December 2017
In the Garden
The Poetry of Ross Gay
Ross Gay is the author of three books: Against Which; Bringing the Shovel Down; and Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, winner of the 2015 National Book Critics Circle Award and the 2016 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award. Catalog was also a finalist for the 2015 National Book Award in Poetry, the Ohioana Book Award, the Balcones Poetry Prize, the Hurston-Wright Legacy Award, and it was nominated for an NAACP Image Award. Ross is the co-author, with Aimee Nezhukumatathil, of the chapbook Lace and Pyrite: Letters from Two Gardens, in addition to being co-author, with Richard Wehrenberg, Jr., of the chapbook, River. He is a founding editor, with Karissa Chen and Patrick Rosal, of the online sports magazine Some Call it Ballin', in addition to being an editor with the chapbook presses Q Avenue and Ledge Mule Press. Ross is a founding board member of the Bloomington Community Orchard, a non-profit, free-fruit-for-all food justice and joy project. He has received fellowships from Cave Canem, the Bread Loaf Writer's Conference, and the Guggenheim Foundation. Ross teaches at Indiana University.
Visit Ross's website and the website for the Bloomington Community Orchard.
In the Garden
The Poetry of Ross Gay
Ross Gay is the author of three books: Against Which; Bringing the Shovel Down; and Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, winner of the 2015 National Book Critics Circle Award and the 2016 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award. Catalog was also a finalist for the 2015 National Book Award in Poetry, the Ohioana Book Award, the Balcones Poetry Prize, the Hurston-Wright Legacy Award, and it was nominated for an NAACP Image Award. Ross is the co-author, with Aimee Nezhukumatathil, of the chapbook Lace and Pyrite: Letters from Two Gardens, in addition to being co-author, with Richard Wehrenberg, Jr., of the chapbook, River. He is a founding editor, with Karissa Chen and Patrick Rosal, of the online sports magazine Some Call it Ballin', in addition to being an editor with the chapbook presses Q Avenue and Ledge Mule Press. Ross is a founding board member of the Bloomington Community Orchard, a non-profit, free-fruit-for-all food justice and joy project. He has received fellowships from Cave Canem, the Bread Loaf Writer's Conference, and the Guggenheim Foundation. Ross teaches at Indiana University.
Visit Ross's website and the website for the Bloomington Community Orchard.
Fruit trees, flowers, bees and birds infuse Ross Gay's poems. But not sentimentality.
The garden in Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude is the garden after the Fall, where the
speaker must contend with injustice, loneliness and death, where the tree at the center
is both the tree of loss and the tree of life. Its roots are fed by the dust of a father, while
fruit-laden boughs nourish the son. The garden the speaker cherishes belongs to "the
nation of simple joy," yet as Ross points out in the interview that follows, "joy does not exist
without grief." The same bees that produce honey have the potential to sting. And as
the speaker asserts in "Praising the Snake," the serpent that's blamed for tempting
the first couple, brought that couple closer together as they took their first steps.
There are so many reasons why I love Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude: for its huge embrace
of what's earthy; for its accessibility amid complexity; for its mythic dimension, intensity,
music, tenderness, and grace.
Note: In the spring of 2017, I chose Ross's wonderful poem "Ode to Drinking Water from
My Hands" for Indiana Humanities' celebration of National Poetry Month. You can read it here.
Photo by Shari Wagner
From Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015)
To the Fig Tree on 9th and Christian
Tumbling through the
city in my
mind without once
looking up
the racket in
the lugwork probably
rehearsing some
stupid thing I
said or did
some crime or
other the city they
say is a lonely
place until yes
the sound of sweeping
and a woman
yes with a
broom beneath
which you are now
too the canopy
of a fig its
arms pulling the
September sun to it
and she
has a hose too
and so works hard
rinsing and scrubbing
the walk
lest some poor sod
slip on the
silk of a fig
and break his hip
and not probably
reach over to gobble up
the perpetrator
the light catches
the veins in her hands
when I ask about
the tree they
flutter in the air and
she says take
as much as
you can
help me
so I load my
pockets and mouth
and she points
to the step-ladder against
the wall to
mean more but
I was without a
sack so my meager
plunder would have to
suffice and an old woman
whom gravity
was pulling into
the earth loosed one
from a low slung
branch and its eye
wept like hers
which she dabbed
with a kerchief as she
cleaved the fig with
what remained of her
teeth and soon there were
eight or nine
people gathered beneath
the tree looking into
it like a
constellation pointing
do you see it
and I am tall and so
good for these things
and a bald man even
told me so
when I grabbed three
or four for
him reaching into the
giddy throngs of
yellow-jackets sugar
stoned which he only
pointed to smiling and
rubbing his stomach
I mean he was really rubbing his stomach
like there was a baby
in there
it was hot his
head shone while he
offered recipes to the
group using words which
I couldn't understand and besides
I was a little
tipsy on the dance
of the velvety heart rolling
in my mouth
pulling me down and
down into the
oldest countries of my
body where I ate my first fig
from the hand of a man who escaped his country
by swimming through the night
and maybe
never said more than
five words to me
at once but gave me
figs and a man on his way
to work hops twice
to reach at last his
fig which he smiles at and calls
baby, c'mere baby,
he says and blows a kiss
to the tree which everyone knows
cannot grow this far north
being Mediterranean
and favoring the rocky, sunbaked soils
of Jordan and Sicily
but no one told the fig tree
or the immigrants
there is a way
the fig tree grows
in groves it wants,
it seems, to hold us,
yes I am anthropomorphizing
goddamit I have twice
in the last thirty seconds
rubbed my sweaty
forearm into someone else's
sweaty shoulder
gleeful eating out of each other's hands
on Christian St.
in Philadelphia a city like most
which has murdered its own
people
this is true
we are feeding each other
from a tree
at the corner of Christian and 9th
strangers maybe
never again.
To the Fig Tree on 9th and Christian
Tumbling through the
city in my
mind without once
looking up
the racket in
the lugwork probably
rehearsing some
stupid thing I
said or did
some crime or
other the city they
say is a lonely
place until yes
the sound of sweeping
and a woman
yes with a
broom beneath
which you are now
too the canopy
of a fig its
arms pulling the
September sun to it
and she
has a hose too
and so works hard
rinsing and scrubbing
the walk
lest some poor sod
slip on the
silk of a fig
and break his hip
and not probably
reach over to gobble up
the perpetrator
the light catches
the veins in her hands
when I ask about
the tree they
flutter in the air and
she says take
as much as
you can
help me
so I load my
pockets and mouth
and she points
to the step-ladder against
the wall to
mean more but
I was without a
sack so my meager
plunder would have to
suffice and an old woman
whom gravity
was pulling into
the earth loosed one
from a low slung
branch and its eye
wept like hers
which she dabbed
with a kerchief as she
cleaved the fig with
what remained of her
teeth and soon there were
eight or nine
people gathered beneath
the tree looking into
it like a
constellation pointing
do you see it
and I am tall and so
good for these things
and a bald man even
told me so
when I grabbed three
or four for
him reaching into the
giddy throngs of
yellow-jackets sugar
stoned which he only
pointed to smiling and
rubbing his stomach
I mean he was really rubbing his stomach
like there was a baby
in there
it was hot his
head shone while he
offered recipes to the
group using words which
I couldn't understand and besides
I was a little
tipsy on the dance
of the velvety heart rolling
in my mouth
pulling me down and
down into the
oldest countries of my
body where I ate my first fig
from the hand of a man who escaped his country
by swimming through the night
and maybe
never said more than
five words to me
at once but gave me
figs and a man on his way
to work hops twice
to reach at last his
fig which he smiles at and calls
baby, c'mere baby,
he says and blows a kiss
to the tree which everyone knows
cannot grow this far north
being Mediterranean
and favoring the rocky, sunbaked soils
of Jordan and Sicily
but no one told the fig tree
or the immigrants
there is a way
the fig tree grows
in groves it wants,
it seems, to hold us,
yes I am anthropomorphizing
goddamit I have twice
in the last thirty seconds
rubbed my sweaty
forearm into someone else's
sweaty shoulder
gleeful eating out of each other's hands
on Christian St.
in Philadelphia a city like most
which has murdered its own
people
this is true
we are feeding each other
from a tree
at the corner of Christian and 9th
strangers maybe
never again.
Photo by Shari Wagner
Burial
You’re right, you’re right,
the fertilizer’s good--
it wasn’t a gang of dullards
came up with chucking
a fish in the planting hole
or some midwife got lucky
with the placenta--
oh, I’ll plant a tree here!--
and a sudden flush of quince
and jam enough for months—yes,
the magic dust our bodies become
casts spells on the roots
about which someone else
could tell you the chemical processes,
but it’s just magic to me,
which is why a couple springs ago
when first putting in my two bare root plum trees
out back I took the jar which has become
my father’s house,
and lonely for him and hoping to coax him back
for my mother as much as me,
poured some of him in the planting holes
and he dove in glad for the robust air,
saddling a slight gust
into my nose and mouth,
chuckling as I coughed,
but mostly he disappeared
into the minor yawns in the earth
into which I placed the trees,
splaying wide their roots,
casting the gray dust of my old man
evenly throughout the hole,
replacing then the clods
of dense Indiana soil until the roots
and my father were buried,
watering it in all with one hand
while holding the tree
with the other straight as the flag
to the nation of simple joy
of which my father is now a naturalized citizen,
waving the flag
from his subterranean lair,
the roots curled around him
like shawls or jungle gyms, like
hookahs or the arms of ancestors,
before breast-stroking into the xylem,
riding the elevator up
through the cambium and into the leaves where,
when you put your ear close enough
you can hear him whisper
good morning, where, if you close your eyes
and push your face you can feel
his stubbly jowls and good lord
this year he was giddy at the first
real fruit set and nestled into the 30 or 40 plums
in the two trees, peering out from the sweet meat
with his hands pressed against the purple skin
like cathedral glass,
and imagine his joy as the sun
wizarded forth those abundant sugars
and I plodded barefoot
and prayerful at the first ripe plum’s swell and blush,
almost weepy conjuring
some surely ponderous verse
to convey this bottomless grace,
you know, oh father oh father kind of stuff,
hundreds of hot air balloons
filling the sky in my chest, replacing his intubated body
listing like a boat keel side up, replacing
the steady stream of water from the one eye
which his brother wiped before removing the tube,
keeping his hand on the forehead
until the last wind in his body wandered off,
while my brother wailed like an animal,
and my mother said, weeping,
it’s ok, it’s ok, you can go honey,
at all of which my father
guffawed by kicking from the first bite
buckets of juice down my chin,
staining one of my two button-down shirts,
the salmon-colored silk one, hollering
there’s more of that!
almost dancing now in the plum,
in the tree, the way he did as a person,
bent over and biting his lip
and chucking the one hip out
then the other with his elbows cocked
and fists loosely made
and eyes closed and mouth made trumpet
when he knew he could make you happy
just by being a little silly
and sweet.
You’re right, you’re right,
the fertilizer’s good--
it wasn’t a gang of dullards
came up with chucking
a fish in the planting hole
or some midwife got lucky
with the placenta--
oh, I’ll plant a tree here!--
and a sudden flush of quince
and jam enough for months—yes,
the magic dust our bodies become
casts spells on the roots
about which someone else
could tell you the chemical processes,
but it’s just magic to me,
which is why a couple springs ago
when first putting in my two bare root plum trees
out back I took the jar which has become
my father’s house,
and lonely for him and hoping to coax him back
for my mother as much as me,
poured some of him in the planting holes
and he dove in glad for the robust air,
saddling a slight gust
into my nose and mouth,
chuckling as I coughed,
but mostly he disappeared
into the minor yawns in the earth
into which I placed the trees,
splaying wide their roots,
casting the gray dust of my old man
evenly throughout the hole,
replacing then the clods
of dense Indiana soil until the roots
and my father were buried,
watering it in all with one hand
while holding the tree
with the other straight as the flag
to the nation of simple joy
of which my father is now a naturalized citizen,
waving the flag
from his subterranean lair,
the roots curled around him
like shawls or jungle gyms, like
hookahs or the arms of ancestors,
before breast-stroking into the xylem,
riding the elevator up
through the cambium and into the leaves where,
when you put your ear close enough
you can hear him whisper
good morning, where, if you close your eyes
and push your face you can feel
his stubbly jowls and good lord
this year he was giddy at the first
real fruit set and nestled into the 30 or 40 plums
in the two trees, peering out from the sweet meat
with his hands pressed against the purple skin
like cathedral glass,
and imagine his joy as the sun
wizarded forth those abundant sugars
and I plodded barefoot
and prayerful at the first ripe plum’s swell and blush,
almost weepy conjuring
some surely ponderous verse
to convey this bottomless grace,
you know, oh father oh father kind of stuff,
hundreds of hot air balloons
filling the sky in my chest, replacing his intubated body
listing like a boat keel side up, replacing
the steady stream of water from the one eye
which his brother wiped before removing the tube,
keeping his hand on the forehead
until the last wind in his body wandered off,
while my brother wailed like an animal,
and my mother said, weeping,
it’s ok, it’s ok, you can go honey,
at all of which my father
guffawed by kicking from the first bite
buckets of juice down my chin,
staining one of my two button-down shirts,
the salmon-colored silk one, hollering
there’s more of that!
almost dancing now in the plum,
in the tree, the way he did as a person,
bent over and biting his lip
and chucking the one hip out
then the other with his elbows cocked
and fists loosely made
and eyes closed and mouth made trumpet
when he knew he could make you happy
just by being a little silly
and sweet.
Photo by Shari Wagner
Ode to Sleeping in my Clothes
And though I don’t mention it
to my mother
or the doctors
with their white coats
it is, in fact,
a great source of happiness,
for me, as I don’t
even remove my socks,
and will sometimes
even pull up my hood
and slide my hands deep
in my pockets
and probably more so
than usual look as if something
bad has happened
my heart blasting a last somersault
or some artery parting
like curtains in a theater
while the cavalry of blood
comes charging through
except unlike
so many of the dead
I must be smiling
there in my denim
and cotton sarcophagus
slightly rank from the day
it is said that Shostakovich slept
with a packed suitcase beneath
his bed and it is said
that black people were snatched
from dark streets and made experiments
of and you and I
both have family whose life
savings are tucked 12 feet beneath
the Norway maple whose roots
splay like the bones
in the foot of a man
who has walked to Youngstown, Ohio
from Arkansas without sleeping
or keeping his name
and it’s a miracle
maybe I almost never think of
to rise like this
and simply by sliding my feet into my boots
while the water for coffee
gathers its song
be in the garden
or on the stoop
running, almost,
from nothing.
And though I don’t mention it
to my mother
or the doctors
with their white coats
it is, in fact,
a great source of happiness,
for me, as I don’t
even remove my socks,
and will sometimes
even pull up my hood
and slide my hands deep
in my pockets
and probably more so
than usual look as if something
bad has happened
my heart blasting a last somersault
or some artery parting
like curtains in a theater
while the cavalry of blood
comes charging through
except unlike
so many of the dead
I must be smiling
there in my denim
and cotton sarcophagus
slightly rank from the day
it is said that Shostakovich slept
with a packed suitcase beneath
his bed and it is said
that black people were snatched
from dark streets and made experiments
of and you and I
both have family whose life
savings are tucked 12 feet beneath
the Norway maple whose roots
splay like the bones
in the foot of a man
who has walked to Youngstown, Ohio
from Arkansas without sleeping
or keeping his name
and it’s a miracle
maybe I almost never think of
to rise like this
and simply by sliding my feet into my boots
while the water for coffee
gathers its song
be in the garden
or on the stoop
running, almost,
from nothing.
Photo by Shari Wagner
Becoming a Horse
It was dragging my hands along its belly,
loosing the bit and wiping the spit
from its mouth made me
a snatch of grass in the thing’s maw,
a fly tasting its ear. It was
touching my nose to his made me know
the clover’s bloom, my wet eye to his
made me know the long field’s secrets.
But it was putting my heart to the horse’s that made me know
the sorrow of horses. The sorrow
of a brook creasing a field. The maggot
turning in its corpse. Made me
forsake my thumbs for the sheen of unshod hooves.
And in this way drop my torches.
And in this way drop my knives.
Feel the small song in my chest
swell and my coat glisten and twitch.
And my face grow long.
And these words cast off, at last,
for the slow honest tongue of horses.
It was dragging my hands along its belly,
loosing the bit and wiping the spit
from its mouth made me
a snatch of grass in the thing’s maw,
a fly tasting its ear. It was
touching my nose to his made me know
the clover’s bloom, my wet eye to his
made me know the long field’s secrets.
But it was putting my heart to the horse’s that made me know
the sorrow of horses. The sorrow
of a brook creasing a field. The maggot
turning in its corpse. Made me
forsake my thumbs for the sheen of unshod hooves.
And in this way drop my torches.
And in this way drop my knives.
Feel the small song in my chest
swell and my coat glisten and twitch.
And my face grow long.
And these words cast off, at last,
for the slow honest tongue of horses.
Photo by Shari Wagner
From Bringing the Shovel Down (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2011)
Praising the Snake
Today as the season of bloom truly begins
its retreat in the form of the neighbor lady
cutting back her lilies, and the anxious look
of crickets, and the lull between certain birdsong,
I’m praising the snake its silvery tongue.
I’m praising Eve and Adam their hunger
and wondering the explosion’s million colors. Heartbreak,
yes, and a father’s cold shoulder, but what secrets of touch
as the boundless path unfolded and the cold
took hold? What then of God? Did crave
still have his name? Or did the hand
that drew the two from dust loosen
its grip as they studied the taste
of each other’s mouths, as their own hands
made the first human cries
beneath that night? And when that song
reached their God, didn’t he smile, and caress
the slithering thing in his lap,
both of them proud of their children’s first steps?
Praising the Snake
Today as the season of bloom truly begins
its retreat in the form of the neighbor lady
cutting back her lilies, and the anxious look
of crickets, and the lull between certain birdsong,
I’m praising the snake its silvery tongue.
I’m praising Eve and Adam their hunger
and wondering the explosion’s million colors. Heartbreak,
yes, and a father’s cold shoulder, but what secrets of touch
as the boundless path unfolded and the cold
took hold? What then of God? Did crave
still have his name? Or did the hand
that drew the two from dust loosen
its grip as they studied the taste
of each other’s mouths, as their own hands
made the first human cries
beneath that night? And when that song
reached their God, didn’t he smile, and caress
the slithering thing in his lap,
both of them proud of their children’s first steps?
Photo by Shari Wagner
Poem to My Child, If Ever You Shall Be
—after Steve Scafdi
The way the universe sat waiting to become,
quietly, in the nether of space and time,
you too remain some cellular snuggle
dangling between my legs, curled in the warm
swim of my mostly quietest self. If you come to be--
and who knows?—I wonder, little bubble
of unbudded capillaries, little one ever aswirl
in my vascular galaxies, what would you think
of this world that turns itself steadily
into an oblivion that hurts, and hurts bad?
Would you curse me my careless caressing you
into this world or would you rise up
and mustering all your strength into that tiny throat
that one day, no doubt, would grow big and strong,
scream and scream and scream until you break the back of one injustice,
or at least get to your knees to kiss back to life
some roadkill? I have so many questions for you,
for you are closer to me than anyone
has ever been, tumbling, as you are, this second,
through my heart’s every chamber, your teeny mouth
singing along with the half-broke workhorse’s steady boom and gasp.
And since we’re talking today I should tell you,
though I know you sneak a peek sometimes
through your father’s eyes, it’s a glorious day,
and there are millions of leaves collecting against the curbs,
and they’re the most delicate shade of gold
we’ve ever seen and must favor the transparent
wings of the angels you’re swimming with, little angel.
And as to your mother—well, I don’t know--
but my guess is that lilac bursts from her throat
and she is both honeybee and wasp and some kind of moan to boot
and probably she dances in the morning--
but who knows? You’ll swim beneath that bridge if it comes.
For now let me tell you about the bush called honeysuckle
that the sad call a weed, and how you could push your little
sun-licked face into the throngs and breathe and breathe.
Sweetness would be your name, and you would wonder why
four of your teeth are so sharp, and the tiny mountain range
of your knuckles so hard. And you would throw back your head
and open your mouth at the cows lowing their human songs
in the field, and the pigs swimming in shit and clover,
and everything on this earth, little dreamer, little dreamer
of the new world, holy, every raindrop and sand grain and blade
of grass worthy of love and love and love, tiny shaman,
tiny blood thrust, tiny trillion cells trilling and trilling,
little dreamer, little hard hat, little heartbeat,
little best of me.
—after Steve Scafdi
The way the universe sat waiting to become,
quietly, in the nether of space and time,
you too remain some cellular snuggle
dangling between my legs, curled in the warm
swim of my mostly quietest self. If you come to be--
and who knows?—I wonder, little bubble
of unbudded capillaries, little one ever aswirl
in my vascular galaxies, what would you think
of this world that turns itself steadily
into an oblivion that hurts, and hurts bad?
Would you curse me my careless caressing you
into this world or would you rise up
and mustering all your strength into that tiny throat
that one day, no doubt, would grow big and strong,
scream and scream and scream until you break the back of one injustice,
or at least get to your knees to kiss back to life
some roadkill? I have so many questions for you,
for you are closer to me than anyone
has ever been, tumbling, as you are, this second,
through my heart’s every chamber, your teeny mouth
singing along with the half-broke workhorse’s steady boom and gasp.
And since we’re talking today I should tell you,
though I know you sneak a peek sometimes
through your father’s eyes, it’s a glorious day,
and there are millions of leaves collecting against the curbs,
and they’re the most delicate shade of gold
we’ve ever seen and must favor the transparent
wings of the angels you’re swimming with, little angel.
And as to your mother—well, I don’t know--
but my guess is that lilac bursts from her throat
and she is both honeybee and wasp and some kind of moan to boot
and probably she dances in the morning--
but who knows? You’ll swim beneath that bridge if it comes.
For now let me tell you about the bush called honeysuckle
that the sad call a weed, and how you could push your little
sun-licked face into the throngs and breathe and breathe.
Sweetness would be your name, and you would wonder why
four of your teeth are so sharp, and the tiny mountain range
of your knuckles so hard. And you would throw back your head
and open your mouth at the cows lowing their human songs
in the field, and the pigs swimming in shit and clover,
and everything on this earth, little dreamer, little dreamer
of the new world, holy, every raindrop and sand grain and blade
of grass worthy of love and love and love, tiny shaman,
tiny blood thrust, tiny trillion cells trilling and trilling,
little dreamer, little hard hat, little heartbeat,
little best of me.
Photo by Shari Wagner
Ode to the Beekeeper
—for Stephanie Smith
who has taken off her veil
and gloves and whispers to the bees
in their own language, inspecting the comb-thick
frames, blowing just so when one or the other alights
on her, if she doesn’t study it first—the veins
feeding the wings, the deep ochre
shimmy, the singing—just like in the dreams
that brought her here in the first place: dream
of the queen, dream of the brood chamber,
dream of the desiccated world and sifting
with her hands the ash and her hands
ashen when she awoke, dream of honey
in her child’s wound, dream of bees
hived in the heart and each wet chamber
gone gold. Which is why, first,
she put on the veil. And which is why,
too, she took it off.
—for Stephanie Smith
who has taken off her veil
and gloves and whispers to the bees
in their own language, inspecting the comb-thick
frames, blowing just so when one or the other alights
on her, if she doesn’t study it first—the veins
feeding the wings, the deep ochre
shimmy, the singing—just like in the dreams
that brought her here in the first place: dream
of the queen, dream of the brood chamber,
dream of the desiccated world and sifting
with her hands the ash and her hands
ashen when she awoke, dream of honey
in her child’s wound, dream of bees
hived in the heart and each wet chamber
gone gold. Which is why, first,
she put on the veil. And which is why,
too, she took it off.
Photo by Shari Wagner
From Against Which (CavanKerry Press Ltd., 2006)
How To Fall in Love With Your Father
Put your hands beneath his armpits, bend your knees,
wait for the clasp of his thinning arms; the best lock
cheek to cheek. Move slow. Do not, right now,
recall the shapes he traced yesterday
on your back, moments before being wheeled to surgery.
Do not pretend the anxious calligraphy of touch
was sign beyond some unspeakable animal stammer. Do not
go back further into the landscape of silence you both
tended, with body and breath, until it nearly obscured all
but the genetic gravity between you.
And do not imagine wind now blowing that landscape
into a river which spills into a sea. Because it doesn’t.
That’s not this love poem. In this love poem
the son trains himself on the task at hand,
which is simple, which is, finally, the only task
he has ever had, which is lifting
the father to his feet.
How To Fall in Love With Your Father
Put your hands beneath his armpits, bend your knees,
wait for the clasp of his thinning arms; the best lock
cheek to cheek. Move slow. Do not, right now,
recall the shapes he traced yesterday
on your back, moments before being wheeled to surgery.
Do not pretend the anxious calligraphy of touch
was sign beyond some unspeakable animal stammer. Do not
go back further into the landscape of silence you both
tended, with body and breath, until it nearly obscured all
but the genetic gravity between you.
And do not imagine wind now blowing that landscape
into a river which spills into a sea. Because it doesn’t.
That’s not this love poem. In this love poem
the son trains himself on the task at hand,
which is simple, which is, finally, the only task
he has ever had, which is lifting
the father to his feet.
Photo by Shari Wagner
Thank You
If you find yourself half naked
and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing,
again, the earth’s great, sonorous moan that says
you are the air of the now and gone, that says
all you love will turn to dust,
and will meet you there, do not
raise your fist. Do not raise
your small voice against it. And do not
take cover. Instead, curl your toes
into the grass, watch the cloud
ascending from your lips. Walk
through the garden’s dormant splendor.
Say only, thank you.
Thank you.
If you find yourself half naked
and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing,
again, the earth’s great, sonorous moan that says
you are the air of the now and gone, that says
all you love will turn to dust,
and will meet you there, do not
raise your fist. Do not raise
your small voice against it. And do not
take cover. Instead, curl your toes
into the grass, watch the cloud
ascending from your lips. Walk
through the garden’s dormant splendor.
Say only, thank you.
Thank you.
Interview with Ross Gay
Ross, your poetry delights in and reveres the natural world, frequently reveling in gardens and noting the wonder of small things, such as beetles, bees, goldfinches and figs. Have you always connected deeply with nature?
I think I probably have—and I often think that I didn’t grow up around “nature,” but I totally did, even if it was nature between the apartment complex and I-95. We spent hours down in those woods, or in the trails, as we called the little patch of woods where we’d make jumps for our bikes and little loops to race. And in the creek that led to the culvert (or the other way around?) we’d wade and flip rocks looking for salamanders and crayfish, or tromp through the skunk cabbage, filling the woods up with that pleasant reek. And there were wild raspberries out there, and a mulberry tree in the apartments, and a blue dog showed up one time that no one really remembers as blue but me. And then we’d spend summers at my grandparents’ place in Verndale, Minnesota (pop. 559) where we’d be around farms and big gardens and livestock and such. But even at home, in the apartments, my mother managed to grow a few flowers in a tiny plot in front, always a lily or two, and whatever variety it was remains among the very best smells of this earth I am aware of.
I read that you helped found the Bloomington Community Orchard and that you serve on its board. Could you describe that project and the effect it’s had on your poetry? Has it had any effect on other aspects of your life, such as your ideas on community or teaching?
Oh that work has been utterly transformational. I was one of the original board members, but the idea for the project comes from someone named Amy Countryman, who dreamt it up as a school project, trying to think about publicly growing food for food security. Of course what we probably learned is that while growing the food is vital, growing the community is equally vital. Because the more community we have, or are, the fewer resources we require. And the happier we are too. I learned those things by working with my beloved friends on this project. And though I haven’t thought a lot about how the orchard work has gotten into my teaching, I am realizing now that the two things I really want to cultivate with my students are the ability to make metaphor or use our imaginations, and the ability to collaborate or be in community. To garden is to exist in what feels to me among the most profoundly imaginative spaces, because you put something the size of the dot above an i in the ground and it makes something that will nourish you and might taste very good too. And if you let that plant, let’s call it a carrot, go to seed, you will have another zillion carrots. That’s from one carrot. And it can go on. That is called metaphor. The speck becomes food for many people. I study that in the orchard, and in my own gardening. And, as I said before, the orchard has been a place where I’ve been taught and continue to study how we can be closer.
In “Burial” you mention “the nation of simple joy” but of course in that same poem joy is mixed with grief. Is it possible to understand one without the other?
In my opinion, joy does not exist without grief. Joy is a grown-ass emotion. Happy or glad or chipper, all things I also aspire to, are a bit less full to me. But joy knows we and those we love and the planet are dying and that there’s a kid somewhere doing cartwheels and someone just gave their elbow to someone who needed help going up the stairs.
Your poems in their inclusiveness and celebratory spirit have been described as Whitmanesque. Has Walt Whitman been an important poet for you? What poets do you feel have most influenced you?
Whitman is important to me, absolutely. The real connection between things he finds and celebrates. The Brooklyn Ferry poem where he addresses the reader from the future almost makes me cry every time I even think of it. It’s so loving and tender. Gerald Stern is a poet whose work has been such an abiding influence. He might be the poet who taught me more than anyone this adult joy I mentioned. That celebration and mourning are really always together. Lucille Clifton is a very important poet for me—the true connection to other worlds, to other zones of knowing has been such a guide. Such a wisdom. Neruda. June Jordan. Marie Howe.
Jean Valentine. Richard Pryor. Toi Derricotte. Virgil. Etc.
What is your writing process like? How do you know when a poem is finished?
My writing process varies from piece to piece, day to day, etc. The simplest and truest thing I can probably say is that I start with questions and follow them. I am not interested in reporting what I know. I am interested in my puzzlement. I am interested in wonder. And wandering! Oh, mostly I have good friends help me know when poems are done. I mean, I kinda know, but I do rely on my friends to help me with my writing. And by that I mean I could tell you pretty much poem by poem where a given friend has helped me out. Pat, Ara, Ruthee, Chrism, Poppa, and on and on. So back to collaboration again.
Though I haven’t had the opportunity to hear you read in person, I’ve listened to Youtube videos and have been so impressed by the way you present your poems and draw in the audience. Even in a large room, you are able to create an intimate space. What have you learned about reading poems aloud that you would be willing to share?
Oh I’d share everything. Hmm. I guess I try to listen to an audience, see what they’re hearing and not hearing. I try not to go too fast, and I try to project, and I try to have some variation of pace and volume, you know, basic aspects of performance or maybe art. I also genuinely feel pretty damn grateful that anyone gives a shit to come hear me read poem, you know? That might be part of it.
What writing project are you currently working on?
A few. A long poem that features Dr. J; a book about my relationship to the earth; and this book of short essays that I’m in the process of finishing called The Book of Delights. That should be out around February of 2019. Etc.
Ross, your poetry delights in and reveres the natural world, frequently reveling in gardens and noting the wonder of small things, such as beetles, bees, goldfinches and figs. Have you always connected deeply with nature?
I think I probably have—and I often think that I didn’t grow up around “nature,” but I totally did, even if it was nature between the apartment complex and I-95. We spent hours down in those woods, or in the trails, as we called the little patch of woods where we’d make jumps for our bikes and little loops to race. And in the creek that led to the culvert (or the other way around?) we’d wade and flip rocks looking for salamanders and crayfish, or tromp through the skunk cabbage, filling the woods up with that pleasant reek. And there were wild raspberries out there, and a mulberry tree in the apartments, and a blue dog showed up one time that no one really remembers as blue but me. And then we’d spend summers at my grandparents’ place in Verndale, Minnesota (pop. 559) where we’d be around farms and big gardens and livestock and such. But even at home, in the apartments, my mother managed to grow a few flowers in a tiny plot in front, always a lily or two, and whatever variety it was remains among the very best smells of this earth I am aware of.
I read that you helped found the Bloomington Community Orchard and that you serve on its board. Could you describe that project and the effect it’s had on your poetry? Has it had any effect on other aspects of your life, such as your ideas on community or teaching?
Oh that work has been utterly transformational. I was one of the original board members, but the idea for the project comes from someone named Amy Countryman, who dreamt it up as a school project, trying to think about publicly growing food for food security. Of course what we probably learned is that while growing the food is vital, growing the community is equally vital. Because the more community we have, or are, the fewer resources we require. And the happier we are too. I learned those things by working with my beloved friends on this project. And though I haven’t thought a lot about how the orchard work has gotten into my teaching, I am realizing now that the two things I really want to cultivate with my students are the ability to make metaphor or use our imaginations, and the ability to collaborate or be in community. To garden is to exist in what feels to me among the most profoundly imaginative spaces, because you put something the size of the dot above an i in the ground and it makes something that will nourish you and might taste very good too. And if you let that plant, let’s call it a carrot, go to seed, you will have another zillion carrots. That’s from one carrot. And it can go on. That is called metaphor. The speck becomes food for many people. I study that in the orchard, and in my own gardening. And, as I said before, the orchard has been a place where I’ve been taught and continue to study how we can be closer.
In “Burial” you mention “the nation of simple joy” but of course in that same poem joy is mixed with grief. Is it possible to understand one without the other?
In my opinion, joy does not exist without grief. Joy is a grown-ass emotion. Happy or glad or chipper, all things I also aspire to, are a bit less full to me. But joy knows we and those we love and the planet are dying and that there’s a kid somewhere doing cartwheels and someone just gave their elbow to someone who needed help going up the stairs.
Your poems in their inclusiveness and celebratory spirit have been described as Whitmanesque. Has Walt Whitman been an important poet for you? What poets do you feel have most influenced you?
Whitman is important to me, absolutely. The real connection between things he finds and celebrates. The Brooklyn Ferry poem where he addresses the reader from the future almost makes me cry every time I even think of it. It’s so loving and tender. Gerald Stern is a poet whose work has been such an abiding influence. He might be the poet who taught me more than anyone this adult joy I mentioned. That celebration and mourning are really always together. Lucille Clifton is a very important poet for me—the true connection to other worlds, to other zones of knowing has been such a guide. Such a wisdom. Neruda. June Jordan. Marie Howe.
Jean Valentine. Richard Pryor. Toi Derricotte. Virgil. Etc.
What is your writing process like? How do you know when a poem is finished?
My writing process varies from piece to piece, day to day, etc. The simplest and truest thing I can probably say is that I start with questions and follow them. I am not interested in reporting what I know. I am interested in my puzzlement. I am interested in wonder. And wandering! Oh, mostly I have good friends help me know when poems are done. I mean, I kinda know, but I do rely on my friends to help me with my writing. And by that I mean I could tell you pretty much poem by poem where a given friend has helped me out. Pat, Ara, Ruthee, Chrism, Poppa, and on and on. So back to collaboration again.
Though I haven’t had the opportunity to hear you read in person, I’ve listened to Youtube videos and have been so impressed by the way you present your poems and draw in the audience. Even in a large room, you are able to create an intimate space. What have you learned about reading poems aloud that you would be willing to share?
Oh I’d share everything. Hmm. I guess I try to listen to an audience, see what they’re hearing and not hearing. I try not to go too fast, and I try to project, and I try to have some variation of pace and volume, you know, basic aspects of performance or maybe art. I also genuinely feel pretty damn grateful that anyone gives a shit to come hear me read poem, you know? That might be part of it.
What writing project are you currently working on?
A few. A long poem that features Dr. J; a book about my relationship to the earth; and this book of short essays that I’m in the process of finishing called The Book of Delights. That should be out around February of 2019. Etc.
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"To garden is to exist in what feels to me among the most profoundly imaginative spaces, because you put something the size of the dot above an i in the ground and it makes something that will nourish you and might taste very good too." Ross Gay |
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Photo of Lee Harlin Bahan by Pat Bahan / "Door Prize Stars," quilt and photo by Lee Harlin Bahan
November, 2017
Engaging Tradition
The Poetry and Translations of Lee Harlin Bahan
Lee Harlin Bahan is the author of A Year of Mourning, her translations of poems 271-322 of Petrarch’s Rerum vulgarium fragmenta. The book, a special honoree for the 2016 Able Muse Book Award judged by A. E. Stallings, was officially released last month by Able Muse Press. Lee earned her M. F. A. at Indiana University-Bloomington, where for six years she taught creative writing through the Division of Continuing Studies. She also has taught at DePauw University, been an Artist in Education for the Indiana Arts Commission, and substituted in Jackson County public schools. Migration Solo, her
M. F. A. thesis, won the first Indiana Poetry Chapbook Contest and was published by the Writers’ Center Press of Indianapolis. Her second chapbook, Notes to Sing, was published in 2016 by Finishing Line Press. Her own poetry has appeared in Ploughshares, The Kenyon Review, and The North American Review, and her translations have appeared in Natural Bridge, Southern Humanities Review, and Flying Island. Local grant support and a residency at the Mary Anderson Center for the Arts, Mount Saint Francis, IN, have furthered Lee’s work translating Petrarch, and she was invited to read from A Year of Mourning at the University of Northern Iowa’s North American Review Bicentennial
Conference in 2015. Submitting translations from her new Petrarch manuscript, To
Wrestle with the Angel, Lee applied for and received a scholarship to attend the West
West Chester University Poetry Conference in West Chester, PA. She lives with her
Visit Lee's website her husband Pat in a hundred-year- old farmhouse outside Medora, IN.
Engaging Tradition
The Poetry and Translations of Lee Harlin Bahan
Lee Harlin Bahan is the author of A Year of Mourning, her translations of poems 271-322 of Petrarch’s Rerum vulgarium fragmenta. The book, a special honoree for the 2016 Able Muse Book Award judged by A. E. Stallings, was officially released last month by Able Muse Press. Lee earned her M. F. A. at Indiana University-Bloomington, where for six years she taught creative writing through the Division of Continuing Studies. She also has taught at DePauw University, been an Artist in Education for the Indiana Arts Commission, and substituted in Jackson County public schools. Migration Solo, her
M. F. A. thesis, won the first Indiana Poetry Chapbook Contest and was published by the Writers’ Center Press of Indianapolis. Her second chapbook, Notes to Sing, was published in 2016 by Finishing Line Press. Her own poetry has appeared in Ploughshares, The Kenyon Review, and The North American Review, and her translations have appeared in Natural Bridge, Southern Humanities Review, and Flying Island. Local grant support and a residency at the Mary Anderson Center for the Arts, Mount Saint Francis, IN, have furthered Lee’s work translating Petrarch, and she was invited to read from A Year of Mourning at the University of Northern Iowa’s North American Review Bicentennial
Conference in 2015. Submitting translations from her new Petrarch manuscript, To
Wrestle with the Angel, Lee applied for and received a scholarship to attend the West
West Chester University Poetry Conference in West Chester, PA. She lives with her
Visit Lee's website her husband Pat in a hundred-year- old farmhouse outside Medora, IN.
