This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 670,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.
She Loved Me Better On Paper By Christopher Fox Graham
she loved me better on paper it was easier to forgive my sins the ones deletable or ascribed to fast typing or bad penmanship on second reads it was simpler to prepare herself for previously discovered ones
she loved me better on paper flesh was too temperamental too harsh with spoken words too adaptive to her moods
when she got fed up with the content therein she could not close the pages and place me on the shelf then grow to forget the offenses, fondly recall the quotables reinvest herself in the mystery of footstep word after word marching reincarnate on the same path from moment to moment pull me back into her wearied hands and relive the story again from the beginning
paper was easier to throw away to set ablaze and watch burn skin, it seems, has a fouler odor scratches and scars don’t heal with the same cleanliness as those pencil marks needing erasure
even now, she still loves me better on paper prefers the me captured in moments frozen in ink on pressed wood pulp the notations she marks remain without my trademark forgetfulness or willful delusionary deception
in print, she owns me as she likes without having to concave her ego bend to match me in mutual reverence admit she, too, could be mistaken sometimes on the pages, she is always right, my errors unrepentable a good lover can shamelessly admit wrong confess to death-penalty guilt even when in the right
she loved me better on paper but forgets to understand those dead words will never breathe unchanging youth frozen immortally vampiric, they will one day suck the life from her pull her into the longing for more but unanswered they will be just a tombstone of text made by a dead man years ago
there is no ghost here, child, he does not inhabit these pages buried in your backpack or bookcase his soul is still dancing elsewhere breathing in the sunrises with wine-stained lips somewhere else, he kisses the moonlight and whispers to stars who’ll still listen about how he loved this girl
she adores those paper words but they can never hold her never caress her bare gymnast’s back soothe her into sleep wake her into daybreaks remind her why lovers always come in pairs
she loved me better on paper in the same way I loved her better in absence because our present was untamable it demanded too much compromise too much acquiesce to the other
she loved me better on paper but he can never say he was sorry never reiterate that love — the kind of love that forever tugs at all that aches demands a heart break itself open when she traipses through the mind from photographs — that kind of love does not require reciprocation saints, martyrs, crazies and dogs teach us this
while the flesh me has no one to say those things to just lets the words fall from his lips spill out into the ether crawl into new pages onto new paper so she can love it instead
revere, write, abide papers yearn for her it will suffice it must it has to
This poem obviously alludes to Shane Koyczan's "We Are More," performed at the opening ceremonies at the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver, and The Klute's "Canadian Dawn." The references are meant for Azami. If you do not catch them, do not fret, you are not meant to.
There is a Girl in Your Country: An open letter to Stephen Harper, the Prime Minister of Canada
Dear Prime Minister of Canada The Right Honourable Stephen Harper, PC MP
On behalf of your neighbor to the south, we surrender. Since you set ablaze our White House in 1814, we have tried to resist you we have mocked your accent rejected your poutine stolen your best actors filmed Oscar-winners in Vancouver and called it Seattle and neglected to learn the geography of your provinces
that ends today. invade us, we now offer no resistance. bring us your socialized health care your mandatory two-week paid vacations your high literacy rate and clean streets
we will begin adding extra “U”s to our words pronounce Honour, Colour and Armour as they are intended we will adapt our tongues to “A-Geinst” and “A-Boat” remeasure miles in kilometers pounds in kilograms turn our thermostats down to minus-15, in Celsius, not Fahrenheit and adapt our skins to the inevitable northern winds soon to blow hence,
just to show you we’re serious we’ll even submit to two years military conscription — even through Canada doesn’t have the draft — our kids would do better building Third-World clinics and schools rather than blowing them up
send your Mounties south we’ll great them with open arms, our citizens will drive just below the speed limit and start smoking copious amounts of marijuana, but do so responsibly as you so nobly taught us
we will begin shortening our sports from four quarters to three periods for nostalgia’s sake, baseball will stay at nine innings, but we’ll concede to call it American Cricket.
