A Jap's a Jap. It makes no difference whether he is an American citizen or not. I don't want any of them . Racial affiliations are not severed by migration. The Japanese race is an enemy race and while many second - and third-generation Japanese born on United States soil, possessed of United States citizenship, have become 'Americanized,' the racial strains are undiluted.

-- Lieutenant General John L. DeWitt

Did the government of the United States intend to ignore their rights regardless of their citizenship? Those beautiful furnitures which the parents bought to please their sons and daughters, costing hundreds of dollars were robbed of them at the single command, "Evacuate!" Here my first doubt of American Democracy crept into the far corners of my heart with the sting that I could not forget. Having had absolute confidence in Democracy, I could not believe my very eyes what I had seen that day. America, the standard bearer of Democracy had committed the most heinous crime in its history.

-- Joseph Yoshisuke Kurihara, Manzanar Detainee and Lieutenant 442nd

The Four Forty Second

by

Justice Putnam

Thomas Matsui hadn't slept for almost 46 hours. The Italians had long stopped the fight, but the Nazis kept at it. Mortar shells exploded nearby with a frightening consistency. The rocky Italian hillside bucked and rolled with each explosion.

Battle has an uncanny affect on a soldier; it becomes a kind of tedium. The first month of a soldier's battle is the worst, it all being so new. The mortality rate is highest during that first month. After six months, with bombs exploding around the battlement, a soldier will daydream.

Thomas Matsui thought of his family's orange and avocado orchards rustling in the warm coastal breeze. He thought of the smell of his mother cooking rice in the farmhouse just above Pacific Coast Highway near Balboa. He conjured his father in the workshop, standing at the grinding wheel, sharpening the tools.

These were daydreams that made the tedium of battle tolerable. But Thomas Matsui had other daydreams that were not so idyllic.

He saw his parents crestfallen from the notice tacked on the farmhouse. Civilian Exclusion Order Number 33 gave only two days to sell the farm before the Military evacuated them to the camp in Montana. He remembered the offer that came from The Irvine Company later that day. Mere pennies on the dollar for what the farm was worth.

He remembered the drive to the Civilian Control Station in Los Angeles, his mother crying the whole thirty miles. Twenty years growing avocados and oranges; all gone in a day. Twenty years and all the possessions acquired; gone in a day. Only allowed bedding and linens, some kitchen utensils and clothes; twenty years of Thomas Matsui's life was spent on that farm. He was born there. It was lost in a day.

The Nazis increased the frequency of the mortar attack and shook Thomas Matsui out of his reverie. He knew Marines on the other end of the hillside were getting the brunt of the bombing. The Four Forty Second though, were well hid and dug in. Soon the bombing would cease and the real battle would commence. There would be no time to daydream then.

Thomas Matsui chuckled at the memory of the military recruiter who came to his camp that Thursday in June. How fresh-faced and upright he was; the perfect embodiment of American righteousness. Thomas and his family had been at the camp for a month and life was a brutal series of bad weather and racist guards. The chance to escape that prison, with the hopeful promise of making his parent's life easier was too great to pass up. If he fought hard and patriotically, maybe the war would end sooner and his parents would no longer be incarcerated.

But the farm and all they had was lost. No, not really lost, in effect stolen. But that did not matter any longer. He wanted this war to end so his parents would not suffer any more.

The mortar attack suddenly stopped. Thomas Matsui shouldered his rifle and aimed down the hillside.

The real battle was about to begin.

(Syracuse, Italy-- 2003)

© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

(this has appeared in The Berkeley Daily Planet and was also Rescued at Daily Kos)

NEW WRECK TIMES

Senior Travel Editor
Gerry Bronco

Washington, DC--  British ethologist, evolutionary biologist and popular science author, Richard Dawkins, confessed in a series of interrogations early last year that the Earth is only six thousand years old and the teaching of Evolution is a conspiracy by Marxist elements.

The theme for this offering is, "Earth Day."

In this and each of the offerings, I will present some poetry of note and a few of my own. I would hope that in the comments, a poem that follows the theme, original or one dear to the heart, might be shared.

With that, let's continue the series with...

Earth Day

Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
The summer through, and each departing wing,
And all the nests that the bared branches show,
And all winds that in any weather blow,
And all the storms that the four seasons bring.

