David X Novak
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Within Bold Hearts

8/31/2017

 
 
Nobody would be happier
To see his face upon the twenty
Than Andrew Jackson—crappier
A human being than others: plenty!

I once believed his lineage
Flowed in my veins, but if not blood
I know I own revulsion’s wage,
At least that much is understood.

That “filthy lucre” could not be
More filthy than with Jackson’s face--
Rendered less so symbolically
If Harriet Tubman’s should replace.

Except for Lincoln let us have
The lot of those white men replaced:
Sojourner Truth, who was a slave,
Or Douglass, who preached freedom’s taste.

Malcolm and Martin let us put
And John Brown also, to affirm
That liberty has taken root
Within bold hearts that do not squirm.

At the Crossroads

8/31/2017

 
​Millay was said to have regretted devoting so much literary effort to doggerel in the cause of activism. Said by Edmund Wilson, I imagine—though the haze of memory prohibits citation, and I may have it wrong.

The outrage she felt over the “failure of justice” in the case against Sacco and Vanzetti is well documented, but aside from some poems, the extent of her activism is unknown to me. Regardless, I have never considered “doggerel” in the service of a just cause to be misplaced; and production of literary masterpieces may not—indeed to the artist cannot—be of equal importance to heeding the dictates of one’s conscience, even at the sacrifice of “art.”

Poetry is not exactly an art, as I have said, but a “divine inspiration” if just of a minor sort, an offshoot of prophesy as Spenser said (again, pardon the lack of citation, for the same cause). However, “inspiration” is no guarantee of “quality,” and the worst drivel may be the most inspired. To the “creator” in contrast to the “consumer” it makes little difference (here using the popular terminology as a shorthand, although I don’t particularly subscribe to either term).

In my book, Small Poems, and more recently at this blog, I have devoted myself to popular (and no doubt) ephemeral causes: the quality cannot be spoken for and I hope that less frivolous pieces (if any) survive, though with the survival of humanity called into question the point becomes moot.

Some of these pieces have been written with a degree of inspiration, and some cobbled together entirely without. It may be counterproductive to post them all, as I have done, several in a day sometimes; but I live by the compulsion. Unless the political climate in America changes, I expect to continue acting in the same way, dislike it though I may but not regretting it. Go to my Books page and you will see I have a slew of work under the belt, and, while I regret being taken away from more esoteric endeavors, the climate is not amenable to the sort of work I did, nor will be—and I lack compunction to change.

Today—though I am not entirely clear why—I opened a Twitter account (and tweeted). It seems to be the medium of the day. Not long ago it was suggested to me that one of my blog poems ought to be tweeted. I had not given or did not give the matter much thought; but on the spur of the moment today I did so, though whether I will continue is unpredictable.

Not surprisingly DavidXNovak was unavailable as a handle, so I went with the title of my epic (or epic attempt), The Resurgiad: @TheResurgiad. I am not a luddite, but wary of devoting too much time to this or becoming addicted. The title was never an especially good title even for the poem, but, unlike that of my first long poem The Requiem, it has the advantage of being unique.

When I first heard Mozart I thought, “Oh, to live in a world of pure sound!” It would be pleasant, also, to live in a world of literature (pure or impure), however these times are not conducive to that, and we do not choose our times. 

The Church Hath Closed Its Doors

8/30/2017

 

Distraught and homeless, victims of the flood
Sought refuge in the high ground of the Church,
But the evangelist pastor understood
They ought for other benefactors search:

His Christianity was of the kind
That politicians preach, espoused self-love
Before the love of neighbors—deaf and blind
To suffering as ought the stone heart move.

Their Abdication

8/30/2017

 

The end of times was never in my scope
(Although I understood the end of hope).

What most surprised me was the abdication
By men of their humanity, my nation!

