Going Viral :
Pandemic and Protest
A WCC Poetry Club Anthology edited by Tom Zimmerman
Going Viral Pandemic and Protest
A WCC Poetry Club Anthology Edited by Tom Zimmerman
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Acknowledgments _______________________________________________ This Going Viral: Pandemic and Protest anthology features work written by WCC students, faculty, staff, and alumni and posted on the WCC Poetry Club website April through September of 2020. This, of course, was during the height of awareness of the COVID-19 pandemic and a coinciding revival of protest for social justice. This anthology is a production of the WCC Poetry Club, at Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan USA. Book design and photographs by Tom Zimmerman. Copyright Š 2020 the individual authors and artists. The works herein have been chosen for their literary and artistic merit and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Washtenaw Community College, its Board of Trustees, its administration, or its faculty, staff, or students. wccpoetryclub.wordpress.com
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Going Viral :
Pandemic and Protest
Contents _________________________________________________________ Tom Zimmerman Amy Higgins Diane M. Laboda E.S. Diane M. Laboda KD Williams Edith M. Croake John A. Bullard Monica Cialek Wanda Kay Sanders Faizan Akheel Mae Armstong Amy Higgins Lily Chan Diane M. Laboda Tyler Wettig Ayesha Syeda William Bullard Alona Henig Wijdan Al-Sayegh Sabrina Martell Del Pritts Heather Barthell Diane M. Laboda Rosalie Denenfeld Natalie Rinehardt Sabrina Martell
Stay at Home Biding Time I Believe in . . . Viral Times Tides Coming Home The Wind Carries Illusions My Own Pet Looking at the World from Behind the Glass Behind Closed Doors When will we see the light? When I am Older. . . Laying on of Hands It’s a Pandemic Magic For All Times The Story of Us Being at Home at Home (Fragmentum) Saltwater Birds and Poets Tip of a Hat [Untitled] Father’s Day: A Poem for Ben and Randy Hassan A Real Deployment Thanks to the Stay At Home Order Anger on Call Picture This
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Tom Zimmerman Rosalie Denenfeld Michael Thompson
Between the Pages Tender Hearted Women The Obvious Insect
Contributors Appendix: Full Texts of Poems Discussed in Wijdan Al-Sayegh’s “Birds and Poets” Tom Zimmerman Birds Diane M. Laboda The Birds Have Gone Wanda Kay Sanders Birds
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Tom Zimmerman ________________________________________________ Stay at Home “I believe in you my soul,” old Whitman wrote. Your soul’s been quarantined for decades, flitting madly in the attic, drunk on sump-pump swill. You wrote a poem Tuesday with the simile “the soul expands as if put on a ventilator.” Sure. Spring cleaning’s what you need, but winter’s caught you napping: melting snow on tender tips of spruces, bluejay squawking, feeder fallen off the shepherd’s crook. The coffee’s gone, too soon for beer or scotch. In bed, you read a Polish poet whose name you can’t pronounce. Wife’s made you fabric masks—one black, one blue— to wear in public. “Bruised,” she says. “So you.”
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Amy Higgins _____________________________________________________ Biding Time Our abandoned hives rest and wait for us— our lofty auditoriums, our heavenly scented coffee shops, our churches, temples, mosques, skate parks, ice rinks, swimming pools. We hereby forsake them all so that we, not our children only, but we ourselves might gather again and dance in the places we made for that purpose. Sneakers will squeak again on floors soft now with dust. We will polish them again, grow high on waxy fumes. We will fall to our knees and kiss industrial office carpets, so glad to feel their synthetic fibers and work again in cubicles, sipping mediocre coffee in quasi-productive, child-free peace. Does it surprise you how capably we sit still watch out our windows and wait, so that we with our elders, not our children only, might skip again on public grass, kayak on rivers, dance— three, four generations of flickering, happy shadows at postponed weddings. We bide our time, too, so we can mourn together our too-soon-gone, our loves.
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Diane M. Laboda ________________________________________________ I Believe . . . in Viral Times I believe in the sanity of four walls—sanitized, solid, prison-like, formidable. I believe in release for good behavior and an apple for your trouble. I believe in Morning Prayer that rises from my bosom like a sightless dove. I believe that snow will cover me once again, morning after morning, as I melt away. I believe I once knew a lot, but then was eclipsed by age and incurable maladies. I believe cynicism and mistrust take the place of rational thinking and raucous depression. I believe we face ourselves in the mirror every day, childlike, masked against demons, cloaked in angry denial against death. I believe our fractured faces howl in the darkness. I believe Soul wants out, but viral clouds, yellow and musty blind her eyes to gratitude. I believe we open our eyes every night to dream and see nothing but data and modeling and clowns. I believe when we wake the sun, 9
who’s been there all along, will pierce the window of our heart and let us see.
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E.S. ______________________________________________________________ Tides Waves, do you get tired Sloshing new in, old out Ripple, disperse, futile. Tides, do you get dejected Ripped from settle by Moon High, low, restless. Sand, do you get weary Subjected to wrath of storm Weathered, whisked, repose. Shells, do you get lonely Discarded by your creator Hardened, used, tossed.