You go no more on your exultant feet
Up paths that only mist and morning knew,
Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat
Of a bird's wings too high in air to view,--
But you were something more than young and sweet
And fair,--and the long year remembers you.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay
Sonnet 03: Mindful Of You The Sodden Earth In Spring

Beyond the great valley an odd instinctive rising
Begins to possess the ground, the flatness gathers
to little humps and
barrows, low aimless ridges,
A sudden violence of rock crowns them. The crowded
orchards end, they
have come to a stone knife;
The farms are finished; the sudden foot of the
slerra. Hill over hill,
snow-ridge beyond mountain gather
The blue air of their height about them.

Here at the foot of the pass
The fierce clans of the mountain you'd think for
thousands of years,
Men with harsh mouths and eyes like the eagles' hunger,
Have gathered among these rocks at the dead hour
Of the morning star and the stars waning
To raid the plain and at moonrise returning driven
Their scared booty to the highlands, the tossing horns
And glazed eyes in the light of torches. The men have
looked back
Standing above these rock-heads to bark laughter
At the burning granaries and the farms and the town
That sow the dark flat land with terrible rubies...
lighting the dead...
It is not true: from this land
The curse was lifted; the highlands have kept peace
with the valleys; no
blood in the sod; there is no old sword
Keeping grim rust, no primal sorrow. The people are
all one people, their
homes never knew harrying;
The tribes before them were acorn-eaters, harmless
as deer. Oh, fortunate
earth; you must find someone
To make you bitter music; how else will you take bonds
of the future,
against the wolf in men's hearts?

-- Robinson Jeffers
Ascent To The Sierras

Life On Earth is pulled down hard on a man's head. This life was made
by hatters. A busy street is only coffee, bread, and hats. The smell
of a man's hat - an old man's hat - is like the nostril of a horse.
You are breathing in what something beautiful and ancient has breathed
out. The heat and life contained in it, the silk interior. An old man's
hat is necessary: You see that when he takes it off, his hair and skin
abruptly float away.

-- David Keplinger
Life On Earth

Earth

by

Justice Putnam

She once was
A virgin earth

A soft quiet girl

Pure
Without disgrace

But she was more than taught
She was made to learn
Forced more than once

More than a thousand times
She returned

Until we took a stand
And we raped her
Over and over
Again

The earth
Became a working whore

She was made
Into that way
By man.

No longer
Are her waters

Pure

They've foamed
In soot and oil
Much too long

Her blue eyes
Now are gray

Her forests
Are covered
With blood and flesh

Stained
More and more
Each day.

The earth
Once was
A gentle virgin

A leader of
Soft lights
And pearl days

She once was
A leader of
Crystal memories

That now float away

In some kind of
Blue haze.

I often ask her
Where she's been going

She more than often sighs
That she's been going down

Though that she really wouldn't mind
To walk the streets uptown

She's stuck here
Working for man
On a corner

Of this
Skid Row town.

(Los Angeles, California 1971)

The Nature of Poetics Collapsed Outside My Window

by

Justice Putnam

On the third floor
Of an old stone hotel
I gaze out my window
To the night rain
Wet streets of
Mexico City.

I look down on rooftops
Built by Spaniards
And across stratum
Of TV antennae
Electric lights
And the huge domes of
Ancient cathedrals.

History is backed up
Against itself here
Like layers of
Soil and mud

One can see the edge of
Aztec excavations
Between the sleek
Exact lines
Of modern towers.

Echoing up from the street
Is the wet hiss
Of rolling tires
On wet black-top

And the more distant
Sounds of
Engines
Dogs
And voices

All fusing somehow
Into that single
Universal
Hum-drone

The chant of cities.

The Poet must be
Alone here

He must be free
And live as
The wind itself

Not bound by
The culture of society
Not restrained by taboo.

At ease to wander
In the mysterious visions
Of touching everything
Of trusting everything
Of believing everything.

The Poet must be free
To live the law
Of iguana-lazy sleep
On the hot sand

The Poet must be free
For the frenzy
Of butterfly wings

Across the cool smooth
Strange sculptured
Texture of tropical waters.

The Poet must be free
To move
To see

Free to
Merely be.

