Tuesday, April 15, 2014

#8 for National Poetry Month - On Hiking the Smoky Mountains - First Draft

On Hiking the Smoky Mountains, Tennessee

 I keep thinking about the Cherokee
on their land some 40 odd miles away –
the word reservation – as in something reserved
for.  I keep thinking about this
land that is no-one’s and for which so many
have deeds – pieces of paper marked and stamped
with the state’s seal – a proclamation that makes
it so.  And so of course I think
of my own black skin   in this South
in these mountains – the place of the Blue
Smoke the Cherokee called it – and how
on edge I am in it   such that I’ve a knife
dangling from my waist  a hunting knife
inscribed with a stamp that says something
of the Chippewa nation.  To be sure
I have never cut a man   but there have
been bottles broken   pockets full of rocks    
a baseball bat all meant towards grave
harm and thank God it never has quite come
to that.  But here again these good folk look
through me as though their being here has nothing
to do with my being here – carefully cataloging
the trillium and the showy orchids and the violets
and the hemlock and the deer and the blue heron
and the black bear – all of which the Cherokee
had names and stories for long before these good
folk had deeds.  I keep thinking about how
it’s a good bet none of these Cherokee come
here to hike – to walk for the sake of walking
this land which they once felt free to walk.
I’m thinking again   of course   about
the girl with us     my best made thing
and what I want to teach her about land
and people and respect and how maybe
the only way to do it is to take her down
to the reservation and sit in a bar there and tell
stories – the ones I was told about land
and hope that there we each hear a more
familiar song – something of smoke
and gods and nations – something to make
us feel free in our skins without all the sharp
edges we think we need to get by.




To schedule a reading or an appearance please contact Ofer Ziv at Blue Flower Arts at 845-677-8559 or email ofer@blueflowerarts.com. www.facebook.com/rogerbonairagard www.twitter.com/rogerbonair www.cypherbooks.com

Saturday, April 12, 2014

#7 for National Poetry Month - Roger records Negores with Guns by Nikki Finney

Nikki Finney’s work (and her mentorship) has been re-casting my sensibility of my own voice for many years now.  Her poems stay steeped in personal and public history in a way that won’t let us forget that the one cannot actually relinquish the other.
This poem, to my reading, epitomizes and essentializes this work of Finney’s.  It is sublime, her ‘map’ of the American South here.  She has always been particularly skilled at this specific portraiture and its nuances of love and hostility, but here the artist’s brushstrokes have become even finer, more exact.  I chose to record this poem in part because of the brilliant sonic evocation of the repetition - how among other things, she echoes gunfire’s retort while holding the entire scene in the well cared for and familial love of these black folk, teaching their daughter to survive in the only way they know how.
If one can achieve the duende in the word before the word is actually uttered, then it is achieved here - the soaring, the lifting, the contracting with writer and reader to be transported into new understandings of love and fight and black people.  I hope you dig it.

https://soundcloud.com/rogerbonair/negroes-with-guns-by-nikkey

To schedule a reading or an appearance please contact Ofer Ziv at Blue Flower Arts at 845-677-8559 or email ofer@blueflowerarts.com. www.facebook.com/rogerbonairagard www.twitter.com/rogerbonair www.cypherbooks.com

#6 for National Poetry Month - first draft offering - On Nina's climbing stairs

On Nina’s climbing stairs

The little one is climbing
stairs. Today   for the first time
I call her strong girl    I call
her young homie    I do not
call her pretty   or even
beautiful          I call
to her from imagined conversations
in our future     In these reasonings
she is saving me   again.  She is
refusing to let me be
anything but my best strongest unkillable
self.      The young homie’s gaze
doesn’t waver     she questions
me with the resolve of a prosecutor
She will hold me guilty for anything less
than refusing to die      every day
she comes to the well with me.
She bids me      drink father   live
The little one is climbing stairs
today               for the first
time


To schedule a reading or an appearance please contact Ofer Ziv at Blue Flower Arts at 845-677-8559 or email ofer@blueflowerarts.com. www.facebook.com/rogerbonairagard www.twitter.com/rogerbonair www.cypherbooks.com

