Ichabod's Kin
A place for politics, pop culture, and social issues

Aug
21

TO SAVE A NATION

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          How we got here is all too clear—this incredible moment in our history. And more’s to come: Such unusual twists and turns in world, national or personal life don’t end when the day is done. The old saw rings true, that things will get worse before they get better.

          It’s like “one of those days” when bad things start and never stop–except it’s happening to all of us. If we think the rise of Trump, the rule of Big Lies, the worsening of the world around us, the necessary relinquishing of power by a head of State, the threat of the end of democracy, and the near-assassination of a presidential candidate are the long and short of this crisis; that the rise of an unexpected rival is the penultimate hope, and the coming election will be its foil—oh, full stop, please!

          The remaining days before November 5 may well carry one surprise after another in rapid order. That day may signal the beginning of a thorough re-set of American traditions established by a generation of great spirits by a relapse into the most violent of politics. A good outcome would be but a respite, and follow a recent pattern of denial of results, perhaps another attack upon our Capital, and the eruption of Civil War.

          Trump was struck by a bullet from a loner not good enough for his school’s rifle team, and the candidate came up bloodied, fist in the air, crying “Fight!” fueling the sense of victimization of those who follow him everywhere in expensive, extra-long trucks and RVs, throwing good money after bad at him, maybe cashing in Junior’s college fund—all the while crying that they suffer from poverty and taxes in the world’s greatest sustained economy.

          They also don’t like us. They don’t like us as people. Think of the bearded, snaggle-toothed guy who got most of the face-time on camera just after the shot, the centerpiece of the news, flashing an eternal Bird for all the world to see. Actually flipping off the whole world, since all the world was watching, but we know it was for “us,” the people his kind don’t like. They will never admit the bullet was but one among all those guns that conservative legislators will never slap controls on. They don’t know this will go on till someone they really like is a victim.

          Others took a bullet, like Ronald Reagan, making light of it to Nancy: “Honey, I forgot to duck.” And Teddy Roosevelt took one in the torso before a speech, and spoke for 90 minutes before handlers could remove his coat and see his blood-soaked body. Trump’s too was a close call and an inch from fatal, but he raised a fist, shouted, “Fight!” and next day was back on the hustings, ready to turn up the political heat by name-calling.

          All what his true believers wanted: a leader who, like them, dislikes us and calls them to the barricades and scorched-earth retaliation. And more is to come, though none can predict what. We will live with surprise after surprise, till November and beyond.

          In ancient days there were no “elections,” just brutal takeovers and winners took all. People lived with it, learned to bow heads or lose them, and to cheer when the tyrant passed by; not only commoners but the once-famous and powerful, like Cicero, ended in a bloody mess for having opinions.

          Politics has seldom been admirable but we had come a long way before a golden elevator brought a strange man down from on high who charmed the half of us and, like Saul of Tarsus, “breathing out threats and slaughter” against the rest of us. Saul then had a Damascus Experience, became Paul and preached love to the world. Today, it’s Saul again, and one unlikely to have a change for the better. His followers, children of the movement Paul started, want what Saul wanted.

This road will be long, and it will take the ballot box, not a bullet, to save a nation: This one.

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Aug
21

IN THE AIR AND EVERYWHERE

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          That’s where poetry is right now. It’s at a high in popularity virtually throughout the world. Maybe due to exhaustion from the polemics that pervade everything, politics hardly the only one, demanding our agreement and acquiescence to others’ claims of truth, in words that, like bullets, are searing to hearts and minds.

          There are all kinds of poetry but the appeal is more with seduction than hammer blows. The voice of poetry is declarative, not demanding. It says, “Here I am; this is what I think and feel; this is my truth,” and invites the same from others.

          Some feel poetry is elitist because the many rules in classic forms are a turnoff to the modern mind. In America, Walt Whitman blew that all apart with irregular forms of line and daring topics. He was as much resented as he was hailed, regardless of his reputation now. 