(Mexico City, Mexico 1986)

It is not right
To elevate Her
To the status of
Goddess

Rational man
Would refute it.

A material world
Critical of
Class and place

Would find
That elevation
To be demeaning.

My Heart
Doesn't beat
In a material world

Though
I be nothing
More than
Flesh and
Bone.

In a sky
Of light

A universe
Of gravity

A galaxy
Among the void
And plasma

And yet some
Would question
Whether another
Would doubt

The Power of
God's hand?

(San Francisco, California 2008)

The Myth of Chimeral Evolution

by

Justice Putnam

Darwin
Berkeley and
Nietzsche

Were traversing
Through the
Primordial soup
When a
Booming Voice
Echoed throughout the
World,

"Ha! Ha! Ha!"

The Booming Voice
Joyously announced,
For He was a
Joyous and happy
Booming Voice,

"So you
have quite a conundrum
Before you now!"

Berkeley,
As was his manner,
Nudged ahead of
Nietzsche and
Announced,

"I know or am
Conscious of my own
Being;
And that I
Myself
Am not my ideas,
But somewhat else,
A thinking,
Active principle
That perceives,
Knows,
Wills and
Operates about
Ideas.

I know that I,
One and the same
Self,
Perceive both
Colors and
Sounds:
That a color
Cannot perceive a
Sound,
Nor a sound a
Color:
That I am
Therefore one
Individual principle,
Distinct from
Color and
Sound;
And for the
Same reason,
From all other
Sensible things and
Inert ideas.

But I am not
In like manner
Conscious either
Of the
Existence or
Essence of
Matter.

On the contrary,
I know that
Nothing inconsistent
Can exist,
And that the
Existence of
Matter implies an
Inconsistency.

Further,
I know
What I mean
When I affirm
That there is a
Spiritual substance
Or support of ideas,
That is,
That a
Spirit knows and
Perceives
Ideas.

But I do not know
What is meant
When it is said
That an unperceiving
Substance has
Inherent in it
And supports either
Ideas or the
Archetypes of
Ideas.

There is
Therefore
Upon the whole
No parity
Of case between
Spirit and
Matter."

Not to be outdone,
Nietzsche elbowed
His way past
Darwin and Berkeley to
His preordained spot,

"With the highest respect,
I accept
The name of
Heraclitus.

When the rest
Of the
Philosophic folk
Rejected the testimony
Of the senses
Because they showed
Multiplicity and
Change.

He rejected their
Testimony
Because they
Showed things
As if they had
Permanence and
Unity.

Heraclitus too
Did the
Senses an
Injustice.

They lie neither
In the way
The Eleatics believed,
Nor as he believed,
They do not
Lie at all.

What we make
Of their
Testimony,
That alone
Introduces lies;
For example,
The lie
Of
Unity,
The lie
Of
Thinghood,
Of
Substance,
Of
Permanence.

Reason is the cause
Of our
Falsification of the
Testimony of the
Senses.

In so far as the
Senses show
Becoming,
Passing away and
Change,
They do not
Lie.

But Heraclitus
Will remain
Eternally right
With his assertion that
Being is an empty
Fiction.

The apparent world
Is the only one:
The true world is
Merely added
By a
Lie."

Darwin strode
Forward in a
Gentlemanly manner,
Cleared his throat and
Began,

"As man can produce
And certainly has
Produced a great
Result by his
Methodical and
Unconscious means of
Selection,
What may not
Nature effect?

Man can act
Only on
External and
Visible characters:
Nature cares
nothing for appearances,
Except in so far
As they may be
Useful to any
Being.

She can act
On every
Internal organ,
On every
Shade of
Constitutional difference,
On the whole
Machinery of
Life.

Man selects
Only for his
Own good;
Nature only for
That of the
Being which
She tends.

Every selected character
Is fully
Exercised by
Her;
And the being is
Placed under well-suited
Conditions of
Life.

Man keeps the
Natives of many
Climates in the
Same country;
He seldom
Exercises each
Selected character
In some
Peculiar and
Fitting manner;
He feeds a
Long and a
Short beaked pigeon
On the
Same food;
He does not
Exercise a
Long-backed or
Long-legged quadruped
In any
Peculiar manner;
He exposes sheep
With long and short wool
To the same
Climate.

He does not
Allow the most
Vigorous males to
Struggle for the females.