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Diane M. Laboda _________________________________________________ Coming Home I can still hear the beeps and buzzers and the whoosh of air being driven into and sucked out of me—all in the name of a breath. Numbers reel in my head—pulse ox, sed rate, BP, blah, blah, blah. They all mean I am still alive and under the control of machines. Now I swallow silence. It has no more taste than cream-of-anything soup, and produces the same amount of gas. My bodily functions speak for me. My partner tries to brighten the room, perhaps flood lights would make me less sallow, a pink scarf thrown over the lamp helps cast a rosy glow. So here I sit, accomplished in my posture, they say. Getting up a sign of vigor and ambition. It used to be natural. Now I get a gold star. Food could be made of cardboard or old socks. My palette has left me along with the soles of my feet— neither survived as I did. The trip to the car, in a mandated wheelchair caused a ruckus among the nurses, who I knew by name, rank and shift. They clapped 12
as if life had returned in a passion play, with me in the lead role, saying my lines, swallowing my fear, praying as I’d never prayed before—and to God this time. My front door that I hadn’t seen in months was heavier than I remember, the window smaller, the door knob dark. It was a gaping hole into a world so changed by the storm within me, that it needed paint and spackling, music and art, a kiss for luck and an incantation to the gods of well-being and harmony.
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KD Williams ______________________________________________________ The Wind Carries The mourning dove plays that song I like in exchange for seeds I will be in the present moment feeling too much and then I will be gone— loosed like a balloon in a parking lot I will be your friend always I will be someone you meet years back I will be myself for so long and sometimes so myself it hurts Then I will recede I will be borne ceaselessly into a night with green light outside my window When I can’t sleep, I will perch on the windowsill and be so small again feeling, again breathing in another dimension, I must learn a new language that can only be spoken to a screen All this time and technology and yet your voice on the phone is a crackling shadow of itself I will be okay with the birds building a nest outside my window, even when they wake me before dawn, even when they steal my hair I will be gliding through time like a bullet train and also somehow stagger into its stony edges, dashed to pieces This month cocooning, I will be wrapped and unraveled I will be talking to myself like I am you and you are safely gathering wings around yourself I will be skeptical of concepts like hope and the wind I will be taken by them anyway 14
Edith M. Croake _________________________________________________ Illusions A terrifying virus rides on the back of Death. In this pandemic, both are everywhere, one the handmaiden to the other. The Covid-19 virus is invisible, as flexible as water, random, without mercy. Globally, it has swathed millions of people. Death often strikes soon after. In Chicago: Parents take their sons Charlie and Henry on a bike ride. All must wear helmets strapped under their chin. Nanny and Papa, masked, bring presents for Henry’s 5th birthday, push them 6’ to him with gloved hands. In Ann Arbor: Parents hasten to the bedside of Vivi, 4, crying because of the thunderstorm’s booms and flashes. “Everything will be all right, Honey. The storm will pass soon.” "Stay with me Daddy!” In Indianapolis: Vivi’s Grandmother makes cloth masks for her Michigan family. Vivi’s other Grandmother brings Nitrile gloves, hand sanitizer, and more masks. Covid-19 sabotages these efforts to protect. Death waits beneath these illusions, like a cat switching its tail. We watch in horror as the world we knew is upended, and the life-consuming, soul-snatching world which comes after arrives.
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John A. Bullard __________________________________________________ My Own Pet In deference to the pandemic I have become my own pet. I eat and poop and pee, and once a day I take myself out for a walk in the woods. If I see other humans when I am out in the world I keep myself away from them. They say that I don't bite, but you can't be too careful. Apparently I am spoiled: I get way too many treats, and at home I just eat and sleep and play with all my electronic toys and try to learn some new tricks, even though I am an old dog. And, with some resistance, I occasionally get a bath.
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Monica Cialek ____________________________________________________ Looking at the World from Behind the Glass An office in the guestroom A desk in the corner Where morning light joins me In the blue glow of a screen My new window to the world Time, voices, faces, feelings All now one-dimensional and flat Reading and re-reading a sentence Typing and re-typing a word Time stops On the other side of the glass Not the computer screen -- the window A redwing blackbird, his red epaulets puffed Struts around a seemingly indifferent mate A sharp trill And the second hand of the clock begins to move again
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Wanda Kay Sanders ______________________________________________ Behind Closed Doors Behind closed doors our neighbors are more a mystery than ever. Before we had a glimpse of them as they came and went carrying briefcases and back packs. Same time everyday in scrubs with cups of coffee and lunch bags; others in jeans and hardhats. Did we ever take the time to learn more about them or just their schedule? But now we only see then behind the window glass or in masks if they venture to the mailbox or to gather up the newspaper. Behind closed doors what fills their days? What kind of schedule do they keep if any? Somehow we wonder about their lives in ways we never did before. And we wish them good health both selflessly and selfishly. And we question if they think the same about us.
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Faizan Akheel ____________________________________________________ When will we see the light? From getting up at 8am in the morning To sleeping at 8am in the morning From spending the day talking to friends To getting through the day laying on beds. How the times have changed. When will we see the light? From wanting the day to not end To waiting for the day to end From spending the day enjoying To getting irritated and screaming Look what the pandemic has done When will we see the light? But though there is bad in the good, There is always good in the bad. We got to test our abilities And now are prepared for obstacles Look what the pandemic has done When will we see the light? To answer this question, A simple and sweet answer exists The World isn’t dark as people think Look around, you will find beauty and light everywhere!
