Dragging their brains along

If you think that the Kleptocrat and his toadies have no imperial ambitions, I hope you are not operating heavy machinery. White Americans formed this country on the foundation of Manifest Destiny; that still shapes the policies of the best of our governments. The white Christian nationalists in the Republican party are using Mr. I’m-not-a-pedophile to solidify their notions of a theocratic state that uses imperial-level power to bend the world to their will. The pedophile is mostly in it for the money grab and the thrill of exercising power, but it amounts to the same thing.

For today’s entry for National Poetry Month, I’m giving you Jesús Castillo’s “Untitled”, for a few thoughts about empire. Castillo was born in San Luís Potosí, Mexico, emigrated to California at age 11 and now lives in Oaxaca, Mexico. Along the way at some point, he earned an MFA in poetry from the University of Iowa.

Castillo said, about this poem, that the job of the poet today is to have fun and to observe, and to have fun with what s/he observes. So, here we go.

         Dear Empire, I am confused each time I wake inside you.
                        You invent addictions. 
          Are you a high-end graveyard or a child?
                        I see your children dragging their brains along.
                        Why not a god who loves water and dancing
                   instead of mirrors that recite your pretty features only?

          You wear a different face to each atrocity.
          You are un-unified and tangled.
                        Are you just gluttony?
                        Are you civilization’s slow grenade?

             I am confused each time I’m swallowed by your doors.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: It finds its wings

Well, y’all know I’m not a fan of Emily Dickinson. Lord knows, I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t come.

But for this Gratitude Monday in National Poetry Month. I was thinking about how much a sparrow enjoyed the birdbath I provide for my avian friends, and when you search for “poems about birds”, Dickinson pops right up at the top.

For reference, the sparrow:

I mean—its joy is infectious, and I’m so grateful to have been able to make it possible.

So—Emily:

“Even the Smallest Wings”

A tiny bird upon the breeze,
Gliding high with so much ease.
Though small in size, it finds its way,
Soaring freely every day.

It does not fear the heights so steep,
Nor doubts the journey it must keep.
For wings, though small, were made to fly,
To chase the sun, to touch the sky.

So let the birds remind us true,
No dream’s too big for me or you.
With faith and courage, we can try -
Even the smallest wings can fly!

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Despite expert advice

No one—but no one—could turn a phrase like Dorothy Parker. That woman could pack more venom into a single couplet than anyone who’s ever picked up a pen. Born Dorothy Rothschild in 1893, Parker was part of the creative explosion in New York after World War I. Poet, critic, playwright, screenwriter; she was one of the linchpins of the Round Table at the Algonquin Hotel. She could drink most of the men under that table and never lose a battle of wits.

Parker was also a human rights activist: against fascism and racism, for civil rights and decency. At her death in 1967, she bequeathed her estate to Martin Luther King, Jr.

Much of Parker’s poetry is self-deprecating, particularly with respect to her disappointments in love. (If you’ve been diagnosed with depression, you really want to stay away from her short stories. They’re beautifully written, but they’ll gut you like a fish knife.) Here’s one that’s a little more defiant; if I had to choose a personal anthem, this would be it.

I think it’s an exemplary way to conduct our lives during this time.

“Neither Bloody nor Bowed”

They say of me, and so they should,
It's doubtful if I come to good.
I see acquaintances and friends
Accumulating dividends,
And making enviable names
In science, art, and parlor games.
But I, despite expert advice,
Keep doing things I think are nice,
And though to good I never come-
Inseparable my nose and thumb!

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Black the boots of success

One of my all-time favorite poets is e.e. cummings, 1894-1962. He introduced me to free-form poetry and the concept that all elements of a poem—not just the words—contribute to the meaning.

I was in high school, remember.

Cummings definitely had an eye for the political animal. And he used his words like a boning knife, to fillet every layer of despicability and venality. He’s definitely got us covered for the current administration and its “excursion” in Iran.

Perhaps his most famous anti-war poem is “plato told”. It skewers those who will not heed the warnings of Greek philosophers, Jewish teachers or American generals that war is not anything to be sought. (It also nails the businessman who’s perfectly happy to profit by trading with the enemy, especially since neither he nor his sons will be headed in harm’s way.)

“next to of course god america” goes more directly after those who preach the gospel of glory; the ones who give the fieriest speeches in hoarse voices, urging someone else’s sons to go to war. The ones who—for one reason or another (could be draft deferments for bone spurs, or “critical” business interests)—never actually have to carry a carbine at the front. Looking at how cummings jams all the clichés of bloviating politicians together, you can just see the red-faced, over-fed politician standing at a podium, sweating copious amounts into his wrinkled suit as he makes his tired case.

The only thing missing is the chants of the audience.

“next to of course god america”

next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country 'tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

Because it’s cummings, I’m giving you another poem for today’s National Poetry Month entry. This one speaks to the entire ethos of MAGA.

(Look at how he’s structured the first two lines of each iteration of “humanity”, carefully changing the emphasis by where he places the words at the end of the first line.)