Dear Prime Minister Harper, welcome us as your brothers and sisters in the Commonwealth put in a good word for us with the Queen we will rename the U.S. Congress the Parliament of the United Provinces of Southern Canada — it was due for an overhaul anyway — and spend the next decade learning how that shit works let us keep Governor-General Obama during the transition until Her Royal Highness appoints a new French-speaker to the post
By first prefixing the pedestrian “USS” with the regal “Royal” the Royal American Navy will begin renaming warships and sail home to merely protect our shores
The Royal American Marines will inscribe “Toujours fidèle” beneath “Semper Fidelis” on all their stationary
in revenge for Terrance and Phillip, we’ll execute Trey Parker and Matt Stone to make amends but since capital punishment is banned in Canada, we’ll sentence them to creating tourist videos for the CBC
Once your conquest is complete once our schools have risen to your minimum standards once “Bonjour!” and “Hallo” is as common as “Howdy” and “ ’Sup dawg?” then I ask one favor one small request in payment to the unconditional surrender of our bald eagle sovereignty to your maple leaf dominance:
with the border fluid and immigration law a mute point I’m searching for someone
there is a girl in your country she is easy to overlook because she stays in the shadows avoids the cameras on busy streets though you can find her at festivals dancing barefoot at the center of the world as though the stars forged visas from heaven slipped passed the earthly border guards to stand in the plazas sleeve their glow in human bodies around her and dance until the setting moon revokes their passports calls them home to press their lips into constellations you will not know she is here until someone asks later if you saw the midnight sun swirling the street in the afterglow of the stage lights I’ll admit I’ve never seen an aurora but I imagine it feels like her laughter and I know why polar bears and icesheets stay north of the Arctic Circle because that’s as close as they can get to her
do not stake out hotels thinking she’ll slip in some night she can sleep in ditches, on strangers’ rooftops, the beds of pickup trucks or backyard trampolines, anywhere she can find 10 square feet and quiet until the dawn
instead, you can search for her on the wide open Trans-Canada Highway somewhere between St. John’s and Beacon Hill Park I know it’s 8,000 kilometers, so keep your eyes peeled if you see her, it’ll be by outstretched thumb first I know Canadian winters can be harsh but you will identify her by her smile because it will keep you warm no matter the season now, her unpasteurized joy will take longer first, she’ll get comfortable in the seat, ask you your history and wait for your story
speak slow, tell your story as best as you can recall she asks many questions and will cross reference your answers she will forgive a faulty memory as long as the words as spoken sincerely and know that even if she’s not listening to your every word she’s interpreting the sound of your voice so be honest do not lie to her she will see your fabrications before you can erect them sweep kick them out from under you and leave you splayed out on the floor before the lies can even leave your lips
she will play the role of stranger drop lines of prepackaged wisdom play her preshuffled hand of cards but this is still her shell, her way to test your defenses judge whether you’re worth a second try here, I can offer no advice — she still gauges me with every phone call — the game has no trick to win it; it’s a measure of character or honor something no one can give you and none can take away if you don’t have it, you can drop her at the next stop for gas, and thanks for the lift, but if she sees it, she knows you’re worth more than a ride
she will start to unpeel herself like cloves of garlic each one covered in its own thin armor let drops of stories unshelter their instruction she’s taken the hammer and nails of her ambition and realized potential to build bridges for the rest of us to walk across
and somewhere between Havana and San Salvador on the Black Rock City playa over a bento box lunch in Sapporo, her joy will hit like a hidden tsunami you didn’t see coming sweep you away from shelter or shoreline as those waters fill your lungs you’ll wonder just how you were so oblivious for so long how could you have not felt the energy she bottled
in her stories she will teach you that borders are lines drawn by men in office buildings who live a fluorescent fiction of a world still flat men who believe maps and flags and anthems mean more than blood and handshakes and laughter men who’ve never dreamed beneath stars she counts nightly men who’ve never felt the first kiss between sun and Grand Canyon shake morning reds into the eons-old stone men who’ve never heard peasants thank Dios for a vote that finally counts in a country that is finally theirs
in these life stories of her travels you’ll understand why she cast off worn shoes to walk barefoot in the dirt and spin fire from her arms in the desert but leave no footprints to follow just the earthquakes and scars in those of us who ache for her return the way zealots pray for messiahs in their late night confessions the day before martyrdom she’s a first-aid kit for boys like me who didn’t know they were broken-hearted before her she moves in like chess pieces on a board of checkers brings a Howitzer to knife fight lets loose a Pamplona herd in a china shop but will offer to sweep up afterward
