Friday, November 28, 2014

‘The child is father to the man.'


Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1844 - 1889
‘The child is father to the man.'
How can he be? The words are wild.
Suck any sense from that who can:
‘The child is father to the man.'
No; what the poet did write ran,
‘The man is father to the child.'
‘The child is father to the man!'
How can he be? The words are wild!
 
Hopkins was a wonderfully inventive poet from whom all can learn.

Saturday, October 18, 2014

One More Autumn


(For Suzette)

 

We have the gift

of one more autumn—

together.

One more time to hold

hands and make plans.

The September sky

is blue like

your eyes.

The leaves are

 gold

like your hair.

Do I dare

to compare

you to an

autumn

day?

Alas,

autumn but

foreshadows

the coming of winter,

snow & ice

and silence.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Acorn Award Speech


                                      Acorn Speech

Thank you. I wish to thank the Trustees of the Kentucky Council on Postsecondary Education for making this event possible. Also, I wish to thank Dr. Michael McCall for KCTCS’s participation in this program.  It is an honor to address such an august body. However, I really owe this award and other awards that I have received to students such as Mr. Robert Sutton who is sitting at my table; I owe it to former students such as Karen Kaye who could not be here today because she is teaching at Indiana University Southeast in New Albany, and to the many students that I have taught in my twenty-eight years of teaching at Jefferson. Our people are the true wealth of our uncommon commonwealth. Also, I owe this award to my mother who was my first teacher and my father who bought me books and encouraged me from first grade through graduate school. And last but not least, I owe this award to my excellent colleagues such as Dr. Anne Kearney who nominated me and team taught with me, and to Dr. Tony Newberry would asked me to take over teaching the African American History class when he left to become the academic dean of Southeast Community College.

Body: Standing here today and receiving this award is a dream come true. Yet I would be remiss if I did not say that this dream and so many other dreams that have come true for me have all been made possible by my receiving a good education. This is a journey that begun many years ago on the front porch of a shotgun house in Louisville’s Clifton neighborhood. I was about six years old and my mother pulled switch from a large maple tree in the front yard and handed me a book. She said: “Now David Lee, you are going to learn to read.” Her no nonsense approach must have worked for I have been reading ever since. While I did not have affluence, I had something that was more valuable: I had two hard working and loving parents who were determined that my life would be better than theirs and that I would have the education that was denied them in the Jim Crow South. Moreover they inculcated in me a love both of books and a love of learning. When my father got paid on Fridays, he would stop at the old W.K. Stewart Bookstore on Fourth Street in downtown Louisville and either buys me a book or a map. As an only child crippled by asthma, I spent countless happy hours reading books, playing with maps and building model ships and airplanes. It is strange but I never knew we were poor until I went to college and met genuinely rich kids. For me, personally, education has been the key that has opened so many doors and taken me to places beyond my wildest dreams. My dreams are not over and I hope to cross another item off my bucket list next summer by going to Paris. I am reminded of the words of one of my favorite poets Langston Hughes: “Hold fast to dreams, for life without dreams is like a broken winged bird that cannot fly.”

As a teacher I am proud of the many talented and dedicated people that I work with daily. Our goal as  community college teachers is to help students to make their dreams come true. Our goal is to help them to achieve their career goals. Some will become nurses, some will become X-ray technicians, some will transfer to four year institutions, and a few will even come back and teach for with us. Yet even as I speak our state needs more college educated people and more people with technical training. There are no throw away people. It is less expensive to educate a man than it is to incarcerate him. We need for all of our citizens to reach their potential. We need jobs with dignity that pay a living wage.

 

  Far too many of our young people in both urban ghettos and rural ghettos have their talents wasted. Far too many our young people are like the the lines in Thomas Gray’s “Elegy in a Country Churchyard: “ Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
It is our goal to ensure that everyone in this great Commonwealth has the opportunity of become a productive, gainfully employed, taxpaying citizen. This is our hope, this is our mission.

Thank you ladies and gentlemen.

Friday, August 22, 2014

King of the World


(For Tom)

 

 

Ensconced on the top tier

His majesty reclines

On fur covered haunches.