          Yet among his earliest champions was Ralph Waldo Emerson;, whose own poetic skill was considerable but who knew a brilliant, world-changing new voice when he heard one, regardless that others, along with the endearing Emily Dickinson, found Whitman vulgar, rude and a disgrace to the craft. That judgment now is a distinct minority.

          Today poetry is all over the place in shape and form, and is among the most democratic of arts. The only drawback may be the snobbishness of poetry editors and critics who from their mole-hills of self-importance decide who is and isn’t a poet. Such occurs however to anything that becomes too popular.  Indeed, over 22 million readers admitted to reading poetry in a recent year.

April is always National Poetry Month. As part of the overall literary scene, Newburyport has its Literary Festival, showcasing authors of all genres including poetry. Be there or be square, as the saying goes. Poetry reading sites have multiplied throughout our city and region, making it a public staple. A new group seeks new and emergent poets at Newburyport’s Sr./ Community Center, and since last September has grown in numbers and excitement; any and all are encouraged to spread their wings before an appreciative audience at 1 p.m. on first Thursdays of every month for what one participant calls “the joy of poetry.” It’s called, “Poetry & Pizza,” and has a large number of parlors have lined up to serve the best from their menus to support this public interest in poetry. We also include a Poetry Extravanganza that includes young poets from local schools who are second to none at creative verse.

I display my own poetry at Nu Kitchen every April, a new exhibit space thereafter for visual art. Owner Josh van Dyke is no stranger to honoring the arts in his popular and very “happening” restaurants here and elsewhere. Many thanks to business people like him; to the Senior Center for making its space where all ages go for an array of worthwhile events; and the Rockport poets who are taking the love of poetry to new heights.

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Aug
21

SHAMEFUL DATES, SHAMELESS PLUGS

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          January to May has grim reminders from history and what may be learned from them. The first month calls to mind Martin Luther King, Jr. and that despite his sacrifice, racism is as bad as ever. The end of January, in 1933, Hitler became Chancellor of Germany and it’s truly shameful if there’s no lesson in that. February’s Valentine’s Day finds us more in love with guns than with people, and no relief in sight.

The Battle for the Alamo spanned Feb. 23 to March 6 of 1836 but its myth is eternal. Mexico had laws against enslavement but once the new Texans bought land cheap there in exchange for citizenship, they declared it theirs and set about to steal it.

          Davy Crockett didn’t die fighting but was arrested and executed for being the insurrectionist he and his cronies were, but half of us love people like that—“Jan. 6” being a case in point. The Alamo was but another “patriotic story” that puts a nice face on criminality as long as we’re the beneficiaries. It was a land-grab pure and simple, and hardly our only one.

March brings St. Pat’s Day and, like Cinco de Mayo and most ‘celebrations,’ is a drunken orgy–as if liquor stores would barely survive otherwise.

The Ides of March holds a special place in our hearts thanks to Shakespeare, who got the story wrong. Julius Caesar was a very remarkable guy in a very violent time. But the Roman republic was as messy as modern day democracy, and the empire grew too far and too fast for ordinary leaders. Brutus was not his closest friend, but Caesar had long taken him under his wing so, yes, Brutus was just another shameful Judas. But read The Bard closely: someone much closer to Julius was the real culprit. Anyway, men were men and life was cheap, and it happens all the time.

My own shameful date is early April and the Battle of Shiloh in our very un-Civil War, which was over slavery, not States’ Rights. My maternal grandfather, though no believer in enslavement, grew up among rebels. Decades older than my grandma; born not far from where Jeff Davis came into this world; and influenced by an older friend, he went to war against his country, for which it’s hard to forgive him.

He was just a scared 21-year old when he took a bullet in his upper leg, but was spared removal of that limb in a field hospital, meaning he carried the missile the rest of his life—right where it had landed. Family redemption came when my father and his dad fought in the Mexican civil war, which lasted three times longer than ours. There the rebels won against a truly corrupt government, put an end to the Church’s chokehold on everything, and kept slavery outlawed.