I’ll admit her tomboy tongue blindsides on idle Tuesdays as if the ancient six-day week cleaved open just for her, added one more day and said “fuck the mathematics of calendars” if she could sleep for days cuddled in a boy’s arms she’d surrender the world but the urge to burn and rage at end of day pulls her back into the dreamlessness there are too many stories to live too many fingertips to touch tornadoes can’t stay stationary either despite the scenery
if you can’t find her on the road you can search the boxcars, ask hobos about a girl made of hula hoops whose pulse thumps in rhythm to railroad ties pickup all the hitchhikers you find and en route between points A and B subtlety ask if a dark-haired, brown-eyed dancer with weathered hands and a black bandana has recently shared a meal with them offered to manufacture a tutu or sew leg warmers from leftover sleeves
know that in summers she melts into the woods to reforest what we clear make amends for civilization’s sins with a shovel and bag of saplings: maybe this one will grow up to be a peace table, this one a roof for a homeless family, two lovers will kiss beneath this one, and their grandchildren will be buried beside its roots
Yukon men won’t admit it but they came century too early and weren’t looking for gold they came to clear the roads for her give the earth a wound for her to heal to train her surgeon hands
if all else fails, you can coax her into the open by leaving out a plate of melted cheese and fresh garlic I guarantee she is unable to resist them it make take years, so make it fresh every few hours and she’ll track you down one day
once you find her give her a warm bed with no annoying alarm clocks keep her unchained and unlocked left free to roam or return on her whim she may pilgrimage to ashrams or overlooks or cathedrals cut into stone awaken the third eye in prophets and psychics who’ve never looked too deep but foresaw her coming she instigates greatness in those too afraid to birth it themselves
she may still wander away in the day call down the sun and the moon to dance at dusk beg Orion to share her arms and press her lips against new strangers
but if she leaves you, do not chase her, she befriends guerrillas and revolutionaries who give her sanctuary like she was a daughter they will fight to keep her unyielding know that she growls back at coyotes chases them from her playgrounds and though she may ache for warm limbs beneath bedsheets she can find midnight outdoor air just as soothing she’s too fierce to hold on to too tightly she can bite open a boy she loves from the eyebrow down so imagine what she does to transgressors
I will not fault you if she leaves just let me know where you last saw her point me in the general direction of her last appearance she’s worth the pursuit whatever you may think of her she is more
Dear Prime Minister, if you vow to search for her if you promise to give it your all you can have this country take whatever you want from it import our monuments like the caesars did obelisks rename our parks after your heroes impose your laws or revoke ours redraw our states into a grid or the image of Pikachu it doesn’t matter to me anymore just demolish the borders between us erase the lines that divide
leave the office building to share the blood and handshakes and laughter without the nomenclature of nations dream beneath her stars feel the sun kiss canyons and mountains give us the freedom of movement to find each other because whatever you believe I think of her she is more
As per The Klute: "Persona piece. 'Red Dawn' meets the 'Joe Canada Rant' set in an alternate universe for some reason."
February 28, 2010 A date which will live in infamy.
We should have seen it coming, When our boys in blue were beaten, Before the eyes of the whole world, At the game of ice hockey. We all wept when Americans were forced to stand beneath that maple leaf, Made to listen to someone else's national anthem for a change. You could almost hear the collective licking of our northern neighbor's chops As they realized America's one weakness: We're not that good on the frozen pond. So a cabal of generals of the Canadian Armed Forces hatched a plan. Using an eco-friendly, green technology doomsday device, They would erode our long-standing line of defense Against Great White Northern agression. They reversed global warming! A new ice age was upon us.
Their advance, Like Quebecois tourists driving in the fast lane, Was slow and methodical. With no NHL team to defend it, Seattle was the first city to fall. We tried to fight back, but it was no use. Flocks of suicide geese grounded the Air Force. Our Navy was crippled by strategically-placed icebergs. The Army? Let's just say you don't bring a machine gun to a polar bear fight. When they blasted George Washington's face off of Mt. Rushmore And replaced it with Gordie Howe, The resistance collapsed. Panicked American refugees began to pour over the Mexican border, The Red Maple now waving over the White House.
We survived in the United American Provinces of Lower Canada, But they began to change us. We were more polite, Less eager to wave around a loaded handgun shouting "Who wants some!?! Who Wants some!?!". Distances were measured in meters, Temperatures reported in centigrade. No one knew what the fuck was going on. They denied our God-given right to die in a gutter, Broke and penniless, Of an easily treatable illness. I remember when my father was taken away... On a government-mandated two-week holiday, Clutching the plane tickets to Aruba in his hand, he shouted "AVENGE ME!!!" We tried, Papa, but we were too busy getting drunk on Labatt's Blue And planning our next trip to the Edmonton Folk Festival... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.
