National Center For Missing & Exploited Children
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Fernando Pessoa writing as Alberto Caeiro
from ASSORTED POEMS
The startling reality of things
Is my discovery every single day.
Every thing is what it is,
And it’s hard to explain to anyone how much this delights
Me
And suffices me.
To be whole, it is enough simply to exist.
I’ve written a good many poems.
I shall write many more, naturally.
Each of my poems speak of this,
And yet all my poems are different,
Because each thing that exists is one way of saying this.
I don’t start thinking, Does it have feeling?
I don’t fuss about calling it my sister.
But I get pleasure out of its being a stone,
Enjoying it because it feels nothing,
Enjoying it because it’s not at all related to me.
Occasionally I hear the wind blow,
And I find that just hearing the wind blow makes it worth
Having been born.
I don’t know what others reading this will think;
But I find it must be good since it’s what I think without
effort,
With no idea that other people are listening to me think;
Because I think it without thoughts,
Because I say it as my words say it.
I was once called a materialist poet
And was surprised, because I didn’t imagine
I could be called anything at all.
I’m not even a poet: I see.
If what I write has any merit, it’s not in me;
There merit is there, in my verses.
All this is absolutely independent of my will.
from POEMS OF FERNANDO PESSOA
Translated and edited by Edwin Honig and Susan M. Brown
On Tuesday, November 21, 2006 three Atlanta narcotic officers with a “No-Knock” warrant entered the home of 92-year-old Kathryn Johnston and shot and killed her. They claim, after breaking down her door, Ms. Johnston opened fire, shooting each of them before they returned fire. According the Medical Examiner’s report, she was shot twice in the chest and in “other extremities”.
The officers said an informant purchased drugs at the home earlier in the day and the reason for the “No-Knock” warrant was because the dealer, a man named “Sam”, kept the house under constant video surveillance. The unnamed informant has since come forward claiming he was coerced into stating there were drugs in the house by police after the shooting in order to cover up the incident. “An insignificant amount” of marijuana was found in the house but not the crack cocaine alleged being sold on the premises.
Initially, only the three officers involved were placed on leave without pay pending investigation. After the informant’s confession and other inconsistent testimonies from the officers, Atlanta’s police chief placed eight members of Atlanta’s narcotic’s division on administrative leave, stating “somebody is lying”. He has asked the FBI and GBI to investigate. The informant is now in protective custody.
Links on the case and the Supreme Court’s ruling on “No-Knock” warrants.
92-year-old killed in ‘roughest neighborhood in Georgia’
Atlanta Police Chief: Sombody is Lying
Family Questions Shooting; Informant Says He Lied About Drugs
Drugs in House of Georgia Woman, 92, Shot By Police
The Danger of No Knock Warrants
No SWAT - The Most Important Supreme Court Case You’ve Never Heard About
Richard v. Wisconsin No. 96-5955. Argued March 24, 1997 — Decided April 28, 1997
While not entirely related, I found an interesting thread started by an officer on Officer.com addressed to non-law enforcement regarding citizens’ right to resist unlawful arrests by police.
On Saturday, November 25, 2006 five police officers opened fire on three unarmed men as they were driving away from a bachelor party, killing 23-year-old Sean Bell and wounding his two friends, Joseph Guzman and Trent Benefield. The police fired 50 times at the men and one officer discharged his weapon 31 times. Guzman was hit 11 times and Benefield 3 times. As of Sunday, Guzman was in critical condition and Benefield was stable. Although the officers involved say they believed one of the men had a gun, it is still unclear what made the police start shooting.
The officers have been placed on paid leave pending investigation.
The police department’s policy on shooting at moving vehicles states: “Police officers shall not discharge their firearms at or from a moving vehicle unless deadly force is being used against the police officers or another person present, by means other than a moving vehicle.”
