poems and ruminations written in homespun plain language that everybody can understand.
It dawned on me
after citing a quote
and asking for an Amen –
I live in a secular
white world, where some folks
might not know
what an Amen is.
I write for multiple
audiences, cultures,
and I have multiple
personalities for dealing
with each of many
multiple worlds.
And I am quadri-lingual,
at least on most days,
moving back and forth
across these worlds –
so let it be.
every voyage has some disappointment,
missed communications, money change failures,
shopping opportunities lost,
transportation misfires –
The mango seeds sound like
rain falling,
spoiling my last Monday.
I know how to go,
but I know how to stay
and avoid unknown risks in the streets.
….
a soft rain fell on a cloudy yesterday
both uncommon in the dry season
more wigs, more weaves, more straightened hair
in the market – the French influence
more Fula & Mandinga traders, immigrants
at the bank – the Muslim influence
buyers, money traders, information seekers –
bankers accept dollars – reject American passports
for our account transactions.
….
The cooperative class & the petite bourgeoisie
are too closely linked, by blood, by culture,
to carry out effectively the goodwill intentions
of the ruling class. Something has to give here,
to relieve the pressure of the expanding gas.
Class suicide is required by both, together,
and both need to consider anew their re-Africanization.
I hit a bump on the poetry road –
too much to eat, too much conversation
left no time or space to write. Catching up
now that the day has passed –
memories of old mythologies:
A boat that was buried
the time of the giants
confusion among the petite bourgeoisie
the “state” is a massive mythology
whose political parties play a football game
that can go either way as long as it all
self-preserves – the mechanics of administration
a curiosity that captures our best minds –
time better spent in education & poetry.
The market was too thick, too dense,
so I contented myself to shop on the edges.
Panos de pente were lovely, but nothing
caught my eye – same traditional stuff.
At the far edge I saw something familiar:
stacks of bags of cabeceira!
The lady behind the table, hoping I’d spend
the whole 2K CFA, offered me velodu and faroba
and said I should mix the three.
Sounded reasonable. She gave me back 500 CFA.
….
How could I have paid more attention?
Too busy at work, mastering the craft –
too busy on the weekends partying
until the wee hours –
too busy traveling, south to Cacine,
north to Farim, west to Gabu…
too busy plotting a future perfect.
I should have known better –
I should have paid more attention.
I hit a bump on the poetry road –
too much to eat, too much conversation
left no time or space to write. Catching up
now that the day has passed –
memories of old mythologies:
A boat that was buried
the time of the giants
confusion among the petite bourgeoisie
the “state” is a massive mythology
whose political parties play a football game
that can go either way as long as it all
self-preserves – the mechanics of administration
a curiosity that captures our best minds –
time better spent in education & poetry
Bandim, the principle market
is both larger and denser
than 20 years ago. But it still
has the same heartbeat & pulse,
the same rhythm and bassline.
It is the same living organism,
just bigger, without doubt.
Bissau is the Chicago of West Africa.
Memories crowd
the reflective space – informing,
seeking effect. But I learned
last night the past has no life,
only rest & peace in an unkept
cemetery. A garbage dump outside
the walls where pigs and buzzards
co-habitate, picking through the trash –
and people drinking beer nearby,
without a care on a December night.
I return to Mother Africa an alien,
my African blood thinned
through generations of race-mixing
with the Cherokee, and the Blackfoot,
and the Scots and Irish
of North Carolina and Virginia . . . .
I go to the discotheques
but the rhythms
are far too complex for my sensibilities,
too difficult for me to even imagine trying
to dance to; but I fake it,
trying to stay in step,
consoling myself in the knowledge that,
at least, I know . . . .
With the women I find myself
at a loss for words,
not necessarily because they’d laugh
at my broken Crioulo
(or even at my flawed Portuguese),
nor even because I know they know
I can’t promise them a way out
when I leave . . . .
No, I’m awed by them
because of their courage,
because their mere existence
is a triumph,
a remarkable overcoming,
an achievement that stands them alone,
at least from we,
who have known neither true poverty
nor deprivation,
who have always had access
to clean hospitals,
and uninterrupted electricity,
and clean drinking water,
the best of schools with well-stocked libraries,
and, lest we forget, to the latest
in high-tech running shoes . . . .