“Humanity i love you”

Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because
when you’re hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you’re flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shop and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more

especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down

on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity

i hate you

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Don't give it up

Everything is not terrible. Tuesday Virginians voted to approve a plan to redraw congressional districts; this new map leans heavily Blue, which is enraging everyone with an (R) after their name.

I mean some clown car calling itself “Justice for Democracy PAC” has been sending out multiple variants of flyers that actually use photos of Barack Obama urging Virginia to “Protect minority representation” by voting against it. 

This in addition to other spurious claims like this is Governor Abigail Spanberger’s doing. (The referendum was on approving a bill from the state legislature, not a power-grab by Spanberger; she just signed it, allowing it to be voted on by us.) They were really counting on the stupidity and/or confusion by the voting public.

Yes, the new districts are drawn to favor Democrats, potentially flipping four seats to Blue. Yes, this is absolutely gerrymandering. But also yes, this undoes the last round of gerrymandering in 2010, which served up safely Republican Representatives for a decade and a half.

And again yes, this particular cycle of gerrymandering was started by Republicans in Texas (egged on by the Kleptocrat), when the lege mandated new district lines that disenfranchised heavily Latino areas—mandated, mind you, without any consultation from the voters. So the same people who lauded the Texas changes are currently hopping mad at the outrage of being served up what they dished out.

BTW: this is how the Washington Post's editorial board heralded the Texas change:

And here's how it covered Tuesday's vote in Virginia:

(Update: a Virginia GOP-appointed judge ruled Wednesday that the redistricting amendment is unconstitutional, that all votes are invalid and that the state is barred permanently from implementing the changes. Attorney General Jay Jones has said he'll appeal. My prediction if this goes to SCOTUS, they'll faff about until it's too late to change the districts for the mid-term elections in November. Nonetheless: the people voted.)

So my earworm for today is “Words of Wonder/Get Up, Stand Up”, by Playing for Change and featuring the immortal (truly) Keith Richards. (Richards wrote "Words of Wonder"; "Get Up, Stand Up" is from the also immortal Bob Marley.)

Make it so.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

O! 'Tis foul!

Today’s the day we mark the Big Gun of English poetry, William Shakespeare. We think this was his birthday in 1564, and we know it was the day he died, in 1616. Much of Shakespeare’s life would have been spent amidst pestilence; smallpox, typhus, cholera were just some of the diseases swirling about. It’s surprising that his works aren’t more drenched with catastrophic events beyond the making of man.

King Lear was first performed for James I in 1606, following a summer in which bubonic plague ravaged the country and closed down much of the entertainment venues and shops in London. We don’t know that this influenced Shakespeare, but the landscape of Lear is a blasted wasteland for much of the play, so…

As per usual, Lear’s downfall is of his own making, but, man, does he take half the cast with him into madness and death. About halfway through the play, when the deposed king is wandering the moors, he rages…against ingratitude.

Huh.

King Lear, Act III, Scene 2

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
You sulph’rous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ th’ world,
Crack Nature’s moulds, all germains spill at once,
That makes ingrateful man!
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters.
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness.
I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children,
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man.
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That will with two pernicious daughters join
Your high-engender’d battles ‘gainst a head
So old and white as this! O! O! ’tis foul!

Frankly, I’ve always thought that—more than other Shakespearean tragic heroes—Lear pretty much deserved what he wrought. I mean—the guy couldn’t see Regan and Goneril for what they were; or Cordelia, for that matter. The tragedy was that—because he was king—his follies turned into horror for everyone around him. Which we’re experiencing right now with the current occupant of the White House whose brain is rotting before our eyes, but—far from being exiled to the moors with his Fool (and who among his Cabinet of grifting morons would play that role, I wonder?), he’s free and empowered to start wars and wander off, pillage natural resources, crush human rights at home and abroad and loot our treasury. The tragedy is ours, not his.

Anyhow, as is my custom for Shakespeare day in National Poetry Month, here’s one of his sonnets, in which he compares love to disease. ‘Nuff said.

“Sonnet 147”

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed:
    For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
    Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

My bread you snap

I read a WaPo headline the other day to the effect that Republicans in Red states are having difficulties passing anti-immigration bills because of pushback from business lobbyists. I didn’t read the story because, first of all—duh, but also because it’s just another case of FAFO. It turns out that without immigrants willing to work for low wages and no benefits, anything to do with the food chain—from tending the fields to bussing the restaurant tables—can’t survive. (Also, manufacturing, transportation, retail, construction and trades apparently have the same crap business model. They all depend on exploitation of the workforce to turn a profit, so without immigrants, they’re toast.)

Imagine that.

This year, we’re facing increased strains on the global food supply chain. Climate change has altered the geography of arable land, and violent weather has played up with crops. Tariffs have screwed farmer and consumer alike. Moreover, this moronic war of choice in the Middle East has not only sent the price of all petroleum-based fuels (and products) skyrocketing, but it turns out that a big chunk of the world’s fertilizer passes through the Strait of Hormuz, which is now closed as a totally predictable (to everyone except the Kleptocrat, apparently) outcome of the attacks on Iran.