Dr. Biden’s Diagnosis

8/28/2017

 
“[I]f there’s one thing I know about the American people, it’s this: When it has mattered most, they have never let this nation down.” (Joe Biden, The Atlantic)
The patient’s musculature is tone,
    But hardly near the tonest,
The cause of illness is well-known:
    America got dishonest.

The doctor said, “America
    Is better than a conman,”
Holding its former health in awe,
    But he is only one man.

The medical establishment
    Has reached its own consensus,
As a condition by consent,
    “What slanders recompense us.

“At any rate, paralysis
    Seems unlikely to lessen:
A great frame laid to waste like this— 
    To see it is a lesson.”

But Dr. Biden shook his head,
    “My heart of heart believes
Cures may be found, but—spirit dead— 
    Time will bring no reprieves.”

Mind you, it was no conman’s fault:
    The poison self-ingested
Itself produced—no cause occult
    Men’s own hearts got infested.

Honesty as a state of health
    “Preventive medicine”
Maintains—slanders don’t come by stealth,
    In broad view lies begin.

Iceberg

8/28/2017

 

I bear my share of guilt for the injustice
Looming, although we never have discussed this— 
I’d rather I might die tonight, than see
Disaster come into proximity.

Upon this ocean, we ride this great craft,
Beneath the stars of night, and feel the draft
Of wind that carries spray into our faces— 
Humanity, thou host of grave disgraces!

The course is set—did we perhaps book passage
In premonition of impending wastage?
Lord, I am loath to see, and loath to pray,
But send my words to thee across the spray.

You Clown

8/27/2017

 

When you vote for dishonesty
    You reap that which you sow,
So do not now bemoan to me
    How things have gotten low— 

Your own disdain for virtue led
    In an unbroken line
To consequences that you fed
    When you were feeling fine.

So now you balk: monstrosity
    Has grown too large to handle,
But you supported villainy
    And were yourself the vandal.

What action, in this late date, can
    You offer of contrition?
Alas, I haven’t got a plan
    To remedy sedition.

Chin up, old boy (or girl) and let
    The thing come tumbling down— 
Who plays with water must get wet,
    You drenched, dishonest clown.

Be a Man, My Son

8/27/2017

 

The times are changing but—do not despair.
There is no age that lies beyond compare.
In all the annals of human endeavor
Men have survived, through faith, or being clever,
As some, without a doubt, unjustly perish— 
Yet life remains in prospect but to cherish.

Others have fared, for better or for worse,
Even as I, and nature runs its course:
For mankind, to retain the note of honor
In word and deed, without being a fawner
On those of power, or a sycophant:
The game lies not in winning what you want.

Blessings upon the man who meets with failure
Rather than him adorned in rich regalia
Of princely courtiership, devolve more surely,
And when retained, are held the more securely
Than by a man who never felt their lack:
Life may be borne though weathering the attack.

To die is not a curse: remember this.
Stagnancy rather, and paralysis
Remain the bane of life—holding one ground
Immutably, without a respite found.
If you must die, let it not be the same
As when into this world, a child, you came.

To Lay Aside Illusions

8/27/2017

 

To the extent a man identifies
    With “whiteness” is the same extent
To which he spends endorsing fakes and lies,
    Time which could be much better spent.

The “white men” have been tigers at the throats
    Of many not inferior,
Though terroristic propaganda dotes
    On allegation’s hollow core.

Whatever you may have been taught in school
    (From many a book that lines the shelf)
The levers of enslavement always cruel
    Are such no man desires himself.

Lay aside the illusion of improvement
    Brought to the slave by the enslaver,
“Civilization” preached by persons who’ve meant
    Nothing but insolent palaver.

To the extent you claim yourself as white,
    So far you are a terrorist
Without any emollient in sight
    To self-esteem—save you desist.

No Transport

8/27/2017

 

Several of nature’s people
    I know, and they know me— 
I feel for them a transport
    Of cordiality.

But many human ciphers
    I know not nor they me— 
I feel for them no transport,
    Only a nullity.

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