| Starpoet Newsletter Vol. VIII, No. XXXI |
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| News - Newsletters | |
| Written by Lisa Jain Thompson | |
| Sunday, 29 July 2007 | |
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The
Starpoet
Newsletter
Vol. VIII, No. XXXI
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^^\/\/\/\/^^ <><><><><> A month after solstice
July's lingering finger Rises more slowly
Hesitant to break
The night's dark hold I lie awake
Alone beside you
Counting your breath Until morning comes
Lisa Jain Thompson c. 2007 C. E.
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^^\/\/\/\/^^ Summer tumbles on, moving towards the autumn equinox. I just got back from watching the film "Sunshine." Go see it. It's the best seriously science fiction film in over forty years.
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^^\/\/\/\/^^ We don't need more advocates,
We need more people
Willing to do the donkey work
That makes the wheels turn.
LJT 2007
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^^\/\/\/\/^^ everywhere
Male Pattern Ballness
I don't want no tall women,
Don't want no tall women
Around her.
Taller women dress more feminine
To defend against the anger of short men
Who see height as an assault against manhood,
Especially theirs,
And wish to impose male dominance on X chromosones.
Wearing traditional female apparel,
Approved by the cultural, mass media norms,
Is easier than talking to heated testosterone,
Whether short or long,
And changing any Y-bound,semi-conscious perceptions.
Lisa Jain Thompson
July 2007
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^^\/\/\/\/^^ interlude at a traffic light
Obedient Women
Girl in an open top jeep,
Touching up her make-up at the light,
Red Wrangler open topped,
Virginia cover on her spare tire.
If this were 23rd street,
I would guess she’s a femme lesbian, But out here in Kingstowne Center, A slightly butch single girl In her last moments of freedom Before continuing her morning commute To some end of the line office off the metro: The obedient women are never remembered
Displayed so proudly on her jeep’s steel bumper, Suggests we would share some common pleasures If we met tonight over mojitos at Freddie’s. Lisa Jain Thompson
July 2007 __/\/\/\/\__
^^\/\/\/\/^^ Release man from the contexts of community and you get not freedom and rights but intolerable aloneness and subjection to demoniac fears and passions. -- Robert Nisbet __/\/\/\/\__
^^\/\/\/\/^^ change of regime ragtime
Certitude
I shoot, move, communicate, and kill
. . . the deaths that I inflict secure the riches of the empire. -- Pvt Scott Thomas Beauchamp USA A depressing cascade of iron tanks
Clanking through dusty, ancient streets,
Bright young Americans in army designer shades
Rolling through ruins, looking for targets
As children and women flee their gaze;
The surreal violence of a roadside bomb
Explained by talking heads, experts all,
Who talk, then talk some more;
Chaos doubled and redoubled, driving the dread
That permeates each waking moment,
Reinforcing the melancholy of what is
But did not need to be.
In their frustration, their constant awareness
Than this moment, the next moment, may be their last,
Misled soldiers mock a woman disfigured by bomb blast,
Run over dogs with Bradley Fighting Vehicles,
Play with the skulls of Iraqi children
Dug from an improvised mass grave.
No one is to blame,
The officers didn't pay enough attention,
Policy was based on wishful thinking
And private conversations with Jesus,
No one admit mistakes, going from bad to worse,
And finding fault with anyone but themselves,
Making decisions without a lot of thought,
Telling fivee hundred thousand Iraqi soldiers,
Armed with AK's and rocket propelled grenades,
To go away, that they are out of work
With no way to make living and nothing to do:
Nobody listens, not a disengaged president
Who allowed his Secretary total freedom
To run the war without reservation.
No Iraqi plate or bowl, no matter how old,
No sense of injured family pride
Or brotherly competition for a father's love,
No adolescent need to strike back
For childhood slights, imagined or real,
No dark whisper annointing you, only you,
To lead god's warriors into battle
Is worth a single American life.
Certitude is for fools,
Not presidents, not religious leaders,
Not political candidates and would-be caesars,
And not for the people who must wisely chose
Who they wish to be first citizen.
I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible
of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors. --Geo. Washington
Farewell Address
Lisa Jain Thompson
July 2007
 -- M. Brady, Gettysburg
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^^\/\/\/\/^^ something lighter
Interlude at Ground Zero
Sitting in the center courtyard,
Getting checked-out by a senior NCO,
Air Force woman by her battle uniform,
Nicely uncamoflaged on a red wood bench:
Every time I look up, her eyes are on me,
Not even pretending to look at the trees, No smile, no recognition, just her eyes, Trying to determine if I’m family.
Don’t ask, don’t tell, can be a real bitch In the middle of the Pentagon at ground zero. Lisa Jain Thompson
July 2007 __/\/\/\/\__
^^\/\/\/\/^^ How many legions does a moral mandate command?
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^^\/\/\/\/^^ You have to give Republicans points for consistency. They bring the Senate to a halt and then blame Democrats for not getting anything done. They destroy FEMA's ability to respond to natural disasters and then hold it up as an example of why you can't trust government to do anything right. They lose a war via unparalleled military incompetence and then claim that liberals are defeatists for pointing it out. They spend 20 years claiming that Social Security is going bankrupt and then use the resulting public insecurity about Social Security as an explanation for why the whole system needs to be privatized.
