Journalistic Poetry: An American Chronicle

Bearing Witness to the Times: Journalistic Poems from the First 100 Days of a New Presidency

American Landscape (Public Domain, courtesy of Pixabay)

Some of my writer friends and I have been talking – especially the poets among us. What can we do during these uncertain times? We see before us (and among us) division and discord magnified by the nature of our political system.

The best thing that poets can do is to bear witness to the times – articulate what is happening in the moment; speak to the real life experiences of your people.  Earlier this year I am set myself a goal to write a poem each week to reflect what I see and experience in the life of our nation. My thinking was that if I could write one poem a week there would be some chronicle of our sacred/tested/doubtful union.

Since I began this project, I have found encouragement in the words of novelist Arundhati Roy:

Our strategy should be not only to confront empire, but to lay siege to it. To deprive it of oxygen. To shame it. To mock it. With our art, our music, our literature, our stubbornness, our joy, our brilliance, our sheer relentlessness – and our ability to tell our own stories. Stories that are different from the ones we’re being brainwashed to believe.

The corporate revolution will collapse if we refuse to buy what they are selling – their ideas, their version of history, their wars, their weapons, their notion of inevitability.

Remember this: We be many and they be few. They need us more than we need them. Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.*  

I hope my efforts will not be polemical, but will rather be a true expression of what is. My goal will be to speak to our experiences of what we see and feel in our community and national life. Hopefully that poetic chronicle will depict the joys, sorrows, celebrations and uncertainties that come forth in our common struggle for a more perfect union.

I have referred to this as an “American Poetry Project” because it is my own private attempt to take a look at the state of our nation and to render some public sense of the times in poetic form. I wrote the first poem, “When Hope Is Set in Stone” on Inauguration Day and have written a poem each week since then to try to grasp the mood in our country.

President Lincoln, in his Gettysburg Address, referred to the 87 years since the country’s founding and the war which was “testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.”

We are now 240 years beyond our nation’s formative Declaration of Independence, and some see these times as testing the very fabric of democracy.  These are the poetic “witnesses” that I have composed to date. I am leaving this project open-ended, so you will see more entries in the future, but I wanted to let the first 100 days of a new administration in the White House serve as a marker to bring these 16 poems together. (You may click on any title to read the poem).

When Hope is Set in Stone

There’s a New Man in Town

Sanctions and Bans (a national nursery rhyme)

Bury My Heart

System Partially Down

The Why of Daffodils

Guardrails

Verdicts and Revolutions

Ale for what Ails Ye

Dealer of the White House (to the Tune of “Master of the House”)

The March of the Oligarchs

No Time for Weeping 

A Unity of Bombs 

          

The True Story of War 

   

Sanctuary Cities 

100 Days

          Addendum: Poems written after the first 100 days
                    
                     Down at the Plant

                     Aleppo After the Fall

                     Fault Lines



_____________________

* From War Talk, a collection of essays that speak to the rise of militarism and the increasing religious and racial violence seen in the world today.

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Bearing Witness to the Times: Bury My Heart

"Army Approves Completion of Dakota Access Pipeline Near Standing Rock"

(Photo by Robyn Beck/AFP/Getty Image)

Bury My Heart

“Bury my heart at Wounded Knee*.”

Bury our soul at Standing Rock.

Bury our children in the rubble of corporate greed.

In times past,

Those in power 

Sought to remove the indigenous people

By removing their primary natural resource.

Thus began a campaign of slaughter

That nearly drove the American bison to extinction.

It was the logical extension

Of violent disregard

And relentless acts of genocide

Exacted over 200 years of “New World” settlement.

A reprieve was granted.

The bison was ultimately spared

On small parcels of land.

The people were also spared extinction

To live on small parcels of land

Where their children would be robbed of their heritage,

Their elders would be ridiculed,

And their warriors would be doomed

To a life of alcohol and despair.

For 100 years thereafter,

The bison ran

And gained in number.

The people slowly shook off

The manacles of cultural oppression.

Today they make one more stand

At Standing Rock.

They stand as a witness

Against our penchant for destroying natural resources.

They stand as a witness

For human dignity.

They stand as a voice 
In support of the good earth.

While they stand,

They rally a nation.

Yet the well-oiled wheels of an industry

That cannot see its own end

Move to crush the resistance

           to exhaust our resources,

           to pollute the land

           to disregard the humanity it claims to serve.

One more stand

May lead to more burials,

Yet the good earth will remain

Long after our bodies lie in the rubble

Of our own recklessness.

The good earth will flower

After we are gone.

Nature will endure

With or without humanity.

Our song may give hope to the world

Yet the world may one day have to spin

Without our song.

Bury my heart.

Bury my soul.

Bury my children.

                                                ~ CK

                

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* “Bury my heart at Wounded Knee” is a line from the poem, “American Names,” by Stephen Vincent Benet. It is also the title of a book by Dee Brown, subtitled “An Indian History of the American West.” Wounded Knee was the site of the last conflict between the U.S. Army and Native Americans. On December 20, 1890, the Wounded Knee Massacre at the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation (Lakota) in South Dakota was the culmination of the Ghost Dance Movement and ended the Indian Wars. 300 Native Americans died that day. Wounded Knee is also the site where the parents of Crazy Horse buried his heart in 1877.