He does not
Rigidly destroy all
Inferior animals,
But protects during
Each varying season,
As far as lies
In his power,
All his
Productions.

He often begins
His selection by some
Half-monstrous form;
Or at least by some
Modification
Prominent enough
To catch
His eye,
Or to be
Plainly
Useful to him.

Under nature,
The slightest
Difference of
Structure or
Constitution
May well
Turn the
Nicely-balanced
Scale in the
Struggle for
Life,
And so be
Preserved.

How fleeting are
The wishes
And efforts
Of man!

How short his
Time!

And consequently
How poor
Will his
Products be,
Compared with those
Accumulated by
Nature during whole
Geological periods.

Can we wonder then,
That
Nature's productions
Should be far
Truer in character
Than man's productions;
That they should
Be infinitely
Better adapted
To the most
Complex conditions of
Life,
And should
Plainly bear
The stamp of far
Higher workmanship?"

"Ha! Ha! Ha!"

The Booming Voice
Joyously continued,

"If it were not
For your
Minds,
I would almost
Doubt my own
Existence!"

(Sausalito, California 2006)**

** sources:
"Three Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonous" --George Berkeley
"Twilight of the Idols"--Friedrich Nietzsche
"The Origin of Species"--Charles Darwin

© 2009 Justice Putnam
Fleur du Sel Musique
and Mechanisches Strophe-Verlagswesen

The theme for this offering is, "Woman as Muse/ Man as Dog."

In this and each of the offerings, I will present some poetry of note and a few of my own. I would hope that in the comments, a poem that follows the theme, original or one dear to the heart, might be shared.

With that, let's continue the series with...

Woman as Muse/ Man as Dog

 She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And put out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.

-- Robert Graves
She Tells Her Love

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

-- Billy Collins
Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes

Dear Colette,
I want to write to you
about being a woman
for that is what you write to me.

I want to tell you how your face
enduring after thirty, forty, fifty. . .
hangs above my desk
like my own muse.

I want to tell you how your hands
reach out from your books
& seize my heart.

I want to tell you how your hair
electrifies my thoughts
like my own halo.

I want to tell you how your eyes
penetrate my fear
& make it melt.

I want to tell you
simply that I love you--
though you are "dead"
& I am still "alive."

Suicides & spinsters--
all our kind!

Even decorous Jane Austen
never marrying,
& Sappho leaping,
& Sylvia in the oven,
& Anna Wickham, Tsvetaeva, Sara Teasdale,
& pale Virginia floating like Ophelia,
& Emily alone, alone, alone. . . .

But you endure & marry,
go on writing,
lose a husband, gain a husband,
go on writing,
sing & tap dance
& you go on writing,
have a child & still
you go on writing,
love a woman, love a man
& go on writing.
You endure your writing
& your life.

Dear Colette,
I only want to thank you:

for your eyes ringed
with bluest paint like bruises,
for your hair gathering sparks
like brush fire,
for your hands which never willingly
let go,
for your years, your child, your lovers,
all your books. . . .

Dear Colette,
you hold me
to this life.

-- Erica Jong
Dear Colette

The last time I saw richard was detroit in '68,
And he told me all romantics meet the same fate someday
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe
You laugh, he said you think you're immune, go look at your eyes
They're full of moon
You like roses and kisses and pretty men to tell you
All those pretty lies, pretty lies
When you gonna realise they're only pretty lies
Only pretty lies, just pretty lies

He put a quarter in the wurlitzer, and he pushed
Three buttons and the thing began to whirr
And a bar maid came by in fishnet stockings and a bow tie
And she said drink up now its gettin' on time to close.
Richard, you haven't really changed, I said
It's just that now you're romanticizing some pain that's in your head
You got tombs in your eyes, but the songs
You punched are dreaming
Listen, they sing of love so sweet, love so sweet
When you gonna get yourself back on your feet?
Oh and love can be so sweet, love so sweet

Richard got married to a figure skater
And he bought her a dishwasher and a coffee percolator
And he drinks at home now most nights with the tv on
And all the house lights left up bright
I'm gonna blow this damn candle out
I don't want nobody comin' over to my table
I got nothing to talk to anybody about
All good dreamers pass this way some day
Hidin' behind bottles in dark cafes
Dark cafes
Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings
And fly away
Only a phase, these dark cafe days

-- Joni Mitchell
The Last Time I Saw Richard

Volition

by

Justice Putnam

In a sanctuary
Of her own making
Waits the gilded
Monarch brightly robed

Enough is Enough

by

Justice Putnam

ya ever get tired
of someone whining
that their big ass
had nothing to do
with the hurt?

i figured
i'd curl up
with an ancient
author instead.

