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MORE! Emma Goldman, Joshua Slocum and Angela King, click
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One of my favorite poetry websites is One Sentence Poems, which does indeed publish only poems that consist of a single sentence. If you think that one-sentence poems wouldn’t have much meaning, or you even doubt they could actually be poetry, you’re in for a surprise.
A big ‘Thank You’ to editors Dale Wisely, Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco and Tony Press for posting the best stuff.
There’s lots more to enjoy at the source: http://www.onesentencepoems.com/osp/
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by Ion Corcos
As the days lengthen,
an eighty-year-old woman walks slowly
down the hill, turns eighty-one.
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by Nancy Kay Peterson
I can’t describe
the sound
a slinky makes,
but I’d recognize it.
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The original and the revised version after criticism of their attempt to legitimate a Trumpian framing
By ann summers
The contagion of incivility: President Trump says undocumented immigrants want to “infest” the United States. His critics respond with vituperative words of their own. https://t.co/S6CgmiuhdQ
— NYT Politics (@nytpolitics) June 21, 2018
Mr. Trump’s coarse discourse increasingly seems to inspire opponents to respond with vituperative words of their own, as Robert De Niro did at the Tony Awards this month…
Returning incivility with incivility has not always worked out well for his opponents…
Mr. Trump’s presidency has driven some of those who oppose him to extremes of their own…
“Let’s not spend time drawing comparisons,” Jonathan Greenblatt, added. “Instead, we should focus all of our energy fighting for a more moral set of policies today.”
Not only is Peter Baker clueless about speech acts or rhetorical force, he wants Trump’s critics to behave, as if backing off will give Maggie Haberman a spine or Michael Schmidt a sense of social justice. Because the NY Times editors would say, isn’t that what Bari Weiss and Bret Stephens are for, even if they are idiots, however obtusely sucking up to Trumpism.
Peter Baker’s dithering about today’s Godwinesque comparisons like Michael Hayden to the possibility of another Holocaust, should remind him of the same reality that the NY Times itself faced during the onset of the actual Holocaust, giving far too much unmerited journalistic respect for Herr Hitler.
Thank Godwin, Baker doesn’t eat in any delis where the DSA might get to him, because we won’t have what he’s having.
The Times, ‘when it ran front-page stories, described refugees seeking shelter, Frenchmen facing confiscation, or civilians dying in German camps, without making clear the refugees, Frenchmen, and civilians were mostly Jews.‘” [3]
It’s hard to believe that Peter Baker can fight for any moral set of policies considering Glenn Thrush still has a job at the Times, but it is New York, and even Michael Cohen still walks free on NY streets where incivility, if Baker hasn’t noticed is the lingua franca. We’re way past contagion, or have you been even paying attention.
As coarse as Robert DeNiro or some Congressional intern might be, their visceral representations directed at Trump via the Tonys or in the halls of Congress makes some of us feel better represented even if they fail to reach their recipient, and perhaps less vituperative.
If you have the time and access to the Showtime channel you should watch The Fourth Estate, if only to remind yourself of the limitations of corporate media, as it follows in documentary form, the editorial processes of NY Times reporters and editors. It really doesn’t seem as torturous to the viewer, all that capitulation to the WH, but perhaps that’s on the floor of the editing room.
Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies’ soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.
And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air’s soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.
I envy the farmer’s boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.
He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another’s ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.
He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o’erfull heart, without aim or art;
‘T is a song of the merriest.
O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.
Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.
So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.
– from The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar (1913)
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For more Paul Lawrence Dunbar poems
Nicole Plyler Fisk
Gene Howington
FFS Guest Blogger
Joy of Fishes
Chuck Stanley
shortfinals
Terry Welshans
ann li-summers
wordcloud9
Flowers For Socrates 