Now, due to the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, I must begin this poem over in French:
Nous devrions l'avoir vu venir. Quand nos garçons dans le bleu ont été battus, Avant les yeux du monde entier ...
No! This is a bridge I will not cross. They cannot make me speak in French! I will resist, Proudly dipping my freedom fries in ketchup, and not poutine, Replacing my tuque with a foam-dome filled with two cans of shitty American beer And I will not let them change everything about us, from A to Z - Because it is "Z", Not Zed, Z!!! We will drive you syrup drinkers back across the 49th parallel north, Raise Old Glory once again, Take away everyone's health care, Give the upper-class a tax cut, then really stick it to the poor, Like we used to do when were still remembered what it meant to be American! So let me say it so you can understand it, O Canada:
Je n'ai pas encore commencé à combattre, I have not yet begun to fight!
Klute, The: A rare breed of Southern Arizona slam poet, originally raised in Southern Florida (however, he's not a native Floridian - rumors trace his origin back to Illinois).
Abhors use of rhyme schemes in poetry, writes almost exclusively in free verse. Frequent targets: the goth subculture, neoconservativism (especially Dick Cheney), and crass-commercialism. Member of the 2002, 2003, 2005, and 2006 Mesa National Slam teams (Mesa's 2005 slam champion), and 2008's Phoenix Slam Team. SlamMaster of the Mesa Poetry Slam. Has released three chapbooks of his work: 2002's "Escape Velocity", 2005's "Look at What America Has Done to Me", and 2008's "My American Journey". Ask him nicely and he might send you a copy. Primary habitat considered to be raves (especially desert parties), goth clubs, and dimly lit dive bars. Prefers vodka, rum, and absinthe when drinking. Is considered friendly, but when cornered, lashes out with a fury not seen since last Thursday. He's totally smitten with his girlfriend, Teresa - so don't ask him to dance. Feel free to buy him a drink, but remember, he's not putting out. No matter how much you beg.
People are talking about The Klute!
AZSlim, Espresso Pundit poster: Don't argue with The Klute. His hyperventilating and pure hypocrisy shown in these (and many other) posts makes reasoning with a two-year old who didn't get the popsicle he wanted seem tame by comparison.
Phoenix 944 Magazine says: Despite the heat, [The Klute] wears a black trench coat almost everywhere he goes and if the setting permits, he’ll blast through enough slanderous commentary to make Andrew Dice Clay blush. [He] admits he started slam poetry out of arrogance. He saw a performance and figured he could do better, after which he also admits he failed miserably. Today, his addiction for getting in front of the microphone and spitting out everything from a Dick Cheney haiku to a long-winded prose on race car driving to the late Hunter S. Thompson is as strong as his love for vodka and absinthe. If anyone’s seen “The Klute” in action, they’d know it. If they haven’t, they must.
Jerome duBois, The Tears of Things: You have one of the blackest hearts I've ever had the misfortune to glimpse.
Tomorrow, Friday, Feb. 18, I will be in the “for sale” in The Bold & the Beautiful Bachelor Auction. The auction is a fundraiser for Sedona Red Rock High School hosted by the Scorpions Booster Club.
The auction includes a bachelor and a date package. Bidders have the option of taking the date package and the bachelor, or just the date package, so women with husbands or significant others aren’t technically obligated to take their bachelor if they choose not to.
Schedule: 6 to 7 p.m.: “Man-tini” Cocktail Hour... 7:15 p.m.: Dinner Service and Program Intro 7:30 p.m.: Bachelor Auction Begins
“The Bold & The Beautiful” Bachelor Auction items include: A Muse Gallery, $50 designer hand bag Allie Ollie $25 Art of Wine - $50 gift Best of Show & Music, $50 guitar gift pack Bliss Extraordinary Floral, $25 bouquet flowers Cheers (2) $2 Cowboy Club $50 Cucina Rustica $50 Dahl & DiLuca $50 Dirty Hairys Pet Wash & Grooming $40 Elote Café $50 Estebans/Zonies, $50 designer bowl (pottery) Hearline Café $50 Hummingbird House, $75 (3) glass vase collection Naja, $50 in perfume and lotions Sedona Art Wear, $40 Sweatshirt Sedona Rouge Spa , $55 facial gift certificate Toy Town at Tlaquepaque, gift item UPS-Program Printing, $125 printing Urban Gypsies $50 Well Red Coyote $25
Name: Johnny Romero Birthday: Nov. 29, 1985 Occupation: Chef at Red’s
Name: Karl G. Samter Birthday: Feb. 1, 1980 Occupation: Trainer, instructor and manager
The Bold & the Beautiful Bachelor Auction takes place Friday, Feb. 18 from 6 to 10 p.m. in the large dining room (on the right, not the bar on the left) at Olde Sedona Bar & Grill, 1405 W. SR 89A, West Sedona.
