Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Introducing: Featured Poet: CaLokie!


With a big smile and a special wink, I am delighted to present one of my favorite poets, known to all who love him (and that's everyone who knows him) as CaLokie. His strong, insightful verse speaks for our time, speaks what needs to be spoken, says what we all want to say and with a critical keen eye and voice, he's salvaging the best and dumping the rest in a society gone mad. He's hilariously funny, and dead serious. He's critically sharp, sarcastic and intense, yet loving, emotionally gentle and dear. Born during the depression, in Oklahama, he came to California in 1959 and taught in the Los Angeles school district for 30 years. His pen name was inspied by the joads struggle for survival in Grapes of Wrath and the songs and life of fellow Okie, Woodie Gutherie. He's published many poems in journals and is loved as a guest reader for his fantastic presence and animated readings. His poetry is always full of bold, unexpected imagery, and his voicing of them adds a dimension beyond the norm, to say the least. I am hoping to add sound files to this page as soon as possible, so you can enjoy that feature of his poetry. Although he made a brief appearance on the former DMV poetry site before it ended, he is mostly not known to online poetry communities, so I feel especially honored to be able to present his work here. I'll also in the coming days add an album of photos so you can get a look at his effect on audiences. We are enormously lucky to have him at our local readings in Pasadena and at the Thursday Night Poetry Workshop at the Wilson's each week. CaLokie's favoritw tee shirt reads: "Peace and Justice: Weapons of Mass Instruction". We'll start with a brief selection.

Love a Duck


Lord


Lord
love a duck


Lord
love a duck in
the back of a truck


Lord
love a duck
and a mutt in the
back of a dump truck


Lord
love a duck
named Bucky and
a mutt called Butterball
in the back of a dump truck


Lord
love a drunk
duck named Bucky and
a dumb mutt called Butterball
in the back of a dump truck stuck in
the middle of the muddle of the race track


Lord
love a drunk
duck named Bucky and
a dumb mutt called Butterball
who both throw up in the back of
a dump truck stuck in the middle of the
muddle of the muddy race track of Aqueduct


An Ode to Barbaro


What kind of racehorse would Barbaro have been?
How would he have gone down in history
If, instead of a leg broken at Preakness, it was a win?


He won the Kentucky Derby by a six length margin
And was a champion on dirt and grass like John Henry.
What kind of racehorse would Barbaro have been?


He had run seven races and was unbeaten.
What do you think would be his legacy
If, instead of a leg broken at Preakness, it was a win?


He had this incredible speed and stamina blend.
Who can forget his turf triumph at the Laurel Futurity?
What kind of racehorse would Barbaro have been?


A colt like him doesn’t come along that often.
Would there have been at Belmont a triple crown victory
If, instead of a leg broken at Preakness, it was a win?


Like Keats too soon a promising life comes to an end.
When will we witness again such truth and beauty?
What kind of racehorse would Barbaro have been
If, instead of a leg broken at Preakness, it was a win?




Me and Jim


Jim Feliz is half Apache
but looks more Indian than Mexican
I am a little Cherokee and Irish
some Brit blood
The rest of my DNA--the San Gabriel Valley
Poets Tribe


We both have the same animal guides--
horses
That’s how we met each other
at Santa Anita


Because of his surname kids at school
would greet Jim, ” Felix the Cat
the wonderful, wonderful cat...”
That’s why he always bets on any horse
with a cat in their name like Outlaw Cat
Apollo’s Scat Kat or El Gato Famoso
He also has a feline named Tiger
who’s the light of his life


When we go to the races we don’t sit
in the grandstand as Bukowski did
but at one of the tables
in this pavilion outside of it
Often a lot of blackbirds flock nearby
and so we’ll share with our winged
brothers and sisters any corn chips
or pretzels we may bring


You see we feel we’re a part of nature
not separate from it
like you European Americans think
That’s why we don’t pollute Mother Earth
like you guys are always doin’


We have this reverence toward creation
which, frankly, you non-indigenous
would do well to emulate
I mean spirituality isn’t a go to church
or synagogue once a week thing with us
but something we do daily
Me and Jim, for example, carry with us
wherever we go
our own incense--cigars


When we breathe in its holy smoke
it’s meditation and then after a long
slow exhale
it’s sent back to Father Sky
as prayer


Now don’t get us wrong
When we win a big bet, we don’t do no dumb thing
like say that we give all the credit to the Great Spirit
Otherwise we’d have to blame G.S. whenever bad things
happen to good handicappers, wouldn’t we?
When one of our horses which would
have given us a huge payoff wins
but is disqualified by a steward’s inquiry
instead of cursing
we’re stoical


When successful at the track, we celebrate
with a shrimp taco dinner at Señor Fish
or a double cheeseburger with soda at Tommy’s
When not, we take solace from listening
to the blues on my car stereo


Yeah
We feast more on blues
than tacos or cheeseburger combos
but hey
a good fast has never hurt nobody
has it?

