Here’s a new YouTube video of me reading my poem “The Glad Sounds of Eating” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7p7NhW6MDs
To eat is human, for it is then
that we are truly revealed,
putting our mouths around
what will become ourselves.
Yet how rarely is it depicted in art
in full gaping, masticating detail.
Instead, we get paintings of fruit or soup cans
or people gabbing around a table
while ignoring gustatory delicacies in plain view.
You would think Edward Hopper could have
shown the two women actually
eating some chop suey.
And would it have killed Norman Rockwell
to include among those grateful Americans
gleefully greeting their turkey
a chubby little boy in the corner
stuffing his face with dinner rolls?
All those paintings of the Last Supper?
Forget it. There’s nary a nibble,
not even from Judas before heading out
for the evening.
Thank goodness for Bruegel
who knew a peasant wedding feast
when he saw one, with real people
chowing down and licking their fingers.
You can hear the glad sounds of eating.
But there is no joy in Goya’s
Saturn Devouring His Son,
as a wild-eyed Saturn grasps his son’s body
like a Big Mac,
its pale limp buttocks
hanging below white knuckles,
to take another bloody bite.
I guess that’s why Goya left his painting
not for show but on the plaster wall
of his dining room
and why so few painters
elected to portray the darker things
that go on at dinnertime.
First published in Better Than Starbucks: Poetry and Fiction Journal, May 2021 https://betterthanstarbucks.wixsite.com/may2021
Hello, Poetry Fans. I’ve added some more videos of my poems to my YouTube channel. You can view them here https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCeWF_NGRUvaYrsLurYc6p7g
If you enjoy them, please share and/or subscribe. More to come. Stay well.
First we must learn
to read the signals
then record them
in neural maps
of the self
to tell us which
emoticons to use
Some things are
easy to read
like two old friends
anger and fear
who barge in
and never want
we learn to read
more complex signs
as the map grows
bigger and the self
moves out into
We learn guilt
noting their every
and suppress them
when the cost of
We learn what
love is by
the marks it
leaves on us
We learn to
feel the pain
and how to
make it ours
We learn to
the gentle rap
And I will learn
when you are gone
to tell me
what to feel
First published in The Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Issue #2 https://issuu.com/jlederman/docs/j2_final?fr=sM2EyZDI5ODMyNzU
My prose poem was just published in the quarterly Burningword Literary Journal. https://burningword.com/2021/01/a-street-named-wherever/
Burningword is a quarterly publication focusing on emerging and established writers of poetry, short fiction, and short nonfiction, as well as artists creating original photography and digital art. Burningword has been published continuously since June 2000.
NewMyths Magazine, which has published a number of my poems, just brought out their new anthology Twilight Worlds: Best of NewMyths Anthology Volume II. It brings together over 400 pages of speculative stories and poems which explore reactions to the threat of a dying world, or a promise of a new beginning. Included in this volume is one of my favorite early poems “Trash Picker on Mars.”
Here’s the Amazon link for all you sci-fi fans:
My new poetry collection What the Gargoyle Sees has just been published by Kelsay Books. It’s a wide-ranging sci-fi collection of my poems ranging from science fiction and fantasy to myth, horror, and fairy tale retellings. Here’s a short review from the back cover:
What the Gargoyle Sees pairs creative settings with a realist’s eye—the book is full of moving poems that put Twaronite’s contemporary sensibility in settings rooted in myth, history, and invention. From the interstellar to the metaphysical, the poems take their occasions imaginatively—but rarely remain in the imagination alone. Instead, Twaronite melds the fabular with the particulars of lived experience. What the gargoyle truly sees, in the end, is the world we’ve made. It is what I like most about these poems: the way they start in the ether but find meaning in the heart.
Tyler J. Meier, Executive Director, University of Arizona Poetry Center
Find out more about the book here: https://kelsaybooks.com/products/what-the-gargoyle-sees?_pos=1&_sid=201fac46e&_ss=r
Even though I consider myself a reasonably nice person, truth be told, I’m a racist. Being a progressive, that’s not an easy thing for me to admit. After all, racists are nasty immoral people who go around hating and hurting people simply because they’re of another race. I recall those terrible TV images from the 60s of Black people being hosed, tear-gassed, attacked by police dogs, and having their heads cracked open and cringe. No way would I ever do that! We Americans have evolved and moved on. No more slavery. Everyone’s equal now, aren’t they? And anyone can become President … even if some do question your birth papers or think you’re an ape.
But this is based on a simplistic view of race. Most of us were taught in school that there are distinct biological and genetic differences between races, which is simply not true. Things like skin color and hair are totally superficial, and there is no such thing as biological race. Race is purely a social construct. That doesn’t make it any less real. This country was founded on a presumed right to exterminate the Indigenous people and steal their land so that we could go on and create a national wealth based on slavery. White people desperately needed to construct a narrative that justified keeping fellow humans in bondage. Using junk science to demonstrate that Blacks were inferior, they managed to create a social power structure of White supremacy. Though the science has long been debunked, the myth as well as the structure persists.