His amber eyes blaze

in the soft light—

Fed and brushed

His reign

is resplendent

in feline glory—

Master of the world

servant of none.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Moonlight in September




Loving you has not been easy

you have turned to quicksilver

in my grasping hands.

 

You, wanton woman of my imagination,

have sung siren songs

and lured me to the sensual shoals

of your soft, pliant thighs.

 

You have driven me mad

with unfulfilled desires

as I crash into your emotional reefs.

Though I touch you mud-warm body

I cannot touch your frozen heart.

 

When I hold you tight,

you turn to sand,

or protean-like

you shape-shift to Medusa at midnight

 Aphrodite at dawn

 

You smiling enigma

addicting me

with your opiate of love and lust.

 

Long, long ago

you beckoned me

to your jagged shores.

Loving you has not been easy,

but I cannot let you go—

with you I find sweet agony and painful bliss—

Golden-haired Druid

Hazel-eyed witch of  Endor,

You enchant me

For I am smitten

Once,

Twice,

Thrice—

Forever?

© David Cooper

 

Friday, August 1, 2014

American Gothic


Standing here watching the setting sun go down behind the Wal-Mart parking lot. Where else can I get spirituality and cheap goods made in China by children in sweatshops? I mean free enterprise is not so damn free, now is it? I sho' do love living in the land of poverty where the minds are bereft of history. Standing here waiting for the evening sun to go down, go down behind the Wal-Mart parking lot where the crack hos and meth hos turn their tricks out, then light their pipes and blow their brains out looking for that American dream that flimflam scheme. These meth and crack heads are zombies—the living dead. Bambi is twenty-five without a tooth in her head. That's why I'm standing here watching the sun go down behind the Wal-Mart parking lot, watching Bambi go down for a nickel and a dime.

David Cooper

Friday, July 25, 2014

North Star II


Chicago. New York. St. Louis.

And all destinations

North—

Lawrence poured the tens of

Thousands in red,

Green, and yellow paints

Mixed and matched

Like their patched coats

And runover shoes

And cardboard suitcases.

They boarded:

The Illinois Central, Baltimore and Ohio, and Chesapeake

Bound for that Promised Land.

Lawrence painted

Their sorrow songs

And their gut bucket blues

His brush jazzed their gin.

He painted their bleary eyes

And tired feet

Marching

Riding

Walking

Hoboing

To Freedomland.
copyright David Cooper 2014

 

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

A Silly Poem


Mr. Pringles Cheddarcheese

                                                dances light

                                                And knocks his knees.

                                                Mr. Pringles Cheddarcheese,

                                                I have to sneeze—

                                                Pass the Kleenex

                                                If you please

                                                And say “goodnight”

                                                To Louis and Louise.

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Georgia on My Mind


The gray day

                                    And the red clay

                                    Of Georgia’s dust tracks

                                    Of mind and memory

                                    Haunt

                                    me at 3 a.m.

                                    Ghosts walk

                                    til dawn

                                    drawn by the

                                    darkness and

                                    rain.

 

                                    Fallen path of lost

                                    Love and lust:

                                    Mary the tall girl

with liquid eyes;

                                    Belinda the tiny

                                    Redbone*

                                    With a sandy afro;

                                    And Brenda

                                    With smooth ebony skin—

                                    Of years and yore—

                                    All gone

                                    Like the red clay

                                    Washed over the road…gone.

 

 

 

*Redbone: a high yellow girl; a mulatto or quadroon.

 

                                    © David L. Cooper

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Bars Flight




 

                                                            A Caged bird

                                                            cannot fly.

                                                            Like Dunbar,

                                                            I spread my wings

                                                            & try,

                                                            but a caged bird

                                                            Cannot fly.

                                                            I long to soar

                                                            & touch the sky

                                                            but a caged bird

                                                            cannot fly.

                                                            Bound by race

                                                            And region,

                                                            Pain and poverty….

                                                            yet I try,

                                                            but neither

                                                            a caged bird

                                                            nor I can fly.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

The sun setting on the Ionian Sea.


Lee Pennington mentioned you in a comment.
Lee wrote: "Jesse Stuart once said in a poem, "Another time like this will not come this way." It was a very special event for me to share the stage with such beautiful word masters. I had read with David Cooper before; it was my first time reading with Jill Baker and Ron Whitehead. Don't let anybody kid you. I'm the lucky one! I'm the one blessed. Thank all of your for sharing this magic moment."