Yes, I’m awed by their courage,
by their resilience,
by their hope, by their optimism . . . .
I return to Mother Africa an alien,
my natural senses dulled,
my skin bleached,
my hair relaxed,
my third eye atrophied
through generations of de-Africanization.
Bissau, 1995.
the call to prayer awoke me,
aroused me from my slumber –
20 years ago inside the walled compound –
inside the isolated international zone –
twice separated from reality –
we never heard the call.
But now, inside the city,
we hear it, and it calls us to reflect,
to contemplate, to consider
our course of action.
There are more people in the city:
more languages being spoken,
more cultures mixing,
more women in hijab, more buying
& selling in Bandim Market.
I hear people are immigrating here,
traders from Conakry and Senegal,
refugees from Mali and Niger.
The state apparatus is small & weak
so opportunities are many.
the 14th of Ramadan, 1978
it was a so-so fasting day,
late summer, early autumn,
can’t really remember the date,
but it was the best time of the year –
I remember it being a long day –
I spent the morning taking aptitude tests
at the Navy Recruiting Office.
I told them I wanted to learn languages,
but they said I had high enough scores
to go nuclear power, which, obviously
was a whole lot better…
I got back to the house late in the evening,
just before sunset.
All the brothers were assembled,
grumpy, antsy, anxious to break the fast
after a long day of work, classes, whatever,
mouths parched and bitter with thirst.
The two Sunni brothers joined us, the one who
smoked Newports at sunset, and the one
with the pure recitation from studying in Mecca.
Chicken was roasting in the oven
and one of the sisters had dropped off
a large bowl of salad, with sliced boiled eggs
and dates on the top for breaking the fast
in the traditional way.
There was a big pot of crowder peas and corn
simmering on the stove, and bread,
and carrot cake for dessert. later.
At sunset I sang the adhan.
The Sunni brothers
did their special rakats.
We waited.
Then everybody lined up
across the living room.
Allahu Akbar!
The day is done.
Thank the Lord!
Salatul mahgreb is taking forever!
A few more moments – a few more rakats…
Salaamu alaikum wa rahmatullah
Salaamu alaikum wa rahmatullah.
Let’s eat!
We chill for a couple of hours,
listen to some Freddie Hubbard.
Then one of the brothers breaks out the book.
Day 14’s group reading begins:
“Again and again will those who disbelieve
wish they had bowed to God’s will in submission…”
“…let false hopes amuse them
soon will knowledge undeceive them.”
The Sunni brother from Brooklyn picks up
and shifts to Arabic. We struggle along
with the translation:
wa laqad ja-alna fis sama-i
Burou-jawn-wa zayyann naha lin nazireen.
it’s my turn. I switch back to my mother tongue:
And the Lord revealed to the Bee:
build hives in the mountains,
and in the trees,
and in human habitations.
Then eat of all the produce
and find with skill
the spacious paths…”
yeah, I like that part.
A good reading.
We stretch out on the floor
and catch a few winks
before Isha and Tarawih.
Ever since that 1st cave man (or cave woman
more than likely) carved an image she had seen
onto a cave wall with a sharp-cornered rock –
And ever since that 1st cave woman translated
an internal feeling (a knowing) into a grunt or a moan
(a word) and gave birth to a new technology
of human expression –
And ever since the 1st tool and the 1st technology
came together, converged in a new mental space
by a superior intellect (already among us)
to point out to us the direction for our deliverance
from total triple darkness –
Ever since – we have been beating a slow retreat,
back into the shadows, back into the thoughtless void –
But there are those among us who just won’t tolerate
the backslide: they are called poets. Poetry is their name.
Flashback to ModPo 2012
Who’s In Charge?
Who’s in charge here?
The words I spoke,
Or me, who spoke the words?
I listen to the ModPo discussions
And I haven’t got a clue –
What they’re talking about…
But sometimes, sometimes,
A word is spoken and a spark flashes.
I wonder…
Do they know the words they’ll speak
Before they speak them?
Do they know what meaning
Till it’s felt?
Do they know the thought
Before it’s offered?
