P O E M S by Alec Emerson

CONTENTS
(Click on poem title to see/hear poem)

This book is dedicated
to the fond memory,
in so many hearts, of

Socrates Lagios

listen to introduction

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THE POETRY GROUP

Is this the poetry group?
Where poems are slashed like tires
on a sultry ghetto night?
And tea is served,
and sugar cookies!

Yes. I think I'll have a bite!
I need a little something
to sweeten up my spite.

Now, about my poem.
It is so sensitive,
so deep, profound
yet coy,
I think I will not read tonight,
and spare you
a great joy.

listen to poem

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WOODPILE

Winter coming.

The firewood stacked, somewhat loosely,
like bodies in Vietnam,
the odd limb twisted.

The wood, not thoroughly dry,
will burn.
With some attention, the wood
will burn.

The question is:
Will I be warm?

listen to poem

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THREE-IN-ONE, FROM WORLD WAR TWO

Three buddies I love,
yet two unknown,

(a bomber crash,
a land mine, blown,)

who give the third
the strength of three.
How else to count
his energy?

Three buddies I love:

(there's Tom,
and Bill,)

and the one I know
as

Uncle Will.

listen to poem

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AFTER FAIR ELECTIONS

After fair elections,

Adolf had his shot
at the evil empire.

What the hell.

After fair elections,
let George have his.

listen to poem

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SMART BOMB

As the blast wave
rips off your arms and legs,
don't worry.

Your ears are blown.
You won't be able to hear
your screams.

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FINAL VICTORY

Knock. Knock.

"Your son is back,
in his body bag."

"Yes. Put it by the door.
The Superbowl is on,
and I want to know the score."

listen to poem

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CHINESE TAKEOUT

Like old man
night watering spring flowers,
Den Xiaoping directs
spray of bullets
on children
of Tiananmen Square.

Obedient soldiers,
obedient row,
flowers, sisters,
brothers mow.

Sick dragon,
squat tank churns
Chinese Take Out
of mangled bodies,
twisted bicycles.

Obedient young soldier,
imaginary victory,
Chinese night,
jerks trigger.

Blind bullets kiss
young wife breasts.

Red trickle joins
yellow trickle
of old man,
night watering spring flowers.

listen to poem

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FLOWER SONG

I love the air,
the soil,
the rain,
and love to play with them again,
and give them fragrance,
color,
and form,
and so this little world adorn.

I love the spin of earth and sky,
the day,
the night,
and again the dawn,
and know that though
I seem to die,
another flower
will sing
my song.

listen to poem

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RECRUITMENT SONG

Join!
     Join!

The CIA!

Learn!
      Learn!

How to betray.

listen to poem

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PRESIDENTS

From Honest Abe,

to blow job Bill.
From George to George,
it's all downhill.

listen to poem

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VICE PRESIDENTS

YO!
Look!
It's Tricky Dickie!

YO!
Look!
It's Tricky Dickie!

It's deja vu
all over again!

Deja vu
all over again.

listen to poem

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BETTER AND BETTER

Fascism goes better
with rummy and coke !

Fascism goes better
with rummy and coke.

listen to poem

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BLOOD KIN

Spirit sick rich kids
buy pretty white houses,
whine about evil, work like the
devil, with blood-dripping axes.

Nice liberals whine,
over white cheese, and
white wine, as smart bombs
distribute their taxes.

listen to poem

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SEXY GIRL

There's a sexy girl
on the assembly line!.
Guns and mines and bombs.
She's quick, precise,
and oh, so nice,
with breasts to give you dreams.

Is her country Russia? The U.S.?
France, China, Israel?
She is so sweet,
so soft, discreet,
I promised not to tell.

Is her planet earth?
Or is she in disguise?
Well,
I only saw her breasts,
and did not see her eyes.

listen to poem

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FIRECRACKER

She listened, only
with her eyes,

my quiet angel
in disguise.

Then, with her gentle
word, or five,

made me want
to stay

alive.

listen to poem

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THREE LOVES

Your voice is easy on the years,
no matter how
they wander by.

Your eyes make my eyes happy,
even as
they wonder why.

Your touch, exciting,
calms me.
Let there the mystery lie.

listen to poem

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TWO SEAGULLS

Two seagulls call sleepily,
down by the pier.

Though dark, the beginning of dawn
must be near.

The duvet is warm
I wish you were here.

listen to poem

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PHOEBE

Sometimes, it's just a mystery,
just how to say you're sorry.

The greatest gift is faith,
though sometimes it's a mystery
just how to say I'm sorry.

