As the husband of a cancer survivor I ask those who support Trumpcare- "How can you help pass legislation that you know will kill people? Where is your compassion? Where is your humanity?"
Yesterday, the American Medical Association released a letter expressing fierce opposition to the GOP Senate's current proposed healthcare legislation that would repeal the Affordable Care Act passed during President Obama's first term. The AMA writes,"Medicine has long operated under the precept of
Primum non nocere, or “first, do no harm.” The draft legislation violates that standard on many
levels."
Written in a series of secret closed meetings, the GOP cabal's Better Care Reconciliation Act, or more accurately Trumpcare, is worse than imagined. According to the latest Congressional Budget Office estimations the bill will strip millions
of Americans of their health insurance - increasing the number of people without health insurance by 22 million by 2026. It would also eliminate the Essential Benefits rule which dictates a minimum
standard of health coverage. It destroys Medicaid, it increases health costs for the middle-class families, it cuts coverage for pre-existing conditions, it eliminates funding for Planned Parenthood. Who loses in this scenario? Pretty much everyone in the United States. The negative effects of this bill will hit millions of hard-working Americans. Which Americans are being responsibly represented by this draconian action? The bill creates a false equivalence between affording care and deserving care. Who wins? The only winners are the
extremely rich, who will gain a collective $800
billion in tax cuts. This is insane. And morally indefensible!
Brian Beutler in the New Republic interviewed former Kentucky Governor Steve Beshear who "argued that there is a contradiction between the Republican Party’s claim to represent religious Christians and their health policy agenda." Beshear said:
"Look, I’m the son of a baptist preacher. I grew up going to church every time the doors opened. But part of that upbringing was, you know, leaving this place a little better off than the way you found it, and living the Golden Rule, as opposed to just quoting it during political campaigns. And man, oh man, how can these folks, you know, call themselves Christian or godly or anything else like they do all the time and then take this kind of attitude and intentionally—intentionally—want to pass stuff that will destroy people’s lives. It’s amazing to me that they can get up and look themselves in the mirror in the morning and not be so ashamed that they have to just go back to bed."
Gregg Chadwick - Nursing Study: Post Op Recovery 24"x18" oil on linen 2012 Collection of Theresa Brown
Below is a video of Geoff Ginter, a Pine Beach, New Jersey resident whose wife survived cancer, speaking to New Jersey Congressional Representative Tom MacArthur. Ginter says to MacArthur because of his support for Trumpcare that -“You are the reason I stay up at night. You are the reason I can’t sleep. What happens if I lose my job?”
Noam N. Levey in the Los Angeles Times writes,"The coverage losses in the Senate bill would completely reverse historic gains in recent years under Obamacare. Over the last four years, the share of people without coverage in the U.S. has been cut in half, dropping to the lowest levels ever recorded, data show." This is a raw moment for so many of us who have pre-existing conditions or who have children or family members who would be directly harmed by Trumpcare. My wife is a cancer survivor whose family is from Wisconsin, where over 400,000 stand to lose coverage if Trumpcare passes. Make no mistake - this is real, and this is scary. But we also know that we’ve succeeded for months because groups across the country have been fighting back on their home turf.
As the husband of a cancer survivor I applaud Ginter and his opposition to the GOP bill and I ask those who support Trumpcare- "How can you help pass legislation that you know will kill people? Where is your compassion? Where is your humanity?"
Senate Republicans have promised a vote by the end of next week. But there are still several steps between now and passage of TrumpCare. Here’s how the former congressional staff at Indivisible Team think the fight will unfurl:
BREAKING - Facing a rebellion within their own ranks, Senate Republican leaders on Tuesday postponed a vote until after the July Fourth recess. After the July 4th recess, the GOP will start debate on “the bill,” which is just a draft bill intended to make it look like they’re being transparent but in reality is a trick to hide just how awful their finished product will be.
Over the next couple days, Senators will submit amendments, most of which will fail and none of which would make this bill redeemable.
The Senate will plan to vote on the legislation, but first they will vote on all submitted amendments (known as “vote-a-rama”).
At the last possible minute, Senate Republicans will replace the entire bill they just got finished “debating” with an alternative TrumpCare bill secretly crafted behind closed doors.
There will be a final vote in the Senate.
As soon as that same day, the House may then pass the legislation and send it to Trump to sign. This could take longer, but this is the worst case scenario and quite possible.
