"American Rot": My Poem on the Steady Decay of the American Political System

         We can see from from Americans' increasingly nervous response to the spread of the Coronavirus just how much damage can be done by three years of an incompetent, corrupt national administration to the nation's health and well-being. By government that is based on loyalty to a criminal boss rather than to the public good, that puts the interest of party over the interests of law, equity, and the needs of ordinary citizens. And by a form of politics that ignores 240 years of precedent and law to insure "winning" at any cost, including outright cheating, voter suppression, and encouraging interference by foreign governments that intend us no good.  
        The spread of the contagious virus also answers the question of who needs a 'big,' but also well functioning government? Apparently every country in the world -- even this one... Who needs public heath care? Who needs a national health care system that guarantees all have access to health care without worrying about how to pay for it?... Americans do.
         Well before the arrival of the new plague, back during the Senate's farcical impeachment 'trial' -- which now seems like democracy's last, wasted chance -- I wrote the poem below, "American Rot." It appeared in print earlier this month in the March 2020 issue of Verse-Virtual.
         


American Rot

Sepsis gone too far
Surgery the only option,
cutting away the rot,
joint by joint,
cell by cell

We surrender a toe,
or two,
almost willingly
Who walks any more
anyway,
while we stare,
'devicively' at screens

Take the foot, why don't you,
and perhaps a hand
Give a hand for your country,
won't you?
What price the oblivion
of endless rot?

Sepsis of the spine
the brain stem
Sepsis of the body,
the uselessly failing limbs
they wave in the wind
like the flags of
forgotten nations

that went this way
Weimar, Athens, the Roman Republic
the body politic
flailing, feebly
Proscription for the intelligentsia

Salutes for the surgeon!
for the final solutions
to indelible conditions,
prior or whatnot,
that weaken the nation

Give him the pistol
now, why don't you
See how easily
he finds a trigger
with his teeth


You can find my other poems and those of 43 poets in total in the March Verse-Virtual  here











http://www.verse-virtual.org/poems-and-articles.html

Poets 'Go Deep" in the new March 2020 Verse-Virtual

I am impressed by the poems in March 2020 issue of Verse-Virtual that 'go deep' -- full disclosure: I served as the guest editor for this issue. Read them for yourself at

https://prosegarden.blogspot.com/2020/03/the-garden-of-verse-real-and-imagined.html 

I'm talking about poems such as Alarie Tennille's poem "Taking Forever One Day at a Time," with splendid details in every stanza. For example:

"hearing your voice in conversation
downstairs before realizing
that you’re talking to the cats
in the same serious tone you use
with plumbers"

The poem builds on evocations, from here, from fond recollections, little things, habits -- holding the speaker's hand crossing streets, writing disparaging comments in the margins of books he reads -- to build a word portrait of a 'forever' relationship. A marvelous poem about intimacy.

          And by the imagistic tour of the stages and struggles of putting together a successful lyric offered by Kate Sontag in "Before It Was A Poem," in lines such as these:

"In the house of do-over dreams
the writer sleeps on pencil shavings
and eraser dust, unlearns standard
grammar skills, relinquishes any
obsession with formal elements
of syntax, diction, parallelism."

Yes, "the house of do-over dreams." Sound familiar? Also, Kate's poem "The Poet and the Bee" with its the noirish reference to the classic "Black Dahlia" crime-story to give the poem its sting. From noir mystery –

For all we knew

"she could have been lying,or believed her own lie..."

This poem's buzz takes us to the unexpected prophetic revelation:

"Call it style. Call ita singer whose ghost was a missing guitar.So this was poetry."

Mystery is the mood as well in Penny Harter's enigmatic poem "The Oracle" about a creature, perhaps half-imagined, known by signs but never seen:

"The oracle predicts without speaking,
slaps its tail for emphasis, eludes our traps.
It knows we are bigger than it is,
has learned that we don’t care to heed
the messages it brings us from the deep."

         The theme of human bonds to the wild species that share our universe plumbs the depths of her poem "Snowy Owl," which evokes the animal magic of humanity's ancient connections:
"As a child in my bed at night, I listened to neighborhood dogs, heard their barking picked up by others farther and farther away until it seemed I could faintly hear all the way back to First Dog."

Ingrid Bruck's lively depiction of a place she calls "Country Abecedarian" relies on the evidence of the senses to make a fantasy familiar, citing

"manacled ribs vibrate waves of cicada buzz, the screech
noise joins bleating lambs and grunting hogs.
often crows gather in murders cawing the news."

I've often wondered about the correct term for a gang of crows. "Murders" sounds about right. I cannot imagine a wild place without their annoying, but often provocative commentaries:

And I am moved to wonder by Shoshauna Shy's richly imagined biography for a waiting room patient, called (in the poem's title) the "Silver-Bearded Man in the Waiting Room at the Dental Clinic" -- a presence whom, the speaker of the poem confides, she will never get to know:

"I will not learn his eldest daughter’s
nickname for him nor the story
of how he earned it, where he found
his dog if he has one, what route
he biked after taking the Merrimac
Ferry toward Baraboo. I will not find
out in what country he last drank
a glass of wine."