(San Francisco, California 1998)

The Lone Dog

by

Justice Putnam

It is said
That if you
Throw a rock
Into a pack of dogs

Arctic Dream

by

Justice Putnam

Come across the desert
Up over the sea
Through the Bering Strait
Where the seas freeze

She Looks Familiar To Me

by

Justice Putnam

I've seen her serve tea
In Hawaii

She Leaves The Gypsies
(Howling at the Moon)

by

Justice Putnam

My baby's got
Such a sweet disposition
She'll stop traffic
In Paris at noon
She might take
A little Basque vacation

So Very Late

by

Justice Putnam

Pardon moi
Monsiour
S'il vous plait
Je ne sais pas
Tre bien parle

Rendered Speechless

by

Justice Putnam

I was asked
To describe
Her

I'm Way Gone

by

Justice Putnam

I'm sometimes monastic
But I'm not a priest
I just feed the birds
At the towers of ivory

A Simple Kiss

by

Justice Putnam

If it were to rain
And the streets become
Streams a'flowing

Josephine

by

Justice Putnam

Josephine
Josephine
I'm pleading
With Josephine

** (From: "The God Debate- a dialogue between Tom Paine and the Carthaginians" © 2001 Justice Putnam and Mechanisches Strophe-Verlagswesen; and also appeared on verse 3, "The World is Mine" from my son's fourth CD, Judgement Time by 50 Tramp Dawg and World Wreckards Productions 2002)

© 2009 Justice Putnam
Fleur du Sel Musique
and Mechanisches Strophe-Verlagswesen

The theme for this offering is, "Static of the Stars."

In this and each of the offerings, I will present some poetry of note and a few of my own. I would hope that in the comments, a poem that follows the theme, original or one dear to the heart, might be shared.

With that, let's continue the series with...

Static of the Stars

The theme for this offering is, "Art is Sex."

In this and each of the offerings, I will present some poetry of note and a few of my own. I would hope that in the comments, a poem that follows the theme, original or one dear to the heart, might be shared.

With that, let's continue the series with...

Art is Sex

To speak of morals in art is to speak of legislature in sex. Art is the sex of the imagination.

-- George Jean Nathan
"Art," American Mercury (July 1929)

Out of the arms of one love
and into the arms of another.

-- Charles Bukowski

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.

I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.

Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.

But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.

-- Pablo Neruda
Your Feet

I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay
I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart

You open to me
a little,
then grow afraid
and close again,
a small boy
fearing to be hurt,
a toe stubbed
in the dark,
a finger cut
on paper.

I think I am free
of fears,
enraptured, abandoned
to the call
of the Bacchae,
my own siren,
tied to my own
mast,
both Circe
and her swine.

But I too
am afraid:
I know where
life leads.

The impulse
to join,
to confess all,
is followed
by the impulse
to renounce,

and love--
imperishable love--
must die,
in order
to be reborn.

We come
to each other
tentatively,
veterans of other
wars,
divorce warrants
in our hands
which we would beat
into blossoms.

But blossoms
will not withstand
our beatings.

We come
to each other
with hope
in our hands--
the very thing
Pandora kept
in her casket
when all the ills
and woes of the world
escaped.

-- Erica Jong
Middle Aged Lovers, II

Now who could take you off to tiny life
In one room or in two rooms or in three
And cork you smartly, like the flask of wine
You are? Not any woman. Not a wife.
You'd let her twirl you, give her a good glee
Showing your leaping ruby to a friend.
Though twirling would be meek. Since not a cork
Could you allow, for being made so free.

A woman would be wise to think it well
If once a week you only rang the bell.

-- Gwendolyn Brooks
The Independent Man

The First Time

by

Justice Putnam

footballfridayafternoon
momanddaddownthehall
intheirroom

mustbequiet
orwillbefoundout

whyispleasure
suchdoom?

