Guilty, Not

A hand that could curl around the handle of a gun 
and reach with the trigger finger could surely throw 
a punch up close and effectively.  Maybe not.

Racial Profiling was at play in the beginning 
and end of the action, in the "not guilty" of the verdict, 
when we were so certain of the guilt.  Bewildered.

We had such clarity that we didn't even call for
a Jury of His Peers until too late--because
who would've thunk?  Ugly. Small. Law.

Since the murder of Trayvon Martin and the acquittal of George Zimmerman, my hands have been cold and my head has been spinning.  Lyrica and Ibuprofen have been ineffective.  Only poetry has helped.  And thoughts of new ways of treating conflict proven by Nelson Mandela in South Africa.  And lots of prayer.

These poems and poets in particular have given me minutes of clarity:

(1) Velveteen Rabbit and her JULY 17, 2013  poem after Tisha b'Av "WATER FROM THE SOURCE" which addresses blessings fasting and growing while in "the fallen temple of justicemothers wailing for their sons --"

(2) Mama Zen at Another Damn Poetry Blog, where her poem "Not Yet" releases both astonishment and anger.

(3) At her blog, LaTonya's "Lobster Boil" releases both hopelessness and anger.  

       (4)  At Blog Over Easy: We stand our Ground

 

And there will be more to expand this list.

Add your links, please.

Posted at Poetry Pantry #159 at Poets United.

Doves and. Machines

Let this blow your mind as it blew mine:

It is from the 1969 film Picasso Summer starring Albert Finney and Yvette Mimieux.  Adapted into a screenplay by Ray Bradbury from his short story “In a Season of Calm Weather,” it is set to music by Michel Legrand.  Despite a weak plot, the music and three animated sequences by Wess Herschensohn moved me no end!  Not only did they explore Picasso in a way that helped me to see his work more clearly, the one sequence above also widened my perception of war. After watching the above, I turned off the film to search it on the web, and found this:

and this:

Together, these three videos entered my life as Picasso's Guernica never had before!  In my search, I found that the creative reactions to Picasso's Guernica may rival commentary on any Shakespeare play.  

Here is my own:

Slate grey noon and rain in June

sat me down to pull war and people

from out my 2D cartoon-framed

vision in a sheltered life not Iraq,

Syria, Afghanistan, Pakistan,

Israel, Palestine and elsewhere. 

   Horses

are gone but not foot soldiers engaged to

dishearten from land mines and hidden bombs:

providers, mothers, priests, and young ones with

explosives strapped to their childhoods.

      Doves

are there too close to open-eyed blood we

pour in to food, zapping out strength and hope

drowning all openings to the villains’ millions,

         billions—not humans, but dollars—trillions.

Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast

Posting for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night ~ Week 103.

Birthday Carol

My chosen birthday cake:
Chocolate Babka with streusal topping

At age 62, I have major-sized messes

so beautiful that it doesn't take a mother’s

instinct to see me ... and this is my Birthday poem:

Today in South Africa Nelson Mandela

lives on, a prism spreading more Light

the longer he lingers on his death bed,

a man whose choices turned theories into practice

that transformed prisoners and masters into human

beings as restorative justice re-placed violence

with recognition—This is not magic, it is discipline.

Today, I woke privileged: expecting to find

coffee supplies and cat where I left them, to get

potable water from the kitchen tap, fill bowl

for cat, make coffee, and drink in peace at my own

computer—this too is not magic—it took

discipline to earn it within a country of

opportunity—and I want it for everyone.

At 62, I am no longer teaching

theatre,  literature and writing, but learning

to apply lessons to my own living.

I’m no Mandela, but neither am I naïve

about causes and effects of poverty here

and there, about the many rewards for letting

go, relaxing, and forgetting now that I have

achieved my quarter acre of heaven on earth, my

ticket to ignore my country’s complicity—

and I need discipline, since I have no magic.

What I have more than ever is time—time

as past experience, as reflections now, as

future words on paper—a regular Christmas

carol of possibility—that wants only

discipline to bloom.  Let me then turn this summer

Birthday into carol, an oral song of folk

festivals year round; let me stay inside the dance.

My 62nd birthday finds me a word spinner, trying to get behind my craft and add to the daily discipline of writing an effort to publish and let it fly out into the world. Within one year, let it be!

Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast

Stereotypes are Ugly

Today the prompt at dVerse Poets Pub stopped me short: Poetics: 'Asians are Ugly!'  Written by Kelvin S.M. a self-proclaimed "Poet*Artist*Mythical Sleuth*" who is "Filipino-Spanish," the prompt lays out a bit of his experience of racism and asks us to write about any experience we have had with Asians--which includes, of course, being Asian.  He called the resulting poems his "Asian revenge (lol)" which is rather tongue in cheek.  

