RC Mandeville, Master Poet, P.I.F. (Poet in Fact)

 

Rocky & Ashley

Horses Will Surely Save Me  

RC Mandeville's site 

 by RC Mandeville

An infinity of olfactory intoxicants -
sweet grass, hay, and sighs
of sweet mint -
shuddering long breaths,
thick muscles, warm necks:
Horses will surely save me
unto my very depths.

Of men, I've had too many,
but fewer have I known;
I've left my share a-plenty
before the rising dawn,
yet when my sun collapses
from light too great to bear,
it will be horses who surely save me
from the dark that finds me there.

Horses will surely save me,
Yes, this must somehow be.
My horse, how he must save me,
           in his Complex Simplicity.
Fundamentally unbroken,
           Heart-Wild and Spirit-Free,
my horse, unbound by falsehoods
           will guide my soul to me.

I have shown up heavy in heart,
vanquished by life's turns,
unable to find daylight,
all happiness seemingly burned.
Then, meeting his gentle fierceness
and feeling his supple stride,
I am sure my horse can save me
as we head out West to ride.

Horses will surely save me,
Yes, this must somehow be.
My horse, how he must save me,
in his Great Simplicity.
All is not lost in his Presence,
kind and true and strong -
My horse, he's sure to save me
I only pray it won't be long.

 

It takes a Master Poet, or P.I.F. (Poet in Fact), to write and give freely to the world quality works of poetic art. RC Mandeville has those qualities that easily give her that designation. Skilled in the art of poetics, yet publishing openly, without cost, master works to view and appreciate. Her's is fine contemporary poetry given as a gift to the world. For that we thank her.

Bob Atkinson

March, 2013

Robert Hayden, P.I.F., Poet in Fact

Middle Passage

by Robert Hayden

Robert Hayden

Jesús, Estrella, Esperanza, Mercy:

Sails flashing to the wind like weapons,
sharks following the moans the fever and the dying;
horror the corposant and compass rose.

Middle Passage:
voyage through death
to life upon these shores.

"10 April 1800--
Blacks rebellious. Crew uneasy. Our linguist says
their moaning is a prayer for death,
our and their own. Some try to starve themselves.
Lost three this morning leaped with crazy laughter
to the waiting sharks, sang as they went under."

Desire, Adventure, Tartar, Ann:

Standing to America, bringing home
black gold, black ivory, black seed.

Deep in the festering hold thy father lies, of his bones
New England pews are made, those are altar lights that were his eyes.

Jesus Saviour Pilot Me
Over Life's Tempestuous Sea


We pray that Thou wilt grant, O Lord,
safe passage to our vessels bringing
heathen souls unto Thy chastening.

Jesus Saviour

"8 bells. I cannot sleep, for I am sick
with fear, but writing eases fear a little
since still my eyes can see these words take shape
upon the page & so I write, as one
would turn to exorcism. 4 days scudding,
but now the sea is calm again. Misfortune
follows in our wake like sharks (our grinning
tutelary gods). Which one of us
has killed an albatross? A plague among
our blacks--Ophthalmia: blindness--& we
have jettisoned the blind to no avail.
It spreads, the terrifying sickness spreads.
Its claws have scratched sight from the Capt.'s eyes
& there is blindness in the fo'c'sle
& we must sail 3 weeks before we come
to port."

What port awaits us, Davy Jones' or home? I've
heard of slavers drifting, drifting, playthings of wind and storm and
chance, their crews gone blind, the jungle hatred crawling
up on deck.

Thou Who Walked On Galilee

"Deponent further sayeth The Bella J
left the Guinea Coast
with cargo of five hundred blacks and odd
for the barracoons of Florida:

"That there was hardly room 'tween-decks for half
the sweltering cattle stowed spoon-fashion there;
that some went mad of thirst and tore their flesh
and sucked the blood:

"That Crew and Captain lusted with the comeliest
of the savage girls kept naked in the cabins;
that there was one they called The Guinea Rose
and they cast lots and fought to lie with her:

"That when the Bo's'n piped all hands, the flames
spreading from starboard already were beyond
control, the negroes howling and their chains
entangled with the flames:

"That the burning blacks could not be reached,
that the Crew abandoned ship,
leaving their shrieking negresses behind,
that the Captain perished drunken with the wenches:

"Further Deponent sayeth not."

