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The Argotist Online |
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MICHAEL
ROTHENBERG Michael Rothenberg is a poet, songwriter, editor and
co-founder of Big Bridge Press and Big Bridge a webzine of poetry. He has
been an active environmentalist in the San Francisco Bay Area for the past 25
years. His poems have appeared in many journals including Exquisite Corpse,
Berkeley Poetry Review, Fulcrum, Sycamore Review, Ironwood,
Lungfull, Pearl, Pharos, Prosodia, Rockhurst
Review, Rolling Stock, Shuffle Boil, Van Gogh's Ear,
and Zyzzyva. His books of poems include Favorite Songs, Nightmare
of the Violins (Twowindows Press), The Paris Journals (Fish Drum), Grown
Up Cuba (Il Begatto Press, Amsterdam), Monk Daddy (Blue Press) and Unhurried
Vision (La Alameda Press). His songs have appeared in Hollywood Pictures' Shadowhunter
and Black Day, Blue Night, and TriStar Pictures' Outside Ozona.
Other songs have been recorded on CDs including: ‘The Darkest Part of The
Night’ by Bob Malone, ‘Difficult Woman’ by Renee Geyer, ‘Global Blues
Deficit’ by Cody Palance, and ‘The Woodys’ by The Woodys. He is also
editor of Overtime: Selected Poems by Philip Whalen (Penguin), As
Ever: Selected Poems by Joanne Kyger (Penguin) and David's Copy: Selected
Poems by David Meltzer (Penguin).
IRINA
Crossing
through clouds, suddenly
in New York Nobody
at the airport, New
York's a lonely giant Looking
for someone, no
one looking for me Great
poets die young Great
poets live long Great
poets write popular songs I
left home, I don't blame my wife Tires
squeal, horns honk Eight
million people, I know five Loneliness
is cheating
I have to please myself I
call and ask for you, Irina Svetlanova Firebird
with a rock and roll band writing
Beluga
Night Irina,
you make me feel ordinary Starstruck,
I want to confess . . .
Tell me, does your breath smell like
candy? Stoned
in a taxi on my way in from Kennedy
Brooklyn Bridge a wonder years ago
Drunken sailors
topple in love without redemption It's
popular to be romantic
"Resurrect
if only because,
everyday-muck rejecting,
I awaited you,
a poet of strife!
If only for that
resurrect me!
Resurrect--
I want to live out my life!
So that love won't be a lackey there
of livelihood,
wedlock,
lust
or worse.”
Mayakovsky, About This All
we are, we are, and you are How
many prophecies! Even
trees with roots speak
to the grave Irina,
can I say perish in your ears Or
do I always have to talk immortality? I
don't know you to know the rules Is
this my song or yours? It's
cold, 3rd Ave., Apt. 6C Can
I say perish in your ear? Is
this my song or yours? Apt.
6C, it's cold Great
poets die young Great
poets live long How
long can I wait for you? Is
it you I'm waiting for? What's
a rose without red? Who
cares about a yellow rose? Red
rose Your
puckered lips When
your hair was still red... Irina,
dance with me! Irina,
sing my song!
Who am I? If
the picture's still not clear, I'll
make myself into a mirror If
the picture's not clear, I'll
make a story out of you I
imagine you naked My
apologies, it
can't be your body I'm thinking of. . . And
what about my wife? She's
loving but lately monkish Concentrates
on a deadly art Sits
zazen every morning Now
I'm looking for another woman "Go
ahead," she said "But
what if I fall in love?" I asked "I
hope you'll come back"
I want to be somebody International!
At
Dante's Inferno You're
attractive and intelligent I'm
married and just looking, so nothing
physical, please unless
we both want it and I
don't ask first And
if I knew you, would
I ever get to know
you? Would
knowing you be
all I needed to do?
In
Brooklyn you emerge from a crowd No
one recognizes you but me In Brooklyn, that's all I know. then you vanish
In
the kitchen venture capitalists eat blintzes and think My
cousin’s got a crush on a pop star I'll
end up at the stage door, reflection
in a tinted window as
the limousine of night stretches away . . . Irina,
I'm going to send you my poetry, my
poem to you, this play You
could direct me to
the heart of my convictions Lost
and out of sense, you could direct me . . . Are
you a sex symbol? You
have sex I suppose Your
public image must be more than a pose?
