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Ars Poetica - Kenyatta Rogers (2024)

After Amiri Baraka and Stefania Gomez

Poems are bullshit unless they are broken
like a horse, like a dog kicked in the ribs,
Like your favorite toy that’s missing an arm.

Love can make you feel used.
I want the poem that limps back to me.
Poems should hurt like love,
like ice water on your teeth
like a massage to smooth out a cramped muscle.

Give me the poem that’s like leather.
Give me the poem that smells like gasoline.
I want a poem that is a warning,
a poem that makes me check to see
if I left the shotgun by the door,
a poem that’s a runny nose, a sneeze, a poem
that’s the moment the sky turns green.

Source
Copyright © 2024 by Kenyatta Rogers. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 20, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

Don’t care

“You say what you want to say when you don’t care who’s listening.”

Allen Ginsberg

Lo bueno

El único amor que conozco

tiene forma de bondad

verdadera.

Cardio-grama

"El electrocardiograma

registra la actividad eléctrica

del corazón", me dijo la enfermera.

Como en una foto

Me recuerdo con vos como en una foto sin cámara

que alguien captó, mirándonos desde afuera

en un cumpleaños tuyo (el primero juntos)

en uno de los tantos parques porteños

que recorrimos.

Era la alegría de tus amigos, también tuya,

y la sensación de quererte demasiado

lo que me hace pensar en ese momento.

Quizás alguien ahí capturó

el instante en que te miré

con tal arrobo que te envidió.

Ahora no puedo creer cómo se nos fue

algo tan hermoso.

Breve pausa estival

Como ráfagas de un dulzor

inexplicable en el aire

alado y caluroso

por las calles de la ciudad...

Una torcaza se posa en el marco

de la ventana durante el desayuno,

una mariposa ronda largo rato

por la casa.

Una lagartija en el zaguán

a la mañana,

una chicharra con canto

intermitente toda la tarde.

La bici que era de mi abuela

ahora conmigo andando

de un lugar a otro

luego, estacionada en el patio.

Las formas de cada día

pueden ser novedades.

La mirada, agudizada

por el tacto floreciente.

Y vuelve algo de

lo que creía perdido

con cierto brillo que

en otros tiempos

no estaba.

(enero 2024)

Lo (más) necesario

Que no nos falten

los abuelos

los mimos, los besos

ni los gajos de naranja

a la mañana.

Amén.

The Portrait - Stanley Kunitz (1905 – 2006)

My mother never forgave my father

for killing himself,

especially at such an awkward time

and in a public park,

that spring

when I was waiting to be born.

She locked his name

in her deepest cabinet

and would not let him out,

though I could hear him thumping.

When I came down from the attic

with the pastel portrait in my hand

of a long-lipped stranger

with a brave moustache

and deep brown level eyes,

she ripped it into shreds

without a single word

and slapped me hard.

In my sixty-fourth year

I can feel my cheek

still burning.

Amor constante más allá de la muerte - Francisco de Quevedo

Cerrar podrá mis ojos la postrera
sombra que me llevare el blanco día,
y podrá desatar esta alma mía
hora a su afán ansioso lisonjera;

mas no, de esotra parte en la ribera,
dejará la memoria en donde ardía:
nadar sabe mi llama la agua fría
y perder el respeto a ley severa.

Alma a quien todo un dios prisión ha sido,
venas que humor tanto fuego han dado,
médulas que han gloriosamente ardido,

su cuerpo dejarán, no su cuidado,
serán ceniza, más tendrá sentido,
polvo serán, más polvo enamorado.

The Spirit of Poetry - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where’er the gentle southwind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O’er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunnyvale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird’s wing and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, from the morning’s dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the till night, with its passionate cadence.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on October 26, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

Sonnet 130 - William Shakespeare

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.

El analfabeto político - Bertolt Brecht

El peor analfabeto

es el analfabeto político.
No oye, no habla,
ni participa en los acontecimientos políticos.
No sabe que el costo de la vida,
el precio del pan, del pescado, de la harina,
del alquiler, de los zapatos o las medicinas
dependen de las decisiones políticas.

El analfabeto político
es tan burro, que se enorgullece
e hincha el pecho diciendo
que odia la política.

No sabe, el imbécil, que,
de su ignorancia política
nace la prostituta,
el menor abandonado,
y el peor de todos los bandidos,
que es el político trapacero,
granuja, corrupto y servil
de las empresas nacionales
y multinacionales.