Throughout this process there will be precisely zero public hearings in the Senate. Make no mistake, this is a historically partisan, secretive, and undemocratic process for one of the most consequential pieces of legislation of our generation.
This is atrocious. So let’s fight it.
It’s critical that you’re showing up and that you’re calling your Senators every single day. All you need to pressure your Republican Senators, including DAILY scripts and new materials, is on our TrumpCareTen.org website. Need more background materials? We’ve got ‘em for you here:
As Indivisible writes,"We are under no illusions that victory is assured here, but victory is possible. Every member of Congress voting on this bill will eventually have to get your vote to be reelected. That’s the source of your constituent power. That’s what makes them responsive to pressure. Remember in March when Paul Ryan embarrassingly called off his first TrumpCare vote? That happened because of public pressure. That happened because of you." The 2018 elections are not far off. Several GOP senators, including Susan Collins of Maine and Dean Heller of Nevada, have already made it known that they will not support the bill in its present form. Given how little media coverage the GOP Trumpcare bill received prior to its unveiling, this is very encouraging. Remember - health care is a winnable fight.
BREAKING - Facing a rebellion within their own ranks, Senate Republican leaders on Tuesday postponed a vote until after the July Fourth recess. We’re not going down. Let’s stand together. Let’s win this. Have you called your senator today?
Use the sample script below created by Indivisible for calls to your Senator’s office. SAMPLE CALL DIALOGUE CALLER: Hi! My name is [name] and I’m calling from [part of state]. Is Senator ___ committed to giving the public a meaningful chance to read and understand the final Trumpcare bill before voting on it? STAFFER: Yes! The Senator is very pleased that Leader McConnell buckled to his demands to give the public a chance to read the bill. It was posted on Thursday! Here, let me give you the link so you can read it. CALLER: Is this the final version of the bill? Or will it be amended before there is a final vote? STAFFER: There will be an open amendment process before the final vote. CALLER: I won’t fall for this. Senator McConnell can offer a completely different bill as “an amendment in the nature of a substitute” at the very end of a vote-a-rama. That means the bill that’s been released is a complete charade. STAFFER: Well, I don’t know about that. What I can say is that the Senator is committed to transparency, but he does not control what bills come for a vote when. CALLER: Yes, he does. He can and should refuse to vote for any bill released at the very last minute. Why haven’t there been hearings on this bill that affects 1/6 of our economy? In 2009 and 2010, there were hundreds of hours of hearings. There were town halls. There were committee mark ups. And there were even dozens of substantive Republican amendments included in the final bill. Will Senator ___ commit to me that he won’t let this bill come to a vote until there’s been a hearing on it? STAFFER: I don’t know. I’ll pass along your thoughts to the Senator. CALLER: Thank you. Please take down my contact information so you can let me know what the Senator says after you let him know my thoughts. I expect the Senator to make sure there is at least one hearing on this bill before it is voted on. STAFFER: Ok, I will. CALLER: Can you repeat my contact information back to me? I just want to make sure you recorded it correctly. Thank you.
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Gregg Chadwick is a Santa Monica–based artist who has been painting for three decades, and his work has been exhibited in national and international galleries, art fairs, and museums. He’s given many lectures on the arts, including speaking engagements at UCLA and Categorically Not—a forum that examines the intersection of art and science.
Art and social justice:
“All art has a political stance whether it’s on the surface or boiling underneath.”
“Every day something new happens in the world and art is really primed to look at those global changes and shifts.”
“The history of oil paintings is so deep that it allows artists to address issues with a very subtle touch.”
Developing a virtual network:
“If you’re in your studio by yourself, people aren’t going to come looking for you. If you’re on social media, you’re communicating globally, and there are things that can only happen in that forum.”
“I’ve had a number of people contact me over the years looking for particular paintings that I’ve shown online, even if they were previous works on older platforms like Flickr.”
Social media translates to sales:
“Art dealers are on Twitter, and I like to create subject matter that, when it’s Googled, my name comes up.”
“Social media allows you to sow the seeds of your work and who you are. People want to get to know you a little bit, who the artist is—it’s not just a product.”
“The collectors who want to be connected to the artists are able to do that. That community and camaraderie is there. It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something significant, and it drives me to keep going, to keep my audience happy.”
