bar none group

A Farewell to America

2012-02-02T09:16:00.000-05:00

Adieu, New-England's smiling meads,
   Adieu, th' flow'ry plain:
I leave thine op'ning charms, O spring,
   And tempt the roaring main.

In vain for me the flow'rets rise,
   And boast their gaudy pride,
While here beneath the northern skies
   I mourn for health deny'd.

Celestial maid of rosy hue,
   Oh let me feel thy reign!
I languish till thy face I view,
   Thy vanish'd joys regain.

Susannah mourns, nor can I bear
   To see the crystal shower
Or mark the tender falling tear
   At sad departure's hour;

Not regarding can I see
   Her soul with grief opprest
But let no sighs, no groans for me
   Steal from her pensive breast.

In vain the feather'd warblers sing
   In vain the garden blooms
And on the bosom of the spring
   Breathes out her sweet perfumes.

While for Britannia's distant shore
   We weep the liquid plain,
And with astonish'd eyes explore
   The wide-extended main.

Lo! Health appears! celestial dame!
   Complacent and serene,
With Hebe's mantle oe'r her frame,
   With soul-delighting mien.

To mark the vale where London lies
   With misty vapors crown'd
Which cloud Aurora's thousand dyes,
   And veil her charms around.

Why, Phoebus, moves thy car so slow?
   So slow thy rising ray?
Give us the famous town to view,
   Thou glorious King of day!

For thee, Britannia, I resign
   New-England's smiling fields;
To view again her charms divine,
   What joy the prospect yields!

But thou! Temptation hence away,
   With all thy fatal train,
Nor once seduce my soul away,
   By thine enchanting strain.

Thrice happy they, whose heavenly shield
   Secures their souls from harm,
And fell Temptation on the field
   Of all its pow'r disarms.

- Phillis Wheatley

(Phillis Wheatley's (1753–1784) birth name is lost to time.

She arrived in America as a child aboard the slave ship Phillis. Bought by the Wheatley family she became, at the age of 20, the first African American poet and the first African American woman to be published in the United States.

In recognizing her "almost mythic aspiration and accomplishment" Phillis Wheatley was inducted into the American Poets' Corner in 2008. The quote that accompanies her plaque reads, "Enlarge the close contracted mind, And fill it with fire."

A Farewell to America from Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral leads off our observance of Black History Month and the rich tapestry of words and ideas that have been woven over time.)

In Case of Emergency

2012-02-01T06:00:00.000-05:00

In case of emergency
Listen for Instructions
Remain on train --
do not open side doors

Move to another car,
if your immediate safety
is threatened

Exit as instructed

Danger, high voltage at
track level

Warning!
Never step on any rails

- CTA

Amusement Park

2012-01-31T07:56:00.000-05:00

for Jill on her 32nd birthday

if we wanted what was good and right

we'd already have it

but we weren't conceived that way

we will shed more tears than others

the low places that we sometimes find ourselves

is the price of admission

for the ride that we are on

for scaling such grand heights

we need to be buckled in

we throw our arms in the air

and scream with a blend of fear and delight

what seems like years

is but a moment

and then we hold each other

and talk about what it was like

then we look at each other

and jump on the next ride

they all last far too short

but it is an amusement park

that we live in

and our hearts bend

they don't break

if we wanted what was good and right

we'd already have it

but we weren't nurtured that way

we will shed more tears than others

the low places that we sometimes find ourselves

is the price of admission

for the ride that we are on

Tarmac in Puerto Vallarta

2012-01-30T12:41:00.000-05:00

Cocoa butters and oils
hang heavy in the air
Tanned goddesses brush by me
But I am oblivious to their charms

There will be leg room and an aisle seat
I should always ask for the exit door
And the precious few inches
that are afforded my frame

The seat beside me will remain empty
on the long journey home
My eyes will be lost in a non-descript movie
That no one would watch otherwise

You have stayed behind in Mexico
To continue on alone
To follow your own path
To let me go for how long?

