"when walking on earth is miracle enough" - a poem by Dennis Formento

when walking on earth is miracle itself
by Dennis Formento
(printed with permission)

when walking on earth is miracle itself
when cities are heat islands
where will you be, ten years on?
          if you know what's coming
          can you hope?
can you say so, can you say so
if you know what's coming
         and will anyone believe you?
         can you say so?
if you don't know what's coming and you act anyway
          is that hope? or the moment calling?

     maybe hope is
a work of many voices, all of them one voice
     the vision of many eyes, all of them one eye
when you see with one eye you see further
    “you live with your people as well as your ghosts.”

To keep your footing in the tidal wave,
     get used to the water,
take a ride down Carr Drive.

      Objects gathered on Carr Drive:
a wooden pelican, a weedy shrub grown in a concrete crevice,
          a child's life preserver,
a pair of pink goggles, a hard hat, and half a St. Joe brick.
          a morning glory twined around a tall weed
one nearly perfect pair of women's sandals.

Bridge up, bridge down, the train approaching, the expanse of water growing wider,
the acceptance of change, and the readiness to move on,
     strategy for survival-

maybe hope is the quality of non-expectation radiating love
struggle as if every second counts, or the line goes slack, & you're lost,

doesn't the earth create and maintain the conditions of life?
doesn't the moon rise and counter the steady sun?
where will you be, ten years from now?
where are you now?

what act restores the asylum
when walking on earth is miracle enough?

         Cities are heat islands
radiating deep into the night
         I woke up early,
quit driving by ten,
         the day bicycled under shade trees.

Is hope the desire
          for the arrival of
          the ideal state of things,
          the better day, tomorrow?
          Today
          Is.


(From “Blow,” commemorating the second anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, 8-29-07, commissioned by the St. Tammany Parish Arts Association.)

About Dennis Formento: He is a poet and performer with free jazz/free verse band, the Frank Zappatistas, and a publisher of Surregional Press. A New Orleans native, he now lives in Slidell, LA, with his wife, visual artist, Patricia Hart. His most recent book, Looking for an Out Place, was published in January of 2010 by FootHills Publishing of Kanona, NY (buy it here). His first cd of poetry and music has just been released, recorded with guitarist Ed Barrett as the duo Vecchio Frak (“old tail coat”).

Dictators make for lousy writers ...

Qaddafi wrote disturbing children's books like "The Astronaut's Suicide"; Saddam Hussein penned novels laden with profanity and laced with bestiality; Stalin wrote uninspiring poetry; and Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini wrote shockingly secular poetry. In all, dictators make for lousy writers.

A fun article examining the literary aspirations of some of the world's ruthless dictators can be found here.

Here is a quick sampling of their writings:

“Morning”

By Joseph Stalin

The pinkish bud has opened,

Rushing to the pale-blue violet

And, stirred by a light breeze,

The lily of the valley has bent over the grass.

The lark has sung in the dark blue,

Flying higher than the clouds

And the sweet-sounding nightingale

Has sung a song to children from the bushes.

Flower, oh my Georgia!

Let peace reign in my native land!

And may you, friends, make renowned

Our Motherland by study!

The Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini  wrote this unnamed poem I've dubbed "Tavern." It's actually not that bad and quite surprising considering the subject matter.

“The Tavern”
By Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini

Open the door of the tavern and let us go there day and night,
For I am sick and tired of the mosque and seminary.
I have torn off the garb of asceticism and hypocrisy,
Putting on the cloak of the tavern-hunting shaykh and becoming aware.
The city preacher has so tormented me with his advice
That I have sought aid from the breath of the wine-drenched profligate.
Leave me alone to remember the idol-temple,
I who have been awakened by the hand of the tavern's idol.

And finally, an excerpt of Saddam’s Zabiba and the King

Even an animal respects a man's desire, if it wants to copulate with him. Doesn't a female bear try to please a herdsman when she drags him into the mountains as it happens in the North of Iraq? She drags him into her den, so that he, obeying her desire, would copulate with her? Doesn't she bring him nuts, gathering them from the trees or picking them from the bushes? Doesn't she climb into the houses of farmers in order to steal some cheese, nuts and even raisins, so that she can feed the man and awake in him the desire to have her?

 (The book's English translator believes the bear is supposed to represent Russia.)