New York police shoot three men leaving bachelor party, killing groom-to-be
NYC police shoot groom hours before wedding
NY police kill man on wedding day
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Interacting Spiral Galaxies NGC 2207 and IC 2163
Astronomers certainly lack the naming conventions of poets although I suppose this saves us from a universe filled with galaxies named after flowers, daughters and porn stars.
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From The Propaganda Remix Project by Micah Ian Wright.
Technorati Tags: propaganda remix project micah ian wright
The following poem was one I wrote shortly after the death of Johnny Cash. There’s no real story behind it, other than the need to clarify who “Johnny” and “Leonard” are for those who don’t know me very well.
Johnny is gone and Leonard is dying.
My grief is premature, lacking the eloquent silence and
sardonic acceptance of their respective offerings.
My grief is premature, lacking the eloquent silence and
sardonic acceptance of their respective offerings.
I claim them as my own;
not as cousin, brother, father, grandfather or great,
lover or husband,
or otherwise part of that euphemistically shallow
brotherhood of man.
They have left and are leaving me.
I prepare my body for a crash,
cover my head and face with my arms and hands.
- Soon
I will have everything possible of all that promise.
Too soon, everything else, possible or not, will be too late.
I am glad we never met, though they were destined to be mine.
Two old men, however wise and inspired,
still thrill to the whirl of a girl.
A horny prophet can weaken the message;
a starry-eyed girl caught a coin flip between curiosity and irritation.
Brilliant men find ways to make a naked woman essential to any lesson.
Johnny is gone and Leonard is dying.
My father has given up his children.
The old keep getting older and I am catching up.
Given how well worn the path, aging should not be so isolating.
I am no longer a child;
born and left alone to navigate the world without the necessary skills.
I could almost hate for that kind of indifference.
Dreams are slowly replacing memories.
My father is no longer easily recognizable; a shadow
who owns the voice, the face
and I struggle with choices he has made for us.
It makes little difference the how or why of it.
My dreams need to be my own again.
The old man and his paramour should take a hike,
haunt some other soul.
Why they linger now brings up images of crow scenting carrion.
Johnny is gone and Leonard is dying.
I do not recognize my own father. The truth is no longer comforting.
They have left and are leaving me.
Someone whispers, “Let them go.”
We all believe in our father’s gods for a while.
I may not believe in you anymore
but I still believe in the music.
(In this lonely place)
I hold onto my singers of songs,
memories of my old man and his phantoms of divinity;
as old men gather to recreate creation,
talk big as if they’ve seen it,
weep openly for having no words to describe it.
Their need for gods is why we need music
(and maybe the how or why of it.)
For it is not so great a trick to win the crowd. All that is needed is some talent, a certain dose of falsehood, and a little acquaintance with human passions.
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Listen to Robert Siegel’s interview with Tom Waits on NPR’s All Things Considered about his new album, Oprhans: Brawlers, Bawlers & Bastards released on November 21, 2006.
More images of our gorgeous world from photographer Ladislav Kamarad can be found at his site: www.wild-landscape.com.
His galleries include photographs of Iceland, New Zealand, Namibia, Bolivia, Chile, Mexico, Peru, Karakorum, Patagonia, Nepal and the Czech Republic (and much more).
A message to those in charge of this beautiful land…
Please don’t f*ck it up.
Technorati Tags: photos, photography, Ladislav Kamarad
Beneath my hands
your small breasts
are the upturned bellies
of breathing fallen sparrows.
Wherever you move
I hear the sounds of closing wings
of falling wings.
I am speechless
because you have fallen beside me
because your eyelashes
are the spines of tiny fragile animals.
I dread the time
when your mouth
begins to call me hunter.
When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.
I want them
to surrender before you
the trembling rhyme of your face
from their deep caskets.
When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want my body and my hands
to be pools
for your looking and laughing.
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Doubt is not a pleasant condition
but certainty is absurd.
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Suppose we’ve chosen the wrong god.
Every time we go to church we’re just making him madder and madder.
~Homer Simpson
Every time we go to church we’re just making him madder and madder.