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Mae Armstrong __________________________________________________ When I am Older… I will not remember the symptoms. I will not remember the dates. I will not remember where or how or when. I will remember calling my friends when I went for walks every day. I will remember counting out all fourteen days after I left my house. I will remember having to reassure frantic people that “it’s just allergies” whenever I sneezed. I will remember my mom telling her bosses what needed to be done weeks before they listened. I will remember how the Home Depot was closed and all of the construction companies were closed when wooden two-by-fours stood without drywall in the center of my bedroom for months on end. I will remember teaching my nine-year-old brother everything his absent teachers couldn’t. I will remember the three-in-the-morning rations raids that helped my siblings and I connect. I will remember the stress I felt trying to juggle my academics, my job, my family, my friends, and myself from the little desk in the corner of my bedroom. But above all else, I will remember that “there was no evidence of spread between humans” at the start of 2020.
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Amy Higgins _____________________________________________________ Laying on of Hands No pleasure so true as laying hands on the misplaced thing—my purple umbrella peeking out like a slip in the trunk of my son’s Mazda, that was once mine and still wears bumper stickers two elections old: Obama/Biden. Clinton/Kaine. One came true, the other molders among might-have-beens. No joy so fine as finding three baby pictures of my niece when her parents can’t— the digital files have disappeared— but here she is, squinting at me all pink and damp from squares of a photo album from 2002. Two hours old, I wrote in blotchy ballpoint pen. Eighteen now, a senior who will graduate virtually but not really in this spring of COVID-19. No chairing the best prom ever! Though it would have been— this girl can organize a party. No crossing a stage in high heels, or tossing her cap high while sweating under a cheap gown made of fabric that doesn’t breathe. We don’t breathe. The virus keeps us spaced apart like atoms of an ever-expanding gas. Hands are for washing, not touching. 21
When we re-materialize, my daughter, my niece, my misplaced friends— let us lay hands on one another.
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Lily Chan ________________________________________________________ It’s a Pandemic At first, a few whistleblowers here and there Warned the world that continued on Who did not want a big scare And then from China it went beyond Silently this foe has creeped on us all As the world watches anxiously, To see who is next to fall A fearsome virus, so small but deadly It’s an infectious disease, That’s consider a respiratory illness Droplets can spread through a cough or sneeze The CDC warned, hoping to spread awareness COVID-19 starts with fever, And a cough, threatening lung function In serious cases, patients need a ventilator Many patients had past complications And then cases began to rise On the opposite side of the world, it was discovered It’s worse than the flu, surprise But here it is, we observed This is now a pandemic, the CDC announced Forcing people to stay at home Left and right, patients have been pronounced Dead on hospital beds, alone This is why we must take precaution And heed the warnings Rather than continue on with vacations, Because some families are still mourning 23
Some states have made a stance, Announcing that the people Must practice a thing called social distance Hoping for this curve to cripple Normal living is put to a stop only essential places are open hospitals, gas stations and shops Are accessible but workers feel burdened Medical staff begged for proper gear Through social media, the communities and friends Still short-supplied, overworked, and in fear Anything really, masks, PPE, gloves, food, please send Workers show up every day, Hoping that they’re not exposed Trying to stay safe in any way Possible, so they can protect their household The order may be hard to follow And easy to ignore our pleas Until it’s you that’s petrified, “I can’t breathe,” And it brings you down to your knees Everyone is advised To stand 6 feet apart Not to touch their face or rub their eyes Now would be a good time to start At home please wash your hands Disinfect high touch places And cancel your social plans To lower the number of cases We must keep hope that we will overcome, Don’t be distraught of the infected numbers and Forget those who have won, A total of three hundred thousand
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If anything, this quarantine Has taught us the value of the little things COVID-19 You cannot take from us, everything
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Diane M. Laboda ________________________________________________ Magic There is no magic in this time of pandemic— no cure, no vaccine no matter how much we want them, need them. There is only chicanery in the interpretation, in the imagination of those who would blot out sickness by magic. There is treachery in percentages, hope and gloom in real numbers depending on whose abacus you use and the state of mind. Yet the virus moves through, capturing men by the lungs, women by the heart, children by the vessels. And some it takes to grave. Doctors puzzle at apologies and mea culpas, rush to scientists to parse each protein spike, each new symptom, old protocols, no news. Families puzzle at the hale and hearty who drop like flies, suffer ICU delirium, lungs solidifying on vents, and death‌ without a proper goodbye. Masked mothers puzzle at flocks of revelers storming the ramparts of their local pub at the least news of an opening. God puzzles at mass graves of the forgot facial recognition masking every face the same, houses of worship supplanted by Matthew 18:20— 26
“For where two or three gather in my name…” and they still die as if by magic. 50,079 cases, 4,825 deaths today in Michigan Gov. Whitmer stands by May 28 stay-at-home order despite protests 5-15-20
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Tyler Wettig _____________________________________________________ For All Times Reader—my reader—the answer shall not come in the vagueities of this poem nor the mire of this very oeuvre. It shall come jejune in the etchings of the fugue of our days—and these days, alone. It shall come cri de coeur by the night—just as it is written—and it is good. It shall come with patience, patience— the after of all times is only just forever.