(Fullerton, California 1975)

Cupid and Psyche

by

Justice Putnam

Alabaster wings
And a passionate embrace

A kiss and then
The longing.

The mind swoons
In erotic dream

Angel-like
And electricity.

(Montmorancy, France 1994)

Compulsory Surrender

by

Justice Putnam

Slow thoughts
Slipping into the stream
Sunlit crystal memory
Sliding
Moving

Feeling her firm breasts
With my tongue
Kissing her firm lips
With my fingers

Moaning
Crying
Laughing

Gasping the words
Of whispers and
Silhouetted
Silent intent

Greens and reds
Before my eyes
Her eyes pleading
Penetrating to my soul

Her head thrown back
Hips quivering
Wet

Could any journey
Be more real and now?

(Mill Valley, California 1986)

Testament

by

Justice Putnam

Angular lines and dark hair
Feline eyes and crimson lips

A scent of the Oranges
Of Hieronymous Bosch

The music of her Heart
The ecstasy of her Touch.

The fullness of her Mind
The sky of her eyes

A warm breeze
On the hills

At the end
Of Time.

The coolness of her breath
And the sweetness of her kiss

Can change a world at war
Into a Universe of bliss.

So why oh brothers
Why can't we see?

That to simply know her
Is to know infinity.

(San Francisco, California 2007)

The Truth Be Told

by

Justice Putnam

I would worship
Your beautiful feet
Massage each tired
But receptive toe.

I would press and knead
And rub
Then kiss
And worship
Your feet as though

Your feet are
The pinnacle
Of Beauty

Sent from Heaven
And should be
Exalted so.

But I really
Should tell you
What I really
Think

And I really
Must confess

I only worship
Your beautiful feet

Because I worship
Your perfect breasts.

I would worship
Your breasts
As I kissed
The small
Of your back

I would worship
Your breasts
As I touched you
So that

I would worship
Your breasts
As I kissed
You on
The lips

I would worship
Your breasts
As I caressed
Your smooth
Round hips

But as I've worshipped
Your breasts

Not as some
Timeless Art

Or some primitive
Fetish carved
In a Burmese
Valley

Or found
On some
Distant rampart.

As I've worshipped
Your breasts

Without any
Sense of Time

I found I worshipped
Much more than that

I worship

Your Heart
Your Soul
Your Mind.

And though
I've never
Kissed your feet

The small
Of your back

Or anything
In between

I must admit
To being
A little weak

I must admit
What I
Really think

And I really
Must confess

I still dream
Of kissing
Your beautiful feet

And I still worship
Your perfect breasts.

(Berkeley, California 2006)

An Oil Lamp Turned Low

by

Justice Putnam

Warm breath blessed
Etched against
The palace of her skin

Burn in that grace
Embraced
Cradled in her
Soft fragrance

Like a slow boat rocking
Or the steady yellow flicker
Of an oil lamp
Turned low

See her
Kneeled over
Feel the dance
Of her small cries

Forgotten doors and windows
Between the moon and time

Her open eyes
The smell of her hair

An oil lamp
Turned low

(Bastia, Corsica 1985)

© 2009 by Justice Putnam
Fleur de Sel Musique
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

The theme for this offering is, "Ode to the Moon."

In this and each of the offerings, I will present some poetry of note and a few of my own. I would hope that in the comments, a poem that follows the theme, original or one dear to the heart, might be shared.

With that, let's continue the series with...

Ode to the Moon

Full moon shining bright
Midnight on the water
Oh Aradia
Diana's silver daughter

Lady of the Moon
Lunar Goddess
Puller of seas

We greet your celestial jewel
At the waxing of its powers
With a rite in your honor

Lady
You are known by many names

Aphrodite
Kerridwen
Diana
Isis and many more.

-- Ancient Roman Prayer

The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye; And
when she weeps, weeps every little flower.

-- William Shakespeare
"Midsummer Night's Dream"

I Sang
To you and the moon
But only the moon remembers.

I sang
O reckless free-hearted
Free-throated rhythms,

Even the moon remembers them
And is kind to me.

-- Carl Sandburg
"I Sang"

In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud
and your form and colour are the way I love them.
You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips
and in your life my infinite dreams live.