(ah, a Thought, that spark in search of being,
In search of a word…)
Do I even know what I’ll say next?
So who’s in charge here?
Perhaps words have powers…
Perhaps words have the power to show us the Source.
Perhaps that’s why it’s written:
“In the Beginning was the Word.”
Fil Maxwell — November 2012
#3. Trapped in a purgatory…
“The top of the pyramid – the organization is composed of Technologists who only pretend to have power, although they are only actors in the theater of mirrors. When the mirror is broken they die, because the internal drive of their actions vanishes.” – Svetislav Basara, The Cyclist Conspiracy
Trapped in a purgatory
of their own conceit…
The web of lies they weave
gets tighter and tighter
in its deceit
until it bottoms out –
at a very low frequency –
and implodes.
It may be just
a matter of perception –
they can’t undo their wrongs
for fear it’d undermine
their perceived authority –
an authority they think
they require
to stay in charge.
Yet all the while,
the more they talk,
the more they lie,
and the deeper down
the hole they go.
There’s nothing I need
to go back to –
nothing to re-litigate –
nothing to defend –
and certainly nothing to prove
to the unworthy.
Just wait…
just wait
and feed them rope.
5/14/2013
On September 12, we at the Writers House will host a free, 10-week, non-credit online course on modern and contemporary American poetry. Every aspect of the course is optional. The discussions are lively and feature participants from every continent and every time zone.
Many Penn alumni have participated and given “ModPo” (as we call our course) positive reviews. (To those who have already been in ModPo: come back and try out our new supplemental syllabus of poems, “ModPoPLUS.”)
ModPo is an experiment in learning community, and has gathered each of the three previous autumns.
To enroll, go here: https://www.coursera.org/course/modernpoetry
For an overview of ModPo, go here: https://jacket2.org/commentary/modpo-overview
To watch a 20-minute introduction to the course, go here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1UJtkmyaHTE
With best wishes from 3805 Locust Walk,
– Al
Tuck’s Tap and Grill was playing
Norah Jones back to back –
don’t know why I didn’t come.
I was drinking my favorite –
iced tea, half sweetened,
half not, with lemon –
had a Santa Fe burger, medium,
with sweet potato fries.
The waitress was very kind
and understood my need
for half and half –
just finished her associate degree
at Southwestern Community College –
be at Western in the fall.
July 10, 2015
mountain morning
birds tweeting
thick mist hiding the mountaintops –
arrive at work
coffee on the esplanade
bright sun on our faces…
from above and below
…work calling us –
but we’d much rather
make small talk about Faulkner
https://w2.countingdownto.com/949141
The countdown clock is counting down the time until registration opens for the 9th August Poetry Postcard Fest. The Fest was initiated in 2007 by poets Paul Nelson and Lana Ayers. A call goes out around July 4th each year. In 2014 there were 423 participants from 13 countries and 35 states and provinces.
Once you are registered, here are the INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Obtain at least 31 postcards, one for each August day. Some people make their cards, see Brendan McBreen’s Mona Lisa above. FedEx Office can turn your pictures into cards. Make sure you print on decent card stock.
2. Find your name on the list.
3. No later than July 27, write original poems directly (1st take) onto three different postcards addressed to the three names below you on the list of poets. Just like you’d write a typical postcard, only this one is a poem and linked to the epistle form, as you are writing TO someone. The idea is to practice spontaneity, that is write directly on the card in one take. If it’s hard at the start of the fest to do that, relax, because it gets better as the month goes on, no one can publish your poem without your permission and you are writing to ONE PERSON. Review the links below for guidance ESPECIALLY the sending postcards to strangers blog post by David Sherman.
4. Once you get to the last name on your list, continue to the top of the list. No later than August 1 you then write one poem on a card daily to each person below those three on the list until the end of the month, ideally incorporating themes, tones or motifs from cards you have received. In 2013 and 2014 a preliminary list went out in mid-July and some poets started their fest at that time, giving them 6 weeks to write at least 31 original postcard poems. This year each group may start as soon as a group of 32 poets is created and they get their list. If you do not get cards right away, or are not inspired by them, no problem, but do write 31 postcard poems if you sign up.
