Mimicking Marilyn Nelson (a tribute)

Every once in a while I like to mimic other authors. Early on in this blog is a mimicking Marguarita Duras. Don't know why it tis' I like to do so, perhaps to show I can. This mimicking Marilyn Nelson was written in 2000 in a class where we were studying her works. The professor later asked us to mimic an author in style. I've caught her flavor here and pass it on for you to judge. Pity I don't recall the name of her original poem.



Lorraine stood barefoot by the parlor door
Watching the dancers glide across the floor
She’d polished smoothly on her knees that morning
along with every other household thing

Her cakes are all the rage that night
and Miss White’s gown is oh so tight
about her waist, while Lorraine’s pastries
draw the guests to glance her way, she giggles

Mister Tyler draws near to the parlor door side
Where Lorraine stands peeping, holding the drapes aside
His hand stretches out to touch her shoulder
Then drops to encircle her waist, they shudder.

Lorraine fidgets to escape his firm embrace
Swiftly he spins her while tilting up her face
at an angle to gently meet with his left hand
Lorraine feels ashamed, all those ladies dressed right - so grand

Spinning frantically across the room, she spies Mr.Tyler’s uncle
his face masked with a smirk and disapproval.
Whirling and turning, her face glowing hot, hot, hot
Mister Tyler grins, pleased by her embarrassment

and the power it gives him, the control over Lorraine
never foreseeing a future with their son
who he would claim to own, yet refuse to raise
Lorraine alone would love her son, and for this, give praise

MORE ON JESUS ND BEING JEWISH

Am I proud to be jewish -
I am and I’m not,
I don’t know I guess

I’m proud of being jewish
because being jewish means
to be educated, a literary lunatic
in certain circles,
you know what I mean
I know they had tough jews
my father sat on the cusp of that realm
on the outskirts of the jewish mafia

nd ... I suppose...I’m as liberated -
nd as free as one would want to be
or can imagine to be in this society
or any other, again, I suppose
But you asked me
Am I proud to be a jew

I am but when people make disparaging remarks
such as jews are cheap
or you killed jesus
jesus please forgive me;
I wasn’t born yet to suffer for ur sins

so I ask you; if jesus died for ur sins
then forgive me please
and if he died for mine
forgive me again please
but remember jesus is my forefather
and I do follow his path
being an upstart and all
runs in my family
saying what I mean, and doing what I say -
follows jesus also and is why he died for our sins
Isn’t it?

Jesus was an upstart and so am I
our big and honest mouths get us in trouble
So much time wasted arguing & fussing
when we’re all only visitors here of our own demise.

Sestina Of Life

Crisis is either way you lose
different from win some lose some
Gotta keep plugging along
light at the end of the tunnel
a new moon wilderness
my heart, a song of desire

my psyche is brimful desire
momentarily mine, a life lost
new spring & full moon wilderness
Just a little more, more time some
times life is like winding tunnels
gotta keep plugging - moving along

I don’t follow others, I move along
to my own beat, why admit what I desire
Is it there at the end of this tunnel
If I can’t see I’ll surely get lost
again even if sometimes I win some
This city is just like a wilderness

wild flowers, blue birds, mosquito wilderness
and danger lurks so best choice all along
not always clearly heard say some
Pretend to have or not have desire
There are only painful losses
hidden away in underground tunnels

skin deep vicissitudes tunneling
to surface; a wild card in a missing wilderness
of light, Ye of little faith, you can’t lose
I’ve known it my entire life, all along
Finally, the truth! My heart’s desire
I’ve come into my own; I’ve come into some

O.K. I’m content it’s this much, then some
Found there while digging an underground tunnel
solidified in old accomplished signs of desire
on the sun’s desert moon of the wilderness
scent of bergamot trailing along
Nostalgic gazes fazing ambitious loss

loss doesn’t mean I don’t have some
left like our lives tumble along a tunnel
of love and encompass a wilderness of desire

