Poem: For Monica Lewinsky

"Splendour in the Grass," for Monica Lewinsky

You did not make a mistake. No decent person would call falling in love at 22 a mistake. 

It is normal to fall in love at any age, and even more normal for a young woman to love. 

In an office now sullied by political election and genuine threats of impeachment, you alone had the innocent brightness of a newborn, the strength to think of someone other than yourself. 

The only indecency witnessed was the way the tenderness of the human heart by which we live is so often ignored, spat on, and finally, forgotten by prurient politicians whose fingers pinch and poke anyone they please. 

May thou answerest them 

                                            only with 
   

                                 a 

   
       smile. 


© Matthew Mehdi Rafat (2019)

Poem: For Anthony Bourdain

I can explain suicide to you. It's as simple as an analog TV's antenna. 

Some people are lucky--the manufacturer delivers the set ready to watch straight out of the box. The antennas stick up in exactly the right places, making it easier to stay close to home. 

Others, not so lucky. Their antennas need adjusting for a clear picture, or they'll only get static. Most of the time, though, it works so life goes on. 

The rest? Companies call them defective, defying QC. These TV owners keep adjusting their antennas because the pictures and sounds, when they come through, are the brightest and most interesting in the neighborhood. 

And only this TV, this antenna, could show you the world from a Colombian barrio rooftop, a Vietnamese restaurant with plastic chairs, and a tiled floor with foul-smelling Icelandic fermented shark. 

But the antenna, as we mentioned, is defective. No one knows the right adjustments, and nothing dampens its signal. Its sharpness captures every smell, every song note, and every person (especially his first love). It's all in there somewhere, jostling around, looking for a place to call home, until one day, he decides the cacophony is too much, too bright, too much. 

He turns it off.

Dedicated to Anthony Bourdain (1956-2018) 

by Matthew Mehdi Rafat (2018) 

Poem: Fire Ceremony

Some women cannot be categorized. It’s the gleam in her eyes as she sits next to you, when a single sideways look tells you degrees in physiology, psychology, and even physics are worthless. It’s when she loosens a string in her blouse and glances at you, daring you to do all the things you’ve dreamed of—knowing full well you won’t be able to keep up.

That’s the problem with us college boys. We frame our lives in rectangular wooden caskets, keep track of the latest restaurant openings, maybe even attend weekly poker nights. Nowhere do we envision the woman who shimmies when she shouldn’t, discarding civilization’s rules with a three-second dance. She’s seen our kind before—too often, sadly—and her eyes still gleam.

When she goes to the balcony for a smoke, I stay inside, a glass door separating our worlds. No matter how high the story, others look down on us, drafting rules to keep us in place. My three rectangular wooden caskets hem me in, creaking in tongues I can’t use to communicate. I pay respects to the undertakers by saying nothing, hoping she’ll silence their dirge with the sound of her voice. Her phone rings while I knead her back, and she answers, making plans for hours my eyes won’t open, not even on a Friday night.

She leaves, and suddenly, I'm hungry. After I return from eating alone, the room feels cavernous and dark. Like Plato’s Cave, my eyes try to adjust but cannot. The gleam is gone, and I’ve learned fire comes in many forms; also, that sometimes, all it helps you see are empty spaces and the dancing shadows you’ll miss. 

MMR (2019) 

Guess Who?

I ran across this page in a poetry book recently. You probably won't guess who it is, unless you're very familiar with his or her work. 

Small Things (a poem)

Small Things

Swine flu is in the air.
CNN promises not to fear-monger as the word “pandemic”
flashes across the screen.
I think of the Mexican peso first, then of the Mexican people dying.
It occurs to me my priorities are screwed up.

But then I realize that’s the point--the constant scramble
to survive
to make money
to take care of your family,
It re-arranges everyone’s priorities,
forces people to think ahead, not backwards,
and it seems to work, until it doesn’t.

President Obama’s on the screen now,
talking about that flu again.
I think of the Mexican people first this time.
I think about the American schools shutting down,
and American kids happy to stay home.
I think of how a small thing can multiply into a big thing
and make its way up here without warning.

And then I realize a good thing can also multiply
And come here,
Something we’d never thought about before
until it came here
and changed our lives.

Small things, like six-year old Pierre Omidyar,
arriving in America from France,
his parents from Iran,
Not knowing their little boy would create eBay.

Small things, like Paul and Clara Jobs
adopting a little half-Syrian boy
born in Milwaukee
and bringing him to Mountain View, California,
where he would grow up and give us Apple Computers.

Smaller things, too, like 27 dollars loaned by a man in Bangladesh
who spoke at Stanford in 2003
and caught the ears of Matt and Jessica Flannery,
who then founded Kiva.org.
Soon came millions of dollars to help the poor.

Small things become big when they cross borders
undeterred by risk, failure, or fear.
They come, these small things,
flu particles, yes, but also the seeds of a bright future,
Burrowing their way forward.

(2009)

Poetry and My Poems

Once in a while, I like to take a break from economics and read poetry. Here are some of my favorites:

AUBADE, by Rick Barot

Scintillas of the anatomical
on the vines, buds opening—
make me a figure
for the woken.

On the vines, buds opening—
blue, little throats.
For the woken,
this different tin sky.

Blue, little throats
speak to me in the right voice.
This different tin sky,
the playground thawing.

Speak to me in the right voice,
only clean, sweeter.
The playground thawing
into its primary colors.

Only clean, sweeter,
briary as honeysuckle,
into their primary colors
the words come: bitter, astral.

Full version after the jump: http://enskyment.org/poetsatog.html

I am sharing part of Barot's poem for educational purposes. It sounds and reads perfectly--a difficult combination. Even the unusual repetition, "bitter, astral," feels perfectly placed. The only blemish is the phrase, "blue little throats," which seems too harsh among "clean, sweeter," and "honeysuckle." This poetic form, which relies on repetition, is the "lilibonelle." More on poetry forms at Sol Magazine.

I also love a poem by C. Milosz called "Hymn," but I can't find it online. Here are the first few lines:

There is no one between you and me.
Neither a plant drawing sap from the depths of the earth
nor wind walking between the clouds.
The most beautiful bodies are like transparent glass.

Here is an interview with Mr. Milosz.

Another poem by Bill Watterson is a must-read. It's from Calvin and Hobbes' Indispensable Treasury:

I made a big decision a little while ago.
I don't remember what it was, which prob'ly goes to show
That many times a simple choice can prove to be essential
Even though it often might appear inconsequential.

I must have been distracted when I left my home because
Left or right I'm sure I went. (I wonder which it was!)
Anyway, I never veered: I walked in that direction
Utterly absorbed, it seems, in quiet introspection.

For no reason I can think of, I've wandered far astray.
And that is how I got to where I find myself today.

As you can see, poetry doesn't have to be in a Norton Anthology to be required reading. I own the complete Calvin and Hobbes collection, and Calvin has so many lines that are poetic in their own right. I shared the above lines to show readers that poetry can be found in unexpected places and to encourage readers to discover Calvin and Hobbes if they haven't already done so. Newer fans can share their thoughts on Calvin and Hobbes here.

Oh, the beauty.

___________

Here are a few poems I found today, which I wrote about 10 years ago:

Haiku

The mahogany maelstrom
stares at me.

Charred black holes
peeking through space,
gentle lashes nurturing
smoldering volcanoes.

copyright Matthew Rafat (written 1995-1999)

Embezzlement

Bank statements invade dreams
Of holding hands, making babies, laughing for no reason;
And eyes that once sparkled are now jaundiced,
Critiquing every missing George Washington,
Forgetting the spontaneous smiles
That once would follow accidental breaking of dishes.
Now your reassuring voice seems like an important historical event
One should remember, but can't,
Like the date of the Missouri Compromise or the victor at Yorktown.
The laundry undone and the mold growing
Used to sit patiently while we lay on our backs feeling the wind brush our faces--
And it would be okay if we missed dinner
When I wanted to see your face above mine,
Your falling sweat sticking to my just-showered stomach.
But bringing Benjamin Franklin in the bedroom
Made you sexually insolvent, and I felt cheated, because I never invited him in--
It was as if you were making me part of a threesome without my consent,
Allowing little green men to rape me while you watched and did nothing.
Even the prospect of your copper-stained hands going through my hair
Would have aroused in me forgiveness--
But you always just plopped down next to me in the dark, faceless and foreboding.
One day, as you mentioned going down a tax bracket,
I packed my bags and left without your interest
And with the realization I would never be included
In your value estimations.

copyright Matthew Rafat (written 1995-1999)

