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Poetry NI: P.O.E.T.‘Poets Opposing Evil Trump’Released on 16th June 2016Compiled and edited by Colin Dardisand Geraldine O’KaneAll copyright retained by original authors 2016.The right of the authors to be identified as such hasbeen asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designand Patents Act 1998.All rights reservedwww.poetryni.com[2]
7.28.30.31.35.ForewordSteven Storrie: Wake Up America, It’s YourTurn To DriveWhitnee Thorp: & He SaidJo Burns: Nominations For The Leader OfPoemsMichael Karl Ritchie: DrumpfSergio A. Ortiz: Wetback of eternityBen Nardolilli: In ExtremisS.L. Kerns: Donny Can’tJonathan May: Zoo allegoryAdrian Rice: Forever LinkedSara Adams: How to Stay on TopDeborah Coy: Infinite TrumpsColin Dardis: We Don’t Have VictoriesAnymoreAlan Harris: Fire and TrumpCathy Bryant: The ChallengeCody Walker: Mad Call Coming from InsideYour HouseJacques Cintrón: The Whore of AmericaPeter Adair: The Emperor’s DecreeJohn L. Stanizzi: Have We Gone Mad, Or IsIt Just MeNotes on Contributors and Editors[3]
ForewordThe rise of Donald Trump is something thatcontinues to be equally fascinating and scary. Everyday, the news is full of his hate-ridden diatribe,sensationalist policy announcements, and selfaggrandizement.We're not going to get into his politics here: thishas been done elsewhere to a far better degreethan we ever could. Instead, we are doing what wedo best: to use the power of poetry, in order tooppose, deride, fight against and stand up to theundesirable entity that is 'Donald John Drumpf’'.It has been said that poetry never changesanything. We of course disagree. This isn’t a proClinton, pro-Sanders or even a pro-Democratsbooklet (although some of the poets do allude tofeeling the Bern ). It isn’t even necessarily an antiRepublican publication. It is however, unabashedlyand unapologetically, anti-Trump. Enjoy.Colin Dardis & Geraldine O’Kane, EditorsNote on language: As some of the poets included in the eanthology are American, where spelling might differentiatebetween standardised American and British spelling, we havekept the poet’s original text.[4]
Steven Storrie: Wake Up America, It’sYour Turn To DriveAmerica don’t do thisAmerica you’re better than thatAmerica stop pretendingAmerica this isn’t reality TVAmerica don’t stoop to their levelAmerica this is realAmerica don’t make me copy Allen GinsbergpoemsNow is not the time.America remember the good timesRemember Kennedy, Lincoln and FDRAmerica turn off your radioThe danger is at your doorAmerica remember sweet Lady LibertyWhat are you going to tell her?How could you ever look her in the eye againIf you do this?America what about your tired, your hungryYour poor?What will become of themWith Donald Trump in charge?[5]
America you can’t be serious?America don’t turn out the lightsAmerica it’s not too lateAmerica look at your withered faceIn the mirrorI know you want to be beautiful againAmerica this isn’t the wayAmerica let’s not fightIf you turn back now we’ll neverMention this againThough I can’t say I’m gonna be ableTo forget it almost happened.America go to bed nowYou’ve had a little too much to drinkI know you’ll feel differently about thisIn the morning.[6]
Whitnee Thorp: & He Said“All of the men, we're petrified to speak to women anymore.We may raise our voice. You know what? The women get itbetter than we do, folks. They get it better than we do.”– Donald TrumpIf by better do you meanfor every dollar earned by a mana woman, with the sameeducation & backgroundwill only hear 77 centsclink in the bottom of her purse?Or the woman with a graduate degreewill not be able to providelike the man with a bachelors’ degree?If by better do you meansingle mothers, women of color,& elderly womenare at the highest riskof going to bed without dinner, evictionfrom broken-fenced homes, &will be known in this centuryas the invisible poor?If by better do you meanwhen 1 in 5 women will be rapedno matter their clothes,drinks consumed, or if they are[7]
walking home because the majoritywill be raped by menwho they know & trust most?Mr. Trump,the war on womenhas long been wagedbut we can sayyour rhetoric & forked tongue-talkwill not be the applewe choose to bite today.[8]