WASHINGTON HEIGHTS IS HOME

Someone found my online photo album and saw the photos I'd posted of One Sickles Street both inside and out of the building. She wrote and told me she also grew up in Washington Heights in the same area where I live. She wrote, “Things look different yet the same”. She recognized the building on One Sickles Street where she had grown up and which has now been renovated. She commented on its revived beauty and said she should visit. She told me she often thinks of visiting that building and surrounding area. She now lives in Queens.
“Yes,” I wrote her back, “you should before it's too late and you wont be able to. You know how life is, it passes by so fast; there's never enough time to count up our regrets.” Think of all the times we say we'll do something and that something never comes to pass.
I still live in the area where I was born in Washington Heights. I wonder if it's like at the end of the galaxy where the further away you live from where you were born, the more chaos you create in the universe. I literally live 2 blocks from where I was born, in Jewish Memorial Hospital, which is now JH 218. If that's true, why have I been through so much? It seems as though I've survived an unending mass of crises always waiting to be resolved.
It's strange to leave the neighborhood where you've always lived, especially when you only live in another section of the same neighborhood or even another borough of the same city. Then like the lady who wrote me, although you're still very close to where you grew up, you feel as though you're a million miles away. Sometimes nostalgia sets in and we desire what we perceive as lost. Even when what was lost was never that great - maybe even painful - when we had it back then.
I had a hard life as a youngster and feel like the female counterpart to Jim Carroll who wrote Basketball Diaries - who also grew up in Washington Heights and also began writing from an early age. I began writing as a small child seeking love and approval. My life actually became a parody of looking for love in all the wrong places - obviously because I wasn't getting enough in the right place. This sure didn't make living any easier.
I never had a childhood because as a child I was forced to deal with adult concerns. The good part of this is that my past made me who I am; a social worker devoted to helping people move ahead and also to get benefits they're entitled to. I've devoted over twenty-two professional years helping people attain their goals, and spent many more years as a concerned citizen who helps others. Hey now that I've given up social work and spend my time writing, I still help people all the time. Don't ask why.
Now as an adult, I've been able to fulfill many desires I had as a child and I've been able to do this in my birthplace, right here in Washington Heights. I've gone from being a high school dropout to being an Ivy League drop-in; I'm a double alumna of Columbia University. My undergraduate BA is in Anthropology and my Masters is in Social Work. I'm living proof of someone who has pulled themselves up through the system by my bootstraps. It was very difficult. One of the major pluses was how I capitalized on being poor and undereducated and got my ivy league B.A. for free. You'll have to read my stories on how that came to be. Now I hold two master's degrees, one in social work and the other in creative writing from CCNY. Now that I've made it into middle class life, I can't afford the best and Ivy League anymore. CCNY is affordable for a working person and Columbia is not. Now, I have to pay for everything, sometimes more than others. Like in our Mitchel-Lama Cooperative, I pay a 50% surcharge.
I have a clear message to anyone else who feels like they've been through it all and had enough. After all is said and done, I'll repeat what Irving Miller, my honored social work professor said, after he called me “a Mitzvah to humanity.” Mitzvah means gift. He said I have an inherent understanding of people's needs and how to help them move ahead, that my self-awareness and acceptance of my own eccentricities and flaws make it easier for me to accept others.
I agree with him; you must learn to accept who you are. The most important thing I learned from Irving Miller, is this, "Celebrate your problems, it means you're alive." The other important thing he taught me is that “Just because you're crazy doesn't mean you're stupid.” This is a very important message because there are a lot of crazy people out here. Crazy I don't mind- evil - is another story. We all carry our own craziness!
After all is said and done, my message to you remains the same, "Don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Attack your problems with vigor as new ones crop up to replace the ones that have been resolved. Most importantly, always have a goal in sight and make certain it is an attainable one."