The lamp of my soul dyes your feet,
the sour wine is sweeter on your lips,
oh reaper of my evening song,
how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!

You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon's
wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice.
Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder
stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.

You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.

-- Pablo Neruda
"In My Sky At Twilight"

Not Saints But Men

by

Justice Putnam

Swaying uselessly
In the loose wind
Floating in
Finite expectancy
Of summer without end

From Big Sur to Malibu

by

Justice Putnam

Are we the dispossessed?
The fleeting minds
Caught in a bleeding time
Seeking fame near
The sands of a
Television beach

And The Angels Weep

by

Justice Putnam

Honduran café
Mezcal afternoon
Straw-woven sombrero
La Concetta in green pantaloons

Ruined by Light

by

Justice Putnam

I was hanging in the night
Like some exotic fruit
On some secret tree

Frail Tears of the Universe

by

Justice Putnam

The moon hides transparent
Behind wet neon mist

The theme for this offering is, "State of the Union."

In this and each of the offerings, I will present some poetry of note and a few of my own. I would hope that in the comments, a poem that follows the theme, original or one dear to the heart, might be shared.

With that, let's continue the series with...

State of the Union

Here is fresh matter, poet,
Matter for old age meet;
Might of the Church and the State,
Their mobs put under their feet.
O but heart's wine shall run pure,
Mind's bread grow sweet.
That were a cowardly song,
Wander in dreams no more;
What if the Church and the State
Are the mob that howls at the door?
Wine shall run thick to the end,
Bread taste sour.

-- William Butler Yeats
Church And State

God fashioned the ship of the world carefully.
With the infinite skill of an All-Master
Made He the hull and the sails,
Held He the rudder
Ready for adjustment.
Erect stood He, scanning His work proudly.
Then -- at fateful time -- a wrong called,
And God turned, heeding.
Lo, the ship, at this opportunity, slipped slyly,
Making cunning noiseless travel down the ways.
So that, forever rudderless, it went upon the seas
Going ridiculous voyages,
Making quaint progress,
Turning as with serious purpose
Before stupid winds.
And there were many in the sky
Who laughed at this thing.

-- Stephen Crane
God Fashioned the Ship of the World

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

-- James Shirley
The Glories of our Blood and State

Cities and Thrones and Powers,
Stand in Time's eye,
Almost as long as flowers,
Which daily die:
But, as new buds put forth
To glad new men,
Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth,
The Cities rise again.

This season's Daffodil,
She never hears,
What change, what chance, what chill,
Cut down last year's;
But with bold countenance,
And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days' continuance,
To be perpetual.

So Time that is o'er -kind,
To all that be,
Ordains us e'en as blind,
As bold as she:
That in our very death,
And burial sure,
Shadow to shadow, well persuaded, saith,
"See how our works endure!"

-- Rudyard Kipling
Cities and Thrones and Powers

But I love the I, steel I-beam
that my father sold. They poured the pig iron
into the mold, and it fed out slowly,
a bending jelly in the bath, and it hardened,
Bessemer, blister, crucible, alloy, and he
marketed it, and bought bourbon, and Cream
of Wheat, its curl of butter right
in the middle of its forehead, he paid for our dresses
with his metal sweat, sweet in the morning
and sour in the evening. I love the I,
frail between its flitches, its hard ground
and hard sky, it soars between them
like the soul that rushes, back and forth,
between the mother and father. What if they had loved each other,
how would it have felt to be the strut
joining the floor and roof of the truss?
I have seen, on his shirt-cardboard, years
in her desk, the night they made me, the penciled
slope of her temperature rising, and on
the peak of the hill, first soldier to reach
the crest, the Roman numeral I--
I, I, I, I,
girders of identity, head on,
embedded in the poem. I love the I
for its premise of existence--our I--when I was
born, part gelid, I lay with you
on the cooling table, we were all there, a
forest of felled iron. The I is a pine,
resinous, flammable root to crown,
which throws its cones as far as it can in a fire.