Jo Burns: Nominations For The LeaderOf PoemsI know loads of poems, any poemworth knowing. I, myself, even writethe most amazing, smartest poems.Everyone agrees that my poems are terrific.I know all the top poets. (They work for me).One of them called me just yesterday,(you will have definitely heard of him)to say “Donald, you write fantastic poems”.Let me tell you good people something.I have written the best poem you will ever see.Just compare mine to the rubbish in The NewYorker.You wouldn’t want to know their profits anyway.No one listens to that sad ass magazine.They aren’t protecting our poetry borders.Who cares what poor dopes and loserssay in the literarical world. Come on!All immigrant poets must be made to payto publish in great journals of the USA.[9]
I will press charges on those who use my poemsagainst me. Poems about adultery, foreignancestry,mobs, bankruptcy, marriage scandals areforbidden.I will make huge deals for all my poetry.People who love poems: Just wait and see!Vote Drumpf to make poems great again.[10]
Michael Karl Ritchie: DrumpfTrump the trumpets!Caesar has arrivedFresh from victoriesBluffing his wayBuying and sellingOut his competitors.Trump the cardsIn luxurious casinos!The mercantile GodHas a system for winning,Breaking the houseAcross poverty’s spine.Drumpf speaks his mindAnd ours as well,With words we all recognize:“You’re fired!”“You’re fired!”“You’re fired!”[11]
Sergio A. Ortiz: Wetback of eternityI amillegalundocumented worker of eternity,crossing the border of a dream.My passport of existence has expired.Without proper documentationmy bones areworthless.I travelnight in a crowed truckwithout headlights.I sleep in the backrooms of the law.My American dream becamethe hell of my exile.He has come out of shadows, Trump points at meand says,when I appear from the toilets of my job.It doesn’t matter. I celebrate like a wetbackthe passage of wind in desert altarsand contemplate infinity in the placewhere the twin towers stood.[12]
Ben Nardolilli: In ExtremisYou put down your ivory fan to tell methe orange-haired troubadour is an extremist,and you are right, he is extreme,he makes the shiftless crowds hate the kingand the settlers on the marches,then attacks the gypsies for their caravans,mocks the lepers, derides the crippled,the troubadour is verily, I say,an extreme man here at this courtBut you say the king is not extreme,he is a stable man, a serious man,and his courtiers are calm and considerate,they are no joke, though we maydisagree with their judgment,they are sober and avoid the laughter,the argument for the argument’s sake,they moderate the tempers of the land,restore balance and polish the scalesAnd the queen is a moderate woman too,full of grace and poise,who only whispers her orders from behindthe smooth portcullis of curtainsshe grooms with her ladies in waiting,never even raising her voiceto correct the prophet by the dungheap,[13]
the old man issuing jeremiads we can hearwhen we stroll in the garden at nightThey do appear temperate, you saythey only do their duty, but these calm menand women are the oneswho fling missiles to distant lands and leadcrusades to burn down cities,the ones who want to bring moneychangersand mercenaries into the scriptorium,the monastery, and even into the oubliette,to tighten every belt but their ownAnd yes, the troubadour is full of hate,and yes the prophet is full of dreams,and yes those wearing silk at the marble daisare moderate men and sober women,and yet they work their alchemy day by dayto use their lead to seize the goldthe peasants harvest by their hand,that war not even the troubadour sings for,and which only the prophet denounces.[14]
S.L. Kerns: Donny Can’tApproach me little fox,come to my house in the hills.Cute little thing,entertain me.Don’t forget,I see past your lies.You growl to put fear in me,but quickly I learn.All you want is bacon.Sizzling hot.Once my hand stops feeding,you will turn.But this is America,and no matter how manychildren get shot,I’ve still got my gun.Fox is a perfect namefor a news stationhellbent on lies.Entertaining, attractive.Sneaky, with a growl.But better than a gun,I’ve got my brains.I won’t buy into your‘Make America Great Again’ sermons.Donny can’t do it.Strike a match,[15]
and watch his pile of bullshitgo up in flames.If you really want tomake America great again“Feel the Bern!”[16]
Jonathan May: Zoo allegoryMonkey confused by 21st centuryflings dung into the everyday paradeand brays at all the talkytalk gibberingbefore him. Small camera faces obscuretheir pale skin and how wide their bodiesfloat around them in weird yellowsand greens not even the color of asses.Monkey confused by 21st centurypicks up another ice cream cone falleninto his noble territory, scans againall the sunlit world and masturbatesbecause.[17]
