Wax Poetic

little michael (a poem)

dear michael / would you believe it
congress stood for you today
& not just the coloured section
the whole goddamn fucking chamber
you might have guessed by now
mike / that jesse jackson made them
bt i swear / for real / we heard
no whisper of objection
oh michael / wz the least we
all could do / sixty seconds
quiet / for lifetimes
of what we did to you / oh
little michael / who brought salvation
back / little michael
witnessing the streets / jehovah
come in a five inch afro
& size ten bell-bottom jeans

all shook our heads & stood
for you / little michael
silent / not knowing
wz the worst that we could do
cz all yr life folk stood around
& watched / here comes little michael
everybody shhh check out
what he can do

oh / michael / would you believe it
today congress stood for you
same old little michael / nobody
spoke / we found gabriel in
that voice of yours / & looked past
the empty eyes / childhood
locked up / behind a thug on
a tour bus / nobody spoke up
& little michael / a tired
twelve-year-old / sold
platinum / how ‘bout that
everybody wz sayin
little michael / y’know
small black boy with the
hair / cute smile / sings
that song / ABC & somethin
‘bout salvation

oh / little michael
congress stood for you today
& not just the coloured section
the whole goddamn fucking chamber

Note to Visiting Writers

victory (a poem)

ahmadinejad / master of
composed / plain-clothed
& nondescript
drags victory round
in a blood soaked
body-bag / while freedom lies
chalk-traced across the ground / but
oh / ahmadinejad / true victory
is when the throats you slit
start to scream with their feet

Still Aiming at Mockingbirds

Last week I had the stirring experience of watching my mother Claudette Clarke perform as Calpurnia in Christopher Sergel’s theatre adaptation of Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird in Sydney.

Although Sergel's play is well-written, particularly the lengthy court-room scene, it deviates considerably from the book most notably, for me, through the dilution of the black community’s part in the story. Although there was facility in the play for the utilisation of black actors, in the form of courtroom extras and members of Reverend Sykes’s (played by eloquently by Ken Bernard) church congregation, it appeared that practical difficulties of accessing these actors prevented this actualisation.

Highlights included the stunning stage design, the brilliantly directed ‘mad dog’ scene, and the breathtaking impact of twelve-year-old Elijah Williams (pictured holding hands with Eleni Dimitriadis as Scout) as the accused Tom Robinson’s silent shadow, raising his voice only to sing a stirring version of the gospel melody Down to the River after the guilty verdict is passed. Robinson himself was played by Tim Wardell with a perfectly balanced combination of with pathos and pride, and Phil Lye's Bob Ewell was so convincingly vulgar I almost shivered when he entered the stage. Tim Warden was on stage lurking in the background for almost the entire play as the elusive Boo Radley, and when he finally unmasked, the one line he delivered was worth ten pages of any other character’s dialogue.

I was shocked to hear though, that several evenings before I saw the play, a racist heckler in the audience sat cheering at every utterance of the word nigger, and clapped heartily at Tom Robinson’s unjust conviction. The theatre was in Chatswood, on Sydney’s North Shore and the audience, at least on the evening I attended, seemed primarily to be a middle-class, grey crowd. There seemed to be an unspoken attitude amongst the audience of Wasn’t it terrible in the back then? Look how far things have come…But of course, in reality, even in Australia in 2009, the law does not treat everyone as equals and it can still be argued that racism plays a key part in the handling of white on black crime.

Then, as if to confirm this, my mother emailed me a transcript from Sunday’s coverage of the trials, in far North Queensland, of two white hit and run drivers who mowed down indigenous victims, in questionable circumstances, and left them for dead. The transcript reads so chillingly like the courtroom scene from Mockingbird that it sent me into a deep depression. How far have we really come? Transcript extract:

Just how colour blind is the judicial system in far north Queensland? In this special report, Ross Coulthart looks at troubling issues highlighted by two tragedies on the streets of Townsville. Both were hit and run killings where the victims were Aborigines and the drivers young white males.
How these deaths were investigated and the way those responsible were then prosecuted and dealt with by the courts has outraged the families of Errol Wyles and Yasman Rae Sturt. The driver of the car that killed Yasman received a suspended prison sentence and a $750 fine. The youth who killed Errol served two-and-a-half months in jail then spent the rest of his 15-month term on a prison farm. Ross Coulthart presents strong evidence suggesting that Errol's death was racially motivated and amounted to homicide ...

