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Last day of a three day weekend. Spent time critiquing some poems for another writer. It was enjoyable work with another very talented individual.
It's turned cold today and a bit of snow has dusted into the Kansas City area. The wind was strong earlier and snow was blowing horizontal. It was kind of pretty from inside. I will thin differently about it in the morning when I have to drive in to the office early. I had my second cataract surgery last week so I was out of the office three days and with a 3 day weekend it's felt strange to be home so much. That will be coming to an end tomorrow. I still have a brief stretch before I can restart Yoga. Have a follow up appointment on Thursday. My thoughts and heartfelt thanks to all the American Armed services that have served with distinction on behalf of our country. Happy birthday to Sylvia Plath who would have been 87 today, had she lived. I wonder how many writers owe her as an inspiration for their craft? She was the first writer that I recall reading that had the ability to bend and shape language into something I recognized more powerful than just words strung together. What could she have achieved had she lived a full life of writing?   Lucky Goat Socks A surprise gift from my sweetie - goat socks! I'll let you know just how lucky they are after I've written in them a while.
Thank you to Remington Review for accepting my poem "Keep [ing It] Going," which will appear in the Summer 2019 issue. If my memory serves me correctly, this will be the third time RR has allowed one of my poems to grace their pages. Great people! Thanks Again!
 Thirty years ago a young man stood in defiance of Chinese tanks at Tiananmen Squair. The photo of this single person in street clothing and clutching two shopping bags, standing face to face with a tank, is widely recognized and associated with the student freedom movement. The man and the massive machines of war catapulted itself to become an icon seen around the world. It was June 5th, 1989 when "Tank Man"was photographed in the aftermath of a deadly government crackdown to clear Tiananmen of young protesters. At home, however, China was attempted to scrub this image from the public minds. They once used it to demonstrate their need to use force, but the picture hardly served that purpose well. Generations of Chinese youth have been largely sheltered from this picture and the deadly government actions 30 years ago. In 2005 I wrote a poem the poem that follows - Tiananmen Mother - dedicating it to a Communist Party official that broke with the government and tried to warn the protesters of the coming violence. As has been the case with others, he was ostracized. Beyond that, I believe the poem speaks for itself. Tiananmen Mother for Zhao Ziyang The Beijing breeze whispers mournful strophes. Tears like the mountain rains follow slopes to tributaries until they become one with the rippling waters of the Yangtze. I am a Tiananmen mother. My eyes have swelled with this sadness before. The wetness follows a path well rehearsed. My nights are immense. I am but a lone bare branch in a cold, dark world. They replicate that June night etched in my soul over and over. My son stood in the Square armed only with a vision and they came- The People's Army. My son stood in Tiananmen Square, amid a sea of other sons and daughters and they came- armored tanks clanking along the streets into Tiananmen driven by fear, ordered by paranoia. Our sons and daughters toppled to the earth at their hands. Crimson crawling into every crevice Of these ancient Chinese streets A stain still upon us today. I cannot count the nights I've wept for my son since. Today, I weep for another. There is no official news but the Beijing breeze whispers again. This time for the death of the old man. There are guards of fear stationed outside my door. The lump in my throat is big, I cannot begin to swallow, that is how I know the truth. Guilt always gnawing at my heart. I could not help my son that June night. Again as I am helpless. I want to pay my respects to the old man who stood up for my son and others massacred in Tiananmen, but the thugs watch my every move. I am a Tiananmen mother. It is my duty to weep for the lost ones. © 2005 Michael A. Wells “We have conversations most nights, Sylvia Plath and me!”
― Avijeet Das |
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(c) Michael Allyn Wells - 2017