The Heat of August is an Emptied Man - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Heat of August is an Emptied Man

The heat of August does not rise; it sinks
Space-planting on the earth like hopes collapsed
Guarding the air against all happiness
With damp and rust and rot and air-thick sighs

The heat of August does not heal; it stinks
Of everything gone wrong at once, of either
Stepping outside to a witch-slap of pain
Or lurking inside with headaches and ennui

The heat of August is an emptied man
On a Sunday afternoon when love has died

"Our Poisoned Chalice" (I wish I could think of a catchier title) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

“Our Poisoned Chalice”

-Macbeth I.vii.10-12

We commend each other with curses exchanged
Between a cop and a hard place in space
Red MAGA caps against Commie berets
All of these accessories China-made

Our battleground an asphalt parking lot
Our forward first-aid post a coffee shop
Where Communists glare over their nitros cold
And Fascists froth their frappuccinos hot

We commend each other with a chalice defiled
Over the broken body of a Child

Occasionally Facetious - A Repudiation of Both Miz Grundy and Comrade Grundy

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Occasionally Facetious – A Repudiation of Both Miz Grundy and Comrade Grundy

You can’t be serious all of the time
Because there are bellowing tyrants around
Who bully and demand, who preach and screech
Whose arguments are threats and censorship

Recusancy is their worst enemy
A casual indifference to their demands
A refusal to wear their branded livery
And clenching one’s fist around only

A brush
A pen
A wrench
A book
A thought
A hope

If all you do is to react, they win
You can’t be serious all of the time

Woodstock: Three Days That Defined Only Those Who Accepted Being Define

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Woodstock: Three Days That Defined Only Those Who Accepted Being Defined

Ill-lettered functionaries at PBS
Are pleased to announce that Woodstock defined
A generation. In reality,
Generations are not defined at all:

My argument is that women and men
Of conscience, courage, character, and class
Define themselves, and stubbornly refuse
To be counted, conned, or categorized

And only followers would acquiesce

To

Ill-lettered functionaries at PBS

A Five-Dollar Garage-Sale Record Player - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Five-Dollar Garage-Sale Record Player

A five-dollar garage-sale record player
A five-cent-piece Scotch-taped onto the arm
A plastic K-Mart special from long ago
A groovy thing for a junior high kid

But he was a thirty-something day-laborer
And in the silent cell of his solitude
Wanted to spin some tunes in the darkness
Just like he did when he was a junior high kid

A five-dollar garage-sale record player
Wagner, Sinatra, McKuen - and hope

Bulletproof School Backpacks for Children - DeLuxe Models with Emojis

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Bulletproof School Backpacks for Children

DeLuxe model with emojis and a charging port

School days, school days
Dear old shooting drill days
Coding and walkouts and smart pad functions
Taught to a federal court’s latest injunctions
You were my queen in tats (Day-Glo®)
I was your Trump at every gun show
You carved in my skin “i luv U ‘n’ Che Guevara so”
When we were a couple of latch-key kids


As of 3 August 2019 bulletproof backpacks were not on the approved list for the Texas Comptroller’s tax-free school supplies weekend; bulletproof vests are on the list as taxable (https://comptroller.texas.gov/taxes/publications/98-490/clothing-footwear.php).

A Three Years' Child in Church - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Three-Years’ Child

She was restless in Mass, a three-years’ child
And in her patient father’s loving arms

She wriggled
She squiggled
She giggled

And then she lay ‘way back and looked ‘way up

What went she into the desert to see -
A light fixture? An air-conditioning vent?

Oh, no

Her eyes were large
Her lips were still
Her breaths were soft

- she saw much more

She was happy in Mass, a three-years’ child
And from her father’s arms something she saw…

What?

Who?

