ABOUT
David Cope is a Michigan native, born in Detroit 1948. After 3 years in factory and 18 years as custodian, David completed his A.B. at U of Michigan and M.A. at Western Michigan; he taught Shakespeare and a variety of other courses at Grand Rapids Community College, also reading his poetry and teaching poetics with Allen Ginsberg, Anne Waldman and other poets at the 1980, 1982, 1987, 1990 and 1994 Naropa summer sessions. Winner of the 1977 Pushcart Prize, 1988 American Academy/ Institute of Arts & Letters literature award, and Grand Rapids Poet Laureate (2011-2014). Cope has published 9 books, including The Invisible Keys: New and Selected Poems, A Bridge Across the Pacific: Leaves for Chen Zi’ang, Guan Yin, and Du Fu, and The Correspondence of David Cope & Allen Ginsberg 1976-1996. The David Cope Papers are found at the University of Michigan Special Collections Research Center.
à propos
David Cope est originaire du Michigan, né à Detroit en 1948. Après 3 ans en usine et 18 ans en tant que gardien, David a terminé son baccalauréat ès arts à l’Université du Michigan et sa maîtrise à Western Michigan; il a enseigné Shakespeare et une variété d’autres cours au Grand Rapids Community College, en lisant également sa poésie et en enseignant la poésie avec Allen Ginsberg, Anne Waldman et d’autres poètes aux sessions d’été de Naropa 1980, 1982, 1987, 1990 et 1994. Lauréate du prix Pushcart de 1977, du prix littéraire 1988 de l’American Academy / Institute of Arts & Letters et du prix du poète officiel de Grand Rapids (2011-2014). Cope a publié neuf livres, dont The Invisible Keys : New and Selected Poems, A Bridge Across the Pacific : Leaves for Chen Zi’ang, Guan Yin, et Du Fu, et The Correspondence of David Cope & Allen Ginsberg 1976-1996. The David Cope Papers are found at the University of Michigan Special Collections Research Center.
UKRAINE
Ah, Ukraine —years roll in a dead march, Saul killing thousands,
David tens of thousands, Arjuna the killer spurred by Krishna—
endless wars in China—Chen Zi’ang walking among shattered
bones, Du Fu hidden in his hut, lamenting horrors he witnessed,
fleeing never to return—a hundred years of killing celebrated
after Agincourt, then rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air,
Moscow shattered, Waterloo—Sumter Gettysburg Atlanta’s flames
Richmond in ruins Sheridan amuck in Shenandoah, Sand Creek,
Tongue River, Wounded Knee, Custer—Ypres, Verdun, the Somme,
the Blitz, Dresden—the first death, the child in London. what stirs
such men—Hitler, Mussolini, Tojo, Stalin, now Putin the KGB thug
become manic nation butcher? what rage boils in their dreams that
they could act as now, in the European sunflower bread basket
forcing a good man to defiance, his peoples’ heroism, cities
bombed to silence, refugees in millions fleeing nightmares,
what history, what twisted psyches in our human condition, what
ecce homo shatters lives, bodies, peace, kindness, compassion?
right after night I follow the moon walking the sky shining,
wondering at such tranquility, such silence, such a gift, tossed
for nightmares endless as hell’s dark road, the agony of millions.
Thus spoke the old man, hoping to spend his last years in peace,
head in hands, sleepless nights with this hellish repetition—again.
Blessing for the wives and children living their nightmares,
trapped on a long & dangerous road, even
crossing borders to safety fraught with pain,
Blessing for the fathers, husbands and brothers forced to shoulder
rifles, rocket launchers, Molotov cocktails,
tearful by night and in quiet moments,
wondering if they’ll live to see their loved ones again, if indeed
those they love are safe.
Blessing for my poet friend Svitlana Iukhymovych, who translated
the great dissident poet Vasyl Stus, dead in a Soviet
prison 1985, still celebrated for his great courage today.
Blessing on the ruined cities of Ukraine, that they might live again,
Blessing on the Odessa Opera and Ballet Theatre, the long history
of cultural excellence throughout Ukraine.
Blessing on the memory of Anna Akhmatova, born in Odessa
recalled now as Anna of all the Russias,
Blessing on her poems, that they continue to speak truth to tyrants,
that they liberate the minds & hearts of all who
open her leaves, she shining star of world poetry.
Blessing on all nations who take in the refugees, feed & help them
find lives beyond despair, may their families be reunited.
Blessing on those praying for the nation, the people, the children,
that their dreams bear fruit & touch those in need.
May Ukraine rise from the ashes, free, & celebrate liberation
& renewal, may the nation know liberty at last,
celebrating survival in wild whirling
dance & song.
ANTIETAM
horses’ tails swish in a sunlit field.
traveling to Antietam, she recalls a war story:
her father, Uncle Bob said, was
always gentle
& kind, always ready to laugh—
never angry.
her mother remembered other things:
he’d wake up sweating—
wild eyes in the night—
the German officer he had to shoot, point blank—
those eyes, that cringe,
night after night.
in the cornfield
where the blue boys lurched & shrieked,
the cannons’re set up as in the old photograph,
but freshly painted, with an asphalt walkway curving around.
& in Bloody Lane,
where bodies were heaped up waist-high,
I marveled at bees in the corn tassels not 30 feet away.
at Burnsides Bridge, the lazy river barely rippled.
“such a
beautiful vista,” the old man said, leaning on his cane:
fields spread out
for miles, lines of trees & hills,
farmers on tractors,
eyes back & down to the turning discs,
or pulling tanks,
insecticide hissing over the fields:
“not a cloud in the sky.”
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