Long Dismembering Poems
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"There is a window open from my heart to yours." Rumi
See the splendor of pained poetic souls.
After he died, leapt out in the air above,
turned into a star in Gaza's bleak sky,
pouring words and tear.
How many heart cries. For what endless suffering,
soothed by his verse and rhyme.
The gallant Gazans follow it with reverence.
Although they weep for his loss, they dwell in his poems as a citadel,
a secured ark.
Did he predict today's indistinguishable relation
between occupation, displacement, and genocide?
All words coalesce, flow uncomfortably into the English lexicon.
Out of his grave, in Gaza City, the stone grove of his voice,
the vulgar odor of colonial infection withers by the spell of his love.
The tyranny of outrageous minds is set ablaze, when they hear him,
more joy than rage, soothing yet like a hurricane pounding the waves,
bridging the hearts.
He came to speak, to bridge the chasm between hearts, collapsed in shreds, secured in grace.
Poets are with art and nature crowned.
Reach Refaat a poet's crown.
Mark him the chronicle of this scene of horror,
author of resistance, pride, and honor.
Refaat wrote, "sometimes a homeland becomes a tale," a heroic tale,
and their savant poets too.
After he died, the sky of Gaza was littered with white kites speaking shinningly
to the deadly drones menacing above, like the buzzing of so many flies.
A parable of justice, a hope that never dies, under the golden dome of Mediterranean Sea saluting the eyes, eyes that see through the dark clouds, the brush of freighted air, the march of history toward a luminous point, into the clasp of a fresh new-born idea, nearer to binding faith than wild dismembering injustice,
Gaza uncaged, free from all deceits, where people mingle at seaside cafes with no fear of being bombed, reciting his poems, with bouquet of flowers on his grave with the note that reads, rest easy friend, Palestine will forever be free.
I Adamantly Refuse to Care or Show Concern,
After All
I Served Sincerely and Genuinely, Now I Sever
Hoaxed Mundane Emotions that No Longer Appeal to My Growth
Flippantly Burning Icy Bridges
This is More or Less What You Think
Even More that Spilled Ink!
Pages Stained With Expressions of Clustered Ink Lichens
For I am Sole Custodian of My Emotions
Strolling Flamboyantly Through the Emporium of Memories
Some Insipid, Some Cherished, All Purged for Space
For This is More or Less What You Think
Even More Than Ink!
I Castigate in Order to Reciprocate by means of Detachment
Sharply Dismembering Familial Ties
For I Rather Drown in Water than Blood
My Behavior And Actions May or May not Appear Imprimatur
Shunned Mundane Conformities, Autonomous One
More or Less what You Think
Expressing Choreographed Ink!
Most are Unable or Unwilling to Embrace Their Shadow
A Glimpse In the Mirror Shrouds The True Reflection
My Response is Isolation
Because My Energy is Mines to do As I Please
Such are Normal or Reactive to Both Inner and Outer Influences
I Shall not Partake In Friendly Bantering Where Venomous Strife Once Proceeded!
My Silence is A Science Blaring In Ink
More or Less!
A relay of moods dribbles on and on
when euphoric tunes kick in:
Jazz, R& B, slow funk, wild pop
igniting primal ecstasy, in the flesh...raw!
Live music leaves me breathless
as thuds of a drum, the intricate fondling
from saxophones blast these veins...
until intoxicated head convulses,
Pulse beat raised at 110, my torso
gyring in motions unknown—
the cortisol of anticipation surging
adrenaline doses gushing...just then,
Philip Bailey whams a falsetto,
higher than high in a climatic lift;
my whole body possessed without Reasons
on Fantasy’s electric stage—
Another grasp of dismembering reality lures
where smoky thirst begs for more notes;
an elevated zing which drugs my soul …
yet, nights ask for more live concerts.