The Titanic was a mid-April tragedy of 1912, AKA, and I annually remind that it was when the world’s greatest metaphor hit an iceberg, and John Jacob Astor cried, “I rang for ice, but this is ridiculous!” Of course, it wasn’t really funny but the story does get old. What’s shameless is our belief that anything is “unsinkable.” Such is, more famously, among history’s “famous last words.”

My “shameless plugs” are: thanks to Nu Kitchen for displaying my poetry throughout National Poetry Month; to the local art association for including some to complement a recent exhibit; and to the Firehouse as its staging of “Eurydice” and displaying a number of my poetic interpretations of Greeks myths on the performance level; and to the local Art Association for using several of my poems to complement themes of recent exhibits.

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Aug
21

WHAT’S WITH ALL THAT?

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          Comedians start out, “What’s with–?” to introduce comedic remarks. My humor is lame but I do have some observations.

          What’s with MAGA Nation’s hatred of Taylor Swift? I guess she steals the spotlight from all the tough-guys with their “Don’t Try This in a Small Town” and other misfires aimed at who they imagine to be the Woke crowd of America. They play all patriotic and righteous while being anything but, like Merle Haggard and “We Don’t Smoke Marijuana in Muskogee” when he was as big a stoner as anyone.

          What’s with making celebrities out of local yokels who spew the news, get climate forecasts from somewhere else and are wrong anyway–as if we can’t wait to leave work early and drive home like madmen just in time to watch our favorite weatherman! How bad does life have to suck for that?

          We do know what’s with the Royals over the Pond. They’re on their last legs and gone to in-fighting. We know too that the royal press is their last hope and will make Harry and Meghan look as bad as possible while the family lies or obfuscates about Kate, tells us that the King is wearing clothes, and insists that the latest portraits of both are masterpieces that put Da Vinci to shame.

          And what’s all the smack over Biden and the Border? No one could have predicted the extent of the world’s immigration crisis—not even Trump. His long-ago border spew was not prescient; it had to do with playing to those who don’t like people who are different, however few they may be. It’s called NIMBY—Not In My Backyard–a form of racism, if you will.

          Migrant crises are age-old: with the accession of Elizabeth I the whole world went on the move, called “pilgrimages,” to places like Jerusalem, Canterbury and Rome, to name but a few, in search of relics and hair from saints and martyrs, and supposed pieces of “the Cross.” And there was hardly a complaint—after all, it brought tourist dollars. In our case, it brings willing labor if only we will use it—since good ol’ red-blooded Americans don’t wanna work anymore.

Why do so many migrants come here? Well, Willie Sutton robbed banks because that’s where the money was; these want to come here and work for it. Where do YOU go in the U.S. to chase your prosperity? You’ll even move to Arkansas if the job is right.

          What’s with folks in the Middle East who will never, ever kiss and make up? There is so much more to that story than in the daily news. So “what’s with Hamas?” is only the first question. “What’s with Bibi?” is the next one. He has his critics in Israel but deafening silence from Jews here. We kick Trump everyday but where are those crying anti-Semitism who will say a word about the Israeli Trump? Actually Donald can’t wait to be prez again and try to outdo his bosom-buddy. As for me and my house, I never trust anyone whose name ends in “-yahoo.”

          My “Moment Of Zen” from all the nonsense is to watch Jeopardy! and marvel whether it’s intelligence or merely photographic memories that rules. It’s all ruined next day by the online nit-picking over buzzer-timing, quality of questions, the way contestants hold their mouths, or some evil conspiracy on the part of Ken Jennings to manipulate the outcome. Clearly, Americans know nothing else to do about their anger over the way the world is.

