Song of the Refugee by A. S. Maulucci

I am a refugee,

I am black/brown

I am male/female

I come from a place of desolation and death

I am at the mercy of smugglers

My hands are bound

My mouth is sewn shut from fear

My limbs are like loose strings

My heart trembles

My eyes are wild

I bleed

I travel the rough seas

In small boats

Like a bug on leaf

Covered by other bugs

I wade through marshes

I crawl through the brush

I clamber over mountains

My legs are like twigs

My shoes are worn to shreds

My feet are blistered raw

My clothes are rags on a beggar’s back

I risk all

For a chance at freedom

My wife comes too

Holding onto our children’s hands

With an iron grip

They too are wrapped in rags

We carry sacks of bones and stones

Strapped to our backs

We carry dreams wrapped around our heads like halos

We seek refuge from suffering and want

From deprivation and death

We slink into the sacred land

Scrounging for bread

To fill our empty bellies

Hoping for life

Hoping for more than nothing

We can heal our wounds

We can grow strong again

We can build bridges and dams

We can divert rivers

We can move mountains

If you see us

Lend a hand

Or look away

But do not pity us

I swear on all that is holy:

We will rise to new heights

And take you with us.

Finding Peace with Poetry in a World Gone Mad

IN A TIME OF TERROR

by A. S. Maulucci      

Come rise with me

to the top of a tower

where we will pass an important hour.

From there you can view with greater clarity

all the things you need to see.

Our country has become a solemn place

intent upon our daily dollar

heedless of the tightening collar.

In Washington there’s a lack of grace,

mistrust and fear watch from my neighbor’s face

like snipers on a cathedral dome.

Once we were the harvesters of hope.

Now we are the actuaries of despair

breaking all our pleasure down

taking the measure of every pound

forecasting what each desire will cost

until the natural feeling is lost.

On the radio and television

endless talk of terrorism,

the code is orange, the code is blue

it’s hard to know just what to do.

Fearful of offending

we speak through a filter attached to a mask

conversation has become a task.

We stand like morticians around a corpse

ignorant that he was once our brother

not daring to look at one another.

O brethren, what’s become of our glad spirit?

There’s too much grieving, can’t you hear it?

Paranoia is a wretched enterprise.

Take hold of your humanity and arise.

See the turmoil down below

the black smoke from all those cars, buses, trucks

hangs like a canopy

crawls up the walls

covers windows, blocks the sunlight

how dimly lit the day’s become.

The river is now the color of liver,

it coils under bridges, slithers along its banks,

stretches, and scratches itself against the wharf.

See the turmoil down below

people are moving in a mass

how ant-like they look from here

although you cannot see their features

they indeed are human creatures

with children, parents, partners

who depend and dote on them,

and yet they feel alone.

One in a thousand has a heart of stone,

of the others, some will find a partner for the night,

sex is sadly their chief delight.

O hedonism is a joyless thing,

think of all the sorrow it will bring . . .

But now to my main objective.

Though the hearts of most are filled with fear

things are not as they appear.

Indeed, there will come a time to be afraid,

there will come a time

when the holy prophets will be vindicated,

there will come a time

when the evil will be eradicated.

The time for daring is past.

The universe is indeed disturbed.

Now is not the time to eat the peach,

for it is contaminated.

Now is not the time to exceed our reach,

for it would be ruinous.

The time of revelation is at hand.

The decisive moment is at hand.

Now I simply have to ask,

are you equal to the task?

Cal, Cal, Caliban

is hiding in Afghanistan.

A tempest is brewing,

but it’s not his doing.

On the radio and television

endless talk of terrorism.

The code is orange, the code is yellow,

it’s very hard to keep things mellow.

And yes there was a day

when the spirit of the age

spoke of love during wartime.

There was indeed a time

when the ideology was made of good stock

and thousands shared their joy at Woodstock.

All they wanted was to give peace a chance

and for all to join the dance.

It doesn’t seem like such a burden

to practice what the prophets preach,

to pass the love on each to each

until we reach

every last soul on earth.

I think the effort is worth while.

Lazarus may no longer rise from the dead,

but Christ will return to ask,

“Did you do what I said?”

But some would not have it so.

The fire that ignites their mind

is a profit of a different kind.

In the canyons of their cities

you can hear the simple ditties,

it’s a pity how they holler

when they lose their daily dollar.

Beware the phantom with false eyes,

and a president who lies.

The threat of terror is a distraction

from the moral putrefaction

in Washington,

cherchez la trompe,

beware of the one

who cries "Fake!”

to hide every single mistake.

Look there on the balcony.

Did you hear the young woman laugh?

It’s for her I broke my staff.

See the old man in that room,

for him it has become a tomb.

The world’s a frightening place

when all your news comes from a box

it’s easy for the ticking of the clocks

to sound like a countdown

to Armageddon.

People can be fooled,

masses can be ruled,

but not by me.

I want no part of such chicanery.

Political power should come with the stipulation

that there will be no manipulation.

People cannot be made to do

what goes against their nature.

Change must come from within

preceded by an awakening.

See the children in the park?

