Let’s start with the poem that started this post after which I rant a bit.
Bad Election
They were the worst until much worse came.
To get high they smoked girls fed fury for days.
Things repeat, but they are not the same.
Blood was bad, here comes boiling rain.
He sculpts his hair with the ribs of boys.
They were the worst until much worse came.
They butchered days, then this thief came,
gilding his excrement and lying about rain.
Thug. It repeats. It’s the ever in never again.
Now old vile tyrants look half-decent. Sane.
Let’s take a break. Rest here in stanza four.
They were the worst until these villains came.
Howl, howl, howl, said Lear to Cordelia, too late.
Growl greed down and his henchdogs of hate.
They were the worst, then the real worse came.
Things repeat, but they are not the same.
Like everyone I speak to about it, I’m outraged at the SCOTUS decision in favor of Trump this week.
This poem says what I want to, though I wrote it over a period of time that ended soon after the 2016 election and inauguration. When I mention “lying about rain” the reference is to that inauguration, whereat the then president claimed that attendance was sparse due to rain, despite the dry sky.
When I say here that things repeat, I was thinking of other bad periods in recent history, such as the era of W. Bush, with its two terms of jabbering, war, and prayer. Now, of course, I’m talking about fear of the repeat of the 2016 election.
It was also the W. era I was thinking of with “old vile tyrants”. Back then we feared the VP, because he seemed to be puppet master, but the thing about old man Cheney is that he loved being sneaky and manipulative. He’d no more fit in with the Trump crew than a cat burglar would fit with punks who walked into the museum shooting and took the prized jewel (and eventually got arrested). They’re all criminals, but there is a way to act and a way not to act and Trump shows us how much of good / decent / passable government is merely convention, not law, so it’s all stompable when a stomping toddler arrives.
What surprises me is that after the grotesque case of the Supreme Court ushering in baby hawk W. Bush, with all his blithering, bombing, and God talk, and here it is happening again, and it is just as unjust, a Republican court acting to pick our president for us.
The line in the poem that breaks my own heart, if you’ll allow it, is the Howl, Howl, Howl, of Lear for his daughter, dead in his arms, his fault. What would he give to reverse it? Even were he still King, time reverses for no one. I suppose to put a bow on it I’ll say that Lear here is the American people and Cordelia our democracy, such as it is. And she’s not dead yet. Lear has fucked it all up for all eternity, but not us, not yet. Tick-tock tick-tock.
We still have a chance to save what we love, to keep the precious gem, to save our strange but sweet democracy before with bloodshot eyes and pleading hands we find ourselves screaming at Time and his stock of sand (and his father, death), and Time says, only, under his breath, “Tick tock, tick tock,” counting off our howls like a clock. By now, by rote. Don’t let’s be time’s fool, again. Get out the vote.
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Stay well, stay cool, or anyway just stay and I shall return to encourage us again. Thank you so much to you all for joining me here, big thanks to you subscribers, and of course huge thanks to my paid subscribers - it means a lot.
love,
Jennifer
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Villanelles are my favorite form. And that you have “villains” in this one gives me an impish grin, an extra shot of poetry pleasure. I agree with your feelings so deeply, and the way you articulated this moment, it is NOT too late! We have to rally and get folks to vote - the DNC has got to listen to the people and give us a stronger speaking candidate who can convince the swing voters. It’s so precarious, our democracy is not guaranteed. So much of the bad behavior of Trump is not actually illegal, it’s just despicable. America is a work in progress. We have a big dream and a big job. We can’t give up ♥️ to give up is to let the despicable win.