Dinner includes a choice of pasta primavera, Cobb salad, or tilapia with mango salsa. Tickets $25 in advance, $30 at the door, available at: Sedona Red Rock High School office, Bashas’ in West Sedona, Best of Show and Music and Isadora Handweaving Gallery at Tlaquepaque. Limited seating.
For more information, contact Kathy Gorchesky at (928) 221-7837.
Donations are tax deductible. SRRHS Scorpion Booster Club Tax ID #86-0768722
This photo fills me with joy: This photo, tweeted by Cairo resident Nevine Zaki, who wrote, "A pic I took yesterday of Christians protecting Muslims during their prayers."
For the last three weeks, I've been watching the street protests in Cairo online, mainly on Al Jazeera English, which often has streaming coverage from Tahrir Square and great coverage for non-Arabic speakers. I've seen and heard about acts of heroism from everyday Egyptians, from army officials who refuse to interfere with the peaceful protesters to volunteers who set up checkpoints to prevent bombs and weapons from entering the square, and internationals who've left Sweden, England and the United States to join the crowds in solidarity, but this image is my favorite thus far.
The human shield of Coptic Christians protecting their Muslim countrymen returns the favor -- thousands of Muslim Egyptians kept a candlelight vigil outside churches as Coptic Christians celebrated Christmas Mass on Jan. 10.
Since the street protests began in Cairo on Jan. 25, Egyptian Copts and Muslims have protected each other. Pro-government mobs attacked demonstrators before the Egyptian Army created a buffer between the two groups.
Egyptian police have also used water cannons on Muslims during prayers in the streets: Now, I'm an atheist and no fan of organized religion ... but you don't fuck with someone when they pray.
“We either live together, or we die together,” was the sloganeering genius of Mohamed El-Sawy, a Muslim arts tycoon whose cultural centre distributed flyers at churches in Cairo Thursday night, and who has been credited with first floating the “human shield” idea.
Among those shields were movie stars Adel Imam and Yousra, popular preacher Amr Khaled, the two sons of President Hosni Mubarak, and thousands of citizens who have said they consider the attack one on Egypt as a whole.
“This is not about us and them,” said Dalia Mustafa, a student who attended mass at Virgin Mary Church on Maraashly. “We are one. This was an attack on Egypt as a whole, and I am standing with the Copts because the only way things will change in this country is if we come together.”
In the days following the brutal attack on Saints Church in Alexandria, which left 21 dead on New Year’ eve, solidarity between Muslims and Copts has seen an unprecedented peak. Millions of Egyptians changed their Facebook profile pictures to the image of a cross within a crescent – the symbol of an “Egypt for All”. Around the city, banners went up calling for unity, and depicting mosques and churches, crosses and crescents, together as one.
The attack has rocked a nation that is no stranger to acts of terror, against all of Muslims, Jews and Copts. In January of last year, on the eve of Coptic Christmas, a drive-by shooting in the southern town of Nag Hammadi killed eight Copts as they were leaving Church following mass. In 2004 and 2005, bombings in the Red Sea resorts of Taba and Sharm El-Sheikh claimed over 100 lives, and in the late 90’s, Islamic militants executed a series of bombings and massacres that left dozens dead.
This attack though comes after a series of more recent incidents that have left Egyptians feeling left out in the cold by a government meant to protect them.
Last summer, 28-year-old businessman Khaled Said was beaten to death by police, also in Alexandria, causing a local and international uproar.
Around his death, there have been numerous other reports of police brutality, random arrests and torture.
By Daily Mail Reporter Last updated at 5:46 PM on 3rd February 2011
Striking photos of unity have emerged from the chaos in Egypt as Christian protesters stood together to protect Muslims as they prayed.
A group of Christians joined hands and faced out surrounding hundreds of Muslims protesters left vulnerable as they knelt in prayer.
She shared the images over Twitter, writing, 'Bear in mind that this pic was taken a month after z Alexandria bombing where many Christians died in vain. Yet we all stood by each other.'
The suicide bombing, shortly after the New Year's Day, killed 23 Coptic Christians, who make up 10 percent of Egypt's 80 million population.
Muslim radicals have been blamed.