5. DON’T POST YOUR OWN POEMS ONLINE UNTIL A MONTH AFTER YOU SENT THEM. Also, do not publish anyone else’s poem without their permission. I always archive and post mine online. Having a scanner helps to archive the image perfectly and scanners are now $100. Or you could take a photo of the image with your cellphone. Do realize if you are sending a card abroad, it may take longer than a month. Do not disclose any participant’s address online.
6. There is a Facebook page for the postcard fest and posts will need approval this year now and during the fest. During the fest I would encourage you NOT to post and any post that is not about procedure or critical to the fest will not be approved. Once September starts, anything is fair game except spam. And DO NOT spam the list about any product or service.7. This year is the first time we are asking a small fee to administer the fest. (Approximately $10.00 U.S. and a service charge. See: http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/1381971) It allows us to answer all correspondence quickly and focus attention on making the fest the best experience for everyone and weed out the people who sign up and then drop out. I want to be a resource for you especially if you are trying to make the shift from relentless editing to learning how to develop trust for your instincts. This is the force behind the fest and, I think, the reason that it has grown in popularity over the years. I have devoted a couple of decades to understanding the power of spontaneous composing and this website has many resources dedicated to that approach.
8. I would love to have a postcard conference in Seattle were there interest in such a gathering. I would also love to have someone take on a postcard anthology which would be nice to have for 2016 and the tenth year of the fest. This appears to be happening and we’re hoping for a Spring 2017 publication and kickoff event, or series of them.
The 2014 Call is archived here.
To ensure you’ll get the call, subscribe to this blog. We are phasing out the Blogspot site we have used in years past. We send out no more than two emails a week from this blog and from www.splab.org, the literary arts-oriented non-profit organization founded in 1993.
Other pages worth a look regarding postcards and spontaneous composition:
Judy Kleinberg’s 2014 fest summary with links to other participant blogs.
http://paulenelson.com/2013/06/24/the-tao-of-postcards/ and
http://paulenelson.com/workshops/poetry-postcard-exercise/ and
http://changeorder.typepad.com/weblog/2010/08/sending-postcards-to-strangers.html
and http://boyntonpoetrycontest.wordpress.com/2014/07/01/why-postcards-why-poetry/
we are
the invasive species.
Like weeds,
our broad green leaves
block out sunlight
to the seeded plants –
our well-adapted root system
drains away nutrients
from below.
we think
we are the fittest
for survival –
the quickest to adjust
to environmental shifts,
and yet the most
conservative
to superficial change.
we create
thoughts, make decisions
to ensure security
for our progeny –
they will belong
in the garden –
and they will
cover up our
alien origins.
The things that are
fleeting, passing,
require and inspire
the poetry –
if only a line or two –
a word, a note, a tune;
formless and shapeless,
though still finite,
words are needed/
heeded to mark the memory,
to fix the experience
in time.
The infinite –
is poetry itself –
like meter and rhythm –
cycles that appear
and recede like ripples
of waves that touch
the shores of our dreams
from opposing sides,
across expanses
of timeless thought and
boundless space.
The form of our finite lives
is also the poetry –
poetry that endures –
beyond the borders
that surround us –
the horizons that beckon us.
First of all, thank you for visiting the cemetery
every now and then, and cleaning the gravesites
of the old folks. New generations have forgotten,
but they wouldn’t be, now, if we had not been then –
When I was barely a boy, I run off with the rebel soldiers,
did odd jobs, cooked for them, tended to the horses.
None of us farmhands knew that much about war.
Legend is true, I returned to Browns Summit with a box full
of Confederate money. Warn’t no count, no way.
Rebel soldiers give it to me. I swear. It was my pay.
Buried that box in a tobacco field in Jackson after the war,
same field where I buried mason jars of moonshine I made,
to keep it cool and to hide it from the revenuers.
Cool on a summer day. Best in Guilford County,
the white folks used to say. The war freed the slaves, or
so they said. I didn’t know much about politics then, still don’t,
or taking sides, or fighting, but I did know we had a good master,
a kind, Christian man. Now your daddy and his sister were just children
when I transferred to the next world. But I watched them grow up and
tried to take care of them, best I could. It ain’t easy
moving back and forth between worlds. And yes, I made
a bit of moonshine in my day. Drank a little, too,
more towards the end. Best in Guilford County.
