Jaws - The Exorcist: #poem

You're gonna need a bigger boat.

Family

My three siblings are older than I am.

The biggest Russian doll who

contains we younger is Jean,

and it is with her I saw the movie Jaws.

For The Exorcist I just went along with

a loose assemblage, friends of friends.

That’s what you do with movies,

you see them, even if it’s the first

day and you are blithe as a donut on

an oblong tray at Winchell’s.

If the Vatican set up a table in

the theater lobby like Seventh Day

Adventists in the subways I’d have

signed up for a catechism class on

the spot. That was some scary shit.

One time Jean sent me a clipping from

the San Francisco Examiner.

Two sisters, 76 and 82ish, lived together

on Nob Hill until the older murdered

the younger. Watch your back, kid,

Jean printed in the margin.

I knew Jaws was going to be epic,

am unsurprised by this future of

plastic predators-of-the-seas rising from

bubble baths on Saturday Night Live.

But when the shark leapt from an

endless ocean of lost whalers, Jean

and me, we screamed, we shrieked,

we grabbed each other’s hands.

Before and after Jaws I have known terror.

That was the only time I ever held my sister’s hand.

___

Sarah Sarai. Published in Geographies of Soul and Taffeta (Indolent Books), 2016.

My #poem in #Quiddity IN TRAGEDY LET THERE BE THE ECONOMY #SarahSarai #Leviticus @farstargirl

Marc Chagall
 Jeremiah's Lamentations
Original Lithograph, 1956

I continue to be astonished to have found a remarkably contemporary quotation in Lamentations, of all books. I was prepared for wisdom but not for such specific-to-my-times wisdom.

We have drunk our water for money; 
our wood cometh to us for a price.

Jewish Publication Society tr., Tanakh, 1917. 

When I chanced on the contemporary in the ancient and sprang into a poem. And my poem, “In Tragedy Let There Be the Economy,” sprang into Issue 12.1 of Quiddity, which may no longer be in print (as of 1.6.22).

Translations of that verse vary. The above is from the 

Think: Vitamin Water. Think Nestle and their lethal baby formula. Think: Monetizing the planet. Think: We never learn.

My sneak-in poems in Gone Lawn: 32 #poetry

Click H e R e to read "My Father Sleeps Rough in His Sleep" and "Complexities Run Interference" I didn't realize until this post that both poems involving sneaking into - a golf course in the San Fernando Valley and a church in New York City.

My poem "Souls in the Penalty of Flesh" is in the handmade zine, Ethel

Ethel is a hand-made, home-stitched, mindfully assembled, superbly curated journal. Or-zine and-zine all-zine.  The work of Sara Lefsyk and Joanna Penn Cooper.  Click on "Ethel" for more. My poem starts a little like this (click on title for more): . . .

Souls in the Penalty of Flesh

The concept of air humming its tune:

girlhood, Bach crooning, un- and happiness,

a consciousness which materialized into her,

the result of an agreement to fuck on Thursdays,

.  .  .

Volume 3 - January 2019

Submit to Ethel Zine: Send up to five pieces of writing and/or art to ethelzinesubmit@gmail.com with Zine Submission in the Subject line. Or from 10-28 pages of writing and/or art with Chapbook Submission in the subject line.  OR Submit a Mini-Book:  Send up to 15 miniature pages of miniature writing/art with Mini-Book Submission in the subject line.

Hatred Is a Death Threat #poetry #poem #sinisterwisdom #resist #Siri

My poem "Hatred Is a Death Threat" was published in the Fall 2017 issue of Sinister Wisdom, The Lesbian Body issue.  Tara Shea Burke is editor of that issue. Julie R. Enszer is editor-in-chief of Sinister Wisdom. 

... Sarah Sarai.

Donald Duck Qua Swedish Christmas Eve Tradition. Quack.

I'm half Swedish and also a great fan of Donald Duck and extended family: Huey, Dewey, Louie, Daisy Duck, Uncle Scrooge. When I was a kid, Swedish Christmas Eve was wildly traditional in our household and actually enjoyable. But there was no Svenska Donald at that point, that we knew of. Now there is, at least in Sweden and granted I was in N.Y. or California, so who knows, but a Duck tradition can only improve an already sparkling day.

