Philosophy

Closet Poets - Part iII

“A Cartesian Dream”
By Salvatore Poeta

Cogito, ergo sum.
–René Descartes

There are signs in the universe
that are released every now and again;
and taking flight off the wake of the butterfly’s wings,
flit about weightless before sinking
once again into the sea of mystery.

Is it our purpose or punishment to behold these signs,
to clutch them tightly like so many knots on a rope,
leading us out of this Cartesian dream
toward a promised salvation?
And why so elusive and far in-between,
floating for an instant to the surface of consciousness
only to be hidden away again in the dark catacombs of oblivion?
Will they ever resurface before this body sheds its earthly wings?

The only real thing is the love I feel this instant,
but where will it fade to once I’m gone?
Are we truly smaller than our spirit,
a fragile bubble bouncing about aimlessly
within the deep recesses of an unsolved enigma,
struggling to float to the surface?
And if I should reach the surface
how will my soul navigate
the sweeping currents of anonymity?

“Nocturne”
By Salvatore Poeta

To die, to sleep—to sleep, perchance to
Dream—ay, there's the rub.
–Hamlet

When I enter your house,
disturbing the sleep of your nocturnal butterflies,
I feel myself embraced
with the hopeful intimacy of a breadth at the point of exhale.
I am a star of the universe,
Delicately poised on your crown of eternal solitude…
And yet there is something disquieting here.
Are you body or spirit, life or death?
There are no windows in this house!
I need to peer beyond these walls!
It is a question of perspective:
of what provokes the rustle of the butterfly’s wings,
or the creak in this chair in which I sit,
and how they will be preserved in the photographic
memory of the universe…
Here I am, luminous, silent, lonely like you,
but, oh, so spiritually aware of our own tragedy!
Sleep. All I need is sleep…

“Remember Your Asian Names”
By Liyang Dong

When I stared into your almond-shaped eyes on the news
all my thoughts quivered like branches pounded by a hailstorm.
Your grandson’s bones are still warm under fresh earth
from last year’s shooting.

Now you collapse into a pool of blood, that drains from your hands,
that ache from labor to make others feel like queens and kings of the day,
your eyes glistening with tenderness and motherly warmth.
How they froze in shock and terror seeing the blood oozing from your penetrated breast,

the wonder you carried to your grave,
at the riddle why your Asian look and ivory skin tone,
is called yellow peril, and
your “almond-shaped” eyes were an offense and a sin to him.

Your agonized body, a crystalized grail of Asian femininity,
now twisted into a million question marks,
an unrequited demand for justice.
No language could formulate the goodbye you never authorized.

But know this, you and five other sisters:
you are the powerful and he is the weak, the scared, the despised wretch,
he the one with no spine but to prop his sloppy mess with a steely gun,
he the sick maniac with no gut to cut his own balls,
but erase the beautiful beings of his “Oriental” desire,

his white desire, a spear into the heart of six Asian families
twirling in the nerves of all the yellow bodies.
His white sickening “addiction” for the white police as “having a bad day.”
Nooooo  enough of this bullshit we’ve had!

I do not weep for you as weeping only feeds their laughter,
I fear for my people but I mold my fear into a baton,
with my words and actions that breathe new life into your now cold shadow,
and pass on your names that were once sweet on the lips of your beloved
and now will ever be cherished on ours, too.

Yong Ae Yue, Xiaojie Tan, Daoyou Feng, Hyun Jung Grant, Soon Chung Park, Suncha Kim…
Remember your Asian names in the story WE tell;
You will not fade in the lies THEY weave!
Remember your Asian names,
shining through our dark corners and long winter nights!

“car poem”
By Jody Spedaliere

I

Driving long distance
The radio stations fade
out left and right
One catches bits and
Pieces of
Everyday life
Hearing people calling
their local stations
The everyday/commonplace to
them
Is new yet boring
to You
Because you’ve turned
the dial for hrs
and Have caught
enough Glimpses
of local radio to
form a collage
And what they form
to you
is old and boring
and
Tired

II

Writing poems in the car
As Stephen does 65
Four hours down only
3 to go
Driving, thinking, writing
Like Jack and Lew
The cars speed by on
the other side—
Construction slows
us down,
         down,
             down
The girls in their sportscars
dark glasses, windblown hair,
ruby Lips
In front of us a beauty
blonde in a straw hat
Connecticut plate
                       271-ETP
                        (What is your name!)
Look over—a glance
I construe it as
teasing
The glances are short-term
relationships
You put your all into
the stare
Knowing to her it will
probably be your last
For neither are going where
you’ll be

I find the highway
Sensuous
Bodies traveling as
fast as they can
PUMPING, PUMPING, PUMPING
the gas and brake

So tonight sit back
close your eyes
and remember
Make the stare complete.