4/17/2019
For Anthony Slausin: Your Amphetamine Contest
----------
Earth, Wind and Fire Live Performance
Manila, 2009
Lead Singer: Philip Bailey/ Songs: Reasons, Fantasy
Sample video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b1FN6X_86NY
Introversion explores an isolated ego voice
While extra-relational versions
speak a more complex eco-political choice
of historic context
embedded in sensory feelings
positively healthy memories
and those more negatively traumatic,
wealth stealing
And those stuck in in-between
and/or not negatively aptic
unresolved non-synaptic
not clearly either elastic
or emotively spastic
Win grace
or lose life's race,
true or false,
attractive
or repugnant face
Awaiting evolution's revolutionary cycle
slowly turning toward resolution
full and/or empty,
enlightening dark ego inside fears
and traumatic angers,
empowering memories of past dismembering
anticipations deeper even than anxious despair
for lack of active healthy wealth
rather than emotional constipation.
Monotheistic egos
evolving toward panentheistic
win/win living organic ecosystems
of EarthTribe immortal
inside nature as also HolySpirit out
not not polynomial
balanced wu-wei polypathic
polymathic Tao.
Heart is where my home finds graceful relationship,
where my soul simply breathes
beneath my memories of becoming,
of being at my best,
sometimes my worst,
but always my most full, complete,
most abundantly contentious
and both loudly out
and quietly in
content.
Home unveils life's liturgy.
This home wherein I was conceived
and born
rebirths me each dawn
and decomposes all my dreams
where I grow up and out,
where siblings moved away
from whom I married,
from where I buried my grandparents,
and then my parents.
As my body houses identity
my home houses body.
While home and self-identity
I can distinguish,
one self from other,
this is never a benign
or wisely severe discrimination;
better as a distinction
without prospects today for contented difference;
dishearted separation.
My soul and mind and body fade and wilt
withdrawn by force and circumstance
from embryonic being.
To awaken or sleep away
in any profanely alien place,
without power or even hope to return
to more sacred memoried space,
fades my eyes and ears and nose,
my skin down to my spinal bones,
despair this senseless loss of sense
of life and breath and bread that once was mine
and could be mine to share again.
My home is where I live
my view of neighbors and town and Earth and life
flowing sedately toward, then past too quickly
on my backyard river of memory,
greeting ducks and swans
herons and eagles soaring by
to hunt this fertile rippling home with me
now fading into memory
as shades of sympathy
not entropy,
sad self-isolating apathy
from my heart's dismembering womb.
Lavish price for a new bodied home
invites sublimating new constructions
with best familiar practices and intents,
artifacts of golden memories from past days
and life
and loves
reframed by unfamiliar
but grace welcoming
trees
and birds
and a few persistent weeds.
Cast in bronze she sits by the seaside on a rock of dreams
Smaller than I always made her to be after all those years
Her head once again stolen as I gape into an unknown
Decapitation straight from the heart of vandalized fears
Humiliated I search for her fins and mine to propel the ocean
Of tears and forgiveness and remember how hurt I had been
When she tied a steely chord around my neck and pushed me
Into the void after she severed trust and hope from remains
I fail to comprehend why people cannot let go without hatred
And what is the purpose of dismembering memories of love
Like an octopus I sort out my tangled arms and hold myself close
Embrace what is left and attempt to grow a new body and soul
Revenge is way past me as I gather jetsam and flotsam and
Driftwood of strength covered in seashells and mother of pearl
How I wished it was you who was trapped in destruction but
Then I relish the thought that I healed for good and you never did
23rd September 2019
My heart utters gently: you are seven;
I am too. Yet, the bloom of womanhood
carries us now unto fields where
spiced pleasure and abandonment mingle…
I reminisce our childhood years, when as a girl,
we would look out the bay window
till late evening, awaiting Dad’s arrival.
How cold those months while we freeze
in longing, in tireless dismembering
from an absence you , I could not bear:
oh, we escape through storybooks, art-play,
even dialogues with a guardian-moon
allowing the release of damn cries, ‘ We don’t
need a soldier, we need a father!
Although the fear of sudden loss remains,
this navel spins in unified order; knowing
he loves us despite his passion for freedom.
It is about time we embrace a wholeness
ordained by healed seasons… then to dance
around the fire, under dusk’s awakened joy;
searching for the magic of stars…and treasure
each purpose of Dad’s cherished footprints.
..................
Laura Loo Contest: Any Poem Won in November ( not from mine)
Written 10/17/2017
Resubmitted: 12/3/2017
Contest: What Child Is This
The idea of a living constitution
has the same forensic indeterminacy
as a committed dream.
I am content to trust this dream to the end
to have it fill my cup of hope all day and night.
I am content to receive its order
to hasten to obey without a pause.
But, the old voice sounds
unrelentingly in the chamber: Do not
compromise. Punish.
Crucify him.
The infirm musing of a perpetual dreamer
rising up with eyes wild for relief.
I am content with the terror and anticipation that
keeps turns by watching me:
Justice, once imagined, cannot be undone.
I have been left to think along these lines
to look for the abandonment of arcane unfairness
months after months.
The months
burn up as a fading lantern
homage to the majesty of the absurd:
A muse easy to bear, Camusian laughter to
suffering’s exalted well —
what single rule might break the dry spell?
Sometimes the unforeseen, the unpredictable
springs in the heart of justice
bending its way upward
again and yet again
towards a distant point
all unaccountably, into the strengthening clasp
of fresh now-born idea,
nearer to binding faith
than wild dismembering injustice.
When the far-distant element
of suffering humanity
looms out more clear;
the faint, far, complex notes of hope
its head moves near
and new flicks of justice’s well
unfolds beyond the known.
Is there any new depth to this well?
Say, what is its true nature?
Quietly nature covers over
the dying bird and the dead rover.
If justice’s dead, it is as though
a robin died beneath the snow
tucked away neatly, whose bright eyes
once stared with impudent surprise
at every tit-bit flung to her.
Now every season we must bear
to live without its whistled air,
for law lives beneath the Spring,
like a sequestered paradise
exiled from the steady hammer of faith,
a trackless rice field
ever trudging through groves of
crouching, unconquered territories.
Oh enchanted universe
conqueror of earth’s stadium
in your wild, singing glory
the faults you committed live.
Come hear my sharpened cries
surely, you can hear my note of crisis.
Ceaselessly I raise my cry.
My cry ascends and floats away
scattered by whirling winds afar.
* “Endure what you suffer as being a father’s punishment.” (Heb. 12:5b-7)
Author's note: written on the anniversary of Harvard's abuse of my human rights
A sudden shift
I felt my spirits lift
Then the spotlights' glare
And I'm left standing there
Too new to identify:
An imperfect alibi
Their surgical stares
Dismembering me
With wry deft precision
Paralyzed by pompous glares
Cursing my decision
To com here willingly
And climb their golden stairs
Their spotlights fade
No jury heard my case
Their judgments made
Their cruelty bares one face
Their hearts: a crimson blade
Their eyes bestow disgrace
On my low inferior grade
Am I too much a fool to care
My brands blazed as I stepped
The high and mighty scare
Easily as my forbearance crept
In crushing bounds echoing
In the silence seized.
All eyes hollowed as one fainted
Their hallowed night tainted
My mottled old soul sainted
And thus, the rest of the night
Fell before me
On bended knee.
Oh, how I loath a formal party
The rumor mill is printing already
Some joker introduced as, Eddie
Ask If me and Joan, from accounting-
Were going steady.
From there-
The casualties just kept mounting
I, looking in the mirror yesterday,
witnessed distorted eyes replacing mine;
and, too, the lips and nose, as if a sign,
seemed bent crooked, misaligned in some way.
And, as I, squinting, gazed on that display,
an unheeding hand groped at the outline
of the coldly reflective glass confine.
I watched it slowly mangle the red-clay
body which, lifeless, answered my dead stare.
Tearing tripe from stomach, and from breast
the heart, those fingers worked maliciously,
dismembering each inch of skin less fair.—
I know not who it was who flayed my chest:
I? or that demon called Society?