Cold Duck Donald
Cold Duck Donald
On a Prism Farm
(I/O, I owe, I
own)
SNAFU stuff arrives without invitation after midnight. This is but one example of how the mind
functions in the Crescent City with regard to "progress" in American
poetry, the enormous ocean of discourses wherein we drown in the Age of
Trump. Actually, drowning in this
instance proves to be pleasant.
Listening to National Public Radio commentary on American Sonnets for My Past and Future
Assassin (New York: Penguin, 2018) by Terrance Hayes begets memory of Wanda
Coleman's American Sonnets, which was
co-published in 1994 by Light and Dust Books and Woodland Pattern Book Center. Read.
Names matter, do they not? Names ---light, dust, wood, land, Petrarch,
Spenser, Shakespeare, sonnet as a 14-line transmitting object ---- to carry
ideas to somewhere when time calls them forth. Like kwansaba and haiku in the
fabric of African American intellectual histories, forms and content are
purposeful. Art is not for the arcane
sake of art. Art is for the pragmatic
sake of preventing rage from murdering the mind.
And memory wanders back to the superb sonnet by Gwendolyn
Brooks that begins with the line "First Fight. Then Fiddle." Advice.
An imperative most needed now. Uses of war and art, of aesthetics and
politics. Abrasive affinities.
Situations that ordain the resonance of time as in four lines from
Coleman's 24th sonnet
i am the love wish of secret rapists/ the men
who break before
they enter
they fight to
maintain the myths I die by
(when underthegun,
who has time to keep a war journal?)
SNAFU dares to say
"Ah, gender how quare thou art." Better yet is SNAFU's devastating question:
"Wasn't the First Crusade (1095-1099) the perfect prototype for 21st
century Islamic carnage?"
Poetry as prophylactic against the STD (sensually transmitted disease) of
cultural amnesia. In the porn of
whatever in 2018, poetry is a condom. Protect yourself.
Jerry W. Ward, Jr. May 23, 2018
Comments
Post a Comment