The Democratic Debate: Poetry Edition
What does poetry have to do with politics? At this journal, the answer is: Toda.
Happy Thursday, everyone!
Tonight, the second Democratic Debate gets underway, this time featuring Bernie Sanders, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris who will join a coterie fighting for those precious thirty-second soundbites. But what does poetry have to do with politics? At Poets Reading the News, the answer is: toda.
Tyler Friend proves there's a candidate for every mood with their dynamic survey of the Democratic field. Mark Williams shares precious personal insight into Trump's self-invented Iran problem. Gerry Sarnat writes about Beto O'Rourke's hot bod. Carol Flake Chapman wins our poetry challenge as she narrates Mr. Magoo's bewildering visit to Disneyworld on the same night as Trump's Orlando rally. Alexandra Haines-Stiles is very worried you're reading all of this on your phone. And Jasmine Marshall Armstrong writes heart-opening poetry for a photograph from the Rio Grande gone viral.
Yours in poetry,
Elle Aviv Newton
Editor-in-Chief
Poets Reading the News
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The Candidate I Want
By Tyler Friend
I
Elizabeth Warren is the candidate I want
when I want a plan. When I want
a teacher. When I want
someone to identify the problem
& the solution & write it on the blackboard
so I can copy it down
& memorize it & put it to use. When
I crave brick buildings & quiet, moss-
rich gardens. When
I miss my grandma. When
I’m feeling earnest. When I say something like quixotic
in my Southern Voice. When
I post pictures of deer to my Insta story. When
I won’t let things go.
II
Pete Buttigieg is the candidate I want
when I want to sew this country up
like a dog-ripped teddy bear. When I want
to believe Trump supporters
aren’t all racist, homophobic bigots. When I believe a boy
in a button-down doesn’t have to grow up
with hate in his heart. When I want
to husk some corn. When I smirk.
When I eat a hotdog. When I’m hungry,
I guess. When I go to a drag show
in Nashville. When I say nĭ hăo & hasta mañana
to my students. When I’m feeling
just a little bit pretentious.
III
Cory Booker & Andrew Yang are the candidates I want
when I want to believe in men. When I want
to believe that there are good dads in the world. That nerds
& jocks can be best friends.
IV
Kamala Harris is the candidate I want
when I want to be inspired, when I want to remember
what we’ve achieved & what we have left
to achieve. When I go to a poetry reading
in Pittsburgh. When I think about Prince performing
at the Super Bowl. She’s the candidate I want
running next to me in the rain. On my trivia team. Arguing
my point for me at the bar.
V
Kirsten Gillibrand is the candidate I want
when I want to pick a fight, mimosa in hand.
When I want to paint my truck pink. When I see a Trump flag
& flip it off as I drive by. When I’m not feeling
very polite. When I’m feeling powerful. When
my ass looks great in these jeans. When I’m wearing
bright-blue eyeshadow to the club
& no one will see it anyway. When I roll my eyes
directly at you.
Impolitic Licks
By Gerry Sarnat
I luv Beto’s bod
and except for one City Council stand
to bulldoze El Paso barrios
that helped his billionaire father-in-law developer
maybe would vote for O’Rourke for President
of some high school Student Body
if the not ready for primetime
policyless pep rally rollout’s age-old American
political theater trope’s silent, supportive wife
didn’t signal three strikes and you’re out…perhaps.
Saved, 3 Baby Rabits*
By Mark Williams
We’ve seemingly never had a president who so frequently declares
a crisis or even starts one and then takes credit for solving it.
—Medium
When I was ten and had the vocabulary of a ten-year-old,
I found three baby rabbits, huddled in a field beside our house.
Carefully, I scooped them in my hands and took them home.
“I saved 3 baby RABITS!!!” I could have written later,
never mind the rabbits’ mother would have probably returned.
Forget the fact that I asked my friend John Fletcher
to come to my house with a surrogate mom, John’s cat, Miss Kitty,
who killed one bunny in an instant, leaving
me with two, one of whom I stepped on,
the second dying from apparent shock
when I showed him at Show & Tell.
Mr. Magoo Goes to the Trump Rally
By Carol Flake Chapman
Mr. Magoo, it seems, had lost his glasses
And his wife Maggie couldn’t see much better
And so when they took a detour in Orlando
On their way, they thought, to the Magic Kingdom
And arrived at the Amway Center, they cheered
Along with the crowd in their Mickey Mouse hats.
“I’ve never seen so many hats,” said Maggie Magoo.
“This must be Fantasyland,” said Mr. Magoo,
As the man they thought was the Beast
From Beauty and the Beast kept roaring
About witch hunts and hoaxes and false accusers.
“I think the Beast has been bewitched and deluded,”
Said Mr. Magoo “and he sees himself as a King
Because he has gotten lost in the Hall of Mirrors.”
“No,” said Maggie Magoo, “I think we have made it
To the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror,
Because the Beast used to live in a tower
And now he lives in the Haunted Mansion
In Liberty Square with the Hall of Presidents.
He says he is the greatest one of all
Because he defeated the wicked Queen Hillary.”
“I think he is telling us to head for the Mine Train,”
Said Mr. Magoo, “because he is calling for more mining.
We can ride with the Seven Dwarfs in his cabinet
For some real wild ups and downs and crazy spins
On our way to Frontierland with lots of guns and goons
And paintball games where you can shoot liberals
With red paint and newspaper targets with fake news.”
“So where is the Great Wall,” asked Maggie Magoo,
“That the Beast keeps talking about so loudly?
Is there some new section of the Magic Kingdom
Called Borderland that we must have missed?
I think there are cages there with alien children
That you can feed while the Icemen round up
Grownup aliens and send them to Latinoland.”
“I think we need to go back to Main Street,”
Said Mr. Magoo. “This is just too loud for me.
They keep talking about 2020 and my vision
Will never be 20-20, even with my glasses.”
“But the Beast has promised to cure cancer,”
Said Mrs. Magoo. “Oh Maggie,” replied Mr. Magoo,
“I think you have gotten lost in Tomorrowland.”
Horns Are Growing on Young People's Skulls
Alexandra Haines-Stiles
“Phone use is to blame, research suggests.”
— The Washington Post
Look up, look up! Look what’s happening
to our downcast generation, evolving in real time,
skeletons adapting to the strains of modern life
faster than you can say genetic mutation.
When scientists look under the skin with X-ray vision,
they see what comes from looking at our phones
too long and hard: stony spurs, tough cellular tufts,
miniature towers building outward, skyward. So this
is what it means to be horny in the digital century,
in lust with a different kind of hand-held fantasy.
So this is the new, improved, bone-anchored antenna,
receiving, transmitting unlimited. So this is the spot,
base of the skull, top of the neck, tender to the touch,
spinal tether, where we start in spite of ourselves
to change. Look into it. Hey, humans, look out
Rio Grande Elegy
By Jasmine Marshall Armstrong
Perhaps he held her first
in the gush of waters
from his wife,
when the daughter came
to life’s bank first.
Perhaps he tucked her
under his shirt,
warming the newborn,
skin to skin, as we all do–
Quieting the thin, high wail
at the harsh atmosphere
we all brush up against,
the currents of hunger,
fear, hatred, rejection,
imprisonment on concrete
too many must brave–
Perhaps when the father
saw his mi’ja slip
from this nation’s muddy
bank, into our morass–
he knew they would drown
in our indifference,
So he tucked her close,
to his own slowing heart,
so the current she’d know
last, was love–
as her father made sure
she did not wash up alone.