What’s become of their innocence?

Their pleasure is tainted,

their happiness is painted.

Terrorism may be to blame

but so is our vengeance

that goes by the name

of patriotism.

Cal, Cal, Caliban

ran off and joined the Taliban,

now he marches to and fro

with no fear of Prospero.

How dare he brand me as the infidel?

An oath that threatens cannot go well.

But must we speak of so much killing?

Why aren’t we willing

to stop force at the source

which is hatred.

Loving thy neighbor should not be labor

but a joy beyond reckoning.

When I hear the angels calling

I know they are not human voices.

If only we could make a decision

to seize upon the vision

of angels combing out their hair.

The light of the blessed

has been tested

till its radiance has a glow like no other.

I thank you, brother,

for listening.

I’ve detained you long enough,

it’s the hour to depart.

The sky grows dark, the way is far.

I think I see the glimmer of a star.

Take my hand and down we’ll go

to find our way through the streets below.

Walt Whitman Was Inspired by the Opera

Walt Whitman’s masterpiece, Leaves of Grass, was profoundly influenced by the Italian opera of his day. The conception and writing of his poetry owed much to the bel canto operas of Rossini, Bellini and Donizetti. He idolized divas such as Marietta Alboni, who he said “roused whirlwinds of feeling in me.” Leaves of Grass contains hundreds of musical terms as well as the names of composers and performers. The word “song” appears more than 150 times.   

n  (paraphrased from an article by Joshua Barone in The New York Times, 29 September 2017)

My own poetry has also been inspired by music. I grew up listening to traditional folk ballads and jazz, and both genres have left their mark on my early poetry (similar to the Beats). The opera too has had an influence on my writing. In college, I began listening every Saturday to the Metropolitan Opera’s radio broadcasts, and I suppose the drama of Verdi’s work and the subtle beauty of Puccini’s arias have in some way inspired the lyrical tendency of my verse. I should also mention that my lyricism was equally, if not more so, inspired by the poetry of Keats and Shelley, which I began reading in high school, as well as Yeats, whom I began reading in college. 

Why Read Poetry in Times of National Heartache?

Because I believe poetry can help to heal the wounds of natural disasters.

The Campesino's Lament by A. S. Maulucci

Mother Earth! Madre tierra!

Your quaking has tumbled our stones,

Our roofs have come down on our heads,

Our lives are shattered,

We are buried beneath the adobe walls

Like the bones of our ancestors.

We call to you from underground now,

But you have stifled our screams.

We are now like the seeds we planted for this year’s harvest.

We damn you! We curse you,

You devil of a madre!

Ay! But it does no good.

You are still the mother we love.

Why do you punish us?

Why are you angry with us?

Have we sinned against you with our mauling tractors?

Have we ravaged you with our great diggers?

How else will you pour forth your abundance

Unless we open you up with the plow?

How else will you feed us?

Have we overpopulated you with our hungry children?

Have we overcrowded you with our teeming millions?

Madre tierra!

We love you but you are killing us,

You are slaughtering us like cattle.

We want you to feed our children,

We need you for our graves.

Do not punish us like God punished Sodom and Gommorah.

Our sins are small and we are weak.

Do not cut us down like the grass.

We cannot come back next year like the cactus.

Have mercy on us!

No matter how fiercely you maim us

We will treat you

With all the tenderness you deserve.

For the Children Orphaned by an Earthquake in Mexico by A. S. Maulucci

Amidst the hell of ruptured streets,

of buildings tumbled

and houses crushed to rubble,

the sisters embrace.

Their fragile limbs

and delicate fingers intertwine.

The ribbons in their hair,

tied by the nimble but trembling hands

of an aunt or a grandmother,

the white and pink dresses

flowing from their vulnerability,

these remnants of innocence will soon fall away,

overpowered by the rare strength

and the raw hunger for survival

pulsing in their faces.

Orphaned by an earthquake,

childhood has vanished

for the surviving children of Chiapas, Oaxaca, and Mexico City,

and the last flicker of purity

has been extinguished from their eyes.

Yet what remains is sacred.

After the pain has jolted through them,

their tenderest feelings have risen to the surface.

Horror has penetrated to the core of their lives,

but at eleven or ten or nine, they are too young

for tragedy to shatter their souls to bits.

They stand like trees splintered by lightning.

Love can heal them,

and life can make them strong again.

The Strength of Mexican Women by A. S. Maulucci (from The Land of Sun and Stone)

The women in Gauguin’s paintings

are earth-bound

and how natural they seem,

performing their daily tasks

with contentment and detachment.

In Mexico too

the women seem at peace with themselves

as they sit together pounding corn

or flattening tortillas with plump palms.

One wonders about their secret selves:

do they make their home life hell

with the cruelty of their discontent?

Are their husbands

pounded and flattened by cunning hands?

These women seem so barge-like and strong

like aged wood or leather or an open harbor,

their walk takes possession of the earth,

and in their eyes a look of ancient stars,

a spark of some dimly remembered ritual,

a time of worship that keeps them proud.

Though they seem to give no thought to heaven or hell,

they carry both within their hearts.