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Ayesha Syeda ____________________________________________________ The Story of Us The story of us gets told over and over. What are we? We're just people wrapped up in identities so twisted that we forget who we are. Our origins, we flush them down in the part of us that we don't want people to see. We care deeply about those scrolling, wishing our names were on top of that screen. We blind ourselves to the possibilities we come across. We get tempted by lust; we want what we can't have; we never appreciate what we have. We crave the sense of feeling like we belong, yet the demeaning words of other cause us to deny our very existence. We measure our worth by likes and retweets, but we don't care who we are. We paint ourselves new personas and act as if we live in a dream. We hate the demons of reality as we hate the person we choose to be. We hurt, and we cry behind shut blinds. Bring light to the dark and the pain goes away.
No, You need to understand! 29
Pain – Forever inevitable, It’s where I am! We feel social media is our way of life, Our pride, Our world
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William Bullard __________________________________________________ Being at Home at Home (Fragmentum) Since the Governor has rescinded her executive order, we no longer are required to stay at home – although not everything is opening up. However, for several long weeks, many of us have been forced to stay home, and almost everything has been shut down or operating online. Many people have been able to continue working or go to school remotely, yet many people have not been able to work at all because their workplaces have closed. Conversely, many people have been forced to work and work longer, such as doctors, nurses, and essential health care and hospital staff. For myself, since I am in the high-risk category, I have been very careful about staying home. I have gone primarily to one place (except for one necessary trip to one other place) – the grocery store that is almost next door to my house. What else I couldn’t get shipped or delivered, one of my brothers brought to me. Furthermore, I finished my semester online (doing a master’s in Linguistics, as well as finishing a master’s in Literature). Those of us that have been forced to stay at home have been faced with two aspects for handling “sheltering in place” with much of the usual society suspended. The first aspect has been the practical reality of being at home and figuring out how to do it. People who have been able to work at home, have had to learn to use things like Zoom (remembering to mute when going to the bathroom and choosing proper backgrounds). I have had a fairly easy time. The professors teaching the two courses I took this winter were able, for the most part, to figure out how to switch to an online process. And, I have learned my way around Zoom, etc. Many people have had their children at home and have had to supervise their continued education. Some people have pursued new interests. Of course, many people have had to endure crushing economic hardship. The second is perhaps a more profound and more difficult aspect – being at home with and within ourselves. Many have found it has worked, finding more things to do and even pursuing more 31
creativity. For many this has been almost impossible. They have gone out to demonstrate in front of Michigan’s State House holding guns. Perhaps, forcing us to stay at home and confront ourselves, is part of the reason for the existence of the virus. The Jungian author John Beebe says that Americans are dangerously, even pathologically extroverted. “Most Americans are afraid of being alone for five minutes,” he says. I understand from more than one source that people have predicted this virus. For example, Susan Rowland, who teaches at Pacifica Graduate Institute, indicates that both science and astrology predicted the virus (or something monumental) for this time. Something necessary is going on. This time has given people the opportunity – at least – to deepen their relationship with their inner world. This is vitally needed if this planet is going to continue to exist.
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Alona Henig ______________________________________________________ Saltwater I’m always trying to see the bright side. To stay positive. To accept the situation, And trust that I will be okay. That WE will be okay. People have told me I’m Bubbly, A big yellow sun Sharing a bright light with the world And inspiring others to do the same. When I was in Laos I kept saying “My cheeks hurt from smiling so big!” And it was true. I felt overwhelming joy And my cheeks carried the weight of it And I never wanted it to end. The first month I was home I surprised myself. I was at peace. I reminded myself Over and over That this is bigger than me That this is out of my control And all I can do is accept the situation. I took long walks I called friends I read books I smoked weed I watched movies I wrote words I practiced yoga I tried puzzles 33
I did what I could to pass the time And stay calm. I didn’t realize how exhausting it is To stay calm. But yesterday my body reminded me. Yesterday, I couldn’t hold back. Tears spilled from my eyes and I was unable to restore the dam in time To slow them down. My nose ran I went through so many tissues My eyes got puffy My throat felt tight My body needed to feel all of the feelings I had been rationalizing. My body needed space to feel The frustration The disappointment The anger The injustice The stress The sadness Of this global pandemic Every day I am reminded of how lucky I am. Every day I have a roof over my head I have food on my plate I have a dog who makes me smile And a web of people who make me feel loved I am one of the lucky ones And this is still Really. Fucking. Hard. Yesterday I hit my limit My body asked my brain, Please. Can I have some time to feel this? 34
Can I have some time to let it out? Can I have some time to not be okay? Please? My brain didn’t have a chance to answer. The dam had already been destroyed And the saltwater flowing from my eyes could not be slowed. Yesterday my body took space to feel. Today I feel numb. Today I feel tears building in my eyes, but they haven’t spilled. If they do spill, I will not be stopping them. I am giving my body time And space To feel. And once it is ready, I will give it whatever it needs, To heal. This shit is hard. But I am not alone. You are not alone. We are in this together, No matter how far apart we feel. It is okay to feel pain. It is okay to honor your body and let yourself spill. This too shall pass. The sun will shine again. The tears will slow, And I will find my light. I will smile big And my cheeks will hurt. I’ll laugh with friends And I’ll see the world. These things take time. So I’ll give myself time This too shall pass.