Still,
I worship at your altar.

Jabberwocky

2012-01-27T12:15:00.000-05:00

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son
   The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
   The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
   Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
   And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
   The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
   And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
   The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
   He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
   Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
   He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe.

- Lewis Carroll

(From Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There, this nonsense verse poem is revealed by Alice when held up against a mirror. Literary nonsense as a genre was popular in the mid 19th century and had its origins in intellectual absurdities.)

First Lines Second Thoughts - The Violent Bear It Away

2012-01-26T00:00:00.000-05:00

First Lines Second Thoughts is a look at the first lines of well known literary works.
On second thought, do these opening words stand alone as poetry? Today we revisit The Violent Bear It Away. Written by Flannery O'Connor. Published in 1960.

Francis Marion Tarwater's uncle
had been dead for only half a day
when the boy got too drunk
to finish digging his grave
and a Negro named Buford Munson,
who had come to get a jug filled,
had to finish it and drag the body
from the breakfast table
where it was still sitting
and bury it in a decent and Christian way,
with the sign of its Saviour
at the head of the grave
and enough dirt on top
to keep the dogs
from digging it up.

- Flannery O'Connor

The Southern Gothic classic, The Violent Bear It Away, was the second of two novels published by the Georgia-born Mary Flannery O'Connor (1925–1964). Lines, themes and references from O'Connor's first novel, 1952's Wise Blood, have turned up in the music of Gang of Four, Bob Dylan, U2 and Ministry to name a few.

A collection of short stories -- A Good Man Is Hard to Find -- was published in 1955. A second volume of short stories -- Everything That Rises Must Converge -- was published posthumously in 1965. The Habit of Being, a selection of her letters, was published in 1979.

On second thought, do the opening words of The Violent Bear It Away stand on their own as poetry?

Drunk Dialing

2012-01-25T10:57:00.000-05:00

Calling you at this ungodly hour
Almost certain that you will be bothered
Apologizing for my drunken state
I guess this is how my feelings translate.

There's no way in hell I would have done this
In broad daylight, try not to reminisce
But what cold breeze on this dark autumn night
Slightly emotional after midnight.

Perhaps I had a little more to drink
Normally, my sorrows I do not sink
Although drunk dialing is not so smart
The truth is I am pouring out my heart.

Wanted to hear your voice right about now
Even if tomorrow, I'll raise an eyebrow
Aware that this is pretty much absurd
Barely coherent, I'm fairly hammered.

Miss you more than I will ever admit
It is like there's a hole in my spirit
You're still everything that I desire
The one that sets my heart on ice and fire.

I called you at this ungodly hour
Absolutely sure that you are bothered
Forgive me for my vulnerable state
Lost my heart and my mind, I can't locate.

- Nicole Bataclan

(Drunk Dialing appears on these pages with the permission of the author, Nicole Bataclan, and originally appeared on The Writings of Nicole Bataclan. Nicole is the Bureau Editor in Zurich, Switzerland for Roots and Wings - A Magazine for Filipinos in Europe. A regular contributor to the Bar None Group, Nicole is also available for freelance work.)

The Five AM Curse

2012-01-24T12:43:00.000-05:00

Stare at the Sol sign
Long enough
And a man becomes thirsty
Strong drink
Becomes the journey
Weak herb
And dry tobacco
Tell her
I'll be coming back though
I crave dark streets
And cobblestones
A place where the rooster
Is your nemesis
Sand looks like dust
When you're 20 feet tall
The sky consumes
And then expands
Like the thoughts
Like the sea
Like the ship
That you land
If it doesn't make sense
Tell that to them
You see,
I found this pencil
At five a.m.

- Kevin Rudd

(Kevin Rudd was born in the summer of 1981 in Amarillo, Texas. Son of a rebellious Harley-riding Marine and a kind, southern nurse. The Five AM Curse is one of Kevin's many contributions to the Bar None Anthology. His next destination seems to be unknown, look in the foothills of the San Juan Mountains or the High Rockies if searching.)