          So I ran to another Tusk tribute to Fleetwood Mac at Blue Ocean just to hear Kathy Phillips sing Stevie Nicks songs so I could understand the words. The bigger miracle is that Stevie wrote “Dreams” way back in 1976 in no time at all and with an economy of chords. Okay, I give her that but not her swooping around on stage as if she were Isadora Duncan. It’s no different to Vanna White walking back and forth touching letters and becoming America’s Darling for so doing.

          So that’s just me, but you may ask, “what’s with that?”

         

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Mar
15

COULD THINGS BE WORSE?

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          In a world of Trump, Putin and Netanyahu, what can we say? Well, there’s a saying: Cheer up, things could be worse; so you cheer up and, sure enough, things get worse. Take a lesson from the New England Patriots: when things are as good as they can get for 20 years, be very careful with the next step—it could change everything.

          The U.S. was on the verge of a great liberal era. The best next step was to elect Hillary—but we didn’t. Sure, bad things happen under best of circumstances but you know that history since Trump’s presidency is beyond any other scenario.

          We’ve had it really good in this country for a long time, and still have the world’s best economy, strongest military, and are among the safest societies, but it’s been too good for us. Others had tin-pot dictators and leaders who left office and took their nation’s wealth with them. No banana republic here. We’ve been stars of the world stage for our system of checks and balances, and when we incautiously elected rascals we knew next time how to throw the rascals out. No more. We’re teetering on the edge: half of us are in thrall to one who is forgiven everything, however wrong, dishonest, crackpot or looney, with a mountain of lies to boot—but not a single misstep or misquote, even demonstrable success, is granted his wiser opponent.

          Freud said that mankind is a herd animal but added, “with a leader.” True enough, given that little gets done without them. But heaven help us when choosing whom to follow. And “choose” is the operative world. In other times might made right and the winner took all until someone worse unseated him. Not that such is unknown today but, again, not here—until now where it lurks around the corner.

          Are we wrong to consider history? Does the totalitarianism of less than a century ago serve any caution to our times—a succession of early tyrannies until all of Europe fell to one criminal leader after another? And those that first resisted had collaborators who betrayed their own people and governments? We should hope not here, but is it wrong to raise alarm?

          We know what tyrant spelled out what he would do to his people and the world were he to come to power. A few believed him, most did not but were charmed by his bravado; others thought he could be “handled” and rid of soon enough. Silly them. At least we have their example as fair warning. Are we listening?

          We think that really terrible things can’t happen, but they can. In our Tik-Tok, social media-driven nation we’ve tossed morals, ethics, history and logic from our educational curricula. Science and tech are better than ever but in the hands of fascists, the world will go upside-down.

          If Donald Trump loses an election again, belittles the ballot, declares the election rigged, and calls ballot officials scoundrels and conspiracists, are all warnings too late? Will not all the drama we’ve endured continue—and worse? Were he to suffer debilitation or death, would MAGA Nation, without a shred of evidence, declare the other Party responsible? What then: will we be looking at another January 6? Were it best to look plausibility in the face now, not later?

          Next best step: VOTE to keep our democracy and its republic. Then we must enforce what we can only hope is the best outcome—which will be the most difficult of all. So put on our big boy and big girl pants. There’s work to do.

         

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Jan
27

FRIENDS IN TROUBLED TIMES

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          Whoever claims to bring good news at Yuletide or the New Year is a bearer of false hopes. Our choice is to get real or run from it. The news here and abroad is depressing, our only escapes are brief times of distraction and amusement, hence our preferred companions are movies and tv. So settle in at home or at the movies as is our habit, in times good or bad:

          On the boob-tube we must overlook the constant ads that are annoying, else we wouldn’t remember them. Human train wrecks make for successful sales and we’re led to believe that the whole world is sick and in need of drastic measures that, sadly, cost a hell of a lot of money to fix. Newer ads are those touting removal of bags under the eyes, with before-and-after photos that are equally frightful–a sign that consumers will shell out for any promise of flattery.