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Wijdan Al-Sayegh ________________________________________________ Birds and Poets If the poets of the romantic poetry movement called for a return to nature and the symbol of the bird as peace and beauty, the bird has also another character in the poems that employ the bird as a symbol of freedom from restrictions, and its singing as a symbol of freedom. Moreover, the collective human memory, specifically the Sumerian Babylonian epics, finds the pairing of birds with evil power and the anger of the gods, so you find the thunderbolt Zu and discover that the wings are the context of the heavenly tyranny. However, the bird, with its poetic connotations, takes different dimensions in the poems of the WCC Poetry Club’s meeting held on June 5, 2020. Poets participated in writing poems on the topic of the bird and used it as a poetic tool to express different ideas and visions during the free writing time. Three poems caught my attention, which I will highlight in succession in these lines. * The first poem, “Birds,” by Tom Zimmerman, is narrated through the consciousness of a narrator who appears on the mirrors of the text, bewildered, pondering what is around him, summoning the face of the confused Utnapishtim and his wife during the flood. Notice how Zimmerman writes his poem utilizing the poetic mask, using a dove as a symbolic key to read the poem. In addition, the poetic imagery does not employ the white language of the poem hinge, but rather adopts two long sentences to form the two joints of the poetic text as follows: The blue jays, finches, wrens, and mourning doves that haunt our backyard prompt my wife to fill three feeders twice a week. The big and small, the bullies and the bullied, find a place, I like to think. The crows, my shadows, hoard their knowledge high, away, and I stay blind. My parents bought encyclopedias 37
I read when I was young. Andean condors snagged me: carrion-eaters, wingspans bigger than a man, grim scythes that sharpen mountains, wingtips’ fingers charred by heaven’s smudge. Sweet angels nest such birds within, as birds do dinosaurs. Oh, let our minds embrace extinction and eternity, at peace. However, the poetic imagery kidnaps the features of Utnapishtim towards a new poetic horizon to face a pessimistic, hopeless contemporary Utnapishtim, whose mourning dove does not succeed in finding land that is not covered by the flood of absence of values in the context of a melancholic vision which condemns the absence of compassion between the birds, as the poetic context removes from them the connotations of beauty and purity, and gives them signs that move between maximum of cruelty (“the bullies”) and extreme surrender (“the bullied”). In fact, it is a semantic hijacking that becomes technique when the poem calls Andean condors to confront the readers with a coding of strength and tyranny (“wingspans bigger/than a man”) that occupies space with their powerful wings. The conclusion of the poem lights up that melancholic vision of New Utnapishtim when the poem symbolizes the pure innocent peaceful characters, “Sweet angels,” as they resemble birds in the context of a complex metaphor that foretells the bleak future. This simile imagery reflects the narrator's fears of the decline of these noble characters to the point of extinction in the framework of a clear condemnation of the violence that topples pure values. Therefore, the poem closes on a collective eulogy (“Oh, let our minds embrace /extinction and eternity, at peace”). * In Diane M. Laboda 's poem, “The Birds Have Gone,” the language of the white has interwoven the poem into 6 stanzas of poetry and employs the metamorphic technique of moving characters on the platform of the poem. It is an embodiment that succeeds in 38
removing the familiar indications from the bird to create a hair mask for characters moving on the ground and its time the womb of the present moment, as it appears in the first and second stanzas as follows: I wonder where the birds have gone. They must be driven off by flash-bangs, pepper gas and rubber bullets. Their eardrums must be broken, wings tattered, eyes a-flood with tears. Where have the birds gone? Have they been blown away by an overhead chopper, blinded by flood lights pointed directly at them? Perhaps their gentler nature warned them away long ago. It is clear that the poem uses the technique of repeating the question (“where the birds have gone” + “where have the birds gone?”) to open a dialogue between the listening reader outside the text and to reveal bitterness and confusion about what is happening on the ground in the details of the tragic lived event. The poetic imagery calls the title in the third stanza to reflect its mirrors, details of various events, and hostile open spaces that move birds on its platforms: birds have gone. High above the trees in bands of free-flight, flying from city to city, trying to find a place devoid of conscience, a place where comrades go home at curfew. And the poetic imagery explores the movement of birds in hostile places that hide hot events as follows: 39
The birds are confused. They cannot find a street devoid of light, a perch devoid of thunder, a mouth that speaks no truth. Voices rise to meet them, drown them in resistance, insistence. The following two stanzas evoke George Floyd's face and his broken voice, "I can't breathe," to intensify the tragic event details: the birds branch out and linger. They see the fires die down, the cops line up—some take a knee, some shake a hand. The flock they tend like birds sing of justice. Their notes are pure, their voices unsteady, their hearts beating wildly. The birds sing harmony from their perches, trill notes to the heroes and the sad. They beat their wings to clear the air and breathe a breath of hope that some below will live to honor ground where no monument stands, no words are drawn in letters that can be seen from heaven. It is clear that the poetic imagery opens the gate of hope in the last stanza, especially as employing rhythmic verbal repetition (“breathe a breath”) and (“no monument stands, no words”) as well as a sign of condemnation and rejection of that tragic event. * The poem “Birds” by Wanda Kay Sanders uses narration to reflect the details of the patriarchal system, to criticize it, knowing that the white language has fragmented it into six stanzas. The birds are moving on the first stanza as fictional characters as follows: 40