Every Five Seconds*


I look around and dead people are all that I can see.
650,000 Iraqis have died since the United States invasion.
Every five seconds a child dies because that child is hungry.


President Bush says he'll stick by the figure of 30,000 dead Iraqis.
But still too many innocent have died and he sends his consolation.
I look around and dead people are all that I can see.


25,000 people condemned every day to die from poverty.
720 children per hour, 12 per minute--dead from starvation.
Every five seconds a child dies because that child is hungry.


On 911, 3,000 people died and changed everything it seems.
But everyday 16 skyscrapers of famished inmates perish by hunger’s execution.
I look around and dead people are all that I can see


Nine million people -- six million of them juveniles and babies--
Complete life’s journey by what Nazis called the “final solution.”
Every five seconds a child dies because that child is hungry.


The wealthy few profit from a global market which excludes the needy--
Those whose malnourished bodies will be buried with little, if any lamentation.
I look around and dead people are all that I can see.
Every five seconds a child dies because that child is hungry.


* This villanelle is based on an email post by Marc Norton called, ALL I SEE ARE DEAD PEOPLE and which was first published in BEYOND CHRON, October 20, 2006 http://www.beyondchron.org/news/index.php?itemid=3812

A Marxist Mother Goose Tale

This is the house that Jack built

This is the fair day’s wage
that Jack’s paid for a fair day’s work to build the house

This is the apartment
that Jack pays half of a fair day's wages to rent
that’s half of the size of the house that he built

This is the malt
that lay in the apartment
that Jack pays half of a fair day's wages to rent
that’s half of the size of the house that he built

This is the rat
that ate the malt
that lay in the apartment
that Jack pays half of a fair day's wages to rent
that’s half of the size of the house that he built

Jack’s landlord did not buy a cat
to kill the rat
that ate the malt
that lay in the apartment
that Jack pays half of a fair day's wages to rent
that’s half of the size of the house that he built
He bought the house that Jack built

This is the apartment
that Jack pays 65% of a fair day's wages to rent
that’s half of the size of the house that he built
And still there’s no cat
to kill the rat

Sunday, February 04, 2007

Featured Poet: Michael Dunn

It is an honor and delight to introduce Michael Dunn, of Frederick, Maryland, as our first featured poet of 2007. I have come to know him as a fine writer over the past few years, and as a true and playful friend, through interview experience, poetic interchange and our humorous tongue-in-cheek exaggerated metaphorical history (more on that later). His beautiful new book Beyond Door's Threshold Light, New and Selected Poems 1995–2005, has been recently published. The collectible hard-cover, and soft cover editions are available online. His next book, poems 2005–2007 ". . . less than forty words per minute." will be available in May, 2007. See his book page for details about this upcoming book. With his permission, I have chosen some of my favorite poems from "Beyond Door's Threshold Light" and the keynote poem for "...less than forty words per minute" and presented them here for your enjoyment:


on the shelf where I used to live

within the small expanse of bookends
where I shared a life with you—

we, no longer of that compass, naïveté
smiles focused one to the other—

did time's pernicious dust gather
upon the fleeting years; until,
having had its final say,

came at last to repose
amongst shards of broken glass

in once-forgotten boxes still
full of memories when


Copyright © 2006 Michael Dunn
from "Beyond Door's Threshold Light"

Reflection

Time, how insidious you are!
Staring into morning’s clouded mirror,
Through steamy shower droplets,
I recognize you!

Insatiable and inexorable horologe of fate!
You return relentlessly to your quarry—
Youth, transient as rose’s petal,
Ephemeral as morning’s dew.


Copyright © 2006 Michael Dunn
from "Beyond Door's Threshold Light"

Beyond Door's Threshold Light

When darkness settled
within my room
and tears began
to fall, for fear
of what lay hid
behind long shadows
and great walls;

and, beneath the bed,
just below my head,
some scratching and
some sighs, as
curtains blew, the shades
they grew, six arms
and ten troll eyes!