Lee Harlin Bahan engages tradition, whether she's translating Petrarch's sonnets,
creating her own sonnets and sestinas, writing about rural southern Indiana culture,
or turning bright scraps into beautiful quilts. Whatever the tradition, she brings
to it passion, perseverance, and her own distinct vision. I knew Lee when we were both
M.F.A. students at I.U. Bloomington and admired her then as someone whose explorations
of tradition bridged town and campus, near and far, past and present. I'm glad to learn
that she is still doing that, still embracing multiple worlds and discovering connections
between them. I likewise have high regard for the richness of Lee's language, the lyrical
music she creates. That music is wonderfully evident in this sample of poems and in the
prose interview that follows. So is the humor. Her sharp wit infuses her work and how
she talks about her craft and her life. If after finishing her delightful poem, "Reading
the Woolly Worms," you are wondering just what the forecast for this winter is, Lee tells
me the woolly worms in her vicinity are black at both ends--an indication of early
and late snow.
"Sleep with the Fishes," quilt and photo by Lee Harlin Bahan
From A Year of Mourning: Poems 271-322 of Petrarch's Rerum Vulgarium Fragmenta
© Lee Harlin Bahan, 2017. Used by permission of Able Muse Press.
271: Winded
The blistering knot that held me while I tallied
hours for twenty-one whole years has given
way to Death, a heavyweight whose pull
I’d not encountered, nor do I believe
grief kills. Since my loss wasn’t Love’s desire,
he stretched a new snare in the grass, heaped
fresh kindling to start another fire,
and so had me at great pains to escape.
If I’d not experienced being out of breath
so much, I would’ve been picked up and burned,
particularly since I’m less green wood.
I have my liberty again—knot torn
in two, fire out, ashes spread—due to Death
against whom brawn and brains aren’t any good.
© Lee Harlin Bahan, 2017. Used by permission of Able Muse Press.
271: Winded
The blistering knot that held me while I tallied
hours for twenty-one whole years has given
way to Death, a heavyweight whose pull
I’d not encountered, nor do I believe
grief kills. Since my loss wasn’t Love’s desire,
he stretched a new snare in the grass, heaped
fresh kindling to start another fire,
and so had me at great pains to escape.
If I’d not experienced being out of breath
so much, I would’ve been picked up and burned,
particularly since I’m less green wood.
I have my liberty again—knot torn
in two, fire out, ashes spread—due to Death
against whom brawn and brains aren’t any good.
"Roadside Early April," quilt and photo by Lee Harlin Bahan
312: When deep purple fails
Not by stars crossing skies without a cloud,
nor pitch-smeared carracks on quiescent seas,
nor countrysides kept safe by cavalries,
nor creatures glad to dart through a fair wood,
nor fresh news longed for when the old was good,
nor soaring, rich, romantic oratory,
nor sweetly singing, beautiful, real ladies
in green pastures where springs are free of mud,
nor by any other means can I be reached,
so deeply was my heart interred with one
who solely was my light and looking glass.
To live so long so gravely pains me such
that I beg for the end, desperate to see again
one I oughtn’t to have looked at in the first place.
Not by stars crossing skies without a cloud,
nor pitch-smeared carracks on quiescent seas,
nor countrysides kept safe by cavalries,
nor creatures glad to dart through a fair wood,
nor fresh news longed for when the old was good,
nor soaring, rich, romantic oratory,
nor sweetly singing, beautiful, real ladies
in green pastures where springs are free of mud,
nor by any other means can I be reached,
so deeply was my heart interred with one
who solely was my light and looking glass.
To live so long so gravely pains me such
that I beg for the end, desperate to see again
one I oughtn’t to have looked at in the first place.
"Clay's Choice Poinsettias," quilt and photo by Lee Harlin Bahan
321: Laura in disguise at sunset
Is this my firebird’s birthplace, where she decked
herself in gold and crimson plumes, and kept
my heart beneath her wings, and is adept
as ever at getting it to sigh and speak?
Oh, sweet rootstock from which I grew sick,
where has the face gone from whose good looks leapt
sparks keeping me on fire, alive and rapt?
Unique on earth, you rejoice with Heaven’s flock.
And since you left me destitute and lonely,
sad to say, I always am returning
where I enshrine and bless your memory,
watching the shadows flicker, hills burning
black where you flew into eternity,
and once upon a time your eyes created morning.
Is this my firebird’s birthplace, where she decked
herself in gold and crimson plumes, and kept
my heart beneath her wings, and is adept
as ever at getting it to sigh and speak?
Oh, sweet rootstock from which I grew sick,
where has the face gone from whose good looks leapt
sparks keeping me on fire, alive and rapt?
Unique on earth, you rejoice with Heaven’s flock.
And since you left me destitute and lonely,
sad to say, I always am returning
where I enshrine and bless your memory,
watching the shadows flicker, hills burning
black where you flew into eternity,
and once upon a time your eyes created morning.
"Snow on Fall Foliage," quilt and photo by Lee Harlin Bahan
From Notes to Sing (Finishing Line Press, 2016)
John Cougar Really Has Cousins Here
For years a sign near Randy Miser’s yard
announced: MEDORA
TOWN OF HARMONY
A bar of music showed beneath those words
the first notes of the scale ordered mi,
do, re. I’ve wondered driving in—to Mel’s
for beer, past our shut-down factory--
what tune that railroad man was whistling while
he pounded ties. Who heard him, had the wit
to transpose song into a name for coal
bins and a water tank: Today we’ve got
a tavern, churches, one school K through 12
and a new sign. The old one was riddled with shot
one night—drunk boys likely, to amuse themselves.
Next day, before it disappeared, high winds
hammered that thing like a piano roll.
The town marshal, in thin-lipped silence,
I suppose, took it down for evidence.
John Cougar Really Has Cousins Here
For years a sign near Randy Miser’s yard
announced: MEDORA
TOWN OF HARMONY
A bar of music showed beneath those words
the first notes of the scale ordered mi,
do, re. I’ve wondered driving in—to Mel’s
for beer, past our shut-down factory--
what tune that railroad man was whistling while
he pounded ties. Who heard him, had the wit
to transpose song into a name for coal
bins and a water tank: Today we’ve got
a tavern, churches, one school K through 12
and a new sign. The old one was riddled with shot
one night—drunk boys likely, to amuse themselves.
Next day, before it disappeared, high winds
hammered that thing like a piano roll.
The town marshal, in thin-lipped silence,
I suppose, took it down for evidence.
"East Fork of White River" by Lee Harlin Bahan
Almanac
1. The sky is like the belly of a snake.
2. My mare shakes powdered sugar from her coat.
3. How much freeze and thaw can tulips take?
4. The river’s out. We come and go by boat.
5. John Deeres upholster fields in corduroy.
6. Shoots flicker like heat lightning through the dust.
7. Wind sizzles in the cottonwoods. Fish fry.
8. At sunset wives fill paper sacks with husks.
9. Ripe walnuts thud like softballs on our lawn.
10. Rain drools across the fanlight, taps the roof.
11. Cats loot the kitchen trash for turkey bones.
12. Stalked redbirds track in snow brief epitaphs.
1. The sky is like the belly of a snake.
2. My mare shakes powdered sugar from her coat.
3. How much freeze and thaw can tulips take?
4. The river’s out. We come and go by boat.
5. John Deeres upholster fields in corduroy.
6. Shoots flicker like heat lightning through the dust.
7. Wind sizzles in the cottonwoods. Fish fry.
8. At sunset wives fill paper sacks with husks.
9. Ripe walnuts thud like softballs on our lawn.
10. Rain drools across the fanlight, taps the roof.
11. Cats loot the kitchen trash for turkey bones.
12. Stalked redbirds track in snow brief epitaphs.
"Arizona Sunset" by Lee Harlin Bahan
From “Remodeling Petrarch: Two Poems”
Midas
Stay, love, review with me the day’s parade
which, by exalting, seals our conquest.
Rain-silvered air becomes your looking glass.
Afterward, west light convinces blades
of grass they’re emeralds. Surely it’s God
in us that gilds and reads the sunset’s page, sews
pearls on our native sackcloth. Shadows
cloister the hills, bead the switchback road.
For how could failed sight change an ancient oak
to onyx? Closed flowers beneath it pray
we’ll walk there, touching them to gold again;
and the night, honeycombed with myth, is like
a minstrel trading fame for sanctuary,
eyes flickering with hearth-fire, our dark wine.
Midas
Stay, love, review with me the day’s parade
which, by exalting, seals our conquest.
Rain-silvered air becomes your looking glass.
Afterward, west light convinces blades
of grass they’re emeralds. Surely it’s God
in us that gilds and reads the sunset’s page, sews
pearls on our native sackcloth. Shadows
cloister the hills, bead the switchback road.
For how could failed sight change an ancient oak
to onyx? Closed flowers beneath it pray
we’ll walk there, touching them to gold again;
and the night, honeycombed with myth, is like
a minstrel trading fame for sanctuary,
eyes flickering with hearth-fire, our dark wine.
"Woolly Worms in Jar" by Pat Bahan
From Migration Solo (Writers' Center Press, 1989)
Reading the Woolly Worms
They’re like two-inch long animate
bottle brushes, laboring toward destinations
that get in their way. We think
they eat leaves, but they’ll latch onto anything--
we catch them with sticks. One good prod
and the worm curls tight
as if managing escape from the grasp of an ogre
by becoming a furry knuckle on a finger
on one of its hands. We shake
them off into empty jars. Like human hair,
theirs can be blond, auburn or black.
Sometimes they’re striped. This is the trick:
depth of coat color prophesies
bleakness of winter. So we hope to find pale-banded
abdomens, an assurance January
won’t wreck the pipes. But it doesn’t
look good: the woolly worms seem very dark and small
creeping around inside the sun-whitened glass--
we let them go. Once in the grass,
they disappear quickly. We turn to our tasks,
to cut wood and mend sweaters, to hold on
until new buds relax.
Reading the Woolly Worms
They’re like two-inch long animate
bottle brushes, laboring toward destinations
that get in their way. We think
they eat leaves, but they’ll latch onto anything--
we catch them with sticks. One good prod
and the worm curls tight
as if managing escape from the grasp of an ogre
by becoming a furry knuckle on a finger
on one of its hands. We shake
them off into empty jars. Like human hair,
theirs can be blond, auburn or black.
Sometimes they’re striped. This is the trick:
depth of coat color prophesies
bleakness of winter. So we hope to find pale-banded
abdomens, an assurance January
won’t wreck the pipes. But it doesn’t
look good: the woolly worms seem very dark and small
creeping around inside the sun-whitened glass--
we let them go. Once in the grass,
they disappear quickly. We turn to our tasks,
to cut wood and mend sweaters, to hold on
until new buds relax.
Medora High School Service Learning Project, Sparksville Loop of Knobstone Trail, photo by Lee Harlin Bahan
Caritas
This morning my lilac
flickered when I went outside.
Because of sun and wind,
I said to myself,
because new leaves are tender.
The bush grows next to the feed lot
fence. Sparrows gleaned
corn from bare dirt and hoof
tracks, then broke
upward like clods flung by a plow.
Twin maples in the pasture
guard a concrete cistern. Ivy’s slow
lightning has cracked it beyond
use. I took water in buckets for the horses,
whistled. Whether they came
to me or to the trough
doesn’t matter. They drank,
a modest ripple spanning each
soft neck, muscles catching
light, giving it away.
This morning my lilac
flickered when I went outside.
Because of sun and wind,
I said to myself,
because new leaves are tender.
The bush grows next to the feed lot
fence. Sparrows gleaned
corn from bare dirt and hoof
tracks, then broke
upward like clods flung by a plow.
Twin maples in the pasture
guard a concrete cistern. Ivy’s slow
lightning has cracked it beyond
use. I took water in buckets for the horses,
whistled. Whether they came
to me or to the trough
doesn’t matter. They drank,
a modest ripple spanning each
soft neck, muscles catching
light, giving it away.
"Cat's Pajamas Quilt for Jenny," quilt block and photo by Lee Harlin Bahan
For Jenny Learning to Read: Etude in E
Eating cream of wheat, we electrocute
each other with eels. Your eyes, the exact
ethereal blue mine were at five, eagerly
excavate the encyclopedia. What ecstasy--
ergs, eidelweiss, ermine, ears, elephants,
encephalopods, egrets and eggplants--
earth’s our emporium. There are exceptions.
Eccentric English evades explanations:
--e-i-n equates vein with pain. Early,
even before you could talk, envy
(exiled when I typed, you thought, for ever)
enticed you to evil deeds—either
entombing the cat in a drawer or else
emblazoning my books with paint—express
ebullitions I couldn’t ignore. E
engenders future grief as well, and empathy:
entering puberty, you’ll make elaborate
excuses—a mom who tries to emulate
Emily Dickinson won’t excite boys. Elm,
elasmosaur, emerald, echinoderm,
echo, eclipse, emotion: my eaglet,
embarking on explorations of your estate
(equivocal gift but all I have to endow)
even though my exertions—epic, envoi,
elegy, epigram—reave me of energy,
even though I enshrine erudition excessively,
even if you wed a sanitary engineer,
elope with a chauvinistic emir,
evicting you from my heart would not be easy;
entirely impossible. Eventually,
especially because it’s silent—elementary,
ergo—you’ll know love gave this its E.
Eating cream of wheat, we electrocute
each other with eels. Your eyes, the exact
ethereal blue mine were at five, eagerly
excavate the encyclopedia. What ecstasy--
ergs, eidelweiss, ermine, ears, elephants,
encephalopods, egrets and eggplants--
earth’s our emporium. There are exceptions.
Eccentric English evades explanations:
--e-i-n equates vein with pain. Early,
even before you could talk, envy
(exiled when I typed, you thought, for ever)
enticed you to evil deeds—either
entombing the cat in a drawer or else
emblazoning my books with paint—express
ebullitions I couldn’t ignore. E
engenders future grief as well, and empathy:
entering puberty, you’ll make elaborate
excuses—a mom who tries to emulate
Emily Dickinson won’t excite boys. Elm,
elasmosaur, emerald, echinoderm,
echo, eclipse, emotion: my eaglet,
embarking on explorations of your estate
(equivocal gift but all I have to endow)
even though my exertions—epic, envoi,
elegy, epigram—reave me of energy,
even though I enshrine erudition excessively,
even if you wed a sanitary engineer,
elope with a chauvinistic emir,
evicting you from my heart would not be easy;
entirely impossible. Eventually,
especially because it’s silent—elementary,
ergo—you’ll know love gave this its E.
Interview with Lee Harlin Bahan
Lee, when did you first start writing poetry? Do you remember your first poem?
While I don’t remember the words to my first “poem,” I have a very clear memory of playing church before I could read, sitting in our living room floor, flipping open the hymnal that Mother used to plan Baptist Sunday School convocations. Using “church words” that I’d heard, I made up and sang my own verses to whatever melody of whatever hymn floated into my little brain. While I had no intent to poke fun—I shudder to think what heresies I uttered—I essentially was writing parodies of hymns, which is to say, practicing the rudiments of working in received forms.
I do, however, recall my first published poem, in our elementary school newspaper, fifth grade, I think. It was doggerel, which the teacher apparently found precocious, clever, and/or cute. The poem lists what seemed to me incongruous tiger images in 1960s advertisements and popular culture. I only can quote two bits of it. “Tigers are in tanks” referred to Esso gas before somebody realized the name meant “broken car” in Japanese and substituted Exxon. The poem concludes, “Tigers are never where they should be.” I know the breakfast cereal was in there, but that and the rest, thankfully, have sunk into oblivion. I’m struck by how embarrassed I am to have written such drivel, how much I still am that ten-year-old using the music of language to make people listen. Somewhere between playing church and fifth-grade, I became a poet. This is nothing new, just my experience of Sidney’s point that art delights and teaches.
Your most recent book is a translation of 52 poems from Francesco Petrarca’s Rerum vulgarium fragmenta. What draws you to the poems of this 14th century Italian poet?
My answer to your first question suggests that I wasn’t so much drawn to Petrarch’s poetry as I was doomed by temperament, ability, experience, and circumstance to translate him. When I was a M. F. A. student at I. U.—in the days of duplicating by purple mimeograph—no courses in writing in traditional forms were offered. I soon realized that if I were to survive workshop, to have a career in poetry, I needed to learn to write publishable free verse. When decent small magazines began accepting my workshop poems, I went back to writing sonnets, determined to do so with impunity in what felt like a free verse world. Around this time, I decided that the best way to learn sonnet-writing, to figure out how properly to handle abstractions, would be to translate Petrarch, the guy who institutionalized the use of the sonnet to ponder love.
So, how do I love Petrarch? I can’t count the ways because I’m not sure I do, and I doubt he would’ve liked me, old battle-ax that I am. Our relationship seems more like an arranged, medieval marriage with potential to bloom into a fruitful partnership. Petrarch is an important poet, a bridge between classical and modern culture. I recently translated two of his poems where the Renaissance literally happens, and thrilled “to know the place for the first time.” I respect his proto-Protestant questioning of the authorities that were and his assertion of the authority of individual experience. Conversely, the Middle Ages were a time of faith, and our society, seemingly split between certain conservative and secular elements, would benefit from the example of Petrarch’s struggle with basic tenets of Judeo-Christian scripture. If I’m going to hitch my wagon to a star, Petrarch has staying power. On the delight side, his wit, double-jointed language, and isomorphic imagery are catnip to me. Best practice in translation today is to be as faithful as possible to what the original says and how the original says it, authorizing me to approximate Petrarch’s form. (Sure. Twist my arm.) Petrarch’s pay-off, if I work hard and use what I know to beguile the free verse sensibility, might be a little more of the fame for which he lusted as desperately as the speaker of Rerum vulgarium fragmenta lusted for Laura. Apparently, I’m not the first to harbor an attention-seeking inner-child.
How are your translations of Rerum vulgarium fragmenta unique?
Rvf, my pet name for Petrarch’s sonnet-heavy, 366-poem masterpiece chronicling the speaker’s frustrated love for a married, God-fearing woman named Laura during her physical life and long after her death from Black Plague, has been translated into English since Chaucer converted Rvf 132 into rhyme royal and plugged it into his Troilus and Criseide. While putting together a translation seminar presentation this past spring, I found 22 versions of Rvf 310, and my search wasn’t exhaustive. This being the case, a translator is challenged to find fresh but responsible ways to make it worth a consumer’s money and time to buy and read yet one more take on Petrarch.
Luckily, the scholarship of Thomas Roche showed me a new way to present this poet who, as Bob Dylan said of Frank Sinatra, has been covered so often as to have been buried. Roche argues that Rvf is structured around the Christian calendar and suggests that Rvf 271-322, a sequence of 52 sonnets sparked by the death of the speaker’s possible new love interest, “form a year of mourning” for Laura, the speaker’s dead, one true love. I decided to test Roche’s theory by translating the poems in question and three years later had completed A Year of Mourning. I don’t know of another translator having rendered into English an excerpt from Rvf, as if a sequence of its poems were a chapter of a novel. Almost everyone has experienced grief, and it’s a lot easier to wrap your head around 52 difficult poems than around 366 of them.
There is an up-side to Petrarch’s ubiquity. One of his day jobs was as a diplomat. He had the talent, akin to that of the Irishman who tells a person to go to the devil in such a way that the individual enjoys the trip. Petrarch’s poems are very musical and romantic on the surface, and a tradition has developed, hardened into concrete, of translating him in this way. This wealth of beautiful, decorous translations, widely available, ensures that I do little harm by highlighting the poet’s double entendres, which I think make the speaker’s moral dilemma more real and therefore more moving.
Rvf 271 shows how Petrarch uses a general word to point to several meanings at once and how I choose terms in English to mirror the original. One reliable scholar translates the Italian preso as “captured.” The word also may mean “shanghaied,” the virtual slavery of being pressed to work on a ship; enslavement to sin is a Christian concept. “Captured” works with a human or small game in a trap, but not with a living thing’s morphing into firewood. Our house used to have a wood stove, and my job was to “pick up” sticks for kindling. “Pick up” is colloquial, applies to stunned or dead animals and wood, eases the shift in the dramatic situation at the level of the metaphor, and, in modern slang, points to being “picked up” as in “for a date” or “in a bar” (and consumed with lust), thence to being “picked up” by demons, thought in the Middle Ages to be (Mosaic) Law enforcement, and thrown in Hell. There are other associations for those interested in looking for them. To be honest, I probably convey Petrarch’s hyper-efficient use of language more than other translators do simply because I’m blessed—some would say cursed—with a quirk of mind that alerts me to puns and other word play. The Elizabethans picked it up from Petrarch, and I picked it up from Shakespeare and Donne.
What do you enjoy most and least about the work of translation?
My favorite part of the translation process, which I like even better than reading the first completed draft of a sonnet aloud and knowing I have a keeper, is what I call “finding a way in.” This happens when I have built up enough intellectual and emotional understanding of what Petrarch is saying such that my skill producing iambic pentameter, then my internalized knowledge of how sonnets work, start to function organically. At some point, a line of iambic pentameter, or an appropriate, catchy variation thereof, that is faithful to Petrarch’s meaning, comes. The line’s ending word, I realize, rhymes or slant rhymes with a good ending word for the line that it’s supposed to rhyme with, corresponding to Petrarch’s rhyme scheme! Once I’ve finished one unit of a sonnet, first or second quatrain or tercet, doesn’t matter, and can read it aloud, then smile and think, “Ooh, that’s a wicked little bit of music,” I know victory is certain, that if I persevere, all I must do is find the rest of the music that goes with the completed unit. At that point, I can save my work, turn off my computer, and take the rest of the day off because, though there still is much work to do, that sonnet is in the bag.
When Petrarch is particularly difficult and clever, which is often, reaching that critical mass of intellectual and emotional understanding can be torture. I hate the degree of concentration sometimes necessary to figure out what the foxtrot he’s on about. When stuck, I study all the translations of the sonnet that I’m working on, that I own or can find online, and analyze how the versions differ. Disagreements among better poets and translators than I indicate where most opportunity for new insight likely lies. This pressure is not helpful. I compare the English words in my quick and dirty literal translation of the Italian to words used by other translators. I completely re-do my literal crib, look up again in my worn Italian-English dictionary every meaning of every noun, verb, and modifier in play, and crucial prepositions. I research allusions to classical mythology, look up Bible passages that seem germane, Google Medieval clothing. This part of the process is fun when I make solid connections—wow, Elba isn’t just a Napoleon thing, it’s in Virgil, Petrarch’s favorite poet—except suddenly it’s three in the afternoon and I was supposed to buy dog food and my husband will be exceedingly wroth when he gets home from work. I forgot to eat lunch. I didn’t take anything out for supper. Distracted worse than if texting, I miss my turn to the store. The evening goes downhill from jotting insights on the magnetic grocery list pad on the fridge as I struggle to prepare stupid chili soup. I sleep horribly, worrying and worrying at the problem, in my dreams.
What have you learned about this art?
The first thing I learned about the art of translation was that I needed a lot less art and a lot better grasp of Italian! “Midas,” and its companion poem, “Rime of a Modern Mariner,” were fabricated with the aid of five years of junior and senior high school Spanish, a year each of high school and college French, half of a semester of college Latin (interrupted and never resumed due to mono), a second-hand, Italian-English pocket dictionary, and poetic license in the form of a newly received M. F. A. They’re good poems, but aren’t faithful to Rvf 192 and 118. I submitted another poem from this era, when I pretty much used nouns and verbs from Petrarch’s Italian as writing prompts, to a Writers’ Center workshop run by Willis Barnstone. With great restraint, he kindly but firmly told me, “Learn Italian and do this right.” So, I got a grant to pay for taking introductory Italian and here we are. The lesson is, while I agree with Dryden that being able to write good poetry in the target language is paramount, I believe a translator needs a basic knowledge of the mechanics of her source language, if she isn’t collaborating with someone fluent in both source and target languages.
On the other hand, I think my limited Italian vocabulary and lack of formal training in Petrarchan scholarship and translation theory—though I very much want to cure my ignorance now—gave me a sort of advantage. When a bright child asks you what indefatigable means, you give a simple synonym, “tireless,” or an example, “like the Energizer Bunny,” you don’t go through the thesaurus. Since I started out teaching myself Italian, I looked everything up, and noted all possible meanings, not just the first one, or most common or most obvious ones. I tried unconventional meanings because I didn’t know any better. Catch is, I had a graduate degree in English, which prepared me to study how one unconventional meaning affected meanings of other words and, behold, there was a subtext the translators I had begun to read seemed to have missed. Likewise, if I had pursued Italian Studies as an undergraduate, and been assigned Wilkins, an important scholar who pooh-poohs calendrical theories of the structure of Rvf, I might not have attempted A Year of Mourning. It’s an untutored child who notices the emperor’s state of undress.
You are amazingly adept at writing in traditional forms—so adept that I forget I’m reading a sonnet or sestina. What advice can you give poets who have been writing in free verse but would like to try working with some traditional forms?
Read, read, read! Make like a Borg from Star Trek and assimilate Robert Frost. His work laid the foundation for writing poetry the way real people talk. (Just mentioning him, I revert to dialect!) Move on to Marilyn Hacker, who exponentially furthers the use of everyday English in traditional forms, and, in my opinion, wrested ascendancy in same from predominantly male, conservative practitioners; no subject is taboo, and her work both sparkles with wit and is deeply moving. I love Richard Wilbur’s translation of Moliere’s Tartuffe, and my most successful lessons as an Indiana Artist in Education used poems from his children’s book Opposites as models. His original, adult poetry is strictly metrical and uses full rhymes, which might make him an ideal model for novice formalists. X. J. Kennedy’s newest book, That Swing, contains a serious poem in which subspecies rhymes with feces, a feat I would kill to have managed. These poets will lodge the music of modern English in your head, like a song on the radio that you can’t shake, but won’t teach you bad or no longer acceptable practices, which is to say, to pad lines to fill out meter, to use archaic diction for the sake of sounding poetic, to invert word order just for the sake of form, and so forth.
Once vaccinated against what would have to be unlearned, a person might get Paul Fussell’s Poetic Meter and Poetic Form, or Lewis Turco’s The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, and start working through, writing a poem in each form, or have fun and choose forms that appeal for whatever reason. Join the Indiana Writers Center and lobby for classes in introductory traditional forms. Buy sample copies of or subscribe to The Lyric, Measure, or Able Muse, all reputable journals specializing in formal verse. Lurk on an internet site such as the Eratosphere, with formal and translation boards (where formal concerns frequently are addressed), and watch the poets work out. (New poets should note that most small magazines consider poems posted on a forum “previously published.”) If you have the money, or your Fussell and Turco exercises were successful enough to use as a writing sample for a scholarship application, you might want to attend Poetry by the Sea or the West Chester University Poetry Conference, both promoting meter and rhyme, with readings, presentations, and classes given by world-class poets. The University of Evansville is home to the Evansville Press, sponsor of the Richard Wilbur Poetry Award and the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award. Any book that wins the Wilbur is worth buying, reading, and studying.
What contemporary poets have been important to you?
I’m going to answer this question in terms of poets who have been important to me as teachers in workshops and poets whose books help me live my life and feed my work.
A Year of Mourning would not have been written without Maura Stanton. Not only did she introduce me to Ovid’s Metamorphoses, one of Petrarch’s favorite works, but she also insisted on the importance of making the concrete dramatic situation of a poem clear. Familiarity with Ovid’s retelling of classical myths primed me to understand Petrarch’s turning of everyday events into a personal mythology. Working with Petrarch, who often has two dramatic situations going on, in the real world and in the imaginary world of the conceit, I quickly realized that Maura, who loves myths and whose poems often explore otherworldly experiences, had given me the key to selecting meanings of Petrarch’s words that guide modern readers through the emotional logic of his sonnets.
I already praised Marilyn Hacker as a model for writing good contemporary verse, but I should praise her as a teacher and point out how important it is, if you really want to write formal poems, to study with people who write in rhyme and meter. Die-hard practitioners of free verse, nine times out of ten, will advise cutting offensive portions, but won’t see the necessity, be willing or even able, to suggest how to fix infelicities in such a way that your desire to write a strict sonnet, say, will be honored. When I worked with Marilyn at the University of Cincinnati, I was safe, I was home, I was free, and my work blossomed. “John Cougar” and “Almanac” came out of that workshop. Marilyn gave us experience in composing epistolary poems, which is essentially what Petrarch does in Rvf 287 and Rvf 322, except he’s writing to dead people.
The contemporary poet of whose work I am an unabashed fangirl, though, is A. E. Stallings. She’s another writer inspired by classical myths, and I recently heard her read a devastating poem about the refugee crisis in Greece, where she now lives. Stallings will be the next Richard Wilbur, so her approval of A Year of Mourning was the best Christmas gift I got last year. Mark Jarman is equally adept at free and formal verse, and his Unholy Sonnets gets in the reader’s face about the implications of practicing Christianity in the modern world. Maryann Corbett’s Mid Evil shows how faith links ancient and modern cultures, engaging heart and brain as Jarman does, but more serenely. Tony Barnstone’s Sad Jazz is another of my favorite books, a sonnet sequence about love and its dissolution, acknowledging a debt to Petrarch with hot doggone translations of two Rvf sonnets. And, Shari, if you think my traditional verse doesn’t seem formal, you should read Rebecca Foust’s Paradise Drive. That girl has an uncanny understanding of what constitutes a sonnet’s soul. I devour every Petrarch translation I can get my hands on, but A. M. Juster’s use of Latinisms and J. G. Nichols’ pioneering work with slant rhyme have proven most helpful and inspiring.
Your strong sense of place is evident in such poems as “John Cougar Really Has Cousins Here,” “Almanac,” and “Caritas.” Could you talk a bit about your attachment to the rural, small- town community of Medora?
In 1809, one of my husband’s ancestors settled less than ten miles from where we live. When I married Pat, I married his family, I married his church, I married this house built with the help of friends and neighbors over a hundred years ago, and I married the descendants of those friends and neighbors who still live in Carr Township. I grew up in the suburbs of several Southern cities and had no idea what I was in for. I understood being an outsider, but being identified as “Pat’s wife,” “Kenny and Norie’s daughter-in-law,” and “Jenny’s mom,” absorbed instead of individual, made me crazy. But I think if one is lucky, and wants to be healed of certain flaws, one instinctively will wind up in the right circumstances for that to happen. The poems in Migration Solo are about getting to know a place, warts and all, as you get to know and love a person. I’m pleased to see now that many of my poems begin with an askance eyebrow but end with discovery of some sort of kinship or sympathy. Notes to Sing is about leaving, physically or in imagination, and returning. As much as I love conferences and readings, the intensity of literary discussion, the excitement of new ideas, hanging out with people who face a blank page or screen regularly, these days it’s good to get back where all I need do is be Pat’s wife and decent to people. This is my home, not something I somehow have to deserve.
Petrarch had a house in the country, near Vaucluse in southern France. My answers to earlier questions hint that living where woods craft still is practiced helps me understand life in the 14th century, without conveniences. Rural southern Indiana also gave me a surprise gift with respect to translating Petrarch. On arrival, I liked folk music and bluegrass, but hated country music. Half the stores in the county play the stuff, though, so you can like it, or not shop and use corncobs for toilet paper. One of Rvf’s Italian titles is Canzoniere, “Songbook,” and Petrarch wrote Rvf in Italian, the language of the common people of Italy, not in Latin, the language of church, state, and higher learning. I mentioned earlier that traditions about translating Petrarch include using elevated, sugar and spice diction. What better way to rescue Petrarch from the ivory tower than to translate him into my idiolect born of forty years among rural Americans and two degrees from a local university? How better to delight ordinary people, coax them to read a classic and possibly see good in the so-called elite, than to use poetic devices from lyrics of popular songs? Poets of the academy could learn from the Jason Aldean hit, “Big Green Tractor,” where the initial consonants and the vowels of “tractor,” “faster,” “pasture,” and “matter” steadily advance the refrain, while the central consonants slant an otherwise perfect feminine rhyme, imitating a ride over dips, bumps, and rocks on untilled ground. That’s not ham-fisted rhyming, that’s flipping brilliant.
What should a visitor to Jackson County be sure to see?
Nick Walden, who graduated from the Medora School and did the cover art for Notes to Sing, was commissioned by the Bicentennial Committee to create a map of Jackson County, illustrating its important features, for a commemorative jigsaw puzzle. I marvel at how many things Nick included to see and do around here. Since I’ve gone on for a while already, I’ll hit a few places of historical and natural interest, especially in Carr Township.
Visitors to Seymour can buy a CD containing an audio tour and drive around the “small town” where John Mellencamp grew up. The Pioneer Village of the Jackson County Historical Society in Brownstown sometimes features quilting and muzzle-loading rifle demonstrations. Southeast of Brownstown is Skyline Drive, with a scenic overlook of the East Fork of the White River bottomlands. South along this same chain of hills, pushed up by glaciers in the last ice age, lies Starve Hollow State Park, with RV and tent camping around a lake where visitors fish, swim, or, as my husband and I do, paddle the perimeter. The French had an outpost at Vallonia in 1790 and Aaron Burr spent time in the area after killing Hamilton. Today you can explore a reconstruction of the original fort built in 1811 and look through its museum.
Medora and other Carr Township residents are particularly proud of the Medora Covered Bridge, the Medora Brick Plant, and the Knobstone Trail’s Sparksville Loop. As a service learning project, Medora High School seniors cleared brush to extend the Knobstone Trail, which begins near Deam Lake in Clark County, IN. The students also helped to build a bridge, boardwalk, and bench, enabling hikers to enjoy our area’s natural beauty and promoting conservation. Not so long ago the Medora Covered Bridge was falling apart and covered with, hmmm, colorful graffiti. But volunteers researched, wrote, and received grants to restore the bridge and create a park now visited by many bus and bicycling tours. A fundraising dinner is held annually on the bridge, where attendees can look down through the boards at the sunlit river flowing below. Inspired by the success of the bridge project, a committee has been formed to clean up, restore, and give tours of the Medora Brick Plant. If, in Indianapolis or on your travels around the world, you look down at a street paved in brick and read, “Medora,” the bricks were made five or six miles from my house.
In the end, what may matter most is not what you should see in Jackson County, but how you should see Jackson County. The East Fork of the White River bisects our county from northeast to southwest, and my husband and I have canoed the entire stretch. Following a water route gives a person a different appreciation of a place’s geography, history, and ecology. When the water is low, you must get out and walk your boat over the shallows just as the pioneers did theirs—which were loaded with household goods. After heavy rain, the location and number of fallen trees and underwater obstructions change, so you learn to read the current and pay attention. Sometimes you see bald eagles, sometimes migratory waterfowl, and once a flock of turkeys flew overhead, from one bank to the other. When sandbars are visible, you can spot deer, raccoon, and other tracks. It’s always a new river.
Lee, when did you first start writing poetry? Do you remember your first poem?
While I don’t remember the words to my first “poem,” I have a very clear memory of playing church before I could read, sitting in our living room floor, flipping open the hymnal that Mother used to plan Baptist Sunday School convocations. Using “church words” that I’d heard, I made up and sang my own verses to whatever melody of whatever hymn floated into my little brain. While I had no intent to poke fun—I shudder to think what heresies I uttered—I essentially was writing parodies of hymns, which is to say, practicing the rudiments of working in received forms.
I do, however, recall my first published poem, in our elementary school newspaper, fifth grade, I think. It was doggerel, which the teacher apparently found precocious, clever, and/or cute. The poem lists what seemed to me incongruous tiger images in 1960s advertisements and popular culture. I only can quote two bits of it. “Tigers are in tanks” referred to Esso gas before somebody realized the name meant “broken car” in Japanese and substituted Exxon. The poem concludes, “Tigers are never where they should be.” I know the breakfast cereal was in there, but that and the rest, thankfully, have sunk into oblivion. I’m struck by how embarrassed I am to have written such drivel, how much I still am that ten-year-old using the music of language to make people listen. Somewhere between playing church and fifth-grade, I became a poet. This is nothing new, just my experience of Sidney’s point that art delights and teaches.
Your most recent book is a translation of 52 poems from Francesco Petrarca’s Rerum vulgarium fragmenta. What draws you to the poems of this 14th century Italian poet?
My answer to your first question suggests that I wasn’t so much drawn to Petrarch’s poetry as I was doomed by temperament, ability, experience, and circumstance to translate him. When I was a M. F. A. student at I. U.—in the days of duplicating by purple mimeograph—no courses in writing in traditional forms were offered. I soon realized that if I were to survive workshop, to have a career in poetry, I needed to learn to write publishable free verse. When decent small magazines began accepting my workshop poems, I went back to writing sonnets, determined to do so with impunity in what felt like a free verse world. Around this time, I decided that the best way to learn sonnet-writing, to figure out how properly to handle abstractions, would be to translate Petrarch, the guy who institutionalized the use of the sonnet to ponder love.
So, how do I love Petrarch? I can’t count the ways because I’m not sure I do, and I doubt he would’ve liked me, old battle-ax that I am. Our relationship seems more like an arranged, medieval marriage with potential to bloom into a fruitful partnership. Petrarch is an important poet, a bridge between classical and modern culture. I recently translated two of his poems where the Renaissance literally happens, and thrilled “to know the place for the first time.” I respect his proto-Protestant questioning of the authorities that were and his assertion of the authority of individual experience. Conversely, the Middle Ages were a time of faith, and our society, seemingly split between certain conservative and secular elements, would benefit from the example of Petrarch’s struggle with basic tenets of Judeo-Christian scripture. If I’m going to hitch my wagon to a star, Petrarch has staying power. On the delight side, his wit, double-jointed language, and isomorphic imagery are catnip to me. Best practice in translation today is to be as faithful as possible to what the original says and how the original says it, authorizing me to approximate Petrarch’s form. (Sure. Twist my arm.) Petrarch’s pay-off, if I work hard and use what I know to beguile the free verse sensibility, might be a little more of the fame for which he lusted as desperately as the speaker of Rerum vulgarium fragmenta lusted for Laura. Apparently, I’m not the first to harbor an attention-seeking inner-child.
How are your translations of Rerum vulgarium fragmenta unique?
Rvf, my pet name for Petrarch’s sonnet-heavy, 366-poem masterpiece chronicling the speaker’s frustrated love for a married, God-fearing woman named Laura during her physical life and long after her death from Black Plague, has been translated into English since Chaucer converted Rvf 132 into rhyme royal and plugged it into his Troilus and Criseide. While putting together a translation seminar presentation this past spring, I found 22 versions of Rvf 310, and my search wasn’t exhaustive. This being the case, a translator is challenged to find fresh but responsible ways to make it worth a consumer’s money and time to buy and read yet one more take on Petrarch.
Luckily, the scholarship of Thomas Roche showed me a new way to present this poet who, as Bob Dylan said of Frank Sinatra, has been covered so often as to have been buried. Roche argues that Rvf is structured around the Christian calendar and suggests that Rvf 271-322, a sequence of 52 sonnets sparked by the death of the speaker’s possible new love interest, “form a year of mourning” for Laura, the speaker’s dead, one true love. I decided to test Roche’s theory by translating the poems in question and three years later had completed A Year of Mourning. I don’t know of another translator having rendered into English an excerpt from Rvf, as if a sequence of its poems were a chapter of a novel. Almost everyone has experienced grief, and it’s a lot easier to wrap your head around 52 difficult poems than around 366 of them.
There is an up-side to Petrarch’s ubiquity. One of his day jobs was as a diplomat. He had the talent, akin to that of the Irishman who tells a person to go to the devil in such a way that the individual enjoys the trip. Petrarch’s poems are very musical and romantic on the surface, and a tradition has developed, hardened into concrete, of translating him in this way. This wealth of beautiful, decorous translations, widely available, ensures that I do little harm by highlighting the poet’s double entendres, which I think make the speaker’s moral dilemma more real and therefore more moving.