I watched some wrens the other day as they flew back and forth between the trees. The male bird, larger, sang a loud song even as he landed again and again on the smaller female bird to mate. The female bird hoped from side to side and fluttered her wings almost in protest but remained silent. It was as if she had given up trying to fly away, as if she knew her protest would do no good, as if she had lost her voice of freedom from domination. This stanza puts readers face to face with the patriarchal culture and its fierce system that marginalizes the female’s voice and gives the male absolute power. This narrative poem expresses it through the two main characters (male /female), with the male bird being the unjust character with the physical power and sexual dominance as well that is given by nature (“The male bird, larger/the smaller female bird”), and the oppressed character, the female bird, who is subjected to and surrenders to her weak role and destiny. In addition, there are various events that reflect male practices of physical and sexual violence against the female: “he landed again and again on the smaller female/bird to mate.” The series of abuse and unjust events that she tries to protest against this culture has led her to lose her voice and to give him a loud voice. It is clear that the narrator, since the first line in the stanza, is an external observer, who moves to an internal monologue that exposes its condemnation of patriarchal culture and its role in silencing the oppressed female voice, as follows: It made me think that women are often like that female wren. Our voices are silent at times in the midst of protest, unwilling to share our stories out of shame or fear. The Me-Too movement made us more aware of the captivity we still face, the loss of our freedom to just be women. We have only just begun to speak out against the domination of our spirit over this. And now women come together again – mothers, daughters, 41
sisters, as we raise our voices in protest not against men this time but alongside of them as we declare that Black Lives Matter. Our cry that the unnecessary violence be stopped and that those who misuse their authority be held accountable. Here the text discloses its semantic meaning (“It made me think that women are often like that female wren.”) when the encounter is directly with the issues of women's civil rights—the "Me-Too movement,”—and the harmony of pronouncement, “I+ me,” transforms to a devotion to the conscience of the group (the “we/us/our”) and the desire to leave the circle of self-concern for the collective female concern in order to liberate society from the patriarchal cultural norm. The poem links women’s contemporary roles to the issue of women’s civil rights as follows: May we as women no longer stay silent against the injustice done to us by men or against people in our community. This is a time to link arms and let our song for peace be heard. * In sum, these poets use three different methods to employ birds in their poems to reflect their poetic visions. Tom Zimmerman's poem evokes through the dove the mythological dimension to create a universal theme, launching his poem from its locality. As for Diane M. Laboda 's poem, it uses the bird as a semantic entrance for her poem, which documents the details of the current tragic events of George Floyd in a skillful combination of narration and poetry. Wanda Kay Sanders’s poem creates a narrative utilizing birds as fictional characters that reflect her vision toward the patriarchy as a cultural system that marginalizes the role of women and their rights.
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Sabrina Martell __________________________________________________ Tip of a Hat It's a blessing that the streets are full of people I hate. Because they're barefoot and step on cracks and I mirror them. It's a weird world when the tip of a hat can kill. And theirs sit loose atop their head. They tip and I equivocate. After all, there's nothing more covert than not questioning and not asserting.
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Del Pritts ________________________________________________________
World falls around me — Didn't it already fall? No answers appear
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Heather Barthell _________________________________________________ Father’s Day: A Poem for Ben and Randy Hassan How many fathers have waited through dark times holding their children close Uncertain the better days promised will actually be delivered Their steely nerve packed into steamer trunks, duffle bags and DNA Borne to an unknown land and an uncertain future Our son is both mirror and window as ancestors’ images flicker across his form A nod here, a gesture there upsetting time and space Great Grandpa Alick’s hands Grandpa Buzzy’s hairline Grandma Dorothy’s jowls Dad’s half-wink What traces will you pass on to your children -Your kind eyes? Fabulous curls? High arches? Wit?
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Diane M. Laboda _________________________________________________ A Real Deployment It didn’t seem like any revolution I had ever seen before. They said we were going to war against viral agent 19. It was a real deployment this time, so I waited with others in our barrel. I started off so soft and pliable, pasty and limp. I had no idea what I was meant to be, and no one was saying anything, except there just wasn’t enough time. Then I was dumped into a huge metal vat, stirred about and sifted into a mold, squished to almost nothing, cooked until I could stand up by myself, proudly. I had elastic bands stapled on my sides and was stacked with my mold-mates, bundled into boxes stamped with large red letters reading: ESSENTIAL, CRITICAL, DO NOT DELAY SHIPMENT. I was sure that we would become some prized munitions, perhaps a helmet or shield, armor or tool—essential and precious. When our bundle was torn open I tumbled out wildly—let the revolution begin! Then each of us was strapped unceremoniously to the front of a human face. I was pulled and tugged into position, thrust into a coughing face, sprayed, spit on over and over. I was never taken off. 47
My human tried several times to throw me into a large green bag, but was told to scrub me with disinfectant for two minutes and put me back on. She was gentle and thorough, and washed me for several days. I had no idea I’d be so important, so necessary. I didn’t know what to do with all the germs in the meantime, so I held on tight.
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Rosalie Denenfeld ________________________________________________ Thanks to the Stay At Home Order this is your chance to dance in the middle of Zeeb Rd. (at midnight) thanks to the Stay At Home Order no trucks no trailers fewer breath inhalers thanks to the Stay At Home Order some folks fight the government’s right to make us stay home but today I’m alive maybe survived thanks to the Stay At Home Order the question is now that it’s lifted and freedom has sprung in frenzied relief how risky how brief how devastating will it be thanks to NO stay at home order?