Pilot Oh Pilot Me


II

Aye, lad, and I have seen those factories,
Gambia, Rio Pongo, Calabar;
have watched the artful mongos baiting traps
of war wherein the victor and the vanquished

Were caught as prizes for our barracoons.
Have seen the nigger kings whose vanity
and greed turned wild black hides of Fellatah,
Mandingo, Ibo, Kru to gold for us.

And there was one--King Anthracite we named him--
fetish face beneath French parasols
of brass and orange velvet, impudent mouth
whose cups were carven skulls of enemies:

He'd honor us with drum and feast and conjo
and palm-oil-glistening wenches deft in love,
and for tin crowns that shone with paste,
red calico and German-silver trinkets

Would have the drums talk war and send
his warriors to burn the sleeping villages
and kill the sick and old and lead the young
in coffles to our factories.

Twenty years a trader, twenty years,
for there was wealth aplenty to be harvested
from those black fields, and I'd be trading still
but for the fevers melting down my bones.


III

Shuttles in the rocking loom of history,
the dark ships move, the dark ships move,
their bright ironical names
like jests of kindness on a murderer's mouth;
plough through thrashing glister toward
fata morgana's lucent melting shore,
weave toward New World littorals that are
mirage and myth and actual shore.

Voyage through death,
voyage whose chartings are unlove.

A charnel stench, effluvium of living death
spreads outward from the hold,
where the living and the dead, the horribly dying,
lie interlocked, lie foul with blood and excrement.

Deep in the festering hold thy father lies, the corpse of mercy
rots with him, rats eat love's rotten gelid eyes. But, oh, the
living look at you with human eyes whose suffering accuses you, whose
hatred reaches through the swill of dark to strike you like a leper's
claw. You cannot stare that hatred down or chain the fear that stalks
the watches and breathes on you its fetid scorching breath; cannot
kill the deep immortal human wish, the timeless will.

"But for the storm that flung up barriers
of wind and wave, The Amistad, señores,
would have reached the port of Príncipe in two,
three days at most; but for the storm we should
have been prepared for what befell.
Swift as a puma's leap it came. There was
that interval of moonless calm filled only
with the water's and the rigging's usual sounds,
then sudden movement, blows and snarling cries
and they had fallen on us with machete
and marlinspike. It was as though the very
air, the night itself were striking us.
Exhausted by the rigors of the storm,
we were no match for them. Our men went down
before the murderous Africans. Our loyal
Celestino ran from below with gun
and lantern and I saw, before the cane-
knife's wounding flash, Cinquez,
that surly brute who calls himself a prince,
directing, urging on the ghastly work.
He hacked the poor mulatto down, and then
he turned on me. The decks were slippery
when daylight finally came. It sickens me
to think of what I saw, of how these apes
threw overboard the butchered bodies of
our men, true Christians all, like so much jetsam.
Enough, enough. The rest is quickly told:
Cinquez was forced to spare the two of us
you see to steer the ship to Africa,
and we like phantoms doomed to rove the sea
voyaged east by day and west by night,
deceiving them, hoping for rescue,
prisoners on our own vessel, till
at length we drifted to the shores of this
your land, America, where we were freed
from our unspeakable misery. Now we
demand, good sirs, the extradition of
Cinquez and his accomplices to La
Havana. And it distresses us to know
there are so many here who seem inclined
to justify the mutiny of these blacks.
We find it paradoxical indeed
that you whose wealth, whose tree of liberty
are rooted in the labor of your slaves
should suffer the august John Quincey Adams
to speak with so much passion of the right
of chattel slaves to kill their lawful masters
and with his Roman rhetoric weave a hero's
garland for Cinquez. I tell you that
we are determined to return to Cuba
with our slaves and there see justice done.
Cinquez--
or let us say 'the Prince'--Cinquez shall die."

The deep immortal human wish,
the timeless will:

Cinquez its deathless primaveral image,
life that transfigures many lives.

Voyage through death
to life upon these shores.

Commentary:

Here we have perfection in the Poet's purpose. Much emotion documented, converting this observation of events into Poetry with the ease of the Master Poet. 

Robert Hayden's style of attempting to capture the emotional element of all sides without biased comment can only fall into that category of "amazing talented P.I.F (Poet in Fact)." Readable, imbued with detail, converting history into something one can re-live through emotional ties with those participating in these horrible events. Bravo Mister Hayden, well done Sir.

Bob Atkinson

Paul Simon P.I.F.

Paul Simon's words enhance all our lives, a Poet in Fact, P.I.F.

