Tag: Olga Dugan

Two Poems by Olga Dugan

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The Effort

        (for Nicky)

he has to go, take care of his other kids
she throws his jacket at him, ushers
back into the dining room her baby-girl
my great niece in creams, peats, pumpkins
little leafy-gold shoes—an ode to autumn

the Thanksgiving crowd swallows up
the two-year old while she stands apart
watching, burnt-orange and sienna wig
situated neatly, squiggles down her neck
the effort to look pretty exudes
from the doll-baby top that v’s in black
cotton down white see-through seersucker
a proper stop where an under blouse
covers her cleavage

blue, red, yellow, pink-painted horizons
stylize tattered jeans, but hardly swath
tears and rips I see
when congratulations!
for everything to everyone else
move into the living room away from her
and the turkey she’s made with such skill, care
when she looks in the mirror for competence
confidence I know are there
but—eyes lowering, regret aging her face
shoulders heaving, going limp—I know
she has, once more, missed…

still, her effort to look again so not to stymie
all hope, inspires, and mustering up
a compatriot’s faith in her battle of beating
failure with a try, I savor the moment
by looking again, too

*

An Ode of Modern Martyrs

today, our polyphonic voices still
hum Amazing Grace, Alleluia
shout Be Outraged, Pay Attention!
we still stand against what makes
the word “evil” flesh
still sow seeds so love grows
strong enough to drown out hydras
spewing from many heads many heads
hate, mendacity, myth—some grafted
in this law, that praxis, some raised
in monuments of concrete, bronze—

because the legacy of centuries slain
every defender of peace
every “strange fruit” in age, creed
color of martyr has been and is
to bet on our very precious lives
that humanity is more than its troubled history
that the angels of our better natures can discern
tares from wheat, tares even greater angels
will one day gather for burning
that truth, though sometimes hidden
too often slowed to a grind
will nonetheless reign and remain
the arc ever bent toward the good and just

*

Olga Dugan is a Cave Canem poet. Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, her award-winning poems appear in many literary journals and anthologies including The Write Launch, The Sunlight Press, Relief: A Journal of Art and Faith, Ekstasis, The Windhover, The Agape Review, Grand Little Things, Kweli, Emerge, ONE ART, Channel (Ireland), E-Verse Radio, evolution: The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku, and the Munster Literature Centre’s Poems from Pandemia – An Anthology.

Razing Cain by Olga Dugan

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Razing Cain

Cain roams the world without a rest.
The street hood strolls into my classroom
to have his turn at making palimpsest,
to write over the first fratricide’s doom.

He just strolls into my classroom
to spill some brother’s blood,
to write over the first fratricide’s doom,
clueless of a choice to stem this flood.

No. He’ll spill some brother’s blood,
scouring each row as he takes a seat.
Clueless of a choice to stem this flood,
he turns that imperative stare on me,

chooses a row, takes a seat: Where is he?
Do you belong here? Could not help but ask.
He trades that stare for tongue in cheek—
hell, yeah, Miss umm…I belong in your class.

Do you belong here? Could not help but ask;
behind the malice was a young man,
who yes, for a moment belonged in my class.
The light of ancient wisdom had chiseled its plan

behind the malice mask of this young man—
a heritage of creative power, virility.
There, in his brow, wisdom chiseled its plan
for a Homer’s or a Griot’s ability.

But over creative power, virility,
Cain rises in a frowning forehead,
a haughty chin—over Homer’s ability,
the Griot’s grace, he grouses instead:

What you lookin’ at? Cain’s mark is on his head.
He’s my brother, but not for me to keep—
over wisdom’s grace, he takes hate instead—
You leave now, or I call security.

My voice weeps for the brother I cannot keep.
The door clicks thunder behind him.
Soon after, he shoots my student for security
on the word of a slighted friend.

I watch police slam car doors behind them,
the coroner cover vacant eyes, miss a shoe,
and wonder if, a slighted friend
might someday serve Cain his fair due.

Later, I recall vacant eyes, the shoe,
as I wield my chalk to make palimpsest
of hopes we’ll someday serve him his fair due—
by razing Cain to give our world a rest.

*

Olga Dugan is a Cave Canem poet. Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, her poems appear in many literary journals and anthologies including Ekstasis, Relief: A Journal of Art and Faith, Sky Island Journal, Channel (Ireland), Cathexis Northwest Press, Kweli, The Windhover, The Write Launch, The Southern Quarterly, Poems from Pandemia – An Anthology, Cave Canem Anthology: XIII, and Red Moon Anthology of Modern English Haiku. Articles on poetry and cultural memory appear in The Journal of African American History, The North Star, and in Emory University’s “Following the Fellows.”