Poems by George Wallace

ALL DOWN THE GONE AND GLORIOUS DAYS

This poem to the wound makers
and the wounded,
the uniformed, the cocksure,
the fooled, the revved up,
to the ones who never knew
a moment of anger;
the bedazzled ones,
who liberated or enslaved
in the white foam and fury
of war;
to the followers in footsteps
of fathers and brothers,
legions of lost sons and daughters,
broken children in smoke and flame;
the useful and forgotten,
commemorated nowhere;
to the comrades never betrayed,
the brain-rattled warriors
who came to town on holidays
for the big parade;
the waylaid, tricked out, turned to
a mercenary trade,
the dying on their feet or on their backs,
in trenches or in tanks;
the blasted in their barracks
at midnight, dreaming of porch light,
dreaming of home; home, to
square shouldered women,
round shouldered men,
girls who scraped their pretty little boots
on boulevards
and climbed into cabs,
shady ladies in shadier hotels,
village girls dressed like cabbages
who waved at them as they left for war;
this poem to the laundered and sequestered,
who cast weapons of iron at each other,
who injected patriotism into their brains
who gave themselves up to fate
and never measured devotion;
who wore assembly line rage
and troubled the sky
with manufactured wings;
who dominated and suffered
and beat the life out of unequal innocents,
who wore the mask of heroes,
and hid their broken manhood and shame
who sent and received dead letters;
all down the gone and glorious days,
may you sleep together in peace, dear warriors;
may you lie in each other’s arms,
in the great grave beyond,
where the thoughts and prayers
of the ones who sent you to war
cannot reach you.

I AM NOBODY, PUT UP TO NO GOOD, RAISE NO STATUE TO ME

Leaning SSW into the colossal darkness that comes before dawn, listening for the holy drone of civilizations, short-lived, transient, and the voices of gods that drove them across this land, America, I am driven too; I drove the golden spike, I tapped the underground spring, I unleashed iron and oil, diamonds & coal; I fired the stove and hired the cook, I am nobody, put up to no good, raise no statue to me;

and yet I am somebody, with my painterly eyes and my ribs like ammunition, with my reason quick as ponies, with my intuition native to every land that calls me home; attuned to natural rhythms, I am all ears like drums, I am all sweat lodge, reverent;

I am no regret, I tell tall tales told by the campfire, you will find me soon enough if you dig deep enough and are patient — I am clumsy as bear scat and tough as turtle egg; I am the wild orphan child, an Irish coracle hidden in the reeds; I am returned to silkie; I tie rattles around my ankles when I dance, shake bones;

and when I sweat I sweat ginger root, and when I am curious, I am my mother’s child again, innocent in her arms; I am of the sweet-grass, yes you can smoke me if you want to; and the stone pipe, that’s me too and there’s plenty more where that came from;

O I am mad, mad as Blake, Ginsberg taught me how to chant this song, so did my good gray Uncle Walt; O read my eyes America, I am talking to you, like Kansas leafhoppers spoke to Kerouac; I am a cradle left out in a squall, and I am rocking the summer rain, which cools me as it cools you too: and the lightning which spooks horses spooks me;

and yes, I am an offering, I am full of tobacco, disoriented, buzzing like flowers, aromatic; a pouch passed hand to hand, with shavings of red cedar, that’s me; tossed aside for empty, the less of me that is left the more I become; I am smoke, disappearing, returning, like the curvature of the sea that once swept horizons, so I too remain calm, all surface, a full moon gliding across my face is something like peace (though my guts swim with eels) and I am erasing my own footprints as I cross sand;

(what is this thing called sand,
I am wind I am rock
I am sand)

and I am a maker of tombstones and monuments, I keep myself busy (as if this poem were eternal! as if you, reading this poem, were eternal!);

no more presidents no more wars; no more statues no more flags; no more governments! only this: lakes, rivers, holy, original, prairies, introverted and shy; foxes, laughing and goofing along as they go;

to be fully alive, here, one more irreverent day! with you, an old man, not quite monk, painted on a scroll, one foot in heaven and the other in the grass, with a jug of wine in my arms & a shack of wind for shelter;

leaning out through the window to take an enormous leak before the cold weather comes.

