Category Archives: Poetry

Happy Birthday Rumi

On the occaison of the famous poet’s birthday, I found some nice reflections online. This one, for example, points out the connection to peaceful themes within Islam:

Whenever people say that Islam is hostile to opposing views and violent in its nature, I always wonder whether those people actually ever took the time to read the Koran, to talk about it, to read other Islamic literature, to take a long and hard look at the history of this second largest religion of the world, and whether they’ve ever heard of someone we in the West have come to know as Rumi.

The BBC adds some classic British dry humor for perspective:

For many years now, the most popular poet in America has been a 13th-century mystical Muslim scholar.

I guess they were really trying to say Madonna is the most popular, and since she cites Rumi…but the effect is the same. Poetry today is more alive, more integrated, and more important than ever before. The BBC continues:

“When a religious scholar reads the Mathnawi, he interprets it religiously. And when sociologists study it, they say how powerful a sociologist Rumi was. When people in the West study it, they see that it’s full of emotions of humanity.”

Ironically, the biggest threat to poetry is from those who argue that it is in such a weak state that it needs to be popularized through force — they want to see their idea of poetry become more dominant and that usually means the stuff most like themselves rather than from a global perspective. But let’s face it, there’s plenty of Rumi in this world for everyone, and so we do not have to measure poetry’s success solely by what makes old rich white men in America happy.

the carrot

by Kgafela oa Magogodi

the carrot attracts a crooked habit

rabbits cross the floor to chew the rot

vote right

there’s no carrot on the left

the parrot sings praises cos the carrot

is in the pot

the only truth to the tooth is the carrot

liars strangle no more they dangle the carrot

to suck you into the rot

they put the carrot in your pocket

to keep you quiet

no more riot

no more riot

no more riot

just the grinding of rot

the carrot dance is a national sport

see how they run like judas iscariot

to grab the all mighty carrot

now children are taught

that life is about who eats more carrot

to excrete more rot

lairs raise the flag of the carrot

even in the toilet

no more riot

no more riot

no more riot

just the grinding of rot

you’re a true patriot

even if you get caught

stealing the carrot

nobody takes you to court

it matters not if you forgot

to give to the poor a cut

of the carrot.

Interesting work from South Africa by a poet invited to facilitate Steve Biko Foundation poetry workshops. This poem and the following praise for Magogodi caught my eye on the Centre for Creative Arts site:

Reading … listening to Kgafela oa Magogodi’s poetry and song is a shattering experience. His linguistic chisels go far beyond ‘causing blisters in the eardrums of society’. They are like a shattered mirror, with each piece of glass throwing at you a reflection, an image of its own. His art is not something that you can fix a label on without going drastically wrong.

Nobody likes labels, but we depend on them.

Bad Poetry

I have been dealing with reviews of a lot of really bad security lately.

I do not know how to put it in perspective any better than by analogy to (of course) poetry. Really, really bad poetry, as revealed bycracked.com in their recap of the 10 least romantic love song lyrics:

Jimmy Webb. “MacArthur Park”

“As we followed in the dance,
Between the parted pages and were pressed,
In love’s hot, fevered iron,
Like a striped pair of pants.”

There’s not much we can say here. Just read it over a couple of times. Yes, this song is the ACME of bad lyrics, but this particular passage is breathtaking. ‘Yes babe, you remind me of my wrinkly pants.’

Sometimes when I have to sit straight faced across from someone who glibly tells me how acceptable their security system is, right after I have punched into it like a hot tongue through rice paper, I remind myself how much bad poetry there is in the world.

“Yes, your security reminds me of my wrinkly pants”

difficult news

An excerpt from Asphodel, That Greeny Flower
by William Carlos Williams

My heart rouses
   thinking to bring you news
      of something
that concerns you
   and concerns many men.  Look at
      what passes for the new.
You will not find it there but in
   despised poems.
      It is difficult
to get the news from poems
   yet men die miserably every day
      for lack
of what is found there. 

Found in an interview with Physician Valerie Berry by Len Anderson

LA: Is poetry also a healing art?

VB: I think all arts heal. Sometimes it takes us a while to recognize how, especially when the initial experience of it makes us uncomfortable or leaves us perplexed or angry. I’m reminded of surgery. For me, the sacred moment in surgery is when you hold the scalpel above the unmarked, intact skin. You know that once you cut, it will never be the same, no matter how well it heals–yet the healing can’t begin until the surgery opens the patient, reveals what’s wrong. I think art does that.

Somehow I imagined the sacred moment being when the procedures are finished successfully and all and the tools are accounted for….

Can’t wait to start my next incident response and say “let’s savor this sacred moment — the healing can’t begin until we start cutting”.