Hid it from the revenuers. Cool on a hot summer day.
all my verse is about gardening
these days, the rains that feed,
the weeds that choke (which is
their right to do), the late frost
that kills the tender shoots from seeds
I planted too early.
my sunflowers are quite the ladies,
bashful, tender, as they approach
their flowering stage, the carrots
need more thinning, their tops
the brightest green, and the turnip
leaves too tough to eat.
but one of the weeds has edible
leaves – I’ll think I’ll let it grow.
gardening has given me
a different relationship
with the environment
than what I had before –
weather, mainly.
I fret a bit when it’s been dry –
and I worry when it rains
too long or too hard
or too frequently –
weeds are so much more adaptable –
and I have seeds in the ground,
and skin in the game.
Locust Grove
Locust Grove
“Will all visitors please stand and state your name?”
“Again, will all visitors please stand, and state your name?”
“You, in the middle, you may start us off!”
I stand and say “My name is Raymond Maxwell.”
“Raymond Maxwell, are you Raymond’s boy?”
Yes sir, I am. They went to Jackson Methodist,
down the road a piece. But my grandmother was a
member here, and my Aunt Roxie, and my Aunt Liza.
“So, brother Raymond, what is your testimony today?”
Well, I didn’t exactly come prepare to testify…
“What you mean, prepared? Your grandmother would have testified.
“Yeah, brother Raymond, she and her sisters, they all would testify!”
“Yeah, brother Raymond, you gotta testify!”
ok. OK!
If Grandma Lena were here today,
She would call this is a beautiful day,
And she’d say our God is a Gracious Master.
But she would warn us
“judgment is turned backwards,
and justice standeth afar off …”
She would tell us
“truth is fallen in the streets,
and equity cannot enter…”
Then she would pause, and squint,
and look each member of the congregation
in the eye –
And she would say, “Truth faileth,
and he that departeth from evil
maketh himself a prey…”
And she would report that the Gracious Master
saw what was going on, and it displeased him
that there was no judgment –
“And he saw that there was no man,
and he wondered why there was no intercessor –
And her eyes would brighten,
and she would tell us that the Lord’s
own right arm brought him salvation,
and his righteous, it sustained him…
and that we all needed to do the same.
That is what she would tell you today.
That is my testimony.
“She delights the earth
with her footsteps,
and in speaking, fulfills
the desires of the deaf…”
A flower, a synesthetic glow…
an inflorescent melody
(in search of combination)
that violates its meter
and disregards its rhythm
(as defined by classic standards)
to uphold its right to grow.
A pearl, a diamond,
cast among swine…
tomorrow is retrieved from the rubbish
and polished to a more brilliant luster.
A vessel, undefiled…
well built and well prepared:
to weather all the storms and blasts;
to sail the oceans, deep and vast;
to overcome the dark morass;
to persevere until the last –
and with me, heaven, share.
(I wrote this poem 40 years ago, the summer of my mother’s passing)
I was a runner in my hapless youth:
two times, four times, eight times around the track;
running to things, running from things, always
in a haste, never taking time to smell
the fragrance of the roses, know the truth.
In time, life slowed me down, reversed my tack.
I learned to walk, to circumspect, unfazed
by every shiny thing my eyes beheld.
But then the boundless sea became my Muse:
her hidden wonders and her ways seduced
my every thought. Yet she was just a phase,
a short poetic phrase and a malaise.
This sonnet owns no ending, just a star,
to capture our attention from afar.
every shade of green, it seems,
displays itself upon the hills
that fill the skies encircling my home –
when I arrived December’s days
were short, its nights were long –
these hills were grey and brown –
and sad, a bit, but I was told
that green, in Spring, would overtake,
outstrip Winter’s darkness, and the hills
would put on green – from the botton
to the top – in stages and layers –
like stockings, thick socks for a frosty night.
and so, in streaks and patches to the top,
100 shades of green now fill the skies.
Educator. Researcher. Blogger. Author. Gardener.
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poems and ruminations written in homespun plain language that everybody can understand.
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