WHEN WE BLEED FOR EACH OTHER, THE COLOR IS ROSES

We don’t know what is killing us, what clouds our vision, poisons our sense of pride and purpose; we don’t know what cripples our bones, hollows our hope, turns our instincts inside out, making us cold and ridiculous before our time;

what is this animal sound that gnaws at us, but not from within; dulling our capacities, soiling our sexual appetites; what is this vision that upends our inclination for brotherhood; what disposition, what apparatus, what fly in the soup, what dull glue that holds insects to ceilings and men’s love for each other down;

when we bleed for each other, the color is roses;

what makes our innocence fizzle, what jumpstarts the engine of our selfishness and self-inflicted pain; what makes the light of curiosity go out, and the stockpile of resentment grow? it does not register upon us that what colors our money discolors our souls, what covers up our human blemishes weakens our caresses;

what force brittles our allegiance to each other and cheapens our matrimonies; what drives our nation recklessly, empties our pockets of dreams, hijacks our computer screens; what compromises our ingenuity; we sing but no longer for the sake of song,

we do not know what is divine; our bones give way to the time and gravity of elusive saviors and false gods;

when we bleed for ourselves, the color is thorns.

George Wallace (b.1949 NY, USA), Writer in residence, Walt Whitman Birthplace. Author of 42 chapbooks and 5 spoken word albums in US, UK, Italy, Greece, Macedonia, Portugal, Saudi Arabia, India, Spain. Major international poetry festival prizes and appearances, inc. Orpheus Prize (BG); Alexander Prize, Aristotle Medal (GR); Silk Road Prize, Poet of the Year (CN); Naim Frasheri Laureateship (MK); Corona d’Oro (AL); Naji Naaman Literary Prize (LB), Medellin (CO, Ledbury (GB), Lyric Recovery/Carnegie Hall (US). National Beat Poet Laureate/Next Generation Beat Poet (US); Honorary Doctorate, CiESART/Royal Academy 2024 (SP). Further info at Poets & Writers: George Wallace | Directory of Writers from Poets & Writers

Poems by Koon Woon

You Only Need to Love Me When I Am Old

No need to love me when I am young,
because I can only love myself then.
No need to give yourself under the apple bough,
for any pair of fair arms would as easily me arouse.

But love me, love me when I am old,
when the extremities of me grow cold.
For all the years that we drifted through,
pretending that we each other didn’t know,
so, love me as both stand in the snow,
when neither food nor drink will do.

Like Water

Today I feel like the saddest water
going to places men reject

Like water I ebb my way
to the lowest point in the dungeon

I harden myself like ice
and crack only under sufficient pressure

What about the steam power that I
once was, driving great turbines?

What about the gentle rain that I
was – lovers abed drowsed in?

What has come to pass are
transformations difficult to accept

All that hails from up above
hit the hard ground

Eventually everything is ice-capped
or ocean-bound

Hotel Fire

When a pretty woman cries to me
like a hotel on fire
I am almost normal in response

Bring out the meat
Bring the drinks
Be merry!

Let not the fire and light go to waste!
Bring the pen
Write it down for posterity!

Jaroslav Seifert you are so right,
women do us the least harm

A lesser mortal am I
but we are all mortals alike

When a single woman cries,
the whole night is on fire!

When the hotel burns,
I quickly learn,
how quickly you arouse desire!

Koon Woonlives in Seattle, USA and studies philosophy and whole systems design, operates a small literary press, Chrysanthemum Publicantions and Goldfish Press. His poetry can be found at the website hosted by Joneve McCormick, Poetry Soul to Soul, or at his award-winning book, The Truth in Rented Rooms from Kaya, NY, NY, 1998.

Niels Hav

Tintin at the Cemetery

Last time I met Tintin
he was sitting in the Assistens Cemetery.
I was on my bike, we greeted each other,
but I didn’t stop –
I wasn’t aware that this was the last time I’d see him.
Now and then we used to chat a little
when we met by the lakes
or at Ravnsborggade. He always in the company
of women whom he entertained
charmingly, fencing with his cane
and commenting on traffic.

