photograph by Ricardo Liberato
Tonight I'd like to post some poems and an interview that Michael Lee Johnson sent me a while back. Thank you for your patience, Michael. These are timeless poems.
Cracker
Jack Box Poem
By Michael Lee Johnson
I
don’t wear my pocket watch anymore
it reminds me of my age, 73, soon more,
outdated gadget, time hanging where
moving parts below don’t belong nor work
anymore.
I don’t like to think about endings.
Age is a Cracker Jack box with no face, modern
speed dial,
no toy inside, when it stops, no salute, just
pops.
Lesson: "What young men want
to do all night takes older men all night to do."
Michael's recitation of the above poem is below:
South
Chicago Night
By
Michael Lee Johnson
Night is drifters,
sugar rats, street walkers, pickpockets, pimps,
insects, Lake Michigan perch,
neon signs blinking half the bulbs
burned out.
Young
Couple-
@
Heart Attack Greasy Grill
I
was a little boy,
tad hillbilly son,
patterned then in
present tense,
hardly old enough
tall enough to work
nor notice if I had pubic hair-
large or small endowment
growing up self-conscious
about short comings
narrow chest.
Just a teen aged nighttime boy
looking 4 a part-time hook up-
little girl play, with a five-card stud.
Preacher daddy raised me,
back-seat Christian boy
low on faith high on doobie
rolled cigarettes.
I took my 1st job, pancake flipper
@ Heart Attack–Greasy Grill, 24-7
pocket coins 4 tips, a few greasy dollars,
pancake short stack, secret menu was that
boss’s daughter, blood on hands,
my bun busted now stale, stained, & baked.
Eliminate lines unessential:
waitress injected me some spice
old time recipe.
Listen to Michael recite his poem here:
Unknown Poet from Rue Montpelier
By
Michael Lee Johnson
I warned you darts with advice
strong words tripping over emotions
like an imbecile-
so you think you’re Leonard Cohen
loving some naked Nancy in a cluttered
matchbox apartment overlooking
European culture simulated,
above some obscure narrow
Montreal street?
For your information,
straight poetics from insanities Almanac,
Leonard Cohen died years ago
in a twisted pickle poem he
entitled “Narcissism.”
Do you and your welfare lover
desire to be the 2nd generation,
deceased, unnoticed, unheard of,
unwarranted for failure artists
inside this thin, onion-skinned wall
dingy with your dreams?
I warned you darts with advice,
tapering off with your impotence.
Available Unpublished, Interview About Michael Lee Johnson,
Editor, Publisher, Award Nominated Poet. Interviewee Bio at Bottom
How young were you when you first realized you could be a poet?
I started to write at 1967, 52 years ago I’m now
72.5 years old. I went into exile due to the Vietnam War era; then,
typewriters, no internet, type poems one by one (no photo copies),
international coupons, snail mail only, stamps, 6 month wait and 95 out of 100
never responded, much less made a comment about your poems-just a photocopied
rejection letter. So for many years I continued to write but didn’t send the
poems out. In 2007 with the advent of the internet I revised old poems and created
new poems and have now been published in 38 different countries.
Why should anyone read your poetry over the next ten poets?
I don’t worry about other poets or competition. I’m too old to give a damn @ 71.5 yrs. I proclaim believing in me. I don’t worry if there are too many groceries
stores or drug stores on the same corner, bring it on and come visit my small
shop I will stamp on you.
Is Dr. Seuss a legitimate poet?
Dr. What? Dr. Who? He is
not even in my memory bank. Legacy is not necessarily determined by how many
housewives buy Dr. Seuss children’s book.
Anapestic
tetrameter consists of four rhythmic units called anapests, each composed of two weak syllables
followed by one strong syllable (the beat); often, the first weak syllable is
omitted, or an additional weak syllable is added at the end. Deception, do children give a damn? I’m more impressed with children without thought who write the
loveliest poems naturally with images from their heart as children tend to do.
Is poetry better than it was 25 years ago? Explain!
Who really cares, time is justice to itself not us. What is what was then evaluated is in present
a waste of poetic time. Oh yes, review
and love but never get stuck there less you lived there in time.
What is your single weakness as a writer?
As a child 8-9 yrs. old I had a rare cancer disease bone cancer
in my legs. I was carried around on my
mother and father backs in pain, I rolled on the floor both legs in casts. I missed most of grades 1-3. So I missed grammar, syntax, and pronunciation. To this day
I listen to enunciation of words, look for new words that are primarily
action verbs, see how words are put together, pulled apart by syllables to hear
how they sound and why I’m mispronouncing them.
If you could write a poem to your President, would he like it?
At my age, 71 plus, I don’t much care about what the President
thinks much less write a poem to him.
Yes policies do affect my living patterns, my financial security to a
degree, and I certainly still have strong opinions about public and
international affairs, however, as long as he doesn’t step on my toes
personally, kick me out of the country, or screw too much with my mutual funds
who cares? I fought one war with
resistance, and acted upon it, one stance leaving this country against an
unjust war, Vietnam, is more social action in one act then most people will
perform in a lifetime. Now days I’m more
concerned about quiet, few phone called, allowing me time to work on my words.
Does poetry really change thought or is that just hype?
This is the best question to pounder of all the other questions
above. I guess it depends on your
personal definition of purpose on this limited time on earth. We all carry a personal torch that burns,
when, how, motive you act upon it is the motivation rightly or wrongly. My cause and disgust ultimately was Vietnam
and exile, it took 10 years in exile to resolve the fundamental issue revolving
into a lifetime of left over feelings, rejection and acceptance for those
actions. Change is in your mind,
compulsion of desire for change are the actions and beliefs of others that have
influence on your patterns your dreams.
