normally is a bit of a gray area in Korean orthography – I have the impression there is a lot of variability in how individuals choose to space things like the case clitic particles – do they attach to their respective nouns or float freely?
But sometimes, spacing can change meanings. Hence this joke in Korean:
아기 다리 고기 다리 던소풍!
agi dari gogi dari deonsopung!
Baby legs, meat legs, dawn picnic!
아 기다리고 기다리던 소풍!
a gidarigo gidarideon sopung!
Ah, I’ve been waiting and waiting for a picnic!
The syllables are all the same. But depending on where you put the spaces between the words, you might or might not eat the baby.
What I’m listening to right now.
우원재, “CASH.”
가사.
Cash, my work and my benz
Now I’m guilty I’m dead
Cash makes you and my pain
But I love it. I’m dead
Cash, my love and my fams
So I love u my dad
Cash loves you and my back
But bitch I hate myself
Cash, my work and my benz
Now I’m guilty I’m dead
Cash makes you and my pain
But I love it. I’m dead
Cash, my love and my fams
So I love u my dad
Cash loves you and my back
But bitch I hate myself
돈 땜에 살어 돈 땜에 죽어
돈 땜에 울어 돈 땜에 헤매
돈 땜에 무려 돈 때론 무력
돈 빼면 무력 돈 땜에 숙여
돈, 돈, 돈, 돈 땜에 두려워
돈이면 돼요 돈 이게 사기템
돈이면 계속 멋지게 살어 damn
돈은 공평한데 때론 차별해 어때
돈을 자비롭지 근데 잔인해 어때
때 때 난 겁이나 법이나 정이나 없대 돈 앞에는
But u stop that 탓 돌리기는 돈 잘못 없대
난 익히 들어 이미 자본에 백기 들어서
여기 털어 먼지 안 나는 사람 없다라고 들었어
나는 get cash
당연히 때 탔지
Oh my god, gash
난 가끔 놀라 많이
나는 get flash
돈은 나빠 마치
우린 돈을 많이 닮아가는 거지
Cash, my work and my benz
Now I’m guilty I’m dead
Cash makes you and my pain
But I love it. I’m dead
Cash, my love and my fams
So I love u my dad
Cash loves you and my back
But bitch I hate myself
Please you be patient
오우 야, 난 참지 못해 그지
멍청한 걸 어쩌라고
Make more money make more cash ya
오우 야, 난 참지 못해 그지
돈이 최고 새꺄 돈 앞에서 부족하지 돈이 나는
오우 야, 난 참지 못해 그지
공평한 게 없다면 난 가져갈게 나의 무길 다시
오우 야, 난 막지 못해 그지
이게 나의 탓이라면 돈에 탓을 물게 대신 다시
Oh I’m bitch
돈의 노예 나는
나는 겉만 번질
속이 썩어 가지 나는
오 아버지
도와줘요 나를 제발
Go set bungy
돈 번 뒤의 모습에
난 죄책감에 절어
Hey cash, where are you from? I don’t know
Hol’up
거짓말이 돈이 되길 빌어 cause we gonna earn
So I love errbody I love it
But bitch I hate myself
Cash, my work and my benz
Now I’m guilty I’m dead
Cash makes you and my pain
But I love it. I’m dead
Cash, my love and my fams
So I love u my dad
Cash loves you and my back
But bitch I hate myself
But bitch I hate myself
Well, not really.
I put a chair on the temporary deck of my treehouse. I can sit in it to rest or to contemplate my next step.
I’m still not happy with the cables at the four corners. I’m going to reengineer those.
Meanwhile, today was shopping day. And we had to retrieve the allegedly-repaired freezer, and get it back down the three floors from the driveway level to the boathouse. That was a lot of work. Now I’m tired.
I’ve been on a kick listening to Korean rap. Korean pop is called kpop. Korean rap must be krap. But I like it.
What I’m listening to right now.
소현성 (KOR KASH), “그게 바로 나.” A note on the “English” phrase “i see bar” in the lyrics below: what is meant is the Korean phrase “씨발” [ssi-bal], which means “fuck!” Putting it in “English” gets it past the internet censors for the website that is publishing the lyrics.
가사.
그게 바로 나
입에 커피와 담배를 달어
쌓이고 또 쌓이고 쌓일수록
가사장이 빼곡해지고있어
이게 이제 내 돈이 될 수도
누가알아 누가 나를 점쳐
폰세 밀려도 여유가 넘쳐
행보는 행복의 손을 덥썩
팩폭 팍파라 퍽퍽퍽퍽퍽!