American bison (photo by Skeeze courtesy of Pixabay)

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From my introductory post:

The best thing that poets can do is to bear witness to the times – articulate what is happening in the moment; speak to the real life experiences of your people.  I am setting myself a goal to write a poem each week that reflects what I see and experience in the life of our nation... if I can write one poem a week there will be some chronicle of our sacred/tested/doubtful union.

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Bearing Witness to the Times: Ale for What Ails Ye

Tidal Marsh on San Francisco Bay (CBS photo)

"Trump EPA Budget Would Slash Water Quality, Climate Programs, Jobs"

Ale for What Ails Ye

Shakespeare’s Falstaff

Extolled the virtues of sack

Even as he joined the fight

Upon Henry the Fifth’s noble call to arms.
Moreover, the Bard oft spoke
Of merriment and ale.

The psalmist sang

In sacred text

That God gave us wine

To make the heart rejoice.

Partaking of the vine

And passing the brew –

A time-honored practice

Going back to antiquity.

Egyptian hieroglyph

And Sumerian cuneiform

Record the practice

Of fermentation.

One might say

That alcoholic beverage

Is the mark of civilization.

Or, one might also say

That as soon as people learned

To live in large communities,

They needed some way

To tolerate

Life in such close proximity.

Thus wine and ale

Smoothed the rough edges.

The dark side came

When English employers

Paid workers in gin, 

And colonizers gave firewater

To indigenous tribes.

Liquor became the co-conspirator

In the exploitation of people

On two continents.

Yet the altered state

Continues to have appeal

As heads-of-state

Conspire to wreck

The natural state

While calling into question

Our human fate.

We raise a glass
To celebrate 

The things that remain;
To tolerate
The troubled times;
To smooth the rough edges –

And for the glory of ancient Sumer.

                                                     ~ CK

Good People Brewing Company, Birmingham, AL (Photo by Bryan Richards)

*    *    *    *

From my introductory post:

The best thing that poets can do is to bear witness to the times – articulate what is happening in the moment; speak to the real life experiences of your people.  I am setting myself a goal to write a poem each week that reflects what I see and experience in the life of our nation. I may not post a poem each week, but if I can write one poem a week there will be some chronicle of our sacred/tested/doubtful union.

I hope my efforts will not be polemical, but will rather be a true expression of what is. My goal will be to speak to our experiences of what we see and feel in our community and national life. Hopefully that poetic chronicle will depict the joys, sorrows, celebrations and uncertainties that come forth in our common struggle for a more perfect union.

_

Bearing Witness to the Times: The Why of Daffodils

Photo by Lars Kasper

The Why of Daffodils

This week

The daffodils began to bloom,

The first few opening up

Across the lawn.

In some way

I know why –

I planted the bulbs myself

A few years ago.

They will continue to rise and bloom with the season

Long after I have left this place.

Whoever comes to live here after I'm gone,

Whether they live in strife or bliss,

Will witness the bright yellow flowers

That show themselves each spring

Like the crimson poppies in Flanders fields

Where soldiers fell,

Or the lilacs of lavender that bloom in the dooryard

In spite of grief over a slain hero.

It is that tenacious and enduring "why"

To which I confess no knowledge,

And claim no understanding.

Why are we comforted

By such recurrent beauty

In the presence of our sorrows?

Does nature’s hand

Speak soft reminders

In the wake of every tragedy

To bind us to some grander purpose?

When politicians speak madness

And armies pound cities to rubble

Will springtime daffodils

Call hearts to the essence

Of a life lived in beauty?

Do I really know why there are daffodils in my yard

Even when hate divides a nation?

Can we join with lilacs and poppies

To hold that poignant hope

Found even in war-torn communities?

   

Can those wounded in body and spirit

Open their eyes to see

The natural rhythm of spring

When blossoms break forth?

In as much as they turn our minds

To the underlying wholeness of being

The daffodils evoke

Thankful hearts

Even when reason

Evades the mind.

Perhaps this is the why of daffodils –

That in the midst

Of our inflicting pain upon one another

And our bringing desolation upon the land,

The earth is ever nudging us

Toward an unspeakable gratitude.

                                              ~ Charles Kinnaird

CNN Photo

"Airstrike at Syrian refugee camp kills at least 28"

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From my introductory post:

The best thing that poets can do is to bear witness to the times – articulate what is happening in the moment; speak to the real life experiences of your people.  I am setting myself a goal to write a poem each week that reflects what I see and experience in the life of our nation... if I can write one poem a week there will be some chronicle of our sacred/tested/doubtful union.

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Bearing Witness to the Times: Verdicts and Revolutions

Hosni Mubarak, former president of Egypt, was taken back to a military hospital
 on Thursday after a court session (Photo by Mohamed Hossam, European Press)

"Egyptian Court Clears Way for Hosni Mubarak's Release"

    Verdicts and Revolutions

    The news came over the radio:

    “Former Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak Found Not Guilty.”