From Atlas Obscura:

Every year since 1959, at 3 p.m. on Christmas Eve, the 1958 special Kalle Anka och hans vänner önskar God Jul (Donald Duck and His Friends Wish You a Merry Christmas, in English) is screened on Sweden’s main public television channel, TV1. Known in English as From All of Us to All of You, this hour of Disney mayhem is hosted by Jiminy Cricket, who leads viewers through about a dozen “Christmas cards” that open to reveal shorts, film clips and other cartoons dating from the 1930s through the 1960s. For decades Sweden only had two channels, and this was the only time of year when people could watch Disney animation or American cartoons on television. And the tradition stuck. Swedes are so compelled by the cartoon that last year during the program, cell data usage fell 28 percent and calls to emergency services dropped 16 percent, reports the Local.

Here's the full article: In Sweden, There Is No Christmas Without Donald Duck. 

Two poems enjoying cucumber sammies at Queen Mob's Tea House

Thanks to Erik Kennedy, poetry editor at Queen Mob's Tea House.

Poem the first: "Keeping It Holy"
(Fairfax Avenue, anyone?)

Poem the second: "Embalming"
(Look under the porch.)

***New poems published yesterday!***

Like a Fat Gold Watch: A Sylvia Plath Anthology now available for presale! #poetry

Available for pre-sale! Like a Fat Gold Watch: Meditations on Sylvia Plath

Edited by Christine Hamm.

To order, please visit https://theplathanthology.com

Contributors include:

Christine Hamm   Barry Napier   J. Hope Stein   Julia Gordon-Bramer   Angela Januzzi   Angela Simione   Sarah Sarai   Daniel Guerra   Maria Garcia Teutsch   Rebecca Loudon   Melanie Graham   Ivy Alvarez   Sean Labrador Y Manzano   Chris Girard   Heather Lenz   Ann Bogle   Angela Veronica Wong   Kelly Forsythe   Crystal Hurdle   Christine Swint   Elizabeth Kicak   Kevin McLellan   Jessy Randall   Liz Robbins   Sarah Busse   Monique Roussel   Melissa Guillet   Daniela Olszewska   Amanda Auchter   Lisa Cole   Joanna Penn Cooper   Janet McCann   Cati Porter   Cami Park   Mairi Sharratt   Juliet Cook   Phillip Ellis   Tasha Cotter   Gregory Schwartz

In Denzel Washington's Gaze & The Blood of Billy Bob Thornton - 2 poems

These two poems were published in Sprung Formal, which is published by the Kansas City Art Institute. 2009? 2013? I'll keep investigating. ...I'm cataloging-isa. Sarah

Winner of The PERSONALSAVIORLORDJESUSCHRIST Poetry Contest

Promises Had Been Made 

          

The women hide nothing.

She, captured in 

         accusation,

a collaborative creator.

Her envelopment has no meaning

         to a dead man

         whose death won’t 

         even end death.

Promises had been made.

Would that be me in her arms?

Not me here on 

         a bench in the gallery’s center

         squaring off

with loneliness and imagination, 

         both being among art’s disciples.

But some me – with a body 

         almost human as his.

         I know much of everything 

         but not enough.

An other Mary, 

         head lowering to his arm – 

         his conjuration of a once life

                    – touching but for

the confident artist’s oils of

         celestial buoyancy.

The men are concerned in their way,

         eyes averted from mine.

         I’m no Mary.

Loyal middle-management, they deny

the present’s threat of pain, 

         the present’s carry-through.

He is translucent in her arms,

         an embodied splay of 

         too much beauty to be real.

_____
Sarah Sarai. 2017. 
Winner of The PERSONALLORDSAVIORJESUSCHRIST Poetry Contest 2017, sponsored by Chris Rice Cooper. Chosen by Helen Losse, emeritus editor at The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature journal. Ekphrastic: Based on The Entombment by Moretto de Besco, at the Met.

Aristotle . Tipton Poetry Journal . Archive

I didn't originate in dust nor did my mother nor my father nor my sister Judy who, like our parents, was shoveled into that fiery furnace from which there is no return, in which the undertaker smelts our souls, and as an bonus, our corpses. There is, however, logic in the demise of literary journals signifying a from-dust to-dust scenario. Paper burns and there is little mystery as to its source, crafted as it is, by hand or factory, in sight of any who wish to watch.

Journals go out of print. Bookcase shelves sag. Small apartments do not expand. I am, therefore and now and then, taking a photo of poems from out-of-print journals and posting them here.

"Aristotle" was published Tipton Poetry Journal ten years ago. He knows from hubris.

#poems "2." "By Any" "Six Aunts Wobbling" "Science and Change" "And the Ships Set Off"

In Vending Machine Press this week, my #poems: "2." "By Any" "Six Aunts Wobbling" "Science and Change" "And the Ships Set Off" PLUS a really awful photo of me I CHOSE. In an authentic New York City apartment building lobby, a six-floor walk-up. No photo available of Vending Machine Press editor, Michael Lafontaine who is Australian. Who I thank for this journal and for selecting my work. 