The worst is fear,
Though sometimes it's a mystery
just how to say

I'm sorry.

listen to poem

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FIFTEEN ACCOMPLISHMENTS, ONE SURPRISE

Five gray hairs,
four barns,
three houses,
two inventions,
one book of poems.
This doesn't rhyme, of course.

But, in 1978,
in Thetford, Vermont,
I fell in love
with a horse.

listen to poem

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THANKS

Once, I looked in a bathroom mirror,
and saw a stranger.
But it was only me.

Once, I looked across a dinner table,
at a lovely stranger,
and saw another lovely stranger,
from another, ancient Egyptian lifetime.
But it was only her.

Once, I glanced down a sofa,
a long sofa,
at a friend who was ill.
Very ill.

I saw a ghost.

But it was only,
Thank God,
a ghost.

listen to poem

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IN BUS NUMBER 2

In bus number 2, the new boy
doesn't get off at his stop.

He sits quietly, in the stale
smell of Mr. Baker's cigars,
so that he can watch,
for a few more seconds,
the back of my sister's head,
before she quietly gets off
at October Farm.

listen to poem

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TOM

Fact is,
I'm a little pissed off.

If I can get up
at 4:15
and hammer these words
onto this fucking page,
then you can
open your shutter,
let in the light.

listen to poem

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AMES

Last week,
Ames went bankrupt.

I don't know
what to do.

Everything I'm wearing
came from Ames.

listen to poem

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WORLD TRADE CENTER

The ghosts of Wounded Knee
welcome you.
They are quiet and gentle.
No one has young eyes.

Their clothes are neatly patched,
their moccasins carefully repaired.
It happens to be their rotation as guides
in the museum of atrocity.

Last week it was Dresden's turn,
the week before, My Lai.
The week before, Tiananmen Square,
the week before, Nagasaki,
the week before, Guernica.

Next Tuesday, a small ceremony
will mark the opening of
the World Trade Center.

The ghosts of Wounded Knee
welcome you.

listen to poem

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COLD COMFORT

A Harvard party. 1968. So many smart boys and girls! Not in Vietnam. One boy chatted with me about summer jobs. I told him about mine Then he told me about his. His dad, an appliance designer at General Electric, got him his job.

General Electric had a little problem. A certain new model refrigerator seemed to be catching fire and burning down houses. Lawsuits had begun. The company stonewalled the lawsuits and hired their appliance designer's smart young Harvard son to find out what the hell went wrong. He was given a secret, locked laboratory, full of refrigerators. He hooked them up, turned them on, and ran them hard. He watched them carefully, day after day.

They purred and purred, week after week, all summer long.

He nailed it! He watched it happen! Bingo! Sweet success!

He described to me how a wire carrying house current ran through a grommet in the baffle in the base of the refrigerator. How the baffle and the wire vibrated when the compressor was running. How the defective grommet allowed the wire to chafe on the hole in the baffle. How the insulation on the wire wore through and the bare wires contacted the baffle. How the baffle had enough carbon in it to heat up and self ignite when it touched the bare wires. How the purring condenser coil fan whipped the smoking baffle into a hot fire. Bingo! Sweet success!

He proudly recounted his recommendations to General Electric. He suggested rerouting the wire around the baffle, changing the baffle material to one which would not conduct or burn, and altering the formula of the plastic in the fan to one with a low melting point, so it would melt before fanning a fire. Bingo! Sweet success!

A Harvard party. So many smart boys and girls. It would have been fall, as we chatted about our summer jobs. But before November, when my brother dazed me by coming home in a body bag. But I remember that conversation, the pleasure of two smart boys chatting about technical aspects of their summer jobs. In that memory, our innocence has become strange.

The faint, sickening stench of murder didn't wake me until three o'clock in the morning, twenty years later.

How many more houses burned, after the cause was known? How many more children screamed? At what profit to General Electric?

The stonewalled lawsuits, the stones solid lies. The pinstriped prisoners of a lie calmly palming the secret discovery of their smart young Harvard son.

To those who suffered at such sick profit, I'm sorry.

Cold comfort.

A Harvard party. 1968. So many smart boys and girls. Not in Vietnam.

listen to poem

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MY FELLOW AMERICAN

April 10, 2003

Blue Stone Press
Box 149
Stone Ridge,
New York 12484

To the Editor.

My fellow American. In a democracy, among adults, every syllable and every silence is political. We have just witnessed a crime in broad daylight. We have the ability to kill anywhere in the livable world, to wage war with any technique, from controlled slaughter to the vaporization of cities, with less risk to our population of soldiers than if they were spending their time driving on our highways. That ability has been directed at Iraq, with the world as witness.