Your pantomime of glamour I'm
going to buy a page in Interview And
print this song on a giant gemstone heart Supported
by a pedestal of wrestlers And
I'll be strapped to the mast of a ship Sailing
through a crack in the heart And
you'll be the siren singing
My mother would be hysterical if I
brought you home
"What's he doing with her?”
“What kind of girl is she?”
“Where does he come to her?”
“Is she
wild?”
“Is she on drugs?”
“Is
she Jewish?"
I'd say, she's an icon, only an idol There's
a man in a window across the street
Taking
isolation to extremes He's
got a mirror and himself for company and
anyone who’s watching Sex
and Death drive the cloud away A
light goes on, it's me in the mirror Blue
glasses, shaved and 43 Years
pass and no stars, I
turn to you Years
and no stars, now
I turn you
open sleepy eyes
your naked feet cross
Russia... Stalin's
30 million dead, 200 million silent Frozen
snow in Red Square Two
stars, not me or you We’re
just red, white and blue You
met great people in Russia Did
you meet Mayakovsky? In
the cranky halls of Siberian Hotel 6,000
rooms of KGB In
breezeways of bureaucracy Did
you find on bloody walls Lyric
Esenin in your head? Standing
at the window in trousers A
cloud without a shirt, waiting . . . What
I dream is red red lips Wolves
chase me from my dreams The
limousine of night stretches my reflection into dawn . . . Siren
of Wall Street! How
can anyone say you're not beautiful? You
were the only one in town Honest
and intense, uncomfortable at parties Angry
with your appearance Disappointed
in every man you meet Siren
of Wall Street! Be
loved by me in my bourgeois way Receive
me on a misfit's holiday I'll
read you poetry It
started when he offered me drugs I
offered him mine suggesting
superiority And
if I told him about my wife he'd
be especially nervous about
his life. Stunned by
exclusionary tactics,
he was tragic
in a romantic way, not romantic
in an ideal way Music
thunders through the neighbor's wall An
axe falls between old friends New
lovers have their say Valerie
and Bill come home Find
the sofa extended to a bed We
order snacks, I pass out No
dreams of you, Irina We
were never in Paris! I've
never sat in a bar with you,
or heard you say anything
We
were never in Paris! I'd
like to be with you but I'm afraid idols
don't make good friends Resurrect
poets from graves! Be
glad to be afraid Don't
be afraid to get up! I
won't kill myself for you Laying
down the lyric beat Resurrect, Looking
for you club to club Sober
as America allows the insane Question
to question, what are we? Looking
for ourselves dancing
through pictures. . .
Trashed!
The
Rocker with nails like a Javanese dancer said
you were a brainless bimbo who
ruined Marvin Gaye’s song Trashed
by False Prophets! “Just
a teeny-bop singer packaged into a widget-star!”
Walking
the Village in alarm 4
a.m., rubble is romantic I'm
a victim of self-sacrifice Now
Mayakovsky's hunting me out Offering
up my middle class bits to Lenin Morning
isn't fun when the revolution's over Mayakovsky,
the popular cause is the popular song! 10,000
KGB hear the Muse on
a Monday night at the Pyramid Lounge Utopia's
a fascist hangover
"At such a time
what foolish blockhead
will rave
the word
`Democracy?!'
Mayakovsky, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin And
doesn't it mean, looking for you No
one's at home, there's no one to go to? Doesn't
it mean love's falling When
there's no plan to stay or depart? Popular
visions mimic a dungeon After
three beers The Gold Goddess Leaves
the dance,
she's feeling existential Under
the moon Under
the moon
She says what she wants to say
She bops when she wants to bop Someone's
got to take a chance Someone's
got to . . . I
walk the lower East Side Garbage
soup to nuts Music
speaks louder than words Friends
love me New
York loves me Popular
heroes sing the songs people
sing when they're alone And
your angelic voice leaves
me no choice
copyright © Michael Rothenberg |