Adrian Rice: Forever Linkedfor Paul Anthony CusterThe Son of Mammon, when he lifts himself up,Will draw the unreasonable to him.The college historian will draw a line betweenthemAnd us, redeeming his ancestor’s last stand.The stall sellers, two blacks with dreadlocks, willPeddle pat-riot paraphernalia to willing whites.Young students with homemade signs – FEEL THEBERN –Will face elderly couples angrily boasting:You’ll feel the burn, alright, when we incinerate y’all!They will seek counselling, those virgin protesters.Tempted to smile, I will understand that exposure(For just one afternoon) to hatred can be soshocking.Shame will surface in the town that had beenhidden,Forever linked with the Lutheran auditorium.[18]
Sara Adams: How to Stay on Top[19]
Deborah Coy: Infinite TrumpsI plucked a new timelineevery time I made a decision.A resonance that got me hereto this particular parallel universe.All that was fixed,was before my birth.I join the program in progressas I swing on a new stringlike Tarzancollecting timelines as frequentlyas I choose produce.Somewhere, back then,I chose a series of wrongsthat got me hereto this bizarro universe.A place where Rupert Murdochmarries Mick Jagger’s ex,a place where you can buy cheesy friesfor your dog for 14.99.A place where we spendmore to kill people than to save them.Should I have pickedthe riper cantaloupe?Would it have made a differenceif I chose paper instead of plastic?[20]
I remember a timelinewhere I walked into townto pick up my mail.Now I’m frustratedif I wait five minutes.Is there a universewhere Donald Trump’s famewas only worth fifteen minutes,where George W. lost the election,where 911 didn’t happenand we the peoplestill believed in civility?I wonder what stringI could have pulled to get me there.But now I livein a universe of infinite TrumpsTrumps on Facebook,Trumps on the news,small hand Trumps,Trump’s Cheeto penis.I believe there is a universewhere Trump is just a dock workeror died at birth,or is just a small handed T Rex.If I knew what vinesto swing fromI would high tail it[21]
to another universewhere Trumpfarts mightilyand destroysthe Republican party.[22]
Colin Dardis: We Don’t Have VictoriesAnymoreA found poem based on the transcript of DonaldTrump‘s Presidential Campaign Announcement,June 16th, 2015We don’t have victories anymore.They kill us.I beat China all the time.All the time.When did we beat Japan at anything?They beat us all the time.When do we beat Mexico at the border?They’re killing us.A group of people,a nation that truly has no clue.They don’t know what they’re doing.They don’t know what they’re doing.Obamacare: you have to be hit by a tractor,literally, a tractor, to use it.When was the last time you heard China is killingus?They’re killing us.I don’t care.I’m really rich.[23]
Somebody said, “Oh, that’s crass.”It’s not crass.“Please reconsider.”No.We’re dying. We’re dying.We need money.Thank you, darlin’.I think I’m actually a very nice person.I’m really proud of my success.I really am.That means everything.I don’t have to brag.Through stupidity,We now have a gun on every table.We’re ready to start shooting.So be very, very careful.The American dream is dead.[24]
Alan Harris: Fire and TrumpSome say the world will end in fireothers say Trumpfrom what we’ve tasted of desireRobert Frost and Iboth favor firebut if the world should perish twiceI think I know enough of hateto say that by destructionTrumpis also greatand would suffice[25]
Cathy Bryant: The ChallengeThe challenge is not to hate Trumpthe same way that Trump hates everybodywho isn't exactly like him.It's a tough challenge,when he won't condemn supporterswho kicked a disabled person to death.But that's the difference: our hatredis born out of compassion and reason,not arrogance and viciousness.I see us everywhere: the Anti-Trumpswho rise, muscular in love,and who channel their hatredof Trumpism into standing and saying Noto him, and Yes to people of colour,Yes to women, Yes to all of us.We say Yes to life. We trumpet it.And we rise to the challengein our hundreds, our thousands, our millions,from all nations. We standas a whole united world, our hands joined,until Trump has melted away,his allergy to love ending him,as he melts into irrelevance.[26]
Cody Walker: Mad Call Coming fromInside Your HouseHe thought he saw his Sleepy SuburbWake in abject Terror:He looked again, and found it wasHis party’s standard-bearer.“C’mon, he’s not a monster, guys”—Then nothing: system error.[27]
