Poetry Potpourri

companion by Rick Mobbs

. Loyalty, from lirone, author of the blog, Words that sing (and they do)

. Bone tree (for Georgia O’keeffe), from Tiel Aisha Ansari author of the blog knocking from inside

. weed it out - half a poem, from gautami tripathy, of firmly rooted

. Beyond the Obvious, by Rose Dewy Knickers, author of the blog live/laugh (or is it Dewy Knickers?)

. Here is The Dog, from Pam, at amputated moon

Stupid war makes for "Four Buck Gas" by Glenn Buttkus

Taking one of Rick Mobbs awesome paintings (yes I am a big fan of Rick Mobbs work!) with a little help (horse's red leg) from his son, Broadus, entitled , Stupid War, Glenn Buttkus co-author of Feel Free to Read blog, wrote the following poem, Four Buck Gas. It's long. Too bad. Excellent poetry comes in long - as well as short and medium. heh heh. Long is good. I know. How do I know? you might be asking. Glenn Buttkus tends to write lengthy poems; you see, he has an eye for detail that can analyze any subject down to a, ah - a gnat's eyeball! Yeah! That's it. Furthermore - this particular poem is an excellent example of my premise that poets are the true historians. But that's not all...Glenn also writes movie reviews that rock. He includes so much information that by the time you've read the review, you might feel like you just saw the movie! Yup, that good. This is also the way he treats poetry. If Glenn likes what you've written, he'll tell you exactly why; pulling every nuance, hidden meaning, psychological undertone, and any literary reference alluded to in the imagery that he can hunt down. He'll weave a beautiful and carefully written essay about your poem/movie/writing or pack a novella of a concise review down to critical mass thumbnail size that makes you feel like the most important poet that's hit the scene! Make sure you take a jet to his blog. You will find a fascinating & fantastic potpourri of miscellaneous literary extracts. And now, without further ado, here's Glenn Buttkus on four buck gas!

Four Buck Gas

This morning
I stood in the pre-dawn chill
and pumped 4-buck gas
into my pick up.

Suddenly consumed
with unspeakable anger,
I shook my free fist
at the Shell sign—
standing there tall
and sullen
and silent,
arrogantly golden
flashing
its $4.15
for regular gas
message.

I thought about
The Bush War
and what it is costing
us/me,
and about the fat cat
oil barons
who hang out with Junior
swilling Lone Star
and counting their tax-free
trillions.

The New Millennium Crusades
suddenly swam belligerently
into my cortical net,
witnessing Bush stir up
the Muslim wasp nest,
sending our youth
into harm’s way
to face the barbs and stingers,
RPG’s, roadside explosions,
and suicide bombers
who themselves
are barely old enough
to enjoy
the promised 100 virgins
in Jihad Paradise.

A few yesterdays ago
there we were
post 9-11 in 2003,
wanting to strike back,
wanting revenge
for the terrible toppling of our towers,
and the callous crushing
of the innocent thousands,
as death was brought to us
on our own silver wings,
diving and plunging
straight down,
laden with high-pitched screams
from jet engines pushed to full throttle
and passengers hoarse from fear.

Something had to be done.
Who could we punish?
Who could we kill
to satiate our blood lust?
George W. Bush, Jr.
and all his father’s posse
smiled like hyenas
in a silent pack,
and their greedy index fingers
pointed back,
straight at Iraq;
telling us repeatedly
that right there was the heart
of darkness,
the den of murderers,
the scourge of the earth;
plotters, terrorists, and enemies—
that Bush was ready
to lead us
into a holy war
that would finish the job
left undone by his daddy
in 1991—
that as righteous patriots
we should take on
the rag tag Republican Army
and run that ruthless fox,
Saddam Hussein,
to ground;
for he was a madman,
an abuser of human rights,
a killer,
a dictator,
a womanizer,
a sodomizer;
and not only
did he absolutely possess
weapons of mass destruction,
but he fully intended
to send unmanned squadrons
of drones
to our eastern shores,
that were fully laden
with biological germ warfare payloads.

75 senators were duped, cajoled,
and convinced,
thus launching
Operation Iraqi Liberation;
soon to morph into
Operation Iraqi Freedom.

During the one month assault,
we overran Hussein’s finest troops
like shooting coyotes
from horseback,
and it only cost us
139 American lives.
“Outstanding!”
was on the commander’s lips,
followed by,
“Let’s stick around a while now,
and assist the Iraqis into forging
a Democracy.”

We all recall
the smirking grin
and lying eyes
of warmonger
Donald Rumsfeld;
and that late afternoon
five years ago this May
on the USS Abraham Lincoln,
when Commander in Chief,
President Bush
emerged from a fighter
wearing a flight suit,
stood spread-legged on the naked steel deck,
waving his thunder bolt helmet
and declaring,
“Mission Accomplished!”