COULTHART: Late one night in Townsville, two years ago. A boy is run over by a car. Twice it crushes his body. But the driver doesn’t stop and fifteen-year-old Errol Wyles is left dying on the road.

LINDA DAVIS — RESIDENT: He was trying to hit the boys on the bikes.

COULTHART: You’re in no doubt about that?

DAVIS: No, he was aiming at them.

COULTHART: Another street in Townsville, eight months earlier. The broken body of a young woman is found. Close to death, Yasman Rae Sturt is the victim of another hit and run.

JORDAN GEE-HOY: I’m looking at her, coughing, choking on her own blood. She’s still alive… I’m staring at her praying for the poor girl

COULTHART: Both victims were Aborigines. The drivers were white and both of them fled the scene. The victims’ families believe the drivers in both cases were treated far too leniently by the justice system.

ERROL WYLES SNR — FATHER OF ERROL WYLES: There’s two laws. There’s laws for white Australia and there’s another set of laws for indigenous Australians.

COULTHART: Today on Sunday allegations of a racially motivated killing and disturbing evidence of serious failures in our criminal justice system.

KEN HORLER , QC — BARRISTER: There is a strong, compelling case to go to the jury that the action of the driver on the night amounted to a form of homicide. Not just dangerous driving.

STEWART LEVITT — LAWYER FOR WYLES FAMILY: It’s just intolerable that a person could be killed in circumstances where there is not the fullest and most thorough investigation into the circumstances and where the criminal law doesn’t do its darndest to ensure that justice is done.

Click here for full transcript

Message in a Business Card

Okay, so folks, I have to go offline for a week. Hope you'll stay with me & check back for updates after this week.

But wait, before you click out of here, I have something for you. It's a business card I designed for all of us poets. If you are a poet, feel free to copy the image, take it to your nearest Officeworks, have it printed up on glossy paper as a business card and print, or write your details on the back to distribute.

If you are not a poet, let me know in the comments which art-related or creative occupation you'd like to see a business card for.

I forego copyright of this image for this non-commercial personal promotional use for all poets visiting this blog. Only catch: you have to let me know in the comments of this post if you intend to use the card, including, if you can, the country or city you reside in...so I can keep track of it's journey across the world. I hope to eventually be handed one myself one day by another poet. Now that would be cool!

Because poet is one of the greatest occupations on earth, even if only we realise it.

PS. If enough people are interested, I might print a few hundred off myself & sell at cost through this blogsite. Let me know your thoughts.

miss california's daughters

assassinate / miss
california’s daughters

or one day they’ll
lynch my son
with worlds their mama
taught them

not in my backyard
that just ain’t the way
that i was raised
we will decide who comes
to this country
& the terms on which they—

sterilise / that poor
miss california
she will give
birth / to what her
father taught her

h1n1, the pandemic (a poem)

cause let’s face it rich white folk
mostly die of heart attacks / not aids
& in our world
bored teenagers rope red
necks / for thrills
& accidentally asphyxiate
in black suspender lace / they
strap body smack
& traffic white lines / to fall
before some firing squad
on a sandy thai—

ok / for real / i’ll just say it:
h1n1 is not a plague

a pandemic is the fate of
small namibian girls
when russian gun runners
arm hungry knock-kneed boys
on the tattered african corners
where a dozen ream of bullets
cost less than a tin-can toy

ok / so / for real
let me just say
(with all due respect for the dead)
h1n1 is not a pandemic
h1n1 is two weeks in bed
h1n1 is not a pandemic
that’s right / i said

will some brown mama scrape
her own thigh flesh to feed a
broken eyed babe with
screaming shrink-wrapped
ribs / because watch out
h1n1 is here / will
congalese militia rape every
female in the village / grandmother
with child / child or not / will
government soldiers
machete out the eyes of
princesses who weep
too much / because h1n1

i mean / fuck / a pandemic is twelve
year old chinese sweat shop slaves
for david jones designer boxers
h1n1 is three months away from
being a flu shot / was
mexico’s problem / till some
new york accountant’s daughter
didn’t wake up / h1n1 has
crossed the borders
the real hysteria is
& i don’t mind saying:

h1n1 / will not discriminate

scales the high rise office blocks
of respecta—first world folk
ladies & gentleman
the problem straight:
h1n1 / the pandemic
does not recognise hate
h1n1 / the pandemic
is secular / interracial
dangerous
& goddamn
we need
to vaccinate