~Homer Simpson
Bob Dylan was 22 years old when he performed Only A Pawn In Their Game at the Civil Rights March on Washington, D.C. in 1963. Some generous soul posted film footage of his performance on YouTube.
I always experience conflicting emotions when viewing film or photographs of this period. There’s something miraculously life-affirming about so many people gathered together to fight for a cause and yet wouldn’t it be wonderful if it wasn’t necessary to begin with?
A bullet from the back of a bush took Medgar Evers’ blood.
A finger fired the trigger to his name.
A handle hid out in the dark
A hand set the spark
Two eyes took the aim
Behind a man’s brain
But he can’t be blamed
He’s only a pawn in their game.
A South politician preaches to the poor white man,
“You got more than the blacks, don’t complain.
You’re better than them, you been born with white skin,” they explain.
And the Negro’s name
Is used it is plain
For the politician’s gain
As he rises to fame
And the poor white remains
On the caboose of the train
But it ain’t him to blame
He’s only a pawn in their game.
The deputy sheriffs, the soldiers, the governors get paid,
And the marshals and cops get the same,
But the poor white man’s used in the hands of them all like a tool.
He’s taught in his school
From the start by the rule
That the laws are with him
To protect his white skin
To keep up his hate
So he never thinks straight
‘Bout the shape that he’s in
But it ain’t him to blame
He’s only a pawn in their game.
From the poverty shacks, he looks from the cracks to the tracks,
And the hoof beats pound in his brain.
And he’s taught how to walk in a pack
Shoot in the back
With his fist in a clinch
To hang and to lynch
To hide ‘neath the hood
To kill with no pain
Like a dog on a chain
He ain’t got no name
But it ain’t him to blame
He’s only a pawn in their game.
Today, Medgar Evers was buried from the bullet he caught.
They lowered him down as a king.
But when the shadowy sun sets on the one
That fired the gun
He’ll see by his grave
On the stone that remains
Carved next to his name
His epitaph plain:
Only a pawn in their game.
Copyright © 1963; renewed 1991 Special Rider Music
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Listen to Bob Dylan’s Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie
Click here if you’d like to read along while you listen.
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Nothing Worse Than Too Late
by Charles Bukowski
Oh, yes
.
there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
than
too late.
When I was 18 years old I killed Charles Bukowski.
Not literally, of course. I was working in a bookstore at the time, reading anything that looked interesting, not found on high school recommended reading lists and (truth-be-told) anything with a sexy cover (thumbs up to Anais Nin). I found a copy of The Roominghouse Madrigals for $3.00 on an overstock table and flipped through a few pages until I landed on the poem Wrong Number. While reading it I felt that wonderful kindred-spirit-self-discovery excitement grow, causing goose bumps all over my arms - the sense that I’d met someone wonderful and from that moment forward, my life would never be the same.
"There’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met." - from The Muppet Movie
I was hooked and the search was on for any and everything he’d ever written.
For those who tolerated random poetry recitations, my friends quickly discovered Charles Bukowski was completely different than any poet I’d shared with them before. He was dirty, naughty, wounded, a drunkard, occasionally cruel and always raw; and every bit of this went into his poetry. On the surface, our worlds could not have been more diametrically opposed. I imagine my obsession with him baffled people.
What’s the expression? Curse my good luck?
On March 8, 1994, with great excitement I said, "I’ve finally found a poet I can write to!"
Mr. Charles Bukowski died on March 9, 1994.
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Before we leave these portals
to meet our paramortals,
there’s just one final massage I would give to you.
We all have learned reliance
on the sacred teachings of science,
so I hope through life you never will become,
in spite of philistines,
defiant,
to do what all good scientists do.
Experiment.
Make it your motto day and night.
Experiment.
And it will lead you to the light.
The apple from the top of the tree
is never too high to achieve.
So take an example from me.
Experiment.
Be curious,
though interfering friends may frown.
Get furious,
at each attempt to hold you down.
If this advice you’ll only employ,
the future can offer you infinite joy
and merriment.