Does poetry really change thought or is it your actions resulting in the
power of those words that change thought and alter history, legacy?
How long does it take you to write a poem?
How long does it take you to live your life or just one day of it
or even one hour? I have some poems on
first write that have stood the test of time, I have other poems with editorial
suggestions and my changes that have lead up to eight revision on one poem that
comes to mind. A poem can be stagnant or
ever evolving. I have a few box full of
old partial poems always there open for review or die on old yellow paper or
napkins from 10-35 years ago. Where do I
place time on these things? Life
chances, events unfold, social structure evolves so should poems but some
things remain where they were born to stay there with a smile of justice done
indeed. I have computer files and old
boxes full of what I call “starter poems.”
Do you have a single favorite poem written by yourself?
Now this is a bit of a
smart-ass question. I have around 500
completed poems, and hundreds of starter poems…and you want me to pick one
favorite poem out of all of life and its passages? If I was forced into a corner with my nose in
that corner, or someone squeezing my testicles sharp in pain I would have to
say a poem back in exile days may be my favorite. “If I
Were Young Again” is a symbolic poem and real experience of Michael Lee
Johnson while self-exiled in Alberta, Canada for 10 years resulting from the
Vietnam War. It can be found on YouTube
here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HmnMyE78xCE&t=21s
If I Were Young Again (V3)
Piecemeal summer dies:
long winter spreads its
blanket again.
For ten years I have lived
in exile,
locked in this rickety
cabin, shoulders
jostled up against open
Alberta sky.
If I were young again, I’d sing of coolness of high
mountain snow flowers, sprinkle of night glow-blue meadows;
I would dream and stretch slim fingers into distant nowhere,
yawn slowly over endless prairie miles.
The grassland is where in summer silence grows;
in evening eagles spread their wings
dripping feathers like warm honey.
If I were young again, I’d eat pine cones, food of birds,
share meals with wild wolves;
I’d have as much dessert as I wanted,
reach out into blue sky, lick the clouds off my fingertips.
But I’m not young anymore and my thoughts tormented
are raw, overworked, sharpened with misery
from torture of war and childhood.
For ten years now I've lived locked in this unstable cabin,
inside rush of summer winds,
outside air beaten dim with
snow.
-1985-
(R 11-12)
In 50 words or less how do you give birth to a poem? How is it conceived and delivered?
A poem is a spirit that comes out of frustration or naturally if
drunk or looking at a loved willow tree in the summer wind thunder and rain. How do you deliver a baby poem in clinical
conditions like this without the nurses thinking you insane?
Would you work hard if you were published? What motivates you?
I am published internationally in 38 countries and I do work hard
at it, so we have covered that part this question. I’m motivated my closings: social injustices gone wrong in turmoil,
marriages soured, dreams gone bad, flowers, birds eating seed, praying for what
I don’t know, having a belief that I will never understand it all or why I’m
her or you, when I can’t make sense of death of those younger than me or anyone
at all. Oh, motivation is when an editor
says I need your interview in 48 hours or less.
Would you write a more
profound poem on the beach or in the desert and why?
I have written poems about both beaches and desert
territory. I seldom have lived near
either for any length of time being a Midwest person most of my life. A profound poem is more about who/or what
it’s about then where accept for the imagery so powerful behind the words.
In your poetry career
have you ever written a verse for your mother? Give a line and explain.
I had a
father of his generation, welder, boxer, coon fox hunter and it was seldom
good. He taught me to love nature though
he often killed it, a true oxymoron. My
mother was not perfect but she loved life and was a totally giving human
being. Often in exile she bailed me out
of financially, spoke about Jesus as my Father.
My father died at 69, my mother lived in Christ until 98.5 years. She had macular degeneration for 8-10 years
before she passed. She rode a stationary
bike blind for 45 minutes each day and wondered why? My response was “mom, if not riding that bike
you may have been gone years ago.” She
also walked blinded 16 times each day from one end of the hallway in her condo
to the other and back again, just feeling the walls on each side as she moved
down that path. Yes, I wrote on poem about my mother Edith and it’s full of
grammatical (dangling particles-whatever that is). Thankfully, poetry allows “screw ups” in
purpose of meaning. My mother’s favorite
song was ‘I Come To The Garden Alone’…https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhWOKhGdUZY.
Mother,
Edith, at 98 (V4)
By Michael Lee Johnson
Edith,
in this nursing home you're
blind
with macular degeneration─
I
come to you with your blurry
eyes,
crystal sharp mind,
your
countenance of grace─
as
yesterday's winds,
I
have chosen to consume you
and
take you away.
"Oh,
Jesus, where did
you
disappear to,"
she
murmured over and over again
in
a low voice
dripping
words
like
a leaking faucet:
"Oh, there He is, my
Angel
of the coming."
If you has $200,000 to put in the
writing community, where would the first thousand dollars go?
This is the most difficult question of all the
above since who or whom I love are not organized-and likely I would be dead
unable to research unless Jesus has a computer in heaven or hell where ever I
end. But in poetry style it would go to
my members of my Facebook poetry groups selecting each member privately, to the
sites loving lonely pets at nearby shelters (cats and dogs), and to Carol
Marcus and my daughter Dawn to keep my legacy alive after I pass.
Bio:
Michael
Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual
citizen of the United States and Canada.
Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small
business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than
1092 new publications, his poems have appeared in 38 countries, he edits,
publishes 10 poetry sites. Michael
Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best
of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018. 194
poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers
of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase
of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors
with Wings: the Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717.
Let's finish with a little music.
