Poetry Metagenics at the Pulitzer Center

Original article here --> Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting 

Inspired by the serendipitous algorithm-generated poetry of the New York Times Haiku, we're hoping to feed our own award-winning writing through a concept of similar but more human design: the staff and readers of the Pulitzer Center website.  

Our resident poet, Jennifer Nguyen, got the ball rolling: 

@jen_vnguyen

A dividing line
of walls, mines, wire, land and men,
unites Korea.

We write on behalf
those who may risk death for words
this Poetry Month.

When given the "choice"
sick, ailing Cambodians
prefer HIV.

What is a haiku?

Haiku is poetry in three short lines using a 5-7-5 syllable structure. Typically haikus contain strong sensory or synesthetic words and images. 



Poetry Month: Telling Untold Stories:

Haikus about international untold stories help interpret global issues for a wider audience. 

Amanda Ottaway  

@amandaottaway

in and of shadows 

the stateless stumble, ever 

the nowhere people.

Susan Marie  

@SusanMarie_NY

Bones emitting truth 

stack, one atop another 

collocating flies.

Poetry can help us reflect and see things we might have missed in everyday life. 

Poetry can be a call to action or, as Pulitzer Center grantees Eliza Griswold and Seamus Murphy found in Afghanistan, a way to express dissent when self-expression is dangerous. 

Jack

I greeted the day curled up in the back seat.  Spending the night in my car was not what I had in mind when I agreed to take this job.  It was only supposed to be for two nights.  It is now going on day five.

Damn her, I thought. It was still dark outside. I lit a smoke and cranked down the window whistling some Dylan tune. I saw lights on in a window up the street. Hopping into the front, easing into the driver’s seat, I cursed her for leaving me in this shit hole of a town.  

Then I saw the note. It was lying on the dash, her usual manila envelope with thick, black scroll on the front, my name, what she liked to call me:  Toni.  I tore it open, thinking how much I loved and hated this woman.  

     Toni, my love,  

                              Get something to eat, wait for my call.

                                                                                                     Love,

                                                                                                                 Jezelle 

There was a twenty-dollar bill inside, crisp and pure.  Like Jezelle.  I snatched the smokes and headed up the street to Bobby’s.
 
Nobody stared at me when I strolled into the diner.  A good sign.  I could really use a drink, I thought. There were five people that I could see, not counting who might be in the kitchen or getting their jollies in the john.  Two men in the back booth, an old man at the counter, and a girl in her teens.  She looked new.  You could tell by the way she sat all hunched over looking cold.  She held her cigarette as if she were posing for a picture. I had to laugh. That was me three years ago. I felt sorry for her.  
 
When I turned my gaze from the girl, behind the counter stood Bobby.  God, how I had missed her.  She smiled. I headed for the bathroom. I took off my coat, gave my face a quick rinse and stared straight ahead. 

     Nothing scarier than staring into your own eyes.
 
When I came out, Bobby already had my coffee ready, black, as usual, and a plate of toast.  I pushed the plate away and sipped the coffee.  The elderly man mumbled to God.  Egg yolk dripped down his stubbly chin.  I turned away, focusing on the two men.  
 
This is how bad it’s gotten.  Two men in a diner, a twenty-dollar bill and a half pack of smokes.  So this is where it ends.  I couldn’t even drink my coffee thinking of the grimy hands that would soon be groping my breasts.
   
Bobby nodded.  It was time.  I choked down the cup and took a shot from the pint in my coat.  Nothin’ like ole’ Jack to give you a hug when you need it.
 
I sat down next to the blond guy and whispered:
 
“Hi, I’m Toni.  Jezelle sent me.”
 
They both grinned and the mulatto slid in next to me.  Bobby quickly pulled down the shades.  I wanted to scream.  
 
The white guy rubbed my thigh and I closed my eyes.  I thought of Jezelle.  I always thought of Jezelle.  And at this moment, it was her lips upon mine, her hands on my body and my eyes searching for her, once again, in the darkness of Bobby’s diner. 




© Susan Marie  [TBC]

Reading Billy Collins Watching Billy

When I taught my son to read,
rather, when he grasped the written word
his lips pursed so slightly in time
with the crunch of his brow

And his eyes registered each character
churning and bouncing inside his head,
like atoms dancing -
as a Gentleman and his fair Lady,
bowing gracefully to the other
before a waltz.

I do not recall hearing words
fly from his mouth,
yet saw behind his eyes
trapeze artists leaping across synapses,
jolting ancient clocks to spark
holding ages together,
strands of DNA.

Nothing more than the woolen scarf
I once wrapped snugly around his chin
before we ventured out
to make snow angels.


© Susan Marie  

Thoughts While Sleepwalking

 On Audio --> here

it leaps and bounds
love
climbing vines towards Heaven

zinging past stars, galaxies
meteors flashing
supernova stargaze falling embers

like a waterscape canvas
melting nightscape backdrop
settling upon blooms
springing forth
from each bud

an electrical buzzzzzzzzzz

resonating
a bumblehum
of drones
leaving the air
thick and heavy
like buttercream frosting.

If you look to the sky, you will see the energy
electrical lines quake and quiver 
a sonic boom
like static
traveling down one arm
to the fingertip
that touched Gods' own
on the ceiling of the Sistine.

Michelangelo knew about love.

Aboriginals knew.
They needed no speech.

They felt the Earth
pull their chests
outward
magnetic
a throbbing ache
of telepathic temple
told presence of
Mother Earth
God
Buddha
Muhammad
The Great Spirit
Yahweh

The bum in the gutter
has knowing eyes.
I bet you never took
the time to see.

Next 
         time
                  look 
                           closer

the iris
reflects
the freedom
of knowing
the same crazed stare
of a driven soul
escaping through 
tunnels of poetry
waiting to flood
the city streets
and drown 
the foolhardy.

The Genesis 

of an Apocalypse.  


© Susan Marie 

to sleep, to dream

Oh, to sleep to dream
of completion, 
genesis ascending
from each clavicle.

The beginning of flight.

Towering two feet above my crown
and one foot above the ground,
my spirit would no longer suffer
the torture of good versus evil.

They would be glorious, my wings.

Perhaps, they will serve
to thaw my frame when I become chilled,
meld into arms when I am lonely,
and turn, quick and sharp
if crossed, to smite one
who did not respect their beauty.

Oh, to sleep to dream
within the room of my son.
I collect his feathers,
delicately lain across his nightstand.
Plumed obsidian, magnificent.
As that of a raven.

We picked them together, planning to create a headdress
 
yet now,
I place them upon his back
heeding the fate of Icarus',
and stand sentinel, mesmerized
by his sprouts of tufted down.

And before dawn,
we search for a willow tree
to nest in, perhaps -
away from the bloodstains
and stench of the city.

Our hands clasped
as we take flight.

Together.


© Susan Marie  

the most beautiful songs

On Audio --> Here


Sometimes
the obscurest birds
sing
the most beautiful songs.

Like a child,
placing blocks,
worn,
letters faded, atop another.

Oh . . . so carefully.

Or in the kitchen,
where one woman,
beautiful,
with her hair tied back,
cooks
and silently hums to herself,
her family, waiting,
in the other room.

And the man,
viewing his child below him,
placing worn blocks with such intent
then shifting his gaze to the back of his wife,
in the kitchen,
standing.

And there is no music.

No words are spoken.

It is simply understood
that sometimes
the obscurest birds

sing

the most beautiful songs.

 

© Susan Marie and Shivpreet Singh

*Shiv said to me, "Sometimes the obscurest birds sing the most beautiful songs."