Pellucid Life

Children dance their songs of glee,
Roses approve with laughs of scent,
The sun joins in, beaming smiles of light.
Women cradle bundles of sound,
Men walk with words of friends,
The world turns with slow of sure.
I sit amidst sights of smell,
Enjoying feel of touch,
Remembering you of love.

copyright Matthew Rafat (written 1995-1999)

Dupont Circle was one of my favorite hangouts when I lived in D.C. around 1999. I loved its coffeeshops and used bookstores. Back in the day, as soon as you got off the Metro and exited the escalator, you saw the aptly-named Xanadu's Cafe on your left. Dupont has become much more gentrified since then.

Dupont Circle

"No talking please,"
"No talking please,"
The jolly old man bellowed out,
Hovering over the chessboard,
About to devour his opponent,
Another old man, teeth and glasses broken,
Reflecting his shattered condition.
The old man must have wanted to be more than a wino once--
Whatever the dreams were, they certainly never included
Prostituting his knowledge of a queen's gambit for a ham and cheese sandwich.
The words of death didn't need to be said,
And they weren't, but the black king lay prostrate on the board
As 25 dollars exchanged trembling hands.

A drunk Physics major stumbled about,
Mumbling, "A win is a win is a win is a win,"
But then lost the next two games.

"Pow! Pow! Pow!"
In the corner, an entrenched Vietnam Vet, between sips,
Echoed out threats
Against the man who had just
Refused his request for a light.
A size six waist and double Ds walked in,
Capturing the crowd,
And I remembered thinking,
"God I wish those are real."
But they're not, and they're just as empty and heavy
As the old men's machismo
And their dances and drunkenness,
Gambling money they don't have,
Hollering words without force,
Trying to find connections in a city
That offers none,
As sorry and hopeful
As those two pneumatic sacks.

copyright Matthew Rafat

Answer to W.H. Auden

At the party,
Go sit in your dismal, desolate corner--
Good friends laugh and play
As you deem yourself their official mourner.

Blow the cobwebs from the mirror,
See the face of optimism resisted;
You cannot plunge the penknife
Into a heart that never existed.

Time will only say "I told you so,"
You've said over and over;
Let Time watch from the shadows--
I will kiss while it coughs, and be Life's lover.

copyright Matthew Rafat

Poem: How do you like them apples?

It's the weekend, so not much on the economic front to report. The government might take our tax dollars to give to GM and Ford, but that potential giveaway comes next week. For now, some poetry:

http://paulgoetz101.wordpress.com/2006/11/15/federico-garcia-lorca/ [Broken link]

Same poem, different link:

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/gacela-dark-death

Federico Lorca, who wrote the poem above ("Gacela of the Dark Death"), had a fascinating, but sad life:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federico_Garc%C3%ADa_Lorca

Poem by Judith McCune

I keep this poem in my wallet. It's from The Atlantic magazine (March 2000, page 96), and I've kept it there for eight years. Like my eight-years-old wallet, it is fraying and may soon become unreadable. I wanted to post it here so that others may read this little-known poem. Click on the link below to read the entire poem:

http://www.theatlantic.com/unbound/poetry/antholog/mccune/theguest.htm

I can't post the entire poem because of The Atlantic's copyright (a question for the IP and copyright lawyers out there: once the author is dead, does the copyright to her work diminish in any way, even though the owner of the copyright is the magazine, not the author?). In any case, I will quote the last stanza only to entice you to read the poem:

Now when Chiqui asks me how I've slept, I lie: Just fine, I say, though by this time I've learned the Spanish word for shame.

Copyright © 2000 by The Atlantic Monthly Company.

The poem neatly summarizes my old-fashioned world view. It has hard-working immigrants, caring family members, and a continuity of time (expressed through different generations of the same family). It also juxtaposes old-fashioned values against modern values in a way that makes the new values subservient to the old ones. Whenever I read McCune's poem, I fall in love with its style and content all over again.

Must-Read Poems

Here is a website with some famous love poems:

http://www.frazmtn.com/~bwallis/lovlost.htm

Pablo Neruda's Poema Veinte ("Love is so short, and forgetting takes so long") is a must-read.

Read Theodore Roethke's "I Knew a Woman," and ee cummings' "since feeling is first," and you will gain an appreciation for what's important in life. Roethke's poem is below:

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)