One Colorado resident posted an email online that he received from his mother, who is Cairo visiting her daughter, the poster's sister.
She described a scene like those captured in the photos.
'Some Muslims have been guarding Coptic churches while Christians pray, and on Friday, Christians were guarding the mosques while Muslims prayed.'
This poem was written in the early 1900s by the Tunisian poet Aboul-Qacem Echebbi during the French occupation of Tunisia. It has found new meaning for Egyptians rebelling against dictator Hosni Mubarak.
ألا أيها الظالم المستبد
حبيب الظلام عدو الحياه
سخرت بأنات شعب ضعيف
و كفك مخضوبة من دماه
و سرت تشوه سحر الوجود
و تبذر شوك الاسى في رباه
رويدك لا يخدعنك الربيع
و صحو الفضاء و ضوء الصباح
ففي الافق الرحب هول الظلام و قصف الرعود و عصف الرياح
حذار فتحت الرماد اللهيب
و من يبذر الشوك يجن الجراح
تأمل هنالك انى حصدت رؤوس الورى و زهور الأمل
و رويت بالدم قلب التراب اشربته الدمع حتى ثمل
سيجرفك سيل الدماء
و يأكلك العاصف المشتعل
To the Tyrants of the World...
You, the lovers of the darkness...
You, the enemies of life...
You've made fun of innocent people's wounds; and your palm covered with their blood
You kept walking while you were deforming the charm of existence and growing seeds of sadness in their land
Wait, don't let the spring, the clearness of the sky and the shine of the morning light fool you...
Because the darkness, the thunder rumble and the blowing of the wind are coming toward you from the horizon
Beware because there is a fire underneath the ash
Who grows thorns will reap wounds
You've taken off heads of people and the flowers of hope; and watered the cure of the sand with blood and tears until it was drunk
The blood's river will sweep you away and you will be burned by the fiery storm.
When I was 16, still in high-school, I took a trip to Auschwitz. It was a hot sunny Summer day when I hit the road. I hitchhiked up the Vistula river the ancient city of Krakow, then further into the mountains, Auschwitz on the way.
The buildings of the main camp are made of red bricks, still look solid. The iron gate welcomes with the Inscription: ARBEIT MACHT FREI -- WORK LIBERATES.
Inside, several huge rooms, each filled with hair, combs, toothbrushes, eyeglasses, razors, belts, prosthetics, shoes, many of them children's shoes. . .
I could not speak for several days.
II
Years passed. My mother gives me a tour of Auschwitz and the sister-camp of Brzezinka -- Birkenau, Birch Forest. The forest of chimneys spread for miles along the railway tracks welcomes us. Most barracks were burned to cover the crimes. Only a few survived and the dead forest of chimneys.
Gas chambers at the end of the tracks, crematoria-furnaces right behind. All is neat and efficient. 3 million people were killed here.
My mother stops by the crematorium, says: "Sometimes we heard the screams as if people were thrown alive into the furnace." I want to embrace her, tell her I know. But she's already taken off, marches, measures her steps like someone who knows exactly where she is going. I follow her into one of the barracks.
She stops by an alcove 2 by 2 yards, three shelves of wooden planks inside, points to the top one, says: "Tutaj spalam. Here's where I slept." "Alone?" I ask. "No, 10-12 women shared the bunk. One blanket, sometimes two. It wasn't all bad. We cuddled when it was cold."
She leads to a central place where the roll-call was taken, twice a day. "We would stand for hours in cold, wind, snow, rain, especially when anyone had tried to escape. Sometimes the guards would bring them back and torture them in front of us," she says.
We walk to the parking lot. My mother stops by the Wall of Dead, kneels down, pulls out her cherry wood rosary worn thin by the touch of generations: "Swiêta Marjo! Matko Boga! Módl siê za nami grzesznymi, teraz i w gozinê naszej smierci," she whispers and I join her with Zen chant: "Namu Dai Bosa! Homage to the Great Compassionate One!" Holy Maria! Namu Dai Bosa! Mother of God! Namu Dai Bosa! Pray for us now and at the hour of our death!
I raise my eyes. Calm mountaintops loom on the horizon.
III
My mother and I watch "The Trial in Nuremberg" in her tiny apartment overlooking the Vistula river. Hermann Goering, second in the Reich only to Hitler, claims to be oblivious to what happened in the camps.
My mother says, "Let's take a walk along the river. Wild geese may need food."
