16

I moved in the darkness of morning
And wondered where I
Needed to go
I saw a monk walking
With a candle
In his hand
I asked him if this was
The way to church
He did not say anything
He just nodded
And continued walking
He disappeared on
The corridors
I pressed on
And I saw
The two protectors
Of the monastery
Looking at me majestically
One on each side of the doors
I was in the narthex
It was Saint Anthony’s
And Saint Nectarios
Side by side
Larger than I
They looked at me
Like saints do
With their eyes
Looking within human souls.

REMINDER ON THE WALL

I wake up
And feel
A whole
In my stomach
I see it
It looks
Like a zero
It is cleaner
And neater
Than a shotgun blast
I touch it
And something moves
The hairs of
The tarantula
Tickle the skin
Of my fingers
I smash the spider
Against the wall
And go back to sleep
On the next
Doctor’s appointment
I am told
I no longer
Have an ulcer.

My friend, Coptic poet Mathew Shenoda, has answered a question I asked him more than a year ago. The question has to do with the role of poetry in today’s world. His response is the following:

“The mission of poetry in the world today is first to express the truth, to soothsay and second to take the knowledge of that truth and create a visionary space wherein another world is possible. Poetry is counter-madness”

Mathew has a new book out:

Somewhere Else
Poems by Matthew Shenoda
Introduction by Sonia Sanchez

Rooted in the traditions of the Coptic community, this compelling debut collection widens the political conversation surrounding ethnicity, pan-Africanism, and pan-Arabism.“These papyrus-dipped poems launch the Eastern desert into the ‘Forever-West’ where we all dwell. Listen to Shenoda’s ‘giraffe tongue’ unwind—incantations reclaiming the Coptic earth and its peoples, stories and sufferings, a grandmother and grandfather’s lessons of war, death, rebirth, love and peace. This book holds the keys to our present global predicament—each word is a star in our night.”—Juan Felipe Herrera

“While reading Matthew Shenoda’s Somewhere Else, I become acutely aware of history insisting on the verity of knowledge. History is more than memory. It is hope and experience. And it is the passion of life. And for Shenoda, it is the connection to the Nile of story, song, music, dance, and the power of language between Egypt and America. Great poetry you can dance to!”—Simon Ortiz

“The history of Eg ypt and the Nile River Valley are strikingly evoked in these tightly crafted, most times short, terse poems, with lines full of surprises, as in: ‘I am somewhere/between home & home,’ or ‘in our bodies a rooted history.’ These are strongly political, beautiful and peaceful poems and they constantly remind us: ‘Holy things/Do not die.’ Somewhere Else is a wise, eloquent book.”—Quincy Troupe

Paperback Original
ISBN: 1 -56689 -173 –6
Coffee House Press
List Price $14.00

I can’t wait to get my copy.

SLEEP

When I died
I saw demons
Condemning me
For all my evils
It was excruciating
I also
Sensed the prayers
Of my 4
Year old grandson
Like morphine
They took
The pain away
The devils disappeared
As my daughter’s boy
Down there
On planet earth
Crushed a scorpion
With a rock.

LA CARRETERA

Escucho la voz
De mis niños
Entre el tráfico
Juegan con
Un caracol.

FATIGUED

I considered
How the rifle
Was heavy
On my back
Just like love
Necessary for
For a fruitful
Subsistence.

OVERCAST

When it rains
Radio signals
Travel farthest
Alongside migrating birds
Sensuality stops
For a moment
And television broadcasters
Proclaim death
On the highways.

A PRAYER

Lord
Jesus Christ
Bless the food
Of your servants
Protect us from
Invisible pesticides
And diabolical hormones
Render useless
The transgenic
Poison in our
Children’s bodies
May the acid rain
Become like
Sweet wine
May sugar
Not be
A drug
And may your blood
Cleanse the
Arteries of
The modern world
For heart attacks
To cease
Together with
The radiation
Of all the
Microwaves in the planet
Make barley flourish
May coca—cola disappear
Cast down
The cell pone towers
Symbols of disease
Obliterate the power lines
That burn the flesh
Of our people
Our cities
Oh Lord
Have become
Shrines of addicts
To created light
May depleted uranium
Be erased from
The food crops
So that every time
We partake of the
Fruits from the earth
We might think of you
In the name
Of the Father
And of the Son
And of the
Holy Spirit
Amen.