Friday, April 11, 2014

#5 for National Poetry Month - Interview with Patrick Rosal

Patrick Rosal is a Filipino-American writer, author of 3 collections of poems and Assistant Professor of creative writing at Rutgers-Camden.  He is also a dear friend and I credit him with much of the study in conversation that has coalesced for me into a poetics.  When i first heard Patrick read poems at our LouderARTS Project in NYC circa 2003, i was ecstatic and dismayed.  Here were brilliant poems by someone whose poetic project as it were, was very similar to mine - except he was so much better.
In this interview, i get to sit with Patrick and share with you a tiny corner of the kinds of conversations we’ve had throughout the year.  It’s 30 minutes long.  Get your headphones in and settle in.  There’ll be more of these interviews to come.

https://soundcloud.com/rogerbonair/interview-with-patrick-rosal

To schedule a reading or an appearance please contact Ofer Ziv at Blue Flower Arts at 845-677-8559 or email ofer@blueflowerarts.com. www.facebook.com/rogerbonairagard www.twitter.com/rogerbonair www.cypherbooks.com

Thursday, April 10, 2014

April 4 - Two Bottles of Rum and The Roaring Lion (recording) National Poetry Month

For the fourth day i feature a piece of my own from the collection Bury My Clothes.  This bit of narcissism comes via  the Society of Midland Authors which today awarded Bury My Clothes their prize for poetry.
Bury My Clothes, like my collection before it Gully, takes some calculated risks.  In BMC, this includes the bookending of the collection with these two long pieces which are more memoir than poem, more short-story than aspiring to verse.  In the end, i think this is among the collection’s features that perhaps make it interesting, or at least curious to a reader more accustomed to traditionally built collections of poetry.
Moreover, this piece, the one that begins the book is attempting to establish a sort of platform, one from which the writer (and perhaps the reader) builds an understanding of the cultural landscape which informs the collection’s ‘thesis’ - that is, that violence is an essential ingredient in the development and evolution of African diasporic art, and therefore in the spirit of the individual diasporic African.


At any rate, have at this.  Feel free to go after discussion in the comments or ask questions.  It’s National Poetry Month after all.

https://soundcloud.com/rogerbonair/two-bottles-of-rum-and-the

To schedule a reading or an appearance please contact Ofer Ziv at Blue Flower Arts at 845-677-8559 or email ofer@blueflowerarts.com. www.facebook.com/rogerbonairagard www.twitter.com/rogerbonair www.cypherbooks.com

Wednesday, April 09, 2014

Apr 3 - third entry for National Poetry Month - Ocean Vuong's 'Homewrecker' as recorded by me

Ocean Vuong is a Vietnamese American poet who spent his teenage years in Hartford, CT.  He is, even as a man still in mis mid-twenties, preternaturally wise.  If my grandfather were gay and Asian, he’d be Ocean Vuong.  His poems are amongst other things, patient, and always willing to step off the ledge with complete confidence that the air will hold them. Get down with this poem. Seek out his book.

https://soundcloud.com/rogerbonair/homewrecker-by-ocean-vuong


To schedule a reading or an appearance please contact Ofer Ziv at Blue Flower Arts at 845-677-8559 or email ofer@blueflowerarts.com. www.facebook.com/rogerbonairagard www.twitter.com/rogerbonair www.cypherbooks.com

Wednesday, April 02, 2014

April 2 - 2nd entry for National Poetry Month - a note on the prose of Louise Erdrich and her poem Orozco's Christ, as recorded by me

“…When the birds descended, both Indians and whites set up great bonfires and tried driving them into nets.  The doves ate the wheat seedlings and the rye and started on the corn.  They ate the sprouts of new flowers and the buds of apples and the tough leaves of oak trees and even last uear’s chaff. The doves were plump, and delicious smoked, but one could wring the necks of hundreds or thousands and effect no visible diminishment of their number.  The pole-and-mud houses of the mixed-bloods and the bark huts of the blanket Indians were crushed by the weight of the birds.  They were roasted, burnt, baked up in pies, stewed, salted down in barrels, or clubbed dead with sticks and left to rot.  But the dead only fed the living and each morning when the people woke it was to the scraping and beating of wings, the murmurous susurration, the awful cooing babble, and the sight, to those who still possessed intact windows, of the curious and gentle faces of those creatures.”