   Ah, we all have to believe in something, so I believe I’ll have another drink and drown my disappointment in the human race.

          Or we can watch Pat Sajak do his thing at a Wheel that brings a mixture of fortune, loss and embarrassment to the hopeful.  I’ll hand it to Pat for doing so many years what I could and would not do without serious therapy. I note also his grace in putting up with nutty contestants in what is less a game of skill that one of luck. Jeopardy! is the opposite—mostly skill mixed with just a bit of luck. Given that so many people still think that non-whites, non-binaries and womenfolk are lesser beings, my big fun is watching all such persons beat the hell out of all contestants from the Master Race.

   Jeopardy! however committed an unforced error with their ineptness in replacing Alex Trebek. Yes, a good option would have been a woman of similar smarts but Sony chose to snatch defeat from the jaws of a quick and easy selection. Mayim Bialik is highly intelligent but, lacking both gravitas and timing, was clearly unfit for the role, so we had to suffer through the agonizing process of who would survive the search and when. Ken Jennings was a slam-dunk over all who surfaced, including Levar Burton who virtually dared the world to deny him the honor.

   How some people find time to watch everything under the entertainment sun is known but to God, as is how Jeopardy! contestants know every obscure rock band and throwaway phrase in their forgettable songs, but such is our culturally tasteless world.

   Which on a higher level begs this observation: did athletes, including those in the Olympics, not to do what they do, we would believe such could not be done, and deem it all impossible. It’s sobering to think that out of the world’s population, a mere handful of people can do those things so well, outshone only by the incredible heroisms in war. The sober difference in the latter two is that one, win or lose, ends in fame and riches, the other in body bags or T-shirts from the field-tent hospital that relieves torsos of their arms and legs.

          Given that all the world is a disaster, another distracting option is to binge-watch “The Crown” on Netflix. It’s all about the most dysfunctional family that ever was and will increase sympathy and tolerance for the drama in your own. The gal who played Diana really nailed it, as did actors for the Queen and Prince Philip. But portrayal of the older Bonnie Prince Charlie-cum-the King, which his mum never wanted him to be, made him look better than he deserves. Now he’s got the mum he always wanted, in a woman who’s as tiresome as he is.

So why not now praise our lack of Royalty—oh, I forgot, we do have it: our celebrities! The saddest words on social media are those who won’t abide a word of criticism to be said of their fav celebs or deceased stars of stage and screen, and will render repetitious screeds to “let them rest in peace!”—as if such gentry exist in a cloud above, sorely hurt by all criticisms.

          Such are our choices in times that for now belong to Trump, Bibi and Vladimir. Not much else we can do but keep our eyes frozen on the telly and hope for the best.

      

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Nov
24

THE NEVER-ENDING WAR

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          The tragedy of it all. Who is most at fault is not the greater problem, if it ever were. It’s an eternal struggle in a “holy land.”

          It began when certain people had nowhere to go. They had been persecuted and/or run out of every place in the world, including by the great powers whom no one blames now, yet are complicit in this painful modern history. The U.S. and Britain among others had denied Jews safe haven long before they strode the Nazi killing fields all over Europe and the horrors of Holocaust—known before World War II was over.

          With no assurance that their persecution would be unceasing, the movement called Zionism, once but a romantic notion, took hold in the Jewish soul. The soundtrack lyrics of the movie Exodus were, “This land is mine, God gave this land to me”–to restore Israel to its ancient land, though it had been home to many more.

          God gave the American Southwest to Mexico but that meant nothing to our big land-grab. Were we forced to give it back, Texans for one would never get over it and would be hurling rocks and Molotov cocktails over the disputed boundary.

          Taking territory longtime in others’ keeping is not a workable plan. Never has been and never will. It might have worked had the Brits’ Balfour Declaration included input from the Palestinians, but it didn’t. And what became support from powerful, wealthy nations like ours kept Israel alive in the aftermath of conquest. Ironically, said plan was also referred to as solving the “Jewish problem.”