그게 바로 나
되는 대로 힘을 내 노래 쏟아 다
랩퍼새끼들은 한다는 말만 무한
반복을 돌렸어 안믿어 난
하루도 안뱉음 돋아버려 가시
하다말다 하다말다 하지 가지가지
난 욕 보는 중 i see bar
욕 보는 중 i see bar
지칠 때 쯤에 쇼미 나가 깔짝
빛을 보긴 봤지 끽해 라이타
내가 겨우 겨우 잠깐 반짝
할거라 생각한다면 착각
왜냐면 힙합은 오랜 단짝
이제 나도 나이값 나이값
나가 앞으로 빨리 넘겨버려 다음 장
too fast 우사인볼트도 당황
woo i’m the fresha casha mtf baby
woo i’m the fresha casha mtf baby
wait 이제 멋진 형님들께서 내 얘기해
wait 그게 아니 꼽다면 나랑 내기해
i’m on the fuckin dope beat ay
i’m on a purple boi beat ay
느낌이 뒤져서 코피 ay
내 랩을 얹혀서 죽이지 ay
짬내 풍겨 던져 더블백
이제서 얼음땡
소현성 걸을 때
돈 짤랑대는 소리는
이제는 못들어도 full pocket
인생은 거룩해
시궁창 to the 꼭대기
쥐새끼 뛰 놀던 3평짜리 방한칸 gutter boi
1차는 세번을 절어도 목걸일 걸었죠
느낌이 다르지 똑같이 랩해도
이젠 know 걔네도
다른 일 알아봐 각각
내비둬 남자가 없나봐 갑빠
날 기다리지마 brr bye bye
Sleep
There was a man who didn't know how to sleep; nodding
off every night into a drab, unprofessional sleep. Sleep that
he'd grown so tired of sleeping.
He tried reading The Manual of Sleep, but it just put him
to sleep. That same old sleep that he had grown so tired of
sleeping . . .
He needed a sleeping master, who with a whip and a
chair would discipline the night, and make him jump through
hoops of gasolined fire. Someone who could make a tiger sit
on a tiny pedestal and yawn . . .
- Russell Edson (American poet, 1935-2014)
Poem with No Children In It
Instead, the poem is full of competent trees,
sturdy and slow-growing. The trees live on a wide
clean lawn full of adults. All night, the adults grow
older without somersaulting or spinning. They grow
old while thinking about themselves. They sleep well
and stay out late, their nerves coiled neatly inside
their grown bodies. They don’t think about children
because children were never there to begin with.
The children were not killed or stolen. This is absence,
not loss. There is a world of difference: the distance
between habitable worlds. It is the space that is
unbearable. The poem is relieved not to have to live
in it. Instead, its heart ticks perfectly unfretfully
among the trees. The children who are not in the poem
do not cast shadows or spells to make themselves
appear. When they don’t walk through the poem, time
does not bend around them. They are not black holes.
There are already so many nots in this poem, it is already
so negatively charged. The field around the poem
is summoning children and shadows and singularities
from a busy land full of breathing and mass. My non-
children are pulling children away from their own
warm worlds. They will arrive before I can stop them.
When matter meets anti-matter, it annihilates into
something new. Light. Sound. Waves and waves
of something like water. The poem’s arms are so light
they are falling upward from the body. Why are you crying?
- Claire Wahmanholm (American poet)
This poem was published just yesterday, in the poem-a-day publication I receive via email. It affected me more than most.
The poet says she wrote the poem as a “thought experiment.” She asked, “Could I, just over the course of a poem, inhabit a parallel universe where I never had children?”
So why did this poem affect me? Because it struck me as the inverse of an exercise I’ve engaged in many times: can I inhabit a parallel universe where I did have children? I remember a very, very vivid dream I had, a week or two out of the ICU after my cancer surgery. I wrote about it here. The dream was brief but full of “back story” – within the dream. It was like living an entire, parallel life – a life in which in which I had children. I awoke heartbroken. This poem invoked in me a recollection of that dream and its psychological aftermath. I’d call it one of my “top ten” dreams of my entire life.
“Deepfake” refers to the emergent art of digitally creating completely artificial video or audio, using AI (artificially intelligent) networks, to simulate real people. The quality of computer graphical animation is at such a level that it is possible to do this, now. You can make your own audio or video of people doing things they never really did, which is indistinguishable from real audio or video recordings.