Paul Simon's body of works provide us with emotional comfort, his words P.I.F., Poetry in Fact

Sounds of Silence

Video - sounds of silence, paul simon and art garfunkel

poemwriter: Paul Simon

Neon Sign

hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
because a vision softly creeping
left its seeds while I was sleeping

and the vision

that was planted in my brain
still remains
within the sound of silence

in restless dreams I walked alone
narrow streets of cobblestone
neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp

when my eyes were stabbed

by the flash of
a neon light
that split the night

and touched the sound of silence

and in the naked light I saw
ten thousand people

maybe more
people talking without speaking
people hearing without listening

people writing songs

that voices never share
and no one dared
disturb the sound of silence

fools said

I, you do not know
silence like a cancer grows

hear my words

that I might teach you,
take my arms

that I might reach you

but my words

like silent raindrops fell
and echoed
in the wells of silence

and the people bowed and prayed
to the neon God they made
and the sign flashed out its warning
in the words that it was forming

and the signs said

the words of the prophets
are written on the subway walls
and tenement halls

and whispered in the sounds of silence

Commentary:

It's not often that my thoughts are directed toward interpretation of what others say. Here, that exception to the rule of "Bob's Order" expressly asks me to perform that travesty.   Here, in Paul Simon's ode to sociological order we have the exact same theme as Kris Kristofferson's "To Beat the Devil," previously presented. The question again is "will people listen when you try to talk to them." Here, listen means listen, absorb and act. Paul thinks not, Kris also thinks not, but feels the effort is worth a try. In fact, Kris thinks that even though there's nobody going to listen, he's going to talk to them anyway. The try itself justifies the effort, nothing else needed.

The poetic nuances of Paul's excellent poem are priceless, and timeless. Had we listened to him back then, nearly 50 years ago, we'd all be better off now.

Master Poet: Kris Kristofferson P.I.F.

I hear you Kris, Bob Atkinson

 Master Poet:   Kris Kristofferson  P.I.F.

To Beat The Devil

Kris Kristofferson

Poemwriter: Kris Kristofferson

a couple of years back

I come across a great and wasted

friend of mine

in the hallway of a recording studio

and while he was reciting some poetry to me

that he'd written

I saw that he was about a step away from dyin'

and I couldn't help but wonder why

and the lines of this song occurred to me

I'm happy to say he's no longer wasted

and he's got him a good woman

and I'd like to dedicate this

to John and June

who helped show me how to beat the devil

it was winter time in Nashville

down on music city row

and I was lookin' for a place to get

myself out of the cold

to warm the frozen feelin'

that was eatin' at my soul

keep the chilly wind off my guitar

my thirsty wanted whiskey

my hungry needed beans

but it'd been of month of paydays since

I'd heard that eagle scream

so with a stomach full of empty

and a pocket full of dreams

I left my pride and stepped inside a bar

actually,

I guess you'd could call it a Tavern

cigarette smoke to the ceiling

and sawdust on the floor

friendly shadows

I saw that there was just

one old man sittin' at the bar

and in the mirror, I could see him

checkin' me and my guitar

an' he turned and said

"come up here boy,

and show us what you are"

I said, "I'm dry", he bought me a beer

he nodded at my guitar and said,

"it's a tough life, ain't it?"

I just looked at him

he said

"you ain't makin' any money, are you?"

I said, "You've been readin' my mail"

he just smiled and said

"let me see that guitar

I've got something you oughta hear"

then he laid it on me

"if you waste your time a-talkin'

to the people who don't listen

to the things that you are sayin'

who do you think's gonna hear

and if you should die explainin'

how the things that they complain about

are things they could be changin'

who do you think's gonna care?"

there were other lonely singers

in a world turned deaf and blind

who were crucified

for what they tried to show

and their voices have been scattered

by the swirling winds of time

'cause the truth remains

that no-one wants to know

well,

the old man was a stranger

but I'd heard his song before

back when failure had me locked out

on the wrong side of the door

when no-one stood behind me

but my shadow on the floor

and lonesome was

more than a state of mind

you see,

the devil haunts a hungry man

if you don't wanna join him

you got to beat him

I ain't sayin' I beat the devil,

but I drank his beer for nothing

then I stole his song

and you still can hear me singin'

to the people who don't listen

to the things that I am sayin'

prayin' someone's gonna hear

and I guess I'll die explainin'

how the things that they complain about

are things they could be changin'

hopin' someone's gonna care

I was born a lonely singer

and I'm bound to die the same

but I've got to feed

the hunger in my soul

and if I never have a nickel

I won't ever die ashamed

'cause I don't believe

that no-one wants to know