And presently
here we are,
knee deep in Year 5,
fighting “asymmetric warfare”,
without front lines,
against a faceless enemy
that hides in
and melts into
the civilian population;
just like before
in 1964—
except now we are immersed in
and surrounded by
civil war and insurgency,
as we are being branded
the Occupying Force,
once again;
spilling blood for greed
and democracy—
being taught hard lessons;
like we cannot curtail
the flow of Jihad insurgents
by cutting the head off the Hydra,
or its whelps,
or its lieutenants—
for new warriors
spring like cockroaches from the shadows,
craving to join the resistance
to the Infidels and Capitalists,
arriving in dark clumps daily,
like monsters rising out of the blood-soaked
waters of the Tigris and Euphrates—
making us pay
every day
for patrolling
the Sunni Triangle.

Oh God,
when will the madness end?
How much black gold
has to be pumped
into profit
from the Iraqi
fat oil reserves?
How many more
retired Special Forces
will have to be recruited
by Blackwater
to protect Bush’s
real agenda?

The numbers for Y5
are staggering!
U.S. dead: 4,079.
U.S. wounded: 30,000.
Contractors dead: 1,028.
Contractors wounded: 10,569.
Iraqi death toll: 1,000,000.
Iraqi combatants dead: 10,800.
Insurgents dead: 22,807.
Detainees: 43,000.

Like in the 60’s
when the carnage
in Viet Nam
was broadcast to us daily,
splashing red and futile
on our living room television screens—
today
our forced occupancy
of Iraq
is beamed immediately by satellite
to every home,
for all of us to see
and cringe
as the pride of our loins
are kicking down doors
and pumping hot lead
from their Mossberg shotguns
into the Islamic populous—
are being ambushed
around every corner,
green zone or not;
witnessing the riddling
of those poorly armored Humvees,
those High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles,
with bullets bought in black markets,
originally manufactured by us
and sent to Saddam
when it was his job
to fight the Iranians
for us.

Our young men
and women,
do their duty,
without hesitation,
becoming hard-hearted
and stone-jawed—
even though many of them
may be stop-lossed
or extended
by their loving government
to stay
in the fray;
professional targets,
standing atop
an M1 Abrams battle tank,
or racing down some dangerous narrow alley
in their M2 Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle,
or screetching through those
mean Moslem streets in Strykers—
the dead brown skies above
choked
with Apaches, Kiowa Warriors, Black Hawks, and Chinooks—
the dirty twilight punctuated
by the deep throb
of dozens
of .50 caliber lethal heavy machine guns—
patrols partially protected
by howling M249 SAWS.

Yes, Lord,
we see it all;
and feel overwhelmed
with intense grief and anguish
as this cavalcade of cavalry and contractors
are at this very moment
toiling in the acrid white dust
of the Middle East,
providing the opportunity
for the petroleum bullies
to force me
to have to pump their goddamn
4 buck gas,
and shake my inept fist
at a stupid sea shell,
and snarl terribly
at those barons unseen,
but most certainly
felt.

Glenn Buttkus June 2008

Hallowed Ground to Asphalt Sky

I've chosen this intriguing painting by Rick Mobbs to highlight Jo Hemmant, a participant in Rick Mobb's invitation to readers to write poems for his paintings. I also chose Jo Hemmant because I want to tell my readers about a superb new online literary journal, Asphalt Sky, of which Jo is an editor. Asphalt Sky is an elegantly appointed journal that is "committed to publishing emerging and established artists and giving a place for thoughtful and engaging poetry, prose, and art work." My thought is to present a juxtaposition between earth and sky, highlighting the poet whose feet are firmly grounded on terra firma who has the ability to guide us into the heavenly through the written word. Asphalt Sky has just stepped into the world of online publishing. A very impressive first issue revels in earth's nature while taking the reader up, up, up and away into self-mesmerizing day-dreamy thoughts and images provided by these exceptional writers, poets and artists. I love that this first issue reminds me of all things earthbound but takes me into quiet contemplation that speaks to otherwordly thoughtscapes. I find myself scultping images into solid landscape and bucolic meanderings. I say kudos, and a cartwheel to Asphalt Sky's first foray into online literary journaling. Artists Cris Halverson and Catherine Farmer further attest to the otherworldly glimpses I experienced while reading this splendid issue.

Jo Hemmant's editorial essay, Beginnings, featured in Asphalt Sky, is as fresh as a newborn babe's first slap and hits you as strong as that first slap's wail. Please read it. Here's just a snippet of the essay, followed by Jo's poem written for Rick Mobb's painting gracing the top of this post. Enjoy!