These are marvelous mysteries. I'm not sure that a flesh and blood connection would be as rich in detail as the person made of words imagined by this poem's speaker. I have no idea where "Baraboo" is, but it sounds like somewhere intriguing. And why should his 'eldest' daughter (how many, we wonder, does he have?) invent a nickname for him, as opposed to, say, the conventional "Dad," "Pops," "Pater," etc. The poem may indicate a longing for connection, but the 'conversation' it starts in the reader's mind may be more fertile than a real one.

Mystery too abounds in Dianna Henning's poem with the alluring title "The Village Lives in the Sheep; the Sheep in the Village." Who would not wonder at such sheep as those, noted here, who escape the walls of their pens to

"wander as though touring the nearby, shags of wool hanging off their chests, their eyes electric with storms."
Any poem with a phrase like 'their eyes electric with storms' makes me a believer. And this poem's final two sentences, strung through four stanzas, serves an as object lesson in the uses of enjambment. Please see them for your self.
These are a few that poems that spoke to me. I have a lot more reading to do.

See these poems and more at Verse-Virtual March 2020. 

Real and Imagined, Pleasures and Pain: New Poems from Forty Poets in the March 2020 Verse-Virtual

I am impressed by the poems in March 2020 issue of Verse-Virtual that 'go deep' -- full disclosure: I served as the guest editor for this issue. Read them for yourself at

https://prosegarden.blogspot.com/2020/03/the-garden-of-verse-real-and-imagined.html 

I'm talking about poems such as Alarie Tennille's poem "Taking Forever One Day at a Time," with splendid details in every stanza. For example:

"hearing your voice in conversation
downstairs before realizing
that you’re talking to the cats
in the same serious tone you use
with plumbers"

The poem builds on evocations, from here, from fond recollections, little things, habits -- holding the speaker's hand crossing streets, writing disparaging comments in the margins of books he reads -- to build a word portrait of a 'forever' relationship. A marvelous poem about intimacy.

          And by the imagistic tour of the stages and struggles of putting together a successful lyric offered by Kate Sontag in "Before It Was A Poem," in lines such as these:

"In the house of do-over dreams
the writer sleeps on pencil shavings
and eraser dust, unlearns standard
grammar skills, relinquishes any
obsession with formal elements
of syntax, diction, parallelism."

Yes, "the house of do-over dreams." Sound familiar? Also, Kate's poem "The Poet and the Bee" with its the noirish reference to the classic "Black Dahlia" crime-story to give the poem its sting. From noir mystery –

For all we knew

"she could have been lying,or believed her own lie..."

This poem's buzz takes us to the unexpected prophetic revelation:

"Call it style. Call ita singer whose ghost was a missing guitar.So this was poetry."

Mystery is the mood as well in Penny Harter's enigmatic poem "The Oracle" about a creature, perhaps half-imagined, known by signs but never seen:

"The oracle predicts without speaking,
slaps its tail for emphasis, eludes our traps.
It knows we are bigger than it is,
has learned that we don’t care to heed
the messages it brings us from the deep."

         The theme of human bonds to the wild species that share our universe plumbs the depths of her poem "Snowy Owl," which evokes the animal magic of humanity's ancient connections:
"As a child in my bed at night, I listened to neighborhood dogs, heard their barking picked up by others farther and farther away until it seemed I could faintly hear all the way back to First Dog."

Ingrid Bruck's lively depiction of a place she calls "Country Abecedarian" relies on the evidence of the senses to make a fantasy familiar, citing

"manacled ribs vibrate waves of cicada buzz, the screech
noise joins bleating lambs and grunting hogs.
often crows gather in murders cawing the news."

I've often wondered about the correct term for a gang of crows. "Murders" sounds about right. I cannot imagine a wild place without their annoying, but often provocative commentaries:

And I am moved to wonder by Shoshauna Shy's richly imagined biography for a waiting room patient, called (in the poem's title) the "Silver-Bearded Man in the Waiting Room at the Dental Clinic" -- a presence whom, the speaker of the poem confides, she will never get to know:

"I will not learn his eldest daughter’s
nickname for him nor the story
of how he earned it, where he found
his dog if he has one, what route
he biked after taking the Merrimac
Ferry toward Baraboo. I will not find
out in what country he last drank
a glass of wine."

These are marvelous mysteries. I'm not sure that a flesh and blood connection would be as rich in detail as the person made of words imagined by this poem's speaker. I have no idea where "Baraboo" is, but it sounds like somewhere intriguing. And why should his 'eldest' daughter (how many, we wonder, does he have?) invent a nickname for him, as opposed to, say, the conventional "Dad," "Pops," "Pater," etc. The poem may indicate a longing for connection, but the 'conversation' it starts in the reader's mind may be more fertile than a real one.