Alone And Drinking Under The Moon

2012-01-23T11:07:00.000-05:00

Amongst the flowers I
am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
to drink with me, its reflection
and mine in the wine cup, just
the three of us; then I sigh
for the moon cannot drink,
and my shadow goes emptily along
with me never saying a word;
with no other friends here, I can
but use these two for company;
in the time of happiness, I
too must be happy with all
around me; I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me; while
still not drunk, I am glad
to make the moon and my shadow
into friends, but then when
I have drunk too much, we
all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on
these who have no emotion
whatsoever; I hope that one day
we three will meet again,
deep in the Milky Way.

- Li Po

(Alternately known as Li Bai (701-762) the great Taoist philosopher and poet Li Po roamed the China lands as a young man enjoying life and drink. Summoned by his benefactor the Emperor Xuanzong to the royal palace, a drunken Li Po improvised fantastic love poems that temporarily kept him in good stead. Following his dismissal from the royal court Li Po continued with his vagabond ways. One romantic legend has Li Po drowning after falling into the water in an attempt to embrace the moon. On the occasion of Chinese New Year and the Year of the Dragon we soberly recall the poetry of the inimitable Li Po.)

Poetry Celebrates 100 Years

2012-01-20T09:26:00.000-05:00

CHICAGO — Poetry magazine, published by the Poetry Foundation, celebrates its centennial in 2012. Founded in Chicago in October 1912 by editor Harriet Monroe, Poetry is the oldest monthly devoted to verse in the English-speaking world. As the magazine turns 100, it holds fast to the principles that guided it from the beginning: to discover new voices, present new work by internationally recognized poets, and enliven discussion about and readership for contemporary poetry.

“Only a handful of literary magazines are still publishing after 100 years; a poetry magazine that reaches that milestone is a rarity indeed,” said Poetry Foundation president John Barr. “Poetry remains, as T.S. Eliot wrote in 1954, ‘an American Institution.’”

Poetry established its reputation early and published the first important poems of T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, Marianne Moore, Wallace Stevens, H.D., William Carlos Williams, Carl Sandburg, Sylvia Plath, Gwendolyn Brooks, and other now-classic authors. In recent years, more than a third of the poems published in each issue are submitted by writers who have never before appeared in Poetry’s pages. By showcasing both established and emerging poets alongside provocative reviews, essays, and criticism, Poetry sparks conversation and brings new readers to the art form.

“The magazine today is a testament to those who have come before,” said Poetry magazine editor Christian Wiman. “Put together Harriet Monroe—an intrepid woman who wanted a magazine equal to the art and architecture she saw everywhere around her in turn-of-the-century Chicago; 90 years of persistence and poverty; a dozen editors feeding and herding poets like feral cats; and a $200 million windfall in 2002 from the reclusive Ruth Lilly, and you get a magazine unlike any other.” (More on the history of the magazine is available as a part of an electronic press kit available at www.poetryfoundation.org/100years.)

No one would be more astonished by Poetry’s centennial than Monroe herself, whose “little magazine” often teetered on the brink of bankruptcy; indeed, at the time of her death during the Great Depression, she was deeply skeptical about the magazine’s survival. But the magazine did more than endure—in recent years Poetry has enjoyed record circulation and won prestigious awards, including two National Magazine Awards in 2011.

The Fairy and The Firefly

2012-01-19T12:16:00.000-05:00

Fireflies are mortals, they are destined to die
How come the fairy had expected it, to show the way to fly?