Experiment,
and you’ll see.
Hope is not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.
take me home
you silly girl
put your arms around me
take me home
you silly girl
all the world’s not round without you
I’m so sorry that I broke your heart
please don’t leave my side
take me home
you silly girl
cause I’m still in love you
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I’d sell your heart to the junkman baby
For a buck, for a buck
If you’re looking for someone to pull you out of that ditch
You’re out of luck, you’re out of luck
Ship is sinking
The ship is sinking
The ship is sinking
There’s a leak, there’s a leak in the boiler room
The poor, the lame, the blind
Who are the ones that we kept in charge?
Killers, thieves and lawyers
God’s away, God’s away
God’s away on business, business
God’s away, God’s away
God’s away on business, business
Digging up the dead with a shovel and a pick
It’s a job, it’s a job
Bloody moon rising with a plague and a flood
Join the mob, join the mob
It’s all over, it’s all over
It’s all over
There’s a leak, there’s a leak in the boiler room
The poor, the lame, the blind
Who are the ones that we kept in charge?
Killers, thieves and lawyers
God’s away, God’s away
God’s away on business, business
God’s away, God’s away on business, business
Godddamn there’s always such a big temptation
To be good, to be good
There’s always free cheddar in a mousetrap, baby
It’s a deal, it’s a deal
God’s away, God’s away
God’s away on business, business
God’s away, God’s away
God’s away on business, business
I narrow my eyes like a coin slot baby
Let her ring, let her ring
God’s away, God’s away
God’s away on business, business
God’s away, God’s away
God’s away on business, business
Music/Lyrics by Tom Waits/Kathleen Brennan
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I love it when life and public art collide, creating the wonderful and unexpected.
More from the photographer, karfik at altphotos.com/Gallery.aspx [altphotos.com]
We live in such contrary times. Forgive me for waxing philosophical but I can’t help being amazed by technology and how it has allowed us to share en masse the world’s (indeed the universe’s) exquisiteness while simultaneously enabling our own self-destruction and forcing us to witness the atrocities. It makes me wish we could all receive a collective slap up side the head.
There are certain photographers whose work makes me grateful for the gift in spite of the curse. This is one of them.
You may view more of his work here: flickr.com/people/sevennine/ [flickr.com]
by Pablo Neruda
Because of you, in gardens of blossoming
Flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer
Remember your hands; how did your lips
Feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues
Drowsing in the parks, the white statues that
Have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice;
I have forgotten your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to
My vague memory of you. I live with pain
That is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
Make to me an irreperable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing
Vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to
Glimpse you in every window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of
Summer pain me; because of you, I again
Seek out the signs that precipitate desires:
Shooting stars, falling objects.
Dignity does not consist in possessing honors, but in deserving them.
- Aristotle
I should be writing for nanowrimo but after my first 500 words, unrelated concerns began nagging me beyond my “buzz off” ability to ignore them.
There’s nothing better than a photographic tour of the universe to help put things into perspective.
SOURCE: The Hubble Heritage Project
How calmly does the olive branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer
With no betrayal of despair
Some time while light obscures the tree
The zenith of its life will be
Gone past forever
And from thence
A second history will commence
A chronicle no longer gold
A bargaining with mist and mold
And finally the broken stem
The plummeting to earth, and then
And intercourse not well designed
For beings of a golden kind
Whose native green must arch above
The earth’s obscene corrupting love
And still the ripe fruit and the branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer
With no betrayal of despair
Oh courage! Could you not as well
Select a second place to dwell
Not only in that golden tree
But in the frightened heart of me?
This poem was a "work-in-progress" by one of the characters in Tennessee William’s play, The Night of the Iguana. In 1964, an excellent film adaptation was made, directed by John Huston, staring Richard Burton, Ava Gardner and Deborah Kerr (among others). I highly recommend the playwright, play, director, and film.
This just about says it all. I love you, Charlie Brown.
Praise and Blame