- ALL THAT’S LEFT – Jack Hirschman
- Untitled – Roger Houston
- City of Dreams – Hillary Kaye
- CHARLIE WOLF, MUSICOLOGICAL BOY WONDER – Hal Bogotch
- EVERY POEM I WRITE – Philomene Long
- COLD ELLISON VI – Philomene Long
- THE GHOSTS OF VENICE WEST – Philomene Long
- To Philomene –Krista Schwimmer
- Philomene recites a poem – Jim Smith
————-
ALL THAT’S LEFT
By Jack Hirschman
All that’s Left
in the world
–whether in Cuba, Venezuela, Bolivia
as well as in China, Japan, the United States, Europe, the Middle East, Africa–
all of them cannot,
despite their resistance,
despite their refusal,
stop this march of death
because they,
as well as all that’s Right
in the world,
despite their refusal,
despite their resistance,
already are counted among these
in this last parade.
Communists and progressives,
nazis, fascists and reactionaries,
zionists and anarchists of every stripe–
none are excluded, none can evade the march.
This one’s not coming
with hammer and sickles or swastikas
or flags of any land.
This one’s the march
all wars surrender to.
But when?! comes the unanimous cry.
When will it happen?
If death is peace,
when can I truly die?
You will never know, and yet you do,
because you may already have,
and this life is your way
of paying homage to the power
that loves you enough
to have taken your life away
and left you with the taste
of immortality on your lips.
Nothing mystical: no Christ,
Allah, Jahweh or Buddha in the wings.
Even lying on your back you’re marching.
This is not a cynical or pessimist
or nihilist poem. Join death
to your life and you will live
as if there were no drum to march to.
There is no march at all.
You’re there. All will be well for all.
————–
We went down to the ocean, had a walk Along the concrete barrier, to talk In language inexpressible, we two Just let the ocean speak, as though we knew What we would say before the words came forth. Intuitive, I guess. I think it’s worth My mentioning, and so I duly note Our silent conversation. There’s a lot That never gets recorded, such as growth Of our transcendent bonding, or the hearth That blazes here, between us. In a few Short years that we’ve been partners, ever true Your character, as nobel as the milk And honey of the scriptures, when we walk
– Roger Houston, Venice
————-
City of Dreams
By Hillary Kaye
City of dreams
workers imagining themselves
in good hands a new President- the lies
the greed the fascist tv fades into
the back of our skulls the easier softer world
appears magically before our eyes
The rhythm of sucked up resources the
sky’s the limit mentality the war
ravaged countries – the armless faceless
legless bodies – not adding up the souls
The victims – the victims but you
don’t think about yourself that way
You have achieved self satisfaction
in a dying world
megaton bombs
created out of the fury of demented
cultures
indigenous ways of life
torn off the face of the earth
No crying now no crying
No faceless no voiceless crying
out any more
the perfect scene now is silence.
————–
CHARLIE WOLF, MUSICOLOGICAL BOY WONDER
Why, he has misplaced more songs
than most people have ever written.
Cut another slice of humble pie.
The moon must rise.
A scribe must scribble.
Strike a melodic, harmonic octave.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I have seen Bob Dylan.
He is no Bob Dylan.
A chip off the old Guthrie.
Weisenheimer accordion hero.
Guitar and harmonica stalwart.
Catfish virtuoso.
Lampooning Village Glen personalities.
Digging fingernails into angst of heartsick
migratory waterfowl.
Sound Effects. Strumming.
Lyrics. Lighting.
Let the show begin.
– Hal Bogotch
————-
EVERY POEM I WRITE
By Philomene Long
Every poem I write
Is a suicide
It will say
“I am your death
Hidden in a spasm
Of clay
Dazzling, ferocious
Now only a
Flame in your hand.”
————-
COLD ELLISON VI
By Philomene Long
“As for me, I delight in the everyday way,
Amidst wrapped vines and rocky caves.
Here in the wilderness I am completely free.”
Cold Mountain — Han Shan
Silver days at the Ellison
Longest rainstorm in ten years
Beneath the slippery sky
The Ellison glistening
Dangling raindrops
Silver sounds
Sunset
I slip out to the sea
I am the only person
On Venice Beach
Grey sea, grey sky, grey seagulls
I am wearing a bright pink raincoat
The seagulls believe I am the sunset
They turn their backs to the sea and face me
They assume their sunset viewing positions
Chests forward
Motionless. Except for
An occasional scratch of the ear
The flutter of a wing
We watch each other
I act like the sunset for them
I raise my glowing pink arms
I stand motionless for a long time
Kneel, then recline upon my heels
Alone on Venice Beach
It is all so slow, so simple
Being a sunset
Back at the Ellison
Alone at the black iron gate
I look up
Soft rain sliding
Over the red bricks
Two red brick wings open
As if to embrace me
Two ghostly shimmering red wings
We watch each other
I look at the Ellison
As the sea gulls looked at me
I love this old building!
I love this old building!
Ah! yes, Kukai, the gulls and
Yes! Even these stones
Will become Buddhas
————–
THE GHOSTS OF VENICE WEST
By Philomene Long
They are already ghosts
John and Philomene
As they pass
Along the Boardwalk
This highway of poetry and death
Where ghosts and poets overlap
As they pass, the gulls
Ghosting above their shadows
Everything’s haunting everything
Already ghosts
John and Philomene
Under the ghostly lamp posts
Of Venice West
Their cadence
The breath of sleep
At rest
Lost at the edge of America
Already ghosts
And each poem
Already a farewell
Everything’s haunting everything
The sea is the ghost of the world
————-
To Philomene
There is a minature portrait
of you, in black & white
that perches on my desk
containing a single
poem of yours.
i keep it there
this tiny chapbook —
conscience musing over
my own work.
We never met in life.
i learned of you only in
your death, only through your poems.
Poems that pierce through
the reader,
that generate a presence
that is of you
not about you.
i wish i could tell you
in person how
you made me howl with laughter
by becoming a pink sunset for the seagulls;
or cry silently on LA Transit buses
as you wrote mercilessly about
Cold Ellison & its roaches.
Now, you are among
the immortals, having made the Great Escape
first in life, then in death;
your spirit no different
than Han Shan’s spirit,
your words on Venice walls
like his on the rocks of Tientai Mountains.
You’ll be happy to know,
the Lady still resides in Venice
(though i have yet to see her)
and that you are remembered
deeply, sweetly
by those who you knew
and those who wish
they had once met you.
–Krista Schwimmer
————-
Philomene recites a poem
By Jim Smith
Philomene stalks her prey
She approaches the microphone
innocently, slowly
Suddenly
like a lioness
her mane flying
she pounces on the unsuspecting poem
teeth flashing,
she bites, tears and slashes
the flesh of every word
every phrase,
every nuance
is ripped from the page
and floats in midair
for all to see
even letters are not immune
from being stretched
across long moments of time
Her bite goes deep,
sucking out every morsel of meaning
no wonder she was cast to play a vampire
when she is through feasting on the poem
it will forever be hers
never again can it be read
without thinking of Philomene
Categories: Poetry
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