I typically post videos of poems before the poems, but I felt that the written poem was stronger than the performance simply because of the unbearable lightness of being in Part III, which is omitted from the video, in part, I believe, because it is very difficult to convey that sensation in a poetry slam opposed to a featured performance or a page read.
This poem was performed as a group piece with Stefan S. Sencerz and Amalia Ortiz, from the National Poetry Slam in Chicago 2003, where I first heard it.
Stefan S. Sencerz is professor of philosophy at Texas A&M in Corpus Cristi. He earned his Ph.D. in philosophy at the University of Rochester in 1992. He teaches Introduction to Philosophy, Foundations of Professional Ethics, Issues in Philosophy of Religion, Environmental Ethics, Eastern Spirituality and Western Thought, War, Terrorism & Ethics, Zen: Culture and Art and Philosophy & Science Fiction.
His published papers cover ethics and moral philosophy.
I first heard this moving poem at Southwest Shootout in Austin, Texas. To begin the poem, Stefan Sencerz instructed the crowd to phonetically pronounce the Polish tongue twister "Chrzaszcz brzmi w trzcinie w Strzebrzeszynie," and after we terribly repeated the finally assembled phrase, he said, "see how easy that was?" then proceeded to launch into the poem. It is best read while imagining it performed with an incredibly thick Polish accent.
"Where am I from? By Stefan S. Sencerz
Over and over and over again I great people with the usual "How are you?" and hear "What's up? Where are you from?"
"Detroit," I say, for I spent four great years in Motown, I left my heart in that town I found sunshine on a cloudy day, I still root for the Pistons.
"I knew you were not from here," I heard in Texas where I live now most of the time I meet with an incredulous stare "Yeah! Right! Detroit?! Where are you really from??"
I ponder this question for the matter is serious, feel like a beginner about to meet the Zen mind --
Where am I from, really, Who am I? What was my face before my parents were born? What is the sound of one hand?
I don't know. So I say, "I was born in Warsaw, Poland." "Say something in Polish!" I hear and oblige "Chrzaszcz brzmi w trzcinie w Strzebrzeszynie."
This sounds so weird that one can doubt it means anything, but it does: Chrzaszcz is a scarab, a kind of beetle, "brzmi" means "resounds," "w" stands for "in" or "amongst," trzcina is a kind of reed, and "Strzebrzeszyn" a name for a village. A scarab resounds amongst reeds, in the village of Strzebrzeszyn. Easy to say, if you are native, some claim impossible, if Polish is your second language..
Whichg leads me to my father it's Warsaw, 1943, the midst of the war my father, an officer of Polish underground receives an order to meet someone whom he had never seen before. So they must identify each other, they exchange the password greed each other with the usual
"Jak sie masz?" "How are you?" "Where are you from?"
"I am from Warsaw," my father says. "Great," the guy continues, "I need to get some tobacco?" "The best tobacconist is right here, right across the park," my father completes the password for now he knows this is the right guy the guy he was supposed to meet and kill a suspected Nazi spy.
They walk through the park. My father pulls out a pistol, points at the guy "You've been tried for treason , sentenced to death. In the name of the Polskiej Rzezcpospolitej . . . " And the guy says, "It's is some kind of mistake." So my father says, it's no mistake, we have surveillance photos of you. And the guy pulls out a photo of his young children bursts into tears and swears upon their heads and the love of the virgin Mary that he is innocent. So, my father says, "Who are you, really? I need some proof!" And the guy says, "Jestem Polakiem. I'm Polish." "Chrzaszcz brzmi w trzcinie w Strzebrzeszynie," fluently without any mistakes. And my father had mercy for him, and let him go.
Sometimes I wonder how could he trust him burdened by his orders burdened by the trust of his friends what would I've done had I been there? I don't know. I never had to kill someone who looked straight into my eyes and cried. I still do not know where I am really from.
Stefan S. Sencerz is professor of philosophy at Texas A&M in Corpus Cristi. He earned his Ph.D. in philosophy at the University of Rochester in 1992. He teaches Introduction to Philosophy, Foundations of Professional Ethics, Issues in Philosophy of Religion, Environmental Ethics, Eastern Spirituality and Western Thought, War, Terrorism & Ethics, Zen: Culture and Art and Philosophy & Science Fiction.
His published papers cover ethics and moral philosophy.
I wish people would stop referring to alleged Tucson shooter Jared Lee Loughner as a "slam poet."