“Let Love Not Divide Us”
By Jody Spedaliere

Let love not divide us
Or destroy us
Let our differences be buried under bridges
Let us celebrate ourselves
For who we are
Not what we want to be.

Let love not divide us
But comfort us
And give us strength
To carry on.

The world is an imperfect place
But that is no excuse
To let us down
To move us past
The need for love.

Let love not divide us
But put us back together
Healing hearts and minds
To heal and hear
All our souls
Not to be forgotten
But remembered.

Let love not divide us
But let it put us back together
And make us whole
Filling in the fragments
Piecing it all together with Love.

“Ease”
By Sevali Hukku

Sometimes I extend my hands
Up, towards the sky
Short stubby fingers
Against an expanse of blue
A breezy harmony
Between this world and that
Joined through two stretched limbs
It makes me feel uninterrupted
Like oceans and green fields
Sleeping against an empty blank wall
Rooted in time and space
While civilizations swirl around
It’s a cramped locus of rest
A small island of silence
In the fast-running waters
Of my everyday world.

“History”
By Justin Lerner

Vintage, movement heads etched into
Long, messy bookshelves
Disheveled by haphazard readings with
New knowledge absorbing into their
Frazzled scalps—

An ancient typewriter at the
Sleek, historic wooden desk of the
Figure whom poetry chose.
How did their work stir such a generation?
And did it have a name?

Each movement given its own beautiful corner,
Black and white,
Stenciled drawings on poetry foundation for today’s
Scholars to read and wrestle with.
Were these works taken literally back then?

The great movers and shakers of poetic industry
Shun inhumane production and celebrate
Their paperback victory in 3 months
When the world-changing, epoch making
Text hits the hands, classrooms, and allusions to come.

Did they name their movement?
I want to know who will name our movement. Do we move?
Perhaps our movement will be titled
By our motions. Perhaps our motions will
Name the movement.

“Air Kissing the Blarney Stone”
By Annette M. Magid

An ancient climb was arduous;
six uneven sets of stairs.
Three flights, so dangerous,
treacherously tripping unawares.
Feet slip on faulty footfalls.
Stairs to thwart intruders.
Clanging swords on uneven walls—
Stone chimes alerting owners.

But modern times brings large lines,
curiosity seekers of varying ages
trudging gingerly by the thousands,
ascending asymmetrical ancient stones,
seeking the prize of Castle Blarney,
one stone offering a future for one’s lips
to evolve, cunningly clever, caustic and witty.
Providing a lifetime license to the ultimate gift
from Blarney’s leprechaun, elf or fairy,
the gift of glittering gab.

Why then when the moment
of truth arrived, when those
whose daring climb brought
them into kissing range, so close
when they positioned themselves
so near, landing them flat on their
backs, extended arms and hands
behind their heads, wind in their hair
did they merely sail a fruitless kiss
drifting from their pursed lips
toward the well-embedded famous
Blarney Stone rather than juicily
planting a smooch on the rough honed
stone mounted high, one so ordinary
on the castle wall quite ancient?

Air kissing the possibly precious
stone, were there germ concerns?
So many mouths packed yet empty,
Breeders of influenza and intrigue.
After such a climb were the kissers
too exhausted to pull themselves:
struggling, strained, stretchers
puckering to plant fleeting missals
toward that which had been an entity
so often kissed with blind impunity?
Was there doubt in its authenticity?

Air kissing, like a chance meeting
with an occasional acquaintance
and needing a warm greeting
that might be recalled and enhanced
ever so vaguely when other memories
reinforce considerations of validity.

Was there doubt in the legend?
Was their doubt that the stone,
was once buried beneath the Irish Sea?
Was the story the tour guides told
As false as the bolder now cemented
in the castle parapet of their own predilection?
Was this once again Blarney repetition?

Even when the uneven steps rendered
fleetfooted souls suddenly lame in times
past, in present-day tourism activities,
even those truly disabled dared
the deceptive climb to achieve mastery
so that their tongue’s edge might become
glib and dazzle others so that their wit
sought to excel where their limbs could
not. Even if their limbs are not fully
functioning, they are no more abled with
the tongue-wagging fable than those few
who actually scooted over the precipice
on their keesters to reach the fabulous,
perhaps faux, stone with their quivering
arms out-stretched above their heads and
their soon-to-be un-quieted lips puckered.

Perhaps the blarney begins with
the air, moist and ripe, drifting
through every breath one takes
from the top of the castle walls
to the distant exquisite paths of
ancient Blarney Forest where once,
as the story goes, witches’ caldrons
made of select stones held compounds
most horrific. Witches who uttered
language of potions proliferated.

Viewers feel they command all
things visible from the rusted railing
high above the Blarney Forest,
conjuring up salacious stories,
thoughts churning and ready to spew
forth once they return from their
adventuresome climb to their
place on the firm earth.