This is the new blog...CONFESSION ZERO

TU VAS NOUS MANQUER an ode to Marcel Marceau


Marcel Marceau, the master of mime who transformed silence into poetry with lithe gestures and pliant facial expressions that spoke to generations of young and old, has died. He was 84.


Wearing white face paint, soft shoes and a battered hat topped with a red flower, Marceau breathed new life into an art that dates to ancient Greece. He played out the human comedy through his alter-ego Bip without ever uttering a word.

Offstage, he was famously chatty. "Never get a mime talking. He won't stop," he once said.

A French Jew, Marceau escaped deportation to a Nazi death camp during World War II, unlike his father who died in Auschwitz. Marceau worked with the French Resistance to protect Jewish children, and later used the memories of his own life to feed his art.

He gave life to a wide spectrum of characters, from a peevish waiter to a lion tamer to an old woman knitting, and to the best-known Bip.




As in silent motion
white faced petals
polish our living

nestled near, ready to rise
and outshine the sorrow
etched upon our face;
hate, that rusty nail
on the floor of hell piercing
the naked feet of our foul specter.

As in silent motion
dream’s painted face
fetches our melody…


Je dois y aller maintenant.
Adieu,
thepoetryman


© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

Many thanks to Ben Heine for the Marceau portrait accompanying the poem.












IT IS COMING



Breathe in deep America,
You are fading.
The liberated their dreams,
We’ve none.

Warriors fall to the streets,
Children face down.
Streets drenched in gloom,
Ours awash in pride.

Rise up to splendor,
It is waiting.
Show the world freedom,
Conquer your death.

(Poetryman Productions)



© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

GOOD SOLDIER



(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)
The Ambitious Delusions of George Bush and David Petraeus

We now learn that General David Petraeus fancies himself a Dwight Eisenhower for the 21st century.

According to a report in London's Independent newspaper by the reliable Middle East observer Patrick Cockburn, the U.S. military viceroy in Iraq would like very much to return from his mission and -- like the Supreme Commander of Allied forces in Europe during World War II and of North Atlantic Treaty Organization in its aftermath -- mount a bid for the White House.

Petraeus has apparently been so open in expressing his "long-term interest in running for the US presidency" that Sabah Khadim, a former senior adviser at Iraq's Interior Ministry who worked closely with the general in Baghdad, recalls, "I asked him if he was planning to run in 2008 and he said, 'No, that would be too soon'."


The mouth of the good soldier,
The stern jaw of the general,
The small particles of human dust
That move between them;
Better things than war
To the rotten film of floating flesh.

The bastard truth, in its last throes,
Had no teeth to gnaw at death
To release its harrowed grip,
And deceit had honed its razors
Slicing truth to its mortal nub,
Veracity fell out the bloody center
Uncorking the gushing liquid
now thickly oozing out of man.

This that moves us and machine
Is what drives the engine of betrayal.
It is not man.
It is not beast.
It is not breath.
At birth we suckle its oily nipple
Until we desire it more than food-
This; our liquid birth of machinery.

It is with that in mind and nothing else
That the stern jawed general let loose his guns.
With precision, from years of training,
He nailed his target, truth, between the eyes
And it fell back calling out a futile "help,"
But rescue would not be forthcoming,
It too had been felled.

Death stands now before them both
And places his fluttering lips close,
“Come. Join me now. You shall see
the horror within the mortal’s eyes
when, in the dark, you greet them.”

© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

Betrayus ad infuriates some

Petraeus... or just a good soldier?



ANGER AND INDIGNATION

The idea for the poem below the incredibly powerful video (first 4 and a half minutes), ANGER AND IN-DIG-NATION by Dr. Ryman, began with a comment I read on The Existentialist Cowboy's post about Petraeus' testimony before congress. The words, by Diane B The Gemini Scrolls, are quoted below:

"You are right Len, these characters that are running our government, have committed so many horrendous crimes, and need to be in prison if not worse. It appears this is not going to happen with this Congress, will it ever, who knows?"