Trapped in the Cimmerian tunnel of despair and false hope
There resides a lost fairy who still yearns for the light
As the folklore depicts, a fire beetle in the tunnel
Had been once a source for her lambent delight

The fire beetle had its glow, its glimmer and its incandescence
That had radiated warmth and love for the lost
And the lost fairy had danced in its aura of radiance
With her soul entirely engrossed

Awestricken by its warm glimmer, the fairy had not realized
What the fate of a firefly could be
That a firefly may show a way to the wanderer
Or it could go dimmer or possibly flee

How naïve of her that she did not know
‘Tis a fatal attraction that won’t survive
The firefly would either die or flee away
Abandoning her in the middle of nowhere to strive

The fairy should have known better, what she not knew
Those fireflies are mortals, they are destined to die
She should have known that the fire beetles cannot
Show her the way to fly …….

- Sarah Rahman

(Hailing from Karachi, Pakistan, Sarah Rahman is, "an aspiring writer, a solitary and endeavoring soul striving to discover the purpose of my being in the macrocosm. An explorer, on her way, to deciphering the untapped, seraphic and the bitter realities of life." The Fairy and the Firefly first appeared on Essaar's Virtual Voyage and appears within these pages courtesy of the author.)

It's The Passion

2012-01-18T08:38:00.000-05:00

It is the passion

within

that causes me the most trouble

the passion

because it is so raw

so new

that it surges within me

roars

and I can’t stop the noise

I try to ignore it

try to deceive it

but it knows better

it is aware

that it needs

to be expressed

must be addressed

that I can’t hide it anymore

it is the passion

that dwells within

this place that I am

that drives me to moments of desire

when the fire burns

like never before

the night calls me

dawn enhances my delirium

enrages the flames

as they dance within me

syncopated

lapping rhythmically,

at my heart which swells

the heat at times

smothering me

I gasp for air

look to the sky

hoping it will rain

which will at least

hold this conflagration at bay

until the next time

when passion

returns

for the fire is not extinguished

but merely smoldering

its heat still very evident

in my eyes

- Paz Villaronga

(Known as "The Drumpoet," the New York-born Paz Villaronga recites his poetry while accompanying himself on congas, creating a fusion of poetry, percussion, and music that take his verse to a new level. Paz Villaronga has received the Golden and Silver Poet Award in California and has placed third in La Cancion Bilingue - The Bilingual Song Competition in Washington D.C. It's The Passion is from his 1995 collection of poems, Poet and appears here with the author's permission.)

A Box Upon You

2012-01-17T18:22:00.000-05:00

A lifetime of memories secreted into boxes
Forgotten for a moment in suburban storage
One time zone away from the here and now
Where life is lived with a zest and a zeal
that can't be constrained in corrugated cardboard

The boxes never crossed my mind
in Italy, Spain or Morocco
Not during summer or fall in New York
Alas, winter arrived as well as a New Year
The boxes beckoned, as did Chicago's cold embrace

Let movers deal with the bulk and the weight, I said
My first time up the 23 steps to our new abode
I can deal with the boxes but not with the rest
Back in Chicago our ancestral home (Why did they come here?)
Dealing with the weight of two separate lives

The bitching, the complaining, the moaning, the groaning
A back too weary to carry the past in taped, markered boxes
Too weary from spending a lifetime searching for you
Where is that pizza? That beer? That stamina from my youth?
Is that too, captured in a box?

Why is it that we tote our memories from one place to the next?
If they don't reside in our head they needn't reside in a box
No need for ephemera nor rhyming whattoozits
All that was wrapped in yesterday's news
is now revealed with a questioning look

Did we really need that?
No we didn't, but I'll never admit to the care that I took
gently placing our lives upon moved shelves and cabinets
Nor how I spoke to a box of catrinas and a new place we'd all call home
Nor the smell of the books that you insisted upon

What was that quote by an anonymous face on an anonymous night in anonymous New York?
What was the advice for what is to be left behind as a legacy?
Ah yes, at the end of life, leave behind a shelf of books
We will put pen to paper and publish or perish there will be a shelf
Rest assured that I will not be around to pack them in boxes

Library Walk: Gwendolyn Brooks

2012-01-16T16:59:00.000-05:00

In 1996, the New York Public Library, the Grand Central Partnership and the New Yorker Magazine convened a panel of esteemed lovers of the written word and came up with a collection of quotations from the never-ending oeuvre of literature.