          Add to that the resistance of Israel to Palestinians having their own state. Add again that Israel got nuclear power, incurring Eisenhower’s wrath when the French, behind our backs, assisted Israel in that little coup. Egypt’s closure of a strategic strait brought an Israeli attack that blamed Egypt for starting the ’67 war. Before that, LBJ had assisted Israel with combat support, against prevailing agreements.

          So it’s not about who’s done the worst now or before. Is it the recent, horrible attack by Hamas or the manifest injustices of Israel’s long, slow, grinding occupation and its increasing settlement of the West Bank? We are hostage to headlines and emotions seized by the latest screams from one side or the other. Netanyahu, the Israeli Trump, dropped his guard and Hamas did its worst, so that’s on him, and he hopes to get his rep back by winning a war and that means the devastation of Gaza and its inhabitants.

          Many of us an grew up enamored of biblical stories of David’s and Solomon‘s heroics and how the Canaanites were godless enemies. When modern Israel was created we may have been too young to be political. We didn’t know there was another side.

          Here is what everyone should know but doesn’t: criticism of Israel is not antisemitism, and sympathy toward the Palestinian plight is not pro-Hamas. The Mid-East is a cauldron that enflames the region and threatens to suck all the world into it; and when touched by questions, let alone opinions, makes enemies of friends and draws all into the maelstrom.

          The horror story now is that neither side now can see the humanity of the other. This is a loss of soul regardless of what religion or system of morals either holds.

          I hurt for Jews I know and those I don’t know because they are targets of the oldest continuous hatred in the history of mankind. They look and sound more like us, and Palestinians don’t. But the latter are rendered homeless and stateless and that is what war does: it destroys morals and humanity. And it kills more innocents than it does the guilty. A two-state solution seems promising but there again the newcomers don’t want the others to have one on their own soil.

          Whatever we’re grateful for in a season of Thanksgiving, it’s not for the cruelty of that or the world’s other wars. For all of them we can only say, Thanks but no thanks.

         

Categorized in Middle East

Oct
14

THE WITCHES HOUR

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          This is the season I totally don’t understand. It purports to be a celebration—if competition to scare polite society may be called a happy time.

          Costumes tell much about people. Young women often prefer hooker attire—a shameless plug if ever there were one–and guys hanker to play mobsters who, by the way, have an eye for hookers. Such profiles are made for each other and, I’m sure, make for many a meaningful overnight, uh, hook-up.

          When someone shows up as Dracula I’m compelled to put them in leg-irons right away: portraying one known for blood-biting women on the neck calls to mind rapacious acts as can be imagined in these enlightened times. Violence toward women comes in many forms but none scarier than that.

          At my youngest I was not impressed by a man with fangs, slicked-down hair and wearing a cape—nor the Wolf Man who was a far second to the mythical Pan, from whom we get the word “panic”—and not unlike a lot of college guys with sportive energy always looking to get laid.

          Not to say ghouls aren’t in the running, though the attraction of brain-eating by the so-called “Undead” escapes me. I thought all that  would be a fad but it’s time someone looked into that weird psyche.

          So I never cared for Halloween, not as a child, not now. Trick-Or-Treating should be outlawed for the obvious dangers manifest in these ugly times, and all calls for dietary reform of the treats have not reduced provenance of everything that’s bad for kids. Such events now wisely tend to be safely indoors and with much supervision.

          The worst of this season is the preoccupation with witches—and for all the wrong reasons. Some gals like the outfit because they manage to look cute and sexy by contrast. What are called witches were rather interesting people beginning with the 14th century, resulting in the suppression of women hardly given to the images handed down to us.

          They didn’t call themselves “witches” any more than John Wesley called himself a Methodist. They were often among the only women who, being well-read, came to know that for their kind, marriage was a trap and men were bullying fools.

          Such self-gained education broadened their interests in many useful areas, such as healing arts, horticulture, etc., and some became sought out for knowledge of weather and crop cycles. That this should meet with jaundiced eye by very territorial men, was to be expected.

          As clouds hovered over their safety and well-being, men deemed that only the harshest consequences should be visited on them. They were given a nasty brand, “Witches,” accused of consorting with the Devil, and measures to prevent their influence got more than ugly.

          They were also blamed for the tragedy of errors in Salem, where the most overwrought presentations of Halloween are yet enacted. While too many books teased that there “may or may not” have been an evil presence around, I interviewed Marion Starkey, author of “The Devil in Massachusetts”–an investigation of said Trials. She stressed the simple truth that a “devil” was b.s. and that the mischief began with a group of pubescent girls who gained a great deal of social power among adults—and revenge towards townswomen they didn’t like—by making up malicious stories. Once egg was all over the faces of the duped, these young but very real witches stood before God and the world and said they had no idea what made them do that. And life went on. Sadly, their victims were dead, and dead forever.

          Such malevolence is around today and we’re still playing games with serious themes: fearing all kinds of scapegoats but thinking nothing of the miscreants who kill them.

Real evil is insidious. Too often it is “in here” and not “out there.” St. Augustine shocked early Christians saying that the Antichrist was actually within the Church, not out in the world.

If anything should scare us, it’s that.

Categorized in Pop Culture

Sep
16

THEY SAID IT FIRST

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          We think of writing as line after line, margin to margin, the kind of prose that fills today’s newspapers, books and this column.

          But first came poetry–in song, rhythm and the engaging forms of rhyme. Early shamans used it as oral history to relate daily life and its dangers.

          Poetry not only informed, it stirred the imagination and created altered states of mind. Today, like fashion, it comes and goeS–both in style and popularity. Right now it’s at a peak and everyone seems to be, or wants to be, a poet. But all art should be democratic, hence, all is allowable. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Poetry too has both golden ages and down-times. At its best there are always people who want to take control of it. They set themselves up as authorities even when they aren’t. Or they imagine they know more than they really do. They become critics and god only knows how. And from their perches they decide who is or isn’t a poet. May their tribe not increase.

Visual art will also break through with something that is met with fierce resistance but won’t go away; it flies over the heads of the snobs and critics and touches us with a new vision. An early radical exhibition in Europe created such a stir that viewers nearly destroyed the gallery and its contents with a fury. And the artists were ecstatic!—In a world where war had co-opted and compromised politics, education, science and religion to accomplish its violent ends, they had jolted people from their complacency into feeling something different.

Poetry too can be a force of resistance. I repeat that Walt Whitman, arguably the greatest American poet, changed the rules and introduced an iconoclastic style that a lot of people didn’t like—such as Emily Dickinson. Whitman once walked along Boston Common with Emerson, during which the Sage of Concord, a surprising early fan of Whitman, offered some cautionary advice. Whitman thought about it and decided not to take it. He kept on writing and became truly great. Emerson, unlike many of today’s critics, took it quite in stride.

It was all good to keep in mind while April playsed out as National Poetry Month. But like all good things it’s not just for special times. Shakespeare said that a theatrical play could capture the conscience even of a king. So it is with poetry as a means of breaking through where prose might not.

Homer wrote his stories in poetry and we’re still reading them. The prophets of the Jewish bible wrote in poetry (though not always printed that way). And on first reading him for myself it struck me that a day of Isaiah in the king’s court was a very bad day for the king, for truth was spoken to power.

Compare that to religious leaders today, who suck up to powers-that-be at every opportunity: their public prayers merely cater to the occasion and dare not call out for justice here or anywhere. Billy Graham enjoyed his celebrity to the hilt, playing golf with presidents, flying in their private planes and forgiving their sins against God and country while condemning the younger generation for their sex and drugs. A prophet, or a religious Barbie-Doll?

