Monday, March 28, 2005

Radio! Radio! Right Now!

I'm on the radio in 20 minutes! Make that 4 minutes! 8 PM MST!

If you miss it, check the web site for broadcast times of "A Poet's Moment." It's one of their mini-programs, and each show is broadcast four times. Remember, all times are MST.

If you don't want to hear my less-than-dulcet voice overdramatizing my best poem, then, well, never mind. But it's a cool station, regardless of whether you hear me on it. Where else can you hear Louis Prima, Woody Guthrie, Ziggy Marley, Stan Ridgeway, Fanny, blues, Tucson artists, electronica, obscure rockabilly, equally obscure psychedelia, and classic samba?

There will be another show, with another poem. I'll let you know when he gets that one scheduled.


You missed it already, didn't you? Yes, you did! Sarah heard it. I heard it. The rest of you missed it. I understand. You didn't get adequate notice.

Like Little Rabbit Foo Foo, I'm going to give you three more chances:

Wednesday at 1 PM MST
Friday at 2 AM MST
Sunday at 2 PM MST

All times are approximate. Tonight it aired 3 minutes before the hour.

Here's the poem, in case you want to read along:

Pilate’s Answer:

“...And All Ye Need to Know”

by Karen Funk Blocher

And when they thought they needed him

For all men's grand and trivial schemes,

They hunted, leaving women home

To watch him dancing at their doors.

The men would sometimes find him, too:

An ear between two whispered words,

A hand in dying, dancing flames,

An eye that blinked in time with stars.

Soon or late, they thought they spied

An ancient foot between two growls,

And grabbing by a withered toe

They dragged him to the stadium.

In the center was a stage,

That they from every angle might

Survey and study ageless flesh:

Now young, now old, forever strange.

And one by one they came to coax,

To scream, negotiate, threaten, bribe...

While he stood smiling, mocking all,

His mouth forever smiling, shut.

And much would some of them endure

Just to glimpse his shadowed face.

They sat on nails. They cut off ears.

They starved alone among the rats.

Then many, failing, came outside

To claim that they had heard his voice,

And used his name to justify

Their good, and bad, and mad ideas.

Others, quiet in their chairs

Would paint him 'til their hands were dust,

In somber blues, in burning reds,

In glorious fluorescent tones.

A child, a sphinx, a laurel crown,

A junkie, shepherd, quiet pond

They saw in him, and in his hand

A flower, pitchfork, candle, sword.

Each night the thwarted pilgrims left,

Some early, others staying 'til

Their eyelids pressed on reddened eyes

And legs could scarcely stagger off.

And finally, when all had gone,

Truth left the stage, invading dreams

And laughing, spinning changing lies

For men to follow, blindly grateful.



plittle said...

Any chance the radio station can provide you with an mp3 of the recording you can put up here?

ryanagi said...

Dagnabbit! I can't believe I missed it by a minute. Grr!

deabvt said...

AW, I love the poem.