CHF’s Accelerator and artist forums:
“The difficult thing is putting thoughts into numbers, having an organized system that you’re continually using to propel your business from one level to another.”
“The encouragement and enthusiasm from the [Accelerator] program and other Fellows has led us to have bigger dreams and bigger ideas that we now know can come to fruition.”
“This is a group of like-minded individuals in which we can talk about our work and challenges together.”
Update from May's Venice Art Walk & Auctions at Frank Gehry's Google building. I just learned from the Venice Family Clinic - "that with the collective efforts of our participating artists, we raised more than $780,000 ($50k more than last year). We are pleased to announce that this is the most successful Venice Art Walk that we had in over a decade! “
Photo: The Talented Actress Robin Tunney ( The Mentalist / Prison Break) with my painting "Museum Whispers (de Young)”
Thank you for your interest in my work and for all that you do to make the world a better place,
A photo memento from May's Venice Art Walk & Auctions at Frank Gehry's Google building. The Talented Actress Robin Tunney ( The Mentalist / Prison Break) with my painting "Museum Whispers (de Young)"
I just learned from the Venice Family Clinic - "that with the collective efforts of our participating artists, we raised more than $780,000 ($50k more than last year). We are pleased to announce that this is the most successful Venice Art Walk that we had in over a decade! "
The One Love Manchester benefit concert held today was organized by Ariana Grande and others as an act of courageous remembrance in the face of violence and fear-mongering.
Over 50,000 folks of all ages joined together at the Emirates Old Trafford arena to pay homage to the victims of the Manchester Arena bombing on May 22, 2017. As Ariana Grande's concert ended that day 22 people were killed and over 100 injured. Today, Manchester was filled with brave souls who gathered to sing, to smile, to cry, and to persevere. The gathering opened with a minute of silence for those killed and injured in the senseless attack.
"I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for being here today," Ariana Grande said during the concert. "I want to thank you so much for coming together and being so loving and strong and unified. I love you guys so much and I think that the kind of love and unity you're displaying is the kind of medicine that the world really needs right now."
The all-star line up, included Pharrell Williams, Usher, the Black Eyed Peas, Justin Bieber, Katy Perry, Miley Cyrus, Coldplay, and a surprise hometown guest - Liam Gallagher from Oasis.
Liam opened with Rock ’N’ Roll Star. He sang with a snarling presence - daring anyone, especially extremists of any stripe to deny the human power of art.
Next was his solo work Wall Of Glass. Then Coldplay’s Chris Martin accompanied Liam on guitar in an act of conscious coupling for a tear inducing version of Live Forever introduced by Liam "to the beautiful people who were killed and injured in the Manchester terror attack.”
Before the concert Ariana Grande met with many of the injured from the May 22nd bombing. In those meetings and in today's concert Ariana shared the gift of life with so many.
"Our response to this violence must be to come closer together, to help each other, to love more, to sing louder and to live more kindly and generously than we did before," Ariana wrote in a response to May 22nd. "Music is meant to heal us, to bring us together, to make us happy. So that is what it will continue to do for us."
Honored to have my painting "Bookseller's Night" in the latest issue of The Santa Ana River Review. A wonderful art and literary magazine out of UC Riverside. Link Here: http://sarreview.ucr.edu/booksellers-night/
by Gregg Chadwick You may have noticed that many folks are wearing orange shirts today. Or perhaps a friend changed their avatar to orange. That's because today is National Gun Violence Awareness Day. In his press briefing this morning, current Presidential Press Secretary Sean Spicer gave a shout out to National Donut Day, but not National Gun Violence Awareness Day. In a complete contrast Senator Kamala Harris expressed on twitter that ->
Women are 16x more likely to be killed with guns in the U.S than in other developed countries. What will it take for us to act? #WearOrange
The Root created a powerful video (shown above) that clears up some of the misconceptions surrounding gun violence. AJ+ shows the human costs of gun violence in the video below:
There is hope and steps are being taken to learn more about the problem and to find solutions. Please take a moment and read Shannon Watts' article in Vogue Magazine which provides creative thoughts on how to channel your outrage on gun violence into action. Link here: http://every.tw/2smaZY5 And importantly UC Davis Health has created a Violence Prevention Research Program:
