Inaugural Poem

A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Marked the mastodon.The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow. I will give you no more hiding place down here. You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness, Have lain too long Face down in ignorance. Your mouths spilling words Armed for slaughter. The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me, But do not hide your face. Across the wall of the world, A River sings a beautiful song, Come rest here by my side. Each of you a bordered country, Delicate and strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. Your armed struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast. Yet, today I call you to my riverside, If you will study war no more. Come, Clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I and the Tree and the stone were one. Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your Brow and when you yet knew you still Knew nothing. The River sings and sings on. There is a true yearning to respond to The singing River and the wise Rock. So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew The African and Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher. They hear. They all hear The speaking of the Tree. Today, the first and last of every Tree Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River. Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River. Each of you, descendant of some passed On traveller, has been paid for. You, who gave me my first name, you Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of Other seekers--desperate for gain, Starving for gold. You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot ... You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare Praying for a dream. Here, root yourselves beside me. I am the Tree planted by the River, Which will not be moved. I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree I am yours--your Passages have been paid. Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you. History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, and if faced With courage, need not be lived again. Lift up your eyes upon The day breaking for you. Give birth again To the dream. Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands. Mold it into the shape of your most Private need. Sculpt it into The image of your most public self. Lift up your hearts Each new hour holds new chances For new beginnings. Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness. The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change. Here, on the pulse of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out upon me, the Rock, the River, the Tree, your country. No less to Midas than the mendicant. No less to you now than the mastodon then. Here on the pulse of this new day You may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister's eyes, into Your brother's face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning. By GlenPoetra

Voltaire at Ferney

Perfectly happy now, he looked at his estate.

An exile making watches glanced up as he passed

And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast,

A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell

Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well.

The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.

Far off in Paris where his enemies

Whsipered that he was wicked, in an upright chair

A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write,

"Nothing is better than life." But was it? Yes, the fight

Against the false and the unfair

Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilize.

Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all,

He'd had the other children in a holy war

Against the infamous grown-ups; and, like a child, been sly

And humble, when there was occassion for

The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,

But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.

And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win:

Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest

Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,

And only himself to count upon.

Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;

Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in.

Night fell and made him think of women: Lust

Was one of the great teachers; Pascal was a fool.

How Emilie had loved astronomy and bed;

Pimpette had loved him too, like scandal; he was glad.

He'd done his share of weeping for Jerusalem: As a rule,

It was the pleasure-haters who became unjust.

Yet, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,

Earthquakes and executions: soon he would be dead,

And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses

Itching to boil their children. Only his verses

Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead,

The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.

By GlenPoetra

Get Drunk

Always be drunk.

That's it!

The great imperative!

In order not to feel

Time's horrid fardel

bruise your shoulders,

grinding you into the earth,

get drunk and stay that way.

On what?

On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.

But get drunk.

And if you sometimes happen to wake up

on the porches of a palace,

in the green grass of a ditch,

in the dismal loneliness

of your own room,

your drunkenness gone or disappearing,

ask the wind,

the wave,

the star,

the bird,

the clock,

ask everything that flees,

everything that groans

or rolls

or sings,

everything that speaks,

ask what time it is;

and the wind, 

the wave, 

the star, 

the bird, 

the clock

will answer you:

"Time to get drunk!

Don't be martyred slaves of Time,

Get drunk!

Stay drunk!

On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"

By GlenPoetra

I shall imagine life

I shall imagine life

is not worth dying, if

(and when) roses complain

their beauties are in vain

but though mankind persuades

itself that every weed's

a rose, roses (you feel

certain) will only smile

by E. E. Cummings

In the Morning of Life

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,

And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,

When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,

And the light that surrounds us is all from within;

Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time

We can love, as in hours of less transport we may; --

Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime,

But affection is truest when these fade away.

When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return,

When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,

First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn;

Then, then in the time when affection holds sway

With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew;

Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they,

But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true.

In climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers,

Their sighs have no freshness, their odour no worth;

'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers

That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth.

So it is not 'mid splendour, prosperity, mirth,

That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears;

To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth,

But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.

by Thomas Moore

July 4TH

And the three-year-old at the picnic

said she wanted to play the violin

and I said, just like Joe Venuti

and she said, you’re a Joe Venuti

and I said, you’re a Joe Venuti

and she pulled a tuft of grass and said,

here's some Joe Venuti

and she pointed to a sparrow scratching in the dust

and said, there’s a Joe Venuti

and from a plastic bag she dumped

a bunch of Joe Venutis

and barbecue flames caressed the grilling Joe Venutis

and men threw the Joe Venuti, popping their gloves,

while women slurped the Joe Venuti and spit the seeds

and the sun played hide and seek in dissipating Joe Venutis

and through poplar branches Joe Venuti shadows danced

across the baby’s sleeping smile.

Later, like Marcus Aurelius

observing models of human behavior,

we watched the ducks glide away

after the bread was gone.

Originally published in Oxford Magazine, Volume 5, # 2 (Spring-Summer 1989)
and Music from Words (Bellday Books, 2007); 
nominated by Oxford Magazine for The Pushcart Prize.

Marc Jampole
5889 Aylesboro Avenue
Pittsburgh, PA 15217
mjampole@verizon.net

by Marc Jampole

All My Past Life...

All my past life is mine no more,

The flying hours are gone,

Like transitory dreams given o'er,

Whose images are kept in store

By memory alone.

What ever is to come is not,

How can it then be mine?

The present moment's all my lot,

And that as fast as it is got,

Phyllis, is wholly thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,

False hearts, and broken vows,

Ii, by miracle, can be,

This live-long minute true to thee,

'Tis all that heaven allows.

by John Wilmot