I was born and raised in a White suburban neighborhood in a country of deep racial separation and inequality. I was the beneficiary of an unspoken racial dominance, given the White stamp of approval and fully entitled to all that life had to offer. Like most White Americans, I never thought of myself in racial terms. White was the only reality I knew. There were no Black kids in my school. We didn’t talk about race because it never came up. I was insulated from all racial stress. No one ever watched me suspiciously when I entered a store or forbade me to take out a girl because I was not the right color. And when I grew up, no one would redline me when I applied for a mortgage or insurance because I was a poor economic risk and not White. My privileged status would even determine where I eventually chose to live, how healthy I would be, and how long I might live.
But is it my fault that I was born into this White power structure? As a progressive, I get it. You don’t have to tell me we still have a huge racial problem in this country. I don’t judge people by the color of their skin. When I look at a person, I don’t see color. I support groups like Black Lives Matter. I have worked with and have friends who are Black people. I am the least racist person you can imagine. Sound familiar?
Sociologist, lecturer, and writer Robin DiAngelo has heard it all before in her more than twenty years as a consultant and trainer on issues of racial and social justice. Author of White Fragility and born a privileged White person herself, she tries to make us understand why discussing race is so difficult for us. Recounting her experiences conducting workshops for corporations and universities, she explains how this White socialization process and inherent sense of superiority is so deeply internalized that we are either unaware of it or can never admit to it. Thus, “we become highly fragile in conversations about race.” I’m a good, moral person, we claim. How dare you suggest I’m a racist! As DiAngelo writes,”The smallest amount of racial stress is intolerable—the mere suggestion that being white has meaning often triggers a range of defensive responses. These include emotions such as anger, fear, and guilt and behaviors such as argumentation, silence, and withdrawal from the stress-inducing situation. These responses work to reinstate white equilibrium as they repel the challenge, return our racial comfort, and maintain our dominance within the racial hierarchy.” She refers to this whole process as white fragility.
To all my White readers, I cannot recommend this book enough. It is undoubtedly one of the best I’ve ever read on the subject and belongs on a shelf with works by such authors as James Baldwin, Ta-Nehisi Coates, Toni Morrison, and Maya Angelou. But while I can certainly empathize with these Black writers, I think the reason this book especially resonated with me is that DiAngelo speaks to me as a fellow White person, raised and brainwashed like me with the same sense of racial superiority. For me, the best nonfiction books not only inform and inspire us, but challenge our most cherished beliefs. White progressives like me are the real problem, the author believes, and cause the most daily damage to people of color. We tell ourselves we’re woke and thus don’t need to change, too busy maintaining our self-image instead of working to become more self-aware and to find real solutions. She convinced me that for too long I’ve remained on the sidelines, silent partner in the White supremacy I grew up in. Too many times have I failed to speak up and object to racial jokes for fear of not fitting in. I feign a laugh and let it slide, telling myself it’s no big deal. I hear another racist comment from Fox News (take your pick, like history-challenged Fox News host Andrea Tantaros claiming in 2015 that President Barack Obama has contributed to making race relations worse than any time in U.S. history, or Tucker Carlson praising in 2020 the couple who defaced a Black Lives Matter street mural in Martinez, commending them for their “bravery”) and merely sigh and let it pass, silenced once again by that absurd taboo of “playing the race card.” When that is exactly the card I should play. Take the birther conspiracy that hounded President Obama. It needed to be called out from the rooftops for the egregiously ugly racism that it was. Yet how few times did I speak up to challenge friends and relatives who voted for and supported its chief promoter.
It’s not enough for me to simply talk the liberal talk. I must openly acknowledge my racist programming and seek to uncover and excise the many subtle ways it still affects me so that I can begin to undo the damage. Even at my age, there is hope that it is not too late for me to march and add my voice for true racial justice. I must walk the talk each day forward and openly challenge the destructive system of racial rot at the heart of this country.
(Note: You may have noticed that, unlike the author of this book, I have chosen to capitalize both Black and White throughout my post. There is still considerable disagreement on this among journalists and writers. I prefer to go along with a recent statement by the National Association of Black Journalists “that whenever a color is used to appropriately describe race then it should be capitalized, including White and Brown.” )
How to Eat Breakfast
By Gene Twaronite, Illustrated by Diane Ronning. Independently published. $12.99 paperback, $5.95 Kindle.
Who doesn’t love a scrumptious breakfast? A yummy stack of pancakes is just waiting for her to dig in, but Wanda’s imagination is on the loose, conjuring up what her breakfast might look like if she were a whale or a giraffe, a hummingbird or a koala in a eucalyptus tree. A vulture’s breakfast probably wouldn’t be much fun to eat, she supposes, but if she were a termite she could eat the whole house! Tucsonan Gene Twaronite is a poet, essayist, and children’s author who knows a thing or two about making breakfast entertaining, while imparting a bit of rhyming nature lore. This latest offering, great for a read-aloud, includes lively illustrations by Diane Ronning, who likes to draw and paint at the breakfast table.
— Helene Woodhams, Arizona Daily Star
My prose poem “Loved to Madness” was just published in the beautiful online journal Roanoke Review. http://www.roanokereview.org/poetry2020/gene-twaronite
The poem is based on short story I wrote years ago that was also published in a literary journal and eventually published in my book Approaching Wilderness. Six Stories of Dementia. I loved the many images in this story and wanted to compress them into the fewest words. Hence this poem.