"In the American Journal of Epidemiology, Dr. Magdalena Cerdá comments on the state-of-the-art evidence on gun violence organized around (1) the link between access to firearms and violence; (2) firearm violence related to substance abuse and affiliation with deviant social networks; and (3) approaches to violence prevention that span individual level interventions in the healthcare or home settings to state or national level interventions. This volume summarizes the epidemiology of firearms violence and highlights important gaps and priorities for future research on the risks, consequences, and prevention of gun violence. Read more: Gun violence: Risk, Consequences, and Prevention (PDF)"
Gregg Chadwick The Future Is Woke 40"x30" oil on linen 2017
I first heard U2's 1987 album The Joshua Tree in Western Australia. The album's Cinemascope sound provided the soundtrack for my next few months traveling the breadth of that expansive country from Perth, to Uluru (Ayers Rock), to Darwin, to Melbourne, to Sydney. Having spent a number of summers as a kid traveling across the grand deserts of the United States, I could hear the arid landscape in U2's songs. And while riding through the red deserts of Australia's outback I felt right at home. I gazed at Anton Corbijn's evocative black and white photography each time I pulled The Joshua Tree out of the cassette case and popped it into my Walkman. My brother Kent is a poet, and I thought of him often as I listened to the poetic, atmospheric wash opening the album. In those Australian months, I often peered out of a bus window as we careened through the desert dust with Bono's plaintive wail in my ear. From Bullet the Blue Sky, to Red Hill Mining Town, to Mothers of the Disappeared the songs on The Joshua Tree echoed and expanded a growing mistrust of the dangerous elements in Reagan era U.S. and Thatcher era U.K. policies. Thirty years later, in our even more dangerous era under Trump, the political and emotional concerns embedded in The Joshua Tree ring loudly. It is fitting that U2 is playing the entire album from start to finish on their most recent tour.
Last Saturday, May 20, 2017, I joined an enthusiastic throng at The Rose Bowl in Pasadena to listen to U2's 30th Anniversary take on their groundbreaking album. Before U2's set began, a series of powerful poems was scrolled across the screen behind the stage.
There were many beautiful musical moments at the Rose Bowl, from Edge's chiming guitar, to Adam Clayton's deep, fat bass, to Larry Mullin's powerful drumming, to an engaged Bono. For much of the evening, U2 performed in front of a giant video screen filled with Corbijn's evocative new imagery, and later filmed tributes to women's rights and the plight of Syrian refugees. As Bono says to Andy Greene in Rolling Stone:
"Let's meet one such immigrant who he wants to turn away from the shore. I commissioned french artist J.R. He didn't have much time to do it. Where are we going to find this girl? He finds her in Zaatari in a camp in Jordan, which I visited with my daughter and [my wife] Ali a year ago. He finds this incredible spirit, Omaima. She talks about America as a dreamland. She closes her eyes and J.R. asks her in another segment of the film we don't broadcast, 'What do you see when you think of America?' She goes, 'Oh, it is a civilized country and they are a good people.' It was just heartbreaking."
A giant banner bearing a photo of Omaima, the young Syrian refugee featured on the large screen, was carried through the crowd during Miss Sarajevo. An almost punkishly exuberant version of U2's first hit I Will Follow brought the house to their feet and the night to a close.
Note: The boorish Trump backers behind us, spitting and slurring drunken epithets towards Bono and the band whenever U2 ventured towards thoughts of social justice or civil rights provided proof that the world and the United States in particular needs this album and this band right now. Fortunately, the boors left early, leaving us more room to dream new dreams that night.
--------------
Below I have posted many of the poems scrolled by U2 before the Joshua Tree 2017 concert at the Rose Bowl on May 20, 2017. I have also added poems shown on the massive video screens at earlier performances in Vancouver and Seattle. Please click on the identifying links to find the poem sources. And please follow up to purchase some of these amazing poets' powerful work. Links to the author's works for sale are provided below before each poem.
Many thanks to the Poetry Foundation for their amazing archive of poetry. And much thanks to Aaron J. Sams who was the first to compile a list of screened poems on the U2songs.com site.
Sticky inside their winter suits the Sunday children stare at pools in pavement and black ice where roots of sky in moodier sky dissolve. An empty coach train runs along the thin and sooty river flats and stick and straw and random stones steam faintly when its steam departs. Lime-water and licorice light wander the tumbled streets. A few sparrows gather. A dog barks out under the dogless pale pale blue. Move your tongue along a slat of a raspberry box from last year's crate. Smell a saucepantilt of water on the coal-ash in your grate. Think how the Black Death made men dance, and from the silt of centuries the proof is now scraped bare that once Troy fell and Pompeii scorched and froze. A boy alone out in the court whacks with his hockey stick, and whacks in the wet, and the pigeons flutter, and rise, and settle back.
