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

A Song Of Life

In the rapture of life and of living,

I lift up my head and rejoice,

And I thank the great Giver for giving

The soul of my gladness a voice.

In the glow of the glorious weather,

In the sweet-scented, sensuous air,

My burdens seem light as a feather

They are nothing to bear.

In the strength and the glory of power,

In the pride and the pleasure of wealth

(For who dares dispute me my dower

Of talents and youth-time and health?) ,

I can laugh at the world and its sages

I am greater than seers who are sad,

For he is most wise in all ages

Who knows how to be glad.

I lift up my eyes to Apollo,

The god of the beautiful days,

And my spirit soars off like a swallow,

And is lost in the light of its rays.

Are tou troubled and sad? I beseech you

Come out of the shadows of strife

Come out in the sun while I teach you

The secret of life.

Come out of the world – come above it

Up over its crosses and graves,

Though the green earth is fair and I love it,

We must love it as masters, not slaves.

Come up where the dust never rises

But only the perfume of flowers

And your life shall be glad with surprises

Of beautiful hours.

Come up where the rare golden wine is

Apollo distills in my sight,

And your life shall be happy as mine is,

And as full of delight.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

An old life

Snow fell in the night.

At five-fifteen I woke to a bluish

mounded softness where

the Honda was. Cat fed and coffee made,

I broomed snow off the car

and drove to the Kearsarge Mini-Mart

before Amy opened

to yank my Globe out of the bundle.

Back, I set my cup of coffee

beside Jane, still half-asleep,

murmuring stuporous

thanks in the aquamarine morning.

Then I sat in my blue chair

with blueberry bagels and strong

black coffee reading news,

the obits, the comics, and the sports.

Carrying my cup twenty feet,

I sat myself at the desk

for this day's lifelong

engagement with the one task and desire.

by Donald Hall

What Is Life?

Resembles Life what once was held of Light,

Too ample in itself for human sight?

An absolute Self an element ungrounded

All, that we see, all colours of all shade

By encroach of darkness made?

Is very life by consciousness unbounded?

And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath,

A war-embrace of wrestling Life and Death?

by Samuel Coleridge

To Life

O life with the sad seared face,

I weary of seeing thee,

And thy draggled cloak, and thy hobbling pace,

And thy too-forced pleasantry!

I know what thou would'st tell

Of Death, Time, Destiny -

I have known it long, and know, too, well

What it all means for me.

But canst thou not array

Thyself in rare disguise,

And feign like truth, for one mad day,

That Earth is Paradise?

I'll tune me to the mood,

And mumm with thee till eve;

And maybe what as interlude

I feign, I shall believe!

by Thomas Hardy

Within the Circuit of This Plodding Life

Within the circuit of this plodding life

There enter moments of an azure hue,

Untarnished fair as is the violet

Or anemone, when the spring strews them

By some meandering rivulet, which make

The best philosophy untrue that aims

But to console man for his grievances

I have remembered when the winter came,

High in my chamber in the frosty nights,

When in the still light of the cheerful moon,

On every twig and rail and jutting spout,

The icy spears were adding to their length

Against the arrows of the coming sun,

How in the shimmering noon of summer past

Some unrecorded beam slanted across

The upland pastures where the Johnswort grew;

Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind,

The bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag

Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill,

Which now through all its course stands still and dumb

Its own memorial,—purling at its play

Along the slopes, and through the meadows next,

Until its youthful sound was hushed at last

In the staid current of the lowland stream;

Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned,

And where the fieldfare followed in the rear,

When all the fields around lay bound and hoar

Beneath a thick integument of snow.

So by God's cheap economy made rich

To go upon my winter's task again.

by Henry David Thoreau

From “Later Life”

We lack, yet cannot fix upon the lack:

Not this, nor that; yet somewhat, certainly.

We see the things we do not yearn to see

Around us: and what see we glancing back?

Lost hopes that leave our hearts upon the rack,

Hopes that were never ours yet seem’d to be,

For which we steer’d on life’s salt stormy sea

Braving the sunstroke and the frozen pack.

If thus to look behind is all in vain,

And all in vain to look to left or right,

Why face we not our future once again,

Launching with hardier hearts across the main,

Straining dim eyes to catch the invisible sight,

And strong to bear ourselves in patient pain?

Star Sirius and the Pole Star dwell afar

Beyond the drawings each of other’s strength:

One blazes through the brief bright summer’s length

Lavishing life-heat from a flaming car;

While one unchangeable upon a throne

Broods o’er the frozen heart of earth alone,

Content to reign the bright particular star

Of some who wander or of some who groan.

They own no drawings each of other’s strength,

Nor vibrate in a visible sympathy,

Nor veer along their courses each toward

Yet are their orbits pitch’d in harmony

Of one dear heaven, across whose depth and length

Mayhap they talk together without speech.

by Christina Rossetti

For the one who would not take his life in his hands

Athlete, virtuoso,

Training for happiness,

Bend arm and knee, and seek

The body's sharp distress,

For pain is pleasure's cost,

Denial is route

To speech before the millions

Or personal with the flute.