Go wherever poetry is spoken. It too is sacred scripture. Some will be great, some not so much, some will be surprisingly good. Some will be so-so but earnest and reflective of the poet’s experience–much like our own lives, and help us to know we are not alone.

I was privileged to display poetry at Nu Kitchen throughout the past April, thanks to the staff who encouraged my presence while I daily maintained the exhibit. Owner Josh Van Dyke is to be commended for sponsoring that untypical but timely endeavor.

That said, don’t fail to take in the poetry sponsored by local poets–like our daylong annual the Literary Festival–always a feast of familiar and new talent and of emerging as well as established bards.

And when you hear or lay eyes on words, remember: poets said them first.

Categorized in Poetry

Aug
05

RISE OF PUNK POLITICS

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          So here we are, hanging by a thread whilst hopes are endangered by a cultish frame of mind. How did we get here?

          Go back to 2009 and the notorious Town Hall meetings where folks inexplicably shouted at their elected reps and old goats wrestled the way old goats do—shoving and falling on floors.

          One target was Sen. Arlen Specter, hardly a political devil, and a Republican but hardly an isolated case. But the phenomenon was real: a great organic discontent manifesting. It had to be handled with care.

          Liberals thought such would pass, a mere blip in politics as usual. The GOP, already lacking ideas but eager for chaos as a springboard to relevance, didn’t know what it was about but they knew it was something.

          So while Dems protested the reaction as uncivil, Republicans seized the moment, sided with the outbursts, pointed at liberals and said, “It’s those people over there.” It wasn’t true, but it gave the hate a direction. The outrage became the Tea Party. The GOP still didn’t understand the why and how of the discontent. They didn’t have to; they just knew they needed it.

          Soon, Republicans were fully in front of the stampede and the rest is ugly history: a political machine that would be unrelenting toward president Obama (the Congress of No) and a permanently fractured government from which no good could come. And all led by what would be the punks of our politics.

          In swift succession came clown-cars of GOP presidential candidates, some of whom emerged as favorites and punk-ish to the max: like Herman Cain and his “9-9-9” plan that would aid the rich and punish the rest; and a looney-tune foreign policy where someone else would handle what he called the “Becki-Becki-Stan-Stans” of the planet. The world, in a word, would be his pizza.

          When it became obvious that might not work for the GOP, and hungry for another Black candidate with which to taunt Obama, they fell in love with Dr. Ben Carson, till it occurred that being prez really didn’t require a brain surgeon.

          Enter Trump, whose claim to fame was being rich, a socialite, tv star and rather soft-spoken–till his change in tone, personality and penchant for name-calling brought all the chickens home. Trump, all said, is a punk. He fought no wars, never hung out with the crowd that now loves him, nor had he done anything for anyone save himself. But he was heir to all the outrage that now had not only a Party but a leader.

          Trump’s punkish talent for name-calling inspired more of the same in others seeking power.  He cast shadows on dedicated public servants like Dr. Fauci, Andrew McCabe, Robert Mueller, et al, calling them killers of public health, dark knights of the “deep state” and outright liars. The minions now in his thrall looked, wondered and decided that if Donald said so, it was true.

          Enter Ron DeSantis and all Trump has to do is call him a punk and for the first time he’ll be right about someone. Look closely at DeSantis to see someone in over his head, seduced by limelight, using catch-words for public policy and his competitors—and you know you’re looking at a punk. Sadly, Don’s the master of that already and there’s no room at the inn for Ron.

          This is where the GOP has been and will be until the boil is lanced and the national fever subsides: Punk Land. Whoever denies that another Trump term would be a reign of terror and of political paybacks will buy a bridge. Any bridge.

In ancient times, leaders came to power by violence and that’s what people were stuck with. Some were good dictators, some bad and some were just punks.

Today we’re beyond that. This is democracy. We elect them instead.

Is this a great country, or what?

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