Someone recently made a rerecording of NWA’s “Fuck Tha Police,” a classic hip hop song from 1999. But instead of the original artists’ voices, they’ve used Deepfake simulations of 6 famous presidents’ voices.
I find this entertaining and eerie.
Six U.S. Presidents (Speech Synthesis), “Fuck Tha Police” (rap by N.W.A.).
Lyrics.
“Right about now, N.W.A. court is in full effect
Judge Dre presiding
In the case of N.W.A. vs. the Police Department
Prosecuting attorneys are: MC Ren, Ice Cube
And Eazy motherfuckin’ E”
“Order, order, order
Ice Cube, take the motherfuckin’ stand
Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth
And nothin’ but the truth so help your black ass?”
“You god damn right!”
“Well, won’t you tell everybody what the fuck you gotta say?”
Fuck the police comin’ straight from the underground
A young nigga got it bad ’cause I’m brown
And not the other color so police think
They have the authority to kill a minority
Fuck that shit, ’cause I ain’t the one
For a punk motherfucker with a badge and a gun
To be beatin’ on, and thrown in jail
We can go toe to toe in the middle of a cell
Fuckin’ with me ’cause I’m a teenager
With a little bit of gold and a pager
Searchin’ my car, lookin’ for the product
Thinkin’ every nigga is sellin’ narcotics
You’d rather see, me in the pen
Than me and Lorenzo rollin’ in a Benz-o
Beat a police out of shape
And when I’m finished, bring the yellow tape
To tape off the scene of the slaughter
Still gettin’ swoll off bread and water
I don’t know if they fags or what
Search a nigga down, and grabbin’ his nuts
And on the other hand, without a gun they can’t get none
But don’t let it be a black and a white one
‘Cause they’ll slam ya down to the street top
Black police showin’ out for the white cop
Ice Cube will swarm
On any motherfucker in a blue uniform
Just ’cause I’m from the CPT
Punk police are afraid of me!
Huh, a young nigga on the warpath
And when I’m finished, it’s gonna be a bloodbath
Of cops, dyin’ in L.A.
Yo Dre, I got somethin’ to say
Fuck the police
Fuck the police
Fuck the police
Fuck the Police
“Example of scene one”
“Pull your god damn ass over right now”
“Aww shit, now what the fuck you pullin’ me over for?”
“‘Cause I feel like it!
Just sit your ass on the curb and shut the fuck up”
“Man, fuck this shit”
“Aight, smart ass, I’m takin’ your black ass to jail!”
“MC Ren, will you please give your testimony
To the jury about this fucked up incident?”
Fuck the police and Ren said it with authority
Because the niggas on the street is a majority
A gang, is with whoever I’m steppin’
And the motherfuckin’ weapon is kept in
A stash box, for the so-called law
Wishin’ Ren was a nigga that they never saw
Lights start flashin’ behind me
But they’re scared of a nigga so they mace me to blind me
But that shit don’t work, I just laugh
Because it gives ’em a hint, not to step in my path
For police, I’m sayin, “Fuck you, punk!”
Readin’ my rights and shit, it’s all junk
Pullin’ out a silly club, so you stand
With a fake-ass badge and a gun in your hand
But take off the gun so you can see what’s up
And we’ll go at it, punk, and I’ma fuck you up!
Make you think I’ma kick your ass
But drop your gat, and Ren’s gonna blast
I’m sneaky as fuck when it comes to crime
But I’m a smoke ’em now and not next time
Smoke any motherfucker that sweats me
Or any asshole that threatens me
I’m a sniper with a hell of a scope
Takin’ out a cop or two, they can’t cope with me
The motherfuckin’ villain that’s mad
With potential to get bad as fuck
So I’ma turn it around
Put in my clip, yo, and this is the sound
Yeah, somethin’ like that
But it all depends on the size of the gat
Takin’ out a police would make my day
But a nigga like Ren don’t give a fuck to say
Fuck the police
Fuck the police
Fuck the police
Fuck the Police
“Yeah man, what you need?”
“Police, open now”
“Aww shit”
“We have a warrant for Eazy-E’s arrest
Get down and put your hands up where I can see ’em”
“What the fuck did I do, man, what did I do?”
“Just shut the fuck up
And get your motherfuckin’ ass on the floor”
“But I didn’t do shit”
“Man, just shut the fuck up!”
“Eazy-E, won’t you step up to the stand
And tell the jury how you feel about this bullshit?”
