Phonebanking

I recently received an email from the Young Democrats at my university, enjoining members of the group to come out tomorrow night and help make campaign phone calls to other South Dakotans.

I do not, in principle, have a problem with this. I'm all in favor of getting out the vote and raising civic awareness, although sometimes I do wonder whether, instead of asking people to vote for their candidate, campaigners ought maybe to spend their time helping people and, y'know, giving people a reason to vote for their candidate instead.

What bothered me about this email was the following sentence: "Scripts will be provided so do not worry about not knowing enough about the candidates."

If you're going to make phone calls for a candidate, it seems to me you ought to know enough about that candidate to explain your support to someone else in words that aren't, "Well, she's a Democrat." (You can replace that with "Republican", "Libertarian", or whatever other party identification you like. The song remains the same.)

Old Black Lightning

Old Black Lightning, where are you a-going now,
feeling yourself to be a lion?
Hey now Old Man, Mane of Midnight!
Why be you a-roaring now?

There are tubers in this place,
succulent gourds, teardrops to
keep us from the heat of the day,
shimmering like a translucent curtain
of sandy glass

But in that great old voice of yours
you call upon the spirit of Lion-that-is
and Lion-that-has-ever-been
and Lion-that-will-ever-be,
their plenipotentiary, in thundering embassy

In that great old voice you impart to me
there is game nearby,
eland and honey-dewed desert antelope
Feeling yourself utterly to be a lion,
you let me know that Life is near.

September 2010

The sky is a linen bedsheet

The sky is a linen bedsheet
It was new once, crisp and white,
but now greying, fading
from excessive agitation,
rumpled on a bed hastily made up--
Jesus, is that the time?
My professor is going to kill me!--
wrinkles pregnant with precipitation
The air is full of that selfsame smell
that detergent manufacturers try so
hard to reproduce
with names like Clean Breeze
and Renewing Rain
But no compound concocted
in a laboratory in New Jersey could
compete with that bouquet,
fragrant with rain
and je ne sais quoi,
as if all the life in the world were,
at that precise moment,
being born again.

September 2010

The Emperor of Glenn County Takes a Bride

Paper lanterns and candy-canes

enwrapped in lightning bugs

An oriental sky in pinks and powder blues

presides over four hundred waiters

They cross the square in synchronized formation,

pirouetting like porpoises

diving through a sea of floral-print brocade and white linen,

claret and Chardonnay bubbling in their fish-tale wakes

The Son of Heaven descends from the pavilion

with his empress, newly-minted

The waves perform the three obeisances

and nine kowtows

as wine-white carbonation effervesces skyward.

August 2010

The Sack of Rome

Deep sienna pillars

marbled, mottled, polished smooth

uphold a vault of translucent green jade

Aisles dappled with green gold,

vault so high the moon glides between the eaves

on his way to morning

But,

like so many temples,

built on the blackened foundations

of a shrine more ancient still

Idols of the old religion ground down,

mortar and pestle,

and mixed into the glaze of a newly-fired pot

Here and there,

in places,

the architect declined

to clear away the detritus of iconoclasm—

mismatched cornices of ancient colonnades

incorporated into the overall edifice

The bases don’t quite fit,

Running mortar applied much too liberally,

setting in tendrils trailing

to the floor

But seeming haphazardness

belies a blueprint more meticulous.

August 2010

A Planxty

Above the shifting tendrils of white noise

that fill the valley like wisps of mist

that linger of an autumn morning,

there is a place

where terraces of granite and of concrete run back

in jumbled, geometric patterns

into the wooded defile

There, where the stone steps become

lost amongst the trees,

set apart from his compatriots

a stone stands newly-fashioned,

emblazoned with the interwoven insignia

of the people from across the sea,

my own people

And below, two names.

His breathes still, open-ended

like a poem unfinished

Hers does not, book closed by a

hyphen between two dates

Two chocolate Labradors pelt,

pell-mell,

through the gaps between the trees in a forest of firs

The first passes through without remark

and streaks forward,

tongue wagging,

tail wagging too

A moment elapses

before the first dog recognizes his companion

has not followed

He turns and gazes into the foliage

in the sad-eyed confusion

of which only a dog is capable

The look in those liquid brown eyes

is the sound his heart makes

knowing that his hand must conjoin those two dates

because hers cannot.