George Elliott Clarke – “Ain’t You Scared of the Sacred?: A Spiritual”
Ain’t You Scared of the Sacred?: A Spiritual
Ain’t you scared of the Sacred?
Ain’t you scared of the Sacred?
Divinity spies you naked.
Tremble or your heart breaketh.
Yes, I’s scared of the Sacred.
Yes, I’s scared of the Sacred.
So, I don’t fear anyone.
Love shakes me to the bone.
Adam and Eve weren’t angels—
Just apes with an alphabet.
Tremble before the Sacred!
Shake when you aim the bullet!
Best be scared of the Sacred!
Best be scared of the Sacred!
Divinity knows you naked.
Tremble or your house breaketh.
Believers can’t live forever;
And evil-doers gonna die.
Folks with religious Fever,
Burn hot with Hypocrisy.
Ain’t you scared of the Sacred?
Ain’t you scared of the Sacred?
I tremble like an angel
Fallen down, lone and naked.
Sinner, shout against the mosque?
Sinner, shout gainst the synagogue?
Sinner, your church is a kiosk,
And you’re struttin in a bog.
Best be scared of the Sacred!
Best tremble like an angel.
Better know you’re all naked:
Divinity sees every angle.
Best humble down and tremble.
Best humble down and tremble.
Shout proverbs at a mirror.
Condemn yourself for Error.
Best pray Mercy for your sins.
Your Pride is sham Innocence.
Best humble down, tremble well:
Only Love busts your jail cell.
Ain’t you scared of the Sacred?
Ain’t you scared of the Sacred?
Put down that gun and that bomb:
Make your heart a saintly home.
Mercy, Mercy, everyone:
Defuse that bomb! Drop that gun!
Ain’t you scared of the Sacred?
Ain’t you scared of the Sacred?
Divinity spies you naked.
Tremble or your heart breaketh.
Best be scared of the Sacred!
Best be scared of the Sacred!
Elegy for Leonard Cohen (à la manière d'Allen Ginsberg) George Elliott Clarke
This terrible, irritable dawn--
This morning of Mourning--
His obituary crowbars apart
Prophecy and Nostalgia....
Always native to Heaven,
Minting gleaming melodies,
Freeing a nailed-down Christ,
Obeying the mating-calls
Of mandolins and guitars, he
Never abstained from Liberty,
Never lost the Intelligence
Of Dylan-dark sunglasses
And light making masterpieces
Of shambles, or lighting up
Cages where lovers loll,
Lousy with tears and sighs....
Poet of Everything,
He transcended conclaves
Of critics, the murders
Of poets, all those copycats--
Sordid franchisees of blues--
Every presidency serving up
Immaculate Corruption, the stale,
white bread circulated with grease....
His insatiable suitcase,
Portaging Gog and Magog
(In eastern Quebec), Hydra,
Rue Main, Manhattan, Havana,
Pursued the ghosts of Glory--
Parliaments of movie screens--
Fiestas of butterflies, and secret
Eros, Eros, everywhere....
After auditing the News,
I suffered the insomnia
Of steel nails, heads battered
Until drowsy, woozy in wood.
Eternity expires as eyes close--
Or we succumb to sobbing....
But the honest poet voids
The dirty mind of Grief,
Knows the poet's grave
Is his deathless poems--
Dark, remorseless Beauty--
Light that scalpels eyes open.
These words I speak have been given
me by angels. Moon-faced, they fall
into sight at night and spread wings
of pine needles through my skin.
Stories appear down my arms, across
my legs, they wind my waist in red haloes.
I have been chosen by Tyee
to tell of the beginning. My flesh
is a series of writhing tablets.
Let me show it to you.
I will dance without veils.
My body is a voice.
Listen.
My feet tell the story of the lost tribes
who wandered in their own darkness.
When they reached the Promised Land
they did not know it, but fell
down its wet, green gullet,
emerged as ravens, whales, eagles.
You may see their names written across my toes
for just one dollar.
But wait!
There is more. Here, along
my thighs are the virgin births.
Sand coloured maidens bathed
in mountain streams, were filled with salmon roe.