Open Letter To The President (a poem)

Tomorrow night, Robbie and I will be performing a twenty minute set at the Northcote Social Club in Melbourne as part of a showcase organised by Roarhouse. The set will be primarily the same as the one we performed to open the Emerging Writers' Festival at the Edge in Federation Square, but with the inclusion of Open Letter to the President, which I wrote with wishful thinking well (well, well, WELL) before Obama’s election win. Haven’t performed it with percussion before, but we’ve worked up a version with full drumkit backing me, so it should be great fun. The evening starts at 7pm, but you can catch us onstage for our set from 9pm if you’re in Melbourne.

open letter to the president

mister president obama / oooooh
i like the way you shake your
round / black women stare at you
like they’d ditch their
southern fried jerk chicken
in a finger-licking flick

i wanna be the one who
tucks the president between
the sheets at night / i wanna
lead the leader of the free world
astray / mister obama
(no disrespect to your wife)
i dig the way your slip hips
sway / when you do that
live jive-walk across the stage
the way you flash that baaad
black smile at me across
the morning paper page
as if to say hey / it’s just you and me
in that voting booth on polling day
young lady / so let’s make a baby
cause i’ll show you where to hide
your weapon of mass destruction
if you’ll be the cure to my
electoral dysfunction

mister O
mister oh!
mister OH!

let me be secretary
to the state of your affairs
the homeland security blanket
that warms you everywhere

president obama
i wanna rule the roost
where the man who rules the world
roosts when he’s not
ruling the world
i wanna jump up & down
on oprah winfrey’s couch
& scream that i’m obama's girl

mister O
mister oh!
mister OH!

i wanna suck your dream of hope
from those wide brown lips
let me be one nation
united invisible
under your rhythmic hips

president obama

i like the way you shake your
round / black women stare at you
like they’d ditch their
southern fried jerk chicken
in a finger-licking flick

photo © Michael Reynolds, 2008. Taken at Noise Bar, Brunswick, while performing Open Letter To the President for the first time.

words escaping me

delilah: a poem

outcast you walked
through the streets
of sorek / but
head high
face dry
shoulders proud with rage

there are none more betrayed
than those forced to betray

delilah
you were dark
like me & africa:
a beautiful continent
easy to corrupt
ruined by a man
you could never hope to defeat
& left to burn
when by some miracle
you did

delilah
nobody cared
what happened behind closed doors
with the body of a brute who can’t bleed
bruised against yours

a fierce black woman
beating your way forward
in a world made for mythical white men
sick of tender purple eyes
& washing bloody fingerprints
from brown thighs
scared
& ready to try anything

delilah
you were the first supreme
to golden skinned sunday schoolers
everywhere / we committed judges 16:6
to memory / & said damn
she’s cool / I’m gonna be like her
conjured you in the churchyard
with tina turner legs
a james brown howl
& jackson five hair
turning rivers to moonshine
discipled by doo-wap girls

we cakewalked you across water
to gob-smacked fishermen
turning loaves to cornbread
& fish to fried chitterling

you better believe
you gave us something
all there was
in that good book for me was you
cause when you’re born
from original skin
you need something real to cling to

before chaka kahn/ etta james
& missy e
we had delilah
the very first supreme

A previous version of this poem appears in my chapbook 'Original Skin' (2008), available for the princely sum of $5 (they will even accept it in postage stamps I believe!) at http://www.picaropress.com.

Postcard

summer: a poem

when i'm famous

said the little boy

as they lay face up

on the grass that summer

cloud-watchin' the sky

i ain't never gon' forget

these lazy days

same

said the brown-eyed girl

twirlin' curl around a finger

i ain't never gon' leave this place

even when i 'cept my 'cademy award

it's gon' be 'n your backyard:

live from america

by satellite through space