August 2010

The Laundry Line

Once there was on old woman who lived in a little village in the mountains. She was not wealthy, but neither was she entirely destitute. Her most cherished possession was the wedding tunic of her husband, who had passed away some years previously. He had come originally from Lebanon,and his wedding tunic was an inheritance from his grandfather. It was of the finest green silk that had found its way to Lebanon along the Silk Road, embroidered in gold thread and red rubies that flashed in the sun. Amongst her humble possessions, it was easily the most valuable, and certainly the one she treasured most of all.

Now, her husband being dead, the old woman had little enough reason to bring the tunic out, except sometimes to look at it and think back to younger, and in many ways happier, days. But it just so happened that her youngest son had recently taken a bride, and she had insisted that he wear his father's wedding garment for the ceremony. This he did, and after the wedding he returned it to his mother, who had tears in her eyes - for her son was the very image ofhis father.

When she returned to her village, straightaway the old woman went out into her garden to clean the garment in the old wooden washtub that sat in the shade beside her cottage. She washed it with the utmost care, and when she had finished, hung it out to dry on the line she had strung between her gutter and the sycamore that grew facing the lane that passed by. Then she went inside to take her afternoon nap.

Traffic in the lane was never congested, and this afternoon only three people passed by the old woman's house. The first,a young man with dark hair, saw the green silk flashing like the leaves of the sycamore as he passed by, and he felt a sudden desire to have that lovely tunic for himself. Scanning the lane, he saw that no one was about – the old woman was sleeping, and the street was deserted. If he wanted, all he had to do was lean over the garden wall, and there would be no witnesses...

All of a sudden he caught himself."No," he said to himself, "that would be wicked of me. I don't know who lives here, but if it were me, I certainly wouldn't want anybody to steal from me. I should only do to others as I would have them do tome, as the Bible says." And he went on her way, smiling that he had overcome temptation.

Next came another young man, this one with fair hair. He saw the gold embroidery, shining like so many gold coins,and felt a sudden desire to have that lovely tunic for himself. Scanning the lane, he saw that no one was about – the old woman was still asleep, and the dark-haired young man had already turned out of the street. If he wanted, all he had to do was lean over the garden wall, and there would be no witnesses...

All of a sudden he caught himself. "No," he said to himself, "nobody would leave such a valuable object hanging there unattended. There must be some sort of trick; the owner is probably watching from the windows, to call the police the minute I take it off the line." And he went on his way, wiping his brow that he had escaped from the trap.

Finally there came a young woman carrying her own laundry. She saw the red gems, flashing like fire in the sun, but she felt no desire to have the tunic for herself, it being a man's garment. She scanned the lane and saw that no one was about – the old woman was still asleep, and the light-haired young man had already turned out of the street. Then she put her hands on her hips in indignant surprise.

"Doesn't the owner of this tunic know that just anyone could come along and steal it?" she said to herself. "This is a wicked world, full of wicked people. One shouldn't be so careless! Whoever's tunic this is, I think I'll teach him a lesson in caution..."And with that she leaned over the garden wall, removed the tunic from the line, and wrapped it surreptitiously in her own laundry. "I will return it in a few days, after the owner has had time to reflect on his foolishness." and went on her way.

The young woman had no sooner returned to her own cottage and set her washing down on the table that than she heard a knock on the door. Answering it, she found herself face-to-face with the old woman.

"Can I help you, grandmother?" the young woman asked.

"I believe you have taken something that belongs to me," her elderly counterpart said. Her voice was firm, but not angry.

Caught in the act, the young woman replied in a level voice, "I don't know what you could be talking about, grandmother." But she threw a nervous glance toward the pile of clothes on the table. Following her gaze, the old woman (who was not, of course, actually the girl's grandmother, but who she called that on account of respect for her age) did not wait for another word, but strode into the cottage and retrieved her husband's tunic from its hiding place.

"That belongs to you?" the girl asked in surprise, for it was after all a man's garment.

"It belonged to my husband," the widow answered matter-of-factly. "And you stole it from me."

The youth blushed at her neighbor's use of the past tense "belonged". "Alright, maybe I did," she said defensively, "but it was only to teach you a lesson! I was going to return it in a couple of days. You shouldn't leave valuable things like that sitting out where just anybody could up and walk away with them! This is a wicked world, full of wicked people – you, of all people, should know that by now!"

The old woman did not answer immediately, but fixed the girl with a penetrating glance. When she spoke, her voice was once again forceful, but without anger. "Perhaps," she said coolly, "if people were less concerned about teaching other people lessons and more concerned with doing the right thing, there would be less wickedness in the world." And with that she took her husband's tunic and exited the cottage without another word, leaving the young woman standing puzzled and ashamed in her wake.