Mystery too abounds in Dianna Henning's poem with the alluring title "The Village Lives in the Sheep; the Sheep in the Village." Who would not wonder at such sheep as those, noted here, who escape the walls of their pens to

"wander as though touring the nearby, shags of wool hanging off their chests, their eyes electric with storms."
Any poem with a phrase like 'their eyes electric with storms' makes me a believer. And this poem's final two sentences, strung through four stanzas, serves an as object lesson in the uses of enjambment. Please see them for your self.
These are a few that poems that spoke to me. I have a lot more reading to do.

See these poems and more at Verse-Virtual March 2020. 

The Garden of Verse: Real and Imagined, Pleasures and Pain, New Poems from Forty Poets

   

   The new March issue of Verse-Virtual is online now. I'm proud to have played a creative role in putting together this issue as guest editor, working with Managing Editor Jim Lewis.
       The issue includes poems by Tom Montag, Barbara Crooker, Sylvia Cavanaugh, Kate Sontag, Penny Harter, David Graham, Donna Hilbert, Steve Klepetar, Joan Colby, Marilyn Taylor, Joe Cottonwood, Neil Creighton, Robert Wexelblatt, Alan Walowitz, Joan Mazza, Jim Lewis, Michael Gessner, Michael Minassian many other others -- over 40 poets included in all. Read it all here. http://www.verse-virtual.org/poems-and-articles.html
         It includes an imagistic tour by Kate Sontag of the stages and struggles of putting together a successful verse in "Before It Was A Poem," such as the challenges glanced at in these lines:

In the house of do-over dreams 
the writer sleeps on pencil shavings
and eraser dust, unlearns standard 
grammar skills, relinquishes any
obsession with formal elements 
of syntax, diction, parallelism.

March 2020 includes: The splendid details in every stanza of Alarie Tennille's poem "Taking Forever One Day at a Time," such as these

hearing your voice in conversation
downstairs before realizing
that you’re talking to the cats
in the same serious tone you use
with plumbers

A marvelous poem about true intimacy. 

It includes Penny Harter's mysterious poem "The Oracle":

The oracle predicts without speaking,
slaps its tail for emphasis, eludes our traps.
It knows we are bigger than it is, 
has learned that we don’t care to heed 
the messages it brings us from the deep.

And Ingrid Bruck's lively depiction of a place she calls 

"Country Abecedarian," though it sounds like some places we know, where:

manacled ribs vibrate waves of cicada buzz, the screech

noise joins bleating lambs and grunting hogs.
often crows gather in murders cawing the news.
peace in the country is a bucolic notion.

I've often wondered about the correct term for gangs of crows. "Murders" sounds about right. 

It includes Shoshauna Shy's richly imagined biography for a waiting room patient, called (in the poem's title) the "Silver-Bearded Man in the Waiting Room at the Dental Clinic," whom the speaker of the poem confides she will never get to know:

I will not learn his eldest daughter’s 
nickname for him nor the story
of how he earned it, where he found
his dog if he has one, what route 
he biked after taking the Merrimac 
Ferry toward Baraboo. I will not find 
out in what country he last drank
a glass of wine. 

Verse-Virtual, March 2020 offers a whole world of speculations, possibilities, occasions for joy, and those for regrets.

The Garden of Verse: Plymouth Poetry Laureate Reading -- a Room Full of Yes!

The energy was amazing. 
The attendance was great. 
The room was full. 
How soon can we do this again? 
You could tell it was going to be an SRO night about a quarter before the scheduled start as the reception was drawing toward a close, and all but a few seats were claimed.
Wow. Standing room only for poetry!
And the applause, right from the start. Anyone who said anything from the podium got a hand. 
Each of the four poets were applauded after their introductions -- just for existing.
Did anybody take names, pass a sign-up sheet through the audience? Can we get all these people back? 
And the applause came after each poem. Usually listeners wait until a poet has finished his whole reading before applauding. 

So while this was -- or so we readers thought -- an event about our readings, it was, actually, just as much about the town. People sitting in those library seats were happy to be part of something that represented their town. The spirit of the place. 
And, hopefully, the quality of the event.  
Plymouth was celebrating Plymouth, sensing a strong pulse, and feeling good about that.

Even the hors d'oeuvres at the reception were top flight. I was almost sorry I was going to be reading because otherwise I would have spent the time grazing. It's rare that I can't find time to spare on blue cheese and paper-thin sliced Italian meats. But believing it isn't a good idea to put much in my stomach before I go on stage, I restricted myself to a free glass of wine -- and didn't feel any effect at all. Nerves. 
The five-member panel sitting up front. 

So, one always wonders, and worries a bit -- how did I do? Since a live reading is by nature a kind of 'performance.'
Well, in all humble candor, everybody who spoke to me said it was great. Of course most of the people who spoke to me and gave me this impression are the people who normally talk to me, that is my friends and acquaintances. 
Know what? I'll just take their word for it. 
From my end, I doubt that I could do much better. 

My thanks to Plymouth Public Library director Jennifer Harris and the other members of the panel who organized and hosted this event: Stephen Cole of the Plymouth Foundation, restaurateur Heather Casey, Old Colony Memorial reporter David Kindy, and Amy Naples of the Plymouth Chamber of Commerce.