Dane Cervine Writes

Veils, Halos & Shackles - Poem in New Anthology

VEILS, HALOS & SHACKLES, is described as the first-ever anthology of international poetry specifically addressing the oppression and empowerment of women, includes over 250 poems by poets from dozens of countries. It includes my poem, STARING AT THE HEADLINES, about the role of allies and journalism in speaking out. The book is an important and compelling effort; see link below for more about the book, authors, and how to order:

http://www.kasvapress.com/books/veils-halos-shackles/

See also an article about the book release in the INDIAN EXPRESS newspaper, from India:

Download Indian Article about Veils, Halos & Shackles Anthology

Here's a copy of my poem: 

 

I Stare at the Headlines

 

Fanny in Medellin pulls the journalist off

the bullet-swept street into her kitchen.

They crouch on the floor with her children,

wait for hours till the firing moves away

and they can run for it. And you? she says,

Where you come from, isn’t it the same?

                            ~

The Tiananmen Mothers in China secretly

tally the dead, keep alive the memory

of their murdered children. They whisper

to the journalist, No one asks questions.

We live in a coma, blinded by fear

and new iPods!

                        ~

Mariam in the Afghan refugee camp, widowed, beaten,

teaches the women around her to make clothes,

shakes the journalist by the shoulders, says

You have language, you can write, tell them!

                        ~

Last night in my dream I was speaking and writing

and speaking and writing till my fingers failed

and my tongue hung from the world’s hook

like a dead fish.

 

Author Commentary in book: In matters of gender and race, and all differences, it is important that those who are oppressed have strong allies who will stand side by side with them and, when they cannot speak, who will speak for them. To be the one speaking, as the oppressed, is necessary but insufficient for change to occur in the world. Allies of those oppressed must speak, too, and bear witness. My book The Jeweled Net of Indra attempts to address some of these important interconnections between us all.

THE BORDER CROSSED US Poetry Anthology (Vagabond Press)

With an introduction by Los Angeles Poet Laureate, Luis J. Rodriguez, this anthology by Mark Lipman also includes 2 poems of mine, as well as poems by two other Santa Cruz poets - Adela Najarro & Doren Robbins. It's a diverse and compelling collection:

http://www.vagabondbooks.net/p/blog-page_13.html

You can read my two contributions here:

 

While Listening to Nelson Mandela’s Memorial

At the stop light, I idle

behind a cheery yellow Volkswagen Bug,

two University students inside and

at first I think they, too, are listening,

or singing to the radio’s riotous music,

bouncing in their seats wildly,

hands waving in the air—but then

the passenger’s face turns toward the driver

in rage and he is not singing but yelling,

face distorted like a demon. He spits

at the man, or woman, behind the wheel

who explodes as the car becomes a bizarre

mixed martial arts scene of flying elbows,

fists, saliva. Stunned, I honk loudly,

momentarily interrupt their rave

as the light turns green and the yellow car

speeds ahead. I return to the radio again,

listen to Mandela’s memorial in South Africa,

think of his years in that prison cell,

the violence of it all. Still

how he rose, fitted one bruised arm

then another into the sleeves of

his multi-colored shirts, lifted

a country from its dark trance,

each morning, every midnight,

the yellow sun rising,

the moon rising, disappearing—

how small I feel in the face of it

obsessed with my own grievances.

How I want Nelson to rise from the cold

concrete floor of my amygdala,

lay a hand on this reptile brain

like he must have those long years

when instinctual rage, the logical response,

would only kill you more. So

wherever you are, whoever you are

in that little VW Bug—or Texas,

Moscow, Oval office—

let us take the little fist of the soul,

pry open each finger, the thumb,

wave our hands in the air

like the fools we are,

sing.

 

The Dying Sun Beneath My Ribs

 

I.

 

Reading the news by my window,

the dogs bark and bark, the black olives hang

in their branches like black holes

at the heart of dead suns, and in Colombia

a father of three has sewn shut his mouth,

enclosing his head in an iron mask

to demand the government help his family.

The man says he bought shoes for his children,

but cannot pay the rent—will soon walk the streets.

 

I am doing this because people have a heart of iron

and also a face of iron.

 

Outside my window, small sparrows peck and peck

at one black globe after another.

 

ii.

 

In Colombia the guard-dogs bark and bark

while villagers crush coca leaves that will explode

like white nova suns in the nostrils of Wall Street zealots

who hover like black holes in corporate buildings

sucking the light from our bodies.

There is an evil in this world. There is no

other way to say it. This morning

the dogs of two countries barking as if to warn

I am an iron mask, a face

that does not speak,

skin that does not wound,

the heart a dying sun beneath my ribs.

CHANGING HARM TO HARMONY Anthology

 

Joseph Zaccardi, as Poet Laureate of Marin County in California, edited this anthology of "poem, letters & other writings" entitled CHANGING HARM TO HARMONY - Bullies & Bystanders Project (2015). Included is my poem, THE RODEO:

 

The Rodeo

The Mariposa County Fair is a small affair

tucked into the Sierra Nevada mountains

where my mother lives. This year I take

my young son with his grandma in hand

to gallivant along the crowded paths

past lemonade and popcorn,

ribboned whirly-gigs, festooned baseball caps,

toward the wooden stands of the rodeo.

Metal loudspeakers hung from the rafters

ask us to stand for the pledge of allegiance

as ragged old men with cowboy hats

and cherub-faced little boys with pointy boots

all rise for the blond high school girl singing

as though the Iraq war depends on every note.

After a robust blessing for all the young men

still defending our country in the desert

where the Bible was born,

we settle again on wooden benches

and begin to cheer for the brave cowboys

shot with a Hiyaah! from their chutes

toward the defenseless calves running

wild-eyed toward non-existing cover.

My son sits quiet, till one rambunctious calf

manages to evade the lasso as the horn sounds.

The dusty cowboy curses his failure,

a hundred men sink to their seats—

but my son, enthralled, hops up and down

clapping for the four-legged rebel

snorting his way past the flailing clown

back to his own kind.