That apparently comes from this quote in an Associated Press news story:
"'He made a lot of the people really uncomfortable, especially the girls in the class,' said Steven Cates, who attended an advanced poetry writing class with Loughner at Pima Community College last spring. Though he struck up a passing friendship with Loughner, he said a group of other students went to the teacher to complain about Loughner at one point."Another poetry student, Don Coorough, said Loughner read a poem about bland tasks such as showering, going to the gym and riding the busin wild 'poetry slam' style - 'grabbing his crotch and jumping around the room.'"When other students, always seated, read their poems, Coorough said Loughner 'would laugh at things that you wouldn't laugh at.' After one woman read a poem about abortion, 'he was turning all shades of red and laughing,' and said, 'Wow, she's just like a terrorist, she killed a baby,' Coorough said."'He appeared to be to me an emotional cripple or an emotional child,' Coorough said. 'He lacked compassion, he lacked understanding and he lacked an ability to connect.'"Cates said Loughner 'didn't have the social intelligence, but he definitely had the academic intelligence.'"
As an Arizona slam poet, one who legally owns several guns and a concealed weapons permit, going on a shooting spree isn't on my list of things to do. Part of the reason poets write poetry is because any frustration with have with the system, society or our personal lives already has a means of release, our words.
Be wary of the people who don't write poetry is all I'm saying. Who knows what's bottled up in there. At least with poets, you clearly know what special species of asshole we are by the end of a poem.
Being in a poetry class and performing poetry in a crazy fashion does not necessarily make one a slam poet. Going to a poetry slam and competing does. To my knowledge, none of the Tucson poets have said, "shit, we knew that Loughner guy, he slammed once!"
As such, we do not claim him.
(However, I have met poets to which this applies: "'He appeared to be to me an emotional cripple or an emotional child,' Coorough said. 'He lacked compassion, he lacked understanding and he lacked an ability to connect.'" You know who you are.)
Additionally, it seems as though both the Left and Right have jumped on this shooting for their own ends. The Right claims he was a crazed communist lefty nutcase who read The Communist Manifesto while the Left claims it was Sarah Palin's gunsight poster and the Right's "vitriolic" rhetoric.
Neither. Motha-fuckin' crazy is motha-fuckin' crazy.
To wit:
1) Have you ever know anyone who posts on a social networking site that one of their favorite book is The Communist Manifesto to have actually read The Communist Manifesto (unless they actually live in a commune and regularly attend Communist Party meetings)? No. And you haven't either.
2) Loughner's YouTube videos make no sense. Watch them. They are full of nonsensical, rambling syllogisms. You'll see someone who was not thinking rationally.
3) There's no evidence that Loughner tried to assassinate anyone because of what he saw, heard, or read. He had a lack of connection to the outside world; there's little evidence that what was going on outside would have made it into his skull; if so, he would have been more coherent in his communication in reverse, back toward us through his YouTube videos, a suicide note or manifesto.
4) Assassinations and political attacks are done for reasons, even if just to gain fame. Even Al-Qaida posts videos following suicide bombings. John Hinckley Jr. shot Reagan to impress Jodie Foster. Otherwise political attacks have no meaning outside of any random attack on any random person.
When the trial is over, if he's even ruled competent to stand trial, I feel we'll see Loughner's motives are more aligned with someone like Mark David Chapman - who shot John Lennon because voices in his head said he was the "Catcher in the Rye" - than because Sarah Palin made a lame poster or because Glenn Beck has a potato for a brain.
That being said, all my best to U.S. Rep. Gabrielle Giffords and the other survivors. My condolences to the familes of the six victims.
From 5 to 7 p.m., poets take the stage in Northern Arizona's longest running poetry open mic.
Now more than six years old, the Sedona Poetry Open Mic has regularly hosted amateur, professional, performance, page, published and closet poets. All poets, spoken word artists, lyricists, songwriters, rappers, MCs, comedians and storytellers are welcome. If your art can be spoken, come and speak.
Nearly 1,100 different poets have spoken on stage since the open mic was founded by its host, veteran slam poet Christopher Fox Graham.
As always, the open mic is round robin: one poem per poet, per round, and we cycle through the poets from start to finish. This means if you show up late, need to leave early or don't have too many poems to read, we can easily work you into the cycle seemlessly.
Java Love Café is located at 2155 W. Hwy. 89A, next to Harkins Theatres, Suite 118, West Sedona. To sign up, be at Java Love around 5ish. For more information, call Graham at (928) 517-1400 or e-mail to foxthepoet@yahoo.com.
she loved me better on paper