    He has been cleared of any responsibility

    For the deaths of protesters

    During the Arab Spring.

    The ageing and ailing

    Former head-of-state

    Was released from jail

    With little fanfare –

    Memories of the people’s uprising

    Have faded

    With military rule firmly ensconced

    In an ancient land.

I heard the news

On my way to the Golden Temple Café.

A banner in front of the 
Health food store and vegetarian restaurant

Proudly proclaims, “Celebrating 43 Years.”

Forty-three years ago

(That would have been the Nixon administration)

In the Deep South

A Sikh yoga practitioner and restaurateur

Began a quiet revolution

That has lasted to this day.

There have been days

When I took refuge

In that  vegetarian café

Where a simple meal

Of beans and rice

Became a sign of hope

In distressing times.

Today I think of those heady days,

Now six years past,

When Egyptian youth filled the streets.

They were moved by hope

For a better way.

The news of a 'not guilty' verdict

Lets Empire stand

While streets are quiet.

It’s vegetable curry today on the menu.

Around me are happy people

Engaged in health food and conversation,

Reaping the benefits

Of that Sikh entrepreneur

Whose vision of health and wholeness

Has endured

Through many swings

Of the political pendulum.

Here at home

Uncertainty reigns.

Demagogue power holds sway;

Whispers of intrigue and corruption

Continue to erupt.

Is there hope

For a democratic spring?

Or will it fade

Like the Arab Spring?

Or will it find resurgence

After a time of remission?

Still there is a sign of hope –

Vegetable curry on rice

In a vegetarian restaurant

Whose future 43 years ago
In the Deep South

Was anything but certain.

                                                ~ CK

"The bossman," Harinam Singh Khalsa

______________________________

All photos from The Golden Temple Natural Grocery and Cafe are from the store's Facebook page.
(Read a 2014 article in B-Metro here.)

*    *    *    *

From my introductory post:

The best thing that poets can do is to bear witness to the times – articulate what is happening in the moment; speak to the real life experiences of your people.  I am setting myself a goal to write a poem each week that reflects what I see and experience in the life of our nation... if I can write one poem a week there will be some chronicle of our sacred/tested/doubtful union.

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Bearing Witness to the times: Guardrails

Damaged headstones at Chesed Shel Emeth Cemetery, St. Louis, MO
Photo by Nick Schnelle for The New York Times

“At Jewish Cemetery, Seeking Answers Amid Heartbreak”

Guardrails

They served as boundaries for common decency.                          

We learned to recognize them

By stories told –

Stories of darker times in our past.

We heard stories of discrimination

When people shouted,

“Kike!”

“Mick!”

“Wop!”

“Spic!”

“Polack!”

Labels to keep those outsiders in their place,

They seemed relics of the past.

We learned thereby

To live in a moderated peace

In spite of our inclinations,

Gut reactions,

And lingering prejudices.

Later we learned the hard lessons of racism.

Even in our white flight

We knew we had to drop the “n-word”

And allow everyone a seat at the table.

Still there were other words of exclusion.

That justified hatred and displacement:

“Fag,”

“Queer,”

“Dike.”

These words,

By hard work and diligence,

Became history in a progressive workplace.

A moderated peace –

Setting guardrails

To remind us of civil behavior,

To strive for an equitable society,

To mark those boundaries

Of common decency.

Within that moderated peace,

All are welcome

To live their traditions

Within a broader society.

Texas mosque destroyed by arson (photo by

Barclay Fernandez/The Victoria Advocate via AP)

A moderated peace –

Establishing a functioning community,

Even if only by a tenuous

Begrudging obligation

For some.

There are expectations of behavior –

A tacit agreement

That public prejudice is taboo

Even if private emotions fall short.

Guardrails have kept us on course.

For all of our failures,

At least we were civil

And making an effort.

Is there now nothing to remind us

Of how far we have come?

Are we left once again

To face our own prejudices,

To live with the consequences of hate?

A moderated peace is never perfect

Yet it requires constant vigilance

To preserve our gains.

We thought we had moved beyond

Spray-painted swastikas

And vandalism.

Let down our guard

And our racism

Comes in full view; 

Our corroding prejudice

In full flower.

Places of worship are torched,
Bomb threats are made,
Graffiti is scrawled on walls,
And cemeteries are desecrated.

Hatred is exposed

And fears confirmed.

Death and destruction

Are their natural end.

Therefore

Damaged gravestones

Become their metaphor

When guardrails are down.

                                       ~ Charles Kinnaird

Jewish Community Center in Birmingham, AL (AL.com photo)

"Birmingham police and firefighters responded Monday morning to the Levite Jewish Community Center 

on Montclair Road. The hoax threat was one of nearly a dozen throughout the U.S. Monday."

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From my introductory post:

The best thing that poets can do is to bear witness to the times – articulate what is happening in the moment; speak to the real life experiences of your people.  I am setting myself a goal to write a poem each week that reflects what I see and experience in the life of our nation... if I can write one poem a week there will be some chronicle of our sacred/tested/doubtful union.

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