Five Years Gone
a collection of poetry
by Jack Vivace
Copyright 2012 Jack Vivace
Lyrical Terrorism
It is easy to be brave
when you write for your notebook
and your audience of ink,
but the larger crowd asks for more.
Give them
the star-glinting
knife, a forgotten bayonet.
Turn your head,
stretch your neck
so that you feel the tendons
below the ear pull tight
on the right side
and present yourself
with all the dignity you can muster.
Let them take your head
if it pleases them so,
the queens and mothers
set upon you.
If you are worth tearing
limb from limb,
your mouth will speak
though your eyes are closed.
A young woman in England was convicted of “possessing records likely to be useful in terrorism,” which seem to have consisted mostly of internet files on the same stuff Paladin Press used to cover except with a Jihadist slant. I came across this story, however, because most of the press seems to be going to the fact that she wrote poetry about her beliefs.
Among the evidence presented at her trial were some of the poems she wrote about jihad, including one called How to Behead. The Daily Mail has longer extracts of the poem. It’s decent poetry with attention to detail, though it looks like her grammar could use some work.
I’m left wondering why the focus of this case is on her poetry, though. Surely the crime here is the possession of this “terrorism library,” since that’s what she was charged with. As far as I know (and correct me if I’m wrong), it’s not illegal to write poetry about jihad or other unpleasant topics in the UK. Have we finally come back around as a society to a place where poetry can be scandalous again? If so, I find that an oddly exciting place to be. Growing up long after Ginsberg’s obscenity was forgotten and in an age where I can’t imagine police caring what’s recited at a poetry reading, I’ve wondered what it was like to write poetry that can have so solid an impact that people seek to shut it up.
Maybe we’re ready for poetry to be dangerous again.
Waiting for the Supreme Court to Ask Me Out On a Date
I can dye my hair
and cover the scars
but I always stare too long
at the wanted poster
in the post office, distracted
as I ask for stamps, waiting
for the clerk to notice.
I’m passing for a person,
with rights and opportunities.
I’ve seen what happens
to the ones who get caught.
Their pictures come down
in the post office
and they’re never
seen again, invisible
on the streetcorners.
I’m waiting, pretending
I’m not waiting. If I cut off
the circulation to my head, I can
pass out and wake up over the rainbow
or at least after the waiting’s over.
Mango
I climb the tree because I can.
It splits near the base,
spreads wide, a great climbing tree.
I’m used to pine trees and apples,
where I had to slither between branches
to reach the prize above.
The mangoes are golden.
I grab one and settle
into the cradle of the branches,
slice it open with my pocket-knife
and suck on the fruit.
Everything is extra sweet in Negros,
where sugar grows plentiful and cheap.
The soda, the pastries.
Even the fruit makes my teeth hurt.
I was a different person
surrounded by sugar and sun
and golden fruit and coconuts.
I don’t think it’s an accident
that I only see mangoes
green and tinged with
pink embarrassment
on American shores.
Conquest
When you sit across from Moctezuma
and smile into the narrowed eyes of his court
and think of the rumors of dead, white gods,
something jerks like a bad tooth,
wriggles like a fat worm under the eye of
a hungry bird or snake. You wonder
in both senses of the word, at the idea
that you are their god reincarnate.
At night, in your private quarters, so far
from Spain and even Cuba, maybe you let
yourself believe it. You judge your
followers unworthy of you, or you doubt
your decisions. Finally you fall asleep
and you dream of the sky and feathers,
scales, freedom, and worship below.
Tagalo(n)g
Real shivers come only before dawn,
discotheque Christmas left behind me
in rave-colored shadows,
and I’m only a little drunk, really.
The streetlights are voided out
and the cabs asleep as I wander
too far in the dark, mumbling to myself,
seeing line breaks among the narration.
Now! I feel like a real writer
here in my foreign country
doing stupid things
in the guise of adventures.
By the time I’m talking straight again
the horizon’s shaded in mango flowers,
chill has become afterglow
and the shouts of balut vendors.
The poem ceased to exist
as I recited, this self is ceasing,
built on the beach and
high tide is my visa date.
I’m always lost, even when I know
where I am, among sky blue markets,
rainbow jitneys mirroring each other
until my sense leads me
somewhere.
And a where is not lost.
Somewhere the bells
are asking me to visit the dawn mass.
Here my visa lasts only
an hour, an obvious tourist,
as I sit back and watch
glass-stained angels circle.
It only looks like Sunday.
I know better. Sunday is when
I leave. Until then it is
always Saturday night.
The sun is fully blooming,
I blink into the light and flag
a jitney and ride this time,
figuring out where I’m going.