Another Round More: Pleas For The Planet Blues - Bluetry #4

I am warm in here. Out there it’s 20 degrees with a northeasterly wind. I don’t care except that the trees are confused. They can’t decide whether it’s time to wither down & go bare or should they bud. They talk to me and ask me but I say I don’t know. Cause, yo, it’s so crazy out here. You know, crazy for everyone, not just crazy for a sister but crazy for a tree. Al Gore says it’s global warming moving at a faster rate than presupposed before and the naysayers in the crowd out here argue this validity. I don’t know who to believe. Yesterday was 50 degrees. Today it’s snowing violently violet with a strong breeze. I can barely see through the thick curtain of white wet snow relentlessly cascading down outside. 50 degrees yesterday, yo sister, yo brother, yo …

What’s it to you if I dream away my solitude? Write poetry in my spare time. Spare time that used to be 1 minute is now 2. I don’t have time to work a regular gig. I’m too busy writing poetry and have too many other things to do.
In my solitude you haunt me
With dreadful ease
Of days gone by

As I stroll past, I hear the trees say they don’t know what to think but should I care? I return inside where it’s warm from the glow produced by oil & coal from the furnace. I don’t need to know what’s causing this interruption of flow of service on my network. I keep telling others to listen to reason, use all your resources to power the nation. Power the Mojave Desert with miles & miles of solar panels and we’ll all be warmed free for life. There’ll be very little strife I promise. The economy will be trite without these services sold to the hilt, but we’ll all have our lights and warmth. Our services will be free if you’ll only please see what I see and power the Mojave desert with miles and miles of solar panels please please.

I hear cries from everywhere world wide, voices echoed & etched in the wind of tides,

Them that’s got shall get
Them that’s not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, papa may have
But God bless the child that’s got his own
That’s got his own

You are so in love with you I see, but then who wouldn't be?
What is it with all the beautiful artists always taking self-portraits? Good self-esteem I guess?

Let kaleidoscope wings help my spirit soar, I want more, to fly away to exotic faraway shores where no one knows me where I can seek evolution and solutions, maybe even start a revolution.

Joy reading Bluetry

demetrius daniels doing word speak

busy bee be me still...

I'm doing so much I'm going into a tailspin. Our second issue of The Cartier Street Review came out this week, on my birthday and the first day out had over 100 hits. I'm particularly proud of this issue because using the art was my idea and I chose all the artists except for Bernard Alain's mother, Anatholie Alain. I would have chosen her had I seen her art. The artists were chosen from facebook. I want to buy Bettina Burch’s pink lady for me.
This year has bounced off very successfully and it’s only begun. Wheelhouse Mag requested audio from DubbleX and me and published 4 of our audio poems . Afterwards I offered to promote them and have done so. Michael Annis accepted So A Black Man Is President from DubbleX and the first of my Bluetry series, I sing the blues for you today for omega magazine. The poem I sing..., is now being published for the 4th time. I am also publicist for omega magazine at facebook and will be helping Michael Annis and Heller Levinson promote hinge theory. The upcoming omega (yes click on omega) magazine is still soliciting submissions.
Thumbs up to Nabina Das for giving me the heads up that Kathi Georges from Three Rooms Press was seeking submissions for the new edition of Dada poetry magazine called Maintenant 3. Kathi said she loved both and there was room for one. She took 15 minutes of fame. I’m so happy and a shout out to Kathi Georges for doing this. Please read more about Kathi Georges and DaDa poetry at Nabina Das’ blog & at Three Rooms Press .
Mad Swirl took three more of my poems, (they already had I sing the blues for you today); Spreading Wildcat Fire, Another Round More: Pleas For The Planet Blues Part 4, and Singing Billie’s Blues By Me, Part III. Readerjack.com accepted three of DubbleX’s love poems to be published in their love is in the air contest, Untraditional Love, love junkies and hungry for love.
Since January, The Cartier Street Review published Tribute to John Coltraine by DubbleX along with free syle spitting rant, Manhattan forest or zoo, and Hide & Seek. Angels With Broken Wings, (a shout out to publisher - poet Roxie Hoffman for this one), accepted for those on the inside by DubbleX.
Crisis Chronicles Online Library published I Sing The Blues For You Today in January 2009 and so did The Cartier Street Review along with Alien Planet of Lesbian Lovers and Blues Part II.
Blog Critics published my Book Review For The May Queen by Kate Evans in February 2009. In March, The Cartier Street Review published my review of Daniel Borzetzky’s one size fits all and my poem, Spreading Wildcat Fire. Brownstone Poetry Reading run by Patricia Patricia Carragon, accepted Mexican delight.
Ooops just opened an email from readerjack.com and they accepted 3 of my submissions too, Is it love or attraction, Love Helps Things Fall Into Place Pantoum, and Twisted, A Sestina Of Love.
Wow, I’m on a roll - jelly roll - let the good times roll, and forget about sorrow. I'm too busy, come tomorrow there's a lot more networking to do, lost in a series of masquerades, delusions to who I am allusions and illusions - let er rip for old times sake daddy sing me those blues tonight!