This is the second paragraph of Louise Erdrich’s The Plague of Doves, a marvelous and amazing epic storyteller’s story of a novel.  I first read her in college and it took me a while to recognize the absolute poetry of her prose, and the ambitious rolling scope of her storytelling which in fact is the storytelling of all our elders, and what wonderful books we might all write if we listened carefully and faithfully as Erdrich, mimicked their tongues.


Go read everything by her.  Meanwhile here I go reading her poem Orozco’s Christ from the collection Baptism of Desire, aloud.


https://soundcloud.com/rogerbonair/orozcos-christ-by-louise


To schedule a reading or an appearance please contact Ofer Ziv at Blue Flower Arts at 845-677-8559 or email ofer@blueflowerarts.com. www.facebook.com/rogerbonairagard www.twitter.com/rogerbonair www.cypherbooks.com

Friday, February 28, 2014

from a collection in progress: Brooklyn / Ghost: gone poems on gentrification, leaving and loss

Citation, or safe in Bed-Stuy

Maybe it was the absurd sight of a helmeted man
pissing on a fence.  Maybe, that it was a fence
separating the sidewalk from a playground. Maybe
it was because it was 4AM and everything wrong
happens at 4 in the morning – every dumb story
every fight that ended the night at the club
when I was young and these streets not yet
worth policing.  But the bright eyed fresh cop
boy sliding up to say Hey buddy, must not recognize
I’m twice his age, or that I have my dick
in my hand.  Maybe he and his partner haven’t yet
processed the sleek, white-weeled, bullhorn-handled
bicycle leaned up next to me, before he asks
the next dumb-ass question – didn’t you see us there?
And for two seconds my drunk brain is aflight with
all the unsmart things I want to say
-Yeah I saw you, I wanted to show you my dick. 
-Nah, I didn’t, but I sure am glad you’re here now.
- Yeah I actually was trying to piss on your shoes but I’m too drunk
to aim right,
but only the self-preservation me speaks
- Uhm, no. Of course not.

But the pig won’t relent.  He’s got a treasure trove
of questions like these he saves for 4AM, for
grown black men on Quincy Street,
Bedford-Stuyvesant on the come up
hood type joint while he hoofs
his beat.  You couldn’t hold it, huh?
And I’m worried that there might
be a little smile on my face now – 19
year old wise-ass me showing up late
with cocaine and tequila to fuck the party
up. No, I say. I just couldn’t.

And he and his partner are so not yet
old enough to legally get the kind of drunk
I am right now, but they’re one thumb
nonchalant in a belt, one hand casual
on a service revolver type sure of themselves –
and the one barks something into his radio
and is oinking something about how he could
give me a much worse citation but he’ll let me get off
easy, but you shouldn’t pee in public blah blah blah
like I ain’t been potty trained several years before
his parents even thought to fuck each other.

And the couple that passes by just then, not even
noticing the commotion shouldn’t need to enter
the poem except just ten years ago, the police
wouldn’t be walking the beat here – just cruising
by in squad cars and asking my purple haired
combat boot girlfriend if she was sure she was
in the right place.  But tonight that cop is just
as sure the tittering blondes passing just behind him
are safe because he’s got this under control.

And then, almost silently, a murmuring among them
like a group of Jesuits on the way to mass, ten more
police show up, their shoes not making a sound
and they stand around while babyface runs my ID
and I’m thinking that isn’t it something, this is really
how it’s gonna go down, beat to death by cops
in Bed-Stuy or maybe my life saved by my bicycle
helmet like everyone always says it would, and my
little girl in her mother’s belly still, will never meet
me.  So I try to hold the gaze of the one black cop,
a woman, young, and hope she sees her brother
standing here, or her man, or her father.  But she
looks everywhere except my face, and her thumb
is tucked in her belt too, and her hand, resting on
the 9mm like an afterthought, all of them doing
their jobs, polite and casual – in Bed-Stuy, finally
to protect, to serve.



To schedule a reading or an appearance please contact Ofer Ziv at Blue Flower Arts at 845-677-8559 or email ofer@blueflowerarts.com. www.facebook.com/rogerbonairagard www.twitter.com/rogerbonair www.cypherbooks.com www.haymarketbooks.org