She smiled


(And of course she may have been delighted with the vision of an air-conditioning vent after all; a small child’s learning curve is more open to joy than ours)

"Fruit of the Vine and Work of Human Hands" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

"Fruit of the Vine and Work of Human Hands"

Grapevines are the first songs of civilization
Their leaves, their tendrils, their late-summer grapes
As given in the Mass: fruit of the vine
And work of human hands, of human love

But when a vine neglects its ancient realm
And reaches out to grasp and colonize
Its peaceful neighbors, privet and rose and oak
It must be brought to heel with sweat and steel

And in its healing recover its purposes:
Grapevines are the first songs of civilization

A Poem Slouching Like a Civilian - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Slouching Like a Civilian

From an idea suggested by Robert Graves in

On English Poetry

I. Thesis

Formalist poetry to attention stands
In ordered meters, ranks and files and lines
Of scansion as determined by disciplined minds
And set in place through skillful strategy

II. Antithesis

Other poetry slouches indolently, insolently with its louche trilby askew
Sleeping late, smoking cigarettes,
                                                        sauntering off
                                                                                  for a beer
Through scansion as admitted by the heart or the pancreas or something
And seldom set in place at all unless it just sort of happens

III. A Perhaps Unnecessary but Useful Conjunction

But

IV. Synthesis

All poems ramble the same neighborhood
In quest of the true, the beautiful, the good

In August Falls the Magic - All Major Credit Cards Accepted

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

In August Falls the Magic

All Major Credit Cards Accepted

No meaning obtains in calendars and clocks
High on a wall, beyond a small boy’s reach
A childhood summer shimmers out of time
July is but another butterfly

To dance and play among young apple trees
A re-Creation thus remembering
Before-Time when we danced among the stars
And played with them like little fairy-lamps

In August falls the magic when, stained with scales,
Foul Satan hisses to us: “Back-to-school sales”

I Wish I Wuz a Sheriff's Deputy - doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

I Wish I Wuz a Sheriff's Deputy

I wish I wuz a sheriff’s deputy
The traffic laws would mean nothing to me

I’d cruise through the red lights and all them stop signs
But give everyone else lots of tickety-fines

At the café’ I’d park in the handicapped zone
Then drive by the school yakking on my cell phone

Turn signals for me? A thing of the past!
And when scooting through town I’d drive real fast

Yeah, if I wuz a sheriff’s deputy
The traffic laws would mean nothing to me

I will Re-Name this 'Blog in the Next Few Weeks

30 July 2019

Dear Friends,

In the next few weeks I will re-name this 'blog. I propose to call it

Lawrence Hall.blogspot.com

If this does not appear by that name by mid-August please email me at mhall46184@aol for a new name that blogspot has found acceptable.

When I began this web presence several years ago I meant it to be storage and backup for my scribbles as well as a way of sharing my poetry and weekly columns with you.

The current title, Reactionary Drivel, is a humorous allusion to something Evelyn Waugh wrote in one of his books or stories (which I cannot now find); however, in our humorless times, Reactionary Drivel has on occasion offended political partisans (or, rather, dimwits), both Righty-Tighty and Lefty-Loosey. 

In my youth I identified as a Republican in the tradition of William Buckley and Ronald Reagan because of their even-handed patriotism, their intellectual endeavors, and their generosity of spirit. I also perceived this same love of our country and our many peoples in President Reagan's good adversary and good friend, Speaker of the House Tip O'Neill.  In illo tempore both of the dominant political parties shared love of country and a determination to do what was right for all the people despite disagreeing - disagreeing, not screaming with fists clenched - on how to make it so. They also loved a glass of Irish whiskey, good conversation, and a good joke.

Such does not obtain now, and I do not identify with any political party or sub-group. Because the innocent joke about reactionary drivel offends both metaphorical Mensheviks and metaphorical Bolsheviks, I am retiring it, even as, for the past twelve years, I have retired my identification with a political party that I did not leave, but which, as President Reagan once said in another context, has left me.

Jay Parini, in his otherwise interesting and useful Why Poetry Matters, lapses surprisingly when he argues that "all poetry is political," and proceeds to make an implied argument that poetry must always be propaganda (Pp. 20, 21, and 121). 

Poetry can be political, but then it ceases to be a free thought because of its servitude to a cause. That poetry is and must be political is a thesis of tyrannies, and I repudiate it. 

I choose to pursue the good, the true, and the beautiful with you, and will not subject my poor attempts at writing to any ideology.