Jacques Cintrón: The Whore ofAmericaAmerica,with your candyfloss mould of pub(l)ic hairand cherry lips of teenage sex,you sell desire in six-packs,comestible masturbation, guaranteeingthe more immediate brand of gratification,satisfied with off-the-shelf pornographyand worthless acme fantasies.Donald, you sell us nothingbut models in tight bikinispitched on tits-and-ass cheap icons;the juggernaut of airbrushed flesh cascadesover the mighty broken dollar;sex becomes your economy,sleaze fills your hospital beds,your schoolchildren taught toprocreate, rather than to love.Donald, fire me your wisheswrapped around a bullet and tongue outmy petty blood and sinew.Put a price on my worthmeasured in pay-per-viewand digital downloads;[28]
it is enough to know that I was bornand then I discovered credit.America, whore me to the worldand leave me pennilessinside your brothel bed.[29]
Peter Adair: The Emperor’s DecreeSlaves, landless, lumpen proles: allwill hump bricks and boulders to build this wall.Taskmasters: thump those peasants till they fall.Dump the weaklings. Let the strong appallesser breeds. I, Leader, pump you up, enthrallittle people with stump speeches. Walk tall,each of you. Swell huge as my manhood’s bump.Smalllands, I say: go take a jump. Drudges, toil with joy,as if mauling some ungrateful, frumpy, blood-leaking bitch. Icallyou – I, Mugwump (that’s Algonquian, folks) – tobawlmy/our glory, etc., human sumpters, as you dropand crawlto the corpse dump, bricks in hand, parchedtongues proclaiming to all:one nation, one Leader, one giant whitetriumphant wall.[30]
John L. Stanizzi: Have We Gone Mad,Or Is It Just Me or What A HairySituation!wind snaps its black strapraps it against the housethen runs wild in circlesthe studded hem of its skirtshurled against the windowsits unfurled scarvestwirling flirtatiously in the branchesit is January after all--silence*the house hums in the quietoutside a thing cracksthudsthe emperor rolls his eyeswhich is a call to arms-- cheeringthen more silence*the frozen ground shifts and fracturesI swore I would not stand for this again[31]
but I have nowhere else to goI will build a wall around mea wall that you will pay forto keep you out*the wind sounded like a freight trainthis is a quiet townthings like this just don’t happen hereyou’d never expect itwe are all shockedsaid the neighbor with the cannonon her front lawn*there is an unnerving quietin the space where the wind wasnot silencemore like anxious expectationuntil you find out what’sgot you so unsettledsaid the emperorpursing his lips in a ‘you disgust me’ shapedon’t let anyone else in your househave all your firearms at the readyask questions laterthe wind threw something at the window[32]
I think it was a shoethere’s some meaning in that I knowand while I understand what it isI’d rather not sayit’s too embarrassing*the wind is rolling around on its backin the yardits massive legs poking up at the skythe long fur on its bellyblowing in the in the . wind?that doesn’t seem logical to mewhatever-silence*I grabbed two handfuls of pillsheld them outfor my wife to seeand said look! this is how an old man must live!she chuckled and saidyou can’t fool methose are aspirins and vitamins[33]
-OK .silence*there’s a huge storm predictedfor this weekendgas up the enginesfill up the fridgebuy batteriesand a new show shovelcancel everythingthere are small-craft-warningsin the emperor’s hairit blows like crazy in the weak pre-dawn lightit blows like anythingit blows a real lotit blows like madit blows like one of those things that blows a lotit blows like an elegant sunray sunburst king crownshiny showgirl cabaret headdressit blows-befuddled silence[34]
Notes on Contributors and EditorsPeter Adair’s poems have appeared in The HonestUlsterman, Four X Four, Panning for Poems, Snakeskin, TheStare’s Nest, I am not a silent poet and several haiku ezines.He lives in Bangor.Sara Adams is a writer and teacher in Portland, Oregon. Herpoem ‘How to Stay on Top’ was previously published in achapbook Think Like a B from SOd Press, a collection oferasures from Trump's very own book, Think Like aBillionaire. https://kartoshkaaaaa.comBorn in Maghera, County Derry, Northern Ireland, Jo Burnsis a 39 year old biomedical scientist. She has resided in Chile,Scotland, England, and now lives with her family in Germany.To date, her poems have been published by A New Ulster,Greensilk Journal, The Galway Review, featured in The IrishLiterary Times and are forthcoming in Dove Tales AnthologyIdentity. She is currently working on her first collection.Cathy Bryant worked as a life model, civil servant andchildminder before becoming a professional writer. She haswon 22 awards, and her work has appeared in over 250publications. See her listings for skint writers atwww.compsandcalls.com. Cathy lives in Cheshire.Jacques Cintrón grew up at home, and is one of those poetsyou haven’t read about in the papers. He enjoys pretty muchanything related to words, and also makes experimentalmusic in his spare time. He has no pets.Albuquerque poet Deborah Coy has published three books.Her book, Beyond the End of the Road, is a collection of herpoetry. She drove and helped edit the anthology, La Llorona,published by Beatlick Press which won the New[35]
