Belgrade, 23 July 2008

Belgrade, 23 July 2008

Ivan, our favorite Serbian punk rocker dude
plays translator as we walk from church to
museum to atelier. His dark paintings already
surpass Mayon, but he’d be nowhere without her.
Seven months of bombing in 1999 rid the town of
Milosovic but not Karadizc, and how many died for
this? Ivan wants out; he’s tired of shortages, sleeps
where he drops, saving bus fare to the rocky suburbs.
He never used bomb shelters as sirens blared: if the
bombs got him, so be it. The clownish morose, post
Francis Bacon look to his art is horrifying, sharp, fresh,
accountable. Maryon slams the door as we leave, having
twice talked of suicide on a closed-up Monday before
cold rain came. These two need the smoke and drink
more than anyone I’ve met so far. Although the terra cotta
forms placed in families on the square are funny, even
swimming, the medieval music can’t turn black clothes
and lipstick into merriment for long. Lyubo laughs, talks
to friends; he knows everyone. Two days later Karadizc
is arrested, Mr. President looks down on park whores.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2008. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

May 15, 2008

May 15, 2008

 

Professor Stuber’s pick-up crew is out again on Thursday, by
Example, imploring students to stop dropping trash wherever
They sit. Now two more professors drop by to lend a hand,
Yet all you can think about is how spring goes by on Misty
Morning Way, where your father, proudly walking toward
Eighty, marks another year on the back of his bedpost. Not
The front, as that would ruin the décor. Is there any way
To reach back to capture and relive the train ride loud with a
Dixieland band, or converted, topless fire engine adventures?
Professor Stuber likes his new gig. It’s not screaming co-ed
College groupies loving your last set of music, or fellow
Poets applauding your latest rant, or even an art critic firmly
Lauding your ability to remain an expressionist against
All common sense. No, now it’s wide-eyed or hung-over
Students learning way more than English in what amounts
To a cross-cultured anthropology class, with English laid
In over the top. If your father could experience how happy
You are, could he, even after all he has been through, be
Happy enough to recapture the spark of youth? I hope so.

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2008. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Article 9

Article 9

 

Here in Makuhari, surrounded by well-wishers, those seeking
peace enjoyed your rhapsody in B minor, Bush minor that is.
The trigger was pulled on Paul Wellstone, as he persisted
in his investigations. Likewise Benazir Bhutto, and to
start it all off, Dodi, and accidentally, Di Somebody
somewhere decided we had aided the Muslims one war
too many, and though this turnaround was anticipated,
few thinkers dreamed up the scenario that unfolded.
Poem? > What poem? Who has tie for fluff?

Here goes for the Iraqis:

The only grievance in this war is the price of oil.
Our commander chiefly told his generals where to go.
When he did our soldiers died, and Fallujah’s life and soil.
Now we rally for Japan’s Article 9 in Tokyo.
Mothers who lost their children, now part of the refugee flow.

This congress is still mostly fun, although Ms.Weiss implores
that action is the only way to beat them at their game.
So if it takes a singing voice to break down power’s doors,
then show them how, by being brave, you can douse their flame.
The lies have gone on far too long, war is the greatest shame.
Mairead Corrigan Maguire reads twice, so glad that we came.

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2008. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Article 9 a.m.

Article 9 a.m.

At nine a.m. this group of twelve waits at Makuhari.
Inside the air-conditioned hall dust floats over chairs.
Speakers will again insist on peace within and everywhere.
A train leads to a monorail, but the ladies ask where are we?

They are asleep, in fear and rage, refusing to take part,
or mired in over-studying to avoid another day of hate.
But now, alone together, will they realize it’s not too late?
Or will green jealousies again arise to squelch their hearts?

The ladies who are of an age to have seen it all
arrive an hour early so they can sit on the front row.
On day one they waited in the rain, only to be told no.
So the main attractions repeated their words out on a grassy mall.

Multitudes flee guns these days, arms never solved a thing.
A new type of globalization erupts when witnesses testify.
A photo or two from Abu Graib is enough to expose the lies.
Aiden and Cora speak about what our actions could bring.

Youth is missing at this event, it’s enough to make you scream.
As the earth devolves into war over depleted food and oil
children play at computer games, knowing nothing of the soil.
Optimists persist: we teach, we sing, we hug, we dance, we dream.

 

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2008. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Cramp Transference

Cramp Transference

 

She’s transferred out of here due to cramps? No, that
can’t be it. But what on earth is this cryptic note getting
at? I’m humored, she’s humored, we both know I’ll
be around even if Jin Hee cramp transferred out. Now
the mind wanders to the possibility that she ended up
at Humun, the Chonnam back gate. If so, that’d be a
hoot, as its even more in my neighborhood. Oh, she’d
shit a Twinkie to see me walk in, for sure. Tomorrow
is parents day, meaning 5000 Won flower baskets line
the last ten meters from Shinay to the bus station. I
was told to buy some for Kwang Suk’s parents, but had
thought that Park herself is a Mom, and maybe I could
sneak them to Hyuntay and have him give some to her
as well. Would this amount to a cramp transference
too? Is that shaky, wiggling rear in Adidas pants also
a cramp transference? And how about when the crampy
blood transfers onto pad or tampon, or when New Jersey’s
own “The Cramps” cranking their version of Halloween
heavy onto the heads of appreciative ticket holders, with
neighborhood curio cabinets rattling. Does that count?

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2008. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Prophecy, Friday February 28, 2007

Prophecy, Friday February 28, 2007

 

The wide-winged hawks that glide the wind
are cheered by little boys
whose parents huddle by the fire
as if they had a choice.

But times are tough, the drought moves in
as cattle eat hills bare.
Pandemic flu slows elders down
but they still have time to care.

On sunny days we turn the soil
with ashes, leaves and rinds.
February adds a day this year:
a chance to clear our minds

so overwrought with changing times
we’re scared before seeds grow
we’ll have to move the family
if the mortgage lays us low.

Pa said he was a little tike
the last time money soured.
I know I’m spoiled, and caught unmasked
with no wheat to flour.

We send out signals to our friends
and even to our foes.
We’re here to help, if you can work
then join us in our woes.

 

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2008. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

How I feel in the morning

The Innocent #1

There, at the rock, the innocent stands waiting
for what she’s not sure, but she knows the
man she once dreamed of could not be out
fishing until two in the morning, nor could her
busy parents be lured away from the fields by
the promise of money, nor her dreams fulfilled
in the rice paddy, nor will some Batman, half
hero, half millionaire show up, nor will wearing
a yellow, pleated mini-skirt and pumps attract
the type of guy she wants to spend the rest of her
life with. She doesn’t see a salamander popping
its head up above a fallen leaf. She hears the owl
call his hunting call instead. Fog dampens night.
She can’t explain why she knows this is the place
she is meant to wait. She can’t relax or even sit
without the pain of growth spurts ruining her
yearning. No hikers present themselves, no slow
moving conversations, so she marches back down
to her lonely room, sits reading by a new lamp,
listens to her parents snoring, fully aware of time.