Richard Jeffrey Newman's Miscellany

This is a powerful poem from the Academy of American Poets.

This is a lovely poem by Carrie Fountain, from the Academy of American Poets Poem-A-Day.

Stalk the need that begs you to return:
the flower blooming on her skin, the course
your finger plotted upward through the source
of what her smile masks. You need to learn

to bear the weight she’s given you to carry,
to season your slow voice and love the burn.
Or, walk away. No matter which you choose,
the blood that flows will be your own.

This pretty smart: How Should We Talk About the Israel Lobby’s Power? - New York Magazine

First full working draft. I am happy!

I saw today a screening of Leaving Neverland and Oprah’s interview with the two men who tell their stories in it. For me, it makes a convincing case that Michael Jackson was a sexual predator of the highest order. Whether you agree or not, you should watch it when it airs

Lines Left on The Cutting Room Floor - February 23, 2019

Your choice bewilders logic out of spite.
Abandoned words, those withered, bloody petals,

fall to earth. Obey their sly forgiveness.
The slow goodbye filling your mouth with smoke

cracks the shell that hides what you’ve become.
Beat the life you’re sworn to like a drum.

A momentary vent: Trying to get work done (grading papers) in the middle of a spiteful family argument is difficult.

This Seth Meyers bit is very well done: youtu.be

nyti.ms

Not the Fun Kind of Feminist

The sky over Laguna Beach.

What Ilhan Omar Said About AIPAC Was Right - The Nation

This is worth reading.

Lies Left on The Cutting Room Floor - February 12, 2019

Unfurl your guilt inside a circus tent.
Recite the oath, then wait. Berate no one.
A rhyme will shape the antidote for rage.

By mutual consent, the ritual
has been postponed, so aim for what you know.
Throw your words like spears. What lives will grow.

Immerse yourself without pretense. Disguise
the wilderness you crave. Behind barbed wire,
what you despise, arranged as in a painting,
courts a fire you’ve never seen. You wonder

if you’ll ever speak again, if guilt burns.
The survivor in you claims regret, releases
back to all the men whose sacrifice
you choose to bear the thanks you’ve hoarded. Women

rise, welcoming; the river overflows;
but those faces on the canvas will not speak.
Their heaven can’t contain the words you seek.

This is exciting! The musical group Pneuma has set one of my poem to music for their upcoming album, which will be called Who Has Seen The Wind. The album has not yet been officially released, but you can listen to the setting of my poem if you go to their homepage, and click on the second track, “Trembling/Light.” They don’t have the lyrics up on their website, so here is the poem. It’s from my first book, The Silence of Men:

Light

In the dream, my life was smoke: I couldn’t breathe.
So I ran, unwrapping myself down the beach
till your skin, the ocean, lapped at my knees.
I dove in. Your voice was a current,
a melody gathering words to itself
for us to sing, and we sang them,
and they swirled around us, iridescent fish
bringing light to the world you were for me;

and then I was water, a river
washing the night from your flesh,
and I cradled your body rising in me
till you were clean, glowing,
and when you surfaced, glistening,
there was not an inch of you I didn’t cling to.

Renounce the cradle. Trade belief for blame.
What leaves the body leaves itself behind.

Make your love a shroud to please your god;
The breath they force into your mouth is shame,

the stain all seekers bow to. Teach yourself
to love that risk. Remember, no safe harbor

waits, so let each death you die become
a feeling you must peel away from lust.

Exaggerate the rhythmic flaws you find.
You must renew each taste that they deny.

Lines Left on The Cutting Room Floor - February 1, 2019

Let laughter scatter what you trust like seeds.
What grows, well-loved, will overrun the weeds.

I’m doing some file maintenance on my hard drive and came across this. It’s the cover of my first book of translations.

Trying to write about race, especially when you’re dealing with people and events in your life from 30 to nearly 40 years ago, including your younger self, is hard. Worth it, but hard.

In language they will call “a woman’s crime,”
give your breath to each aborted fear.
The masks you wear, the pain you flee, the climb
past knowledge into slime: your will to live
enmeshes you in sin. Disinherit
what they told you you should want to hear.
The stares that brand you foreign won’t abate.
Embrace the knowledge they would have you hate.

The next anthology I am going to tackle. It’s been on my shelf since the 1980s and I’ve only dipped into it. 📚

Lines Left on The Cutting Room Floor - January 27, 2019

You know there’s something you can never tell,
that only silence guarantees your life.
Perhaps, you think, you’re waiting for a wife.

As slander pours, cracking the distorted shell
of this part of town you’d never go by choice,
you turn to face the heckling crowd. Give voice,

eyes averted, to the childless larks
flying by; draw your weed-infested gaze
eastward, where the sky is empty, and close
you’re ears to what the zealots can’t unsay.

Lines Left on The Cutting Room Floor - January 25, 2019

Fling against the wall of your virginity
the victory this syntax can’t undo.
Shatter the crown that crowns the queen
and let her sleep as if she were your first,
filled with new life, humming, about to burst.

Some think understanding is the point.
Some believe the point demands release.
Others point between the lines, the crease
where shame settles. Wear their anger—a ring,
fat on your finger, a large and uncut jewel
around your neck—to invoke the cruel stain
healing leaves. Summon what honor you can.
The days will fall away like scabs. When love
betrays love, love is not the point.