Congratulations to my fellow poets. Again, please visit and comment on the poems. Thanks for supporting me. I do appreciate it.

"An Interrogatory" - In Which Isaiah Sees Seraphim as Did Sarah Sarai #poem

An Interrogatory 

     Nothing but smooth sailing.
     —The Isley Brothers

Those aren’t birds are they are they, 
are they?, or are they insects of an ilk

glowing and hovering hummingbird- 
like though not hummingbird, not bird,

no, I see it, that which I wasn’t seeing, 
a lingering phosphorescence, no

luminescence, oh!, it is incandescence 
and those are seraphim I see, I am

seeing seraphim, six-winged seraphim, 
seraphim having six wings or so said

Isaiah, a seraphim seer, two wings, 
fans over a mighty face, two enfolding feet

and two neon wings to lift them aloft, 
smoothly sail above prophesies for our

tangled times, two wings golden as honey 
is gold, as amber is gold, as transparency

is gold, carry us to a feared eternal now, 
tolerable, almost, when we sing along. 
____
Sarah Sarai. From Geographies of Soul and Taffeta, published by Indolent Books, 2016.

Can't Protest Weather, Can Protest Porn

I don't know how to publicly empathize with victims of natural disasters. I think that's because there is nothing I can suggest or support to change the situation. I can't join a stand-in against the ferocity of Hurricanes Harvey or Iris. I can't call a slew of Congresspeople and demand they deal with fault lines in California. I can't carry a poster to Union Square to protest natural devastation. 

What is possible is pushing legislators to finally rebuild infrastructure; insurance companies not to enable building in areas likely to get swept up (i.e. much of Florida); Congress to wake up. Science is a real live thing and they know it. They just like the feel of sand in their ears. This may or may not connect with what follows.

I was moved to post today after reading an article about porn. David Simon and George Pelecanos have created a new t.v. series on the porn industry that sprang from Times Square when the center of Manhattan was skeevy. I neither love nor hate Simon and have mixed feelings about The Wire. I have no mixed feelings about porn and Simon has illuminated aspects which have had a deadly and long-lasting effect on women.

The article is: "If you're not consuming porn, you're still consuming its logic." Some of Simon's and Pelecano's thoughts, as quoted in this article.

He admits: “I don’t have any real way to prove that, but certainly the anonymity of social media and the internet has allowed for a belligerence and a misogyny that maybe had no other outlet. It’s astonishing how universal it is whether you’re 14 or 70, if you’re a woman and you have an opinion, what is directed at you right now. I can’t help but think that a half century of legalised objectification hasn’t had an effect.”

On women and the latest election: "The code words that were used against not just her but female journalists and everybody that was involved peripherally in the campaign was awful. Never seen anything like it.”

George Pelecanos, 60, thinks about the two sons he raised and the conversations he overheard when their friends came to the family home. “The way they talk about girls and women is a little horrifying. It’s different from when I was coming up. It’s one thing what was described as locker-room talk, like, ‘Man, look at her legs. I’d love to…’ – that kind of thing. But when you get into this other thing, calling girls tricks and talking about doing violence to them and all that stuff, I’d never heard that growing up, man. I just didn’t.

A Little Night Bullshit

When dust clears or settles and I take the time to study a current object of my scorn or someone I insist has caused me pain, has hurt me, I realize all I am doing is blaming that person for being themselves, to wit: the idiot they are, the person who doesn't care about me and never did, the narcissist, the egotist, the disinterested. I am talking people I know, who act exactly as they have forever, but me, despite my insight and intelligence remains unaware - that's who they are and who they were and who they will be. If I'd hold off on my indignation and hurt, in other words IF I DIDN'T RESPOND SO QUICKLY, I'd see, over time, I was arguing the anteater out of the anteater - why anteater? Arguing that the tiger bites that the vulture hovers and dives that the snake bites and so does the shark. Oh yes. The shark. Dust doesn't settle quickly. 

A check cleared my bank acct. this morning. I can afford a sheet cake. #TinaFey

I don't mind if I lose friends or admirers or haters (but please, not lovers) over this: 

Is this for real? People are analyzing Tina Fey's 5-minute comedy gag and assessing her as not "woke" or not "woke" enough? Some dumbass sugary skit is getting in-depth criticism? She IS a college-educated white woman who has known extraordinary privilege for years and years, de facto, goes with the territory of success in the industry. She's not the perfect activist but did anyone expect her to be? Until today when a check finally cleared my bank account, I considered her privileged to be able to afford a sheet cake. 