The ape and great Achilles,

Heavy with their fate,

Batter doors down, strike

Small children at the gate,

Driven by love to this,

As knock-kneed Hegel said,

To seek with a sword their peace,

That the child may be taken away

From the hurly-burly and fed.

Ladies and Gentlemen, said

The curious Socrates,

I have asked, What is this life

But a childermass,

As Abraham recognized,

A working with the knife

At animal, maid and stone

Until we have cut down

All but the soul alone:

Through hate we guard our love,

And its distinction's known.

by Delmore Schwartz

Ebony Life

A frightening stillness will mark that day

And the shadow of streetlights and fire-alarms will exhaust the light

All things, the quietest and the loudest, will be silent

The suckling brats will die

The tugboats the locomotives the wind will glide by in silence

We will hear the great voice which coming from far away will pass over the city

We will wait a long time for it

Then at the rich man's time of day

When the dust the stones the missing tears

form the sun's robe on the huge deserted squares

We shall finally hear the voice.

It will growl at doors for a long while

It will pass over the town tearing up flags and breaking windowpanes.

We will hear it

What silence before it, but still greater the silence

it will not disturb but will hold guilty will brand and denounce

Day of sorrows and joys

The day the day to come when the voice will pass over the city

A ghostly seagull told me she loved me as much as I loved her

That this great terrible silence was my love

That the wind carrying the voice was the great revolt of the world

And that the voice would look kindly on me.

by Robert Desnos

A Parody on “A Psalm of Life”

Life is real, life is earnest,
And the shell is not its pen –
“Egg thou art, and egg remainest”
Was not spoken of the hen.

Art is long and Time is fleeting,
Be our bills then sharpened well,
And not like muffled drums be beating
On the inside of the shell.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the great barnyard of life,
Be not like those lazy cattle!
Be a rooster in the strife!

Lives of roosters all remind us,
We can make our lives sublime,
And when roasted, leave behind us,
Hen tracks on the sands of time.

Hen tracks that perhaps another
Chicken drooping in the rain,
Some forlorn and henpecked brother,
When he sees, shall crow again.

by Oliver Wendell Holmes

A Natural Meeting Barrier

I really stared
I know it’s not polite to stare.
But the slits of her eyes were so narrow
I felt myself unnaturally squinting at her.
Because I wanted to know if she was looking at me—
Because she was an exotic Asian stereotype;
She had a math book in her little hands, moving her small circle lips,
Mouthing imaginary numbers to me.
Her hair was black black, that is describing the color of her hair;
(E.g. if her eyes were blue green; though, her eyes were also black)
She must have shampooed it one hundred times a day.
She moved her head sort of sideways when she smiled at me.
That made her hair move like those hippie-beads you find in loose doorways.
Her face was round and white but her cheeks were full with pink hue
I truly wanted
To ask if she used any make up.
Because I didn’t think she could look like a geisha naturally.
I decided she wasn’t wearing any, and if she was I didn’t care.
She wore so many clothes.
Not like those anime schoolgirls with tight tops and short skirts,
She had on an innocent pink dress like a tree peony flower,
That covered her skin on down to her ankles.
What flavorsome sugars were hidden from view?
She wore a black button coat opened up over her dress,
With bright purple slippers, pearls painted red;
They drew in my gaze to her gazelle neck.
I wanted to ease my hand around it to feel her pulse there.
I honestly needed
To say hello and goodbye,
But the barrier was our language.
So our smiles had to suffice.
If only I was in a band and could play her favorite techno music,
Was as smart as she was with math, in foreign languages,
To converse for a second, or ten decades with her.

by Aaron Barth-Martinson

Hymn To Life

The hair falling on your forehead

suddenly lifted.

Suddenly something stirred on the ground.

The trees are whispering

in the dark.

Your bare arms will be cold.

Far off

where we can't see,

the moon must be rising.

It hasn't reached us yet,

slipping through the leaves

to light up your shoulder.

But I know

a wind comes up with the moon.

The trees are whispering.

Your bare arms will be cold.

From above,

from the branches lost in the dark,

something dropped at your feet.

You moved closer to me.

Under my hand your bare flesh is like the fuzzy skin of a fruit.

Neither a song of the heart nor "common sense"--

before the trees, birds, and insects,

my hand on my wife's flesh

is thinking.

Tonight my hand

can't read or write.

Neither loving nor unloving...

It's the tongue of a leopard at a spring,

a grape leaf,

a wolf's paw.

To move, breathe, eat, drink.

My hand is like a seed

splitting open underground.

Neither a song of the heart nor "common sense,"

neither loving nor unloving.

My hand thinking on my wife's flesh

is the hand of the first man.

Like a root that finds water underground,

it says to me:

"To eat, drink, cold, hot, struggle, smell, color--

not to live in order to die

but to die to live..."

And now

as red female hair blows across my face,

as something stirs on the ground,

as the trees whisper in the dark,

and as the moon rises far off

where we can't see,

my hand on my wife's flesh

before the trees, birds, and insects,

I want the right of life,

of the leopard at the spring, of the seed splitting open--

I want the right of the first man.

by Nazim Hikmet