Now he was sitting alone, no women or anything.
When you reach your nineties
most folks you knew have crawled into their coffins.
He looked a little lost. Maybe he was here
to study the route before his final trip.
It was late September, the birds flew silently about.

“Hi, Palle,” I called from my bike.
He looked up, eyes sparkling,
then he lifted his cane, brisk as ever.
“Hey, hey,” he yelled and waved.
That was the last time I saw Tintin.

(At the age of 15 Palle Huld (1912-2010) won a contest to travel around the world in celebration of the centenary of the birth of Jules Verne. The international press followed his route, and he returned to an enthusiastic reception and later wrote the book Around the World with Palle in 44 Days. It was translated into many languages and inspired Herge to create the character Tintin).

SLEEP

Walk quietly, speak softly
never wake someone sleeping
for no good reason. Sleep
is holy!

The most beautiful part of life
happens while sleeping,
there I have often met wonderful
women. We melted together
in blessed harmony
and became completed beings.

I have been to every possible place
in dreams and always as myself.
In the daytime – when I’m awake –
I sometimes imagine
that I’m someone else,
but never at night,
in dreams I am me.

© Niels Hav
Translated by Per Brask & Patrick Friesen

WHOSE SIDE AM I ON?
– a manifesto

I’m for people who have joie de vivre –
the ones standing outside smoking,
while the president hands out medals,
content to shiver during the applause.

The man who washes the floor and puts the chairs back.
I do not agree with the chairman,
a general secretary gives me the creeps,
have those people no self-respect?

The woman who bakes cookies for the homeless.
I’m in support of common decency.
The man who gets up in the middle of the night to deliver
newspapers on his bike, while morons piss in his bag
and call him Paki.

People who cry in their sleep at night for lack
of vitamins find found only in love
I’m for the woman collecting bottles
and going through other people’s trash
so she can give her granddaughter a trip to Rome.
The man who crosses the street to help a bewildered
boy who fell out of the nest too early.

I’m all for kindness.
I’m for him who hides his poems
in the tool drawer in the garage.
The failed ones are the most remarkable.
The one who sweeps the sidewalk including his neighbour’s.
Old people who lie dying all alone in hospitals.

I’m for him who is misunderstood
whenever he opens his mouth. The mute poets,
content with walking around mumbling to themselves,
while they take care of their work and provide for the family.
The woman the others make fun of.
The man who isn’t able to maneuver his wheelchair
and the bus driver who gets up to lend a hand.
The ones who sing in traffic.
The man who makes a fool of himself.
People who move their asses.

I’m not for gang-related stockbrokers.
People who think they are the queen of heaven.
Arrogant sneers. The man who blocks
other people’s bank accounts.
The atmosphere in court.

I’m all for politeness, for bursting into tears
in the morning at the supermarket, common hysteria,
caring for pets, and bewitching smiles in traffic.

The man who spends seven years building a cottage
and finishes by smashing it to pieces in a rage.
That’s whose side I’m on.

© Niels Hav
Translated by Per Brask & Patrick Friesen

Niels Hav was awarded the Danish Literature Prize 2024 from Ragna Sidéns and Vagn Clausens Foundation. He is the author of ten volumes of prose and poetry. His books are widely translated into languages including e.g. Portuguese, Dutch, Arabic, Turkish, English, Serbian, Kurdish, Albanian and Farsi. Frequently interviewed by the media, as he has travelled widely in Europe, Asia, Africa, North and South America and participated in numerous literary events. His poems and stories are published in a large number of magazines and newspapers around the world.
Niels Hav was raised on a farm in western Denmark. Today he resides with his wife the concert pianist Christina Bjørkøe in the most colourful and multi-ethnic part of the Danish capital, Copenhagen.
His new English poetry collection Moments of Happiness is published by Anvil Press in Vancouver.

“…one of Denmark’s most talented living poets…”
Frank Hugus, The Literary Review