Cordially,



Lawrence Hall

Partissssssssan Politicssssssssss - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Partisssssan Politicssssssss

Snakes fighting in a rutted logging trail
A chicken snake against a rattlesnake
Whipping the dust with their reptilian lust
For death among the ridings of despair

The rattlesnake is an endangered species
The chicken snake is okay with that, and strikes
The thrashers poise and pounce, loathsome and foul
Until the chicken snake slowly takes the rattler

Through peristalsis down into its maw

the poor rattlesnake

Writhing desperately for a forced recount

The Doomsday Wristwatch and Fitness Tracker - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Doomsday Wristwatch and Fitness Tracker

Since Mickey’s hands are now at two ‘til twelve
Let’s pour our poor doomed selves another glass
We’ll have only our ashes then to shelve
When that great big explosion comes to pass

And as that big bang bangs I’ll kiss my kvass
Goodbye. My watch needs charging anyway
The Gotterdammerung should give it some gas
To tell the time on that Wagnerian new day

Oh! Mickey’s hands are now at that midnight -
Farewell, dear friends; it’s been a wild delight!



(What? Are you still here…?)

Wisteria, Ivy, and Grape - for the Children of Summer - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Wisteria, Ivy, and Grape

For the Children of Summer

Wisteria, ivy, and grape: they cling
To the oak tree’s shaggy, craggy old bark
And up it and down it themselves they fling
Wandering paths with many a loop and arc

Among wisteria, ivy, and grape

Almost hidden highways, up to the sky
That make green pilgrim roads for little folk
For tiny bugs and ants, who cannot fly
But in their journeys play and peek and poke

Among wisteria, ivy, and grape

The little creatures climb along leaf and limb -
Oh, wouldn’t you like to be one of them!

Among wisteria, ivy, and grape

The Log Truck of Unrequited Dreams - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

If You See a Log Truck You’ll Have Good Luck

Playin’ on the back porch, got an old dog
Chewed my toy car from the ten-cent store
Scared my dear momma with a green toad-frog
When she told my daddy I got my britches wore

(If you see a log truck you’ll have good luck)

Early get the cows up, early off to school
Running up the lane to catch the yaller bus
Paddled by the principal for actin’ like a fool
Hours in the classroom hearin’ Teacher fuss

(If you see a log truck you’ll have good luck)

Then in the afternoon to the locker room
With hardly any time for a potty stop
Coach-Bubba’s rolling bassy voice of doom
Bellowing “I WANNA HEAR THE LEATHER POP!

(If you see a log truck you’ll have good luck)

Runnin’ the roads in an old-timey Ford
A fifth of Jack Daniels underneath the seat
Stupidly standin’ on the running board
Singin’ to the radio, O so sweet!

(If you see a log truck you’ll have good luck)

Runnin’ the roads on graduation night
Well, hello, great big world, and here I am
They say I got to get a job now, sure, that’s right
Say, buddy, what’s this place called Viet-Nam?

But

If you see a log truck
                                   you’ll have
                                                      good luck

Decolonize Decolonizing - weekly column

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Decolonize Decolonizing

 

          “… the prevalent spirit of high-flown rhetoric which has been spread everywhere…The first time you hear such
          talk you think ‘What breadth of imagination, what richness!’ But in fact it’s so pompous just because it is so
          unimaginative and second-rate.”

-Yuri, Doctor Zhivago, pp. 284-285

The Whitney Museum of American Art (https://whitney.org/) in New York City was founded in 1934 in support of 20th and now 21st century art – paintings, sculptures, drawings, prints, photographs, films, performances, and other expressions of creativity. Not only does The Whitney maintain a permanent collection for the public but also encourages young artists through twice-yearly shows funded by private donations.

The Whitney, through its donors, employees, volunteers, and participating artists, has given the world an artistic outreach and showcase matching the great museums of St. Petersburg, London, and Paris.

Some of America’s greatest artists developed their artistic careers with the help of The Whitney.

Naturally this evil must be stopped.

One of the current trustees of The Whitney is Warren Kanders, and he is associated with a company (http://www.safariland.com/brands/safariland/) that manufactures and sells sporting goods and police protective gear. They do not make or sell firearms, but they do sell tear gas to law enforcement.