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Natalie Rinehardt ________________________________________________ Anger on Call I have anger on call That is, I am calling on anger But the line is busy, been waiting for hours What should I do with this frivolous time waiting Play with the imaginary lines I am drawing in the wall Find a new small corner or space to crawl into and wait Read a book, sing a song, water a plant, think about cleaning Before I know it! I have forgotten why I have called- I wish
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Sabrina Martell __________________________________________________ Picture This Pale tears and a postal code in California All caught off guard when the tide comes. The dark, unobserved ocean waving its way shore— A view that demands response.
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Tom Zimmerman ________________________________________________ Between the Pages for Diane and William Between the pages of a book, I tuck this moment. Which book? One by Faulkner that I read in school, that changed my life, that rubbed my nose in art so rich and dark and strange, familiar as my mother’s scent, mysterious as a future wife. What is this moment? One of many that have passed and many that will come (I hope), the past and future pouring into “now” like wine from earthen jars admixed with tinctures of a windswept river—heady potion! Everything I’ve ever done, undone, or let be done, those moments pile like grains of sand, or coil, strung like diamonds, lifting me to now. Bright sun and dark green shadows in the spruces, thud of a dribbled basketball next door, clock ticking on the desk, and two old friends, they’re writing, muted, here on Zoom. My wife is napping on the couch, her paperback facedown and rising, falling, rising. Coffee’s gone, too late for more. Too early for tonight’s mindbender. I and I, that’s it: A showdown on a Western movie backlot, square-jawed hero, shag-eared villain. Or two swirls of color: reds and blues and yellows of impression and emotion, plus the thousand grays of thought, smeared thickly on an artist’s palette, permeable as a mask.
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Rosalie Denenfeld ________________________________________________ Tender Hearted Women confined by Pandemic are we come together each in her own lair we Zoom into the secret depths of deprivation, longing, revelation, joy and celebration offer quotes, quips that help us “get a grip� grateful are we that at least we can see into the souls of sister faces during this phase devoid of physical embraces
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Michael Thompson _______________________________________________ The Obvious Insect We delicate vessels churning the foaming bug food through the internal city Drumbeats in chambers alive in wonderous noise Granule sends the clockwork spinning grinding, screaming to cessation Longing for those bakery mornings lake breeze maskless infinite sky The dance and dodge of ceaseless days Conquering the glorious pestilent growth of echoing humanity Then the peasant earth rises pitchfork and laser bathing away the obvious insect
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Contributors _____________________________________________________ Faizan Akheel is an aspiring computer science student who has traveled all the way to the US to achieve his dreams. Along with computer science, he also loves studying English! Wijdan Al-Sayegh, a well-known Arab writer, teaches in the Middle East Studies department at the University of Michigan. Her areas of expertise include modern Arabic fiction, poetry, literary criticism, culture, and linguistics. She has published 24 books, three of which have won renowned Arab prizes. Mae Armstrong is a creator. She is always looking for new ways to express her thoughts, ideas, and self through art. Learning is her trade, but creativity is her passion. She is currently finishing up a degree in Technical Communication at WCC and plans to transfer to the University of Michigan to study English and Political Science. She's passionate about her work helping people to improve their writing skills. She writes, "my advice to any aspiring creator is to find something you love––something to center your life around––and build off of it; let it inspire you." Heather Barthell writes, "I graduated from WCC's Technical Communication program in May and decided to take a creative writing class to diversify my writing skills. My husband and son write poetry for me each birthday and Mother's Day. My son recently got new glasses. Coupled with his beard, he looks very similar to a photo portrait of my father when he was around the same age. This year, I decided to write a poem to both of them about all the fathers that came before us and the uncertain times they faced." John A. Bullard is a poet who lives in Michigan. William Bullard is a long-time WCC Poetry Club member. Lily Chan is an EMU grad who is attending WCC part-time. She is currently working at an urgent care, testing for COVID-19, in the midst of this pandemic. Her utmost wish right now is for mundane 56
life to return and for everyone to learn from this pandemic. She writes, "Let us cherish the simple things, family, and friends even more now while finding strength in each other, 6 feet apart." Monica Cialek teaches math at Washtenaw Technical Middle College (WTMC). Edith M. Croake writes, "I am honored to have taught at Washtenaw Community College from 1966-2008. Since then, I have been grateful to participate in various WCC classes and writing programs." Rosalie Denenfeld has been writing poetry for over 60 years. She offers poetic messages of empathic insight, wrapped in sharp toothed humor. Even today she views the world as wonderfully hopeful, holding an enduring vision of peace for all life on the planet. Rosalie also expresses her vision through artwork, photography, energy healing and the creation and support of healthy families. Rosalie thanks Jas Obrecht for his encouragement and keen appreciation of poetry and poets. E.S. is an engineering student and WCC alumnus who enjoys tinkering with words. Alona Henig writes, "I graduated from the University of Michigan in May of 2019 with a BA in Environmental Studies and Spanish. I never took a creative writing class in college so this is a first for me. Before the pandemic hit, I was in Southeast Asia, 6 weeks into a year-long trip. Obviously, that had to end. Attached is a poem I wrote while in quarantine that (I hope) expresses how that felt for me." Amy Higgins teaches composition, literature, and creative writing at WCC. She writes poetry, takes long pandemic walks with her dog, and despite being a lover of novelty and travel, she desires nothing more right now than a return to the most mundane and everyday routines imaginable. More than anything, she misses her colleagues and students. 57