Beginnings

"Language surrounds us, defines us, is how we express our selves, how we try to decode the universe. When I visualize it, it is as water flowing, meaning always and endlessly deferred, passing through the connections, the spaces between words and moving on, understanding contextual. And this deferral means that there can be no endings as such. Yet still the records are made, and they come out of two very different beginnings -- origin and starting point."

To which Jo goes on to describe these two very different beginnings.

Hallowed ground

he has exposed history for us,
fortified walls arc over earth
as deceptive as love, territory

cross-sectioned, the blade finding
the soft beginning of the belly that
mounds then slitting the fundaments
from pubis to throat.

Note the foreground, a woman’s head
resting on an arm as if sleeping,
a child close, tender shorn,
these two recognisable in a scree of
faceless figures, a continuum,

a latitude, the others vulnerable curvature,
ribcages scored like the knife’s
sliding through skin, muscle,
bone to marrow’s...

Please follow the linked last line to read the remainder of this poem at Jo Hemmant's blog florescence.

Rick Mobbs - Artist Extraordinaire! - Figurative Painter & Poet

I've been wanting to share Rick Mobbs talent with my dear readers for quite some time now. Rick Mobbs is a phenomenal figurative painter of the highest caliber as you can see for yourself by visiting his beautifully appointed website and his blog, Mine Enemy Grows Older. Also my little chickadees, you get a two-fer when you visit Rick. Not only does Rick paint the most original, dreamy, and otherworldly subjects, scenes and sensibilities *wink* but he writes, too! Be prepared to spend lots of time reading, oooooo-ing and ahhhh-ing when you first visit Rick's blog because its absolutely packed with plenty of interesting paintings and personalia. Oh, and did I mention Rick's blog encourages reader participation? This is how it all plays out: Rick puts up one of his ethereal paintings and his readers are invited to write a poem or short story to accompany the painting! I was around for the beginning of this enterprise and I want to share with you what did unfold when Rick put up his painting under a post entitled, Standing in the Shadows, on March 29th. Johemmant, author of floresence, wrote the wonderfully evocative story to accompany the painting which was an instant hit! She captured the essence of the painting for me in a most poignant manner. I'll share part of the story with a link to the original post. I urge you to visit Johemmant's blog site because she writes with a deft hand neurally connected to one amazingly creative, insightful brain! Now on with an excerpt of her story:

We were resting after a long day in the fields when the children came running, shouting excitedly of angels and unicorns. We would have thought it a game and sent them away but an elder pointed to the sky silver with cloud and told us to listen to the wind in its lament. We rose then and followed their raggletaggle to the edge of the village where the salt flats begin. And the children were right, these were not figments but the archetypes of our dreams.

I stand at the edge,
a myth sheltering under
my outstretched wings,

their eyes hostile
holding us here though

I have been amongst them
every day, a shifting

shadow, a soft breath
on a tired cheek.

But I see my mistake.
Men do not want proof,

they would rather
have faith.

Follow the rest of her story here.

Johemmant's ekphratic poem inspired another poem by poet, Ozymandiaz, who you can find on his own blog Ocellus which is exceptionally well-written and thoughtful. His contribution below:

Neath the ashen sky
Her spirit strong and true
Some saw but a mare
But the wisest knew
The painted desert soul
Watching o’er this land
Known well as the wind
Known well as the sand
Presents herself this day
To run and to fly
In form seldom seen
Neath the ashen sky

Ozymandiaz's poem put an entirely different feel to the painting; a genuine Native American voice - wise and grounded. I just love his interpretation, too.

There's so much more to Rick Mobb's Mine Enemy Grows Older; Rick is one of those incredibly creative, innovative, multi-talented people who grace us with artistic delight and reverence. He draws from a deep well of experience and a rich inner life that connects with the heavenly. He can charm us and keep us enrapt in his world - as is evidenced in his poem, Mary Draws from Silence, with it's companion painting, below.

Mary Draws From Silence

Mary draws and Mary writes from silence,

silence that uplifts and holds her. These strings,

she thinks, are more than finite. They wrap all things

and draw them to her. Every weight and every measure,

all things tossed or turned or treasured,

all things simple, green or rusted, doubted, doubled, drummed

or busted, all things filtered out and saved, or wasted,

all things stirring, dead, or passive

all the unknown multitude of things

enormous as a whole, and as a whole, so quiet.

Like Mary’s eyes, so quiet. Mary draws from silence.

Poem and Painting by Rick Mobbs

Please give yourself a well-deserved break from day-to-day harsh realities and engulf yourself in a world of aesthetic sensibilities brought to you by Rick Mobbs.