Re: [acornlive] submits

Marc Goldin (acornlive@dublinwriters.org)
Wed, 25 Oct 2000 18:37:23 -0700 

 Sean,
        Just thought I'd add my voice to the "Greek chorus" of praise for
your poetry. Great stuff, couldn't quite decide which I liked better.
There's so much drivel about, I realize that poetry is more subjective than
other lit. genres but for some reason, yours struck a chord with me. Keep at it.
                                                                            
                                                                    Best,
                                                                            
                                                                 Marc Goldin


At 10:17 PM 10/23/00 MDT, you wrote:
>Here is my newest poem, based loosely upon a true happening which my 
>friends' father, a Coptic priest, was right in the middle of. Any comments 
>or questions would be much appreciated and replied to quickly and fairly. By 
>the way, I have been 17 for almost a month now, man, where did the first 
>decade and a half go? Anyways, give this one a shot, I have also attached a 
>new one which my feeling are somewhat mixed about.
>Thanks,
>-Sean
>
>
>Jihad?
>Upon first glance it appears that some
>foreign dignitary, celebrity or king is on parade,
>That is; the streets are filled with jubilant throngs
>of Arabs, arms raised, women leaning out windows,
>gossiping and smiling, as the men below
>quickly dispense with such foolishness.
>
>Enter sound: cheers here are jeers,
>the fists raised in anger and hate
>along the tall, narrow streets of Cairo,
>the gossip is of a vengeful nature,
>traded in humorous tones,
>High, high above the masses but
>Far, far below the heaven of both religions,
>The sky is neglected,
>Save by the Coptic priest in long black robes,
>matching his greying beard,
>A dark-beaded wooden rosary around his neck
>carrying a wicker cross.
>
>The children of Allah spit upon him,
>knock him off his feet,
>throw rotten fruit at him,
>Stroke automatic pistols while repeating ancient oaths meant for
>scimitars of Damascus steel,
>He is guided by the trackless blue sky,
>To which his eyes are steadfastly riveted,
>With a quiet dignity, speaking loud
>Above the clamour of the crowd,
>And silencing those with ears,
>who turn towards Mecca,
>and raise their eyes to the skies
>miles above the deserts dirt.
>
>
>Daybirth
>After the initial shock died down
>- the ripples on the pond sojourned and abated -
>Almost everything became clear to him: he wondered why,
>why he was better fed than his captors, who
>when tearing a piece of bread gave him, the prisoner,
>The larger half.
>
>Was he, the 'enemy' worth that much to them that they
>would selflessly sacrifice what little was left of their comfort,
>to assuage the fears of this man they had trapped,
>As they had been trapped all their lives?
>
>They spoke to him in halting English or
>deliberately slowed - but always acclerating Spanish,
>of their cause:
>Their brothers and sisters starving fearful on the farms below,
>Their brothers and sisters rotting fearless in the graves below,
>as they walked along the mountain roads from
>hideout to hideout -
>Always ready for the drumming of helicopters in the distance,
>the drumming of the rain on their dishevelled corpses,
>Still they marched on.
>He was sent home in exchange
>for a Marxist held years in a Bogota jail without trial.
>
>After a shave, a shower, an expensive meal, he awoke, troubled,
>swung his legs out of bed, turned the bedside lamp on,
>Placed his spectacles upon his face to watch the sun rise,
>All the time knowing
>that his brothers and sisters marched into the Colombian dawn,
>to the beat of freedom,
>Raining down from the heavens into the jungle where they lie.
>And wait.
>
>
>
>
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