Wednesday, November 25, 2009

My Life on MUTE

Take out my vocal cords,
Remove my voice box ,
and,

go ahead press mute.

I'll mime my way around all of their stupidity.

Turn down the volume,
no subtitles or captions,
I'll mouth the solutions to our problems with my lips,
and never a sound to interrupt,
but kiss-
and Silence will overwhelm.

Go ahead-press mute on me,
turn off my voice and expect me lame.
in the quiet you will find.
my voice is.
the
loudest.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Recent Stuff

Here is what I have written since August '08. Please, feel free to comment.

This was inspired by the movie "Jodhaa Akbar" and a dream I had:

"Freedom Walk"

Coloured glass ornaments
Darkened orange veil
Tripping bell anklets
One step to freedom

She's afraid to take it

Painted hands to wall
Painted feet touch floor

She moves


I'm having trouble titling this one. I tried "Dead" but it seemed to give away too much. I tried "Children" but that had the same problem, so current working title:

"Malawi: buried"

Ululation breaks parched
Throat, skin, earth

Sandstorm enwraps bony
Body, cuts

Words into the skin, blood
Inked names of

Sorrows, sorrows lost on
Faces blank

Numbed and rubbed free
Of identity


Did any of you watch last year's "Superstars of Dance" with Micheal Flatley as host? This poem was inspired by the solo South African dancer Mamela Nyamza and her performance as a dying swan or crane (link to youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AswRJtS9_eg&feature=related)- you may remember her:

"Woman"

Brown belief:
She sinks into dirt
Dirt sky she imagines
Ripping open-
Giving out under its withheld
Burden

Of hope. Soft, wet, white,
Crisp, soap-sparkle of
Snow she's never seen
Kissing the bare

Bare-boned earth
Glassed into ocean
Water still as steel-stone.
She feels like she

Is tearing open
With pain- like ripping apart
Garments- stepping free
Of herself
In a white tu-tu,

Dancing the horizon:
A crane's jerking
Movements- broken lips-
Across snowed-on ocean,

Dirt-covered folded origami
Bird in palm encased,
Encrusted jewel
Dug from earth-deep death,
Star of Africa.


This next one was a meditation on the events of my life over 2009:

"Memory Fractured"

Carcass of wingless
Black bird of prey,
Hanging,
Slit open,
Bleached white inside:
If you should find a seed within it,
Throw it down to us
To pick at,
Splinter,
Misunderstand and squander.
Aborted life-
Again.

This is a favorite subject of mine:

"The Bellydancer"

She picks at her bedlah
Checks her nails
Listens for the zaghareets
Which are her cue
Nervous, her heart beats with the drums
While she practices some of the
More difficult moves of her
Routine- just before
The curtain rises and the lights come on
She whispers:
"I dance for you, habibi"


One more that I wrote tonight while thinking of someone:

"Joy"
n. 1. sunshine in the heart 2. swaying hip shimis back to front, first the left then the right 3. cascading cresendo of beads, coins, and fabric created by bedlah while executing said move and which radiates outward 4. the state of being on your mind

It's been a dry season as you can see. I consider only one or two of these as half-way publishable. Please tell me what you think. :)

Monday, November 16, 2009

Old Fort Park


Old Fort Park
By Bobbi Rightmyer

The trees are naked, bare
standing tall and straight.
Leaves litter the ground
like a patch worn carpet
or old rag rug
covering the still green grass
with crumples of brown.
Birds are chirping
calling out a joyful tune,
singing with happiness at the glorious day.
Squirrels are scampering
unafraid of the few lingering cars,
scavenging for food,
thick, bushy tails riding high in the air.
A car backfires on some not far street
and all is quiet as the world goes on pause,
but after a few still seconds the chorus begins,
and the wildlife sounds can be heard again.
Sunshine straining through thick, gray clouds,
warmth on my face from the hazy glare,
with a cool breeze dancing across my skin,
causing a gentle sway to the trees.
The shrubbery and hedges are still holding onto
leaves and fruit galore,
It’s that time of year again,
the rapidly approaching winter
when all life’s chores come in a fast succession,
preparing for the long, dark days
of winter yet to come.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

A "New Modern" or "Regionally Modern" Poetry?

Irish and Appalachian Poets Grapple with Changes to Their Respective Cultures

Poetry Ireland Review has been among my favorite literary journals for some years now. In volume # 93, Rita Kelly penned an essay called "Eavan Boland: A Voice of Courage in Our Time". In it, and as a side point almost, she touched on the cultural changes that the Emerald Isle is currently undergoing. This bit of meditation resonated with me in a way Kelly likely did not intend. Why? Because my native Appalachia is also facing cultural changes.