I highlighted the four simple words, only four, sometimes my muse prefers more, but I latched on to those four and could not wipe them from my mind. This fact is not to take away from Diane's full comment which certainly has some teeth. I suppose my muse is to blame for the most part since things usually don't stay in my head for more than a few minutes.


The four words called out to me and stayed with me and I do hope that this poem and video call out and stay with you. I hope they call to you, cry out to you, reverberate in you, highlighting your anger toward such crimes and in some way allows you to filter the rage and turn your indignation into much needed, coherent action...

Sincerely,
Mark (thepoetryman)




War delivers something significant
Overlooked in our hurry;
Blindness of its reach
Leading demons to our bed.

Our minds see too late the sacrificed
In its jaws or upon its talons
With “This war, this lie will echo,”
Stomping inside our heads.

There’s not room for much else,
Shrapnel has invited itself in
And eats our guilt with a shovel,
Burrowing to our center.

Another soldier, a child,
Who believes himself impenetrable
Is taken to soil for our charade,
Cold and ashen now.

Where is the anger
For having been wed to this legion,
For standing motionless
As deceit commits so many?

Where’s the indignation?
What have we sacrificed to the ground?
Do we believe we’ve ducked its swipe
And come out unsoiled on the other side?


Now, after we’ve learned, will we
Snuggle up to precious war
And kiss its beneficiaries,
Too afraid to die?


War bends for no one, save for utter defeat.
These are the days of our significance,
These we live, so grab the warring shovel
And bury it of its damnable use!


© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman


IMMOBILE DESCENT



Robert Shetterly ...The second strong feeling --- the first being horror --- I had on September 11 was hope, hope that the United States would use the shock of this tragedy to reassess our economic, environmental, and military strategies in relation to the other countries and peoples of the world. Many people hoped for the same thing --- not to validate terrorism, but to admit that the arrogance and appetite of the U.S., all of us, have created so much bad feeling in many parts of the world that terrorism is inevitable. I no longer feel hopeful. If one looks closely at U.S. foreign policy, the common denominator is energy, oil in particular. The world is running out of oil. Political leadership that had respect for the future of the Earth and a decent concern for the lives of American and non-American people would be leading us away from conflict toward conservation and economic justice, toward alternative energy, toward a plan for the survival of the world that benefits everyone. We see hegemony and greed thinly veiled behind patriotism and security. We get pre-emptive war instead of pre-emptive planning for a sustainable future. The greatness of our country is being tested and will be measured not by its military might but by its restraint, compassion, and wisdom. De Toqueville said, “America is great because it is good. When it ceases to be good, it will cease to be great.” A democracy, whose leaders and media do not try to tell the people the truth, is a democracy in name only. If the consent of voters is gained through fear and lies, America is neither good nor great. Nor is it America.


Someone…something… has fallen to earth,
Tumbling from far above to the dismal ground.
Each year, as this moment comes `round, we are met
With its foul-smelling, screeching descent.


We’ve not made peace with this unknown,
We’ve not processed the quivering snapshot,
We’ve only erected monuments of its anger…


Again, as I see myself in its decline,
I am greeted by my own intolerable failings
Determined to shackle the thrashing legs
And bind the wrist to stale, bleached bone.


O! We are resolute each time it falls to us,
To the solid earth; her clattering,
To this determination; our held posture…

Into the costly void we go again,
Deeper than the last, pungent in our horror,
Overlooking embers of exactness that boil
Deep below this; our replicating defeat!


To annually pen an immobile descent
In godforsaken reverie of vengeance
Is more damning than this occasion…


O! We’re clothed in potency by tailored failings;
This unremitting plunge shall course our evermore
Save we excavate our mettle from `neath dread and death.
(Let us not be trapped under the ruins of our own collapse.)




© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman



Thank you, Robert for the beautiful introductory words to the poem and for writing such an important book as Americans Who Tell The Truth.

Special mention to the amazing site, No Cure For That, where I had the pleasure of being introduced to Robert.

Here are other poetryman 9-11 poems:
1. One Life One Bone One Skull One Moment
2. Remember This Moment
3. Floor by Floor Beam by Beam Soul by Soul
4. In Pursuit of 9-11
5. Widowed
6. Omnipresent Enemy
7. We Shall Never Forget (August 6, 2001)

BURNING DREAM



(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)

Baghdad Burning
... I'll meet you 'round the bend my friend, where hearts can heal and souls can mend...

...The first minutes after passing the border were overwhelming. Overwhelming relief and overwhelming sadness… How is it that only a stretch of several kilometers and maybe twenty minutes, so firmly segregates life from death?...




As I sit here in my quiet writing space, a much needed rain
Tapping out its eager ballet upon the equally eager soil,
I cannot help but imagine another driving backbeat of fear
Writhing and weaving its way across the sand toward Syria;
Moving upon the shattered dance floor like a repellent leper
Stumbling toward new floors and ceilings and fresh ground and flesh.
The earth has its milk to give, the people their gratefulness.
The empire has its blood to spill, the meek their mourning.
The lies have their
tales to tell, the truth its casualty;
Brown blood coursing over the scourge filled wilderness.
I have seen the silent Sacred Ibis ascend in my dreams of
Thoth,
Been onlooker of such wonder in the spirit and tongue of
Ra
With falcon hearts trudging toward new lands under the mid-day sun.
This dream is an extension of things I cannot grasp,
They are not meant for me to reckon with or comprehend,
For the wanted rain’s now pouring and the ground is happy,
So I bestow my visions upon the beautiful people of Iraq.
The earth has its milk to give, the people their gratefulness.
The dream I willingly give to you, it belongs not to me.
Use it, my friends, to mend the floor beneath your feet.




© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman



WHY DO WE NOT LIVE



Elton & Pavarotti - Live Like Horses


Why live? Why such appetite if we only aspire to its demise; this odd sphere's protracted pining which hunger itself appears to not have any use for. The insides of a child, the spattered family, the fallen soldier, all lying on the barren street engulfed in livings final drink understand more than this. This odd yearning for what seems to be discarded so readily without remorse or as much as a blink of an eye; the gasp for breath at our birth seems slightly strange given our anorexic affection toward mankind. Our craving for such a quickening demise only to be buried with the presumptive wish of tomorrow’s lustrous hue, is madness! We’ve no more sense than this? Have we prodded enough of our heart’s living that it’s time to explore beyond it into the unknowable?

Yes! Why can’t we live like horses; blast the shackled raven and salvage the senses; break free the walls and live unbridled; our experiment’s incomplete and our living needs know this. Our end needn’t be useless, daunting, or fixated of putting death on parade with such a goddamned elaborate superiority! There is no use in it, no use in this world for such murderous babbling nuisance and uncharitable war and ghastly human famine! Men talk of evil and good as if there were a miniscule speck of a tangible iota of a difference between themselves and those they smirk upon with nose skyward...

Is it any surprise that we should find ourselves here and that from its inception the congregation of man with its splendid philosophy and work and music and laughter and freedom was merely conduit for the advent of living’s death?


© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman



Pavarotti - R. I. P.



(Ben Heine - Cartoons)
Luciano Pavarotti, the Italian singer whose ringing, pristine sound set a standard for operatic tenors of the postwar era, died early this morning at his home in Modena, in northern Italy. He was 71.

And a solo by the singer that all others should aspire to.

Luciano,
May your winged voice soar above the world's desperation...


THE VIRGIN AND THE SEASONED



Bush just playing us with 'troop withdrawal'


Olbermann: "President Bush told troops in Iraq some of them may be able to come home. To a country dying of thirst, the president seemed to vaguely promise a drink from a full canteen -- a promise predicated on the assumption that he is not lying. Yet you are lying, Mr. Bush. Again. But now, we know why. "

"...Everything you said about Iraq yesterday, and everything you will say, is a deception, for the purpose of this one cynical, unacceptable, brutal goal: perpetuating this war indefinitely."
(full transcript)



THE VIRGIN AND THE SEASONED

Right after the sky had seemingly dumped all its gloom upon this world
And sunny days lay ahead of us… some of us… maybe some lucky son of the rich;
Just when the world could use some talk of peace and healing of wounds
And unruffled reflection allowed to descend… or shine… or sidle between dry lips;
O! That this world could make use of silence or a hushed and soothing reverie
From the heavy chains knotted `round our breath! The tongues are corroded over
With idols and liars and hordes of impish drones and toadies and criminals;
A fine mess we’ve made of it! A fine mess we’re into now; a world in disarray!
And someone’s going to stop breathing tonight! A father’s going to cry, kill or pray
As someone else will sleep far away from his grief. Sleep roundly without sorrow.
The moving sand and running streets and flying steel pilfering the radiance
Will send a messenger, a virgin warrior, with tidings of community and expectation,
Only to return with news of a lifeless planet with lifeless inhabitants; dull and jaded.
Another more seasoned warrior will then be sent with reports and bags of gold,
Only to return with news of an insensible planet with insensible and terrified patrons.
Then it will be time to send the General, a gallant, fearless stag of impeccable servitude
Armed only with the kings dangling gaze hard upon his back. The news is good!
The planet breathes! The previous, now lifeless dispatches were two-faced traitors…

Right after the sky had seemingly dumped all its gloom upon this world
And sunny days lay ahead of us… some of us… maybe some lucky son of the rich;
Just when the world could use some talk of peace and healing of wounds
And unruffled reflection allowed to descend… or shine… or sidle between dry lips;
A command was given to cease all opposition and to run crying for shelter!
Come warble your dissent! Whimper in anger! Snivel in disbelief and comfortless drivel
Until the soil trembles with your quaking of our liberty that is the world’s torment
For the virgin and the seasoned have been silenced and all that remains is monstrous!
O! If the rivers could but sing of this time they’d flood the world in sorrowful verse.




© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman



EXCORCIZING HOPE



(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)

Bill Donohue vs Hitchens at C&L



O! To believe we are alone!

Place her deeds upon the ground
and the children smile upon them! Race to her side,
their hunger smiling upon the air!
Hands out, eager to accept her truth.
Hands out, smiling for their sustenance.
Hands out, hoping she is their god.
Foolish it may be to hope her a miracle,
foolish it may be to think she’s not.

O! To believe we are alone!

With power’s hunger exorcizing our children’s hope,
with war’s thirst swilling all the rain,
with man’s greed consuming all the air,
must it be a battle of faith to see this;
the world’s offspring reaching, palms up,
their hunger then smiling?

O! To believe we are alone!

Where is your faith in man,
beneath the mist of your untold agony?
Where is your faith in man,
prostrate beneath the dictator’s forsaken glory?
Where is your hope?

O! To be or believe we are alone!

Contemptuous old fools!
No faith in humanity,
unbelieving of anything greater than yourselves,
your tongues move with the same empty prayer!


© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

Mother Theresa



DEPLETED









O! This still night jostles the dripping center
Bringing closer our wedding of dark breath
Strapped to the chest in an intelligent design
And stirring the cackled graves of the suffering;
Thousands of them slain in the time it takes
A tall building to implode in a torrent of flesh
Or in the span of dreaming up a new God.

O! The still night quickens our oozing core
Rending nearer our pitching dream.
On its back rides a chattering ugly thing
Made of our thoughts and our hunger.
It’s come to anoint our feet with moist lips
And place a wreath `round our neck
And call us savior, liberator and murderer.

(Like I said, it’s a chattering ugly thing…)



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