No. 1: Illustrated Poetry Series: Tom Kryss & Hilary Krzywkowski (Closed Captioned)

My name is Hilary Krzywkowski and I have two
poems. The first is from my father—— “Concerning
Rivers”——— I resolved to write a poem concerning rivers. How they started from the humblest circumstances
and gathered speed and power, driven forward by the very rocks rising from their currents
contributing to rapids. How the river crawling from an isolated marsh
or skirling from a shallow stream, gradually attracted a far flung retinue of farmlands,
cities, bridges, boats, and birds. How like a rolling ball of snow it accumulated
debris on its way to the sea, where it slowed to a canter and then balked. When it came to the sea, the river oozed like
blood into the greater expanse of sky and water. I resolved to liken this process to the spread
of ideas , to a child’s first attempts at speech, the evolutions of planets, suns, and
poems. Concerning rivers I had not much more than
the power of their wild and musical names with which to call their spirit. Their names like tinder firing my responses,
so then resolved to discover something of myself in rivers. But a strange thing happened on my way to
the sea, I died. And in death’s dream of being human I saw
at last as from a mountain, all the rivers of the world flowing together, all afire with
their own longing. And on the rim of the great whirlpool, floated
the small boat of my childhood. The next poem I have for to read, is my own—-titled, Manifest Destiny: while waiting for my son to come out of his
OT appointment at Akron Childrens medical technicians micro manage the unfolding
petals of childhood, Ph.D.’d brains unanimously decide it should
be called “development” a forcibly renamed life cycle, diluted with
the new age sorcery of mechanical blossoming, socio-genetic programming
out all signs of life and a headmistress calls this convoluted structure
of civilization: brain function. in prostration to the wires of curriculum
pasted on a state-licensed forehead we learnt the lessons
read the writing in censored books like it was 1984 all over again
and no talk with hands, instead hands collapsed around a pencil
must draw carefully metered forms education specialists cannot handle a child’s
life force they call it dysfunction and disorder, its
antidote: special Ed. but real “development” disables long valued,
yet rotting social structures founded by fathers who raped the children
themselves, by the sweat of their brow, before pulling a plow through the tender loam
of the womb, slipping the pistol into mother’s mouth
they’d blow away their own reflection mirror shrapnel, intellectual entanglement
no words can suit the meaning of life, its shoes too small, too large, too pointy and
too wide, too expensive. every one wears shoes that do not belong to— not every human can afford ignorance and must
go out into the world straight out of the womb in most cases,
to a brick hut where inside the teats are fashioned from petroleum by-products
and excrete the milk of printed paper or numbered plastic, sworn by the wealth and affluence of the conquistadors who took captive shamans and bent them over bibles, and cut off their hair
and forced pure and tender places open to the self-righteous excrement of white devils. I know all this……. yet we are all here today
participating in the great tradition of Progress…….Libertas. and I wait
while my innocent little boy is alone in a room with another woman
who will pretend to be his friend, trick him with a treatise for peace
while tapping his brain for its natural resources. but
i will take this boat as far as the fork and then all unexpected-like,
we will close our eyes together, each from our respective positions in space,
and materialize a bend sending us along a new course far away from here. We shall disappear to the place of my boy’s
choosing because only his imagination is safe. deep into the core of substance are we going. Deep into the spirit of things.

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