"Palin is the world’s worst sestina"

I'd like to refer readers to some poetic fun from The New York Times' book blog.

So what verse form suits the various candidates best? David Orr, author of the Book Review’s “On Poetry” column, offered this analysis: “Barack Obama is pretty clearly a haiku — quiet, unassuming, easy to underestimate. McCain is probably some species of ballad, especially considering his military background and fondness for ‘Invictus.’ Biden just keeps talking and talking, so he’s a rhopalic poem (each line is one syllable longer than the preceding line). Palin is the world’s worst sestina.”

Orr gamely attempted an anti-Biden haiku (“Barack Obama/ Such an articulate guy./ Clean, too, am I right?”), but his heart just wasn’t in it. “I think Palin is just inherently funnier than Biden,” he said, before letting it rip with this rather artful three-liner:

So jobs, they … you know,
Health care’s really …. it’s — Katie,
That bridge? I said no.

Multivoice poem: three fronts related to the GWOT

Intense: three battlegrounds, three stories, one event tying them all together
1. Sweat dripped down the interior of his damn clothes.
2. Sweat dropped from his brow as he stared at endless letters on the screen.
3. A bead of sweat swam down the darkened shoulder of the Marine.

1. Why must I wear these shameful rags, if only to fit in, he thought… it is a necessary disguise for the attack.
2. This is it, he thought, the reason he had become an analyst: to stop the terrorists who killed his mother.
3. Why the hell did he answer the call of patriotism from within him, why did he listen to that recruitment poster, he thought — who was this war protecting? He had enrolled after the terrorist attack; how could he be so naïve?

1. Was everything in place? He hoped so. The attack was soon.
2. He saw the sign, the attack is near; he raced to the office of his superior.
3. Another roadside bomb, another brother killed – more innocents too.

1. He fantasized more: Soon he would be in heaven, these infidels one and all burning in the flames of their own damnation.
2. The proof was in front of him, but no one would listen; arrogant national security bureaucrats cannot be reasoned with.
3. After the spike of adrenaline everyone must have felt, he slowed the vehicle down.

1. His brothers looked like they were soon to begin the operation.
2. He kicked the glass door, it did not break, but his toe hurt like hell, he didn’t know whether that was good or bad — there were more important things than a screwed toe about to happen.
3. Bullets rained upon the convoy, death followed in their trail.

1. A prayer was said; and then the attack began.
2. An hour later breaking news flashed across the television screen: terrorist attack.
3. War is a machine of death, killing those around you — killing those you know, and those you don’t. He was one of the lucky ones though. But why was he lucky? If only there were more.

Multi-voice poem on terrorism...

Throughout this month, I will be posting excerpts of my lengthy paper "The War on Terror and the Fire Paradox", as mentioned in this post. Here is one such excerpt... A multi-voice poem relating to the psychological and personal effects of terror.

'For a minute there, I lost myself'
They attack
I am scared
My government will protect me,
They say.

He felt scared
He felt afraid.
How could his great country,
The most powerful on the face of this heavenly earth,
Be attacked; brought to its knees?

Will I be next?
Will the terrorists kill me?
Why do they hate us?

Who is really threatening my way of life?
Is it the government, those claiming to fight the terrorists;
The terrorists themselves, the evil;
Or me —
Could it be me?
Could I be caving in to the politics of fear?

If he knew fear,
He knew irrationality.
He knew terror,
He knows terror.

In the wake of the attack,
I lost my rationality
I lost my mind,
I was scared
I let fear rule me.
I let the government rule me,
Using my fear of the terrorists and creating their own.
For a minute there, I lost myself.*


* The climactic point of the Radiohead song, "Karma Police".
See also "Why are we obsessed with terrorism?"

Three poems: "Materialism", "America, My America?", and "Ethics Versus Profit"

Here are three poems that I have written:

Materialism
For me, the clothes do not make the man or woman.
Sure, the man or woman makes the clothes,
But it is the mindset of the earthly objects we have that really matters
And how we treat more important things in relation to mere indulgences — and even selfishness

I do not like materialism
But I do like the materials.
Not that I am a materialist,
And I hope I am not too much of a hypocrite on the topic,
I treasure things I cannot touch or hold
More than I like the goods that so many nowadays think are essential
The game station, the car, the faded ripped jeans that cost a fifty times more than what they’re worth
Even when they are, in reality, not bare necessities.
For me it’s the
Expression of ideas, the learning, the feelings and senses,
Even the song constantly ringing throughout my head.

So many imaginations and minds have been corrupted
With the poison of being one of many,
Instead of being one of one
Being original, not having to fit in or feel the need to fit in.

I encounter materialism every day,
I am saturated in its greed
But also its usefulness and convenience.


America, My America?
I live in America
But does that make me an American?
Is being an American a choice,
Or is it the gift or curse I was born with?
I really don't believe in fate.
Or am I American because I live in the United States of America?
Is that my choice either?

Others consider me an American
Because where I live (the United States)
But do I fit the stereotype America has set for itself,
And that its residents have set for themselves?
I believe in human rights, international law, and civic duty,
All of which are human societal creations.

I don't approve of torture,
Or fear mongering,
Or thinking that you are either with or against me,
All of which are common American traits and generalizations.
Maybe I am not an American;
I do know that I am human,
And part of the Earthly human race.
Until, if ever,
I sort out what being an American means,
I still have that identity.
I am human.

The American Dream is a lie,
It is not a reality
Nor is it a certain thing: it is how people make it out to be.
That’s why it’s called a dream.
I do not want to live the American Dream though
I want to live my own dream of success.


Ethics Versus Profit
In our society, materials seem to make the man — or woman,
That’s not how it should be.
On one hand, everyone must earn a living
Even if their job distills values from people or exploits our planet
On the other hand, how could they make a living if there are no people and no Earth?
What if their success resulted in the destroying of people and planet?
Ethics versus profit. Has society run amok?

We need to find a balance, that is how nature works
That is how the human race has gotten this far
Moderation, yin and yang
A balance between good and evil, even if evil means success.
Even if evil is good to some, it is not good for all or most.
Even if good is evil to some, it is not evil for all or most.


I look forward to posting more often than I have been the past couple months.