St. John Fisher College

May 28th, 2014
~for my husband Sebastien

Maya Angelou died today.
Farzana Iqbal was stoned by 20 men with bricks today.
Boko Haram hides and holds 219
school girls today. It has been 44 days. Maya
Angelou died today. 137 pages of
Elliot’s Misogynist Manifesto have been
shredded—it’s 6 days since Santa Barbara, since
he ravaged 19. Not all men,
some say. Yes all women, others say. Maya Angelou died
today. She was happy to go, I hear. She slept through it,
sweetly. The writer of
the “Rape Joke” poem made the New York Times today. And, I cannot
love you. Would you say
what the song sings, when the song says, “You
are every women in the world
to me?” When I don’t know you? When I can’t
gift myself? I don’t
have words for you. I know
Maya Angelou died today. It’s all over
the news. I know there are tender men.
Some are famous. (I’m thinking—Gandhi.)
The others die unknown. Like women,
they have moon faces. Phases. Everything
depends. They can be war. And I’m not anti-war,
per se. I just look like I am, like I look
like a vegetarian. I love
men, I think. Digesting is the trouble. I love you. 869 men
earned their honor by killing 869 women
in Pakistan. That’s the number we know today.
But night is dark. We know Farzana died with the day-
light, on the steps of the highest court, in the 2nd
largest city, in front of 52 police, lawyers, kin,
men. What can I do? What
does loving you do? Should I write? I stood up today
at an open mic and someone said, Maya Angelou died
today. The poetry there was terrible.
But the 28 poets were happy. Ms. Angelou
was happy too. Poetry makes
people sappy. And why should I care? What do I know? I get up
after 15 readers to read some righteous page poem and
I’ve no power. I’m not happy. Farzana was
3 months pregnant. What good
are we? I’m not right. Maybe I’m not people. You are
every man. You are ugly. You’ve done nothing wrong.
We have a son. He’s 11. Can I forgive him
for being a man? Not yet.
But you///Beautiful, did I tell you? Maya weeps
at 86, telling Oprah,
“God loves me!” She says it over and
over and over. And I’m not thinking, Oh yeah, Oprah. It’s more,
My God, where are you? And,
He’s all,
Where the hell are you?

Jennifer Jean’s latest collection, The Fool, can be purchased via her website. Jennifer blogs for Amirah, a non-profit advocacy group for sex-trafficking survivors; she is a key organizer of the Massachusetts Poetry Festival; and, she teaches writing and literature at Salem State University.

Ira Joel Haber was born and lives in Brooklyn. He is a sculptor, painter, book dealer, photographer and teacher. His work has been seen in numerous group shows both in USA and Europe and he has had 9 one man shows including several retrospectives of his sculpture. His work is in the collections of The Whitney Museum Of American Art, New York University, The Guggenheim Museum, The Hirshhorn Museum & The Albright-Knox Art Gallery. Since 2007 His paintings, drawings, photographs and collages have been published in over 160 on line and print magazines. He has received three National Endowment for the Arts Fellowships, two Pollock-Krasner grants, the Adolph Gottlieb Foundation grant and, in 2010, he received a grant from Artists’ Fellowship Inc. He currently teaches art to retired public school teachers at The United Federation of Teachers program in Brooklyn.

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Millennium to Millennium

How many weeks are in a day
and how many years in a month?~ Neruda

Not of this world, mountains rise
obliquely in a winter sky, casting
shadows on sour fields that refuse
to tell me what is wrong.

I am moving— a slow flight
through language I’ve lost
to perfection.

Boxed between panes, dead bees
curled in transparent parentheses.
Soundlessly they take me
by surprise.

I am returning— a dream
coming back in springtime. I will
pick my blade from moist earth

& raise it up to the sun
& wind, and brandish it before
an affluent crowd who seem
to forget where life starts

& ends. I will face their mal-
function, without wanting
to punish them.

And so on

Clapboard houses scattered on this hushed countryside were
raised within the short distance of the road rising and falling
into the Alleghenies. There isn’t a name for this road but people
say it’s God’s country. The leaves are turning shades of umber or
is it ochre? No, it’s the color of faraway, even though some refer
to it as being just down the road. It’s the place where you end up
stopping and looking around, which is the mistake most of us make.
You can hear a soothing waterfalls and there is an abandoned paint-
blistered church with worn gray steps, inviting you to cross the gate
into paradise. Someone is expecting you . . .

M. J. Iuppa lives on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Her most recent poems have appeared in Poetry East, The Chariton Review, Tar River Poetry, Blueline, The Prose Poem Project, and The Centrifugal Eye, among other publications. Her most recent poetry chapbook is As the Crow Flies (Foothills Publishing, 2008), and her second full-length collection is Within Reach (Cherry Grove Collections, 2010). Between Worlds, a prose chapbook, was published by Foothills Publishing in May 2013. She is Writer-in-Residence and Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor program at St. John Fisher College in Rochester, New York.

Tag: St. John Fisher College

Poem by Jennifer Jean

Two Poems by M. J. Iuppa