Five Years Gone

Five Years Gone

  a collection of poetry

  by Jack Vivace

  Copyright 2012 Jack Vivace

  Lyrical Terrorism

  It is easy to be brave

  when you write for your notebook

  and your audience of ink,

  but the larger crowd asks for more.

  Give them

  the star-glinting

  knife, a forgotten bayonet.

  Turn your head,

  stretch your neck

  so that you feel the tendons

  below the ear pull tight

  on the right side

  and present yourself

  with all the dignity you can muster.

  Let them take your head

  if it pleases them so,

  the queens and mothers

  set upon you.

  If you are worth tearing

  limb from limb,

  your mouth will speak

  though your eyes are closed.

  A young woman in England was convicted of “possessing records likely to be useful in terrorism,” which seem to have consisted mostly of internet files on the same stuff Paladin Press used to cover except with a Jihadist slant. I came across this story, however, because most of the press seems to be going to the fact that she wrote poetry about her beliefs.

  Among the evidence presented at her trial were some of the poems she wrote about jihad, including one called How to Behead. The Daily Mail has longer extracts of the poem. It’s decent poetry with attention to detail, though it looks like her grammar could use some work.

  I’m left wondering why the focus of this case is on her poetry, though. Surely the crime here is the possession of this “terrorism library,” since that’s what she was charged with. As far as I know (and correct me if I’m wrong), it’s not illegal to write poetry about jihad or other unpleasant topics in the UK. Have we finally come back around as a society to a place where poetry can be scandalous again? If so, I find that an oddly exciting place to be. Growing up long after Ginsberg’s obscenity was forgotten and in an age where I can’t imagine police caring what’s recited at a poetry reading, I’ve wondered what it was like to write poetry that can have so solid an impact that people seek to shut it up.

  Maybe we’re ready for poetry to be dangerous again.

  Waiting for the Supreme Court to Ask Me Out On a Date

  I can dye my hair

  and cover the scars

  but I always stare too long

  at the wanted poster

  in the post office, distracted

  as I ask for stamps, waiting

  for the clerk to notice.

  I’m passing for a person,

  with rights and opportunities.

  I’ve seen what happens

  to the ones who get caught.

  Their pictures come down

  in the post office

  and they’re never

  seen again, invisible

  on the streetcorners.

  I’m waiting, pretending

  I’m not waiting. If I cut off

  the circulation to my head, I can

  pass out and wake up over the rainbow

  or at least after the waiting’s over.

  Mango

  I climb the tree because I can.

  It splits near the base,

  spreads wide, a great climbing tree.

  I’m used to pine trees and apples,

  where I had to slither between branches

  to reach the prize above.

  The mangoes are golden.

  I grab one and settle

  into the cradle of the branches,

  slice it open with my pocket-knife

  and suck on the fruit.

  Everything is extra sweet in Negros,

  where sugar grows plentiful and cheap.

  The soda, the pastries.

  Even the fruit makes my teeth hurt.

  I was a different person

  surrounded by sugar and sun

  and golden fruit and coconuts.

  I don’t think it’s an accident

  that I only see mangoes

  green and tinged with

  pink embarrassment

  on American shores.

  Conquest

  When you sit across from Moctezuma

  and smile into the narrowed eyes of his court

  and think of the rumors of dead, white gods,

  something jerks like a bad tooth,

  wriggles like a fat worm under the eye of

  a hungry bird or snake. You wonder

  in both senses of the word, at the idea

  that you are their god reincarnate.

  At night, in your private quarters, so far

  from Spain and even Cuba, maybe you let

  yourself believe it. You judge your

  followers unworthy of you, or you doubt

  your decisions. Finally you fall asleep

  and you dream of the sky and feathers,

  scales, freedom, and worship below.

  Tagalo(n)g

  Real shivers come only before dawn,

  discotheque Christmas left behind me

  in rave-colored shadows,

  and I’m only a little drunk, really.

  The streetlights are voided out

  and the cabs asleep as I wander

  too far in the dark, mumbling to myself,

  seeing line breaks among the narration.

  Now! I feel like a real writer

  here in my foreign country

  doing stupid things

  in the guise of adventures.

  By the time I’m talking straight again

  the horizon’s shaded in mango flowers,

  chill has become afterglow

  and the shouts of balut vendors.

  The poem ceased to exist

  as I recited, this self is ceasing,

  built on the beach and

  high tide is my visa date.

  I’m always lost, even when I know

  where I am, among sky blue markets,

  rainbow jitneys mirroring each other

  until my sense leads me

  somewhere.

  And a where is not lost.

  Somewhere the bells

  are asking me to visit the dawn mass.

  Here my visa lasts only

  an hour, an obvious tourist,

  as I sit back and watch

  glass-stained angels circle.

  It only looks like Sunday.

  I know better. Sunday is when

  I leave. Until then it is

  always Saturday night.

  The sun is fully blooming,

  I blink into the light and flag

  a jitney and ride this time,

  figuring out where I’m going.