Dead Long Ago

All those people? Dead long ago. Most of `em anyway
They ate up all the lead, used so many drugs
Their bodies shot to shit, they’re all dead
Some’s left, see em once in a while
walking down the street,
Standing in the rain, trapped
Stuck on their methadone, loving it, not moving on

Heroin was good in the 60’s, plentiful and cheap,
My friends and acquaintances died from o.d.’s
Me? I never used it. Uhh ... O.K., I tried it once,
You know what they say about birds flock together
I flocked, beats me what for, but I did,
Truth is that flock was better n’ home
What? You want to know if I had a good home?

I thought that flock was better n’ home,
14 years old hanging with the addicts.
So sorry, at 14 it was alchies. Alcoholics.
Yeah, tried that too, didn’t like it none
Having babies for a black man, angry alcoholic
He became a junkie. I saw him not long ago

Asked him when I saw him,
“Why were you so mean?”
“Don’t know,” he said to me,
“Couldn’t hep myself, I guess.”
He tells me, “I’m HIV now, got a hernia so bad
my balls swoll up down to the floor.”
He was a god-damned strong man at 20.
I saw him press 250 pounds. Handsome too
6 feet tall, 180 pounds, muscular, well built
He had lots of girls. Gave me gonorrhea 30 years ago.
30 years ago I told him about our baby
“Shoe box size,” he said when
I held my hands up to describe
“Coffee color with lots of cream,”
I said about the baby’s skin.
Dead 30 years ago.

In the middle of the night they came, 2 a.m. or so,
Said “Your baby’s gone, you can see him now you want.”
Gone, born 2 days and a half ago,
“You can see him now you want,”
the doctor’s hand resting on my shoulder

I birthed him glimpsing his coffee
colored skin with lots of cream,
They took him away,
never `lowed again another see
“His lungs were half formed,” they said,
“You can see him now you want.”

Begging for 2 days and a half, not allowed.
“You can see him now you want.”
“What for?” I said, “I wanted him alive.”
“Too bad. So sorry. You can see him now you want.
At least let us do an autopsy.
Save some other woman pain like you.”

So Sorry. Trapped in a time warp.
Childhood? What Childhood? Childhood what?
So sorry. Never, ever heard the word.
Can’t imagine what it means.


* Note: This poem was written over 15 years ago and it still stands powerful. It has been published several times.

3 Poems from Dianne Borsenik

These Places

sound like some astronomer's
wet dream

labia majora
clitoris
gluteus maximus
areola

sensations launched
from fingerpads
streaking
from point to point
traveling at the speed
of a synaptic kiss

this astronaut blinded
by the constellations
forming in your sweat-slick
pale universe

looking for that
Big Bang

______________________________
Summer And Smoke

he holds his cock
like a paintbrush
touches her
white body
with long careful
strokes
he trails magenta
flame
down her spine
feathering
the edges
he dips
again and again
into the bright
wet pools of color
finishes
with stipples
of sweat and cum

sometimes
late at night
and alone
she dreams the blush
of the eastern sun

and she can hear
his Picasso
and she can taste
his Monet
_______________
First Kiss

Rising from a swimmer's dream
of coral and dappled light,
he skims off the beads
of sleep that slick his
eggshell skin.

The sky turns to smoke.
Stars, sprinkled like raw sugar
over the lake, sweeten
his dreams.

The night is different
here, where forgotten shadows
bend silver to their will.
The round nipple
of the full moon rises.

He tastes the honey
of her blood, holds it
on his tongue and remembers
vanished flowers.

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