Various organizations of Miz Grundys have chosen to seize upon this one product as a pretext for censoring free artistic expression. As ordered by their handlers they make posters, block the free movement of artists and other citizens, and yell “Decolonize this place!” (https://hyperallergic.com/510834/whitney-biennial-boycott-response/?utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Daily%20072519%20-%20As%20Artists&utm_content=Daily%20072519%20-%20As%20Artists+CID_cf3fe71544c7cea3086f713caab7e21e&utm_source=HyperallergicNewsletter&utm_term=As%20Artists%20Withdraw%20From%20the%20Whitney%20Biennial%20Over%20Kanders%20Controversy%20Others%20Refuse%20the%20Call%20to%20Boycott).

They don’t know what “Decolonize this place” means, and The Whitney is not a colony, but they’re told to yell it, and they do as they are told.

Under National Socialism, Socialism, Fascism, and other tyrannies the sole purpose of art is to serve whatever political party is currently in power. An artist does not think for himself, he obeys his masters. He must make party propaganda, and may not deviate into exploring truth and beauty. Propaganda might as an accidental by-product be aesthetically-pleasing, as in Soviet poster art, but that is not its purpose

In a free society there is no political purpose in art. An artist does not accept a master, he does not follow orders, he does not obey. An artist explores truth and beauty in ways that he wants, and if he has a boss (someone has to paint the vegetables on a can of soup or join with a team in making a movie), it is because the artist has freely chosen to work for that company or with that team.

That political hacks are demanding that other artists withdraw from The Whitney is no surprise in our turbulent era; the surprise and the joy is in the brave artists who refuse to do as they are told by the Miz Grundy-Decolonize-this-Place scream-squads.

By the way, I was tear-gassed in the Navy, both in recruit training and then later up some river when some old canisters of the stuff fell apart in transit. Just send me the money, someone.

(A final note: as of this writing, Mr. Kanders has withdrawn from board of The Whitney for the sake of that worthy institution. I hope the artists whose careers he has helped over the years will be privately grateful to him, even if they are bullied into public silence.)

-30-



Corpses for the Lamps of China - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Corpses for the Lamps of China

If any question why we died,

Tell them, because our fathers lied.

-Kipling

Drones fall like broken promises upon
The burning decks while errant missiles fly
From sea to murky sea keeping the peace
Of headless bodies bobbing in the surf

Our leaders’ wars are yeah-boy video games
(With single-malt) across a shiny screen
But workers’ wars are blood and dirt and death
And “Thank you for your service” (now go away)

The good die young, so do the bad, but not
The sons and daughters of our nomenklatura

The Mueller Report Goes "Poof!" in the Atmosphere - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Mueller Report Explodes into the Atmosphere

When meteors on dinosaurs
Fall crashing like the Temple of Dagon
And signals beam from bloody Mars
And mastodons make war on dragons

We little ones must run and hide
In rocky cleft and burrowed cave
While monsters in their wars decide
Just whom to kill and whom to save

When dragons make war on mastodons
Let’s disappear like leprechauns

Maybe.

Or not.

Reflections While Flinging a Dead Snake Over the Fence

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

 

Reflections While Flinging a Dead Snake Over the Fence

 

Is reality filtered through one’s culture

No longer reality? Or is it

That reality without a cultural filter

Is not reality at all, but only

An unobserved function of biology

Chemistry, geology, or radiation

Whose purpose is unknowable because

Without the perception of God or man

It doesn’t exist

 

And neither does the snake, which might have been

But then, maybe it is Schrodinger’s snake
Or was
Or might be

 

They say that the first cultural bias you kill

Is the most difficult, that it becomes

Easier after that. But it isn’t so.

 

After a hard life along existential trails

Of assumptions examined to dust, you want

To put away your Hegelian dialectic

And settle down in a little cottage

In the country with a few good books, a garden,

And Aristotle’s unities, but there’s

Always a young concept-slinger who thinks

He’s faster on the synthesis than you

And calls you out on your legendary denial

Of the knowability of objective reality

 

For the rest of your life (but do you exist?)

No matter how carefully you sharpen your syllogisms

Somewhere out there in the darkness it lurks:

An ontological proposition with your name on it