Stansell, 90, from Charlotte, N. All that changed Saturday when Stansell came with her son, Ken, deputy director of the U.
This boot stands out, sitting on top of the plastic bookshelf, on the patio. These boots were not worn in Nam or Fort Jackson—those are long gone. I picked this pair out at the Homeless Resource Fair a couple of long years ago.
The boot I can see sits upright,slightly tilted, with the top half pointed as if to walk or March, wearing a straw hat—the kind you might wear in the hot sun in a blaze Of furnace heat in the field.
This boot is tan-sierra, mud hanging off its soul with no caretaker to knock it off.
Objects are like boots, are without meaning until a young woman puts it on, and begins to walk, fast-forced-marching, crawling below the nighttime drill, they are under radar, under sand, under orange soil, treated as the lowest at least until a bunion is born to its wearer.
Big government rhetoric here, yay, party time! My job description for life is to make life more complex than what it really is. My ardor extends to doing this service for others with whom I have contact.
The vein his forehead aka condom bursts in a blood-redness, while the smack falls down on the shoulder of the road, so me the ever actuated activist, jump out of my car, with people lined up behind, they be honking their horns like long neck geese, by now, all I want is my peace.
The Vet dude with the crutch is now pissed off, not just at the officers, but the entire fucking planet. By this time I knew we were all hot, and that something was going to go down—I jumped back into my car that was still blocking traffic with the engine idling. This would be a good camophlage.
I wanted to get somewhere out of this swirling crap that was happening all around me, and I wanted to leave before the cops changed their minds.
You see, I was now very late for my appointment at the methadone clinic. Jerry, the staff member who sets up scheduling, would be ready to burn my ass at the stake like Joan of Arc.
These words came to me as I drove to the clinic: This is the zone of now, so are you digging up what the dog left in the ground, the slimy, stinky bone, or are you just letting your mind get blown?Yusef Komunyakaa: Starlight Scope Myopia Jorie Graham: Reading Plato Close-Up of Open Forms: "Diving into the Wreck" by Adrienne Rich A Brief Glossary Biographies and Further Reading Suggested Reading Credits General Index .
Yusef Komunyakaa‘s Dien Cai Dau is another collection of Vietnam War poetry. The poet, who received the Bronze Star and edited The Southern Cross, dedicates this book to his brother Glenn, “who saw The Nam before” Komunyakaa did/5(4).
I even wroe a poem based upon "Starlight Scope Myopia" from Dien Cai Dau. Simply put, Yusef Komunyakaa is the one living writer I most want to meet with and talk poetry. Read moreReviews: 6. advice: just read the assignments so you don’t have to worry about these things.
No make-up quizzes will be administered.
Reading Responses (2. Gray-blue shadows lift shadows onto an oxcart. Making night work for us, the starlight scope brings men into killing range.
The river under Vi Bridge. The Hundred Years’ War is a deeply moving testament to humanity caught up in war after war for the past hundred years. Yusef Komunyakaa: Starlight Scope Myopia.
Yusef Komunyakaa: Facing It. Yusef Komunyakaa: Thanks. Denise Levertov: Overheard over S.E. Asia. James Fenton: Cambodia.