Passive aggression / Aggressive passivity

Passive aggression is the surreptitious, indirect and often insidious means by which we express antagonism or noncompliance while ensuring the plausible deniability of any such intentions. It can breed quickly: Aaron’s passive aggression provoked a peevish response from Jim (from the example given before). Though it may be practised at home, passive aggression flourishes in the workplace, where more direct expressions of frustration and resentment are considered unprofessional.

We can all think of examples: the resentful time-server who, when asked about an overdue report by his line manager, mumbles that “in the mass of your requests, it got forgotten” – not accidentally, the passive voice is usually passive aggression’s preferred verbal form. The colleague who is reliably generous with “compliments” such as “Your presentation was surprisingly good.” The boss who wonders at hometime whether his employee might want to stay a little late for the call with California.

In these instances, hostile or obstructive behaviour is at once performed and disavowed, so that the offender can assure you that he or she certainly didn’t intend whatever irritation you may now feel. It leaves you feeling, perhaps, that you’re the one with the problem. Strikingly, passive aggression is a strategy that can be adopted by both the boss class and its minions.

Bartleby’s (from Melville's 1853 tale, Bartleby, the Scrivener. A Story of Wall Street) riposte may be the most crystalline expression of passive aggression ever coined. He doesn’t outright refuse to examine the document. To a boss, refusal is unlikely ever to be welcome, but it’s at least intelligible, precisely because it signals an active stance.

In its extreme non-commitment, Bartleby’s refrain throws some light on how more ordinary forms of passive aggression work, raising the conundrum of how we can possibly argue with or object to an attitude that refuses to reveal itself.

In intimate relationships, it is a little easier. Over the years, couples, families and close friends accrue a rich store of knowledge of each other’s codes and stratagems, and so are able to call them out. A silence or pause, a forced smile or a stiff “thank you”. These words and gestures might seem entirely innocuous or devoid of any meaning to an outsider, but they are loaded with significance. Established couples know that each is alive to the other’s ruses, which makes it harder for aggression to hide behind passivity and for the passive-aggressive individual to protest their innocence.

But matters are different in the workplace, where such explicitly aggressive behaviour is frowned upon. We are required not only to be co-operative, but must assume the good faith of our colleagues. We cannot accuse them of insidious motives, however much we might suspect them. In team meetings, conflicts and resentments play out in the language of politeness. Any academic, for example, will know that departmental meetings are festering Petri dishes of passive aggression.

In a culture in which complex human traits become fodder for simplistic moral judgments, passive aggression is always going to be a problem of another, maladjusted individual. But perhaps it makes more sense to think of it as a dynamic within relationships, a current that passes between friends, colleagues, couples and families rather than a quality of particular personalities. One consequence of thinking about it this way is that we are made to recognise passive aggression is lurking in all of us.

The art of psychotherapy involves confronting the patient with difficult truths. Though its conscious intent is to be empathetic and non-judgmental, the combination of deliberate pushback and measured tone can easily resemble passive aggression.

What happens to anger and aggression when they’re outlawed and denied any outlet for expression? Psychoanalysis understands aggression as a drive, an internal force that is constantly exerting pressure on our minds and bodies to discharge itself. According to a narrow definition, this might mean shouting or squaring off or even a physical blow. But it would be better to characterise aggression as any form of self-assertion, whether in word or deed. We cannot, for example, insist to a parent, teacher or boss on our right to speak without summoning up some aggressive energy.

Passive aggression is almost always a language unconsciously shared between unspoken adversaries.

The great advantage of passive aggression is not only that it allows us simultaneously to exercise and to deny our aggression but that it weaponises our vulnerability. Instead of exposing our feelings of insecurity, passivity becomes a sneaky way of asserting ourselves. Perhaps we should call it aggressive passivity instead.

How might we cultivate forms of confrontation that allow us to express strong and difficult feelings without descending into aggression? Psychotherapy offers an essential example of this balancing act, by providing a space for curiosity about how the other person feels without the pressure to adjudicate who’s in the right.

Might we forge similarly honest and unantagonistic ways to communicate with each other in the workplace and the wider world? The obstacle, of course, is our own hard-wired defences, and especially the anxiety that open disagreement will draw rejection. In a fiercely hierarchical world of bosses and middle managers and underlings, is the very idea of such openness a naive pipe dream?

Source: Economist Article written by Josh Cohen

Slavoj Žižek

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