Diane M. Laboda is a former teacher-librarian and retired WCC executive assistant. She enjoys exploring life’s mysteries and sharing with others in her writing and artwork. She’s published poetry, short stories, articles, and photos in literary journals and anthologies both online and in print. She has published two chapbooks, Facing the Mirror and This Poet’s Journey, and is working on her first booklength collection of poetry on grief and care giving. Sabrina Martell is a freshman at the University of Michigan, planning to study Philosophy, Politics, and Economics. She has been published in the WCC Poetry Club/Bailey Library anthology Lovesick and in two editions of the The Huron River Review. Del Pritts is finishing up their first year at WCC, working towards an associates in Mathematics. They often write poetry and short prose, and enjoy painting. Natalie Rinehardt worked as a tutor in WCC’s Writing Center. Wanda Kay Sanders is a long-time WCC Poetry Club member. Ayesha Syeda writes, "I am a third-year student at EMU and have the pleasure of working in Supply Chain at UMHS. Writing is my escape from reality and love doing it!" Michael Thompson lives in Manchester, Michigan. He is a husband, father of three, and a part-time English instructor at Washtenaw Community College, Oakland Community College, and Jackson College. Tyler Wettig resides in Michigan. His latest chapbook is The Adult Table. Tyler's website: https://www.tylerwettig.wordpress.com. KD Williams is a writer of multiple genres, and an English instructor at WCC. Their work was honored in the Top 25 Glimmer Train Fiction Open 2018. Their creative nonfiction was shortlisted for the Frank McCourt Memoir Prize 2016. They earned a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Stony Brook University where they 58
received the Stony Brook Short Fiction Award 2013-2014. But first, they attended the University of Michigan and were a recipient of a 2011 Undergraduate Short Fiction Hopwood Award which made them realize, “Maybe I can do this writing thing.” When they’re not writing or grading or thinking about writing or grading, they’re probably watching TV with their partner, two cats, and dog. Tom Zimmerman teaches English and directs the Writing Center at WCC. In addition, he edits The Huron River Review and The Big Windows Review, and serves as faculty advisor of the WCC Poetry Club. https://thomaszimmerman.wordpress.com/
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Appendix: Full Texts of the Poems Discussed in Wijdan Al-Sayegh’s “Birds and Poets” ___________________________________________________________________ Tom Zimmerman ________________________________________________ Birds The bluejays, finches, wrens, and mourning doves that haunt our backyard prompt my wife to fill three feeders twice a week. The big and small, the bullies and the bullied, find a place, I like to think. The crows, my shadows, hoard their knowledge high, away, and I stay blind. My parents bought encyclopedias I read when I was young. Andean condors snagged me: carrion-eaters, wingspans bigger than a man, grim scythes that sharpen mountains, wingtips’ fingers charred by heaven’s smudge. Sweet angels nest such birds within, as birds do dinosaurs. Oh, let our minds embrace extinction and eternity, at peace.
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Diane M. Laboda _________________________________________________ The Birds Have Gone I wonder where the birds have gone. They must be driven off by flash-bangs, pepper gas and rubber bullets. Their eardrums must be broken, wings tattered, eyes a-flood with tears. Where have the birds gone? Have they been blown away by an overhead chopper, blinded by flood lights pointed directly at them? Perhaps their gentler nature warned them away long ago. The birds have gone. High above the trees in bands of free-flight, flying from city to city, trying to find a place devoid of conscience, a place where comrades go home at curfew. The birds are confused. They cannot find a street devoid of light, a perch devoid of thunder, a mouth that speaks no truth. Voices rise to meet them, drown them in resistance, insistence. the birds branch out and linger. They see the fires die down, the cops line up—some take a knee, some shake a hand. The flock they tend like birds sing of justice. Their notes are pure, their voices unsteady, their hearts beating wildly. 61
The birds sing harmony from their perches, trill notes to the heroes and the sad. They beat their wings to clear the air and breathe a breath of hope that some below will live to honor ground where no monument stands, no words are drawn in letters that can be seen from heaven. Wanda Kay Sanders ______________________________________________ Birds I watched some wrens the other day as they flew back and forth between the trees. The male bird, larger, sang a loud song even as he landed again and again on the smaller female bird to mate. The female bird hoped from side to side and fluttered her wings almost in protest but remained silent. It was as if she had given up trying to fly away, as if she knew her protest would do no good, as if she had lost her voice of freedom from domination. It made me think that women are often like that female wren. Our voices are silent at times in the midst of protest, unwilling to share our stories out of shame or fear. The Me Too movement made us more aware of the captivity we still face, the loss of our freedom to just be women. We have only just begun to speak out against the domination of our spirit over this. And now women come together again – mothers, daughters, sisters, as we raise our voices in protest not against men this time but along side of them as we declare that Black Lives Matter. Our cry that the unnecessary violence be stopped and that those who misuse their authority be held accountable. May we as women no longer stay silent against the injustice done to us by men or against people in our community. This is a time to link arms and let our song for peace be heard. 62
WCC Poetry Club Washtenaw Community College Ann Arbor MI USA wccpoetryclub.wordpress.com