Rvf 271 shows how Petrarch uses a general word to point to several meanings at once and how I choose terms in English to mirror the original. One reliable scholar translates the Italian preso as “captured.” The word also may mean “shanghaied,” the virtual slavery of being pressed to work on a ship; enslavement to sin is a Christian concept. “Captured” works with a human or small game in a trap, but not with a living thing’s morphing into firewood. Our house used to have a wood stove, and my job was to “pick up” sticks for kindling. “Pick up” is colloquial, applies to stunned or dead animals and wood, eases the shift in the dramatic situation at the level of the metaphor, and, in modern slang, points to being “picked up” as in “for a date” or “in a bar” (and consumed with lust), thence to being “picked up” by demons, thought in the Middle Ages to be (Mosaic) Law enforcement, and thrown in Hell. There are other associations for those interested in looking for them. To be honest, I probably convey Petrarch’s hyper-efficient use of language more than other translators do simply because I’m blessed—some would say cursed—with a quirk of mind that alerts me to puns and other word play. The Elizabethans picked it up from Petrarch, and I picked it up from Shakespeare and Donne.
What do you enjoy most and least about the work of translation?
My favorite part of the translation process, which I like even better than reading the first completed draft of a sonnet aloud and knowing I have a keeper, is what I call “finding a way in.” This happens when I have built up enough intellectual and emotional understanding of what Petrarch is saying such that my skill producing iambic pentameter, then my internalized knowledge of how sonnets work, start to function organically. At some point, a line of iambic pentameter, or an appropriate, catchy variation thereof, that is faithful to Petrarch’s meaning, comes. The line’s ending word, I realize, rhymes or slant rhymes with a good ending word for the line that it’s supposed to rhyme with, corresponding to Petrarch’s rhyme scheme! Once I’ve finished one unit of a sonnet, first or second quatrain or tercet, doesn’t matter, and can read it aloud, then smile and think, “Ooh, that’s a wicked little bit of music,” I know victory is certain, that if I persevere, all I must do is find the rest of the music that goes with the completed unit. At that point, I can save my work, turn off my computer, and take the rest of the day off because, though there still is much work to do, that sonnet is in the bag.
When Petrarch is particularly difficult and clever, which is often, reaching that critical mass of intellectual and emotional understanding can be torture. I hate the degree of concentration sometimes necessary to figure out what the foxtrot he’s on about. When stuck, I study all the translations of the sonnet that I’m working on, that I own or can find online, and analyze how the versions differ. Disagreements among better poets and translators than I indicate where most opportunity for new insight likely lies. This pressure is not helpful. I compare the English words in my quick and dirty literal translation of the Italian to words used by other translators. I completely re-do my literal crib, look up again in my worn Italian-English dictionary every meaning of every noun, verb, and modifier in play, and crucial prepositions. I research allusions to classical mythology, look up Bible passages that seem germane, Google Medieval clothing. This part of the process is fun when I make solid connections—wow, Elba isn’t just a Napoleon thing, it’s in Virgil, Petrarch’s favorite poet—except suddenly it’s three in the afternoon and I was supposed to buy dog food and my husband will be exceedingly wroth when he gets home from work. I forgot to eat lunch. I didn’t take anything out for supper. Distracted worse than if texting, I miss my turn to the store. The evening goes downhill from jotting insights on the magnetic grocery list pad on the fridge as I struggle to prepare stupid chili soup. I sleep horribly, worrying and worrying at the problem, in my dreams.
What have you learned about this art?
The first thing I learned about the art of translation was that I needed a lot less art and a lot better grasp of Italian! “Midas,” and its companion poem, “Rime of a Modern Mariner,” were fabricated with the aid of five years of junior and senior high school Spanish, a year each of high school and college French, half of a semester of college Latin (interrupted and never resumed due to mono), a second-hand, Italian-English pocket dictionary, and poetic license in the form of a newly received M. F. A. They’re good poems, but aren’t faithful to Rvf 192 and 118. I submitted another poem from this era, when I pretty much used nouns and verbs from Petrarch’s Italian as writing prompts, to a Writers’ Center workshop run by Willis Barnstone. With great restraint, he kindly but firmly told me, “Learn Italian and do this right.” So, I got a grant to pay for taking introductory Italian and here we are. The lesson is, while I agree with Dryden that being able to write good poetry in the target language is paramount, I believe a translator needs a basic knowledge of the mechanics of her source language, if she isn’t collaborating with someone fluent in both source and target languages.
On the other hand, I think my limited Italian vocabulary and lack of formal training in Petrarchan scholarship and translation theory—though I very much want to cure my ignorance now—gave me a sort of advantage. When a bright child asks you what indefatigable means, you give a simple synonym, “tireless,” or an example, “like the Energizer Bunny,” you don’t go through the thesaurus. Since I started out teaching myself Italian, I looked everything up, and noted all possible meanings, not just the first one, or most common or most obvious ones. I tried unconventional meanings because I didn’t know any better. Catch is, I had a graduate degree in English, which prepared me to study how one unconventional meaning affected meanings of other words and, behold, there was a subtext the translators I had begun to read seemed to have missed. Likewise, if I had pursued Italian Studies as an undergraduate, and been assigned Wilkins, an important scholar who pooh-poohs calendrical theories of the structure of Rvf, I might not have attempted A Year of Mourning. It’s an untutored child who notices the emperor’s state of undress.
You are amazingly adept at writing in traditional forms—so adept that I forget I’m reading a sonnet or sestina. What advice can you give poets who have been writing in free verse but would like to try working with some traditional forms?
Read, read, read! Make like a Borg from Star Trek and assimilate Robert Frost. His work laid the foundation for writing poetry the way real people talk. (Just mentioning him, I revert to dialect!) Move on to Marilyn Hacker, who exponentially furthers the use of everyday English in traditional forms, and, in my opinion, wrested ascendancy in same from predominantly male, conservative practitioners; no subject is taboo, and her work both sparkles with wit and is deeply moving. I love Richard Wilbur’s translation of Moliere’s Tartuffe, and my most successful lessons as an Indiana Artist in Education used poems from his children’s book Opposites as models. His original, adult poetry is strictly metrical and uses full rhymes, which might make him an ideal model for novice formalists. X. J. Kennedy’s newest book, That Swing, contains a serious poem in which subspecies rhymes with feces, a feat I would kill to have managed. These poets will lodge the music of modern English in your head, like a song on the radio that you can’t shake, but won’t teach you bad or no longer acceptable practices, which is to say, to pad lines to fill out meter, to use archaic diction for the sake of sounding poetic, to invert word order just for the sake of form, and so forth.
Once vaccinated against what would have to be unlearned, a person might get Paul Fussell’s Poetic Meter and Poetic Form, or Lewis Turco’s The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, and start working through, writing a poem in each form, or have fun and choose forms that appeal for whatever reason. Join the Indiana Writers Center and lobby for classes in introductory traditional forms. Buy sample copies of or subscribe to The Lyric, Measure, or Able Muse, all reputable journals specializing in formal verse. Lurk on an internet site such as the Eratosphere, with formal and translation boards (where formal concerns frequently are addressed), and watch the poets work out. (New poets should note that most small magazines consider poems posted on a forum “previously published.”) If you have the money, or your Fussell and Turco exercises were successful enough to use as a writing sample for a scholarship application, you might want to attend Poetry by the Sea or the West Chester University Poetry Conference, both promoting meter and rhyme, with readings, presentations, and classes given by world-class poets. The University of Evansville is home to the Evansville Press, sponsor of the Richard Wilbur Poetry Award and the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award. Any book that wins the Wilbur is worth buying, reading, and studying.
What contemporary poets have been important to you?
I’m going to answer this question in terms of poets who have been important to me as teachers in workshops and poets whose books help me live my life and feed my work.
A Year of Mourning would not have been written without Maura Stanton. Not only did she introduce me to Ovid’s Metamorphoses, one of Petrarch’s favorite works, but she also insisted on the importance of making the concrete dramatic situation of a poem clear. Familiarity with Ovid’s retelling of classical myths primed me to understand Petrarch’s turning of everyday events into a personal mythology. Working with Petrarch, who often has two dramatic situations going on, in the real world and in the imaginary world of the conceit, I quickly realized that Maura, who loves myths and whose poems often explore otherworldly experiences, had given me the key to selecting meanings of Petrarch’s words that guide modern readers through the emotional logic of his sonnets.
I already praised Marilyn Hacker as a model for writing good contemporary verse, but I should praise her as a teacher and point out how important it is, if you really want to write formal poems, to study with people who write in rhyme and meter. Die-hard practitioners of free verse, nine times out of ten, will advise cutting offensive portions, but won’t see the necessity, be willing or even able, to suggest how to fix infelicities in such a way that your desire to write a strict sonnet, say, will be honored. When I worked with Marilyn at the University of Cincinnati, I was safe, I was home, I was free, and my work blossomed. “John Cougar” and “Almanac” came out of that workshop. Marilyn gave us experience in composing epistolary poems, which is essentially what Petrarch does in Rvf 287 and Rvf 322, except he’s writing to dead people.
The contemporary poet of whose work I am an unabashed fangirl, though, is A. E. Stallings. She’s another writer inspired by classical myths, and I recently heard her read a devastating poem about the refugee crisis in Greece, where she now lives. Stallings will be the next Richard Wilbur, so her approval of A Year of Mourning was the best Christmas gift I got last year. Mark Jarman is equally adept at free and formal verse, and his Unholy Sonnets gets in the reader’s face about the implications of practicing Christianity in the modern world. Maryann Corbett’s Mid Evil shows how faith links ancient and modern cultures, engaging heart and brain as Jarman does, but more serenely. Tony Barnstone’s Sad Jazz is another of my favorite books, a sonnet sequence about love and its dissolution, acknowledging a debt to Petrarch with hot doggone translations of two Rvf sonnets. And, Shari, if you think my traditional verse doesn’t seem formal, you should read Rebecca Foust’s Paradise Drive. That girl has an uncanny understanding of what constitutes a sonnet’s soul. I devour every Petrarch translation I can get my hands on, but A. M. Juster’s use of Latinisms and J. G. Nichols’ pioneering work with slant rhyme have proven most helpful and inspiring.
Your strong sense of place is evident in such poems as “John Cougar Really Has Cousins Here,” “Almanac,” and “Caritas.” Could you talk a bit about your attachment to the rural, small- town community of Medora?
In 1809, one of my husband’s ancestors settled less than ten miles from where we live. When I married Pat, I married his family, I married his church, I married this house built with the help of friends and neighbors over a hundred years ago, and I married the descendants of those friends and neighbors who still live in Carr Township. I grew up in the suburbs of several Southern cities and had no idea what I was in for. I understood being an outsider, but being identified as “Pat’s wife,” “Kenny and Norie’s daughter-in-law,” and “Jenny’s mom,” absorbed instead of individual, made me crazy. But I think if one is lucky, and wants to be healed of certain flaws, one instinctively will wind up in the right circumstances for that to happen. The poems in Migration Solo are about getting to know a place, warts and all, as you get to know and love a person. I’m pleased to see now that many of my poems begin with an askance eyebrow but end with discovery of some sort of kinship or sympathy. Notes to Sing is about leaving, physically or in imagination, and returning. As much as I love conferences and readings, the intensity of literary discussion, the excitement of new ideas, hanging out with people who face a blank page or screen regularly, these days it’s good to get back where all I need do is be Pat’s wife and decent to people. This is my home, not something I somehow have to deserve.
Petrarch had a house in the country, near Vaucluse in southern France. My answers to earlier questions hint that living where woods craft still is practiced helps me understand life in the 14th century, without conveniences. Rural southern Indiana also gave me a surprise gift with respect to translating Petrarch. On arrival, I liked folk music and bluegrass, but hated country music. Half the stores in the county play the stuff, though, so you can like it, or not shop and use corncobs for toilet paper. One of Rvf’s Italian titles is Canzoniere, “Songbook,” and Petrarch wrote Rvf in Italian, the language of the common people of Italy, not in Latin, the language of church, state, and higher learning. I mentioned earlier that traditions about translating Petrarch include using elevated, sugar and spice diction. What better way to rescue Petrarch from the ivory tower than to translate him into my idiolect born of forty years among rural Americans and two degrees from a local university? How better to delight ordinary people, coax them to read a classic and possibly see good in the so-called elite, than to use poetic devices from lyrics of popular songs? Poets of the academy could learn from the Jason Aldean hit, “Big Green Tractor,” where the initial consonants and the vowels of “tractor,” “faster,” “pasture,” and “matter” steadily advance the refrain, while the central consonants slant an otherwise perfect feminine rhyme, imitating a ride over dips, bumps, and rocks on untilled ground. That’s not ham-fisted rhyming, that’s flipping brilliant.
What should a visitor to Jackson County be sure to see?
Nick Walden, who graduated from the Medora School and did the cover art for Notes to Sing, was commissioned by the Bicentennial Committee to create a map of Jackson County, illustrating its important features, for a commemorative jigsaw puzzle. I marvel at how many things Nick included to see and do around here. Since I’ve gone on for a while already, I’ll hit a few places of historical and natural interest, especially in Carr Township.
Visitors to Seymour can buy a CD containing an audio tour and drive around the “small town” where John Mellencamp grew up. The Pioneer Village of the Jackson County Historical Society in Brownstown sometimes features quilting and muzzle-loading rifle demonstrations. Southeast of Brownstown is Skyline Drive, with a scenic overlook of the East Fork of the White River bottomlands. South along this same chain of hills, pushed up by glaciers in the last ice age, lies Starve Hollow State Park, with RV and tent camping around a lake where visitors fish, swim, or, as my husband and I do, paddle the perimeter. The French had an outpost at Vallonia in 1790 and Aaron Burr spent time in the area after killing Hamilton. Today you can explore a reconstruction of the original fort built in 1811 and look through its museum.
Medora and other Carr Township residents are particularly proud of the Medora Covered Bridge, the Medora Brick Plant, and the Knobstone Trail’s Sparksville Loop. As a service learning project, Medora High School seniors cleared brush to extend the Knobstone Trail, which begins near Deam Lake in Clark County, IN. The students also helped to build a bridge, boardwalk, and bench, enabling hikers to enjoy our area’s natural beauty and promoting conservation. Not so long ago the Medora Covered Bridge was falling apart and covered with, hmmm, colorful graffiti. But volunteers researched, wrote, and received grants to restore the bridge and create a park now visited by many bus and bicycling tours. A fundraising dinner is held annually on the bridge, where attendees can look down through the boards at the sunlit river flowing below. Inspired by the success of the bridge project, a committee has been formed to clean up, restore, and give tours of the Medora Brick Plant. If, in Indianapolis or on your travels around the world, you look down at a street paved in brick and read, “Medora,” the bricks were made five or six miles from my house.
In the end, what may matter most is not what you should see in Jackson County, but how you should see Jackson County. The East Fork of the White River bisects our county from northeast to southwest, and my husband and I have canoed the entire stretch. Following a water route gives a person a different appreciation of a place’s geography, history, and ecology. When the water is low, you must get out and walk your boat over the shallows just as the pioneers did theirs—which were loaded with household goods. After heavy rain, the location and number of fallen trees and underwater obstructions change, so you learn to read the current and pay attention. Sometimes you see bald eagles, sometimes migratory waterfowl, and once a flock of turkeys flew overhead, from one bank to the other. When sandbars are visible, you can spot deer, raccoon, and other tracks. It’s always a new river.
 Medora Covered Bridge, photo by Lee Harlin Bahan
"What better way to rescue Petrarch from the ivory tower than to translate him into my idiolect born of forty years among rural Americans and two degrees from a local university?" Lee Harin Bahan |
Kiln at the Medora Brick Plant, photo by Lee Harlin Bahan
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Honoring Medora Goes Pink Civic Organization, photo by Lee Harlin Bahan
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Medora Brick by Lee Harlin Bahan
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"Triceratruck" by Lee Harlin Bahan
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Photo by Will Dunlap
October 2017
The Art of Suspension
The Poetry of Marianne Boruch
Marianne Boruch’s nine collections of poetry include The Book of Hours, a Kingsley-Tufts Poetry Award winner, and Cadaver, Speak, plus the recent Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing--listed on The New Yorker’s “best loved books of 2016”--all from Copper Canyon Press. Her 10th --We Jumped out of a Hole to Stand Here Radiant--forthcoming, is also from CCP. She’s the author of three collections of essays about poetry (Poetry’s Old Air; In the Blue Pharmacy; The Little Death of Self) and a memoir, The Glimpse Traveler. Her poems and essays have appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, American Poetry Review, Poetry London, The Nation, Kenyon Review, Narrative and elsewhere. Founding director of Purdue University’s MFA Program where she still teaches, Boruch has received
fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for
the Arts, residencies at Yaddo, MacDowell, the Bellagio Center, the Anderson
Center in Red Wing, Minnesota, two national parks (Denali and Isle Royale) and,
in 2012, was a Fulbright Professor in Edinburgh, Scotland. She also teaches in the
low-residency MFA program at Warren Wilson College.
The Art of Suspension
The Poetry of Marianne Boruch
Marianne Boruch’s nine collections of poetry include The Book of Hours, a Kingsley-Tufts Poetry Award winner, and Cadaver, Speak, plus the recent Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing--listed on The New Yorker’s “best loved books of 2016”--all from Copper Canyon Press. Her 10th --We Jumped out of a Hole to Stand Here Radiant--forthcoming, is also from CCP. She’s the author of three collections of essays about poetry (Poetry’s Old Air; In the Blue Pharmacy; The Little Death of Self) and a memoir, The Glimpse Traveler. Her poems and essays have appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, American Poetry Review, Poetry London, The Nation, Kenyon Review, Narrative and elsewhere. Founding director of Purdue University’s MFA Program where she still teaches, Boruch has received
fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for
the Arts, residencies at Yaddo, MacDowell, the Bellagio Center, the Anderson
Center in Red Wing, Minnesota, two national parks (Denali and Isle Royale) and,
in 2012, was a Fulbright Professor in Edinburgh, Scotland. She also teaches in the
low-residency MFA program at Warren Wilson College.
There’s so much to admire in a Marianne Boruch poem--where to start? I love the surprising
metaphors; the complexity of ideas; the enjambment of lines that leave me slightly off kilter and in suspense; the intimate relationship between sound, sense, and form. Maybe what I love most is Marianne's passion for the act of seeing, for surveying the world--up close, from a distance, or in
the wings. She raises the camera, the binoculars or the stereopticon. In one poem she notes how
her son peers at the “enormous eye” of a horse, and in another she adopts the perspective of a
hundred-year-old cadaver, head wrapped in towels, who views her own dismemberment. She
ventures into the eagle-eyed perch of a virtual bombardier, one who hones in through the remote sensing device of a drone. In Marianne’s poems, the act of looking has many dimensions, including
the ethical.
The importance of seeing is reinforced here by the poet’s original watercolors (artwork never
before exhibited). Though the woman in "Nap in Leaves" has her eyes closed, I suspect by means
of dream she's still observant. The leaves arched above her appear alert. They seem at once
suspended by their own grace and the power of the dreamer.
Note: Before you start reading, here's a link to an additional poem by Marianne Boruch--"The Tin House,"
one of my favorites. In 2016 I chose it for Indiana Humanities' celebration of National Poetry Month.
metaphors; the complexity of ideas; the enjambment of lines that leave me slightly off kilter and in suspense; the intimate relationship between sound, sense, and form. Maybe what I love most is Marianne's passion for the act of seeing, for surveying the world--up close, from a distance, or in
the wings. She raises the camera, the binoculars or the stereopticon. In one poem she notes how
her son peers at the “enormous eye” of a horse, and in another she adopts the perspective of a
hundred-year-old cadaver, head wrapped in towels, who views her own dismemberment. She
ventures into the eagle-eyed perch of a virtual bombardier, one who hones in through the remote sensing device of a drone. In Marianne’s poems, the act of looking has many dimensions, including
the ethical.
The importance of seeing is reinforced here by the poet’s original watercolors (artwork never
before exhibited). Though the woman in "Nap in Leaves" has her eyes closed, I suspect by means
of dream she's still observant. The leaves arched above her appear alert. They seem at once
suspended by their own grace and the power of the dreamer.
Note: Before you start reading, here's a link to an additional poem by Marianne Boruch--"The Tin House,"
one of my favorites. In 2016 I chose it for Indiana Humanities' celebration of National Poetry Month.
"Nap in Leaves" All artwork is copyrighted © 2017 Marianne Boruch
From Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing (Copper Canyon Press, 2016)
The Art of Poetry
isn’t sleep. Isn’t the clock’s steady
one and one and one though seconds eventually make
an hour. And morning passes
into a thing it might not recognize by afternoon.
Or you practice the ordinary art
of shrinking strangers back to children, who they
could have been: bangs straight across,
boys and girls the same.
I blink kids into grown-ups too, who they
might be, the exaggerated gestures we do,
the weight on each word
a warning, kindly
or just so full of ourselves
we can’t help it. But this oddest
not old or young, male, female,
this century or that—it simply
visits. This who, this
what. This art
of suspension. Wait.
If you’ve ever acted, you understand what it is,
standing in the wings, the dark
murmur out there. Every dream
for days you nightmare that. Saying or not saying.
Then wake to lights, the other
pretenders on stage bowing, happy enough.
Except it’s not
like that, this wish
being small: to make emptiness
an occasion, the art of calling it down.
To wonder for the first time as I write it. And elegant
is good. And story. And edgy
half-uttered in fragments is good. Always that
sense of the dead overhearing. Or simply: voice I never,
not once in the world, give me a sign.
I’ll pick up the thread. Dally with it, sit in its coma,
wait for its news in the little room
off the nurses’ station. Don’t be
maudlin, says the garden, don’t
be pretty pretty pretty, and don’t think whimsy
unto irony disguises.
Because it is
a garden. You walk and walk and twilight now,
its darker half
half-floats a yellow still visible in high spiky things.
There’s a dovecote where nothing nests. There’s an expanse
orderly as blueprint but flowers get wily, only
make believe they agree the best place
to stand or lean. It’s not the sun.
I can’t decide anything. Can’t decide.
Begging bowl, ask
until asking is a stain. Every garden’s a mess.
Am I poised at an angle? Am I listening?
A stillness so
different than winter’s, lush and forgetful though
all the lost summers lie in it. Old photographs,
children a century ago who
never thought to leave still busy
fading into sepia, making houses in the yard out of
porch chairs tipped over,
and sheets. Their worn shirts, their hair every
which way. Someone loved them.
She raised a camera.
But I don’t,
don’t mean that. It’s the art of the makeshift
almost house. Or how the children
don’t see her, so aren’t
dear yet.
The Art of Poetry
isn’t sleep. Isn’t the clock’s steady
one and one and one though seconds eventually make
an hour. And morning passes
into a thing it might not recognize by afternoon.
Or you practice the ordinary art
of shrinking strangers back to children, who they
could have been: bangs straight across,
boys and girls the same.
I blink kids into grown-ups too, who they
might be, the exaggerated gestures we do,
the weight on each word
a warning, kindly
or just so full of ourselves
we can’t help it. But this oddest
not old or young, male, female,
this century or that—it simply
visits. This who, this
what. This art
of suspension. Wait.
If you’ve ever acted, you understand what it is,
standing in the wings, the dark
murmur out there. Every dream
for days you nightmare that. Saying or not saying.
Then wake to lights, the other
pretenders on stage bowing, happy enough.
Except it’s not
like that, this wish
being small: to make emptiness
an occasion, the art of calling it down.
To wonder for the first time as I write it. And elegant
is good. And story. And edgy
half-uttered in fragments is good. Always that
sense of the dead overhearing. Or simply: voice I never,
not once in the world, give me a sign.
I’ll pick up the thread. Dally with it, sit in its coma,
wait for its news in the little room
off the nurses’ station. Don’t be
maudlin, says the garden, don’t
be pretty pretty pretty, and don’t think whimsy
unto irony disguises.
Because it is
a garden. You walk and walk and twilight now,
its darker half
half-floats a yellow still visible in high spiky things.
There’s a dovecote where nothing nests. There’s an expanse
orderly as blueprint but flowers get wily, only
make believe they agree the best place
to stand or lean. It’s not the sun.
I can’t decide anything. Can’t decide.
Begging bowl, ask
until asking is a stain. Every garden’s a mess.
Am I poised at an angle? Am I listening?
A stillness so
different than winter’s, lush and forgetful though
all the lost summers lie in it. Old photographs,
children a century ago who
never thought to leave still busy
fading into sepia, making houses in the yard out of
porch chairs tipped over,
and sheets. Their worn shirts, their hair every
which way. Someone loved them.
She raised a camera.
But I don’t,
don’t mean that. It’s the art of the makeshift
almost house. Or how the children
don’t see her, so aren’t
dear yet.
"The Three of Us, with Snorkels" All artwork is copyrighted © 2017 Marianne Boruch
Song Again, in Spring
The bird’s hunger, seeking shape: a worm shape, green
water bug shape passing out of
winter’s clawed shape, its toothed shape where it
froze and stayed
freezing, the hawk up there, branch
or ledge, staring out and--
blink—down.
So be it
in the imperial age of the 21st century which seeks its shape
in the drone, the kind
put up to the killing, air-conditioned office turned bunker,
Nevada, home of the sand flea
whose life span is about two minutes the last
I checked though in truth,
I’ve never checked.
It’s not a matter of just knowing.
Or that maybe the virtual bombardier is weeping at night
and feels bad about it.
Truth told
unto us: a worm shape is not
the worm. A worm, merely born to it like
an apple to its red eventually,
or the sea to its vast floating crosshatch of garbage,
plastic bags and cups from the big boats
and every who-gives-a-good-damn cute little
coastal spot, used-once forks
going brittle, snapping, drifting out to join their
cheap brethren, shining semi-continent of crap never
to decode/de-evolve/delete
for a thousand years if then, detritus of our time.
This we, this our and us thing--
A remote sensing device, garden path to a dark
darkest wood in the middle, etc. Confusion
as part, part coward, part crash
burning to quiet there.
Recalculate, recalculate, says the grown-up
robo-voice in the car, you’ve driven past your turn.
The turn was: I want I want alights on
oblivious, mouth-sized. Somewhere = sobbing.
It’s spring! A thing with wings taking aim.
The bird’s hunger, seeking shape: a worm shape, green
water bug shape passing out of
winter’s clawed shape, its toothed shape where it
froze and stayed
freezing, the hawk up there, branch
or ledge, staring out and--
blink—down.
So be it
in the imperial age of the 21st century which seeks its shape
in the drone, the kind
put up to the killing, air-conditioned office turned bunker,
Nevada, home of the sand flea
whose life span is about two minutes the last
I checked though in truth,
I’ve never checked.
It’s not a matter of just knowing.
Or that maybe the virtual bombardier is weeping at night
and feels bad about it.
Truth told
unto us: a worm shape is not
the worm. A worm, merely born to it like
an apple to its red eventually,
or the sea to its vast floating crosshatch of garbage,
plastic bags and cups from the big boats
and every who-gives-a-good-damn cute little
coastal spot, used-once forks
going brittle, snapping, drifting out to join their
cheap brethren, shining semi-continent of crap never
to decode/de-evolve/delete
for a thousand years if then, detritus of our time.
This we, this our and us thing--
A remote sensing device, garden path to a dark
darkest wood in the middle, etc. Confusion
as part, part coward, part crash
burning to quiet there.
Recalculate, recalculate, says the grown-up
robo-voice in the car, you’ve driven past your turn.
The turn was: I want I want alights on
oblivious, mouth-sized. Somewhere = sobbing.
It’s spring! A thing with wings taking aim.
"Pink Teapot, Blue Cups" All artwork is copyrighted © 2017 Marianne Boruch
From The Book of Hours (Copper Canyon Press, 2011)
My mother's body to wires, to tubes
My mother’s body to wires, to tubes
and their liquid, days she turned toward me
or away, winter but so much sun
from car to door. I followed it past nurses
at their station talking movies, who’s good
in one and not the other. Gown tied
at the back and neck, she slept beside
a window. I wedged my chair there, reading,
looking up, reading—who knows what
I read—her legs, bruised, thin, arms battered
by the doctor’s needle. Her face. Can I
say this plainly now? There was light
as she grew less. She drifted to it.
I’m not hungry, not religious, I’m in a spot,
she told me one afternoon then
closed her eyes to that radiance again.
My mother's body to wires, to tubes
My mother’s body to wires, to tubes
and their liquid, days she turned toward me
or away, winter but so much sun
from car to door. I followed it past nurses
at their station talking movies, who’s good
in one and not the other. Gown tied
at the back and neck, she slept beside
a window. I wedged my chair there, reading,
looking up, reading—who knows what
I read—her legs, bruised, thin, arms battered
by the doctor’s needle. Her face. Can I
say this plainly now? There was light
as she grew less. She drifted to it.
I’m not hungry, not religious, I’m in a spot,
she told me one afternoon then
closed her eyes to that radiance again.
"Paintbox" All artwork is copyrighted © 2017 Marianne Boruch
From Cadaver, Speak (Copper Canyon Press, 2014)
Cadaver, Speak
6.
What to hate most: this mummy way they’ve
wrapped our heads, thick wet towels
close, in orbit. Or the distant shock of it
I half love. The pretense that
they’ve blinded us. So they can work, of course,
without our staring back. Work--
first taking down and out what’s left of us,
gristle by gristle, siphon to sprocket, their silver probes
in those empty bits, all new words—my fossa--
is it fossi?—where the edge
of bony things once fit. Only they see
what’s pooled there.
But it galls me—that even my dismemberment’s
so predictable: my back where they little-windowed out
my spinal cord, then the slapstick flip right-side-up to shoulder, arm,
hand, on to plot my middle kingdom: liver, spleen,
down to possible, my mother might have said,
shooting me that look.
Nearly a century on Earth gives a person
permission to be crabby
but not an idiot. When people write, I like
sentences that turn sudden,
unexpected. But that
didn’t happen to me. I gave away
then wore out my ending.
When my family talks, the usual blah blah goes on:
Generous. And such a good long run!
But I never ran,
not ever.
7.
Who hasn’t walked by those museum cases--
heads bandaged up, the entire body in there.
It keeps coming back, that word
mummy. And somewhere--
maybe a TV special—how they soaked strips of cloth
in resin first, layer on layer
of winding down and around, packed with mud
from the Nile, all to give a body
shape. I still covet
little facts. I collected them, like things
hidden in those layers, for later--
bracelets, charms. Such a glorious later.
What would I put
in my coil? A locket from my father who got it
from his mother. A daughter’s baby tooth.
My husband’s old driver’s license, his looking not
into the camera but astonished,
straight up, like he’s seen something.
The mud so wet and lush and cool in the heat
of that place, so back then. I’ve read this: those wrappings
announced “a transfigured being.”
The appearance of it, the book said.
Well, any radiance is good, isn’t it? To be
someone else for a minute, for
a while. Or so I tell
the self I had. Then this: the ancient head and limbs
got wrapped first. Thus our heads
in these towels, see? All four of us. And our hands
and feet in these soaked tube socks.
Cadaver, Speak
6.
What to hate most: this mummy way they’ve
wrapped our heads, thick wet towels
close, in orbit. Or the distant shock of it
I half love. The pretense that
they’ve blinded us. So they can work, of course,
without our staring back. Work--
first taking down and out what’s left of us,
gristle by gristle, siphon to sprocket, their silver probes
in those empty bits, all new words—my fossa--
is it fossi?—where the edge
of bony things once fit. Only they see
what’s pooled there.
But it galls me—that even my dismemberment’s
so predictable: my back where they little-windowed out
my spinal cord, then the slapstick flip right-side-up to shoulder, arm,
hand, on to plot my middle kingdom: liver, spleen,
down to possible, my mother might have said,
shooting me that look.
Nearly a century on Earth gives a person
permission to be crabby
but not an idiot. When people write, I like
sentences that turn sudden,
unexpected. But that
didn’t happen to me. I gave away
then wore out my ending.
When my family talks, the usual blah blah goes on:
Generous. And such a good long run!
But I never ran,
not ever.
7.
Who hasn’t walked by those museum cases--
heads bandaged up, the entire body in there.
It keeps coming back, that word
mummy. And somewhere--
maybe a TV special—how they soaked strips of cloth
in resin first, layer on layer
of winding down and around, packed with mud
from the Nile, all to give a body
shape. I still covet
little facts. I collected them, like things
hidden in those layers, for later--
bracelets, charms. Such a glorious later.
What would I put
in my coil? A locket from my father who got it
from his mother. A daughter’s baby tooth.
My husband’s old driver’s license, his looking not
into the camera but astonished,
straight up, like he’s seen something.
The mud so wet and lush and cool in the heat
of that place, so back then. I’ve read this: those wrappings
announced “a transfigured being.”
The appearance of it, the book said.
Well, any radiance is good, isn’t it? To be
someone else for a minute, for
a while. Or so I tell
the self I had. Then this: the ancient head and limbs
got wrapped first. Thus our heads
in these towels, see? All four of us. And our hands
and feet in these soaked tube socks.
All artwork is copyrighted © 2017 Marianne Boruch
From Grace, Fallen from (Wesleyan University Press, 2008)
The Garden
So many ways to call shapes
out of a dying world. Be a snake,
said the snake to the girl
drawn out of the rib, the garden
too beautiful to be noticed as she
stands there still, long enough
to want something, something
else. So the beginning
of all stories, the culling
of expanse and rest, quick
rise in wind then
the hush of about
to happen. Digression isn’t
always evasion. She digressed
in wonder, watching that snake, such
intelligence, I suppose.
There are options, the snake said,
to this beauty. What
beauty? she thought, or felt in her chest.
Did Eve have language? Did she say that
out loud? Aren’t words the curse
that comes later, our daily gruel, mouthful
by mouthful, a little milk, some sugar
to please ourselves, to think ourselves
so astonishing? But she
knew it. To be exact, she wanted
to know, sudden
heat and stirring: police tape
cordoning off where blood makes
a trail to suggest
the last breath, a small
stained fascination. Eve
hypnotized: oh, the strange and not-here,
not-of-this-garden, not really. I could be,
she thought, or simply me and my hands
moving toward something, a wish
all at once to be
covered, to be secret, to have
a thought like no other.
And what did the snake
dream, this snake that could talk
in this garden that never was
but marks our fate? Before falling into dust,
forced to love filthy water
and the highest grass concealing bright
as the moon its cold side, its
dark side, the snake was
dazzling. Story
that never happened. The snake was
human. Over here, closer, he said
to the girl come out of the rib.
The Garden
So many ways to call shapes
out of a dying world. Be a snake,
said the snake to the girl
drawn out of the rib, the garden
too beautiful to be noticed as she
stands there still, long enough
to want something, something
else. So the beginning
of all stories, the culling
of expanse and rest, quick
rise in wind then
the hush of about
to happen. Digression isn’t
always evasion. She digressed
in wonder, watching that snake, such
intelligence, I suppose.
There are options, the snake said,
to this beauty. What
beauty? she thought, or felt in her chest.
Did Eve have language? Did she say that
out loud? Aren’t words the curse
that comes later, our daily gruel, mouthful
by mouthful, a little milk, some sugar
to please ourselves, to think ourselves
so astonishing? But she
knew it. To be exact, she wanted
to know, sudden
heat and stirring: police tape
cordoning off where blood makes
a trail to suggest
the last breath, a small
stained fascination. Eve
hypnotized: oh, the strange and not-here,
not-of-this-garden, not really. I could be,
she thought, or simply me and my hands
moving toward something, a wish
all at once to be
covered, to be secret, to have
a thought like no other.
And what did the snake
dream, this snake that could talk
in this garden that never was
but marks our fate? Before falling into dust,
forced to love filthy water
and the highest grass concealing bright
as the moon its cold side, its
dark side, the snake was
dazzling. Story
that never happened. The snake was
human. Over here, closer, he said
to the girl come out of the rib.
"By the Sea" All artwork is copyrighted © 2017 Marianne Boruch
From A Stick that Breaks and Breaks (Oberlin College Press, 1997)
Library Stereopticon
Two of everything made one, like
it was easy, like bad light
made the afternoon linger. I held it
to my whole head, a mask,
or some weird device
for breathing until I saw
odd things: a bear rising up
beside a sleeping baby; a shiny street
with palm trees, rich and busy
before perspective got it
in the end.
Overhead, the fans turned slowly as swimmers
who didn’t care how far
shore was or how deep the murky water. I held
the endless, the stopped,
and loved every sepia thing: books
that no one read, hundreds on their shelves
year after year of summer.
Three blocks away, my grandmother could spend
a whole day making bread, and then
that shoebox full of pictures. Bears
fierce like that
while every fragile thing kept sleeping.
On stormy days, I’d breathe in the petrol plant
miles out on the biggest road, the wind
strange and metal. Bread
and chemicals, books I’d never read, picture
after picture stilled
by 1928. I thought there was
a shining thread
between such things. I thought
I held the needle.
Library Stereopticon
Two of everything made one, like
it was easy, like bad light
made the afternoon linger. I held it
to my whole head, a mask,
or some weird device
for breathing until I saw
odd things: a bear rising up
beside a sleeping baby; a shiny street
with palm trees, rich and busy
before perspective got it
in the end.
Overhead, the fans turned slowly as swimmers
who didn’t care how far
shore was or how deep the murky water. I held
the endless, the stopped,
and loved every sepia thing: books
that no one read, hundreds on their shelves
year after year of summer.
Three blocks away, my grandmother could spend
a whole day making bread, and then
that shoebox full of pictures. Bears
fierce like that
while every fragile thing kept sleeping.
On stormy days, I’d breathe in the petrol plant
miles out on the biggest road, the wind
strange and metal. Bread
and chemicals, books I’d never read, picture
after picture stilled
by 1928. I thought there was
a shining thread
between such things. I thought
I held the needle.
"At the Ginther Cabin" All artwork is copyrighted © 2017 Marianne Boruch
From Moss Burning (Oberlin College Press, 1993)
Argument, with Migration
By Radioville, we were impossible, though the cranes,
they were radiant. They couldn’t have cared less.
So many thousands the sky
blacked out: worse than inkblot, worse
than the school nurse, all business, pointing, now
what does that suggest to you? Suggest.
We’d got to the woods by then, and their voices
collapsed around us, hideous, like plastic
scraping plastic raw, amplified
by every heartsick turning leaf. Yet these were
real birds, big
strange ones, flamingo maybe, grayed out
by ancient circumstance, and awkward
as they landed, folding up like flimsy aluminum
chairs left out all fall
in the overgrown yard. Wind could
snap them in two, like that.
I was careful not to look at you, and held
the binoculars high until the world
narrowed and got bigger, the cranes
deliberate as monsters, lovable as any clumsy thing.
They never stopped talking.
But how private it was, their descent into the bleak
marsh, cornstalks bent back to a spirit self,
so far from summer. I turned
to look at you, binoculars
still in place. I fiddled with the lens: you
blurred, not blurred. You blurred again and again
as the birds dimmed into
twilight, quieting, dozing off,
whatever they do.
Argument, with Migration
By Radioville, we were impossible, though the cranes,
they were radiant. They couldn’t have cared less.
So many thousands the sky
blacked out: worse than inkblot, worse
than the school nurse, all business, pointing, now
what does that suggest to you? Suggest.
We’d got to the woods by then, and their voices
collapsed around us, hideous, like plastic
scraping plastic raw, amplified
by every heartsick turning leaf. Yet these were
real birds, big
strange ones, flamingo maybe, grayed out
by ancient circumstance, and awkward
as they landed, folding up like flimsy aluminum
chairs left out all fall
in the overgrown yard. Wind could
snap them in two, like that.
I was careful not to look at you, and held
the binoculars high until the world
narrowed and got bigger, the cranes
deliberate as monsters, lovable as any clumsy thing.
They never stopped talking.
But how private it was, their descent into the bleak
marsh, cornstalks bent back to a spirit self,
so far from summer. I turned
to look at you, binoculars
still in place. I fiddled with the lens: you
blurred, not blurred. You blurred again and again
as the birds dimmed into
twilight, quieting, dozing off,
whatever they do.
"Covered Dish" All artwork is copyrighted © 2017 Marianne Boruch
From Descendent (Wesleyan University Press, 1989)
My Son and I Go See Horses
Always shade in the cool dry barns
and flies in little hanging patches like glistening fruitcake.
One sad huge horse
follows us with her eye. She shakes
her great head, picks up one leg and puts it down
as if she suddenly dismissed the journey.
My son is in heaven, and these
the gods he wants to father
so they will save him. He demands I
lift him up. He strokes the old filly’s long face
and sings something that goes like butter
rounding the hard skillet, like some doctor
who loves his patients more
than science. He believes the horse
will love him, not eventually,
right now. He peers into the enormous eye
and says solemnly, I know you. And the horse
will not startle nor look away,
this horse the color of thick velvet drapes,
years and years of them behind the opera,
backdrop to ruin and treachery, all
innocence and its slow
doomed unwinding of rapture.
My Son and I Go See Horses
Always shade in the cool dry barns
and flies in little hanging patches like glistening fruitcake.
One sad huge horse
follows us with her eye. She shakes
her great head, picks up one leg and puts it down
as if she suddenly dismissed the journey.
My son is in heaven, and these
the gods he wants to father
so they will save him. He demands I
lift him up. He strokes the old filly’s long face
and sings something that goes like butter
rounding the hard skillet, like some doctor
who loves his patients more
than science. He believes the horse
will love him, not eventually,
right now. He peers into the enormous eye
and says solemnly, I know you. And the horse
will not startle nor look away,
this horse the color of thick velvet drapes,
years and years of them behind the opera,
backdrop to ruin and treachery, all
innocence and its slow
doomed unwinding of rapture.
Photo by Emily Brouwer of the National Park Service
From View from the Gazebo (Wesleyan University Press, 1985)
View from the Gazebo, 1914
Late June & the bees came
violent, rising off the far hedge
in busy black hooks.
We too were busy
lemonade busy, day to day
and porchlight busy,
so busy we thought them
hummingbirds
that nervous race
which overruns the afternoon
with wonder, graceful creatures
soundlessly
emptying the rose.
Such stillness.
My father closed his book
with a low whistle.
These bees
finding our clover thin,
our thickets barely ripe
angered. In the silent brain
of the gazebo, my parents froze
elegant & empty-handed,
Victorians at the edge of sleep.
This heady mob rushing toward us,
an ancient mesh, dark and light
crushed against the wind, I thought
the world is ending.
View from the Gazebo, 1914
Late June & the bees came
violent, rising off the far hedge
in busy black hooks.
We too were busy
lemonade busy, day to day
and porchlight busy,
so busy we thought them
hummingbirds
that nervous race
which overruns the afternoon
with wonder, graceful creatures
soundlessly
emptying the rose.
Such stillness.
My father closed his book
with a low whistle.
These bees
finding our clover thin,
our thickets barely ripe
angered. In the silent brain
of the gazebo, my parents froze
elegant & empty-handed,
Victorians at the edge of sleep.
This heady mob rushing toward us,
an ancient mesh, dark and light
crushed against the wind, I thought
the world is ending.
Interview with Marianne Boruch
Marianne, in “The Art of Poetry,” you refer to “This art / of suspension.” Could you explain how writing a poem is an act of suspension for you?
When I settle down early morning to write each day, I try to go pretty blank, stepping away and out of gender, race, time, the years behind me, the future with its worries and hopes—as much as possible anyway—into, well, nothing. I call this my “begging bowl” method, a spiritual discipline, of sorts. Then I wait.
And trust that an image, a texture, the slip of an idea, drops into that begging bowl, a happy or scary accident, depending. I try for a kind of trance where the world dissolves, and the self dissolves, and that ordinary sense of human time and progression we all feel drops off somehow. You can’t force that, but you can make an occasion for it, an empty space in your head, and in your day. This is where poems live, I think. If it is a bit scary, then I know I’m on the right track.
A few years ago at an Indiana Writers Center event, I heard you give a wonderful talk about the writer’s relationship to the Midwestern landscape—or to the Middle Kingdom, as I think you called it. Please talk a bit about your relationship with the Indiana landscape and if that has changed over the years.
I was born and raised in Illinois, which isn’t that different from Indiana—except here there are actually hills, and rolling fields on occasion. And more stretches of woods! The point in both places is how one sees—the expanse. Not much stops the eye. So the land is like the sky in that way, and could end in boredom or solace or some rich combination of the two. I was teaching in Maine before I came back to Indiana for my job at Purdue thirty years ago. When asked by Mainers about my leaving such a beautiful state (and it really is), I joked: but there are all these TREES in the way. You can’t see a thing! Maybe that was only half a joke. I do love seeing in all directions, the drive from Indy, say, to West Lafayette. The vast surreal strangeness of all that.
And your question: has this feeling of expanse and release, really a welling-up “changed over the years”? No! But I do love the givens, the predictable but somehow always surprising changes, the variations of season, day into night, warm into cold. . . .
How did you come to write a long poem in the voice of a cadaver? What were the challenges? What did you learn?
What I learned I keep learning. Which is to say, images of that amazing experience keep leaking into my poems and essays. I don’t invite them; they just do.
The backstory on Cadaver, Speak—in fact the whole book, not just that title poem—is complicated but, in short, I was given a “Faculty Fellowship in the Study of a Second Discipline” by Purdue, and thus the chance to spend a semester in whatever weird place(s) on campus that would allow me underfoot. Still, preference was given to projects that wildly departed from one’s ordinary subject matter, method, frame of mind. So I applied to “take” the so-called “cadaver lab” for a semester—the course, Gross Human Anatomy, taught in IU’s medical school at Purdue, and also be part of Life Drawing in the Art Department. The powers that be in the Provost’s office bought the idea, for which I am still very grateful. Of course, then I had actually to do it. That’s sometimes the trouble with the small miracle and long shot of such happy circumstance: the work lies before you. And you need to make good on your promise.
One of the four cadavers was particularly moving to me, the oldest one who had died at 100--small, blue-eyed, and so much like my grandmother whom I loved completely. When it came to write about that experience, she nudged me aside quite early in that title piece, and insisted on being the speaker. She wanted to tell her story, not mine.
The problem with that was that I don’t believe or usually even like “persona” poems—the pretense that the speaker is someone else, a character really, and holds forth as such. But she held her ground. And that long poem took off with me running after it, taking dictation. She had all these opinions and observations. The challenge was to make my speaker her own person, not just a smarty-pants mini-me. I like to think I learned a bit about how fiction writers work, falling in love with their characters, dreaming up credible details about them and their past. Of course, my cadaver was both fascinated and troubled (and fascinating and troubling to me). After all, she was learning how bodies work and don’t work as she slowly got dismantled in that lab—and in the poem. Plus she turned out to be a bit of a wise-ass in her own right, wry (which also brought back my grandmother), surprised at her new realizations. As “the quiet one,” I was the only member of the class she didn’t like in that lab—no doubt for good reason. She had no problem with the teacher (Jim Walker, so kind to let me into that world), or the medical students. . . .
“Library Stereopticon” speaks so beautifully and mysteriously about the importance of seeing and taking notice, of making connections, finding the thread between diverse things. Could you give a little background on this poem and how you came to write it?
No one has ever asked me about that piece. It means a lot to me that you mention it because it’s so connected to my childhood, my long summer visits to Tuscola, a small town in central Illinois where my grandparents lived, and the old Andrew Carnegie Library there that I visited nearly every day.
As a kid, I loved the stereopticon left on the table for anyone to use, and all those cardboard backed photographs (two side by side, one for each eye) from—when? Back to the teens, the 20s, maybe the 30s, kept in a shoebox, waiting to be slipped into that weird device and enjoyed, weird sepia glimpses of national parks, or from places all around the globe--coal mines, island views of the sea, alpine villages, bears rearing up, crowd scenes in Paris, in New York City, etc . And more local things evoked in that poem touch on what I loved about that time of closeness with my grandparents, the slow pace of life in that town so different from Chicago where I mostly lived. How all these gifts accumulate in memory and stay alive is the real mystery. The truth is, I’ve never left that room.
Who are some of your favorite poets? Do you have an all-time favorite book of poems?
So many, too many favorites! And painful to choose. But there’s Elizabeth Bishop, William Carlos Williams, Hopkins, Dickinson, Whitman, Phillip Larkin, Russell Edson, James Tate—who was my teacher, Mary Szybist, Brigit Kelly, Tony Hoagland, Ellen Voigt,
Frost. . . . The list is endless. I don’t have a favorite favorite, I’m afraid. It would be disloyal to all the others. They’re all my favorites.
What is the most important advice you give your poetry students at Purdue?
I don’t know. You’d have to ask them. God knows what I blather on about in class! Vary your syntax? Open the trapdoor in your poem and go in? Just shut up and be quiet enough for whatever, let it come to you? That poems are made of sound and silence? How the growth of the imagination is a life-long process? And the crucial distinctions: are you writing to be loved or to discover?
I do know that intention isn’t worth a damn when making poems, and that one line triggers the next. I love the Robert Frost bit: No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader. No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. And Ezra Pound’s old saw: listen to the sound it makes. Of course revision is where the real poem is, where it comes to life. It takes so much patience. You have to give the poem time to reveal itself to you. That initial draft is merely that, a first step. Then it really gets absorbing.
Do you have a favorite poetry prompt you’ve either given students or yourself?
Not really. I don’t much believe in prompts though images that we see and remember every day do work that way. The “beloved particulars” I call them. And with undergrads, I do something I call "imagery workshop" in which we create little vignettes which might trigger something. I always encourage my students to keep a small notebook to record these. Like in winter, there’s always that single sad glove in the street getting run over repeatedly by cars going by. Note that. Write that down. Allow that to work on you. I mean WHY did you notice that among all the things you could have chosen? Who knows what that might seed in the mind, or in the poem. . . .
What place in Indiana would come closest to your own Lake Isle of Innisfree—a place close to “the deep heart’s core?”
When I was a kid in Chicago, once a year we drove down to Turkey Run State Park. We talked my mother into hiking the infamous (“very rugged”) Trail #3, which has turned out to be a spot in the world particularly sacred to me, a time stop, time travel. I’m a broken record, urging people to give it a chance. One of Indiana’s wonders, that whole park really, with its long memory of glaciers moving south thousands of years ago, dragging along its massive displaced treasure--pile of rocks and earth and seeds to make that place.
Marianne, in “The Art of Poetry,” you refer to “This art / of suspension.” Could you explain how writing a poem is an act of suspension for you?
When I settle down early morning to write each day, I try to go pretty blank, stepping away and out of gender, race, time, the years behind me, the future with its worries and hopes—as much as possible anyway—into, well, nothing. I call this my “begging bowl” method, a spiritual discipline, of sorts. Then I wait.
And trust that an image, a texture, the slip of an idea, drops into that begging bowl, a happy or scary accident, depending. I try for a kind of trance where the world dissolves, and the self dissolves, and that ordinary sense of human time and progression we all feel drops off somehow. You can’t force that, but you can make an occasion for it, an empty space in your head, and in your day. This is where poems live, I think. If it is a bit scary, then I know I’m on the right track.
A few years ago at an Indiana Writers Center event, I heard you give a wonderful talk about the writer’s relationship to the Midwestern landscape—or to the Middle Kingdom, as I think you called it. Please talk a bit about your relationship with the Indiana landscape and if that has changed over the years.
I was born and raised in Illinois, which isn’t that different from Indiana—except here there are actually hills, and rolling fields on occasion. And more stretches of woods! The point in both places is how one sees—the expanse. Not much stops the eye. So the land is like the sky in that way, and could end in boredom or solace or some rich combination of the two. I was teaching in Maine before I came back to Indiana for my job at Purdue thirty years ago. When asked by Mainers about my leaving such a beautiful state (and it really is), I joked: but there are all these TREES in the way. You can’t see a thing! Maybe that was only half a joke. I do love seeing in all directions, the drive from Indy, say, to West Lafayette. The vast surreal strangeness of all that.
And your question: has this feeling of expanse and release, really a welling-up “changed over the years”? No! But I do love the givens, the predictable but somehow always surprising changes, the variations of season, day into night, warm into cold. . . .
How did you come to write a long poem in the voice of a cadaver? What were the challenges? What did you learn?
What I learned I keep learning. Which is to say, images of that amazing experience keep leaking into my poems and essays. I don’t invite them; they just do.
The backstory on Cadaver, Speak—in fact the whole book, not just that title poem—is complicated but, in short, I was given a “Faculty Fellowship in the Study of a Second Discipline” by Purdue, and thus the chance to spend a semester in whatever weird place(s) on campus that would allow me underfoot. Still, preference was given to projects that wildly departed from one’s ordinary subject matter, method, frame of mind. So I applied to “take” the so-called “cadaver lab” for a semester—the course, Gross Human Anatomy, taught in IU’s medical school at Purdue, and also be part of Life Drawing in the Art Department. The powers that be in the Provost’s office bought the idea, for which I am still very grateful. Of course, then I had actually to do it. That’s sometimes the trouble with the small miracle and long shot of such happy circumstance: the work lies before you. And you need to make good on your promise.
One of the four cadavers was particularly moving to me, the oldest one who had died at 100--small, blue-eyed, and so much like my grandmother whom I loved completely. When it came to write about that experience, she nudged me aside quite early in that title piece, and insisted on being the speaker. She wanted to tell her story, not mine.
The problem with that was that I don’t believe or usually even like “persona” poems—the pretense that the speaker is someone else, a character really, and holds forth as such. But she held her ground. And that long poem took off with me running after it, taking dictation. She had all these opinions and observations. The challenge was to make my speaker her own person, not just a smarty-pants mini-me. I like to think I learned a bit about how fiction writers work, falling in love with their characters, dreaming up credible details about them and their past. Of course, my cadaver was both fascinated and troubled (and fascinating and troubling to me). After all, she was learning how bodies work and don’t work as she slowly got dismantled in that lab—and in the poem. Plus she turned out to be a bit of a wise-ass in her own right, wry (which also brought back my grandmother), surprised at her new realizations. As “the quiet one,” I was the only member of the class she didn’t like in that lab—no doubt for good reason. She had no problem with the teacher (Jim Walker, so kind to let me into that world), or the medical students. . . .
“Library Stereopticon” speaks so beautifully and mysteriously about the importance of seeing and taking notice, of making connections, finding the thread between diverse things. Could you give a little background on this poem and how you came to write it?
No one has ever asked me about that piece. It means a lot to me that you mention it because it’s so connected to my childhood, my long summer visits to Tuscola, a small town in central Illinois where my grandparents lived, and the old Andrew Carnegie Library there that I visited nearly every day.
As a kid, I loved the stereopticon left on the table for anyone to use, and all those cardboard backed photographs (two side by side, one for each eye) from—when? Back to the teens, the 20s, maybe the 30s, kept in a shoebox, waiting to be slipped into that weird device and enjoyed, weird sepia glimpses of national parks, or from places all around the globe--coal mines, island views of the sea, alpine villages, bears rearing up, crowd scenes in Paris, in New York City, etc . And more local things evoked in that poem touch on what I loved about that time of closeness with my grandparents, the slow pace of life in that town so different from Chicago where I mostly lived. How all these gifts accumulate in memory and stay alive is the real mystery. The truth is, I’ve never left that room.
Who are some of your favorite poets? Do you have an all-time favorite book of poems?
So many, too many favorites! And painful to choose. But there’s Elizabeth Bishop, William Carlos Williams, Hopkins, Dickinson, Whitman, Phillip Larkin, Russell Edson, James Tate—who was my teacher, Mary Szybist, Brigit Kelly, Tony Hoagland, Ellen Voigt,
Frost. . . . The list is endless. I don’t have a favorite favorite, I’m afraid. It would be disloyal to all the others. They’re all my favorites.
What is the most important advice you give your poetry students at Purdue?
I don’t know. You’d have to ask them. God knows what I blather on about in class! Vary your syntax? Open the trapdoor in your poem and go in? Just shut up and be quiet enough for whatever, let it come to you? That poems are made of sound and silence? How the growth of the imagination is a life-long process? And the crucial distinctions: are you writing to be loved or to discover?
I do know that intention isn’t worth a damn when making poems, and that one line triggers the next. I love the Robert Frost bit: No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader. No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. And Ezra Pound’s old saw: listen to the sound it makes. Of course revision is where the real poem is, where it comes to life. It takes so much patience. You have to give the poem time to reveal itself to you. That initial draft is merely that, a first step. Then it really gets absorbing.
Do you have a favorite poetry prompt you’ve either given students or yourself?
Not really. I don’t much believe in prompts though images that we see and remember every day do work that way. The “beloved particulars” I call them. And with undergrads, I do something I call "imagery workshop" in which we create little vignettes which might trigger something. I always encourage my students to keep a small notebook to record these. Like in winter, there’s always that single sad glove in the street getting run over repeatedly by cars going by. Note that. Write that down. Allow that to work on you. I mean WHY did you notice that among all the things you could have chosen? Who knows what that might seed in the mind, or in the poem. . . .
What place in Indiana would come closest to your own Lake Isle of Innisfree—a place close to “the deep heart’s core?”
When I was a kid in Chicago, once a year we drove down to Turkey Run State Park. We talked my mother into hiking the infamous (“very rugged”) Trail #3, which has turned out to be a spot in the world particularly sacred to me, a time stop, time travel. I’m a broken record, urging people to give it a chance. One of Indiana’s wonders, that whole park really, with its long memory of glaciers moving south thousands of years ago, dragging along its massive displaced treasure--pile of rocks and earth and seeds to make that place.
All artwork is copyrighted © 2017 Marianne Boruch
"I try for a kind of trance where the world dissolves, and the self
dissolves, and that ordinary sense of human time and progression
we all feel drops off somehow. You can’t force that, but you can make
an occasion for it, an empty space in your head, and in your day.
This is where poems live, I think. If it is a bit scary, then I know I’m
on the right track."
Marianne Boruch
September 2017
In Praise of Invisible Birds
The Poetry of Doris Lynch
Doris Lynch has published poems in many literary magazines and
anthologies and has been awarded three individual artist grants
from the Indiana Arts Commission. Her chapbook Praising Invisible
Birds was published by Finishing Line Press. Scholastic Press published
her young adult biography J. R. R. Tolkien: Creator of Languages and
Legends. She has reviewed poetry books for Library Journal for over
twenty years. Currently, she’s intrigued by haibun, an old Japanese
form that combines prose and haiku. Doris works as a community
engagement librarian for Monroe County Public Library in Bloomington.
She thanks her husband, Thom Gillespie, for being her tech guru par
excellence and for his continuous encouragement to pursue her writing.
Above: Photograph of Griffy Lake by Doris Lynch
In Praise of Invisible Birds
The Poetry of Doris Lynch
Doris Lynch has published poems in many literary magazines and
anthologies and has been awarded three individual artist grants
from the Indiana Arts Commission. Her chapbook Praising Invisible
Birds was published by Finishing Line Press. Scholastic Press published
her young adult biography J. R. R. Tolkien: Creator of Languages and
Legends. She has reviewed poetry books for Library Journal for over
twenty years. Currently, she’s intrigued by haibun, an old Japanese
form that combines prose and haiku. Doris works as a community
engagement librarian for Monroe County Public Library in Bloomington.
She thanks her husband, Thom Gillespie, for being her tech guru par
excellence and for his continuous encouragement to pursue her writing.
Above: Photograph of Griffy Lake by Doris Lynch
The poems of Doris Lynch recognize that realm where the invisible
meets the visible--air meeting water as mist. Her poems sing the
connections of what we often take as opposites--animals and humans,
physical and spiritual, darkness and light, the living and the dead. They
startle us with figurative language that brings a sense of mystery
to what we thought was familiar. I admire their music, intensity of
emotion, observation of nature and readiness to take leaps.
After reading a selection of Doris' collected and uncollected poems,
you will find an interview in which she speaks eloquently of what has
had the most impact on her poetry: the experience of motherhood
and of living a year in Indonesia and a year in an Inupiat village. She
also talks about her favorite poet, why she's drawn to the haibun form,
and why Griffy Lake is so important to her.
meets the visible--air meeting water as mist. Her poems sing the
connections of what we often take as opposites--animals and humans,
physical and spiritual, darkness and light, the living and the dead. They
startle us with figurative language that brings a sense of mystery
to what we thought was familiar. I admire their music, intensity of
emotion, observation of nature and readiness to take leaps.
After reading a selection of Doris' collected and uncollected poems,
you will find an interview in which she speaks eloquently of what has
had the most impact on her poetry: the experience of motherhood
and of living a year in Indonesia and a year in an Inupiat village. She
also talks about her favorite poet, why she's drawn to the haibun form,
and why Griffy Lake is so important to her.
Photo by Doris Lynch
From Praising Invisible Birds (Finishing Line Press, 2008)
Praising Invisible Birds
At dawn when birds whistle and prattle,
it’s the others they’re calling to: those who’ve had
the misfortune to crash through patio windows,
those with the bad luck to have been fried
by electric wires, those thrown off course
by hurricanes. So many other natural
disasters I can hardly name: cats and bebe
guns and choice pieces of poisoned suet.
So many suffered: blue ones, yellow ones,
red-breasted ones, those black iridescent ones with
yellow fur speckled like medals across their chests.
Evenings, hear them sing to their
dear departed. Notice how they close
their wings like hymn books in church,
how their dark claws clutch the tree limbs,
how their voices travel up and down
the bark as if hoping to embrace that other
night sky with their music. Pity them. They,
poor birds, have no sense. See how they welcome
darkness, even the cold finality of night.
Praising Invisible Birds
At dawn when birds whistle and prattle,
it’s the others they’re calling to: those who’ve had
the misfortune to crash through patio windows,
those with the bad luck to have been fried
by electric wires, those thrown off course
by hurricanes. So many other natural
disasters I can hardly name: cats and bebe
guns and choice pieces of poisoned suet.
So many suffered: blue ones, yellow ones,
red-breasted ones, those black iridescent ones with
yellow fur speckled like medals across their chests.
Evenings, hear them sing to their
dear departed. Notice how they close
their wings like hymn books in church,
how their dark claws clutch the tree limbs,
how their voices travel up and down
the bark as if hoping to embrace that other
night sky with their music. Pity them. They,
poor birds, have no sense. See how they welcome
darkness, even the cold finality of night.
Photo by Doris Lynch
Walking in the Quaker Wood
Marie Rosella Olson Lynch (1926-1987)
I wanted to tell you about the fox:
how it paused on a hillock of snow,
the tall pines of the Quaker wood standing
sentinel around it, a watchful army of trees.
As I stared, the fox’s head jerked upward,
as though someone had wrenched a rope
on its neck toward the sky. Following
its direction, I caught the last split-second
of a shooting star’s odyssey down
to Earth. It streaked across the sky before
disappearing into the haze of man-made lights.
I raced back to your room to tell you
that I recognized your soul inside
the fox’s sleek body, your muscles
rippling its fur. I rushed
into the house through the storm-door
which sang on its hinges, up the stairs
to your room, not stopping until I found you
on your bed, not stopping until I felt
the rise and fall of your breath
on my palm. I stood listening to you
the way I listened to my children breathe
when they were new, two fingers poised
under their nostrils in the dark.
I held your hand, its veins
blue as the sky at first
starlight. I wanted to tell you
about the fox, how her prints scrimshawed
the snow, how the night came alive
with her breath, how one star above us
exploded to dust in the night.
Marie Rosella Olson Lynch (1926-1987)
I wanted to tell you about the fox:
how it paused on a hillock of snow,
the tall pines of the Quaker wood standing
sentinel around it, a watchful army of trees.
As I stared, the fox’s head jerked upward,
as though someone had wrenched a rope
on its neck toward the sky. Following
its direction, I caught the last split-second
of a shooting star’s odyssey down
to Earth. It streaked across the sky before
disappearing into the haze of man-made lights.
I raced back to your room to tell you
that I recognized your soul inside
the fox’s sleek body, your muscles
rippling its fur. I rushed
into the house through the storm-door
which sang on its hinges, up the stairs
to your room, not stopping until I found you
on your bed, not stopping until I felt
the rise and fall of your breath
on my palm. I stood listening to you
the way I listened to my children breathe
when they were new, two fingers poised
under their nostrils in the dark.
I held your hand, its veins
blue as the sky at first
starlight. I wanted to tell you
about the fox, how her prints scrimshawed
the snow, how the night came alive
with her breath, how one star above us
exploded to dust in the night.
Griffy Lake by Doris Lynch
How to Eat a Rose
In China they eat them before
breakfast, in Sweden
before making love. Men say
their petals feel as soft
as a woman’s flanks
just after bathing. Parisian
women insist that if you taste
just one, you’ll hunger
after them forever.
In Japan, they eat the first
of the year pickled; in India
they fry them with cardamom,
cumin and garam masala. Native
Americans gave papooses
their apples to suck upon,
while the Inuit ate them frozen
straight from the sled.
To try one yourself, pick one
from your neighbor’s
garden. Like everything else
they taste better stolen. Eat under cover
of darkness or with a secret friend.
As with an artichoke, work your way
from outer skin to inner heart.
Marinate the petals in nectar,
thieved also, served in a silver bowl.
When you approach the center of each
delectable flower, bite hard. Taste
tiny gold stamens between
your teeth and your tongue. Inside
your belly one kernel
of silk will grow. Whenever
you make love, you will feel it—wild
red pulse, passionate flower,
unravel, blossom, then bud.
In China they eat them before
breakfast, in Sweden
before making love. Men say
their petals feel as soft
as a woman’s flanks
just after bathing. Parisian
women insist that if you taste
just one, you’ll hunger
after them forever.
In Japan, they eat the first
of the year pickled; in India
they fry them with cardamom,
cumin and garam masala. Native
Americans gave papooses
their apples to suck upon,
while the Inuit ate them frozen
straight from the sled.
To try one yourself, pick one
from your neighbor’s
garden. Like everything else
they taste better stolen. Eat under cover
of darkness or with a secret friend.
As with an artichoke, work your way
from outer skin to inner heart.
Marinate the petals in nectar,
thieved also, served in a silver bowl.
When you approach the center of each
delectable flower, bite hard. Taste
tiny gold stamens between
your teeth and your tongue. Inside
your belly one kernel
of silk will grow. Whenever
you make love, you will feel it—wild
red pulse, passionate flower,
unravel, blossom, then bud.
Griffy Lake Nature Preserve by Doris Lynch
What the Dead Miss Most
What the dead miss most
is bird-song, that joy shaking down
from the trees, the way grass spreads
its green hair over the graves, and lightning
bugs rise in its shadowy furls switching
miniature yellow bulbs on and off
in the honeysuckle-scented air.
And the frogs, what other creature knows
so much about love madness? Hear them
thrumming so loudly in the bulrushes
next to the creek. Remember
how your flesh rose belly
to belly when greeting your love.
When a woman pauses to watch
a hummingbird drink from a flower,
the dead can only guess
what has caught her eye. For what
do the dead remember
but the world of the senses? The smell
of freshly mown grass, a mockingbird
mocking, crickets rustling their prayer
books, the fog horn
blasting its double note.
During moments such as these
the dead struggle to leash
in their bones, especially muzzling
that empty spot just above the jaw
where the mouth once lay, pink,
round, and perfect. How painful
to hold back those ah’s which long
to escape each time a star
splinters its body across the sky.
What the dead miss most
is bird-song, that joy shaking down
from the trees, the way grass spreads
its green hair over the graves, and lightning
bugs rise in its shadowy furls switching
miniature yellow bulbs on and off
in the honeysuckle-scented air.
And the frogs, what other creature knows
so much about love madness? Hear them
thrumming so loudly in the bulrushes
next to the creek. Remember
how your flesh rose belly
to belly when greeting your love.
When a woman pauses to watch
a hummingbird drink from a flower,
the dead can only guess
what has caught her eye. For what
do the dead remember
but the world of the senses? The smell
of freshly mown grass, a mockingbird
mocking, crickets rustling their prayer
books, the fog horn
blasting its double note.
During moments such as these
the dead struggle to leash
in their bones, especially muzzling
that empty spot just above the jaw
where the mouth once lay, pink,
round, and perfect. How painful
to hold back those ah’s which long
to escape each time a star
splinters its body across the sky.
Doris with Cody and Kristen near Skagway
A Selection of Uncollected Poems:
From Quill & Parchment, Pushcart Prize Nominee, 2014
First Call: Cody
Was it the evening Oscar
drove past with his dog team?
When we heard the whoosh of his sled
over the crusted snow? Or perhaps,
the night the stove oil ran out
and the village turned as black
as though the engine
of the world had blown out?
Surely, it was a night when
the Aurora Borealis rippled her
flaming chest across the sky,
and we lay in each other’s arms
listening to God’s angels
soldering heaven.
Or perhaps, it was a night
more ordinary. A night like any other
when the iron stove spat its sparks
across the floorboards and Orion spilled
his tallow over the sky. A night
when lemmings squeezed
their swag-bellied bodies under our door,
leaving etched snow-bracelets
on the counters of the shed.
That night, you little darling,
were cruising along at just the right
longitude, just the right latitude
through the cosmic dust. How lucky we were
to be billeted just south of the Arctic Circle
waiting, waiting.
Your sister slept soundly, her hands
still clutching Good Night Moon
while I called to you with my belly
and breasts. Outside, our chimney,
and the chimneys of all the Inupiat villagers,
poured cloud after cloud of smoke
into the sky, little grey ghosts
that beckoned you home.
From Quill & Parchment, Pushcart Prize Nominee, 2014
First Call: Cody
Was it the evening Oscar
drove past with his dog team?
When we heard the whoosh of his sled
over the crusted snow? Or perhaps,
the night the stove oil ran out
and the village turned as black
as though the engine
of the world had blown out?
Surely, it was a night when
the Aurora Borealis rippled her
flaming chest across the sky,
and we lay in each other’s arms
listening to God’s angels
soldering heaven.
Or perhaps, it was a night
more ordinary. A night like any other
when the iron stove spat its sparks
across the floorboards and Orion spilled
his tallow over the sky. A night
when lemmings squeezed
their swag-bellied bodies under our door,
leaving etched snow-bracelets
on the counters of the shed.
That night, you little darling,
were cruising along at just the right
longitude, just the right latitude
through the cosmic dust. How lucky we were
to be billeted just south of the Arctic Circle
waiting, waiting.
Your sister slept soundly, her hands
still clutching Good Night Moon
while I called to you with my belly
and breasts. Outside, our chimney,
and the chimneys of all the Inupiat villagers,
poured cloud after cloud of smoke
into the sky, little grey ghosts
that beckoned you home.
Kristen's first summer
From Cradle Songs: An Anthology of Poems on Motherhood
(Quill and Parchment Press, 2013)
By the Levee
New Orleans
Sunflowers with their pebbly faces
hung over our clapboard fence
that first summer of your life.
Even without the photo, I remember you then,
bald as a walnut, bare-assed, skin brindled
from your mud play at the bottom of the steps.
I hung laundry above you on the line,
jerry-rigged from fence to dilapidated fence.
You shrieked
like a blue jay as the diapers
flapped against the flesh
reddening on the tomato plants.
The air burned yellow
those summer days:
yellow, the color of your peach fuzz,
yellow, the color of those starred tomato
blossoms, and of those happy
faces, the sunflowers,
that jogged in place
each afternoon in the wind
that came before the big storm.
(Quill and Parchment Press, 2013)
By the Levee
New Orleans
Sunflowers with their pebbly faces
hung over our clapboard fence
that first summer of your life.
Even without the photo, I remember you then,
bald as a walnut, bare-assed, skin brindled
from your mud play at the bottom of the steps.
I hung laundry above you on the line,
jerry-rigged from fence to dilapidated fence.
You shrieked
like a blue jay as the diapers
flapped against the flesh
reddening on the tomato plants.
The air burned yellow
those summer days:
yellow, the color of your peach fuzz,
yellow, the color of those starred tomato
blossoms, and of those happy
faces, the sunflowers,
that jogged in place
each afternoon in the wind
that came before the big storm.
Photo by Doris Lynch
From High Desert Journal
The Day of the Dead
Taos, New Mexico
On the Day of the Dead
electric wires chattered
like starlings when we visited
Kit Carson Cemetery. Someone
had left the black iron gate open.
Someone, maybe, the same person,
or another from the dancing,
costumed mob had left apples,
oranges, and skull cookies
on top of the graves.
Even as the gate creaked
free in the wind, even as
Mabel Dodge Luhan’s copy
of The Pied Piper rustled
its pages in a come hither way,
the dead stuck to their roots,
their quiet passageways.
Perhaps, we partied too loudly
with our whizzing sparklers,
or all that erratic light hurt the lonely
sockets where their eyes once stood.
Maybe, we danced too hard on their roofs.
Certainly, we did we not show enough
fear as we read their names
chiseled on stone, and ignored their
bones changing to humus
under piñon’s rocky soil.
For whatever reasons, the dead remained
under the earth, and we walked home
lonely for them, having brushed
their names with candle flames and
the limb-watered light of the moon.
The Day of the Dead
Taos, New Mexico
On the Day of the Dead
electric wires chattered
like starlings when we visited
Kit Carson Cemetery. Someone
had left the black iron gate open.
Someone, maybe, the same person,
or another from the dancing,
costumed mob had left apples,
oranges, and skull cookies
on top of the graves.
Even as the gate creaked
free in the wind, even as
Mabel Dodge Luhan’s copy
of The Pied Piper rustled
its pages in a come hither way,
the dead stuck to their roots,
their quiet passageways.
Perhaps, we partied too loudly
with our whizzing sparklers,
or all that erratic light hurt the lonely
sockets where their eyes once stood.
Maybe, we danced too hard on their roofs.
Certainly, we did we not show enough
fear as we read their names
chiseled on stone, and ignored their
bones changing to humus
under piñon’s rocky soil.
For whatever reasons, the dead remained
under the earth, and we walked home
lonely for them, having brushed
their names with candle flames and
the limb-watered light of the moon.
Photo by Doris Lynch
Linen Weave of Bloomington Poets (Wind Press, 2002)
Better Cloud’s Cousin, Shadow
Pray heaven
won't brim with light,
for I want darkness to suckle
eternity’s long shoe.
For what calms more
completely than shadow?
What soothes more
than ebony rising
from the darkening earth?
Darkness which calls
to our penumbral selves saying remember, remember
I was your ether in utero
your cloud sky
your cellar
your scatter, your sow
your under the earth
your to and fro.
Better Cloud’s Cousin, Shadow
Pray heaven
won't brim with light,
for I want darkness to suckle
eternity’s long shoe.
For what calms more
completely than shadow?
What soothes more
than ebony rising
from the darkening earth?
Darkness which calls
to our penumbral selves saying remember, remember
I was your ether in utero
your cloud sky
your cellar
your scatter, your sow
your under the earth
your to and fro.
Kristen and Cody with Sunflowers
From Haibun Today
On the Way to September
There’s an ease to late summer, a fullness. The pampas grass is thick--
its contiguous green spikes offering a refuge for squirrels and rabbits. On
the far side of the house, the walnut tree has begun its staccato droppings.
The sunflowers and tall daisies reach for sky as the tomato branches curl
downward under the weight of heavy fruit. Can old age be like this? This
feeling of abundance, of having survived the tornadic winds of spring, the
rollicking thunderstorms of June and July to come this day full of stillness
and the world’s beauty.
in the garden
half gold, half green pepper--
how veined your hands
On the Way to September
There’s an ease to late summer, a fullness. The pampas grass is thick--
its contiguous green spikes offering a refuge for squirrels and rabbits. On
the far side of the house, the walnut tree has begun its staccato droppings.
The sunflowers and tall daisies reach for sky as the tomato branches curl
downward under the weight of heavy fruit. Can old age be like this? This
feeling of abundance, of having survived the tornadic winds of spring, the
rollicking thunderstorms of June and July to come this day full of stillness
and the world’s beauty.
in the garden
half gold, half green pepper--
how veined your hands
Interview with Doris Lynch
Doris, many of your poems celebrate connections between people and the natural world. Could you talk about this aspect of your poetry?
Nature is our home. We are nature. Nature gives us everything: water, breath, food, the familiar beings around us, both human and animal, that make life such a complex and beautiful nexus. Mostly I celebrate nature, but more and more I want to mourn how much we damage it-- most likely for eons--by releasing tons of gases into the atmosphere every day.
For imagery and settings, I borrow from nature’s changing moods and appearance. Listen to its sounds: the crow’s harsh cry, the mourning dove’s coo and, this time of year, in Indiana, the rise and fall of cicadas' chirr--a soundscape that I track my breath to each night while falling asleep.
What else can I say about nature and poetry? That it inspires, provides solace, restores? Whenever I step onto the Pate Hollow Trail in Hoosier National Forest and enter its canopy of trees, I feel my blood pressure drop and my breath calm. Hiking those trails with Mr. Darcy, our lab mix, I string words together in my head. Like the images in dreams, some linger, most evaporate, but the experience of this forest-singing feeds my next poem whether it is about nature, love, travel or even an elegy. I think Mary Oliver’s poem “When Death Comes” summarizes this nature/poetry connection best:
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. . . .
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world
The poem, “First Call: Cody,” is set in an Inupiat village. Did you actually live in such a village? Did that experience have an impact on your vision as a poet?
Living for ten months in the Inupiat village of Kivalina in arctic Alaska with my husband and child had an immense impact on me as a writer and a person. The villagers fed us, found us a home, told us stories each day, and invited us to celebrations and funerals. The minister even asked if his family could adopt our daughter, Kristen. We laughed but knew at the time he was serious.
In the late 70s, the culture remained primarily a hunting/gathering culture. In many ways, it felt like stepping back in time except that the villagers had snow machines and motorboats. The women still made boots, mukluks from caribou fur, which they sewed with dental floss. When we arrived in September, salmon dried on white whalebone racks next to the houses. In November, I joined the ladies and ice-fished on the lagoon, where a woman in her sixties cracked through a foot of ice with an auger.
The arctic sky offered the most breathtaking sunsets I have ever seen. The clarity of light, the immensity of the landscape, twilight that lasts for hours. Kivalina lies on a sand spit that juts into the Chukchi Sea. To the east, the De Long Mountains rise. One night before the sea froze, I walked toward the full moon, which seemed much bigger than even super moons do here. It seemed that if I could only walk far enough, I’d be able to step right onto it.
Who could not write a poem about the sea transforming itself into ice cliffs and glimmering statuary, columns, angels, even twenty-foot gargoyles? Or the day the sea ice sang, for the first time in decades, according the villagers? Or the many nights we stopped halfway home on a crusted snowdrift hill and watched the Aurora Borealis, that flaming blanket of light that shook over the world? Well, I have not yet written those poems, but will. Unfortunately, now Kivalina is in grave danger of disappearing from climate change. Certainly, it will have to relocate in the next few years; I hope I will not have to write an elegy for it.
The second major event that altered my worldview was motherhood. Talk about a life-altering experience! Suddenly, you see the world from both a child’s eyes and your parents' eyes. It’s fun to explore the world with children—even as babies they push you in new directions—to be more open with strangers, to crawl through the muck, to pick up a bug, or brush the bark of a tree, to whistle through a grass blade. My two kids taught me how tactile the world is again, and I couldn’t help but put that into poetry. Also, experiencing how hard it is to care for and make decisions about dependent beings made me understand my parents more, and to be more compassionate with people in general. Empathy builds good poems.
Children make language live again for you. At three or four, nearly every child speaks like a poet. My daughter, Kristen wrote these lines when she was only three: “Grass walking in the meadow, seas as bright as seas.” One of the most enduring memories from my son’s childhood is the smell of his white blonde hair in the sun, when he’d rush back to my lap after playing as a toddler. A rich earthy scent, both vegetable and mineral, flaxen like corn.
Briefly, one final experience: we lived in Indonesia for a year, a vastly different culture. In that beautiful island nation speaking another language expanded my viewpoint, my sense of the world, and a sense of the importance of each word. Two experiences changed how I looked at the world that year. The first was the day a female orangutan in a nature preserve on the island of Borneo draped her long arm around my waist and shoulder and, in exchange for letting me go, received an extra snack from the trundle truck that the helpers rolled through the jungle. Some day I will write a poem about what I felt that day: awe, wonder, a sense of the orangutan’s immense strength and agility, along with a tinge of fear. But mostly, even then, I felt a deep connection to a member of another species. I knew she would not hurt me.
The other experience was walking on a nature path when a group of young women strolled by. One came close and said softly, “Sendiri?” “Alone.” All my life I had thought solitude something to be sought—not something sad and pitiful. Through their eyes, I discovered that in some cultures, people prefer to walk beside a vivid green padi with a friend on each arm, sharing stories and laughter.
What is your writing process like?
I have a writing/yoga room for the first time in my life. It looks over the front yard at the pampas grass and the elm and Japanese maple we planted and at the bald spot where the huge maple that died from drought used to soar. After a year, I still miss that tree every single day.
Since the early 80s, when my husband dragged me into the computer age, I compose by typing. Good because my handwriting is nearly unreadable. But sometimes I wake in the dark and try to draft something in a notebook. With luck I can translate snippets of it in the morning. And sometimes they actually jump-start a poem.
Prompts seldom interest me except for the age-old one, of Webster-diving. I use an old college dictionary and flip open a page to try to find the “right” word and then another. But I confess: I cheat often. Nausea and tergiversate I can barely spell let alone use in a poem. Call me an undisciplined writer, but one always in the process of reforming.
Your lovely poem about aging, “On the Way to September,” is a haibun, a poetry form that might be unfamiliar to many readers. Please describe that form and why you are drawn to it.
It’s a Japanese form from the 16th century that is having a renaissance now. Many contemporary poets include haibun in their collections. A haibun combines prose--often, heightened, similar to that of prose poetry--and haiku. Usually, a haibun closes with a haiku, but one or more can be found anywhere in the haibun. The haiku should not complete the prose or repeat it in another form but take it in another direction. For a more exact definition, I’d refer you to the Haiku Society of America.
Why do I write them?
Because they are exquisite seedpods that contain tiny seeds, the haiku.
Because they combine the exploratory nature of the essay with the heightened prose of the prose poem.
Because they originated in a country, Japan, where people live their lives attuned to nature and beauty.
Because you can write about any subject in them and use many forms--letter, travel journal, biography, conversation, or even prayer.
Some even substitute poems for what were traditionally the prose sections.
Because they are usually small, though Basho wrote a whole book of them, and you can finish one in an afternoon though it will never be perfect or even necessary.
What poetry project are you currently working on?
Putting a manuscript together. Writing new poems. Trying to become at least somewhat competent in the centuries-old form of haiku. To succeed in capturing the world in eleven to eighteen syllables, I find a very challenging struggle. Also, I’m revising a mystery I wrote about Kivalina called South of Point Hope that gives a feel for the unique place and the culture clash there between the Inupiat and teachers from the “Lower 48.”
Who is one of your favorite poets and what have you learned from him or her?
Mary Oliver--because she looks deeply at the world and describes it in jewels of language, easily understood. These nature poems expand beyond nature to also show us our human foibles, problems and hallelujahs. In each line she incorporates the world of the senses. She watches nature for hours. She brings you to that pond or wood on Cape Cod, sits your smack down on a grassy bank and lends you her eyes, her beautiful sensibility, her questing mind, her knowledge of animals, vegetables, minerals, and especially humans.
As a librarian at the Monroe County Public Library in Bloomington, you planned a reading that I gave last September. I was struck by the wonderful turnout and how everything was so well planned. What is the most important advice you can give to someone wanting to set up a public poetry reading?
Talk it up! Share your excitement. Get the word out. Find a partner. The Writers Guild in Bloomington is always game for more programs, and they advertise for you also. Gather a list of contacts of folks who love literature. Use social media. Buy snacks. Invite people you know personally with a phone call or by mentioning it when you see them. Pray that B-town has not invited some great musical act, comedian, or world-class speaker that same night. Or that the Hoosiers will play B-ball against—well against anybody.
What are three of your favorite places in Monroe County?
I’m going to limit myself to one. In Monroe County, Lake Griffy tops the list. To visit the park in the early morning is to watch the world born anew: spider webs glimmer on the grass, reeds rustle in the wind, and as the rising sun spills rose over the lake, the heron begins her one-legged fishing on the far side.
Griffy has it all: beauty, hiking trails, canoes to rent and acres and acres of forest. On a knockout spring or fall day, the preserve gets very crowded, but if you time your visit you can find solitude and solace there. We’ve hiked there after dusk on the night of the super moon, arrived there at 5 a.m. to photograph the setting blood moon. We’ve rented a canoe and watched our dog, Juneau, leap out and swim behind us as we circled the lake.
My favorite Griffy memory is the night my daughter, who was still in high school and having a difficult time, suggested we hike a nearly two-mile trail barefoot. It’s one thing to explore the world with your eyes and ears, another tactilely. My feet learned to recognize the slight rise of a big root and its fall on the other side. To anticipate curves from the changing pit-a-pats of my daughter’s feet. At the beginning of the hike, I opened my eyes wider and wider. By the end the dark had become comforting and my feet tingled just enough to recognize there were a few hundred more roots on the path than I’d ever realized in daylight.
Griffy has gifted me with several poems but more importantly the serenity into which to compose them. Yesterday, as Mr. Darcy jumped into the car after a hike and we headed over the bridge, a heron rose from the lakefront just before us and flew into the sky, rising higher and higher. It gifted us with a poetic, aha moment.
Doris, many of your poems celebrate connections between people and the natural world. Could you talk about this aspect of your poetry?
Nature is our home. We are nature. Nature gives us everything: water, breath, food, the familiar beings around us, both human and animal, that make life such a complex and beautiful nexus. Mostly I celebrate nature, but more and more I want to mourn how much we damage it-- most likely for eons--by releasing tons of gases into the atmosphere every day.
For imagery and settings, I borrow from nature’s changing moods and appearance. Listen to its sounds: the crow’s harsh cry, the mourning dove’s coo and, this time of year, in Indiana, the rise and fall of cicadas' chirr--a soundscape that I track my breath to each night while falling asleep.
What else can I say about nature and poetry? That it inspires, provides solace, restores? Whenever I step onto the Pate Hollow Trail in Hoosier National Forest and enter its canopy of trees, I feel my blood pressure drop and my breath calm. Hiking those trails with Mr. Darcy, our lab mix, I string words together in my head. Like the images in dreams, some linger, most evaporate, but the experience of this forest-singing feeds my next poem whether it is about nature, love, travel or even an elegy. I think Mary Oliver’s poem “When Death Comes” summarizes this nature/poetry connection best:
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. . . .
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world
The poem, “First Call: Cody,” is set in an Inupiat village. Did you actually live in such a village? Did that experience have an impact on your vision as a poet?
Living for ten months in the Inupiat village of Kivalina in arctic Alaska with my husband and child had an immense impact on me as a writer and a person. The villagers fed us, found us a home, told us stories each day, and invited us to celebrations and funerals. The minister even asked if his family could adopt our daughter, Kristen. We laughed but knew at the time he was serious.
In the late 70s, the culture remained primarily a hunting/gathering culture. In many ways, it felt like stepping back in time except that the villagers had snow machines and motorboats. The women still made boots, mukluks from caribou fur, which they sewed with dental floss. When we arrived in September, salmon dried on white whalebone racks next to the houses. In November, I joined the ladies and ice-fished on the lagoon, where a woman in her sixties cracked through a foot of ice with an auger.
The arctic sky offered the most breathtaking sunsets I have ever seen. The clarity of light, the immensity of the landscape, twilight that lasts for hours. Kivalina lies on a sand spit that juts into the Chukchi Sea. To the east, the De Long Mountains rise. One night before the sea froze, I walked toward the full moon, which seemed much bigger than even super moons do here. It seemed that if I could only walk far enough, I’d be able to step right onto it.
Who could not write a poem about the sea transforming itself into ice cliffs and glimmering statuary, columns, angels, even twenty-foot gargoyles? Or the day the sea ice sang, for the first time in decades, according the villagers? Or the many nights we stopped halfway home on a crusted snowdrift hill and watched the Aurora Borealis, that flaming blanket of light that shook over the world? Well, I have not yet written those poems, but will. Unfortunately, now Kivalina is in grave danger of disappearing from climate change. Certainly, it will have to relocate in the next few years; I hope I will not have to write an elegy for it.
The second major event that altered my worldview was motherhood. Talk about a life-altering experience! Suddenly, you see the world from both a child’s eyes and your parents' eyes. It’s fun to explore the world with children—even as babies they push you in new directions—to be more open with strangers, to crawl through the muck, to pick up a bug, or brush the bark of a tree, to whistle through a grass blade. My two kids taught me how tactile the world is again, and I couldn’t help but put that into poetry. Also, experiencing how hard it is to care for and make decisions about dependent beings made me understand my parents more, and to be more compassionate with people in general. Empathy builds good poems.
Children make language live again for you. At three or four, nearly every child speaks like a poet. My daughter, Kristen wrote these lines when she was only three: “Grass walking in the meadow, seas as bright as seas.” One of the most enduring memories from my son’s childhood is the smell of his white blonde hair in the sun, when he’d rush back to my lap after playing as a toddler. A rich earthy scent, both vegetable and mineral, flaxen like corn.
Briefly, one final experience: we lived in Indonesia for a year, a vastly different culture. In that beautiful island nation speaking another language expanded my viewpoint, my sense of the world, and a sense of the importance of each word. Two experiences changed how I looked at the world that year. The first was the day a female orangutan in a nature preserve on the island of Borneo draped her long arm around my waist and shoulder and, in exchange for letting me go, received an extra snack from the trundle truck that the helpers rolled through the jungle. Some day I will write a poem about what I felt that day: awe, wonder, a sense of the orangutan’s immense strength and agility, along with a tinge of fear. But mostly, even then, I felt a deep connection to a member of another species. I knew she would not hurt me.
The other experience was walking on a nature path when a group of young women strolled by. One came close and said softly, “Sendiri?” “Alone.” All my life I had thought solitude something to be sought—not something sad and pitiful. Through their eyes, I discovered that in some cultures, people prefer to walk beside a vivid green padi with a friend on each arm, sharing stories and laughter.
What is your writing process like?
I have a writing/yoga room for the first time in my life. It looks over the front yard at the pampas grass and the elm and Japanese maple we planted and at the bald spot where the huge maple that died from drought used to soar. After a year, I still miss that tree every single day.
Since the early 80s, when my husband dragged me into the computer age, I compose by typing. Good because my handwriting is nearly unreadable. But sometimes I wake in the dark and try to draft something in a notebook. With luck I can translate snippets of it in the morning. And sometimes they actually jump-start a poem.
Prompts seldom interest me except for the age-old one, of Webster-diving. I use an old college dictionary and flip open a page to try to find the “right” word and then another. But I confess: I cheat often. Nausea and tergiversate I can barely spell let alone use in a poem. Call me an undisciplined writer, but one always in the process of reforming.
Your lovely poem about aging, “On the Way to September,” is a haibun, a poetry form that might be unfamiliar to many readers. Please describe that form and why you are drawn to it.
It’s a Japanese form from the 16th century that is having a renaissance now. Many contemporary poets include haibun in their collections. A haibun combines prose--often, heightened, similar to that of prose poetry--and haiku. Usually, a haibun closes with a haiku, but one or more can be found anywhere in the haibun. The haiku should not complete the prose or repeat it in another form but take it in another direction. For a more exact definition, I’d refer you to the Haiku Society of America.
Why do I write them?
Because they are exquisite seedpods that contain tiny seeds, the haiku.
Because they combine the exploratory nature of the essay with the heightened prose of the prose poem.
Because they originated in a country, Japan, where people live their lives attuned to nature and beauty.
Because you can write about any subject in them and use many forms--letter, travel journal, biography, conversation, or even prayer.
Some even substitute poems for what were traditionally the prose sections.
Because they are usually small, though Basho wrote a whole book of them, and you can finish one in an afternoon though it will never be perfect or even necessary.
What poetry project are you currently working on?
Putting a manuscript together. Writing new poems. Trying to become at least somewhat competent in the centuries-old form of haiku. To succeed in capturing the world in eleven to eighteen syllables, I find a very challenging struggle. Also, I’m revising a mystery I wrote about Kivalina called South of Point Hope that gives a feel for the unique place and the culture clash there between the Inupiat and teachers from the “Lower 48.”
Who is one of your favorite poets and what have you learned from him or her?
Mary Oliver--because she looks deeply at the world and describes it in jewels of language, easily understood. These nature poems expand beyond nature to also show us our human foibles, problems and hallelujahs. In each line she incorporates the world of the senses. She watches nature for hours. She brings you to that pond or wood on Cape Cod, sits your smack down on a grassy bank and lends you her eyes, her beautiful sensibility, her questing mind, her knowledge of animals, vegetables, minerals, and especially humans.
As a librarian at the Monroe County Public Library in Bloomington, you planned a reading that I gave last September. I was struck by the wonderful turnout and how everything was so well planned. What is the most important advice you can give to someone wanting to set up a public poetry reading?
Talk it up! Share your excitement. Get the word out. Find a partner. The Writers Guild in Bloomington is always game for more programs, and they advertise for you also. Gather a list of contacts of folks who love literature. Use social media. Buy snacks. Invite people you know personally with a phone call or by mentioning it when you see them. Pray that B-town has not invited some great musical act, comedian, or world-class speaker that same night. Or that the Hoosiers will play B-ball against—well against anybody.
What are three of your favorite places in Monroe County?
I’m going to limit myself to one. In Monroe County, Lake Griffy tops the list. To visit the park in the early morning is to watch the world born anew: spider webs glimmer on the grass, reeds rustle in the wind, and as the rising sun spills rose over the lake, the heron begins her one-legged fishing on the far side.
Griffy has it all: beauty, hiking trails, canoes to rent and acres and acres of forest. On a knockout spring or fall day, the preserve gets very crowded, but if you time your visit you can find solitude and solace there. We’ve hiked there after dusk on the night of the super moon, arrived there at 5 a.m. to photograph the setting blood moon. We’ve rented a canoe and watched our dog, Juneau, leap out and swim behind us as we circled the lake.
My favorite Griffy memory is the night my daughter, who was still in high school and having a difficult time, suggested we hike a nearly two-mile trail barefoot. It’s one thing to explore the world with your eyes and ears, another tactilely. My feet learned to recognize the slight rise of a big root and its fall on the other side. To anticipate curves from the changing pit-a-pats of my daughter’s feet. At the beginning of the hike, I opened my eyes wider and wider. By the end the dark had become comforting and my feet tingled just enough to recognize there were a few hundred more roots on the path than I’d ever realized in daylight.
Griffy has gifted me with several poems but more importantly the serenity into which to compose them. Yesterday, as Mr. Darcy jumped into the car after a hike and we headed over the bridge, a heron rose from the lakefront just before us and flew into the sky, rising higher and higher. It gifted us with a poetic, aha moment.
Kivalina, Alaska, aerial view
Above: Orlando Menes and Old Havana Today
Photographs courtesy of Orlando R. Menes www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/orlando-ricardo-menes For readers of poetry, certain works become touchstones—poems that resonate deeply, that they return to repeatedly. I have at least a dozen of these favorite poems, and last year after reading Heresies by Orlando Ricardo Menes I gained a new one: “Melville in Lima.” Like Orlando’s other poems, this one astutely explores a cultural landscape and is incredibly rich with music, imagery, and insight. Perhaps I am pulled so strongly to this particular poem because Melville’s Yankee churches could be the plain Mennonite Churches of my family history. Within myself, I feel the tug between what’s unadorned and what’s lush and extravagant, like Lima's "gilded altars." This poem speaks to what’s so important, indeed, urgent, for the human family to recognize—that cultural differences are to be honored. They not only make the world a more fascinating place, they reveal aspects of ourselves we may otherwise be blind to. As Orlando’s poetry leads us into new places and perspectives, it expands the borders of what we understand as America and, ultimately, ourselves.
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August 2017
Expanding Our Borders The Poetry of Orlando Ricardo Menes Orlando Menes is a Cuban-American writer currently teaching in the Creative Writing Program at the University of Notre Dame, where he is Professor of English. He is the author of five poetry collections, most recently Heresies (University of New Mexico Press, 2015) and Fetish, winner of the 2012 Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Poetry. His poems have appeared in several prominent anthologies, as well as literary magazines like Poetry, Ploughshares, The Antioch Review, Prairie Schooner, Hudson Review, Harvard Review, Shenandoah, Callaloo, Indiana Review, River Styx, Epoch, Spoon River Poetry Review, New Letters, Crab Orchard Review, and Green Mountains Review. In addition, Menes is editor of Renaming Ecstasy: Latino Writings on the Sacred (Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingüe, 2004) and The Open Light: Poets from Notre Dame, 1991-2008 (University of Notre Dame Press, 2011). Besides his own poems, he has published translations of poetry in Spanish, including My Heart Flooded with Water: Selected Poems by Alfonsina Storni (Latin American Literary Review Press, 2009). That same year he received a Literature Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.
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The Menes children (Orlando and his siblings) on their patio.
From Heresies (University of New Mexico Press, 2015)
Melville in Lima
My birthplace, you wrote, strangest, saddest city thou canst see.
Why such gloom? Because we have no rain, thus tearless,
no sun at all in winter? Murky skies lift our spirits.
The cold ocean mist, garúa, that mildews convent walls
is our faith’s patina. Those crosses all adroop serve us well
to hang scapulars big as flags. When buzzards roost
on rooftops, we see Dominicans, tonsured and aquiline,
wings clasped in penance. We sing doxologies to virgins,
prowl the shore in case martyrs’ bones wash up. You
call us idol mongers, tawdry in prayer, lazy with scripture,
our churches more plentiful than billiard tables. If Mother Spain
is a great whale stranded on the shores of Europe, are we
its grotesque calf, unsuckled, left to dry in the neap tides
of superstition? We are Latins, not yeoman yanquis.
Those plain churches in your cherished Chesapeake Bay
are mere hovels to us. We prefer overwrought facades,
garish bell towers, rituals rich with condiment. Gilded altars
rouse our faith, candles titillate, incense makes us
so giddy we can crawl on cobbles as if plush pillows.
Melville in Lima
My birthplace, you wrote, strangest, saddest city thou canst see.
Why such gloom? Because we have no rain, thus tearless,
no sun at all in winter? Murky skies lift our spirits.
The cold ocean mist, garúa, that mildews convent walls
is our faith’s patina. Those crosses all adroop serve us well
to hang scapulars big as flags. When buzzards roost
on rooftops, we see Dominicans, tonsured and aquiline,
wings clasped in penance. We sing doxologies to virgins,
prowl the shore in case martyrs’ bones wash up. You
call us idol mongers, tawdry in prayer, lazy with scripture,
our churches more plentiful than billiard tables. If Mother Spain
is a great whale stranded on the shores of Europe, are we
its grotesque calf, unsuckled, left to dry in the neap tides
of superstition? We are Latins, not yeoman yanquis.
Those plain churches in your cherished Chesapeake Bay
are mere hovels to us. We prefer overwrought facades,
garish bell towers, rituals rich with condiment. Gilded altars
rouse our faith, candles titillate, incense makes us
so giddy we can crawl on cobbles as if plush pillows.
High rise in Lima where Orlando lived as a boy
St. Zita, Patroness of Bakers, Explains the Eucharist
If it were up to me, the Host would be leavened bread, so that
Christ’s body is fragrant to the nose, tasty to the tongue—not that
plain wafer deader than bookkeeper’s paper. Transubstantiation is
gobbledygook, but I do understand yeast. Not the wild kind that
breeds in cauldrons of dank air; I mean the bloom, that soft, white
powder on black grapes before they get squeezed to must then vinify
in casks of Calvary. My yeast comes from merlots plump as fish eyes I
keep safe from molds in a tin tabernacle, my paschal oven by the altar
stone where I bongo the dough, roll the loaf, three taps on the rump.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Let it stand half a day tucked in Veronica’s
Veil. Yeast requires patience & a calm hand. To knead slowly is a
baker’s reverence. Sugar, sourdough, & spice make paradise. I bake
cardamom cookies for the Sabbath, marzipan for Mother Mary,
walnut cake for the Last Supper. Even Judas gets a ginger effigy. Yeast
is all you need to raise the dead.
If it were up to me, the Host would be leavened bread, so that
Christ’s body is fragrant to the nose, tasty to the tongue—not that
plain wafer deader than bookkeeper’s paper. Transubstantiation is
gobbledygook, but I do understand yeast. Not the wild kind that
breeds in cauldrons of dank air; I mean the bloom, that soft, white
powder on black grapes before they get squeezed to must then vinify
in casks of Calvary. My yeast comes from merlots plump as fish eyes I
keep safe from molds in a tin tabernacle, my paschal oven by the altar
stone where I bongo the dough, roll the loaf, three taps on the rump.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Let it stand half a day tucked in Veronica’s
Veil. Yeast requires patience & a calm hand. To knead slowly is a
baker’s reverence. Sugar, sourdough, & spice make paradise. I bake
cardamom cookies for the Sabbath, marzipan for Mother Mary,
walnut cake for the Last Supper. Even Judas gets a ginger effigy. Yeast
is all you need to raise the dead.
St. Martin of Porres
St. Martin of Porres, Apostle to the Poor
I have lived in your shacks of straw & mud, drunk from your brown
creeks, climbed your bald foothills of charity, I the orphaned mulatto
born in a donkey’s trough, weaned on straw & chaff. I grew up the
beggar of seeds, almsgiver to strays, then was by chance apprenticed
to a barber but bungled combing, inept at leeching, loose with razors.
So I joined the Dominicans, a lay sweeper, my skin too dark for holy
orders, hair too nappy for the abbot’s hot iron. Misfortune was my
blessing. How else could I have become your Bishop of Brooms, my
crosier that sweeps away the sins of the world, my miter the do-rag I
wear to scrub naves. Jesus favors the lowly laborer, bruised of knee,
rickety boned. The rich are wrong to think they will go to Heaven.
Their gold offerings evaporate to dross, their pleas drain like water
through limestone. Give thanks to Our Lord for linty purses, empty
cupboards, calloused soles.
I have lived in your shacks of straw & mud, drunk from your brown
creeks, climbed your bald foothills of charity, I the orphaned mulatto
born in a donkey’s trough, weaned on straw & chaff. I grew up the
beggar of seeds, almsgiver to strays, then was by chance apprenticed
to a barber but bungled combing, inept at leeching, loose with razors.
So I joined the Dominicans, a lay sweeper, my skin too dark for holy
orders, hair too nappy for the abbot’s hot iron. Misfortune was my
blessing. How else could I have become your Bishop of Brooms, my
crosier that sweeps away the sins of the world, my miter the do-rag I
wear to scrub naves. Jesus favors the lowly laborer, bruised of knee,
rickety boned. The rich are wrong to think they will go to Heaven.
Their gold offerings evaporate to dross, their pleas drain like water
through limestone. Give thanks to Our Lord for linty purses, empty
cupboards, calloused soles.
Old Havana today / photograph by Orlando Ricardo Menes
Cuban Villanelle
Raindrops chatter on the tamarind leaves,
Houses swell with iguanas, and girls gossip
Of Inés taking men to the plantain trees.
A widow with ten kids, she has skin like olives
Brined, jute hair, gaunt eyes, yet her bony hips
Are lithe as twigs on wet tamarind leaves.
Inés works hard rolling plump cigars and sees
No shame in keeping her money or skipping courtship
To sleep with men beneath the plantain trees.
Oxen get sold for gifts, fields die, kids starve. Wives
In rampage flay Inés, crop hair, hot-wax eyes, rip
Her silk messaline as rain soaks the tamarind leaves.
Crouched with booze, the men slobber pleas,
But no remorse can save Inés from wives who tip
The kerosene and set ablaze her plantain trees.
Smoke floods the fields. Bells peal. Inés flees
To church but wives chase with knives, strip
Her down as rain falls on tamarind leaves
And men mope in the ash of plantain trees.
Raindrops chatter on the tamarind leaves,
Houses swell with iguanas, and girls gossip
Of Inés taking men to the plantain trees.
A widow with ten kids, she has skin like olives
Brined, jute hair, gaunt eyes, yet her bony hips
Are lithe as twigs on wet tamarind leaves.
Inés works hard rolling plump cigars and sees
No shame in keeping her money or skipping courtship
To sleep with men beneath the plantain trees.
Oxen get sold for gifts, fields die, kids starve. Wives
In rampage flay Inés, crop hair, hot-wax eyes, rip
Her silk messaline as rain soaks the tamarind leaves.
Crouched with booze, the men slobber pleas,
But no remorse can save Inés from wives who tip
The kerosene and set ablaze her plantain trees.
Smoke floods the fields. Bells peal. Inés flees
To church but wives chase with knives, strip
Her down as rain falls on tamarind leaves
And men mope in the ash of plantain trees.
Orlando's paternal grandfather, Manuel Menes
From Fetish (University of Nebraska Press, 2013)
Courtyard of Clotheslines, Angel Hill
Though dark clouds hint the kind of rain
that strafes a city, the long drought has made
fresh water scarce as milk or gasoline.
Sand like raw sugar blows from Gabon,
burying creek and aqueduct alike,
even agaves wither in tin-can gardens,
and the women of Angel Hill make do
with shortages more numerous than bristles
on a pig. No meat today? They grind
plantain peels or pickle mop rags. No soap?
They churn clothes in boiled seawater,
rig sisal lines to iron balconies that crisscross
the stone courtyard like a cat’s cradle,
and because Havana Bay is so close,
wayward gusts wreck the frazzled rope--
a darned diaper or threadbare blouse
tossed like some injured bird astray
in cumuli that scud Caribbean shores.
While clothes can be replaced by barter
or theft, those kin lost at sea are grieved
in shrines of patched photos, wild flowers,
the clay and cowrie-eyed Eleggua, “way opener,”
mollified by rum-soaked tobacco,
these desperate men and women, called escoria,
scum, by the government, who take
to the Florida Straits on rafts stitched
from boards, wire mesh, inner tubes,
whose hasty provisions fall overboard
in the high swells, who clamor to María
or Yemayá for sweet water, calm seas,
dry land, then plunge into the waves
when angels whisper from the brine.
Courtyard of Clotheslines, Angel Hill
Though dark clouds hint the kind of rain
that strafes a city, the long drought has made
fresh water scarce as milk or gasoline.
Sand like raw sugar blows from Gabon,
burying creek and aqueduct alike,
even agaves wither in tin-can gardens,
and the women of Angel Hill make do
with shortages more numerous than bristles
on a pig. No meat today? They grind
plantain peels or pickle mop rags. No soap?
They churn clothes in boiled seawater,
rig sisal lines to iron balconies that crisscross
the stone courtyard like a cat’s cradle,
and because Havana Bay is so close,
wayward gusts wreck the frazzled rope--
a darned diaper or threadbare blouse
tossed like some injured bird astray
in cumuli that scud Caribbean shores.
While clothes can be replaced by barter
or theft, those kin lost at sea are grieved
in shrines of patched photos, wild flowers,
the clay and cowrie-eyed Eleggua, “way opener,”
mollified by rum-soaked tobacco,
these desperate men and women, called escoria,
scum, by the government, who take
to the Florida Straits on rafts stitched
from boards, wire mesh, inner tubes,
whose hasty provisions fall overboard
in the high swells, who clamor to María
or Yemayá for sweet water, calm seas,
dry land, then plunge into the waves
when angels whisper from the brine.
Orlando's great-uncle, Julio Ortoneda (on the right)
Elegy for Great-Uncle Julio, Cane Cutter
Martí Sugar Mill, Matanzas, Cuba, 1998
Growing up in Miami I never heard his name,
my aunts hissing comunista, his image cut
from photos, his letters torn. “Fool, let him eat swill
in paradise,” Uncle Manny would say as he
bit ripe tomatoes like apples, dimple dripping.
I wait in darkness, sitting on an oxhide chair,
smell of sinew, tallow. Tío Julio’s bohío,
palm thatched, tobacco leaves like animal skins
nailed to walls of peeled bark; cradled by a rag
doll, the radio gargles sugar-harvest statistics.
Wakened from his nap, Tío Julio shuffles
on bagasso slippers, sputters when I say
I’m Cuca’s grandson, sister he hasn’t seen since
New Year’s ’59, day a triumphant Fidel
entered La Habana like Hannibal on a Sherman tank.
Cowrie shells augured exile. Few listened.
Knees buckle, fingers claw my wrist.
I lay him on a mattress stained by urine,
wilted clippings of Fidel glued to bedposts.
Stroke scarred hands, arms as if touch
could heal a lifetime cutting cane in the sun.
Tío's wife rejoices when I give her fat pork
bought from a butcher pushing a broken bicycle,
pig guts like eels in brine. Brings cafecito,
chicory coffee, tepid, bilgy water, raspy dregs.
I swallow to be polite. Opening a cigar box,
he shows me freckled photos of ancestors:
men who tilled with wood plows, slow oxen
fields that withered early in the planting season,
arroyos and ditches evaporating to molasses.
One sepia print shows a girl switching a mule,
Cuca at twelve, looking stern because teeth
had grown crooked on the cobs. Voice crackles
when I promise to tell Abuela how ill he is,
that his nieces will write soon. “Politics
should never divide family,” Amelia says,
and I give her $20, press the bill into her hand.
“So soon, stay for dinner.” “No puedo,” I say,
fib that the last mill-train leaves at dusk.
Tall as royal palms, smokestacks spew ghosts
of the sugar harvest; dismembered,
Soviet tractors rot in sheds, corrugated tin.
Boys playing baseball chase me across
the yucca thickets. Cuoras, chocolate, chicle,
they plead, hurling rocks when I say no.
On these rutted canefields I trip over pits
of memory, red dust stinging my eyes,
I the bearer of dollars, false promises.
Martí Sugar Mill, Matanzas, Cuba, 1998
Growing up in Miami I never heard his name,
my aunts hissing comunista, his image cut
from photos, his letters torn. “Fool, let him eat swill
in paradise,” Uncle Manny would say as he
bit ripe tomatoes like apples, dimple dripping.
I wait in darkness, sitting on an oxhide chair,
smell of sinew, tallow. Tío Julio’s bohío,
palm thatched, tobacco leaves like animal skins
nailed to walls of peeled bark; cradled by a rag
doll, the radio gargles sugar-harvest statistics.
Wakened from his nap, Tío Julio shuffles
on bagasso slippers, sputters when I say
I’m Cuca’s grandson, sister he hasn’t seen since
New Year’s ’59, day a triumphant Fidel
entered La Habana like Hannibal on a Sherman tank.
Cowrie shells augured exile. Few listened.
Knees buckle, fingers claw my wrist.
I lay him on a mattress stained by urine,
wilted clippings of Fidel glued to bedposts.
Stroke scarred hands, arms as if touch
could heal a lifetime cutting cane in the sun.
Tío's wife rejoices when I give her fat pork
bought from a butcher pushing a broken bicycle,
pig guts like eels in brine. Brings cafecito,
chicory coffee, tepid, bilgy water, raspy dregs.
I swallow to be polite. Opening a cigar box,
he shows me freckled photos of ancestors:
men who tilled with wood plows, slow oxen
fields that withered early in the planting season,
arroyos and ditches evaporating to molasses.
One sepia print shows a girl switching a mule,
Cuca at twelve, looking stern because teeth
had grown crooked on the cobs. Voice crackles
when I promise to tell Abuela how ill he is,
that his nieces will write soon. “Politics
should never divide family,” Amelia says,
and I give her $20, press the bill into her hand.
“So soon, stay for dinner.” “No puedo,” I say,
fib that the last mill-train leaves at dusk.
Tall as royal palms, smokestacks spew ghosts
of the sugar harvest; dismembered,
Soviet tractors rot in sheds, corrugated tin.
Boys playing baseball chase me across
the yucca thickets. Cuoras, chocolate, chicle,
they plead, hurling rocks when I say no.
On these rutted canefields I trip over pits
of memory, red dust stinging my eyes,
I the bearer of dollars, false promises.
Orlando's father at 50 years of age
Ars Poetica
After an oiled stone whet the chinked blade,
Papá planed leftover lumber, groomed the grain
With emery rags, nipped shards, buffed to swede
Every nick and scratch then smeared an oily stain;
Armoire, cupboard, credenza, or stool, each made
To outlast mold’s caprice, rot’s relentless reign--
A cement shed, pawnshop tools, Papá got paid
With cardboard IOU’s but didn’t complain,
Dallied bills, snubbed calls, worried about dirt
Spoiling beeswax, a runny varnish, the hair
That strayed into seamless shellac, while I gave
Succor to fractures, restored scraps, healed the wart
On a lacquered pine leg, vigilant in my care
Of salvaged wood as it bucked the austere lathe.
After an oiled stone whet the chinked blade,
Papá planed leftover lumber, groomed the grain
With emery rags, nipped shards, buffed to swede
Every nick and scratch then smeared an oily stain;
Armoire, cupboard, credenza, or stool, each made
To outlast mold’s caprice, rot’s relentless reign--
A cement shed, pawnshop tools, Papá got paid
With cardboard IOU’s but didn’t complain,
Dallied bills, snubbed calls, worried about dirt
Spoiling beeswax, a runny varnish, the hair
That strayed into seamless shellac, while I gave
Succor to fractures, restored scraps, healed the wart
On a lacquered pine leg, vigilant in my care
Of salvaged wood as it bucked the austere lathe.
Orlando's mother, Aida Cordoneda, as a young woman
From furia (Milkweed Editions, 2005)
Ofelia
Lima, Perú, 1965
“I have a surprise,” my Amazonian
maid says, laying the cradled bundle
(more like a huge tamal) on the stove.
Clipping frond twine, Ofelia unwraps
brittle corn husks, old newspaper--
a long-tailed monkey appears,
gelatinous eyes, mouth agape. Tied to its right
foot is a green rattle, “to appease
animal spirits,” she says. Chirping,
whistling--teeth like broken bottles--
Ofelia unknots legs, arms that danced high
branches of el caucho, weeping wood.
I tweeze the blow dart, whittled bird bone.
“It’s still poisonous; wash with milk,”
she says, slapping my hand. “Will we dress
him up like Dennis the Menace?” I ask,
holding corduroy cap, denim overalls.
“It’s for eating, silly,” she replies.
I run away, hide under her iron bed.
“Don’t be afraid, just a delicacy from
the jungle,” Ofelia says, moist fingers
stroking my head like a cat’s.
After boiling & scraping, Ofelia lights
the oven, caresses the monkey
with apple vinegar, dusts thoroughly--
talcum of wild oregano. “Decorate
the table,” she says. I set like checkers
gourds & sprigs; sap of wax
drools down her rough-hewn candlesticks.
Ofelia slices. “Let the meat
dissolve in your mouth, never chew”--
I think of Baby Jesus in a manger
of roots & greens; cloves puncture the monkey
everywhere, bay leaf pinned to its heart.
The eyes, rubied by fire, terrify me.
Cinnamon aureoles prick my finger.
Ofelia pulls me, whimpering back to the chair.
Her legs scissor me, arms constrict.
“Tastes like papaya,” she carols, rough hands
squeeze my mouth, fork scraping teeth.
“At your age I was shooting parrots, spearing fish.”
Singing solfeggio, my Cuban mother comes
back from voice lessons, finds the carcass
swaddled in lettuce. “Savage!” she yells & fires
Ofelia when she backtalks, “leave by morning,
godforsaken chola.” I sweat, toss all night,
nibble my lips praying to Baby Jesus.
When I wake my throat burns, rashes circle
my navel; Mamá scours with kerosene,
an old sandpapery rag. “I’ll boil the boy
some cat’s-claw syrup,” Ofelia says, trembling.
Mamá curses her, throws Judas money
in her face as she squirms, sobs.
This morning the cold sea-mist
shrouds all of Lima; black vultures perch
like gargoyles on rusted neon signs.
Ofelia drags her roped suitcase across
Bridge of Sorrows, a dry riverbed,
toward Martyrs’ Alley, mud & straw slum
where women shrivel at forty-one,
her shoes like old tires, black sweater
mended back to life each winter,
scabbed buttons, welts of white thread.
Ofelia
Lima, Perú, 1965
“I have a surprise,” my Amazonian
maid says, laying the cradled bundle
(more like a huge tamal) on the stove.
Clipping frond twine, Ofelia unwraps
brittle corn husks, old newspaper--
a long-tailed monkey appears,
gelatinous eyes, mouth agape. Tied to its right
foot is a green rattle, “to appease
animal spirits,” she says. Chirping,
whistling--teeth like broken bottles--
Ofelia unknots legs, arms that danced high
branches of el caucho, weeping wood.
I tweeze the blow dart, whittled bird bone.
“It’s still poisonous; wash with milk,”
she says, slapping my hand. “Will we dress
him up like Dennis the Menace?” I ask,
holding corduroy cap, denim overalls.
“It’s for eating, silly,” she replies.
I run away, hide under her iron bed.
“Don’t be afraid, just a delicacy from
the jungle,” Ofelia says, moist fingers
stroking my head like a cat’s.
After boiling & scraping, Ofelia lights
the oven, caresses the monkey
with apple vinegar, dusts thoroughly--
talcum of wild oregano. “Decorate
the table,” she says. I set like checkers
gourds & sprigs; sap of wax
drools down her rough-hewn candlesticks.
Ofelia slices. “Let the meat
dissolve in your mouth, never chew”--
I think of Baby Jesus in a manger
of roots & greens; cloves puncture the monkey
everywhere, bay leaf pinned to its heart.
The eyes, rubied by fire, terrify me.
Cinnamon aureoles prick my finger.
Ofelia pulls me, whimpering back to the chair.
Her legs scissor me, arms constrict.
“Tastes like papaya,” she carols, rough hands
squeeze my mouth, fork scraping teeth.
“At your age I was shooting parrots, spearing fish.”
Singing solfeggio, my Cuban mother comes
back from voice lessons, finds the carcass
swaddled in lettuce. “Savage!” she yells & fires
Ofelia when she backtalks, “leave by morning,
godforsaken chola.” I sweat, toss all night,
nibble my lips praying to Baby Jesus.
When I wake my throat burns, rashes circle
my navel; Mamá scours with kerosene,
an old sandpapery rag. “I’ll boil the boy
some cat’s-claw syrup,” Ofelia says, trembling.
Mamá curses her, throws Judas money
in her face as she squirms, sobs.
This morning the cold sea-mist
shrouds all of Lima; black vultures perch
like gargoyles on rusted neon signs.
Ofelia drags her roped suitcase across
Bridge of Sorrows, a dry riverbed,
toward Martyrs’ Alley, mud & straw slum
where women shrivel at forty-one,
her shoes like old tires, black sweater
mended back to life each winter,
scabbed buttons, welts of white thread.
Orlando as a boy
Miami, South Kendall, 1969
Papá was hosing down our new silver
Grand Prix, I scrubbing muddy floor mats,
when seven boys rode up
our driveway, legs tommy-gunned by mosquitoes,
eyes gunpowder blue.
They formed a line, passing around
a furry bowie knife.
Go back to Cuba, the chorus taunted.
We hate the Spanish.
Indigo snake coiled about his wrist,
Marcus hissed, snarled, telling my father
to kiss his ass. Besamacula.
A fellow fifth-grader, it was Marcus who’d pounce
on me as I walked home from school,
calling me a dumb spic for saying yellow
like jell-o, by arms choking, my mouth scrubbed
in dirt of dandelion and bitterweed.
I cried alone in my room, ashamed
for not hitting back, praying for Marcus’s death,
fists pummeling the pillow; Papá warned
I’d grow up queer if I couldn’t fistfight
like my younger brother Carlos, “little rooster.”
The boys began to hoot,
make monkey faces, Marcus playacted
a lynching with the snake.
Papá charged, sprayed water, shouting I cole
de polís, foqui sanambambiches.
Then all seven mounted their bicycles,
sprinting toward avocado
groves; some days later we found death’s-
heads carved on the garage door,
our cat Tintín’s head floating in the pool.
Papá sold the house at a loss, and we moved
to a bungalow off Calle Ocho,
our neighbors newly arrived refugees.
By 1971 Freedom Flights
were bringing hundreds of Cubans
each day, my grandmother Nena
among them; the Everglades dredged
for an expanding Little Havana,
politicos dreaming of
a Malecón on Biscayne Bay.
Stars and Stripes
flying from car antennas,
hate signs taped to windows,
Anglos fled to rural Manatee
and Osceola, some journeying
as far north a Alachua,
Apalachicola Bay, Blackwater River;
and County Line Road,
a strip of gravel and sticks,
the new border dividing
America from America.
Papá was hosing down our new silver
Grand Prix, I scrubbing muddy floor mats,
when seven boys rode up
our driveway, legs tommy-gunned by mosquitoes,
eyes gunpowder blue.
They formed a line, passing around
a furry bowie knife.
Go back to Cuba, the chorus taunted.
We hate the Spanish.
Indigo snake coiled about his wrist,
Marcus hissed, snarled, telling my father
to kiss his ass. Besamacula.
A fellow fifth-grader, it was Marcus who’d pounce
on me as I walked home from school,
calling me a dumb spic for saying yellow
like jell-o, by arms choking, my mouth scrubbed
in dirt of dandelion and bitterweed.
I cried alone in my room, ashamed
for not hitting back, praying for Marcus’s death,
fists pummeling the pillow; Papá warned
I’d grow up queer if I couldn’t fistfight
like my younger brother Carlos, “little rooster.”
The boys began to hoot,
make monkey faces, Marcus playacted
a lynching with the snake.
Papá charged, sprayed water, shouting I cole
de polís, foqui sanambambiches.
Then all seven mounted their bicycles,
sprinting toward avocado
groves; some days later we found death’s-
heads carved on the garage door,
our cat Tintín’s head floating in the pool.
Papá sold the house at a loss, and we moved
to a bungalow off Calle Ocho,
our neighbors newly arrived refugees.
By 1971 Freedom Flights
were bringing hundreds of Cubans
each day, my grandmother Nena
among them; the Everglades dredged
for an expanding Little Havana,
politicos dreaming of
a Malecón on Biscayne Bay.
Stars and Stripes
flying from car antennas,
hate signs taped to windows,
Anglos fled to rural Manatee
and Osceola, some journeying
as far north a Alachua,
Apalachicola Bay, Blackwater River;
and County Line Road,
a strip of gravel and sticks,
the new border dividing
America from America.
Interview with Orlando Ricardo Menes
Orlando, your parents were originally from Cuba and you lived your first ten years in Lima, Peru, before immigrating with your family to Florida. How has your Latino background influenced who you are as a poet?
Had the Cuban Revolution not taken place and thereafter succeeded in altering Cuba in the most extreme and sinister ways possible (I am no apologist for the Castros), I would have been born in Cuba and been raised on that island. It was a fluke that an Eastern European man, an Ashkenazi Jew who had somehow escaped the Holocaust and settled in Lima, Peru, but who loved traveling to Havana for reasons I do not know, proposed to my father, an upholsterer by trade (apparently they had met at some bar in Havana), that he manage his newly opened furniture factory in Lima. The year was 1957. My father and mother had just gotten married. My father said yes to this man since his small upholstery business (tapicería) was not doing so well, in large part because of the country’s turbulent political situation. After leaving for Lima, my mother followed him, already pregnant with me, so I was conceived in Havana and then born in Lima. My parents did not adjust well to Lima: its climate, its culture, its history, etc., being so radically different from what they had grown up with in the Caribbean. Therefore, we returned to Cuba in 1960, and I was baptized in Varadero. At this time Castro had not yet declared himself a “Marxist-Leninist for life.” Nonetheless, my mother was repulsed by him and persuaded my father that we return to Lima. Soon after my father started his own furniture business, and in just a few years amassed quite a fortune, so we ended up being rather privileged in this South American city. My sister, my brother, and I studied in a British academy. We lived in a chalet in the suburbs. We traveled to Europe. But all this would end when General Velasco Alvarado staged a leftist coup d’état that would forever alter our lives. The year was 1968, and I was ten years old. Fearing that what had happened in Cuba would repeat itself in Peru, we fled to Miami where my father’s family was already living as political exiles. History would judge them right. Soon after the Velasco government expropriated my father’s furniture factory and expelled him (in absentia) as an undesirable alien. Though my father had managed to take out of Peru a good chunk of money, bad investments, bad decisions, and just plain bad luck would result (by 1976) in near bankruptcy. My father went from prosperous businessman to being the owner of a small workshop in Hialeah making kitchen cabinets. My father and mother divorced, and I was on my own by age 19. You might say that my family went from rags to riches and then back to rags.
I think it is important for readers to know my trajectory through these different countries, in particular because my poems and short stories (at least until now) have been so preoccupied with investigating the complex relationship between place and culture, place and history, place and memory. I prefer not to use the term Latino to fully define my family heritage or family culture. Being specific about place and culture is more accurate, I believe. Because of our current national discourse on identity, Latino is unfortunately much too generic, much too overextended, much too circumscribed by politics. We need to think of Latinos as a large and complex family of cultures, languages, and peoples in which unity and difference should be equally celebrated. Now let us talk of my own particular family. Although my parents were born in Cuba, their fathers were immigrants from Spain who ended up marrying Cuban women. I was thus raised with Spanish customs, Spanish mores, Spanish foods. So we had a strong and unbreakable connection to Spain as the Mother Country. Nonetheless, I have made it my mission to explore (and give homage to) the various cultures that make Cuba and Peru distinctly American, distinctly cross-cultural, distinctly multiethnic. My parents’ “Spanish” Cuba is not the sole determiner of our island’s identity, in particular if one takes into account those crucial cultural and historical contributions from people of African descent. Or in the case of Peru the country’s indigenous past and present. It is a blessing that the imagination has allowed me to go beyond the limitations of my upbringing.
In your new book Heresies, as well as in your previous books, there’s a sense of grace being rooted in the physical world and aligned with those who suffer. Could you elaborate on this aspect of your work?
As a writer, as a teacher, and as an ordinary human being, I believe profoundly in giving justice to those who have suffered (socially, economically, spiritually, etc.) because of racism, colonialism, exploitation, marginalization, exile, or just about any perversion of human dignity. It is interesting that you have noted how “grace” exists in the physical world in my poetry—that it is not something transcendent, remote, and abstract. We don’t need to look for it outside of human experience. I suppose I very much believe that grace, if we define it as something divine, dwells in the world of the living, this complicated world of the mortal body and the immortal spirit.
When did you first start writing poetry and what drew you to that art form?
It is a long and convoluted story, full of false starts and auspicious beginnings, full of doubt and stubborn hope, full of mentors and detractors—all very messy, very turbulent. I looked for poetry because I needed to give myself a voice, I needed to claim a presence in a personal history of absence, I needed to make sense of my family’s history of displacement, dislocation, hopes dashed, good luck interrupted. I was drawn to the rhapsodic voices of Yeats, Blake, Crane, Rilke, etc., my mentors who have accompanied me all these years like my guardian angels. It was their musical language that inspired me, their copious imaginations that mesmerized me: words and imagination wed together.
In “Ars Poetica” you pay tribute to your father’s craftsmanship. Could you give us some background on your father and his influence on your approach to writing?
As I explained earlier, my father, because of the vicissitudes of history, went from being an upholsterer to a successful “industrialist” and then back again to working with his hands, whether making cabinets or making furniture. My father made me work for my money, which meant I had to help him at that workshop in Hialeah. I was angry. I was rebellious. I even disparaged his manual labor. Whatever he taught me I rejected. Nevertheless, his reverence for craft, his indomitable work ethic, have resonated with me over the years. As I work with words, just as he worked with wood and cloth, I find meaning in my life. Sometimes we can gain the insight (maybe through just sheer luck) to overcome our youthful stupidities. I was glad that I did.
Who are some poets who have had a great impact on you?
The first poets to have had a tremendous impact on me (poets who inspired me to write) were W.B. Yeats, William Blake, T.S. Eliot, Hart Crane, and Galway Kinnell. Thereafter I found further inspiration, further sustenance, in the poetry and in the prose of Wallace Stevens, Derek Walcott, and Alejo Carpentier. One Cuban-American poet who also laid a path for my vocation, though he may not know it, is Ricardo Pau-Llosa. I am also indebted to my mentor Michael Anania who directed my creative dissertation at the University of Illinois at Chicago. Without these writers I would not be who I am.
Is there a particular poem that has been a touchstone for you? Why has this poem been so important to you?
I would have to say that it is William Blake’s “London”: so exquisitely textured, so perfectly wrought, so attuned to the darkness and the light that make us human.
What do you feel is the most helpful advice you can give your student poets?
I do agree with Rainer Maria Rilke that a young poet should be drawn to this vocation because of necessity, and this necessity has to be internal. Write poems because if you do not write poems you feel dislocated, unbalanced, and incomplete. Your poetic vocation needs to be integrated into your life, needs to be organically derived from your life, needs to be harmonized with your body, your mind, and your heart. Devote yourself to craft, surrender yourself to the discipline of revision, take personal and artistic risks, find a refuge for yourself in this vast and bewildering world.
Please name three of your favorite places in Indiana.
I like Indianapolis, which reminds of Chicago where I lived for seven years. There is also Amish country (e.g., Napanee). Plus South Bend where I live now and where my son Adrian was born. Above all, I cherish how decent and good-natured the people of Indiana have been since I moved here in 2000.
"Devote yourself to craft, surrender yourself
to the discipline of revision, take personal and
artistic risks, find a refuge for yourself in this vast
and bewildering world."
Orlando Ricardo Menes
July 2017
Surprise and Synchronicity
The Poetry of Nancy Chen
Nancy Chen Long is a 2017 National Endowment of the Arts Creative Writing fellow. Her first book Light into Bodies (University of Tampa Press, 2017) won the 2016 Tampa Review Prize for Poetry. You'll find her newer work in Ninth Letter, Crab Orchard Review, Zone 3, Briar Cliff Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Pleiades, Bat City Review, Not Like the Rest of Us: An Anthology of Contemporary Indiana Writers and elsewhere. As a volunteer with the local Writers Guild, she coordinates a reading series and works with others to offer free poetry workshops to the public. To give back to the writing community at-large, she reviews poetry books and interview poets at the blog Poetry Matters, as well as on her blog. She has a bachelor's degree in Electrical Engineering Technology and an MBA, worked as an electrical engineer, software consultant and project manager, and more recently earned an MFA. She works in Research Technologies at Indiana University. www.nancychenlong.com
Above Photo by Nancy Chen Long: Her home in Brown County
Surprise and Synchronicity
The Poetry of Nancy Chen
Nancy Chen Long is a 2017 National Endowment of the Arts Creative Writing fellow. Her first book Light into Bodies (University of Tampa Press, 2017) won the 2016 Tampa Review Prize for Poetry. You'll find her newer work in Ninth Letter, Crab Orchard Review, Zone 3, Briar Cliff Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Pleiades, Bat City Review, Not Like the Rest of Us: An Anthology of Contemporary Indiana Writers and elsewhere. As a volunteer with the local Writers Guild, she coordinates a reading series and works with others to offer free poetry workshops to the public. To give back to the writing community at-large, she reviews poetry books and interview poets at the blog Poetry Matters, as well as on her blog. She has a bachelor's degree in Electrical Engineering Technology and an MBA, worked as an electrical engineer, software consultant and project manager, and more recently earned an MFA. She works in Research Technologies at Indiana University. www.nancychenlong.com
Above Photo by Nancy Chen Long: Her home in Brown County
In the interview that follows these poems, Nancy Chen Long describes the events that led her
to enroll in an MFA program and says, "I love it when such episodes of surprise and synchronicity interject themselves into my life. It gives me a sense of hope and possibility, a reminder that anything can happen, that little in life is truly locked in."
"Surprise and synchronicity" seem deeply relevant to Nancy's powerful poems. In her new
book, Light into Bodies, the exploration of personal identity and its transmutations is furthered by imagery that comes from many realms: folklore, family stories, personal experience, visual
art and science. Nancy's faith in synchronicity is also striking in her chapbook, Clouds as Inkblots For the War Prone. In these "found" poems, Nancy links up with a 1948 war novel by James Gould Cozzens--using only words she finds in its pages. She describes this unique process in her interview.
Nancy's poems are impressive at every level. Imagery, music, grace of line, insight, epiphany . . .
the elements of poetry reinforce each other in poems that grow richer with each reading.
Note: Visit Indiana Humanities' Poem and Prompt for April 17, 2017 to read an additional poem
from Light into Bodies: "Dot Product: The Cross Between Particle Theory and Pointillism."
to enroll in an MFA program and says, "I love it when such episodes of surprise and synchronicity interject themselves into my life. It gives me a sense of hope and possibility, a reminder that anything can happen, that little in life is truly locked in."
"Surprise and synchronicity" seem deeply relevant to Nancy's powerful poems. In her new
book, Light into Bodies, the exploration of personal identity and its transmutations is furthered by imagery that comes from many realms: folklore, family stories, personal experience, visual
art and science. Nancy's faith in synchronicity is also striking in her chapbook, Clouds as Inkblots For the War Prone. In these "found" poems, Nancy links up with a 1948 war novel by James Gould Cozzens--using only words she finds in its pages. She describes this unique process in her interview.
Nancy's poems are impressive at every level. Imagery, music, grace of line, insight, epiphany . . .
the elements of poetry reinforce each other in poems that grow richer with each reading.
Note: Visit Indiana Humanities' Poem and Prompt for April 17, 2017 to read an additional poem
from Light into Bodies: "Dot Product: The Cross Between Particle Theory and Pointillism."
Nancy at Okinawa
From Light into Bodies (University of Tampa Press, 2017)
Lessons
Every afternoon
the woman my father hired
would push
the eraser-end of a yellow pencil
into the mouth
of my mother
to teach my mother
how to make a proper
English sound.
I would stand at the screen door
of the Quonset hut,
Okinawan-summer sapphire above me,
twist the neck
of the tiny green brontosaurus
clutched in my hand,
and I would watch:
Blonde bouffant, cotton-candy hair piled high
against my mother’s straight black braid.
Candy-apple lips, frosted eye lids
next to a plain, topaz face.
No, no, no!
and yet another press
against the tongue,
my mother, gagging.
In her mouth, a stick.
Lessons
Every afternoon
the woman my father hired
would push
the eraser-end of a yellow pencil
into the mouth
of my mother
to teach my mother
how to make a proper
English sound.
I would stand at the screen door
of the Quonset hut,
Okinawan-summer sapphire above me,
twist the neck
of the tiny green brontosaurus
clutched in my hand,
and I would watch:
Blonde bouffant, cotton-candy hair piled high
against my mother’s straight black braid.
Candy-apple lips, frosted eye lids
next to a plain, topaz face.
No, no, no!
and yet another press
against the tongue,
my mother, gagging.
In her mouth, a stick.
Nancy and her father
A Fine Meal
i.
A fine Chinese meal,
my mother told me,
is made of five flavors,
a blending of elemental portions.
What is sour, she said, if not the flesh of plum?
To know sour is to taste green
watering across your tongue,
to feel the force
of wood striking your open palm.
How simple, salt, she said,
and how necessary,
married as she is to water.
And there, always, is savory, cavorting
with pungent and spice,
lover in autumn, waiting,
gilded under the iridescent harvest moon.
Child, proceed lightly with bitter, she warned.
(Who has not known its pinch?)
Cooling to the heart,
it favors full sun, its joy in fire.
Lastly, two kisses of sweet. Like a warm spell in winter,
sweet should be used sparingly,
for too much worries the earth.
Embrace all five, she said.
Repudiate not one.
ii.
A fine Irish meal,
my father told me,
is a made thing,
constructed with care,
(like the spire of a skyscraper
or the precision of a cesium beam)
concocted from what is available
(like the shard of blue limestone, jagged in your hand
and those mounds of cool moss, lush underfoot.)
At the same time,
and with the same intensity,
an inspired thing,
divined, he said--
a happenstance of light thrown
by the Spirit
or a sprite.
Star seltzer effervescing across your tongue,
some nexus of intuition.
i.
A fine Chinese meal,
my mother told me,
is made of five flavors,
a blending of elemental portions.
What is sour, she said, if not the flesh of plum?
To know sour is to taste green
watering across your tongue,
to feel the force
of wood striking your open palm.
How simple, salt, she said,
and how necessary,
married as she is to water.
And there, always, is savory, cavorting
with pungent and spice,
lover in autumn, waiting,
gilded under the iridescent harvest moon.
Child, proceed lightly with bitter, she warned.
(Who has not known its pinch?)
Cooling to the heart,
it favors full sun, its joy in fire.
Lastly, two kisses of sweet. Like a warm spell in winter,
sweet should be used sparingly,
for too much worries the earth.
Embrace all five, she said.
Repudiate not one.
ii.
A fine Irish meal,
my father told me,
is a made thing,
constructed with care,
(like the spire of a skyscraper
or the precision of a cesium beam)
concocted from what is available
(like the shard of blue limestone, jagged in your hand
and those mounds of cool moss, lush underfoot.)
At the same time,
and with the same intensity,
an inspired thing,
divined, he said--
a happenstance of light thrown
by the Spirit
or a sprite.
Star seltzer effervescing across your tongue,
some nexus of intuition.
Nancy's mother (top) with her grandmother, uncle and cousin
But So Beautiful, Yes?
The silver foil tree with blue tinsel,
the oscillating light projected onto it,
red yellow green,
the Barbie doll, with Ken accompaniment
--new and improved! with bendable knees--
the Japanese cartoon on TV, no sound,
a repeat: the immortal white snake-turned-princess,
the man who loved her,
the gift my father sent from Vietnam
to my mother, too beautiful
to open, in white
paper with tiny poinsettias,
like blood red pin pricks on white,
but so beautiful, yes?
Yes, says my mother to my father's friend
sitting next to her,
his reach for another
mooncake, a melmac platter of moons
on the coffee table.
Mahalia Jackson? no, Diahann Carroll low on the stereo--
Some children see Him almond-eyed
This Savior whom we kneel beside--
the smell of rum in the man's coffee cup,
the way he looks at my mother,
my mother's lip, trembling,
her Merry Christmas murmurs,
fingers tight around mine.
The silver foil tree with blue tinsel,
the oscillating light projected onto it,
red yellow green,
the Barbie doll, with Ken accompaniment
--new and improved! with bendable knees--
the Japanese cartoon on TV, no sound,
a repeat: the immortal white snake-turned-princess,
the man who loved her,
the gift my father sent from Vietnam
to my mother, too beautiful
to open, in white
paper with tiny poinsettias,
like blood red pin pricks on white,
but so beautiful, yes?
Yes, says my mother to my father's friend
sitting next to her,
his reach for another
mooncake, a melmac platter of moons
on the coffee table.
Mahalia Jackson? no, Diahann Carroll low on the stereo--
Some children see Him almond-eyed
This Savior whom we kneel beside--
the smell of rum in the man's coffee cup,
the way he looks at my mother,
my mother's lip, trembling,
her Merry Christmas murmurs,
fingers tight around mine.
Photo by Nancy Chen Long: Salt Creek Trail in Brown County
Inflamed
The man at our table, his insistence
last night--how the color red will conjure
up feelings of rage, as if to see red
is to see rage. How logical, I thought
fire color + blood color =
boiling blood. Rage, a simple slip in-
to those familiar ways of being. Dare
we break them? You want to--the way you broke
that flawless Lalique vase you thought so rare
in its redness, smashed against your mother's
antique vanity, crystalline no more.
Your grandmother's face, helpless to stop you,
drained of color, save her pencil-thin lips
glossed in red--like the red of that northern
cardinal you're always searching for. Look--
lucky you! Such a bird is lighting right
now onto the lower branch of this sweet
gum tree next to our bench in the park. See
how it disappears in the autumnal-
red star-shaped leaves? I like how the cool nip
of the biting wind reddens the apple
of your cheeks. Is it too cold for you? Oh,
you and your fascination with red. Here,
sip this red rooibos tea. It'll fire
up the caverns of your heart, ruby like
Santa's suit in that photo, when we were
in Florida, fake snow, fake tree with all
red lights, flashing, spin, spin, flashing red lights
of the ambulance that Christmas our child
was taken to the emergency room,
so tiny on the gurney. No one dies
of scarlet fever. You asked for a sign.
Remember your father's words? It will be
fair weather, for the sky is red. So true,
the sanguine sky that night, but all I could
think about was the rusty dust of Mars,
whether heaven was a scarlet desert
with polar ice caps. At least we could pick
out the planet from among the others.
How lucky that it is so visible,
lucky us, lucky red, lucky like me,
nubile bride in a crimson dress, gift-wrapped
in red, the bittersweet door to our house,
lucky--your birth, my birth, our child's. So let
us wave our red flag of complicity.
Yes, tonight let us sip our favorite
aperitif. Like that Campari, we
also have dark-red bitters and secrets,
we who carol of luck and of splendid
weather, we who sing with rage in our throats.
The man at our table, his insistence
last night--how the color red will conjure
up feelings of rage, as if to see red
is to see rage. How logical, I thought
fire color + blood color =
boiling blood. Rage, a simple slip in-
to those familiar ways of being. Dare
we break them? You want to--the way you broke
that flawless Lalique vase you thought so rare
in its redness, smashed against your mother's
antique vanity, crystalline no more.
Your grandmother's face, helpless to stop you,
drained of color, save her pencil-thin lips
glossed in red--like the red of that northern
cardinal you're always searching for. Look--
lucky you! Such a bird is lighting right
now onto the lower branch of this sweet
gum tree next to our bench in the park. See
how it disappears in the autumnal-
red star-shaped leaves? I like how the cool nip
of the biting wind reddens the apple
of your cheeks. Is it too cold for you? Oh,
you and your fascination with red. Here,
sip this red rooibos tea. It'll fire
up the caverns of your heart, ruby like
Santa's suit in that photo, when we were
in Florida, fake snow, fake tree with all
red lights, flashing, spin, spin, flashing red lights
of the ambulance that Christmas our child
was taken to the emergency room,
so tiny on the gurney. No one dies
of scarlet fever. You asked for a sign.
Remember your father's words? It will be
fair weather, for the sky is red. So true,
the sanguine sky that night, but all I could
think about was the rusty dust of Mars,
whether heaven was a scarlet desert
with polar ice caps. At least we could pick
out the planet from among the others.
How lucky that it is so visible,
lucky us, lucky red, lucky like me,
nubile bride in a crimson dress, gift-wrapped
in red, the bittersweet door to our house,
lucky--your birth, my birth, our child's. So let
us wave our red flag of complicity.
Yes, tonight let us sip our favorite
aperitif. Like that Campari, we
also have dark-red bitters and secrets,
we who carol of luck and of splendid
weather, we who sing with rage in our throats.
Okinawa Main Island (c) OCVB
Dugong
i.
What strange fascination she holds
for men, the sand-colored sea cow:
called lady of the sea,
mistaken for women
reincarnated, inspiration to the legend-
ary mermaid.
Where her ancestors once foraged for tender green shoots
as mammals of the land,
she now walks on flippers, nibbling the delicate seagrass
that sways in an ocean meadow.
Poised on her sturdy tail,
she hoists her bland head out of shallow salt water,
gasps to fill her elephantine lungs with air.
ii.
Once, in Thailand, there was a young wife
who had a vigorous affection
for seagrass fruit. As her cravings escalated,
she wandered each day deeper into the sea,
lingered longer in the buoyant brine.
One day she didn't come home.
Her husband, steadfast, searched for her
until the night that she visited him
in a dream, saying she could never return
to land. Now half woman, half fish,
she met her beloved one final time,
then returned forever to water.
iii.
My husband again tells me about the mystery
woman he spotted
swimming across Brunei Bay.
When I hear him say
"At first, she was just a vague form
in the cove--," I think of Isaac Newton,
who knew of no Body
less apt to shine than Water.
I know my husband did not see me
as a woman until I came closer.
I know the way my pale flesh glinted
in the sun, he believed me
to be naked as I approached
just shy of land.
And when he saw me abruptly
thrust my head out of water,
gasp for air, and turn
to ripple back, deeper into the sea,
I know he lost sight of me.
i.
What strange fascination she holds
for men, the sand-colored sea cow:
called lady of the sea,
mistaken for women
reincarnated, inspiration to the legend-
ary mermaid.
Where her ancestors once foraged for tender green shoots
as mammals of the land,
she now walks on flippers, nibbling the delicate seagrass
that sways in an ocean meadow.
Poised on her sturdy tail,
she hoists her bland head out of shallow salt water,
gasps to fill her elephantine lungs with air.
ii.
Once, in Thailand, there was a young wife
who had a vigorous affection
for seagrass fruit. As her cravings escalated,
she wandered each day deeper into the sea,
lingered longer in the buoyant brine.
One day she didn't come home.
Her husband, steadfast, searched for her
until the night that she visited him
in a dream, saying she could never return
to land. Now half woman, half fish,
she met her beloved one final time,
then returned forever to water.
iii.
My husband again tells me about the mystery
woman he spotted
swimming across Brunei Bay.
When I hear him say
"At first, she was just a vague form
in the cove--," I think of Isaac Newton,
who knew of no Body
less apt to shine than Water.
I know my husband did not see me
as a woman until I came closer.
I know the way my pale flesh glinted
in the sun, he believed me
to be naked as I approached
just shy of land.
And when he saw me abruptly
thrust my head out of water,
gasp for air, and turn
to ripple back, deeper into the sea,
I know he lost sight of me.
"The Embroiderer, or Mette Gaugin" by Paul Gauguin
On Seeing "The Embroiderer, or Mette Gauguin"
After the divorce, I took a class in art appreciation
to occupy my head. We studied Gauguin.
While everyone else was taken in by his use of color
and image after image of nude Tahitian beauties,
I couldn't stop staring at his wife Mette, embroidering.
I'd seen it before, as a painting of a woman
in obedient domesticity.
Now, she was a wife in situ, posing
while her husband withheld the sun
to blot out her face. He rendered her featureless.
She became more mask, a quiet interruption
in the wallpaper. Instead of needlepoint,
I started to imagine that she would have wanted
to leave, stroll down the banks of the Seine,
smolder along the soot-like evening,
reclaiming that textured glow some of us feel
as we fall under the whitewash of summer.
I scarcely glanced at the other paintings,
those fine features of Tehamana--
the Tahitian who became, at fourteen, mother
of Gauguin's youngest son, whom he named Emile,
after his oldest son Emile, who lived in France
with Mette. The day Mette learned of his pubescent
other-bride must have been trauma,
the way it is when you learn of a husband's lover,
the way it is when a girl comes to your home
on a Sunday afternoon in August
while you're outside gardening
and you think it odd
that the dog seems to know her
as he trots up the driveway to greet her,
and the weight of summer humidity
has caused you to be slushed in sweat
and you smile politely as she approaches.
After the divorce, I took a class in art appreciation
to occupy my head. We studied Gauguin.
While everyone else was taken in by his use of color
and image after image of nude Tahitian beauties,
I couldn't stop staring at his wife Mette, embroidering.
I'd seen it before, as a painting of a woman
in obedient domesticity.
Now, she was a wife in situ, posing
while her husband withheld the sun
to blot out her face. He rendered her featureless.
She became more mask, a quiet interruption
in the wallpaper. Instead of needlepoint,
I started to imagine that she would have wanted
to leave, stroll down the banks of the Seine,
smolder along the soot-like evening,
reclaiming that textured glow some of us feel
as we fall under the whitewash of summer.
I scarcely glanced at the other paintings,
those fine features of Tehamana--
the Tahitian who became, at fourteen, mother
of Gauguin's youngest son, whom he named Emile,
after his oldest son Emile, who lived in France
with Mette. The day Mette learned of his pubescent
other-bride must have been trauma,
the way it is when you learn of a husband's lover,
the way it is when a girl comes to your home
on a Sunday afternoon in August
while you're outside gardening
and you think it odd
that the dog seems to know her
as he trots up the driveway to greet her,
and the weight of summer humidity
has caused you to be slushed in sweat
and you smile politely as she approaches.
The Lament for Icarus (1898) by Herbert James Draper
From Clouds as Inkblots For the War Prone (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2013)
Lament for Icarus
the nymphs, speaking to Daedalus
We found your son expiring in slow twirls,
fished him out with nets, unfurled
his body, limp, onto rock. Forget
that you told him "I can teach you to fly."
Never mind that you encumbered him
with your pride, crafting his camouflage
hawk-wings to be weighted in splendor,
about to fall off even before
he cast himself into thin air.
It should have been winter.
He should have aligned himself
with hurricanes, to sweep across the channel,
instead, impressed by the red lip of the sun,
to fritter with a faint pop or two,
fall alone into a pool of silent light.
Lament for Icarus
the nymphs, speaking to Daedalus
We found your son expiring in slow twirls,
fished him out with nets, unfurled
his body, limp, onto rock. Forget
that you told him "I can teach you to fly."
Never mind that you encumbered him
with your pride, crafting his camouflage
hawk-wings to be weighted in splendor,
about to fall off even before
he cast himself into thin air.
It should have been winter.
He should have aligned himself
with hurricanes, to sweep across the channel,
instead, impressed by the red lip of the sun,
to fritter with a faint pop or two,
fall alone into a pool of silent light.
Clouds as Inkblots For the War Prone
Consider the earth as more than a speck in the night,
sky more than chalk on a warboard. Consider a swarm,
thick, an advancing cloud. Perhaps to the stouter brain,
such darkness becomes a far-off foe, slight, with no more
than spit enough to swallow. To the hair-triggered eye,
it may be the fog of four thousand fighters in flight,
each with a finger touch, light like the broken angel's
wing. We know all gunners spit flame. So let the swarm be
a rush of bees. Let it be a bevy of starlings,
birds beyond number, newly fledged. Let it be a bright
mission of men, our familiars, not yet thunderborne,
their groomed young faces never to want for a kickstorm
of lead, never to bore-in once more unto the breach,
for God and country, for flying pay, with a command
of death and a gladness to kill.
Consider the earth as more than a speck in the night,
sky more than chalk on a warboard. Consider a swarm,
thick, an advancing cloud. Perhaps to the stouter brain,
such darkness becomes a far-off foe, slight, with no more
than spit enough to swallow. To the hair-triggered eye,
it may be the fog of four thousand fighters in flight,
each with a finger touch, light like the broken angel's
wing. We know all gunners spit flame. So let the swarm be
a rush of bees. Let it be a bevy of starlings,
birds beyond number, newly fledged. Let it be a bright
mission of men, our familiars, not yet thunderborne,
their groomed young faces never to want for a kickstorm
of lead, never to bore-in once more unto the breach,
for God and country, for flying pay, with a command
of death and a gladness to kill.
Nancy's home in Brown County
Japanese Home Islands
During one passing moment
under the pine-soaked sun,
the Old Man carefully tore
a corner from the fabric
of his war-memory, a little piece
of the Japanese mission--a patch
with one small island
and its unforeseen barn.
An island with a garden,
some old chickens and a barn,
a house that didn't amount to much
and the lone woman who lived there
milking her cows one morning
years ago. Under the blare of the sun,
the barn mistaken for a shed.
His training run, target practice
on sheds. The old woman and her barn.
The wrong island and a bomb.
Accidental ammunition.
The old general pressed the torn-fabric piece
into a prayer, placed it into the wing
of a passing crane on her way home after winter.
During one passing moment
under the pine-soaked sun,
the Old Man carefully tore
a corner from the fabric
of his war-memory, a little piece
of the Japanese mission--a patch
with one small island
and its unforeseen barn.
An island with a garden,
some old chickens and a barn,
a house that didn't amount to much
and the lone woman who lived there
milking her cows one morning
years ago. Under the blare of the sun,
the barn mistaken for a shed.
His training run, target practice
on sheds. The old woman and her barn.
The wrong island and a bomb.
Accidental ammunition.
The old general pressed the torn-fabric piece
into a prayer, placed it into the wing
of a passing crane on her way home after winter.
An Interview with Nancy Chen Long
Nancy, an exploration of identity and its transmutations seems to be a theme throughout your new book, Light into Bodies. Could you talk about that theme and why it’s important to you?
First, Shari, thank you so much for featuring my work on Through the Sycamores. I’m grateful that Indiana has a Poet Laureate to promote poetry in our state!
Oh my goodness, that’s a huge question. I’m still in the process of discovering why. Most people that I know grapple with issues of identity at some point in their life, if not for their entire lives. That’s how it’s been for me, a life-long process. As a starting point—and I know I risk the obvious here—identity is important to me because it’s central to how I see myself and my place in the world; it’s key to a deeper understanding of what I truly value versus what I might think I value. As T. S. Eliot wrote, “Whatever you think, be sure it is what you think; whatever you want, be sure that is what you want; whatever you feel, be sure that is what you feel.” Also, on a more personal level, I can say that, in part, its importance stems from my history of being a bi-racial child of parents who, themselves, wrestled mightily with identity.
The poems in your chapbook, Clouds as Inkblots for the War Prone, were created through techniques you describe as remix, erasure, and collage. What did that process involve and why were you drawn to it?
Clouds as Inkblots for the War Prone is the result of my participation in the 2013 Pulitzer Remix, which was a National-Poetry-Month project sponsored by The Found Poetry Review. Found poetry can be thought of as a literary equivalent of collage, in which words, phrases and lines from existing texts are refashioned into new poems. It includes centos, erasure poetry, cut-up poetry, collage, remix and other textual combinations. For the Pulitzer Remix project, eighty-five poets were selected and assigned a Pulitzer Prize-winning work of fiction. I was given the 1949 Pulitzer winner Guard of Honor by James Gould Cozzens. Each poet was challenged to create found poetry, new poems that varied in topic and theme from the original text, rather than regurgitate the novel in poetic form.
Pulitzer Remix was my first (and so far, only) major attempt at found poetry. While I used erasure and collage to create a few of the poems, my primary method was remix: I took an arbitrary selection of a source text, for example the first paragraph of each page in a chapter, and then scrambled it, mixing and rearranging some of the words from that selection. For the scrambling part, I used computer programs like Adobe Acrobat Pro (which I used to convert a scanned image into text), Microsoft Word and Microsoft Excel. First I separated all of the words out of the text so that they were not in context. I did that because I didn’t want to simply restate the text in condensed form—I wanted to transform it—so it was better that I not read the text on the page. Next, using the computer programs mentioned earlier, I created two lists, one in which the words were alphabetized in a single column and another that was randomized with the words scattered in rows across the page. I selected words from those two lists to make the first draft poem. The randomized list helped trigger my imagination as my eye scanned unrelated words and my mind tried to make connections. The alphabetized list helped me locate a word if I’d latched onto an idea and wanted to move quickly to keep the momentum going.
In addition to the word lists, I allowed myself to use words that were not in the selection, but that could be discovered by concatenation (e.g. sun + light = sunlight) and erasure to form a new word (e.g. erasing “ling” from “sparkling” yields the word “spark.”) For each revision of a poem, I went back to the word lists and techniques to find new words. I kept detailed notes so that I could adequately cite the source text, which is important for these sorts of poems.
I read that you wanted to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing when you were a teenager but were counseled to pursue science instead. It was only later in life that you enrolled in the MFA program at Spalding University, receiving an MFA in 2013. What’s it been like for you to finally have the opportunity to follow your original dream?
It’s been surprising and a bit surreal. The way it came about is a study of chance and synchronicity for me. Back at a point in my life when I was under a great deal of stress in both my career and family life, Cynthia Bretheim, my massage therapist at the time who has since become a friend, suggested I attend a writing session at Women Writing for a Change Bloomington. When she mentioned it, she had no idea of my love of language, of what writing and poetry meant to me. I signed up for an evening class. It was magical. The program is focused more on the process of writing rather completing a polished product such as a poem or story. We wrote in response to poems, guided meditations, prompts that unearthed memory, etc.
While I didn’t intend it to be the case, what I wrote in the Women Writing for a Change writing circles started coming out as poems. I was in the middle of pursuing an M. Div. on a part-time basis at Earlham School of Religion, a Quaker seminary. At that same time, Earlham coincidentally offered a poetry class as part of their Writing-as-Ministry emphasis. The professor, Susanna Childress, was supportive of everyone’s work, including mine. Her support and encouragement were crucial and resulted in a change in attitude: I started to take my writing seriously. After completing the poetry class at Earlham, I dropped out of seminary so that I could take a few MFA classes in the evening at IU. It was during one of those classes that I decided to pursue an MFA.
I couldn’t enroll in a traditional MFA program because I had to work fulltime. As luck would have it, the professors at IU suggested a program I’d not heard of before—brief-residency MFA, also called low-residency MFA. With brief residency, students attend the university (or other specified location) during ‘residencies’ that last anywhere from one to two weeks. Students then complete the semester through distance education, working with a professor using phone, email, snail mail and online methods, depending on the school and mentor preferences. After researching and applying to several schools, I selected Spalding University’s Brief Residency program. The Spalding program is exemplary. It was one of the best decisions I ever made.
All of this happened within a year-and-half—fairly quickly. I love it when such episodes of surprise and synchronicity interject themselves into my life. It gives me a sense of hope and possibility, a reminder that anything can happen, that little in life is truly locked in. It’s something I would do well to remember.
Do you find that your science and math training affect your approach to poetry in any way?
I’m not sure I understand how it’s affected the way I write, but I can speak to how it’s enriched my world, which in turn greatly impacts what I write. Science and math (actually, anything I am interested in or study or spend my time doing) wiggles its way into my writing. Also, I find that science, math and poetry play off of one another like steel balls in the pinball machine of my brain.
Even though there are differences, science, math and poetry do have some things in common. For example, each one is a way of understanding. Also, for each of them, it helps to use your imagination. (When I think about, say, irrational numbers, I definitely need to use my imagination.) Math and poetry are in some ways quite kindred. One could think of math as a kind of language. And both poetry and math impart meaning through patterns, symbols and even counting, for example syllabics and meter in poetry. Albert Einstein wrote in a tribute to German mathematician Emmy Noether, “Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas.” There’s an elegance and a beauty to both poetry and math, a distillation that clarifies.
You volunteer with the local Writers Guild. Please talk about your activities with this group and why the Guild is important to you.
I believe the arts are crucial for a healthy, sane and balanced society. Writing is my art and I am blessed to live in the Bloomington (IN) area, which has a rich and active community of local writers, as well as writers associated with IU and its MFA program. As a member of the community, I have a responsibility and desire to do my share, to be a good literary citizen. One way to do that is to volunteer. The Writers Guild at Bloomington is vital to the literary arts in the area, so it was natural to volunteer with them. For the Writers Guild, I co-curate a reading series called Lemonstone, which is on hiatus for 2017 while we re-envision its format. In addition, I’m on a team that collaborates with the Monroe County Public Library to offer writing workshops that are free and open to the public.
I noticed that you took the heron photo on the cover of your book and created the collage image on your chapbook. What connections do you see between your photography, artwork and poetry?
I find the experience of poetry to be more like the experience of painting than writing (or reading) a novel. T. S. Eliot wrote, “Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” I think of visual arts as functioning in a similar way. I remember the first time I saw Georgia O’Keefe’s Red and Yellow Streak. I didn’t necessarily ‘understand’ the painting, but it energized me and filled me with wonder. Also, Sena Jeter Naslund, who founded the Spalding University MFA program, stresses the interrelatedness of the arts as being necessary to development of the artist. I’ve found that to be true in my case: Being exposed to, and working in, different genres and art forms improves my writing.
Who are some of your favorite poets?
That’s a tricky question—I have many favorites. Since I read a good deal of contemporary poetry, I’m currently drawn to work by Kaveh Akbar, Natalie Diaz, Jennifer Givhan, Jessica Goodfellow, Terrance Hayes, Ada Limón, Claudia Rankine and Ocean Vuong.
Can you say a few words about your next collection?
I’ve become obsessed with the intersections of art, science and religion. My second manuscript indulges that obsession, the language we create to name and map those ideas and interactions, and how language mediates, bridges and serves as connective tissue. It’s also becoming clearer as I go along that I’ll have two manuscripts, one that converges on the various layers and meanings of the word escape and the other rooted in the body.
What are three of your favorite places in Brown County?
Brown County State Park (especially Hesitation Point and Ogle Lake), T.C. Steele State Historic Site and the little bungalow where I live.
I believe that the arts are crucial for a healthy, sane and balanced society. Nancy Chen Long |
(c) OCVB
|
Top: Fountain Square, Indianapolis, by Dan Carpenter
June 2017
From the Stream of Loss
The Poetry of Dan Carpenter
Dan Carpenter is a journalist, poet, and fiction writer, and a former longtime columnist
with The Indianapolis Star. He has contributed poems and stories to many literary
journals and has published two books of poems--More Than I Could See and The Art He’d
Sell for Love--as well as two books of non-fiction. He ventured into playwriting as a
participant in the Indiana Repertory Theatre’s 2016 production Finding Home,
honoring the Indiana Bicentennial. His outlets for literary and social usefulness include
Brick Street Poetry Inc., Indiana Writers Center, Indianapolis Literary Club, and
Cathedral Soup Kitchen. A Marquette University graduate, he grew up on Indianapolis’
Near-Southside and resides with his wife, Mary, in the Northside Butler-Tarkington
neighborhood, where they raised Patrick and Erin.
From the Stream of Loss
The Poetry of Dan Carpenter
Dan Carpenter is a journalist, poet, and fiction writer, and a former longtime columnist
with The Indianapolis Star. He has contributed poems and stories to many literary
journals and has published two books of poems--More Than I Could See and The Art He’d
Sell for Love--as well as two books of non-fiction. He ventured into playwriting as a
participant in the Indiana Repertory Theatre’s 2016 production Finding Home,
honoring the Indiana Bicentennial. His outlets for literary and social usefulness include
Brick Street Poetry Inc., Indiana Writers Center, Indianapolis Literary Club, and
Cathedral Soup Kitchen. A Marquette University graduate, he grew up on Indianapolis’
Near-Southside and resides with his wife, Mary, in the Northside Butler-Tarkington
neighborhood, where they raised Patrick and Erin.
What I've admired in Dan Carpenter’s newspaper columns I also find compelling
in his poems: deftness, empathy, irony, astute observation, an ear tuned to the music of
language. Dan’s poetry follows Rilke’s injunction to poets-- to “live your questions"--
and it frequently holds up to the light those who are overlooked—Hitler’s taste testers, incarcerated women sewing for Victoria’s Secret, the resilient grandmother behind
a successful executive, local poets with chapbooks buried on basement shelves.
Dan's sharp-witted poetry speaks to head and heart, dipping from the stream of loss
he speaks of so eloquently in his interview. As these poems reveal, the yearning to
preserve what is otherwise lost can create a powerful poetry of witness--a call to
shift perspective.
Dan and friends celebrating their graduation from Marquette University
From The Art He'd Sell for Love (Cherry Grove Collections, 2015)
On Again Looking Into a Homegrown Chapbook
Already swallowed into the seasons it sings,
Buried alongside the mother it would immortalize,
Squeezed to invisibility on my basement bookshelf,
This green-skinned slice of a life examined
Tastes cold and sweet as a modern classic
To this rare reader,
Who last cracked it at the signing party,
Added it to his store of courtesy souvenirs,
And hoped--
That it would delight and instruct?
That the poet, his friend, would be that important new voice?
No, those were fears,
And not from jealousy.
The problem is, it's good.
Truthful, beautiful, all that.
And worse, it is the opposite of rare.
Heaven's sacrificial host, these
Local poets, backyard violets,
Showered gifts of giftedness,
Underfoot, unsung, unmourned,
Save by fellow poets;
And a poet may be anyone
Who can muster the weakness
To surrender to beauty's awful truth:
Remember when you were the boy
who lost the girl
who never was his
and you saw right then
that what kills you
about this love thing
is that it's dying all over
like a sweet ballad on a car radio
the cold flame of a cardinal on a shed roof
it is everyone's
it is everywhere
it is gone
On Again Looking Into a Homegrown Chapbook
Already swallowed into the seasons it sings,
Buried alongside the mother it would immortalize,
Squeezed to invisibility on my basement bookshelf,
This green-skinned slice of a life examined
Tastes cold and sweet as a modern classic
To this rare reader,
Who last cracked it at the signing party,
Added it to his store of courtesy souvenirs,
And hoped--
That it would delight and instruct?
That the poet, his friend, would be that important new voice?
No, those were fears,
And not from jealousy.
The problem is, it's good.
Truthful, beautiful, all that.
And worse, it is the opposite of rare.
Heaven's sacrificial host, these
Local poets, backyard violets,
Showered gifts of giftedness,
Underfoot, unsung, unmourned,
Save by fellow poets;
And a poet may be anyone
Who can muster the weakness
To surrender to beauty's awful truth:
Remember when you were the boy
who lost the girl
who never was his
and you saw right then
that what kills you
about this love thing
is that it's dying all over
like a sweet ballad on a car radio
the cold flame of a cardinal on a shed roof
it is everyone's
it is everywhere
it is gone
Dan and Mary Carpenter at Butler University
Aground
Reading a favorite poet's
odes to his wife
at interval after interval
of their long marriage
I am reminded
that the so-called Feminine
that lurks in the bearded beast
and makes of him artist and shaman
is not romantic and restless
but homebound
lusting for the slowed pulse
for stew-flavored chimney smoke
for the clothing of nakedness
If the art is in the living
mortality is the masterwork;
If the loving is the work
the reward is the night--
peace but no rest
from the sweet labor she is owed
Reading a favorite poet's
odes to his wife
at interval after interval
of their long marriage
I am reminded
that the so-called Feminine
that lurks in the bearded beast
and makes of him artist and shaman
is not romantic and restless
but homebound
lusting for the slowed pulse
for stew-flavored chimney smoke
for the clothing of nakedness
If the art is in the living
mortality is the masterwork;
If the loving is the work
the reward is the night--
peace but no rest
from the sweet labor she is owed
Early career photo of Dan working for The Indianapolis Star
Outside Elkhart
Along U.S. 31 in the blast of a summer mid-morning
I'm cockpitted with a rock tape and AC
And suddenly joined on the dirt road rightward
By one of the wheeled black boxes of the Amish--
The sleek horse pounding, wood spokes a blur
Big brother wielding the reins like a Corvette jockey
For the pigtailed girl in a mint green dress who squeals
As though hers were the first excitement
His the world's only manly skill . . .
I'm easing past 60, the parallel can't last
Their frenzy fades to tableau, to outline, to nothing
And a million sullen asphalt miles farther down
Will blindside me again and again
Along U.S. 31 in the blast of a summer mid-morning
I'm cockpitted with a rock tape and AC
And suddenly joined on the dirt road rightward
By one of the wheeled black boxes of the Amish--
The sleek horse pounding, wood spokes a blur
Big brother wielding the reins like a Corvette jockey
For the pigtailed girl in a mint green dress who squeals
As though hers were the first excitement
His the world's only manly skill . . .
I'm easing past 60, the parallel can't last
Their frenzy fades to tableau, to outline, to nothing
And a million sullen asphalt miles farther down
Will blindside me again and again
Dan with other playwrights from Indiana Repertory Theatre's 2016 Indiana bicentennial production, Finding Home
Reading Rilke, Paying Respects
You must change your life
("The Archaic Torso of Apollo," R.M. Rilke)
I shall carry to my grave
the art of dead dentists
men who displayed plastic skill
as humbling to my own craft
as their trade, alongside medicine or sculpture,
was to them, in the eyes of those
who dreaded their presence yet rejoiced
in their restoration of beauty,
their banishment of pain
gone now,
one of them bereft for decades
of the precision and stamina gifted him
for gifting me
one a suicide, inexplicably,
his playful little boast about that perfect crown
as enduring to me as his handiwork
gold and putty, rods and china
an Irish kid's ill-born mouth, outliving
fate, merit, the makers of miracles
and one day the host himself, monument and brother to the
dead
who will leave a piecemeal Apollo
that changed his life
You must change your life
("The Archaic Torso of Apollo," R.M. Rilke)
I shall carry to my grave
the art of dead dentists
men who displayed plastic skill
as humbling to my own craft
as their trade, alongside medicine or sculpture,
was to them, in the eyes of those
who dreaded their presence yet rejoiced
in their restoration of beauty,
their banishment of pain
gone now,
one of them bereft for decades
of the precision and stamina gifted him
for gifting me
one a suicide, inexplicably,
his playful little boast about that perfect crown
as enduring to me as his handiwork
gold and putty, rods and china
an Irish kid's ill-born mouth, outliving
fate, merit, the makers of miracles
and one day the host himself, monument and brother to the
dead
who will leave a piecemeal Apollo
that changed his life
Hitler's Taster at 96
Never meat
a bland diet
ahead of its time, really
what Weight Watchers now calls Power Foods
rice, noodles, peppers, peas, cauliflower
Fuhrer kept Fuhrer healthy
if and only if
Margot kept Fuhrer alive
Margot and the dozen or so others
Jewish girls, put to their many uses
surely cleaning and cooking and sex
but most honorably at Fuhrer’s feast
Margot and the other girls now dead
eating every meal every day to die
hoping perhaps the would-be assassins knew
or guessed and perhaps cared that of course
every item on every dish passed young innocent lips
and sat churning young bellies for an hour
before their surviving gave the all-clear and Fuhrer fell to
relishing the sweet strength flowing from that tasteless tested fare
living in his ravenous mind a thousand years
beyond that table of toadies and slaves
munching absently as the girls slinked off and wept to be alive
wept to know their lives, in the spending or the losing, were his
and now history’s, and God’s, if God even showed up
to work that harvest
none left, none left, but Margot Wolk, outliving him by 70 years
her tongue thick still with what he never tasted
Never meat
a bland diet
ahead of its time, really
what Weight Watchers now calls Power Foods
rice, noodles, peppers, peas, cauliflower
Fuhrer kept Fuhrer healthy
if and only if
Margot kept Fuhrer alive
Margot and the dozen or so others
Jewish girls, put to their many uses
surely cleaning and cooking and sex
but most honorably at Fuhrer’s feast
Margot and the other girls now dead
eating every meal every day to die
hoping perhaps the would-be assassins knew
or guessed and perhaps cared that of course
every item on every dish passed young innocent lips
and sat churning young bellies for an hour
before their surviving gave the all-clear and Fuhrer fell to
relishing the sweet strength flowing from that tasteless tested fare
living in his ravenous mind a thousand years
beyond that table of toadies and slaves
munching absently as the girls slinked off and wept to be alive
wept to know their lives, in the spending or the losing, were his
and now history’s, and God’s, if God even showed up
to work that harvest
none left, none left, but Margot Wolk, outliving him by 70 years
her tongue thick still with what he never tasted
Three of Dan's favorite poets: Wendell Berry, Denise Levertov, and Thomas Merton / photo by Ralph Meatyard
Harry
He's 85, thick, ruddy,
so far past that regal gig
--vice chancellor, SUNY--
he could just as well pass
for a retired shop foreman
he drops ponderous
names, titles, trends
into the conversation
lightly as a star waiter
warming up our coffee
a history maker
a history teller
he rose to importance
with his books, pluck, handshakes
but not to greatness
greatness he brought,
learned in the dawn
of a life pressed to the earth
of western Minnesota,
a grandmother's battleground
"Tiny woman, tiny,
up every day before light,
caught the chicken, wrung its neck,
plucked it, had it cooked
by that same afternoon . . . "
for many years, he says,
she did it hunched over,
crippled by a falling windmill blade
and, till she took her rest at 92,
was never and always the same
He's 85, thick, ruddy,
so far past that regal gig
--vice chancellor, SUNY--
he could just as well pass
for a retired shop foreman
he drops ponderous
names, titles, trends
into the conversation
lightly as a star waiter
warming up our coffee
a history maker
a history teller
he rose to importance
with his books, pluck, handshakes
but not to greatness
greatness he brought,
learned in the dawn
of a life pressed to the earth
of western Minnesota,
a grandmother's battleground
"Tiny woman, tiny,
up every day before light,
caught the chicken, wrung its neck,
plucked it, had it cooked
by that same afternoon . . . "
for many years, he says,
she did it hunched over,
crippled by a falling windmill blade
and, till she took her rest at 92,
was never and always the same
From More Than I Could See (Restoration Press, 2008)
Luv Lost
(Ode to the corrections industry)
They still break rocks in prison
they really do
they shuffle in road gangs
push the laundry carts of those old movie escapes
mop and remop clean floors
but their labor's diversified now
it's valued like the Chinese child's
contracted for by chicken factories and telemarketers
and Victoria's Secret
Yes
imagine
doing time stitching stretch legholes
in swatches of buff red black rose-petaled jungle-striped
and pure white--playclothes, wispy enough to fold in a fist
costing at retail per nervous horny male months' wages
for a numbered woman who daydreams of children
as she sews in slumped silence
blind to her piecework as it would look
filled with a lissome free form
sighing not once
for scenes of premeditated passion she
--like Pharaoh's daughter's Hebrew girl
whose bond bestows freedom from mud toil--
coldly consents to help set
Luv Lost
(Ode to the corrections industry)
They still break rocks in prison
they really do
they shuffle in road gangs
push the laundry carts of those old movie escapes
mop and remop clean floors
but their labor's diversified now
it's valued like the Chinese child's
contracted for by chicken factories and telemarketers
and Victoria's Secret
Yes
imagine
doing time stitching stretch legholes
in swatches of buff red black rose-petaled jungle-striped
and pure white--playclothes, wispy enough to fold in a fist
costing at retail per nervous horny male months' wages
for a numbered woman who daydreams of children
as she sews in slumped silence
blind to her piecework as it would look
filled with a lissome free form
sighing not once
for scenes of premeditated passion she
--like Pharaoh's daughter's Hebrew girl
whose bond bestows freedom from mud toil--
coldly consents to help set
Dan with Erin and Patrick at the Indiana Dunes
One for My Infant Daughter
Maybe some day they'll note the name
of the feminist lawyer
the Earth First! wall-scaler
the Spanish-fluent missionary to the victim poor
radical shoot from radical stalk
Bush & Bush in reverse
But this one, Erin,
won't submit to bondage of blood or soil
This man, she'll say,
who met my chipmunk eyes in the darkness
sang to me Lotus Dickey lullabies and My Girl
rejoiced at the heedless farts that made me smile
re-learned his limits when I butted his chest in hunger
He would no sooner bend me left, or right,
than deny me the sun
I am his poem
not because he has written me
because he found me
and sings me
and would know me by heart if he could
Maybe some day they'll note the name
of the feminist lawyer
the Earth First! wall-scaler
the Spanish-fluent missionary to the victim poor
radical shoot from radical stalk
Bush & Bush in reverse
But this one, Erin,
won't submit to bondage of blood or soil
This man, she'll say,
who met my chipmunk eyes in the darkness
sang to me Lotus Dickey lullabies and My Girl
rejoiced at the heedless farts that made me smile
re-learned his limits when I butted his chest in hunger
He would no sooner bend me left, or right,
than deny me the sun
I am his poem
not because he has written me
because he found me
and sings me
and would know me by heart if he could
Dan accompanying Zionsville poet Donna Monday at the Peyton Manning Childrens' Hospital
Uncollected Poem
Attention
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. (Sonnet XXIII)
I am watching with my coffee from a campus outdoor café table as two females chat on a wooden bench 50 feet away, unshod feet curled under them, voices pealing in their
silence of distance. The one on the right prompts a smile of ancient memory, evoking my
dad’s standard crack about people who’d be mute if you put ’em in handcuffs. Her
slender white fingers, wrists and forearms are never still as she holds forth on God
knows what, the Wittgenstein assignment, the unreliability of J Crew sizing, the latest
hint that some lucky and exasperating male may be capable of adult behavior toward
her. It’s of no interest and no consequence what she’s talking about; it is essential, in
fact, that she is unheard. Thus her miraculous hands, fluttering, flowing, flowering,
flashing in the Edenic fall afternoon sunshine as though they held the spotlight in a
blackened concert hall, are set free to conduct a vanishing symphony for an audience of
one--one who is no one, knuckles locked to his paper cup, rubber soles at rest on the
pavement, gliding into his own twilight in ever-widening wonder at the immensity of the
tiniest of the losses that will come with eternal deafness and blindness, somehow
content and complete that his divinely bestowed eyes have heard every note of this.
Attention
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. (Sonnet XXIII)
I am watching with my coffee from a campus outdoor café table as two females chat on a wooden bench 50 feet away, unshod feet curled under them, voices pealing in their
silence of distance. The one on the right prompts a smile of ancient memory, evoking my
dad’s standard crack about people who’d be mute if you put ’em in handcuffs. Her
slender white fingers, wrists and forearms are never still as she holds forth on God
knows what, the Wittgenstein assignment, the unreliability of J Crew sizing, the latest
hint that some lucky and exasperating male may be capable of adult behavior toward
her. It’s of no interest and no consequence what she’s talking about; it is essential, in
fact, that she is unheard. Thus her miraculous hands, fluttering, flowing, flowering,
flashing in the Edenic fall afternoon sunshine as though they held the spotlight in a
blackened concert hall, are set free to conduct a vanishing symphony for an audience of
one--one who is no one, knuckles locked to his paper cup, rubber soles at rest on the
pavement, gliding into his own twilight in ever-widening wonder at the immensity of the
tiniest of the losses that will come with eternal deafness and blindness, somehow
content and complete that his divinely bestowed eyes have heard every note of this.
Interview with Dan Carpenter
Dan, what draws you to writing poetry? What does it offer that other forms of writing don’t?
I’ve been writing since about second grade and first sought immortality via byline in my high school newspaper. Prose was my medium for many years, journalism and short fiction; but poetry always has been a staple of my reading and has provided my favorite writing elements: rhythm, imagery, succinctness, organic wholeness, valediction. It’s the form most fitted to my yearning for preservation; that small, perfect bottle--plain or Waterford crystal--to capture a moment, scene, conceit or sensation dipped from the stream of loss. And to make a reader somewhere suddenly stop, close the book and clutch it, as Linda Gregg and Hayden Carruth made me do. And to give a listener the feeling that came over me when I heard Etheridge Knight read “Circling the Daughter.”
In what ways has your work as a journalist contributed to your development as a poet?
The basics--accuracy, economy, clarity, sensual description, audacity, lively quotes, storytelling as opposed to abstraction, people preferred to personages--all apply to the literary arts as well. And the best of newspaper, magazine, broadcast and other journalism rises to literature (E.B. White, Edward Hoagland, Joan Didion).
The title of your new book, The Art He’d Sell for Love, suggests that art serves something higher than itself. What are some of your thoughts on the philosophy of art for art’s sake—the idea that true art is divorced from any considerations other than aesthetic ones?
It's funny. I was first attracted to Denise Levertov by her explicitly political poems during the first Gulf War and I admire both her attacks on war and injustice and her excoriation of fellow poets who stand above the fray. Other great poets likewise have put their talents to the service of immediate social needs. More power to them. At the same time, however, I believe their art owes its existence to itself and must illuminate truths that are both too particular and too broad to fit any marketplace agenda, even in prophetic times (are there any other times?). No less dependent on the common welfare than a family farmer, the poet must donate supplies to the Good Fight but must wage peace by working his/her fields to nobody else’s standard of excellence.
You provided a '60s photo by Ralph Meatyard of three of your favorite poets: Wendell Berry, Denise Levertov and Thomas Merton. What do you most value about these particular poets?
They’ve all been guides on my spiritual journey, inseparably from their poetry and mine--Levertov and Merton as mid-life converts to Catholicism who kept their intellectual independence and Berry who called out a pietistic nation that ignores the Scriptural mandate to care for the Earth. Their morality, humility and fervor for authentic living infuse their verse and prose, producing an elegance and precision that transfigure everyday language. (Merton’s most poetic lines, for my taste, are sprinkled through his Journals; his poems can be unwieldy, blunt instruments).
I loved your scene between the poet James Whitcomb Riley and labor organizer Eugene Debs when I saw it performed last year as part of the Indiana Repertory Theatre’s bicentennial production, Finding Home. Did your regard for Riley change through the process of writing this piece?
I haven’t been a reader of Riley’s massive oeuvre except for the standard ones, but I’ve always esteemed his oratorical prowess and crowd appeal. My research into his astonishing friendship with the socialist warrior awakened me to both Riley’s generosity and his burdens--of illness and self-doubt. I learned that this purveyor of rustic nostalgia and children’s rhymes enjoyed some elite critical acclaim (patronizing as it might have been) and suffered from a repressed ambition to be a “serious” poet immortalized in the academy’s anthologies. The comfort I have Debs offering him in my imagined conversation strikes me as fully in character--Gene was a genuine man.
Please speak a bit about your involvement with Brick Street Poetry and other local writing groups. Why are organizations like these important to a community?
Through Brick Street, of which I’m a board member, and the Indiana Writers Center, the Poets Laureate of Lawrence and the Indianapolis Literary Club, I’ve nourished and tested my own work while enjoying, celebrating and encouraging others who are capable of adding to Indiana’s store of significant writing or who just hear the holy call for self-expression. I’m gratified to play a small role in the tireless work these groups do for writers and readers--publishing, workshops, readings, outreach to schools and children’s hospitals, programs in state parks and the Artsgarden . . . endless loaves and fishes. Poetry--the written, spoken, demanding, subversive kind--will defy our efforts to make it a mass phenomenon. But the community is better for it and, as Dr. Williams said, we mortally need it whether we realize it or not.
What do you like to do when you’re not working with words?
Working the old body--hitting the gym, walking and biking with my wife, thrashing about in the pool. Working on our old house and toiling in the garden. Getting in some of the travel we’ve long pined for. We see lots of movies and enjoy the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra, Indiana Repertory Theatre, Indianapolis Museum of Art, Indianapolis Indians and all things Butler University, our neighbor in the city’s most neighborly neighborhood.
If you could go back in time to talk with one man or woman from Indiana history who would that be? Why would you choose this person?
From a long all-star roster that features Kurt Vonnegut, Abe Lincoln, Ernie Pyle, Marguerite Young and Red Skelton for starters, I’d have to choose Debs. His eloquence, his courage, his passion for grand change, his compassion for the oppressed individual, his willingness to pay a devastating price for his matchless integrity make me yearn to shake his hand and crazy to ask how his state and country formed him. How could that conversation not be a joy?
Dan, what draws you to writing poetry? What does it offer that other forms of writing don’t?
I’ve been writing since about second grade and first sought immortality via byline in my high school newspaper. Prose was my medium for many years, journalism and short fiction; but poetry always has been a staple of my reading and has provided my favorite writing elements: rhythm, imagery, succinctness, organic wholeness, valediction. It’s the form most fitted to my yearning for preservation; that small, perfect bottle--plain or Waterford crystal--to capture a moment, scene, conceit or sensation dipped from the stream of loss. And to make a reader somewhere suddenly stop, close the book and clutch it, as Linda Gregg and Hayden Carruth made me do. And to give a listener the feeling that came over me when I heard Etheridge Knight read “Circling the Daughter.”
In what ways has your work as a journalist contributed to your development as a poet?
The basics--accuracy, economy, clarity, sensual description, audacity, lively quotes, storytelling as opposed to abstraction, people preferred to personages--all apply to the literary arts as well. And the best of newspaper, magazine, broadcast and other journalism rises to literature (E.B. White, Edward Hoagland, Joan Didion).
The title of your new book, The Art He’d Sell for Love, suggests that art serves something higher than itself. What are some of your thoughts on the philosophy of art for art’s sake—the idea that true art is divorced from any considerations other than aesthetic ones?
It's funny. I was first attracted to Denise Levertov by her explicitly political poems during the first Gulf War and I admire both her attacks on war and injustice and her excoriation of fellow poets who stand above the fray. Other great poets likewise have put their talents to the service of immediate social needs. More power to them. At the same time, however, I believe their art owes its existence to itself and must illuminate truths that are both too particular and too broad to fit any marketplace agenda, even in prophetic times (are there any other times?). No less dependent on the common welfare than a family farmer, the poet must donate supplies to the Good Fight but must wage peace by working his/her fields to nobody else’s standard of excellence.
You provided a '60s photo by Ralph Meatyard of three of your favorite poets: Wendell Berry, Denise Levertov and Thomas Merton. What do you most value about these particular poets?
They’ve all been guides on my spiritual journey, inseparably from their poetry and mine--Levertov and Merton as mid-life converts to Catholicism who kept their intellectual independence and Berry who called out a pietistic nation that ignores the Scriptural mandate to care for the Earth. Their morality, humility and fervor for authentic living infuse their verse and prose, producing an elegance and precision that transfigure everyday language. (Merton’s most poetic lines, for my taste, are sprinkled through his Journals; his poems can be unwieldy, blunt instruments).
I loved your scene between the poet James Whitcomb Riley and labor organizer Eugene Debs when I saw it performed last year as part of the Indiana Repertory Theatre’s bicentennial production, Finding Home. Did your regard for Riley change through the process of writing this piece?
I haven’t been a reader of Riley’s massive oeuvre except for the standard ones, but I’ve always esteemed his oratorical prowess and crowd appeal. My research into his astonishing friendship with the socialist warrior awakened me to both Riley’s generosity and his burdens--of illness and self-doubt. I learned that this purveyor of rustic nostalgia and children’s rhymes enjoyed some elite critical acclaim (patronizing as it might have been) and suffered from a repressed ambition to be a “serious” poet immortalized in the academy’s anthologies. The comfort I have Debs offering him in my imagined conversation strikes me as fully in character--Gene was a genuine man.
Please speak a bit about your involvement with Brick Street Poetry and other local writing groups. Why are organizations like these important to a community?
Through Brick Street, of which I’m a board member, and the Indiana Writers Center, the Poets Laureate of Lawrence and the Indianapolis Literary Club, I’ve nourished and tested my own work while enjoying, celebrating and encouraging others who are capable of adding to Indiana’s store of significant writing or who just hear the holy call for self-expression. I’m gratified to play a small role in the tireless work these groups do for writers and readers--publishing, workshops, readings, outreach to schools and children’s hospitals, programs in state parks and the Artsgarden . . . endless loaves and fishes. Poetry--the written, spoken, demanding, subversive kind--will defy our efforts to make it a mass phenomenon. But the community is better for it and, as Dr. Williams said, we mortally need it whether we realize it or not.
What do you like to do when you’re not working with words?
Working the old body--hitting the gym, walking and biking with my wife, thrashing about in the pool. Working on our old house and toiling in the garden. Getting in some of the travel we’ve long pined for. We see lots of movies and enjoy the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra, Indiana Repertory Theatre, Indianapolis Museum of Art, Indianapolis Indians and all things Butler University, our neighbor in the city’s most neighborly neighborhood.
If you could go back in time to talk with one man or woman from Indiana history who would that be? Why would you choose this person?
From a long all-star roster that features Kurt Vonnegut, Abe Lincoln, Ernie Pyle, Marguerite Young and Red Skelton for starters, I’d have to choose Debs. His eloquence, his courage, his passion for grand change, his compassion for the oppressed individual, his willingness to pay a devastating price for his matchless integrity make me yearn to shake his hand and crazy to ask how his state and country formed him. How could that conversation not be a joy?
It’s the form most fitted to my yearning
for preservation; that small, perfect bottle--
plain or Waterford crystal--to capture
a moment, scene, conceit or sensation
dipped from the stream of loss.
Dan Carpenter
Above: Helen (top right) with six of her seven sisters
May 2017
Writing for Youth
The Novels-in-Poems of Helen Frost
Helen Frost writes for children, teens, and adults. Her books include novels-in-poems
(Keesha’s House, Room 214, The Braid, Diamond Willow, Crossing Stones, Hidden, Salt,
Applesauce Weather, and When My Sister Started Kissing), poetry collections (Skin of a Fish,
Bones of a Bird; and as if a dry wind), anthologies, plays, picture books (Monarch and
Milkweed, Step Gently Out, Among a Thousand Fireflies, Sweep up the Sun, and Wake Up!),
and a book about teaching writing. She lives in Fort Wayne (Allen County) and has
worked extensively with children and teens, frequently traveling to visit schools and
speak at conferences. Helen is the recipient of a 2009 National Endowment for the Arts
Poetry Fellowship, and her books have received a number of awards, including the
Michael L. Printz Honor from the American Library Association.
Click here to visit Helen's website.
Helen Frost loves to travel. That doesn't surprise me a bit since her desire to
understand "the other" is well-evidenced by her books--by their range of characters,
settings, time periods, and thematic issues (from teen pregnancy to the moral
dilemma of war). Her persona poems adeptly move a narrative forward while
also delving into the characters' interior landscapes--their fears, motivations
and hopes. Within her novels-in-poems, she adroitly weaves two or more voices
in a way that divulges character growth and the complexities of differing perspectives.
I also admire Helen's skilled use of poetic forms like sestinas, sonnets and quatrains
and her inclusion of secret messages through acrostics and highlighted words
within the text. Although these novels-in-poems are written for children and teens,
I found myself drawn into their vividly-rendered worlds.
In an interview, Helen talks about her most recent novel-in-poems, the process of developing a character's unique voice, writing for youth, and the advantages of
working with poetic forms.
Helen (right) and sister Barbie a few years before either started kissing
From When My Sister Started Kissing
Margaret Ferguson Books / Farrar, Straus and Giroux (2017)
You Make Me Happy
Heartstone Lake Remembers
The baby, Claire, in a sunsuit and
yellow hat, sat on her father's shoulders, the
great wide world spread out before them. Two
egrets flew home to their nest as thunder
rumbled, far off in the distance.
The mother, Cari, lifted Abigail--
You are my sunshine, they sang together,
gently rocking. Cari waded in up to her ankles.
Everyone was smiling then, held close by the
rhythm of the song: You make me happy.
Blue sky, one cloud, an open beach
umbrella shading their red blanket. Did the
raindrops fall from the sun itself? I remember
no cold wind, no whitecaps, just a few small
indentations on my glassy surface,
not enough to make them pack up and
go home. Cari smiled at her husband, Andrew, and at
Baby Claire, who whimpered. I did not know why. Did she
realize, before the others did, what was coming, what it meant?
It seemed to happen all at once: Claire cried out, the sky
grew dark, lightning sent its dazzle through me. Cari
held Abigail tight in her arms for a split second,
then fell, her face in mine.
Margaret Ferguson Books / Farrar, Straus and Giroux (2017)
You Make Me Happy
Heartstone Lake Remembers
The baby, Claire, in a sunsuit and
yellow hat, sat on her father's shoulders, the
great wide world spread out before them. Two
egrets flew home to their nest as thunder
rumbled, far off in the distance.
The mother, Cari, lifted Abigail--
You are my sunshine, they sang together,
gently rocking. Cari waded in up to her ankles.
Everyone was smiling then, held close by the
rhythm of the song: You make me happy.
Blue sky, one cloud, an open beach
umbrella shading their red blanket. Did the
raindrops fall from the sun itself? I remember
no cold wind, no whitecaps, just a few small
indentations on my glassy surface,
not enough to make them pack up and
go home. Cari smiled at her husband, Andrew, and at
Baby Claire, who whimpered. I did not know why. Did she
realize, before the others did, what was coming, what it meant?
It seemed to happen all at once: Claire cried out, the sky
grew dark, lightning sent its dazzle through me. Cari
held Abigail tight in her arms for a split second,
then fell, her face in mine.
Helen at a school in Scotland, doing research for The Braid
Sunset
Claire, in the kayak
Out in the kayak at sunset,
water bugs walk across
orange light on the water.
What if Pam offers me
a trip to town? Shopping time
has always meant Dad-time to
me. Pam doesn't have to be
our mom! I like being alone
with Dad--and with myself.
Claire, in the kayak
Out in the kayak at sunset,
water bugs walk across
orange light on the water.
What if Pam offers me
a trip to town? Shopping time
has always meant Dad-time to
me. Pam doesn't have to be
our mom! I like being alone
with Dad--and with myself.
In one version, Claire's poems were in Terza Rima, as can be seen in this draft of the poem "Puzzle Pieces."
Something's Different
Claire
Abigail spreads her stuff out on our blanket,
slathers her face and legs with sunscreen,
kicks off her flip-flops, and runs into the water.
I stand on the shore and watch her become queen
of Eastside Beach. She dives under the rope,
comes up laughing, flings water from her hair
into a ring of sunlight, attracting a swarm
of boys--were they even here last year?
I know they were. But something's different now.
Last summer, Abigail liked to look at boys--
a lot--this year, the boys are looking back. She's like a kid
on Christmas morning with a pile of new toys.
Claire
Abigail spreads her stuff out on our blanket,
slathers her face and legs with sunscreen,
kicks off her flip-flops, and runs into the water.
I stand on the shore and watch her become queen
of Eastside Beach. She dives under the rope,
comes up laughing, flings water from her hair
into a ring of sunlight, attracting a swarm
of boys--were they even here last year?
I know they were. But something's different now.
Last summer, Abigail liked to look at boys--
a lot--this year, the boys are looking back. She's like a kid
on Christmas morning with a pile of new toys.
Helen with son Glen in China
A Path of Moonlight
Abi
Let's meet at the dock, and go for a night swim.
We made our plan when Brock came over.
At first he said, I don't have my swim trunks.
But I convinced him to go home and put them on
under his clothes. Come back at ten o'clock, I said.
I threw a towel over my shoulders, climbed out
my window into the night, and now we're swimming,
quiet as we can--kicking underwater, gliding along
a path of moonlight toward Anna's Island. Look, I whisper:
An owl soars to the top of a tree whose branches
sweep clouds from the sky: a sudden, long-ago
memory of Mom brushing hair out of my eyes.
Abi
Let's meet at the dock, and go for a night swim.
We made our plan when Brock came over.
At first he said, I don't have my swim trunks.
But I convinced him to go home and put them on
under his clothes. Come back at ten o'clock, I said.
I threw a towel over my shoulders, climbed out
my window into the night, and now we're swimming,
quiet as we can--kicking underwater, gliding along
a path of moonlight toward Anna's Island. Look, I whisper:
An owl soars to the top of a tree whose branches
sweep clouds from the sky: a sudden, long-ago
memory of Mom brushing hair out of my eyes.
This photo was taken at an orphanage Helen visited in Mawlamyine, Myanmar (Burma)--a Friendship City to Fort Wayne.
From SALT
Francis Foster Books / Farrar, Straus, and Giroux (2013)
ANIKWA
This lacrosse stick
is too big for me, but I like to use it
because it was my father's. Grandma tells me,
He was the best lacrosse player I ever saw.
He was so good, he could
make it seem like his
younger brother
was as good as he was.
I wish I remembered him better.
They say his voice was like strong music.
Everyone loved to listen to him speak. When people
started arguing, he said what he thought, and then stayed quiet
while other people spoke. People listened to him, and thought
carefully about anything he said. His words, Father says,
rose to the top, when we had to make hard decisions
about war or treaties--what to do
when all the changes came
across our land.
At first,
new kinds of sickness, then
a different kind of people--starting with men,
who soon brought families. Then soldiers, and the fort.
Like the bees that flew in from the east
and settled on our flowers.
Francis Foster Books / Farrar, Straus, and Giroux (2013)
ANIKWA
This lacrosse stick
is too big for me, but I like to use it
because it was my father's. Grandma tells me,
He was the best lacrosse player I ever saw.
He was so good, he could
make it seem like his
younger brother
was as good as he was.
I wish I remembered him better.
They say his voice was like strong music.
Everyone loved to listen to him speak. When people
started arguing, he said what he thought, and then stayed quiet
while other people spoke. People listened to him, and thought
carefully about anything he said. His words, Father says,
rose to the top, when we had to make hard decisions
about war or treaties--what to do
when all the changes came
across our land.