-- Sharon Olds
Take the I Out

we were never caught

we partied the southwest, smoked it from L.A. to El Dorado
worked odd jobs between delusions of escape
drunk on the admonitions of parents, parsons & professors
driving faster than the road or law allowed.
our high-pitched laughter was young, heartless & disrespected
authority. we could be heard for miles in the night

the Grand Canyon of a new manhood.
womanhood discovered
like the first sighting of Mount Wilson

we rebelled against the southwestern wind

we got so naturally ripped, we sprouted wings,
crashed parties on the moon, and howled at the earth

we lived off love. It was all we had to eat

when you split you took all the wisdom
and left me the worry

-- Wanda Coleman
In That Other Fantasy Where We Live Forever

Between The Euphrates and The Potomac

by

Justice Putnam

It might have begun
In the month of Rajab

Bless Me Father

by

Justice Putnam

Bless me Father
For I have sinned

South of the Border

by

Justice Putnam

I'm playing my cadenza
In a boxcar near Del Mar

The theme for this offering is, "Deaths Great and Small."

In this and each of the offerings, I will present some poetry of note and a few of my own. I would hope that in the comments, a poem that follows the theme, original or one dear to the heart, might be shared.

With that, let's begin the series with...

Deaths Great and Small

 Pale Death with impartial tread beats at the poor man's cottage door and at the palaces of kings.

-- Horace
"Odes"

 

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind carried away the cottonwool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-string struck up
at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners
at five in the afternoon.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
Death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
At five o'clock in the afternoon.

A coffin on wheels is his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridiscent with agony
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
It was five by all the clocks!
It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

-- Federico García Lorca
from: "Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias" Part 1 Cogida and Death

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,

comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.

Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

-- Pablo Neurda
"Nothing But Death"
(Translated by Robert Bly)

What you have heard is true. I was in his house.
His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His
daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the
night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol
on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on
its black cord over the house. On the television
was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles
were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his
hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings
like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of
lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes,
salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed
the country. There was a brief commercial in
Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
some talk of how difficult it had become to govern.
The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel
told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the
table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to
bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on
the table. They were like dried peach halves. There
is no other way to say this. He took one of them in
his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a
water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of
fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone,
tell your people they can go f--- themselves. He
swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held
the last of his wine in the air. Something for your
poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor
caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on
the floor were pressed to the ground.

Carolyn Forché
"The Colonel"

Because He Was Young and Drunk in a Car

by

Justice Putnam

How old could he be?
Sixteen?
Maybe seventeen?

Boy's shoulder's holding
A young man's head
He's sleeping

Except this sleep has been
Going on for days

Might go on for years?

He cannot breathe
For himself

But look
His heart is strong.

Yesterday I passed by him
And at least for today
He looks the same

Tanned
Lithe body

White sheet pulled to his waist
White towel rolled in his clenching hand

Except he doesn't know
That his hand clenches.

I've never seen him
Open his eyes

I wonder if he's dreaming?

(Fullerton, California)

© 1978 and 2001 by Justice Putnam
Fleur de Sel Musique
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

The Dates of Demarcation

by

Justice Putnam

How many times
Can a Heart be broken
How many times
Can a resolve be tested

Is this the meaning
Of Life?

To be reminded
At the most unexpected
Time of
Pain and impermanence

How many times?

I hear the voices
Of those whose
Memories of  
Lost innocence

Are etched with the
Precision of a Calendar
On the Stone of History:

Jack London remembered
The Boxer Rebellion
Jack Reed recalled more
Than Ten Days

Hemingway remembered
A Hospital in Italy
Salinger talked of
Dresden's fiery face

Our Grandparents
Think of the Seventh
Of December

While others recall

A day in Dallas
A balcony in Memphis
A hotel in LA

How many more times
How many more generations

Will be born into this
Impending loss?

How many more
Incidents of horror
Before the last
Vestige of innocence
Is carried away?

These questions
May seem on the surface
To be a plea

But
How many more times

How many more images
Of a woman

Her dress blown
In a fall among

Glass
Concrete
Steel
Fire?

(Philadelphia, Pa.)

© 2001 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

You Always Said Pinochet

words and music
by Justice Putnam

(roughly to "You Take The High Road)

I'd always say, "Pinoshay"
You always said, "Pinoshet."

But what of the names of the
Disappeared before Ya!

I will dance on the grave
Of Augusto "Pinoshay"

And you can spit
If you insist
On Augusto "Pinoshet!"

© 2006 by Justice Putnam
Fleur de Sel Musique
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen