In the name of scandal | Update #1 | Thank you!! + “Really what the poet is”
These are part of the updates I sent supporters in 2020 as part of my kickstarter project, “In the name of scandal”. A collection of poems.
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Dear supporters,
A coliseum sized thank you for believing in ITNOS (In The Name Of Scandal). The project raised $1,586 which is 317.2% of its initial funding goal. $1,350.85 landed in my bank account on Friday the 27th of December 2019. $110 of pledges were dropped (banks in Lebanon are blocking international payments to counter the declining currency — read more about the thawra here), Kickstarter’s fee is $73.80 and the payment processing fee is $51.35. The funds will be used to fund the book printing.
I’m happy with the progress on both the content front (the book’s muscles and flesh) and the structure front (the book’s skeleton). I’m optimistic the book will reach everyone in the April / May timeline.
Misc.
- 1) I’m considering creating a free e-reader version for supporters
- 2) updating my website to put the books at the forefront
- 3) and marketing ITNOS to reach a larger online audience. If you have marketing and/or branding skills and are excited about helping, please reach out to [madihalim at gmail dot com].
If you supported “The flight of the jaguar”, my first crowdfunded collection of poems, you know how part of these missives is practical information and the rest a trip to poetry land with little sparrows and bits of gummy bears stuck between the front teeth. So you can stop here if you opened this email for an update. Keep going if not.
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Really what the poet is
In the name of scandal
Has been writing itself.
It came about
Right as the jaguar flew.
At the end of last year,
I dove into scandal
Cajoled it
Courted it
Begged it for easy insights
And subtle beauty
That don’t keep me up
For evenings on end.
As I became the scientist
Who tames the atom
For both
The love of science
And the unapologetic desire
To weaponize it,
I was reminded
Of what the poet
Really is.
Really
What the poet is
Is a bad boss.
For instance
Notice how yesterday’s poet
Finish writing a 1000 word poem
With arrows pointing in all directions
Paragraphs spread like tearing fabric
And a cryptic note, there in the corner,
That says “IMPORTANT”
That barely reads
As anything more
Than chicken’s feet
Dipped in ink
Asked to dance
An erratic samba
Across the page
How yesterday’s poet close their notebook
And exhale
As if intercourse was done
Then stand up
Stroke their hair
And go home
Like a selfish lover
Whose orgasm is holy and entitled
King above all others.
And notice today’s poet
Yours truly
Poor lover
Fucked and still aching
For more
Baffled by the quickness of it all
Unsure of their needs’ validity
“I mean
I wasn’t done
But I want to be
Can I
Should I
Will I
Say something?”
And of course they don’t
Because the poem yesterday’s poet
“channeled”
As the poet-prophet they had become
Now needs to be typed
Else the whole ordeal
Will go to waste
As ink dissolves on the page
Because yesterday’s poet’s
Unscrewed water bottle
Was bumping against the insides
Of our $200 beige leather bag
Drowning the prophetic piece
And so
As memory fades
On the page
And in the mind
Today’s poet gets to work
And plows through
Like a lover shushing
The part of them asking
For a definition of love
Really what a poet is
Is someone who spends most days leafing
Through poems written on a train
Or on a plane
Or in a club
Or in silence with another lover
They apologized to
Because they had to attend
To this piece
That barged into their psyche
Like a child at night
Who can’t sleep
And so
The job
Is part secretarial
Part nursing
Keeping papers in order
Like diapers on the ready
Organizing Evernote
Into a thousand notes
Placed in a hundred folders
Broken up
Into dozens of sub-files
Criss-crossed by themes
Which often overlap
With the sub-files themselves.
And in the midst of this computational competition
Where a colony of obtrusive abstractions
Fight
For their right
To exist
The poet
Is a tired father
Who has a full time job
And yet spares some energy
For the night
Because the kids
Deserve to play
Really what a poet is
Is the linguist of an endangered language
Decrypting cryptic code cast on a crypt’s caving walls
By their ancestor
So brashly and hastily
The poet themselves
No longer understands
What they were referring to.
A mating ritual?
A song for the dead?
A lullaby for a sick child?
And that
Is also part of the job
And so the poet spends the day
In Paris — when they really want to visit museums
Trying to figure out
Why their brain from 3 years ago
Would put the text “Mike in the Uber”
Under the tag “#how-to-be”.
And “[YAY] [PART SELF] Hail the cougar”
Under “#poetry/0_scandal/part-intimacy”.
Now I’d like to point out
This is
Poetry
This is work
What the poet is doing with their time
As they piece their mind
Together
Is detecting the path
That will become the journey
Because the journey
Doesn’t exist yet.
Not until it’s painstakingly witnessed
Not until it’s methodically named
Not until remembrance
Creates a semblance
Of sanity
Not until there’s a tag on it
Called “#how-to-be/book-worthy/finally”.