These quotes were cast in bronze by New York sculptor Gregg LeFevre and then laid out as sidewalk plaques on E 41st Street in 1998. In 2003, the stretch of E 41st Street from the New York Public Library entrance on Fifth Avenue to Park Avenue was renamed Library Way.

Whether it be a birth day, anniversary or publication date of a seminal work, the Bar None Group will revisit these 40+ quotations from time to time -- quotations that inspire one to write, read, explore and embrace literature.

To mark this new feature we begin with the aptly named "poetry..." plaque commemorating the work of Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000).

"A poem doesn't do everything for you.
You are supposed to go on with your thinking.
You are supposed to enrich
the other person's poem with your extensions,
your uniquely personal understandings,
thus making the poem serve you."

Inspired by Winnie Mandela, Song of Winnie from 1988 continued Gwendolyn Brooks social observations through her poetry. A commentary that began with the publication in 1945 of, A Street in Bronzeville. Bronzeville is a neighborhood in Chicago's South Side where the Kansas born Brooks called home for most of her life.

Gwendolyn Brooks won a Pulitzer Prize for the 1949 collection of poems, Annie Allen becoming the first African-American to win a Pulitzer in any discipline. Langston Hughes said of Annie Allen, "The people and poems... are alive, reaching and very much of today."

After the publication of Winnie in 1988, Brooks remarked to an interviewer, "I want to write poems that will be non-compromising. I don't want to stop a concern with words doing good jobs, which has always been a concern of mine, but I want to write poems that will be meaningful . . . things that will touch them."

A Winter's Elegy

2012-01-11T19:26:00.000-05:00

Hearts break for your wife
She who carries on with tears and memories
Long after the shock subsides
for those who called you, friend
Recollections are like riddles when recalled
When did you first touch our heart?
When did you first become a friend?
Honored as we were to walk within your walls, your world

The love for your wife, the love for your life
were admired, borrowed and became a lesson plan
Tentatively watched from afar, closer, we spilled life over drinks
and you were held nearer to our collective heart

To soar now with the pelicanos over the Pacific
who glide along the coast looking down from above
Casting a large shadow under an enormous wing
We now look to the Heavens for your guidance

Could that love be felt in our heart, your love for your Candy?
As we feel the Barra of our shared moments in our soul?
You celebrated in our happiness when happiness found us
The mid-western plain braces for the year's first snow as you depart

You my friend have burst through our earthly bonds
You no longer need to feel the cold or discomfort
The sun of Barra will always shine down upon you
There will always be a table stocked with laughter

Hearts break for your wife
She who carries on with tears and memories
Long after the shock subsides
for those who called you, friend

Rest well Papa Mike.

Happy New Year y Gracias!

2012-01-01T05:00:00.000-05:00

This has been an incredible year!

The first moments of 2011 were spent on a beach in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico and the last moments of 2011 were spent shivering in Times Square, New York. The one constant in filling those 363 days in between was Teresa Puente. On 11-11-11 she became my wife. I owe her this year and every year going forward. But my debt of gratitude is not limited to Teresa it extends to all of you who have read, contributed, inspired and shared the words within the pages of the Bar None Group.

Happy New Year to:

Russell Rosander,

Teresa Puente,

Charles Longstreet,

Hicham Bensassi,

Christopher Rodrigues,

Movimento per l'Emancipazione della Poesia,

Bypo,

Julie Laing,

You are truly the Bar None Group. I am forever in your gratitude. And now, I have to finish packing for Chicago. A new year. A new adventure. Keep those pens sharp in 2012. Salud! Cheers! Happy New Year!

Auld Lang Syne

2011-12-31T05:00:00.000-05:00

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?