Monday, July 7, 2014

Three Poems About Scotland


            1

A smoked yank

A long, long way from home

Ayonder he did roam

a-riding trams and mare o’shank

            2

 

Of glens and bens

I spied on crags

Glazed by black-faced sheep

--Oh of Loch Drunkie

Of glens and bens

 

            3

There in the Trossacks

A man finds God

Amid the lochs and flocks

My, my how odd!

 

 

Three Scotches and Macbeth


“The people of London have no face”

--Scottish Tour Guide in Edinburgh

                                1

Scotland             

Snow-capped bens,

Green, grassy glens

Cold, clear lochs

Plaids and argyle socks

Here in the land of the Scots.

 

                2

 

White gulls glide

over the glassy river

named Ness

in a park near Inverness.

 

                3

 

Rainbows arc the sky

As kirk bells

Toll and thunder rolls

In Inverness.     

©David Cooper 1995

 

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Banjo


            (For Henry Tanner and The Banjo Lesson)

 

Patiently,

the old slave’s cracked and

workhard hands

guided the boy’s hands

to strum, strum, strum

the banjo

and pluck the merry

sounds

string by string by string.

Listen to the music:

bling, bling, bling,.

What the magic,

what the art,

can thaw even

the coldest white heart.

List to the banjo

pling, pling, pling—

Listen as the strings

sing, sing, sing.

Is this art,

or is this freedom?

At the sun’s

dying light

and well into the

blackdark night

they play

to stay

the real darkness.

Is this art
or is it freedom?

 

David Cooper © 2014

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Midnight Sunglasses


We were cool…

Back in the day—

I mean we even wore shades

At night in smoky bars

where hammers wore skin-

tight, short mini-skirts

that went to their thighs

And to our imagination.

 

We were cool—

Back in the day—

Smokin’ weed

through cherry and strawberry flavored

cigarette papers

carburators

and bongs

Snortin’ coke

through Benjamins

and leaning in
El Dogs and Lincolns

while  the long-legged

street walkers

stopped cars

like urban sirens…

Ulysses Johnson

was a pimp on Euclid

Avenue back in the day

when the players and hustlers

came out to play.
Colt 45
Malt Liquor
and Country Club
and other bottles
of pissed and wasted
dreams....
Back in the day
when hos hoed
and the players played
and the pimps
pimped
and the simps
simped...
BC
Before crack.

 

 

Friday, June 20, 2014

The Mediterranean Sea

La Mer


Robert Hayden

I had the privilege of meeting Robert Hayden in 1969 when he was a visiting lecturer at the University of Louisville. I went to a poetry workshop at Lake Barkly. Mr. Hayden critiqued some of our poetry.

Born Asa Bundy Sheffey into a poor family, Robert Hayden’s parents left him to be raised by foster parents. Due to extreme nearsightedness, Hayden turned to books rather than sports in his childhood. Some of his best-known poems can be found in his collection A Ballad of Remembrance. Hayden was the first African American to be appointed as Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress. Hayden's formal, elegant poems about the black historical experience earned him a number of other major awards as well. "Robert Hayden is now generally accepted," Frederick Glaysher stated in Hayden's Collected Prose, "as the most outstanding craftsman of Afro-American poetry."

The historical basis for much of Hayden's poetry stemmed from his extensive study of American and black history. Beginning in the 1930s, when he researched black history for the Federal Writers' Project in his native Detroit, Hayden studied the story of his people from their roots in Africa to their present condition in the United States. "History," Charles T. Davis wrote in Black is the Color of the Cosmos: Essays on Afro-American Literature and Culture, 1942-1981, "has haunted Robert Hayden from the beginning of his career as a poet." As he once explained to Glenford E. Mitchell of World Order, Hayden saw history "as a long, tortuous, and often bloody process of becoming, of psychic evolution."

Other early influences on Hayden's development as a poet were W. H. Auden, under whom Hayden studied at the University of Michigan, and Stephen Vincent Benet, particularly Benet's poem "John Brown's Body." That poem describes the black reaction to General Sherman's march through Georgia during the Civil War and inspired Hayden to also write of that period of history, creating a series of poems on black slavery and the Civil War that won him a Hopwood Award in 1942.