I’m tired of the motherfuckin’ jackin’
Sweatin’ my gang, while I’m chillin’ in the shack, and
Shinin’ the light in my face, and for what?
Maybe it’s because I kick so much butt
I kick ass, or maybe ’cause I blast
On a stupid-assed nigga when I’m playin’ with the trigger
Of an Uzi or an AK
‘Cause the police always got somethin’ stupid to say
They put out my picture with silence
‘Cause my identity by itself causes violence
The E with the criminal behavior
Yeah, I’m a gangsta, but still I got flavor
Without a gun and a badge, what do ya got?
A sucker in a uniform waitin’ to get shot
By me or another nigga
And with a gat it don’t matter if he’s smaller or bigger
(Size ain’t shit, he’s from the old school, fool)
And as you all know, E’s here to rule
Whenever I’m rollin’, keep lookin’ in the mirror
And ears on cue, yo, so I can hear a
Dumb motherfucker with a gun
And if I’m rollin’ off the 8, he’ll be the one
That I take out, and then get away
While I’m drivin’ off laughin’, this is what I’ll say
Fuck the police
Fuck the police
Fuck the police
Fuck the Police
“The verdict
The jury has found you guilty of being a redneck
White bread, chicken shit motherfucker”
“But wait, that’s a lie!
That’s a god damn lie!”
“Get him out of here!”
“I want justice!”
“Get him the fuck out my face!”
“I want justice!”
“Out, right now!”
“Fuck you, you black motherfuckers!”
Fuck the police
Fuck the police
Fuck the police
Aunque le pregunte al aire
Miro al aire y se convierte
en una calle invertida,
que se transforma en un río
de libros, rostros, pañuelos,
que se pone en pie y se vuelve
esbelta torre, que sube
y se troca en arcoíris,
que se transmuta en escala
por la que desciende una
luz vertical y amarilla
por la que camine - y cierro,
por no cegar, los ojos -
y ya no lo vuelvo a ver,
aunque le pregunte al aire.
- Ángel Crespo (poeta español, 1926-1995)
Meg Myers, “Running Up That Hill.” This is a remake of the old Kate Bush song, which was once-upon-a-time a major part of my day-to-day soundtrack. This version has a very nice animated video made with the assistance of thousands of children who were given some crayons.
Lyrics.
It doesn’t hurt me
Do you want to feel how it feels?
Do you want to know, know that it doesn’t hurt me?
Do you want to hear about the deal that I’m making?
You, it’s you and me
And if I only could
I’d make a deal with God
And I’d get him to swap our places
Be running up that road
Be running up that hill
Be running up that building
See if I only could, oh
You don’t want to hurt me
But see how deep the bullet lies
Unaware I’m tearing you asunder
Ooh, there is thunder in our hearts
Is there so much hate for the ones we love?
Tell me, we both matter, don’t we?
You, it’s you and me
It’s you and me, won’t be unhappy
And if I only could
I’d make a deal with God
And I’d get him to swap our places
Be running up that road
Be running up that hill
Be running up that building
Say, if I only could, oh
You
It’s you and me
It’s you and me, won’t be unhappy
Oh come on, baby
Oh come on, darling
Let me steal this moment from you now
Oh come on, angel
Come on, come on, darling
Let’s exchange the experience, oh
And if I only could
I’d make a deal with God
And I’d get him to swap our places
I’d be running up that road
Be running up that hill
With no problems
Say, if I only could
I’d make a deal with God
And I’d get him to swap our places
I’d be running up that road
Be running up that hill
With no problems
So if I only could
I’d make a deal with God
And I’d get him to swap our places
I’d be running up that road
Be running up that hill
With no problems
Say, if I only could
I’d be running up that hill
With no problems
Good Bones
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
- Maggie Smith (American poet, b. 1977)
This poem reminded me of my mother for some reason.
The Idiot
Oh how this sullen, careless world
Ignorant of me is! Those rocks, those homes
Know not the touch of my flesh, nor is there one tree
Whose shade has known me for a friend.
I’ve wandered the wide world over.
No man I’ve known, no friendly beast
Has come and put its nose into my hands.
No maid has welcomed my face with a kiss.
Yet once, as I took passage
From Gibraltar to Cape Horn
I met some friendly mariners on the boat
And as we struggled to keep the ship from sinking
In a storm, the very waves seemed friendly, and the sound
The spray made as it hit the front of the boat.
- John Ashbery (American poet, 1927-2017)
