September 2015
Michael L. Newell
astrangertotheland@yahoo.com
astrangertotheland@yahoo.com
I was, for over two decades, an expatriate teacher who lived in thirteen countries (on five different continents) outside the United States. I have been published in Lilliput Review, Bellowing Ark, Current, and Rattle. My most recent book, Traveling without Compass or Map, is from Bellowing Ark Press. I have recently retired to the coast of Oregon where I spend considerable time slowly walking past creek, river, and forest. My poems mostly try to find connections across time and space, and similarities in the midst of differences.
Mailbox
Tashkent, Uzbekistan, 1997-1999
Open the lid
and the wind
howls across continents.
Twigs sometimes appear
with a brown leaf or two
which I study for clues.
Last week a butterfly
emerged, lit on my left ear.
I failed to decode its flapping.
I awoke today to a roaring
like a hurricane at sea—my hands
tremble and refuse to open the box.
-first published in The Higginsville Reader (1998)
Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation
The bus lurches and sputters through the well-known,
the tawdry, the dissolute, the ragged streets of a city;
the driver ignores all questions of destination, or he points
to a tattered postcard above the rear view mirror of a rural
scene full of sunshine and smiling faces—there are
no shadows, questioning looks, or clouds.
Passengers near the front sing martial lyrics set to the tune
of “Nearer My God to Thee”—they sway from side to side
waving arms extended overhead. A conductor marches
up and down the aisle, a grinning death's head emblazoned
on his jacket. To make room for new passengers at each stop,
anyone caught not singing is shot with a taser and tossed out
upon the boiling pavement. Now and again the conductor
makes everyone turn their pockets out; those with limited funds
are pushed out windows of the speeding bus. The singers cheer.
The driver smiles and pushes the accelerator to the floor. Ahead
there has been an accident—traffic has slowed to a crawl. The bus
lurches onto the sidewalk and speeds past; pedestrians dive for cover.
The bus reaches its destination, a shining edifice of concrete,
steel, and soaring pillars. Heavily armed soldiers patrol
the barbed wire perimeter, the windows are barred, and machine guns
loom out the watch towers. Passengers relax. All will soon be well.
-first published in First Class (2003)
Tashkent, Uzbekistan, 1997-1999
Open the lid
and the wind
howls across continents.
Twigs sometimes appear
with a brown leaf or two
which I study for clues.
Last week a butterfly
emerged, lit on my left ear.
I failed to decode its flapping.
I awoke today to a roaring
like a hurricane at sea—my hands
tremble and refuse to open the box.
-first published in The Higginsville Reader (1998)
Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation
The bus lurches and sputters through the well-known,
the tawdry, the dissolute, the ragged streets of a city;
the driver ignores all questions of destination, or he points
to a tattered postcard above the rear view mirror of a rural
scene full of sunshine and smiling faces—there are
no shadows, questioning looks, or clouds.
Passengers near the front sing martial lyrics set to the tune
of “Nearer My God to Thee”—they sway from side to side
waving arms extended overhead. A conductor marches
up and down the aisle, a grinning death's head emblazoned
on his jacket. To make room for new passengers at each stop,
anyone caught not singing is shot with a taser and tossed out
upon the boiling pavement. Now and again the conductor
makes everyone turn their pockets out; those with limited funds
are pushed out windows of the speeding bus. The singers cheer.
The driver smiles and pushes the accelerator to the floor. Ahead
there has been an accident—traffic has slowed to a crawl. The bus
lurches onto the sidewalk and speeds past; pedestrians dive for cover.
The bus reaches its destination, a shining edifice of concrete,
steel, and soaring pillars. Heavily armed soldiers patrol
the barbed wire perimeter, the windows are barred, and machine guns
loom out the watch towers. Passengers relax. All will soon be well.
-first published in First Class (2003)
©2015 Michael L. Newell