SIGNS

Flies around
The food
Are an omen
Of the madness
From hoarding

CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT

It’s time
To go to bed
And the fog
Comes from
The ocean
From the
Capricious Pacific
With its
Underwater earthquakes
Ah the uncertainties
Of middle class TV

EL REMEDIO

La poesía
Es la única energía
Que puede salvar al mundo.

ENSENADA IS

To Ricardo and Carolina

Watching a school
Of dolphins
While we wait
For our dear friends
Then following them
To their home
In a secluded vineyard
By the countryside
It is drinking wine
With the winemaker
It is eating cheese
And bread
Pondering in the
Inevitable end
Of all things
And being asked
To spend the night
In one of their
Rustic cabins
And I try
To remember
When was the last time
I like this place so much
To no avail
Just faint and uneventful memories
Of fishing boats
And drunken tourists
It’s is not knowing
If this will be the last time
I would see my love ones
It is standing close
To the fire
Because the night
Is getting cold.

ENCOUNTER

When I kissed
Saint Mary Magdalene
I felt the power
Of her love
She is not dead
She’s clothed
With immortality
She remains a secret
For those
Seeking her
For gain
And avarice.

15

The bedroom
Had 2 beds in it
I took the one
On the right
I felt someone
Looking at me
Through the window
I closed the blinds
Then I closed my eyes
And went to sleep
I had a dream
In it I saw
A wonderworker
Smiling at me
His smile was like the sun
And we were
On a beautiful countryside
I was overcome with ecstasy
And could not speak much
I just asked a few questions
And he would just smiled
He answered with
A radiant light
Of silence
And I knew I was
Being healed of things
I did not know
I was pleased to see him
Because he had left
The monastery
One day earlier
And I know he likes
To visit his guests
In dreams
Then I awoke
The sounds of knocking
At my door
Accompanied by
Short foreign words
It was still dark
I knew I had to get up
And go to
One of their temples

14

The monk said:
Now we’ll go to
The men’s guesthouse
And started walking
Once again I followed him
It was late at night
And I was getting tired
I wanted to sleep
It was hard to keep up
With the agile monk
He walked fast
And I did the best I could
Another 2 storey building
And he said:
This is the guest house
He opened the door
And invited me enter
Inside the ambiance
Was pleasant
Almost like a resort
There was a living space
With comfortable sofas
Next to it there was a kitchen
And sign that said
Restaurant food
Is not allowed
You were encouraged
To cook your own
We have three rooms available
The monk said
As he looked at a notebook
I asked which one I could take
He told me to choose one
I asked which one he recommended
He said the one I select
Would be a good choice
Three rooms next to each other
I entered the one
In the middle
And said good night
May you rest
Said the monk

LUNCH TIME

I drink my coffee
Inside my beat up truck
I poured it out
Of my beat up thermos
A man
Driving a Jaguar
Stops and looks at me
The coffee
Tastes so good
It is so hot
And it’s even better
With the cigarette
I wouldn’t trade
This moment
For his Jaguar.

THE OSCARS

The truth
Is far away
From the
Silver screen

RELAX

I never imagined
I could be so happy
Living frugally
And I hear
The neighbor
Singing corridos
With his acoustic guitar

LIKE A PLANE

As Lukas drives shotgun
For the first time
He looks at the dashboard
And says
It’s like a plane
It’s night time
And he tries not
To fall asleep
And I remember
My father
And his mysterious friends
One of them
Had a private jet
And we flew
From California
To Arizona
They let me sit
In the cockpit
Next to the pilot
And I tried
Not to fall asleep
But I did
Just like Lukas.

A POEM FOR THE POPE

Everybody
Is waiting for your death
Some have tried to kill you
I hope you make it
I like you
And I am not even
Roman Catholic