The currency of war is not money. It is truckloads of body parts and mangled children. Money is a standard of value and a medium o exchange. In a decent society, it can be a useful tool. But in war, bodies become the money. Children's bodies, which once were living and had value in Iraq, are being buried even as the appointed administration of our nation congratulates itself and prepares for another war.

My fellow American, in a democracy, among adults, we can change this.
Or not, as we choose.

Alexander Forbes Emerson

Accord

listen to poem

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ANOTHER VICTORY

Hey, we took out thirty thousand men, women,
and children, as if it were a video game.
Ain't we great.
Thank God they didn't have families.

Now the rest of them can learn
about Happy Meals, that Things
Go Better With Coke,
the plight of the Red Sox.

A lot of them, especially the ones
with red sox and no feet.
are sure to vote for the Red Sox,
now that they respect democracy.

listen to poem

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THE NICE BOY

From America there was a nice boy,
who played his F-16 like his toy.
He took out Iraq,
and when he came back,
his nice mom greeted him with nice joy.

listen to poem

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BEFORE 2004

Proudly announcing the marriage
of the corporation
and the state,

before being strung up,
with piano wire,
from a lamp post,

Benito Mussolini
made music,
shed light.

listen to poem

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COLLATERAL

A cold crusade is on the world,
and profit is the game,
and knights in tanks and F-16s
pour forth their loving flame.

Mothers howl,
as only mothers howl,
their children’s bodies
scorched and maimed.

Across a world a Christian man,
with a pious mien,
speaks smoothly of collateral damage
and drives off in a limousine.

listen to poem

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DAD

My father used a  P-51  to fight fascism.
I use a pen.
Listen to your heart beat.
Choose your weapon.

listen to poem

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IF YOU MUST GO...

If you must go least markers--
better than breadcrumbs,
well-crafted and well-placed--
to find your way back to us.

Miranda Massie

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As this work has not been strained through a white picket fence, I forbear giving thanks to some who, while they deserve thanks, might be displeased to have their names associated with certain words found herein. Besides to those unnamed, I am grateful to the following persons for their encouragements, or help, or both. Ann Emerson, Denny Alsop, Bruce Weigl, Patsy Riggs, Francie Riggs, Cami Lien, Nancy Ostrovsky, Carolyn Claire Widerman, Milton A. Widerman, Paul Widerman, Susan Blog, Thomas C. Ballantyne, Kye Cochran, Betsy Cochran, Mon Cochran, Will Cochran, Susan Cochran, David Larkin, Nancy Copley, Bernard Rubin, Jeff Krouk, Astrid Fitzgerald, Richard Geldard, Priscilla Claflin, Helen Dicke, Elizabeth Carpenter, Meredith Weaver, Doug Leonard, Erica Funkhouser, Susan Turner, Joyce Woodman, Maura Kelleher, Julie Korenburg, Sophia Gabriel, Priscilla Reynolds, Peter Reynolds, Sara Fernandez, Sasha Puryear (I've got the corner of my eye on you!), Jean Puryear, Martin Puryear, Lorna, Pia, Miranda, Kim, and Luke Massie, Richard Grossman, Carol Anthony, Doria Howe, Katie Mayne, Catherine Kalin, Maggie Heinze, Rebecca Kalin, Nila K Leigh, Stuart Leigh, Ron Gullickson, Kyoko Yamaguchi, Tatsuo Yamaguchi, Holly Leon,Lydia Leon, Gonzales Leon, Elizabeth Aprea, Morten Lund, Meg Lundstrom, Rebecca Mills, Eliza Castanada, Mu Reyes, Russell Robb, Sidney Werkman, Sidney Wanzer, Evelyn Smith, Jane Upson, Everett Upson, Thomas Stucklen, HenryVaillancourt, Anstiss Morrill, Bay Bancroft, Ellen Emerson Kohler, Lauran Emerson Dundee, Amelia Emerson, Daniel Emerson, Raymond Emerson, Jen Emerson, Ted Emerson, Tim Emerson, Aryeh Finklestein, Tom Benedickksen, Dr. Kim, Miggie Symonds, Steven Daniel Riggs, Cristina Hunnewell, Naomi Anderson, Louise Wilson, Bill Anderson,Gary Brown, Derek Campbell, Stanislav Kolar, June Beisch, Anna Brewer, Vickie Charlton, Harald Kiczka, Barbara Solowey, Zdenka Hauner, Geri Breen, Barbara Burke Hubbard, Doug Ballantine, and Jim Manley. Thanks also to the peripheral support of George Haralabopoulos, at the Rainbow Diner in Kerhonkson. Before easing out for his game of golf, George makes good poached eggs, of a morning.

Double thanks to Cami Lien, for her print of two seagulls (in print edition), and to Miranda Massie, for permission to include her stanza in this work.

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