Smolts swam in their bellies.
Move closer, hear
the swell of secret waters.
The women married totem pole carvers
and bore fishers who pulled in full nets.
Each night the mothers reconstructed
the bones, threw them back to the sea,
and the salmon lived again.
Stay,
I will let you touch their fins.
Here, on my breast, see this rusty wound?
A cross marks the time the stories
dulled and Tyee took a new name
and began to live somewhere else—
across the sea in a garden where the plants
grow at the feet of men and women
and not through the trunks of their bodies.
Yes, you may kiss it.
Our garden was cleared,
and spirits shrank, hid in glass cages,
their moon faces darting through golden
liquid to burn hotly behind stupid tongues.
They will speak to you from my mouth
if you will just buy me a drink.
No, don’t go yet!
You haven’t seen it all.
For ten bucks I will show you
every scar on my body.
Another ten, you can make your own.
I will dance for you in a veil
of red waterfalls.
Stay, I am a prophet.
Angels visit me at night with pen knives.
I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan.
Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the yellow sandy loam.
Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches.
Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.
Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait.
Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat valley?
Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?
Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up.
Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up.
. . .
Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke—out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise—out of wild ducks woven in greens and purples—
Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want.
Out of log houses and stumps—canoes stripped from tree-sides—flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber claims—in the years when the red and the white men met—the houses and streets rose.
A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers, threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth.
In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter’s chatter, the police patrol, the song-whistle of the steamboat.
To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake.
I say to him: Brother, make the story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short.
They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens.
They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges.
They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost of late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market.
They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire.
Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o’clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled.
The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches—among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain—they keep old things that never grow old.
The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight,
The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a coon in a treetop at midnight, chewing a bone, chasing his tail round a corncrib,
The phantom of an old workhorse taking the steel point of a plow across a forty-acre field in spring, hitched to a harrow in summer, hitched to a wagon among cornshocks in fall,
These phantoms come into the talk and wonder of people on the front porch of a farmhouse late summer nights.
When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God’s Heaven.
When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose.
When the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath, sing for the outside hills: The Ole Sheep Done Know the Road, the Young Lambs Must Find the Way.
. . .
Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: “Any new songs for me? Any new songs?”
O prairie girl, be lonely, singing, dreaming, waiting—your lover comes—your child comes—the years creep with toes of April rain on new-turned sod.
O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never comes back—
There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley.
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
When sleepless, it’s helpful to meditate on mottoes of the states.
South Carolina, “While I breathe I hope.” Perhaps this could be
the new flag on the empty flagpole.
Or “I Direct” from Maine—why?
Because Maine gets the first sunrise? How bossy, Maine!
Kansas, “To the Stars through Difficulties”—
clackety wagon wheels, long, long land
and the droning press of heat—cool stars, relief.
In Arkansas, “The People Rule”—lucky you.
Idaho, “Let It Be Perpetual”—now this is strange.
Idaho, what is your “it”?
Who chose these lines?
How many contenders?
What would my motto be tonight, in tangled sheets?
Texas—“Friendship”—now boasts the Open Carry law.
Wisconsin, where my mother’s parents are buried,
chose “Forward.”
New Mexico, “It Grows As It Goes”—now this is scary.
Two dangling its. This does not represent that glorious place.
West Virginia, “Mountaineers Are Always Free”—really?
Washington, you’re wise.
What could be better than “By and By”?
Oklahoma must be tired—“Labor Conquers all Things.”
Oklahoma, get together with Nevada, who chose only
“Industry” as motto. I think of Nevada as a playground
or mostly empty. How wrong we are about one another.
For Alaska to pick “North to the Future”
seems odd. Where else are they going?
Poets.org writes that "Naomi Shihab Nye gives voice to her experience as an Arab-American through poems about heritage and peace that overflow with a humanitarian spirit."
let there be new flowering in the fields let the fields turn mellow for the men let the men keep tender through the time let the time be wrested from the war let the war be won let love be at the end
On her 36th birthday, Thomas had shown her
her first swimming pool. It had been
his favorite color, exactly—just
so much of it, the swimmers’ white arms jutting
into the chevrons of high society.
She had rolled up her window
and told him to drive on, fast.
Now this act of mercy: four daughters
dragging her to their husbands’ company picnic,
white families on one side and them
on the other, unpacking the same
squeeze bottles of Heinz, the same
waxy beef patties and Salem potato chip bags.