After graduating from college in 1944, Hayden embarked on an academic career. He spent some twenty-three years at Fisk University, where he rose to become a professor of English, and ended his career with an eleven-year stint at the University of Michigan. Hayden told Mitchell that he considered himself to be "a poet who teaches in order to earn a living so that he can write a poem or two now and then."

Although history played a large role in Hayden's poetry, many of his works were also inspired by the poet's adherence to the Baha'i faith, an Eastern religion that believes in a coming world civilization. Hayden served for many years as the poetry editor of the group's World Order magazine. The universal outlook of the Baha'is also moved Hayden to reject any narrow racial classification for his work.

James Mann of the Dictionary of Literary Biography claimed that Hayden "stands out among poets of his race for his staunch avowal that the work of black writers must be judged wholly in the context of the literary tradition in English, rather than within the confines of the ethnocentrism that is common in contemporary literature written by blacks." As Lewis Turco explained in the Michigan Quarterly Review, "Hayden has always wished to be judged as a poet among poets, not one to whom special rules of criticism ought to be applied in order to make his work acceptable in more than a sociological sense."

This stance earned Hayden harsh criticism from other blacks during the polarized 1960s. He was accused of abandoning his racial heritage to conform to the standards of a white, European literary establishment. "In the 1960s," William Meredith wrote in his foreword to Collected Prose, "Hayden declared himself, at considerable cost in popularity, an American poet rather than a black poet, when for a time there was posited an unreconcilable difference between the two roles. . . . He would not relinquish the title of American writer for any narrower identity."

Ironically, much of Hayden's best poetry is concerned with black history and the black experience. "The gift of Robert Hayden's poetry," Vilma Raskin Potter remarked in MELUS, "is his coherent vision of the black experience in this country as a continuing journey both communal and private." Hayden wrote of such black historical figures as Nat Turner, Frederick Douglass, Malcolm X, Harriet Tubman, and Cinquez. He also wrote of the Underground Railroad, the Civil War, and the American slave trade. Edward Hirsch, writing in the Nation, called Hayden "an American poet, deeply engaged by the topography of American myth in his efforts to illuminate the American black experience."

Though Hayden wrote in formal poetic forms, his range of voices and techniques gave his work a rich variety. "Hayden," Robert G. O'Meally wrote in the Washington Post Book World, "is a poet of many voices, using varieties of ironic black folk speech, and a spare, ebullient poetic diction, to grip and chill his readers. He draws characters of stark vividness as he transmutes cardinal points and commonplaces of history into dramatic action and symbol." "His work," Turco wrote, "is unfettered in many ways, not the least of which is in the range of techniques available to him. It gives his imagination wings, allows him to travel throughout human nature."

Speaking of Hayden's use of formal verse forms, Mann explained that Hayden's poems were "formal in a nontraditional, original way, strict but not straight-jacketed" and found that they also possessed "a hard-edged precision of line that molds what the imagination wants to release in visually fine-chiseled fragmental stanzas that fit flush together with the rightness of a picture puzzle."

It wasn't until 1966, with the publication of Selected Poems, that Hayden first enjoyed widespread attention from the nation's literary critics. As the Choice critic remarked at the time, Selected Poems showed Hayden to be "the surest poetic talent of any Negro poet in America; more importantly, it demonstrated a major talent and poetic coming-of-age without regard to race or creed." With each succeeding volume of poems his reputation was further enhanced until, in 1976 and his appointment as Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress, Hayden was generally recognized as one of the country's leading black poets. Critics often point to Hayden's unique ability to combine the historical and the personal when speaking of his own life and the lives of his people. Writing in Obsidian: Black Literature in Review, Gary Zebrun argued that "the voice of the speaker in Hayden's best work twists and squirms its way out of anguish in order to tell, or sing, stories of American history—in particular the courageous and plaintive record of Afro-American history—and to chart the thoughts and feelings of the poet's own private space. . . . Hayden is ceaselessly trying to achieve . . . transcendence, which must not be an escape from the horror of history or from the loneliness of individual mortality, but an ascent that somehow transforms the horror and creates a blessed permanence."