-- Kevin Drum
Washington Monthly __/\/\/\/\__
^^\/\/\/\/^^ you can figure this one out
The View from the Aegean
When Seen from a Torch Ship Enroute to Centauri B
You know
We are together Even when We are apart
As much as the stars
Shine behind Bright daylight
We are one in our love
Neither mountains
Nor rivers
Nor open seas
Can keep us separate
The quarantine of light speed
Is insufficient
To divide us
From one another
Where you are
I am
Where my words are spoken We shall always be
Remember us
When the north wind blows And the snows pile high
Above our grave
Love wins out
The poet lives
Remember me
Lisa Jain Thompson
July 2007 __/\/\/\/\__
^^\/\/\/\/^^ poet laureate stuff
The Fence Not Built
I never found a fence
That made much sense
For other than aesthetic reasons;
Fences are meant to climb
Not separate,
To provide places
For roses and morning glories
That twist their way to sunlight;
National boundaries
Subdivide our species
By the color of our skin,
The shape of our foreheads,
The sound of our language
Or the god who hears our prayers;
Our mythic borders
Separate us from them,
Their army from ours,
My heroes from yours,
And soldiers from their families And their lives.
I would rather we built bridges
That waste our lives
On walls and fences.
Lisa Jain Thompson
July 2007 __/\/\/\/\__
^^\/\/\/\/^^ Latest Idea from Network Programming
A reality show where celebrities book themselves into rehab. The celebrity who can stay sober or not get arrested the longest wins __/\/\/\/\__
^^\/\/\/\/^^ Honk if you have been chased by Lindsay Lohan's car.
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^^\/\/\/\/^^ 
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^^\/\/\/\/^^ Ives
Ragtime Dance #2
… as the last whelmings intermixingly poured themselves
over the sunken head of the Indian at the mainmast, leaving a few inches of the erect spar yet visible, together with long streaming yards of the flag, which calmly undulated, with ironical coincidings, over the destroying billows they almost touched … --Herman Melville, Moby Dick, 1851
Red-tail Hawks and Coopers,
As well as the occasional Bald Eagle, Circle the Lake Accotink watershed
-- Flag Run and Long Branch stream into the creek, Into the Potomac, into the Chesapeake, Into the great shroud of sea that is the Atlantic --
Black bear ramble inside the tree line, Seldom wandering into sight, Canadian Geese and Great Blue Heron Walk the shoreline just out of reach
While Wood Ducks and paired off Mallards
Swim where the wetland turns to lake
And the creek backs up from dam. A carousel lies dormant
Until summer frees the children to play,
Small boats dot the water, Watched by hikers on the trail That winds inside the forested banks Where shore and marsh grass meet Willow, Red Maple, and Cedar Well garland’d with Virginia Creeper; Mocking Birds and woodpeckers Sound out from the overhead branches, Swinging up the heads of the children Running ahead of their families; Designer clad bikers cry out On the left! Coming through! While walkers single file or step off the path
Into the wet and muddy ground. Cedar, well leashed, cannot run free
(Wolfish dogs understand proper decorum And the strange requirements of primate masters) But yearns to chase the scent trails Winding back into the woods -- Squirrels, and muskrats, The drifting beaver somewhere down stream,
The fallow deer highway well marked with scat,
The track of enemy bear if the hunt was on But it never is – Contenting himself with sporadic attempts
To herd the ducks he sees scattered across the lake:
Cedar will herd anything he perceives as disorderly,
Sheep, ducks, and unsettled school children Are all fair game for a Border Collie’s sense Of right and proper decorum. Every place on earth is part of watershed,
Divided by highlands that send the rain Running down to stream, river, and lake -- Rolling Road, that once provided clear passage For barrels of tobacco rolling down to the docks
Of the colonial Potomac, forms a ridgeline That slopes downward into the creek at Accotink-- These lands were hunted by my ancestors, Fished, farmed, and family raised
Ages ahead of Josiah Bull working off his indenture, Leaving Britain for Duchess County,
And his descendents meeting my Iroquois relatives; Long before George Washington or Robert Lee
Took an interest in the venison
Or staked out their plantations With the survivors of the middle passage; My relatives walked this mud centuries distant before
Vito Faraci left Palermo for the turbulence
Of Ellis Island and Chicago, butcher to the world: We are back and the land is ours, As much as ever we could be said to own Her green hills and rushing waters. The Red-tailed Hawks were here first,
As were the eagles who ruled the abundant sky;
The lake was not, nor the cement filled dam,
Only the creek and the marshes running down to the river,
And the paths we walked in our nomadic search For food and a safe place to raise our children; The skies may have been bluer, the water clearer, Our wolfish dogs may have run free beside us -- We must take the word of the historians Or the Great Horned Owl how it was -- But even as the centuries pass And prophets forecast our downfall, The earth is still our home, the cradle of our destiny,
And, battered as she may be, our hope for future edens: We are still here, walking these green hills, Fishing in these waters, starting our families, And living out our timelines as the universe intended Beneath the warm rays of our pale yellow sun In the unnoticed backwaters of the Milky Way.
The unharming sharks, they glided by as if with padlocks on their mouths;
the savage sea-hawks sailed with sheathed beaks. On the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan. -- Herman Melville, Moby Dick, 1851 Lisa Jain Thompson
July 2007 __/\/\/\/\__
^^\/\/\/\/^^ PEACE
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