So he was dead for the first time
on Fourth of July—ten years ago
had been harder, waiting for something to happen,
and ten years before that, the girls
like young horses eyeing the track.
Last August she stood alone for hours
in front of the T.V. set
as a crow’s wing moved slowly through
the white streets of government.
That brave swimming
scared her, like Joanna saying
Mother, we’re Afro-Americans now!
What did she know about Africa?
Were there lakes like this one
with a rowboat pushed under the pier?
Or Thomas’ Great Mississippi
with its sullen silks? (There was
the Nile but the Nile belonged
to God.) Where she came from
was the past, 12 miles into town
where nobody had locked their back door,
and Goodyear hadn’t begun to dream of a park
under the company symbol, a white foot
sprouting two small wings.
The border is a line that birds cannot see.
The border is a beautiful piece of paper folded carelessly in half.
The border is where flint first met steel, starting a century of fires.
The border is a belt that is too tight, holding things up but making it hard to breathe.
The border is a rusted hinge that does not bend.
The border is the blood clot in the river’s vein.
The border says stop to the wind, but the wind speaks another language, and keeps going.
The border is a brand, the “Double-X” of barbed wire scarred into the skin of so many.
The border has always been a welcome stopping place but is now a stop sign, always red.
The border is a jump rope still there even after the game is finished.
The border is a real crack in an imaginary dam.
The border used to be an actual place, but now, it is the act of a thousand imaginations.
The border, the word border, sounds like order, but in this place they do not rhyme.
The border is a handshake that becomes a squeezing contest.
The border smells like cars at noon and wood smoke in the evening.
The border is the place between the two pages in a book where the spine is bent too far.
The border is two men in love with the same woman.
The border is an equation in search of an equals sign.
The border is the location of the factory where lightning and thunder are made.
The border is “NoNo” The Clown, who can’t make anyone laugh.
The border is a locked door that has been promoted.
The border is a moat but without a castle on either side.
The border has become Checkpoint Chale.
The border is a place of plans constantly broken and repaired and broken.
The border is mighty, but even the parting of the seas created a path, not a barrier.
The border is a big, neat, clean, clear black line on a map that does not exist.
The border is the line in new bifocals: below, small things get bigger; above, nothing changes.
The border is a skunk with a white line down its back.
“I saw a friend from growing up who’s been
living in L.A. for about twenty years, and I
heard him say, ‘I’m from L.A.,’ and I said,
‘No, man, you from Philly. We don’t give
nobody up.’”
—Khan Jamal
jazz vibraphonist
The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind happiness
not always being
so very much fun
if you don't mind a touch of hell
now and then
just when everything is fine
because even in heaven
they don't sing
all the time
The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind some people dying
all the timeor maybe only starving
some of the time
which isn't half bad
if it isn't you
Oh the world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't much mind
a few dead minds
in the higher places
or a bomb or two
now and then
in your upturned faces
or such other improprieties
as our Name Brand society
is prey towith its men of distinction
and its men of extinction
and its priests
and other patrolmen
and its various segregations
and congressional investigations
and other constipations
that our fool flesh
is heir to
Yes the world is the best place of all
for a lot of such things as
making the fun scene
and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
and singing low songs
and having inspirations
and walking around
looking at everything
and smelling flowers
and goosing statues
and even thinking
and kissing people and
making babies and wearing pants
and waving hats and
dancing
and going swimming in rivers
on picnics
in the middle of the summer
and just generally'living it up'
Yes
but then right in the middle of it
comes the smiling
mortician
Neither your face, Higera, nor your deeds
Are known to me; and death these many years
Retains you, under grass or forest-mould.
Only a rivulet bears your name: it runs
Deep-hidden in undeciduous redwood shade
And trunks by age made holy, streaming down
A valley of the Santa Lucian hills.
There have I stopped, and though the unclouded sun
Flew high in loftiest heaven, no dapple of light
Flecked the large trunks below the leaves intense,
Nor flickered on your creek: murmuring it sought
The River of the South, which oceanward
Would sweep it down. I drank sweet water there,
And blessed your immortality. Not bronze,
Higera, nor yet marble cool the thirst;
Let bronze and marble of the rich and proud
Secure the names; your monument will last
Longer, of living water forest-pure.