Whereas Ireland's changes are more blatant as Kelly describes them, the urbanization of Appalachia is of a different sort- being more internal within the people themselves rather than literal. But the results are similar.

Ireland is now a major destination for refugees and immigrants from many nations. No longer is it merely a vacation stop for tourists or a place from which its people reluctantly flee. Since the 1970s it has slowly built up itself into a self-aware, fully functioning nation within the EU and since the 1990s in particular it has enjoyed a bit of an economic boom. (This is not a political essay. I am simply attempting to draw a more accurate picture of modern Ireland in the mind, versus the now out-dated one of popular imagination as portrayed in- for example- Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt.) There are any number of cultures coexisting there today and a true babble of languages are spoken. Particularly is this true on the east coast. The rural agricultural way of life is being forsaken for the urban industrial as the population increasingly moves into the cities.

On this shore, Appalachia is being similarly challenged by an urbanization of the mind. On one hand many long-standing truths remain. For instance, it is still a longed-for homeland from which many go in a sort of involuntary exile into decidedly Appalachian neighborhoods in such city centers as Cincinnati, Cleveland, Canton, Detroit, and Chicago. It is still a very economically oppressed area by national standards. For the most part, outsiders in Appalachia still tend to be migrant workers. (In recent years many of these workers have been Mexican or Latino and thus one occasionally hears Spanish spoken here or there.) These workers rarely stay. Appalachians have never really developed a sense of who they are in the greater throng of humanity and they prefer to be left alone to their ways and thinking. One often hears the saying "If you leave me alone, I'll leave you alone", which basically means one is free to live the way one wants, provided one extends that courtesy to others. These things have been more or less the same for generations.

On the other hand, however, there are great- albeit subtle- upheavals in the familiar order of things. To be Appalachian does not mean exactly the same as it did a generation ago. The system of roads is improving every year and this is opening up previously isolated areas of the mountains little by little. As a result, Appalachians travel in greater numbers and more often than ever before. The educational institutions are now, in some cases, rivaling the best in the country. There is greater exposure to the outside world due to television, radio, and especially the internet. At this point in time, second and even third generations are benefiting from these innovations. There is ongoing research into several theories regarding the origins of the Appalachian people and newly discovered facts are painting a very different picture than the country at large and popular media have supposed. Consequently, there is a growing awareness of a unique identity among them. All of these are positive changes, yes. But changes nonetheless. Many are losing interest in the hard working rural aesthetics that once defined the region in favor of a more mainstream technological lifestyle. (As a reminder: this is not a political essay.)

Subsequently both Ireland and Appalachia are currently undergoing a time of change, of a great shift in world views. This has quite naturally created a measure of mass anxiety not experienced before. There is instability and a weakening of old systems of belief as the cultures morph to fit entirely new sets of circumstances. These new environments challenge their native poets. The question for their respective regional poetries is: how to express one-selves when the old modes of expression- the old words (by which I mean the old poetic traditions and unfortunately perhaps even the old languages unique to each place)- no longer apply and/or are no longer sufficient?

Was this not the defining question of "Modern" poetry? (For the purposes of this essay, "Modern" poetry is defined as that work produced at the end of the "Romantic" period up until the eruption of World War II. In other words, from about the 1890s until about 1940.) During this time there was a similar upheaval in cultures, ways of thinking, and dismantling of long-established systems of belief on a world wide scale. It was a time of questioning, of attempts to rebalance intellectually and in every other way imaginable. This general mood affected the poetry being written as much as any other sphere of the human experience of the time. Uncertainty and experimentation is stamped across the work of every poet whose career spanned some or all of those years.

In some ways, Ireland and Appalachia experienced this shift of core values with the rest of the world. But in just as many ways they seem to have been couched against it. The forces that cushioned these areas from the worst of the quaking that so utterly and permanently changed the intellectual and cultural landscape of the rest of the world are unique to each place and are not important in this essay. What is clear is that these forces have finally eroded or been removed. In some very important ways, Ireland and Appalachia are playing catch-up.

Their native poets are beginning to grapple with the implications of this catch-up. They are being faced with the challenge of inventing new modes of expression that can be sufficient to their changed circumstances and cultures. In this sense, it could be that Ireland and Appalachia are just now entering in on a "Modern" phase. It is certain that experimentation must be undertaken. Very "Modernist" questions are now being asked of these poets. They must find their own unique ways, indigenous to each area, to answer these questions. A "New Modern" or "Regionally Modern" poetry? Perhaps.

Who will be brave enough to attempt to answer?