Notorious by Cathy Park Hong

Notorious

  

Biggum Wallah, Biggum Wallah, why so glum?

You in heaven, na, be happy.

You are Hip Hop’s Grand Panjandrum in white foxy mink

snuggly over your Bluto belly,

& this fleet of white Cucci Gucci Hummers is for you, ji.

Like a short-order cook slinging hash browns,

you slinged so many rhymes propho-rapping you will die,

now faput. Dead. Why so chee?

Ayaya, you in heaven for white people.

Wrong ear-sucking heaven.

Heaven does stink like mothballs, bibbit & whatsit,

you smell wet dog?

Milksop chatty angels with their Binaca grins, twibble:

“No Hennessy just seltzer, please,”

before they sing your hits a capella.

Shataa, Baagad Bullya,

very last straw, this Angrez-propogandhi.

Silly as a cricket in pubes.

Biggum Wallah bringing up demands, yar.

A smashation of clouds part to reveal the uretic sun

and swatting away chweetie pie cupids,

looms Fatmouth God,

frowning like rotten turbot.

But Biggita is VIP, sold records in millions tens,

so God sighs, relents & the Kleenex sky

melts to Op Art swirls

of Cherry Coke red, burning upup

white magnolias into a chain-link planet of asphalt

& black cell phone towers.

This more like it, sepoys, all hoosh

& video girl boomba-lathis drinking lychee lassis.

But where is your number 1 rap rival nemesis?

Where is 2Packi?

Desire by Langston Hughes

Desire

Desire to us

Was like a double death,

Swift dying

Of our mingled breath,

Evaporation

Of an unknown strange perfume

Between us quickly

In a naked

Room.

My Night With Jeffrey Dahmer by Mark Wunderlich

My Night With Jeffrey Dahmer

—like any night spent out in a bar—this one

doused in the pall of neon, 1989, Formica,

brushed metal and the spin of sound in the club,

while downstairs in a darker bar, where the older men

enjoyed each other's company and where I had gone

to cool off, a man stood next to me

and knocked my beer to the floor, so sorry—he was

very sorry—hand on my arm as I bent to pick up

the bottle, one hand on my arm, the other signaling

to the bartender, holding up a finger then pointing

to the empty I proffered, put on the wood counter,

bottle which the keep swept away, replaced,

a cold, green glass already sweating a bit, beading

in the heat of the basement.

He was a stranger, older than I was by a decade or more,

blond and mustached, big glasses—some farmer's son—

a bit out-of-date, stuck as he was in the country,

a man driven in to the capital to spend a night

among others of his kind, away from his mother's kitchen,

the chilled hum of the bulk tank, and the cows

whose needs were at the center of a life spent in their service—

but no, he was from Milwaukee, he said, though to me

his words were unimportant—so sorry, let me, I'll get you

a new one, let me buy you one,

and so he took out his wallet and handed over his dollars,

and I suppose I looked to see

if he had left a tip since I always look for this,

having done already the work of service

in which you depend on the manners and guilt

and sense of custom of those you attend, their

generosity, their goodness, their notion

of what is normal and right, what to offer to others

in exchange for their help, their attentiveness, here

let me buy you a beer, so sorry for my clumsiness,

let me put this hand on your arm, do you live here,

are you at the university, do you like the music,

did I tell you my name?—his questions the questions

of any curious man talking to a farmer's son

in a bar in Madison, Wisconsin, asking my name which I withheld,

my name which I keep lodged between my teeth,

under my tongue, in the pocket of my clavicle,

in the scar on my eyebrow, in my belly,

in the sack of my scrotum, in my head, my hand, my arm

which he touched lightly, my mouth, my teeth, my tongue

which began to move, unlock, give up its wariness, give in

to say my name is Mark. What's yours?

The Night Shed Its Blue Tears by Stefán Hörður Grímsson

The Night Shed Its Blue Tears

The night shed its blue tears

on grass and woods

and the earth grew cool and deep

beneath my feet

and I felt for a moment

as if a pallor struck my breast

and my bones were rotting

and I was seized by fear.

Then I thought I heard a low whisper like that of a closing flower:

You are a spring a thousand years ago.

Ars Poetica? by Czesław Miłosz

Ars Poetica?

I have always aspired to a more spacious form   

that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose   

and would let us understand each other without exposing   

the author or reader to sublime agonies.   

In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:   

a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in us,   

so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out   

and stood in the light, lashing his tail.   

That’s why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,   

though it’s an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.   

It’s hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,   

when so often they’re put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.   

What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,   

who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,   

and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,   

work at changing his destiny for their convenience?   

It’s true that what is morbid is highly valued today,   

and so you may think that I am only joking   

or that I’ve devised just one more means   

of praising Art with the help of irony.   

There was a time when only wise books were read,   

helping us to bear our pain and misery.   

This, after all, is not quite the same   

as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.   

And yet the world is different from what it seems to be   

and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.

People therefore preserve silent integrity,   

thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.   

The purpose of poetry is to remind us   

how difficult it is to remain just one person,   

for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,   

and invisible guests come in and out at will.

What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,   

as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,   

under unbearable duress and only with the hope   

that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.

(Translated by Czesław Miłosz and Lillian Vallee)

Sight by W. S. Merwin

Sight 

Once 

a single cell 

found that it was full of light 

and for the first time there was seeing 

when 

I was a bird 

I could see where the stars had turned 

and I set out on my journey 

high 

in the head of a mountain goat 

I could see across a valley 

under the shining trees something moving 

deep 

in the green sea 

I saw two sides of the water 

and swam between them 

I 

look at you 

in the first light of the morning 

for as long as I can

If I Could Tell You by W. H. Auden

If I Could Tell You

Time will say nothing but I told you so,

Time only knows the price we have to pay;

If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,

If we should stumble when musicians play,

Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,

Because I love you more than I can say,

If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,

There must be reasons why the leaves decay;

Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,

The vision seriously intends to stay;

If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go,

And all the brooks and soldiers run away;

Will Time say nothing but I told you so?

If I could tell you I would let you know.