There is generalized and damaging thinking all around, and no, it isn't the same as institutionalized hatred of black people which I have seen first-hand but have not experienced first-hand by a long shot, being white. I am clear on what I have and haven't lived through, and on privileges I have and haven't had, as an old person, as a fat woman, as a too-smart woman, as white in a white country, as educated, as having been duped into getting a sham of an MFA, as angry, as an adult child, as daughter of a religious maniac, as funny, as charming, as friendly, as not cool enough for idiots, as too strong for scaredy cats of the self-adored hip post-New York school mimics, as angry and mean and full of blame. I put "" around woke because the word in its new meaning so instantly became its own parody I dislike it. 

Back to the bitches of media. To quote Jerry Lewis, L-a-a-a-d-y!

#Poem: Revolt of the Extras (Zsuzsa Takács) ...we have/played our part for a full year...

Revolt of the Extras

We long to be continued after the last
episode, although the producers opened
the champagne and gave us a small farewell
party. This afternoon even we sit
on the kitchen stools in front of the camera
hoping to see ourselves in the new chapter: we have
played our part for a full year and this recent
indifference to our fate, the plotlines unfolding
without us in the new scenario
hurt us to the quick. No, this is not
what kept us pacing up and down the street,
shivering as usual at winter’s
end. Is it possible that the audience is losing
interest in us? Has our time passed
for good, our story passé, even though we are still
stirring? Coming and going we can hear
the camera’s buzz. As before, we tread with nimble
feet, but a low growl comes from the machine’s
jaws. We fear it might be disapproving.

by — Zsuzsa Takács, Translated from the Hungarian by Erika Mihálycsa

found poem (hah, not really, but really) on the Numero Cinc Magazine site - in the final issue. The journal's archives of many stunning poems, essays, translations, art, will remain online.

 Zsuzsa Takács has also be translated into English by the Hungarian-British poet George Szirtes.

.by 

Dear White People: Yesterday I Told You We Are White - Guess What - Another Day and Still White. Deal with It.

What I forgot to mention when chatting myself up yesterday* on the topic of whiteness was that a particular white person, Frank Bruni, who pens Op-Eds, has moments of pain in the ass-ness.

He's also a writing prompt. His NYT op-ed this weekend, I'm a White Man. Hear Me Out, prompted me to barf. Or almost. He begins with this whine. (A whine should be an orchestral instruction.) 

I’m a white man, so you should listen to absolutely nothing I say, at least on matters of social justice. I have no standing. No way to relate. My color and gender nullify me, and it gets worse: I grew up in the suburbs. 

Waaaaaaaah! What a coy maiden he is. But wait! He's gay! And from ye olden times, when it was tougher to be queer. I'm older than he is, from when it was tougher to be a dyke. And? You know who was from oldener times? Oscar Wilde. Imprisoned. Shamed. Despised. But so eternally loved.

So I wanted to reference one of Bruni's idiocies parading as insight and argumentation. He quotes black writer Thomas Chatterton Williams, who wrote, Losing My Cool.

“My black father, born in 1937 in segregated Texas, is an exponentially more worldly man than my maternal white Protestant grandfather, whose racism always struck me more as a sad function of his provincialism or powerlessness than anything else. I don’t mean to excuse the corrosive effects of his view; I simply wish to note that when I compare these two men, I do not recognize my father as the victim.”

A quotation which Bruni uses as EXHIBIT A, if the court please! He maintains that because a black man, Williams exalts his father and because black people who do not have the limiting disease of racism, everyone should pity Bruni who does have that limiting disease. 

Of course white people know suffering and learn to transmute it in fire, in which souls are purified. But so what. Bruni states, "My gayness no more redeems me than my whiteness disqualifies me." Ahhh. He's a walking embrace of all mankind, that Frank. I wonder what a logician would say about his reasoning which goes like this: That person has welts because he was beaten. But I hurt too, Ma, and much of MY hurt bubbles in the shallow hole of my not having been beaten. Am I not a man?

Odd and distasteful, Bruni's argument is EXHIBIT B. 

I suggest that  when we accept who we are under the pretty big umbrella of being human, we won't hate difference because we'll see connecting threads
and the beauty and accept our limitations. It's not easy, I agree. One of the wisest bits of advice I ever heard was from a lover: Learn to take your lumps, Sarah. BRUNI!!! Learn to take your lumps, you poor sodden fool with your meagre NYT op-eds.

*Yesterday's post. Click.