Then her voice I’d hear,
so soft and dear,
beyond door’s threshold
light, saying Hush my
darling, don’t fear my
darling, momma’s here
to make it right.

She was Doris Day,
with a Garland sway,
and soothing was her
sight; as she held me
close, I would quickly
doze, listening to
her song so light:

You may not be an angel
Cause angels are so few
But until the day
That one comes along
I'll string along with you.

Many years have passed
since those fearful nights,
and her song that soothed
my fright; but sometimes,
still, I can hear her voice,
beyond door’s threshold light.


Copyright © 2006 Michael Dunn
from "Beyond Door's Threshold Light"


C'était en Septembre


A rare hurricane torments
open window curtains
angrily leafing well-worn

pages of Balzac on a
nightstand, distracting
attention from perfumed

softness mingled with
womanly scents that rise
from anticipating, quivering

hips in their awkward
nakedness; intruding,
as eager hands, fumbling

with unfamiliarity, longing,
and desire join hungry lips—
wet, pulsating, greedy,

alive in the excitement of the
moment—speaking the language
of passion no storm can quell.

Copyright © 2006 Michael Dunn
from "Beyond Door's Threshold Light"


studying my own epitaph upon an early winter's eve


beneath
black locust’s great
moss-covered roots a soul
long-dead still lies and listens for
his muse


Copyright © 2006 Michael Dunn

All Rights Reserved.
from "Beyond Door's Threshold Light"




about me?

"well,
there's not that much
to
say
about
me,

really;

except,
maybe,
that
I
can
type

less
than
forty
words
per
minute."



Copyright © 2007 Michael Dunn
All Rights Reserved.
from "...less than forty words per minute"


************************************************************************



As a reminiscence and tribute, here is the spotlight feature Kath wrote honoring Michel Dunn for the former Poetry DMV, (slightly edited for present use):
An Ode to Michael Dunn (spotlight for July, 2006)

Oh Michael Dunn, he's the one, we're in for literary fun. Now he's here, now he's not, spotlight's caught him, glowing, hot.

Man mysterious, enigmatic bard, loving father, charming, modest, working hard.

His mother's words sing in his heart, his Irish blood's a thing apart. Only one month on Ireland's west coast shores, read what he's penned, you'd thing 'twas more.

For love of Ireland's rich deep soil, his heart does sing, and yearn for more. His one attempt at moving there, he found his love who lured him where?

Right to Fredrick, Maryland, the old bloke, writing technical manuals for nearby Montgomery College folk. He steals a moment left and right to jot a poem, strong and bright.

He's overcome with life's small sights, a photograph, a bug, the light. Inspired by ordinary things, nature's wonder, firefly wings.

He's drawn to forms to play and try, but his heart's own pulse he hears alive. He'll alter those to his own ear, as foremost guide, he knows no fear.

A flood of poems, every kind, all forms and styles, poetic finds since '95. From small to universal themes his verses from his days are gleaned. He'll tip the glass of Irish brew, in fact he'll make a drink for you.

For years he'd type away all day, and bartend nights and drink, he'd play guitar, and sing his songs, but now after work he pens his poems. One job's enough, his true love smiles, we're benefiting all the while!

His poetry began as prose, epiphanic stories those. Bernard Malmud, Joyce inspired, autobiograhically driven, insights given.

Unpredictability's at his soul, undone himself by traits of old. Smitten by the temporary as his rule, he'll follow no one way or school. Profoundly felt, with playful ways, his poems, his patterns grace our days.
*****************************************************************

And finally, to explain our "exaggerated metaphorical history", Here's Kath's poem that (by default) won Michael's (Irish themed) Contest last year at PoetryDMV, in which she teasingly and facetiously accused him of fathering her children, thus making him her imagined "ex" which we continue with ongling playful banter:
'Tis Michael Dunn That Done It

Now Michael Dunn, what have ya done?
Me belly's swollen tubby!
"Me Donegal lass, ' twas not me
Ye best go ask yer hubbie!"

Now Mic, yerself--their winsome looks--
Young Tim and sweet Colleen!
"C'mere Lassie now", I'll raise me glass,
"Me thinks you've had a dream!"

Now Mic me dear, a grandson hardy,
In twinklin' of an eye...
Tim's wee lad, Dylan MacKenzie, says
Now Grandad, don't be shy!

And many a lovely lass has told
This self-same story true,
They're smilin' all with Irish eyes
Set smartly right at you:

"Now true and fair as I have writ,
'Tis Michael Dunn that done it!"

copyright, 2006
Kath Wilson