Geraldine Farrar as Madama Butterfly, 1907Metropolitan Opera de Nova York

I, who have never met an ugly Asian, sat down to think about Kelvin's prompt.  My Asian experience is all within the USA.  Here are the highlights summarized chronologically:

1.      Uncle Nishino

2.      Chinese and Indian food

3.      Taiwanese roommate Ye Fe Chou

4.      Madame Butterfly by Giacomo Puccini

5.      Japanese set designer Jun Maeda

6.      Butoh dancers

7.      Chinese Canadian Ping Chong and Company

8.      Korean students of English as a second Language

9.      Thai food

10.   Noh theatre

11.    Kabuki Theatre

12.    Chinese Opera

13.   M. Butterfly by David Henry Hwang

14.   Tea by Maxine Hong Kingston

15.   Bunraku

16.   Vietnamese students in Public School English classes

17.   World Affairs Council Seminar in South East Asian Culture

Of these, Number 13 was probably the most intense.  I saw Hwang's M. Butterfly first on Broadway, second in text (as part of  the "Freshman Seminar in Multi-Cultural American Drama" I taught at the College of William and Mary), and third as a Hollywood movie.  Only the movie disappointed.  

 http://www.playbillvault.com/Show/Detail/Whos_who/4705/19856/M-Butterfly

The Broadway play in 1989 with actors John Lithgow as Gallimard and BD Wong as Song Liling literally put me in my place.  Not forewarned about the content and message of the piece nor anticipating its relationship to Madame Butterfly, I was taken in by the same racist stereotypes as Gallimard who was “loosely based on” French diplomat Bernard Boursicot and his relationship with  Shi Pei Pu, a male Peking opera singer.  Here is Wikipedia’s summary of the plot: 

The first act introduces the main character, Rene Gallimard, who is a civil servant attached to the French embassy in China. He falls in love with a beautiful Chinese opera diva, Song Liling, who is actually a man masquerading as a woman. In traditional Beijing opera, females were banned from the stage; all female roles (dan) were played by males.

Act two begins with Song coming to France and resuming his affair with Gallimard. They stay together for 20 years until the truth is revealed, and Gallimard is convicted of treason and imprisoned. Unable to face the fact that his "perfect woman" is actually a man, that has been posing as a woman for 20 years to be able to spy, he retreats deep within himself and his memories. The action of the play is depicted as his disordered, distorted recollection of the events surrounding their affair.

The third act portrays Gallimard committing seppuku (also known as harakiri, ritual Japanese suicide through self-disembowelment) while Song watches and smokes a cigarette.

So what were the stereotypes?  

The worst is that all of Asia is feminine/submissive to the male western world—HA! Here are some memorable quotes from the play found at Goodreads:   

“As soon as a Western man comes into contact with the East -- he's already confused.  The West has sort of an international rape mentality towards the East. ...Basically, 'Her mouth says no, but her eyes say yes.' The West thinks of itself as masculine -- big guns, big industry, big money -- so the East is feminine -- weak, delicate, poor...but good at art, and full of inscrutable wisdom -- the feminine mystique. Her mouth says no, but her eyes say yes. The West believes the East, deep down, wants to be dominated -- because a woman can't think for herself. ...You expect Oriental countries to submit to your guns, and you expect Oriental women to be submissive to your men.” 
― David Henry Hwang, M. Butterfly

“Consider it this way: what would you say if a blond homecoming queen fell in love with a short Japanese businessman? He treats her cruelly, then goes home for three years, during which time she prays to his picture and turns down marriage from a young Kennedy. Then, when she learns he has remarried, she kills herself. Now I believe you should consider this girl to be a deranged idiot, correct? But because it's an Oriental who kills herself for a Westerner–ah!–you find it beautiful.” 
― David Henry Hwang, M. Butterfly

“Why, in the Peking Opera, are women's roles played by men?...Because only a man knows how a woman is supposed to act.” 
― David Henry Hwang, M. Butterfly

“Tonight, I've finally learned to tell fantasy from reality. And, knowing the difference, I choose fantasy.” 
― David Henry Hwang, M. Butterfly

The classes I have taught since 1989 have all, in one way or another, been about identity vs. stereotypes/expectations.  I champion curiosity, inquiry, listening.  As in Kelvin’s prompt, the results I am after are much bigger, but we start always with individual experience.  I enjoy diversity.

I first learned I was white European and racist in 1969, two decades before this play taught me the depth of that racism, sexism, and classism.  I was getting on a Greyhound bus in Worcester, MA, to travel to Albany, NY where my parents were waiting for me. I looked up and saw all the faces, all black faces.  I had never been in a place where everyone else was Black, and I wondered for the first time in my life how it felt for my African-American friends to experience White.  My first instinct was to back up and step off the bus, but I didn't   I walked to the back of the bus and sat down.  I had experienced difference, but not danger—I hope I will never know the full extent of racism experientially. 

Now I love that this life-changing moment occurred on Memorial Day weekend.  Insight into self, good or bad, is always memorable.

Thank you, Kelvin S.M.

Writing as Healing

I ride on emotion as if it were language, a trusted transport into meaning—not definitions, but rhythms and feelings that lead me where I want to go as swiftly as a November wind.

But I do not know the name of the horse I am riding, be it tame or wild, love or .... A giddy rider now, screamingly happy, I fear that if I stop to name a vortex will flush me. 

If I stop, something precious will keep going, will drop my hand  and leave me tumbling, eye glasses smashed, teeth broken, nose and knees bleeding, blood writing.  

But if I don't dismount, I will lose myself as if a Frodo who could not destroy his magic ring.  As if a Dorothy asleep in a field of forgetfulness, I will lose my choice.  

So drop. I will myself.  Stumble.  Find name and voice.  Write names, say them, touch them, welcome the horse, then remount and ride words dangerously in wind and sea and city.  

Nothing is more precious. 

#

Re-posted 5/19/2013 for Poets United  Poetry Pantry - #150,  after major revision--but still not quite settled.  Perhaps if you say what you see, I will know how to proceed.

This writing is inspired by Kim Nelson's 5/8/2013 suggestion to share a self healing  (which this is), a concrete instance (which this is not), and 100 words or less (which this is not)--I will go and write that poem next now that this is off my chest.  Thank you Kim and Poets United!   Visit my poem, "Getting On With It," here.