Mexico/Arizona Book Awards for Anthology in 2013. She hasworked with Beatlick Press as an editor since its inception.Colin Dardis is a poet, editor and founder of Poetry NI. Hispoem ‘We Don’t Have Victories Anymore’ was originallypublished in ‘I am not a silent poet’.Alan Harris is a 61 year-old hospice volunteer and graduatestudent. Harris works with the terminally-ill helping themwrite letters, memoir stories and poetry.S.L. Kerns may have roots in Kentucky, but has branched outto a life in Asia. He spent nearly six years lost in Bangkokbefore moving to Japan. He writes a lot, reads more than hewrites, and lifts weights more than anything. Follow him andread his work here: www.slkerns.wordpress.comJonathan May grew up in Zimbabwe as the child ofmissionaries. He lives and teaches in Memphis, TN. His workhas appeared in [PANK], Superstition Review, Plots WithGuns, Shark Reef, Duende, One, and Rock & Sling. He recentlytranslated the play Dreams by Günter Eich into English.https://memphisjon.wordpress.comBen Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work hasappeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, InwoodIndiana, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogsat mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel.Geraldine O’Kane is a poet, creative writing facilitator andmental health advocate who loves cake and poems together.She is editor of Panning for Poems, and has previously coedited the ebook anthologies Holocaust Memorial Day 2016and Edi[t]fy from Poetry NI. http://thepoetokane.weebly.comSergio A. Ortiz is the founding editor of Undertow TankaReview. His collections of Tanka, For the Men to Come (2014),[36]
and From Life to Life (2014) were released by Amazon. He’s atwo time Pushcart nominee and a four time Best of the Webnominee. His poems have been published in over fourhundred journals and anthologies.Adrian Rice’s latest book, Hickory Station (Press 53,Winston-Salem, 2015), is a Belfast poet-in-exile’s homage tohis adopted home of Hickory, NC, where he has been‘stationed’ for the last ten years. In Hickory Station,memories of Northern Ireland mingle with poems aboutAppalachia and the Low Country, leading one senior critic todescribe him as “a modern land breaker of poeticterritories”.Michael Karl Ritchie is a retired Professor of English atArkansas Tech University. He has had three small presschapbook publications and work published in various smallpress magazines. His book Ampleforth’s Miscellany p.wordpress.comJohn L. Stanizzi author of Ecstasy Among Ghosts,Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell,and Hallelujah Time! His poems have appeared in PrairieSchooner, American Life in Poetry, The New York Quarterly,Rattle, Connecticut River Review, and many others. Heteaches English at Manchester Community College.www.johnlstanizzi.comSteven Storrie has worked as a cable TV repair man,dishwasher, choreographer, ice cream vendor and junk yardattendant. He is currently locked in his basement working onhis first collection of poetry, bickering with his neighboursover nothing and storing the baseballs he keeps when theyare hit into his yard.[37]
Whitnee Thorp currently lives in Rapid City, SD where sheteaches on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in the area ofCreative Writing, English, and Speech Communications atOglala Lakota College. She has her MFA in Creative Writingfrom the Bluegrass Writers Studio at Eastern KentuckyUniversity. Some of her publications include "PMSPoemmemoirstory", an international poetry anthologyentitled, "Veils, Halos, and Shackles", South Dakota's PoetrySociety's literary journal, "Pasque Petals", and Tom Hunley's"Poetry Gymnasium".Cody Walker is the author of two poetry collections: TheSelf-Styled No-Child (Waywiser, 2016) and Shuffle andBreakdown (Waywiser, 2008). He lives and teaches in AnnArbor, Michigan.Thank you for reading![38]
Steven Storrie: Wake Up America, It's Your Turn To Drive America don't do this America you're better than that America stop pretending America this isn't reality TV America don't stoop to their level America this is real America don't make me copy Allen Ginsberg poems Now is not the time. America remember the good times
