Skip The Ferrari

THE ARTICLE:

“The Talents of a Middle-Aged Brain”

by Tara Parker-Pope

April 30, 2010

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/04/30/the-talents-of-a-middle-aged-brain/

THE POEM:

Skip the Ferrari

A set of haikus

about the middle-aged brain

commence here and now:

The secret life of

a grown-up is: your brain is

not quite done just yet.

In lieu of freak out,

flood the stock market with all

your money: Ca-ching!

Skip the Ferrari

and praise biology for

social expertise.

Stay fit and social:

gossip while on the treadmill—

results will bring smiles.

Your brain cells will not

combust without full consent,

so simply refuse. 

Sixty-five is the

new forty-two, so get out,

take it off, and live. 

The Good Kind of Jihad

THE ARTICLE:

“‘Prof. Rock Star’ Urges Muslim Students in Queens to Rock Out”

by Corey Kilgannon

http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/04/29/prof-rock-star-urges-muslim-students-in-queens-to-rock-out/?scp=1&sq=muslim%20rock%20and%20roll&st=cse

April 29, 2010

THE POEM:

The Good Kind of Jihad

black leather

black fedora

ponytail and

goatee

a fur hat in summer

just for show

chord change

backdrop to

explosions in the

sky as smoky

skinned lovers

kiss in the desert

to the beat of

rock and roll

because

you can be Muslim and

play the electric guitar

This is the good kind of jihad

Where Allah and

God are just words in

different keys

and Pakistani rockers

can crowd surf at

Madison Square Garden

if Saudi Arabia

says no

This is a different form of medicine

a new kind of collision

to drown out kamikaze copycats

with sheer volume and

choruses against The Man

This is the good kind of jihad

Where microphones

are small scale minarets

and imams just want to cut

footloose

Love can you take me back

to New York

where Mohammad found his way

into a garage band

destined to align the planets

with Arabic melodies

on Western airwaves

because When we listen to

each other’s music…

This is the good kind of jihad

Where mothers don’t cry

holding their dead children’s shoes

and pyrotechnics ignite onstage

not inside innocent

automobiles

Bodies beneath burkas and

heads under headscarves

undulate to the beat

because this is not just

the good

kind of jihad

this is a bodacious jihad

Number of bras to be

thrown onstage:

uncertain

But this is the good kind of jihad

I Wish I Could Go Traveling

THE ARTICLE:

“China Lifts Ban on Visitors Who are H.I.V. Positive”

by Michael Wines

April 28, 2010

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/28/world/asia/28aids.html

THE POEM:

I Wish I Could Go Traveling

GDP over fear

because the World Expo

is drawing near

(they force hangers up

mothers’ insides

&

they have quotas on

New Testaments)

so

Chinese boys having

rainbow parties

with their

lipstick ring-around-the shaft

cocks out

will be happy to hear

the boys from overseas

can join the festivities

after twenty years of

rejected

RSVPs

but in all seriousness

when the Angels in America

say I wish I could go traveling / Things aren't right with me

they can fly Air China

Chimpanzees

THE ARTICLE:
“Video Shows Chimpanzees Reacting to Death Like Humans”
by the Associated Press
April 27, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2010/04/26/science/AP-EU-Britain-Mourning-Chimpanzees.html

THE POEM:
Chimpanzees

there was dignity in the way
my sister died

we had the luxury of choice

she died in pearls
and her favorite
V-neck sweater

we caressed her arms, her face
the ten minutes before

we inspected her body afterwards
to make sure

across the globe chimpanzees
were doing the same thing—
more organically

I don’t imagine their kitchen islands
are full of casseroles

we will sit Shiva
they will tumble less

it is more or less the same
to be without
for anyone

Sideways

THE ARTICLE:

“The Search for Genes Leads to Unexpected Places”

by Carl Zimmer

April 26, 2010

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/27/science/27gene.html

THE POEM:

Sideways

The boy with the patchy face

and the mustard seed that can’t

grow up

have a lot in common

and

when the jellyfish senses

the sun

and when I look at you

we’re doing the

same thing

the way we evolved away

from each other

—it wasn’t very Darwinian

it didn’t take millions of years

sometimes I think of your hands

like an elephant’s trunk

strong in a weird way

we were not just a cluster of genes

sometimes I think of your fingers

and what fingers can do that

maybe God hadn’t planned for

and

sometimes I think of your hair

so long and so much more than just

a way to keep warm

they can kill tumors with yeast

they have found deaf plants

and scolded nematode worms that

should have been getting

regular mammograms

and

sometimes I think of

the way we grew sideways

because gravity couldn’t

get us down

Passerby

THE ARTICLE:
“Dozens Ignored a Man Dying On a Sidewalk in Queens”
by The New York Times
Sunday, April 25, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/25/nyregion/25stab.html
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YmknOKkaPEI


THE POEM:
Passerby

sixty squared
seconds face down
in blood instead of
just concrete
144th and 88th Road
in Jamaica, Queens
surveillance cameras
roll on as
twelve times two or more
pass on by as
passersby do
nothing too unusual
about a
man on the ground
because we’re taught to
avoid eye contact
with the homeless
and lie about the
change in our pockets
that jingles as we
speed away

The Firing Squad, Please

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THE ARTICLE:

“‘The Firing Squad, Please,’ Says Prisoner”

by Erik Eckholm

April 24, 2010

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/24/us/24death.html

THE POEM:

The Firing Squad, Please

somebody’s gonna put 4 bullets in

Ronnie Lee’s white cloth heart

and call the waiting for it

cruel and unusual

the kids are grown

old enough to know

a syringe and a .30-30 hunting rifle

—they do the same thing

nice ‘n clean—“no mistakes”

get ‘er done right

ger ‘er done dead

from 20 ft away

some lucky duck policeman is gonna wake up

with a killing on his hit list

People—they turn out for a good

public shooting

cameras they warm up

for an old fashioned salute

in Utah

click flash beep record:

the rocket’s red glare of the American flag

and a 4-part bang

black battle hymn harmony

“The firing squad, please”

‘cause five and twenty

inside

grows some manners

inside a man

pardon me

pardon you

seven days

to make a

pardon please

Somebody’s gotta shoot

Ronnie Lee

man sure did ask

real nicely

Cry for Germany

THE ARTICLE:
"German Bishop Resigns His Position in Latest Jolt to Church"
by Nicholas Kulish
April 23, 2010

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/23/world/europe/23germany.html


THE POEM:
Cry for Germany

Father Mixa beat me
thirty and forty years ago
No he did not touch me there
He beat me here

I did not
I don't remember
I ask forgiveness

Father Mixa beat me
thirty and forty years ago
No my parents did not know
They are no longer here


I did not
I don't remember
I ask forgiveness

Father Mixa beat me
thirty and forty years ago
The Schrobenhausen bells
toll for fewer now


I did not
I don't remember
I ask forgiveness

Father Mixa beat me
thirty and forty years ago
Shame and remorse
for Ireland, Holy Father,
but do you cry for Germany?

I did not
I don't remember
I ask forgiveness

People In Mazes

THE ARTICLE:

"Learning While You Sleep"

by Tara Parker-Pope
April 22, 2011

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/04/22/learning-while-you-dream/

THE POEM:

People in Mazes

I sleep with a man

who tosses and turns

sometimes he rolls over and assaults the wall

he utters firm sentences without context

in my ear

He sleeps inside his dreams

learning the things

daytime drowns with too much light

for him to see

He’s learning how to do things better:

How to devise bluer blueprints

How to collaborate with physics

How to appease disgruntled workers

He achieves clarity

without getting any better

at understanding the motives behind my posture

at reading the curve of my spine

at loving the ugly parts of my frame

Hypothesis:

If you were to nap

after we had “a talk”

you would get better

at Me

They drop people in mazes

to navigate these sorts of things

The wacky sense of my sleep

is that if I started at one end

and you started at the other

I don’t even think

we would find each other

Strange bedfellows and all that

But I will study you tonight

while my eyes move rapidly

to the beat of our percussionist pulses

and tomorrow I will be better at You