Yay—not only are prices of food going up, but we may all get to experience food scarcity. First hand.

Well, my entry for today in National Poetry Month is from the immortal Dylan Thomas, “The Bread I Break”.

You can read this on so many levels—literally on the process of what it takes to turn grain into bread and fruit into wine. It’s a commentary on humans pillaging the planet. It’s also an allegory of the sacrifice of Christ.

(Who in no way—physical or moral—resembles the brain-rotting occupant of the White House.)

“This Bread I Break”

This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wine at night
Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy.

Once in this time wine the summer blood
Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine,
Once in this bread
The oat was merry in the wind;
Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.

This flesh you break, this blood you let
Make desolation in the vein,
Were oat and grape
Born of the sensual root and sap;
My wine you drink, my bread you snap.

Turns out humans are utter crap at appreciating sacrifice of any sort, whether it’s the chicken they’re frying or the god they worship. Yippee.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Killers in high places

I was introduced to Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem” via one of my favorite Inspector Gamache novels by Louise Penny. That series is about a Québecois inspecteur du Sûreté and it’s centered around a Brigadoon-ish village some kilometers from Montréal. The villagers are a little on the fey side, and I do wish Penny had not given her protagonist a name that is so very close to the chocolate coating that goes on cakes and truffles, but the plots are generally quite good, and I do love police procedurals.

How the Light Gets In is one of the most powerful in the series, and Penny described Cohen’s generosity when she or her publishers wrote to ask him for permission to use part of the chorus as an epigraph. He gave it to her, without asking any fee.

Well, I’ve been thinking rather a lot about the notion that things (and people and nations) can be more beautiful—stronger, more valuable—for having been broken. I want to believe it, but I know there’s a difference between a crack and utter destruction. I hoped we could stop the damage before we get to that place, but I fear we’re already there. We will have a lot of work to do to repair the damage a few greedy powerful white men are doing.

I'm also thinking about the Japanese art of kintsugi—repairing cracks in pottery with gold. In a visual sense, that's surely letting the light in, isn't it? Viz:

I’m giving you today’s National Poetry Month entry as a poem, because I’ve always thought of Cohen as a poet rather than a songwriter. Also, I’m not that wild about the melody of this one. I’ve also cut the chorus until the last one.

“Anthem”

The birds they sang
At the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
Has passed away
Or what is yet to be
Yeah the wars they will
Be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
Bought and sold
And bought again
The dove is never free

We asked for signs
The signs were sent
The birth betrayed
The marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood
Of every government
Signs for all to see

I can't run no more
With that lawless crowd
While the killers in high places
Say their prayers out loud
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
A thundercloud
And they're going to hear from me

You can add up the parts
You won't have the sum
You can strike up the march
There is no drum
Every heart, every heart to love will come
But like a refugee

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything (there is a crack in everything)
That's how the light gets in
Ring the bells that still can ring (ring the bells that still can ring)
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything (there is a crack in everything)
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in

Can we be kintsugi? Can we let the lights in through the cracks? Can we try? 

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Gratitude Monday: He fathers-forth

Particularly in our current environment, one of undeclared class warfare that pits the oligarchs against everyone else on every field—economics, environment, education, politics, religion, resource allocation—I struggle with maintaining any kind of spiritual, emotional and mental balance. So I make a conscious effort to absorb and honor the beauty and grace in my daily life.

As I do, I follow the prescription of an old photography professor—when something strikes me, I also try to look around for another perspective, to see if there’s not something else about it equally beautiful.

Viz:

I went out to glory in the dogwood in my cluster, which of course were spectacular.

But so, too, was the shadow it threw on the sidewalk.

This reminds me of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Pied Beauty”, today’s entry for National Poetry Month. Just the first line opens me up for the joy and the loveliness that’s all around us, in both nature and the work people do to make our lives easier.

You might call it "God's DEI program."

“Pied Beauty”

Glory be to God for dappled things –
   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
   Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
      And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
   Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
      With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
                                Praise him.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

To be led by a fool

Like many writers of science fiction, Octavia E. Butler used the “otherworld” settings of her novels to explore a variety of themes, including African American spiritualism, characterizing survival as heroic in itself and criticizing hierarchies. Her work won many writing awards, as well as a MacArthur Fellowship (you know—the “genius” grant).

She’s not known primarily as a poet, but she used poems to frame her prose.

Butler set her two-book Earthseed series in a post-Apocalyptic Earth. In the 2020s. (Parable of the Sower was published in 1993; Parable of the Talents in 1998.) She prefaced each chapter with a poem. My entry for National Poetry Month today is from Chapter 11 of the former; it does seem appropriate.

Choose your leaders with wisdom and forethought.
To be led by a coward is to be controlled by all that the coward fears.
To be led by a fool is to be led by the opportunists who control the fool.
To be led by a thief is to offer up your most precious treasures to be stolen.
To be led by a liar is to ask to be told lies.
To be led by a tyrant is to sell yourself and those you love into slavery.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu