MAP
59
This
week's theme: Ars Poetica: Poetry about poetry.
Thanks
to all who generously permit me to publish your work!
Upcoming
Themes:
Issue
#60 - What are you doing New Year's Eve?
Issue
#61 - New Years Resolutions: Honey, I promise to change my lowdown
ways.
Issue
#62 - Cartwheel-Challenged Poets (All submissions eligible for
anthology: "Why I Wasn't A Dallas Cheerleader or It's Hard to
Write When Spinning")
1.
(Drumroll!) From Guy LeCharles Gonzales of 1998 NPS's #1 Team New
York. Guy performed this piece at the NPS finals:
33-1/3
Revolutions Per Minute
a
love poem for Friday night revolutionaries...
The
revolution has been--
the
revolution has been--
the
revolution is in danger of becoming a has-been.
Hip-hop
has failed its mission
straying
from its destiny as the poetry of the people
rock
& roll's sequel in its soulless quest for mass appeal.
Been
around the world and I I I
I've
seen history repeated too many times by
too
many people
that
should know better.
Slavery
was replaced by the music industry
house
niggers go to the highest bidders
keeping
the revolution underground
undermanned
undermined
so
I'm tired of waiting for poets to open their eyes
and
reject the status quo.
Complacency
is an angel of light
everything's
not all right 'cause the CIA could be tapping my phone.
One
false move and my death becomes a mystery
the
Las Vegas police won't bother to solve
and
though I'm ready to die
I've
realized that the revolution does not need another martyr.
Biggie
failed to see this reality
succumbing
to self-prophecy
selling
his soul
thinking
he'd get money from his playa-presidency to buy it back.
All
caught up in stereotypical fantasies
...that
gangsta mentality
that's
killing us softly
as
the DEATH of the revolution is televised nightly
the
number-one rated show on MTV
starring
Puff Daddy and family
with
thick bass licks from '80's pop hits
supporting
stupid-ass lyrics
spurting
from the lips of Versace-branded slaves
turning
my stomach late at night when I find myself
dancing
to it
...lost
in that bass line
reality
shrouded my mind clouded
my
hands where my eyes CAN'T see
forgetting
how it used to be
...it's
all about the Benjamins now
as
hip-hop heads become wannabe's
Gil-Scott
Heron collects his royalties
and
the revolution is a commercial property
pimped
by Sprite and the NBA...
ideals
are nothing
image
is everything
Jordan
got another ring and
Mumia's
plight is a hollow slogan to hook a poem on
as
the revolution is compromised
by
wannabe rap stars disguised as slam poets
pandering
to the crowd
telling
them what they want to hear
instead
of what they need to hear.
Thoughtless
words like mad-cow disease
wiping
out an entire generation
so
I poke you in your third eye to clear your vision
realize
that you're the problem
not
the solution.
You're
not a poet you just slam a lot
cram
a lot of senseless rhyming
soulless
pantomiming
saying
shit like Tommy Kills-niggers
'cause
it always fashionable to lay blame elsewhere
especially
if it'll get a laugh and a couple of extra points.
Store-bought
politics from brain-washed hypocrites
sweet-nothings
disguised as calls for revolution
designed
to win the Slam
disguising
true intentions
grab
a blunt and a forty and that bleach-blonde shorty you dissed from
stage
patronizing
the black woman's rage
acting
lactose intolerant
knowing
damn well that you got milk.
Sometimes
the thieves in the temple are the priests themselves
and
despite my own glass house I dare to throw stones
'cause
it takes a clean break to heal right
and
I can't let the revolution go on without you...
©
1998 Guy LeCharles Gonzalez
2.
From our friend in Dublin, Audrey Kaufman:
I
once wrote a poem.
It
brought me many friends.
But
the poem was about death and destruction.
It
was about love and compassion.
Together
we grieved.
Together
we shared an uncertain future.
I
once wrote a poem and it brought me many, many friends ....
one
day I will tell you about it.
3.
And then there's the rascally, adorable Nicki Miller of
Fredericksburg, Maryland
Saturday
Night, Missing You After Poetry
Gathering
plastic cups, crumpled napkins,
an
exiled stuffed mushroom peeks out from
it's
hiding place near the end table,
a
runaway earlier this evening.
The
cracker crumbs, idle plates,
empty
wine bottles stacked forlorn, forgotten
in
the kitchen sink.
Poets
laughter echoes
warm
and contagious still,
as
I collect the bones of another
evening
wrapped in the arms
of
luxurious words, montrechet,
raucous
companions.
Drifting
off to another space within
that
one, tucked away only in me,
I
envision you here, too.
Smiling,
this pleasure,
this
private desire roots,
gains
hold.
Yes,
were you here;
I
see you, club chair cross-legged,
at
my side, presiding.
Your
eyes felt on the back of my neck,
running
through my hair.
I
can hear your voice ...
strong,
resonant,
capturing
the ears of all, but
know
you read only to me;
consuming
your words, squeezing your
hand.
They could only grasp a hint
of
your magic. I would later
behold
it softly, in sweeter light.
The
white dots of dissolution melt,
and
I sigh, come back to them,
still
deep in your embrace.
Reality
is
it's
30 degrees outside, two plastic
tall
kitchen bags still need hauling out,
the
kitchen swept, the wine stems and
silverware
washed. I don't mind
this
ritual housekeeping afterwards.
After
all, my soul has just been fed.
This
night of poetry, one night of magic.
Soon.
So soon, but not soon enough,
the
next comes.
And
you.
©
1998 nicki miller
4.
From Chuck Rice, another fine poet:
Seeing,
As Only Our Eyes See
Black
skyscrapers low on the horizon
like
broken teeth
eat
the fizzling sun.
I
wonder, wander through crowds
a
face, on a corner,
are
you one of us-
man
in a business suit,
in
rags, old woman, teenage girl,
strangers
in clever disguise?
Our
eyes glance-
are
you scanning me also,
seeing
as only our eyes see,
feeling
and sensing pain-
fully
deeper
attuned
to the deafening cry
of
every rock, tree, the pain
in
every face, the fear
the
hopelessness in every eye?
When
I move through random streets
cursed
of tall clawing concrete
feeling
the heartbeat of each building,
the
chaos in every cloud,
the
tranquil order in each frenzied pulse
of
traffic, every sound screaming volumes
of
questions, each moment
a
story begging not
to
be forgotten, to be told.
I
wonder,
has
your mind's eye already been here,
has
your sixth sense already probed
this
random street's
cold
fixtures of normality,
felt
its way
down
this hall of fury and emotion
like
a blind sage,
touched
its cries of life,
buses
windows faces cigarette butts
sirens,
lost smiles,
hearing
what they cannot feel,
seeing
what they cannot see?
Why
us- cursed with this unrest
of
unyielding awareness
which
(piercing) reflects back,
separates
us, banishes,
condemns
us to walk alone.
Fleeing
this alien world
away
and alone on some dark beach
lying
back my thoughts reach up
to
caress the moon like a lover.
Are
the hands of your mind silently there
already
reaching
from
some similar darkness?
Aching,
longing, I search faces
on
the street
yet
never asking,
"Are
you one of us?"
For
we must remain silent, secret
frailest
of all creatures,
for
to be uncovered, revealed,
rejected
is
to risk death of the soul.
Our
forms clever, diverse,
doubtless
in our defenses
our
prejudgements, preconceived ideas
we
could not even spot one another,
lest
at some vulnerable place,
some
weak moment,
on
the risk of a notion
we
perhaps exchange pleasantries,
"Yes,
I too am a poet."
This
poem first appeared in Private Crystallography, an anthology
published
by Cosmic Trend of Canada.