At first,
new kinds of sickness, then
a different kind of people--starting with men,
who soon brought families. Then soldiers, and the fort.
Like the bees that flew in from the east
and settled on our flowers.
|
From Hidden
Francis Foster Books / Farrar, Straus, and Giroux (2011) Video: Interview with Helen by Sean Robinson for Access Fort Wayne, Allen County Public Library, February, 2011 I I was a happy little girl wearing a pink dress, sitting in our gold minivan, dancing with my doll, Kamara. I'll be right back, Mom promised. Leave the music on, I begged, so she left her keys dangling while she ran in to pay for gas and buy a Diet Coke. 2 I think about that little girl the way you might remember your best friend who moved away. Sitting in the middle seat, beside an open window, her seatbelt fastened, she looked out at the world. 3 And then she heard a gunshot from inside the store. That's when she--when I-- stopped breathing. I clicked my seatbelt off, dived into the back, and ducked down on the floor to hide under a blanket until Mom came back out. I heard the car door open, heard it close. The music stopped. Why? Mom liked that song. I breathed again. (Mom smelled like cigarettes.) I pushed the blanket off my face, opened my mouth to ask, What happened in there? But then I heard a word Mom wouldn't say. A man's voice. C'mon! Start! He was yelling at our car. And the car obeyed him. It started up just like it thought Mom was driving. |
|
A performance of Crossing Stones in Freiburg, Germany, adapted for the stage by Susanne Franz
From Crossing Stones
Francis Foster Books / Farrar, Straus, and Giroux (2009)
Moral Compass
Muriel
Have you raised this girl with no moral compass?
Mr. Sander questions my parents, then turns
to me: If you continue to question our president
and the decisions he has made, other students
may wonder if their classmates are risking
their lives for nothing. You should be ashamed.
Mama does hang her head in shame, but I don't, so
Mr. Sander pushes on: If we can't stand together
as a free country, what are our boys fighting for? At that,
Papa looks straight into Mr. Sander's eyes. He doesn't say
what he sees (the eyes of a coward?), because Papa is kind,
thoughtful about others' feelings. I know my daughter
is opinionated, he says, but there is no law
against that. (So far, he mutters under his breath.)
Muriel has every right to speak her mind.
Mr. Sander withers under Papa's steady gaze, and we
go home. Papa drives the horses gently; we ride in silence
for a mile or so, and then he says, You're graduating soon;
don't worry too much about what Mr. Sander thinks--
but there are others like him in this world.
Be a little careful of such people, Muriel.
"A little careful"--maybe--but then Mama adds,
You may need to bite your tongue.
Is that what women--"ladies"--are supposed to do?
Bite off little pieces of ourselves,
Our very thoughts? Chew on them
until they don't seem so worthwhile--
and then what? Swallow them? Or spit them out
and crush them underfoot, until we can
be absolutely sure no one will know
they ever crossed our minds!
Francis Foster Books / Farrar, Straus, and Giroux (2009)
Moral Compass
Muriel
Have you raised this girl with no moral compass?
Mr. Sander questions my parents, then turns
to me: If you continue to question our president
and the decisions he has made, other students
may wonder if their classmates are risking
their lives for nothing. You should be ashamed.
Mama does hang her head in shame, but I don't, so
Mr. Sander pushes on: If we can't stand together
as a free country, what are our boys fighting for? At that,
Papa looks straight into Mr. Sander's eyes. He doesn't say
what he sees (the eyes of a coward?), because Papa is kind,
thoughtful about others' feelings. I know my daughter
is opinionated, he says, but there is no law
against that. (So far, he mutters under his breath.)
Muriel has every right to speak her mind.
Mr. Sander withers under Papa's steady gaze, and we
go home. Papa drives the horses gently; we ride in silence
for a mile or so, and then he says, You're graduating soon;
don't worry too much about what Mr. Sander thinks--
but there are others like him in this world.
Be a little careful of such people, Muriel.
"A little careful"--maybe--but then Mama adds,
You may need to bite your tongue.
Is that what women--"ladies"--are supposed to do?
Bite off little pieces of ourselves,
Our very thoughts? Chew on them
until they don't seem so worthwhile--
and then what? Swallow them? Or spit them out
and crush them underfoot, until we can
be absolutely sure no one will know
they ever crossed our minds!
Helen's students in Telida, Alaska, with Bilingual Instructor, Steven Nikolai
From Diamond Willow
Francis Foster Books / Farrar, Straus, and Giroux (2008)
Fox
tracks,
new snow,
red-streaked sky
and full moon rising.
I know this trail, know
where it gets scary. I know
where it sometimes floods and
freezes over. And I know Grandma
and Grandpa will love it when they hear
the dogs, knowing that it's me mushing
out to see them. I'm almost there.
Can't be more than half an hour
to go. Down this small
hill, past the burned
stumps. There--I
see the light
by their
door.
Francis Foster Books / Farrar, Straus, and Giroux (2008)
Fox
tracks,
new snow,
red-streaked sky
and full moon rising.
I know this trail, know
where it gets scary. I know
where it sometimes floods and
freezes over. And I know Grandma
and Grandpa will love it when they hear
the dogs, knowing that it's me mushing
out to see them. I'm almost there.
Can't be more than half an hour
to go. Down this small
hill, past the burned
stumps. There--I
see the light
by their
door.
Helen with her husband Chad in Myanmar (Burma)
From Keesha's House
Francis Foster Books / Farrar, Straus, and Giroux (2003)
NOW THIS BABY STEPHIE
My parents still think I'm their little girl.
I don't want them to see me getting bigger,
bigger every week, almost too big to hide it now.
But if I don't go home, where can I go?
Jason said, You could get rid of it. I thought of how he tossed
the broken condom in the trash, saying. Nothing
will happen. Now this baby is that nothing,
growing fingers in the dark, growing toes, a girl
or boy, heart pulsing. Not something to be tossed
aside, not nothing. Love and terror both grow bigger
every day inside me. Jason showed me where to go
to take care of it. I looked at him and said, I can't. Now
he isn't talking to me, and if he won't talk now,
I know what to expect in six months' time--nothing.
His family doesn't know about the baby. When I used to go
there every day, his mom would say, It's nice to have a girl
around the house. But they have bigger
dreams than this for Jason. All my questions are like wind-tossed
papers in the street, and after they've been tossed
around, rain comes, and they're a soggy mess. Now
I'm hungry. I had a doughnut, but I need a bigger
meal. I'm not prepared for this. I know nothing
about living on my own. At school there's this girl
I know named Keesha who told me there's a place kids go
and stay awhile, where people don't ask questions. I go,
Yeah, sure, okay. I kind of tossed
my head, like I was just some girl
who wouldn't care. But now
I wish I'd asked her the exact address. (Nothing
wrong with asking.) To lots of girls, it's no big
deal to have a baby. They treat it like a big
attention getter--when the baby's born, they go
around showing it off to all their friends. But nothing
like this ever happens in my family. Mom and Dad won't toss
me out, or even yell at me, if I go home right now.
But how can I keep acting like the girl
they think I am--a carefree teenage girl with nothing
big to worry me. As for what I've started thinking now--
don't go there. Heads is bad; tails is worse: like that no-win coin toss.
Francis Foster Books / Farrar, Straus, and Giroux (2003)
NOW THIS BABY STEPHIE
My parents still think I'm their little girl.
I don't want them to see me getting bigger,
bigger every week, almost too big to hide it now.
But if I don't go home, where can I go?
Jason said, You could get rid of it. I thought of how he tossed
the broken condom in the trash, saying. Nothing
will happen. Now this baby is that nothing,
growing fingers in the dark, growing toes, a girl
or boy, heart pulsing. Not something to be tossed
aside, not nothing. Love and terror both grow bigger
every day inside me. Jason showed me where to go
to take care of it. I looked at him and said, I can't. Now
he isn't talking to me, and if he won't talk now,
I know what to expect in six months' time--nothing.
His family doesn't know about the baby. When I used to go
there every day, his mom would say, It's nice to have a girl
around the house. But they have bigger
dreams than this for Jason. All my questions are like wind-tossed
papers in the street, and after they've been tossed
around, rain comes, and they're a soggy mess. Now
I'm hungry. I had a doughnut, but I need a bigger
meal. I'm not prepared for this. I know nothing
about living on my own. At school there's this girl
I know named Keesha who told me there's a place kids go
and stay awhile, where people don't ask questions. I go,
Yeah, sure, okay. I kind of tossed
my head, like I was just some girl
who wouldn't care. But now
I wish I'd asked her the exact address. (Nothing
wrong with asking.) To lots of girls, it's no big
deal to have a baby. They treat it like a big
attention getter--when the baby's born, they go
around showing it off to all their friends. But nothing
like this ever happens in my family. Mom and Dad won't toss
me out, or even yell at me, if I go home right now.
But how can I keep acting like the girl
they think I am--a carefree teenage girl with nothing
big to worry me. As for what I've started thinking now--
don't go there. Heads is bad; tails is worse: like that no-win coin toss.
Interview with Helen Frost
Helen, when did you first start writing poetry?
I must have been about seven—pretty much as soon as I could write at all.
What led you to start writing novels-in-poems?
I’d been writing poetry for adults, and prose for children and teens, when it occurred to me that I could write poetry for younger readers and tell my stories that way. I started writing Keesha’s House in sestinas and sonnets, and that was first interesting for me, and then well-received by reviewers and young readers. I have kept following that interest and continue to receive appreciation and encouragement.
What does a novel-in-poems offer that a prose novel doesn’t?
I like all the poetry tools that allow me to let the reader know how to hear the music and receive the images of a poem. The language of poetry is, in a way, condensed, which can make it more intense emotionally. The white space on the page offers breathing room as readers take in the story and emotion.
How did you get the idea for your new book, When My Sister Started Kissing?
It had been brewing for a long time and went through several different versions before the characters and I found our way into this story. Lots of different memories from different people and places came together and nourished my imagination.
How did you decide on the poetic form for each character’s voice?
Mostly by trial and error—lots of the latter, I’m afraid, but I do think that enough of the former eventually brought me to the poetic forms that worked well with the personalities and voices of each character.
I like the acrostic form for the poems in the voice of the lake because it gave me an opportunity to include lines of poems I love. In the story, there is a current running through the lake, and the acrostic armatures represent that current. The girls know that their mother loved poetry, and her death, in the lake’s voice, is told as: “she fell, her face in mine.” I intended the subtle suggestion that the girls’ mother is present in the lake’s caring voice, and even if I don’t expect most readers to think about that, it is there, another undercurrent, for those who wonder about it (and even for those who don’t).
You frequently work with traditional forms such as quatrains and sestinas and sonnets. But you make them look effortless, so naturally-suited to the speaker’s voice that the reader forgets the forms are there. Any tips for how you do this? And what does a poem gain by being written within a traditional form?
Well, thank you—I’m pleased to know that it looks effortless, because it can be hard to read a poem that seems to be showing off the technique of its formal structure. Maybe a tip for how to make it look effortless is to be sure it isn’t. For me, it’s a matter of giving myself uninterrupted time for deep concentration, not accepting the first words that fit the form, but waiting and working until the language is right in every way.
A traditional form offers its own heritage—all the effort and joy of the poets who have lived in the form. I see that as a kind of DNA that language offers to the poet, the poem. Formal structure can help me look to the side of what I think I’m saying and discover something new that the poem itself (or the larger story of a novel) needs to be saying.
What’s the hardest aspect of writing a novel-in-poems?
Keeping the narrative moving and the characters’ voices authentic, while paying close attention to all the other elements of poetry.
Your books SALT: A Story of Friendship in a Time of War and Crossing Stones have historical settings. Could you talk a bit about what it’s like to write historical fiction?
Yes, these two, and also The Braid are based in history. I love writing historical fiction because I enjoy the research. Typically, I learn as much as I can about a period of history before I begin writing and then go back to my research as I’m writing in order to fill in the gaps of my knowledge or learn details that come up as the story develops.
What advice do you have for poets wanting to write for youth?
Give yourself time. It took me about ten years from the publication of my first book of poetry for adults to my first publication for young readers. You may not need that much time, but ten years is not atypical. You really need to do a lot of reading, to learn what has been done before. And as you’re learning, it’s important to follow the conversation of the children’s and young adult book community.
Joining SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators) is a good starting place.
What suggestions do you have for teaching poetry writing to middle-school and high school students?
Encourage them to read for pleasure and share what they are reading, as well as what they are writing, with their classmates. Keeping a poetry journal can be a good place to start, but give them something to push against—forms work well for this, but there are other ways, too—so that they don’t think poetry is nothing more than journal entries broken up into short lines. Let them learn the craft and discipline, much as they might learn a sport or musical instrument.
There are so many resources for this. The best is probably Teachers and Writers Collaborative—a wealth of books and articles there.
And I have a book--When I Whisper, Nobody Listens: Helping Young People Write about Difficult Issues (Heinemann, 2001)—that has a lot of suggestions for anyone teaching writing to middle school and high school students.
Who are your favorite poets?
I’m interested in poets who have written for both adults and children. Randall Jarrell, Lucille Clifton, Gwendolyn Brooks come immediately to mind—just naming poets who are no longer living.
Recently I was awake in the middle of the night and started scanning my bookshelves for “old friends”—people whose poetry I loved when I was first discovering poetry—and I found I still love the delight and wisdom of William Stafford; the spiritual depth of Sarah Appleton; the music of Gerard Manley Hopkins; the complexity of William Blake; the range of Marilyn Nelson—and with that name, I start to move into the dangerous territory of naming my current friends. I’ll stop because I know I would miss someone important. Always, of course, too many favorites to mention.
What do you appreciate most about the literary community in Fort Wayne?
I love the supportive friendships that have formed through the years among those of us who go to poetry and fiction readings. And that is also true throughout Indiana—thank you for your part in this, Shari.
Helen, when did you first start writing poetry?
I must have been about seven—pretty much as soon as I could write at all.
What led you to start writing novels-in-poems?
I’d been writing poetry for adults, and prose for children and teens, when it occurred to me that I could write poetry for younger readers and tell my stories that way. I started writing Keesha’s House in sestinas and sonnets, and that was first interesting for me, and then well-received by reviewers and young readers. I have kept following that interest and continue to receive appreciation and encouragement.
What does a novel-in-poems offer that a prose novel doesn’t?
I like all the poetry tools that allow me to let the reader know how to hear the music and receive the images of a poem. The language of poetry is, in a way, condensed, which can make it more intense emotionally. The white space on the page offers breathing room as readers take in the story and emotion.
How did you get the idea for your new book, When My Sister Started Kissing?
It had been brewing for a long time and went through several different versions before the characters and I found our way into this story. Lots of different memories from different people and places came together and nourished my imagination.
How did you decide on the poetic form for each character’s voice?
Mostly by trial and error—lots of the latter, I’m afraid, but I do think that enough of the former eventually brought me to the poetic forms that worked well with the personalities and voices of each character.
I like the acrostic form for the poems in the voice of the lake because it gave me an opportunity to include lines of poems I love. In the story, there is a current running through the lake, and the acrostic armatures represent that current. The girls know that their mother loved poetry, and her death, in the lake’s voice, is told as: “she fell, her face in mine.” I intended the subtle suggestion that the girls’ mother is present in the lake’s caring voice, and even if I don’t expect most readers to think about that, it is there, another undercurrent, for those who wonder about it (and even for those who don’t).
You frequently work with traditional forms such as quatrains and sestinas and sonnets. But you make them look effortless, so naturally-suited to the speaker’s voice that the reader forgets the forms are there. Any tips for how you do this? And what does a poem gain by being written within a traditional form?
Well, thank you—I’m pleased to know that it looks effortless, because it can be hard to read a poem that seems to be showing off the technique of its formal structure. Maybe a tip for how to make it look effortless is to be sure it isn’t. For me, it’s a matter of giving myself uninterrupted time for deep concentration, not accepting the first words that fit the form, but waiting and working until the language is right in every way.
A traditional form offers its own heritage—all the effort and joy of the poets who have lived in the form. I see that as a kind of DNA that language offers to the poet, the poem. Formal structure can help me look to the side of what I think I’m saying and discover something new that the poem itself (or the larger story of a novel) needs to be saying.
What’s the hardest aspect of writing a novel-in-poems?
Keeping the narrative moving and the characters’ voices authentic, while paying close attention to all the other elements of poetry.
Your books SALT: A Story of Friendship in a Time of War and Crossing Stones have historical settings. Could you talk a bit about what it’s like to write historical fiction?
Yes, these two, and also The Braid are based in history. I love writing historical fiction because I enjoy the research. Typically, I learn as much as I can about a period of history before I begin writing and then go back to my research as I’m writing in order to fill in the gaps of my knowledge or learn details that come up as the story develops.
What advice do you have for poets wanting to write for youth?
Give yourself time. It took me about ten years from the publication of my first book of poetry for adults to my first publication for young readers. You may not need that much time, but ten years is not atypical. You really need to do a lot of reading, to learn what has been done before. And as you’re learning, it’s important to follow the conversation of the children’s and young adult book community.
Joining SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators) is a good starting place.
What suggestions do you have for teaching poetry writing to middle-school and high school students?
Encourage them to read for pleasure and share what they are reading, as well as what they are writing, with their classmates. Keeping a poetry journal can be a good place to start, but give them something to push against—forms work well for this, but there are other ways, too—so that they don’t think poetry is nothing more than journal entries broken up into short lines. Let them learn the craft and discipline, much as they might learn a sport or musical instrument.
There are so many resources for this. The best is probably Teachers and Writers Collaborative—a wealth of books and articles there.
And I have a book--When I Whisper, Nobody Listens: Helping Young People Write about Difficult Issues (Heinemann, 2001)—that has a lot of suggestions for anyone teaching writing to middle school and high school students.
Who are your favorite poets?
I’m interested in poets who have written for both adults and children. Randall Jarrell, Lucille Clifton, Gwendolyn Brooks come immediately to mind—just naming poets who are no longer living.
Recently I was awake in the middle of the night and started scanning my bookshelves for “old friends”—people whose poetry I loved when I was first discovering poetry—and I found I still love the delight and wisdom of William Stafford; the spiritual depth of Sarah Appleton; the music of Gerard Manley Hopkins; the complexity of William Blake; the range of Marilyn Nelson—and with that name, I start to move into the dangerous territory of naming my current friends. I’ll stop because I know I would miss someone important. Always, of course, too many favorites to mention.
What do you appreciate most about the literary community in Fort Wayne?
I love the supportive friendships that have formed through the years among those of us who go to poetry and fiction readings. And that is also true throughout Indiana—thank you for your part in this, Shari.
A traditional form offers its own heritage-- all the effort and joy of poets who have lived in the form. I see that as a kind of DNA that language offers to the poet, the poem. Helen Frost |
|
April 2017
Map to the Stars:
The Poetry of Adrian Matejka
Adrian Matejka was born in Nuremberg, Germany, and grew up in Indianapolis. He is a graduate of Indiana University and the MFA program at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. He is the author The Devil’s Garden (Alice James Books, 2003) and Mixology (Penguin USA, 2009), a winner of the 2008 National Poetry Series. His third collection,
The Big Smoke (Penguin USA, 2013), was awarded the 2014 Anisfield-Wolf Book Award.
The Big Smoke was also a finalist for the 2013 National Book Award, 2014 Hurston/Wright Legacy Award, and 2014 Pulitzer Prize in poetry. His new book, Map to the Stars, was
published by Penguin in March 2017. Among Matejka’s other honors are the Julia Peterkin Award, the Eugene and Marilyn Glick Indiana Authors Award, two grants from the Illinois
Arts Council, and fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Lannan Foundation, and United States Artists. He teaches in the MFA program at Indiana University in Bloomington and is currently working on a new collection of poem, Hearing Damage, and a graphic novel. Click here to visit his website.
Map to the Stars:
The Poetry of Adrian Matejka
Adrian Matejka was born in Nuremberg, Germany, and grew up in Indianapolis. He is a graduate of Indiana University and the MFA program at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. He is the author The Devil’s Garden (Alice James Books, 2003) and Mixology (Penguin USA, 2009), a winner of the 2008 National Poetry Series. His third collection,
The Big Smoke (Penguin USA, 2013), was awarded the 2014 Anisfield-Wolf Book Award.
The Big Smoke was also a finalist for the 2013 National Book Award, 2014 Hurston/Wright Legacy Award, and 2014 Pulitzer Prize in poetry. His new book, Map to the Stars, was
published by Penguin in March 2017. Among Matejka’s other honors are the Julia Peterkin Award, the Eugene and Marilyn Glick Indiana Authors Award, two grants from the Illinois
Arts Council, and fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Lannan Foundation, and United States Artists. He teaches in the MFA program at Indiana University in Bloomington and is currently working on a new collection of poem, Hearing Damage, and a graphic novel. Click here to visit his website.
My introduction to Adrian Matejka's poetry occurred last year while I was searching for
poems to post for the Indiana Humanities Poem a Day in April. At the Poetry Foundation
website, I discovered "Map to the Stars," a poem so brilliantly crafted, pleasing to the ear, and resonant with myth and emotion and message that I read it over and over and shared it with my classes. Likewise, I will surely read many times over his newly-released book, Map to the Stars. Through writing about his childhood in Indianapolis in the 1980s, Adrian delves into painful experiences related to poverty and race, but does so in the context of hope--a vision of equality he saw embodied by Star Trek, Voyager 2, and the first black astronaut. I'd love to see book groups all over Indianapolis, throughout the state, and, indeed, the nation, read and talk about this important book and discuss what communities can do to help their children.
On May 25, Adrian will be reading from Map to the Stars at Indy Books, 911 Massachusetts Avenue, Indianapolis, from 6:00-7:30 PM. This reading is sponsored by Indiana Humanities.
Please spread the word and click here for more information!
poems to post for the Indiana Humanities Poem a Day in April. At the Poetry Foundation
website, I discovered "Map to the Stars," a poem so brilliantly crafted, pleasing to the ear, and resonant with myth and emotion and message that I read it over and over and shared it with my classes. Likewise, I will surely read many times over his newly-released book, Map to the Stars. Through writing about his childhood in Indianapolis in the 1980s, Adrian delves into painful experiences related to poverty and race, but does so in the context of hope--a vision of equality he saw embodied by Star Trek, Voyager 2, and the first black astronaut. I'd love to see book groups all over Indianapolis, throughout the state, and, indeed, the nation, read and talk about this important book and discuss what communities can do to help their children.
On May 25, Adrian will be reading from Map to the Stars at Indy Books, 911 Massachusetts Avenue, Indianapolis, from 6:00-7:30 PM. This reading is sponsored by Indiana Humanities.
Please spread the word and click here for more information!
Adrian at PS 113, Indianapolis
From Map to the Stars (Penguin USA, 2017)
Mail-Order Planets
In 1981, Eris’s spacious face hadn’t been discovered
yet, my mother hadn’t taken a day off from Fort Ben
yet, & Pluto was still a planet. One of nine celestial
bodies snapped into drummed orbits around the Sun
like the orthodontic rubber bands no one in Carriage House
had. I hid my gaps by not smiling, imagining an astronaut
future as sharp & fixed as a dentist’s smile—236 miles
above Earth where up & down are instructions instead
of directions. Behind a mirrored visor, the singing inside
my American-flagged extravehicular mobility unit
so robust it could keep a black boy from Indiana breathing
in outer space. We didn’t have any solar system models
at PS113, so I had to get my own. I dove into dumpsters
searching for cans & bottles under the OJ cartons & maggots
fat in swallows of juice. I dug through frozen dinner boxes
& apple cores shaped like moldy infinities, then foraged
the iced-out underpass--M&M ♥ Kim painted in moon-
eyed red, then X-ed out with black paint by the time
the frost went away. I hunted the ice- & tire-clogged creek
where I would have spun the bottle with Cynthia
from science class if I wasn’t chicken. The A&P paid
by the pound & I dragged sacks stuffed with sand-filled
Schlitz & Tab cans around back where the braceface
sweating on the scale knew my game & paid me anyway.
Three months of collecting & I had enough money
to order our system from the back of a Star Trek comic--
all nine planets in adjustable orbits & Earth’s majesty
anchoring the third lane. The kid in the ad was as excited
as I was—waiting for the mailman every day after mailing
five wrinkled bills—but the solar system never came.
Mail-Order Planets
In 1981, Eris’s spacious face hadn’t been discovered
yet, my mother hadn’t taken a day off from Fort Ben
yet, & Pluto was still a planet. One of nine celestial
bodies snapped into drummed orbits around the Sun
like the orthodontic rubber bands no one in Carriage House
had. I hid my gaps by not smiling, imagining an astronaut
future as sharp & fixed as a dentist’s smile—236 miles
above Earth where up & down are instructions instead
of directions. Behind a mirrored visor, the singing inside
my American-flagged extravehicular mobility unit
so robust it could keep a black boy from Indiana breathing
in outer space. We didn’t have any solar system models
at PS113, so I had to get my own. I dove into dumpsters
searching for cans & bottles under the OJ cartons & maggots
fat in swallows of juice. I dug through frozen dinner boxes
& apple cores shaped like moldy infinities, then foraged
the iced-out underpass--M&M ♥ Kim painted in moon-
eyed red, then X-ed out with black paint by the time
the frost went away. I hunted the ice- & tire-clogged creek
where I would have spun the bottle with Cynthia
from science class if I wasn’t chicken. The A&P paid
by the pound & I dragged sacks stuffed with sand-filled
Schlitz & Tab cans around back where the braceface
sweating on the scale knew my game & paid me anyway.
Three months of collecting & I had enough money
to order our system from the back of a Star Trek comic--
all nine planets in adjustable orbits & Earth’s majesty
anchoring the third lane. The kid in the ad was as excited
as I was—waiting for the mailman every day after mailing
five wrinkled bills—but the solar system never came.
Le voyage dans la lune (A Trip to the Moon), 1902, Film by Georges Méliès
Le voyage dans la lune
Since the last break-in,
all of the downstairs windows
in our townhouse open
as awkwardly as my mouth
in math class:
haphazard tracks bent
& bent some more
by screwdrivers
& dithyrambs of fingers
doing their dirty work--
sometimes in work gloves,
sometimes with galaxies
of fingerprints & nails chewed
down to the dirty hooks
underneath. One time
we found a press-on nail
ledged like a glittering smile
where the screen used to be.
The amateur crook kept
the screen, bronze medal
when she couldn't pry
the window. Things get
honest with a quickness
after dark, like my mother's borrowed
Richard Pryor record
on low: I used to be really,
so poor, I'd walk down
the street . . . you ever
do that, looking for money
& pretending like you ain't? Every
extra squeak or extra cough:
a knee to the ribs & from
underneath the crooked
kitchen opening--where
we sometimes hid when
my mother worked
late, munching on old crackers
from the church bag while
the neighbors got thick
in their loudness--
next to the burnt-out
stove & through the spaces
under the curtain's pinned
hems, we could see
our back neighbors' curtainless
windows, squares of light
so generous & family filled,
we might have mistaken
them for three motherships
if they were round.
Since the last break-in,
all of the downstairs windows
in our townhouse open
as awkwardly as my mouth
in math class:
haphazard tracks bent
& bent some more
by screwdrivers
& dithyrambs of fingers
doing their dirty work--
sometimes in work gloves,
sometimes with galaxies
of fingerprints & nails chewed
down to the dirty hooks
underneath. One time
we found a press-on nail
ledged like a glittering smile
where the screen used to be.
The amateur crook kept
the screen, bronze medal
when she couldn't pry
the window. Things get
honest with a quickness
after dark, like my mother's borrowed
Richard Pryor record
on low: I used to be really,
so poor, I'd walk down
the street . . . you ever
do that, looking for money
& pretending like you ain't? Every
extra squeak or extra cough:
a knee to the ribs & from
underneath the crooked
kitchen opening--where
we sometimes hid when
my mother worked
late, munching on old crackers
from the church bag while
the neighbors got thick
in their loudness--
next to the burnt-out
stove & through the spaces
under the curtain's pinned
hems, we could see
our back neighbors' curtainless
windows, squares of light
so generous & family filled,
we might have mistaken
them for three motherships
if they were round.
Photos of Indianapolis by Shari Wagner
Map to the Stars
A Schwinn ride away: Eagledale Plaza. Busted shopping
strip of old walkways, crooked parking spaces nicked
like the lines on the sides of somebody's mom-barbered
head. Anchored by the Piccadilly Disco, where a shootout
was guaranteed every weekend--coughing stars shot from
sideways guns shiny enough to light the way for anyone
willing to keep a head up long enough to see. Not me.
I bought the star map shirt for 15¢ at the Value Village
next to the Piccadilly. The shirt was polyester with flyaway
collars, outlined in the forgotten astronomies of disco.
The shirt's washed-out points of light: arranged in horse
& hero shapes & I rocked it in places neither horse nor hero
hung out. Polyester is made from polyethylene & catches
fire easily like wings near a thrift-store sun. Polyethylene,
used in shampoo bottles, gun cases, & those grocery sacks
skidding like upended stars across the parking lot. There
are more kinds of stars in this universe than salt granules
on drive-thru fries. Too many stars, lessening & swelling
with each pedal pump away from the Value Village
as the beaming billboard above spotlights first one DUI
attorney, then another who speaks Spanish so the sky
is constantly chattering, like the biggest disco ball ever.
A Schwinn ride away: Eagledale Plaza. Busted shopping
strip of old walkways, crooked parking spaces nicked
like the lines on the sides of somebody's mom-barbered
head. Anchored by the Piccadilly Disco, where a shootout
was guaranteed every weekend--coughing stars shot from
sideways guns shiny enough to light the way for anyone
willing to keep a head up long enough to see. Not me.
I bought the star map shirt for 15¢ at the Value Village
next to the Piccadilly. The shirt was polyester with flyaway
collars, outlined in the forgotten astronomies of disco.
The shirt's washed-out points of light: arranged in horse
& hero shapes & I rocked it in places neither horse nor hero
hung out. Polyester is made from polyethylene & catches
fire easily like wings near a thrift-store sun. Polyethylene,
used in shampoo bottles, gun cases, & those grocery sacks
skidding like upended stars across the parking lot. There
are more kinds of stars in this universe than salt granules
on drive-thru fries. Too many stars, lessening & swelling
with each pedal pump away from the Value Village
as the beaming billboard above spotlights first one DUI
attorney, then another who speaks Spanish so the sky
is constantly chattering, like the biggest disco ball ever.
Outta Here Blacks
As soon as Mom married Pops:
off to the suburbs, realm
of glamorously blue
swimming pools, carpools
& a spinning rack of comic books
out front at the Village Pantry.
& we were out of Carriage House
like kids as soon as math sub
turns his back.
We were out like juice
boxes after lunch.
We were on the West Side--
nowhere near our old neighborhood--
like a well-organized poverty protest.
No moving truck because
we didn't have anything
to move out.
We were so out of there
I had to dial long distance
to tell Garrett we'd gone.
We were outside our chalk-outlined
piece of town like a bad pitch.
We were outlying that old spot
like perfectly spelled
gentrifications. We were as out
of bounds as the how & why
of black kids with two
white parents now.
Desegregation out here.
I got some ice cream out here
like an Eddie Murphy impersonation
at the watercooler.
We were as uncomfortable
as a black joke in our air-conditioned
& well-festooned new home.
As soon as Mom married Pops:
off to the suburbs, realm
of glamorously blue
swimming pools, carpools
& a spinning rack of comic books
out front at the Village Pantry.
& we were out of Carriage House
like kids as soon as math sub
turns his back.
We were out like juice
boxes after lunch.
We were on the West Side--
nowhere near our old neighborhood--
like a well-organized poverty protest.
No moving truck because
we didn't have anything
to move out.
We were so out of there
I had to dial long distance
to tell Garrett we'd gone.
We were outside our chalk-outlined
piece of town like a bad pitch.
We were outlying that old spot
like perfectly spelled
gentrifications. We were as out
of bounds as the how & why
of black kids with two
white parents now.
Desegregation out here.
I got some ice cream out here
like an Eddie Murphy impersonation
at the watercooler.
We were as uncomfortable
as a black joke in our air-conditioned
& well-festooned new home.
Crickets, Racists
Voyager 2's golden record
spun someplace in the space
between Uranus & Neptune
the night I pedaled
my new 10-speed
along Georgetown Road's
unfinished edge & the Datsun
driver necked out
of the passenger window:
Off the road, nigger!
His mouth--cracked
& full of open teeth--
right there, screaming
in my face like Coach
yelling one more thing about
Bobby Knight during line laps.
& then I was in a ditch--
front wheel bent like a surprise,
as useless as half a moon.
Sitting there, in the cricketed
grass, I heard some
of the same sounds of Earth--
etched in copper & plated
in gold for the long ride out
into a city of comets--
spinning so unrelentingly
I kept losing parts
between exhales.
Voyager 2's golden record
spun someplace in the space
between Uranus & Neptune
the night I pedaled
my new 10-speed
along Georgetown Road's
unfinished edge & the Datsun
driver necked out
of the passenger window:
Off the road, nigger!
His mouth--cracked
& full of open teeth--
right there, screaming
in my face like Coach
yelling one more thing about
Bobby Knight during line laps.
& then I was in a ditch--
front wheel bent like a surprise,
as useless as half a moon.
Sitting there, in the cricketed
grass, I heard some
of the same sounds of Earth--
etched in copper & plated
in gold for the long ride out
into a city of comets--
spinning so unrelentingly
I kept losing parts
between exhales.
From The Big Smoke (Penguin USA, 2013)
Battle Royal
Back then, they'd chain a bear
in the middle of the bear garden
& let the dogs loose. Iron chains
around a bear's neck don't slow
him too much. A bear will always
make short work of a dog. Shakespeare
said Sackerson did it more than
twenty times to dogs & wildcats
alike. & since most creatures
are naturally afraid of bears, there
wouldn't always be much of a show
in the bear garden. So the handlers
sometimes put the bear's eyes out
or took his teeth to make the fight
more sporting. I believe you need
eyes more than you need teeth
in a fight, but losing either makes
a bear a little less mean. Once baiting
was against the law, some smart
somebody figured coloreds fight
just as hard if hungry enough.
So they rounded up the skinniest
of us, had us strip to trousers, then
blindfolded us before the fight.
They turned us in hard circles a few
times on the ring steps like a motorcar
engine before pushing us between
the ropes. When the bell rang,
it seemed like I got hit from eight
directions. I didn't know where
those punches came from, but I swung
so hard my shoulder hasn't been right
since because the man said only
the last darky on his feet gets a meal.
Battle Royal
Back then, they'd chain a bear
in the middle of the bear garden
& let the dogs loose. Iron chains
around a bear's neck don't slow
him too much. A bear will always
make short work of a dog. Shakespeare
said Sackerson did it more than
twenty times to dogs & wildcats
alike. & since most creatures
are naturally afraid of bears, there
wouldn't always be much of a show
in the bear garden. So the handlers
sometimes put the bear's eyes out
or took his teeth to make the fight
more sporting. I believe you need
eyes more than you need teeth
in a fight, but losing either makes
a bear a little less mean. Once baiting
was against the law, some smart
somebody figured coloreds fight
just as hard if hungry enough.
So they rounded up the skinniest
of us, had us strip to trousers, then
blindfolded us before the fight.
They turned us in hard circles a few
times on the ring steps like a motorcar
engine before pushing us between
the ropes. When the bell rang,
it seemed like I got hit from eight
directions. I didn't know where
those punches came from, but I swung
so hard my shoulder hasn't been right
since because the man said only
the last darky on his feet gets a meal.
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Prize Fighter
I love horses because they will outrun the fastest man. They are majestic, as stately as a Saturday woman before a party. Horses smell like what it means to be fast: sweat & gravel kicked up on early morning runs. The in & out of breath like gravel in tired lungs. I groomed & raced horses from Texas to Philadelphia until one broke my leg bone with a back kick. Thanks to that break, I can't ride anymore. Even if I could, we've got these automobiles now that can carry us a mile in a minute & I'm buying the fastest one I can find once I get my money together. I'm like an automobile in the ring. My fists work like cranked-up engines. I've got the kind of elasticity other fighters dream about after I put them to sleep on the canvas. When I clinch a man, it's like being swaddled in forgiveness. When I hook a man, it's like being hit by frustration. I can't tell if horses are happy or confounded by the new means of locomotion, but I can say with certainty my prize fighting cohorts are decidedly dissatisfied by my presence. |
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From Mixology (Penguin USA, 2009)
Do the Right Thing
Spike Lee is so small I didn't even
see him at first, surrounded
by Black Expo goers like a gumdrop
in a fist. When I asked him to sign
my "Free South Africa" t-shirt,
he said, You didn't buy that at this
booth. Fresh off seeing Do the Right
Thing, I crowed: "What's that got
to do with your movies?" His fans
laughed, so he edited me like my name
was Pino: Why you care? You
ain't even black. Someone behind
me said, Damn, Spike. That ain't
right. But Spike's shamed scribble
on my t-shirt didn't change the missed
free throw feeling in my chest.
Do the Right Thing
Spike Lee is so small I didn't even
see him at first, surrounded
by Black Expo goers like a gumdrop
in a fist. When I asked him to sign
my "Free South Africa" t-shirt,
he said, You didn't buy that at this
booth. Fresh off seeing Do the Right
Thing, I crowed: "What's that got
to do with your movies?" His fans
laughed, so he edited me like my name
was Pino: Why you care? You
ain't even black. Someone behind
me said, Damn, Spike. That ain't
right. But Spike's shamed scribble
on my t-shirt didn't change the missed
free throw feeling in my chest.
From The Devil's Garden (Alice James Books, 2003)
English B
I had to be introduced to The Man.
He was around before 1977.
I just couldn't see him, like air
or welfare. My mom told me:
No matter what you do, the Man
is going to try and keep you down.
I already knew no one was keeping
me down. So when teacher asked
me to read from Kaleidoscopes,
I told her back off, white woman.
I'm not reading your books.
She laughed, but understood
when I threw my book, covers
flapping like man's first scraps
with gravity. Teacher realized
she wasn't keeping me down,
so I got sent to Remedial English.
When I looked up "remedial,"
the dictionary read: "The Man
questioning your authenticity."
Then I looked up "authenticity."
Dictionary definition: "Blackness."
So I was authentic and The Man
could keep his remedial. Problems
began when I realized my mom
was The Man, too: five feet
two inches, curling red afro,
white with power fist
in the air. Half-black, half-white
boy sitting on the stoop,
counting pieces of glass,
trying not to keep himself down.
English B
I had to be introduced to The Man.
He was around before 1977.
I just couldn't see him, like air
or welfare. My mom told me:
No matter what you do, the Man
is going to try and keep you down.
I already knew no one was keeping
me down. So when teacher asked
me to read from Kaleidoscopes,
I told her back off, white woman.
I'm not reading your books.
She laughed, but understood
when I threw my book, covers
flapping like man's first scraps
with gravity. Teacher realized
she wasn't keeping me down,
so I got sent to Remedial English.
When I looked up "remedial,"
the dictionary read: "The Man
questioning your authenticity."
Then I looked up "authenticity."
Dictionary definition: "Blackness."
So I was authentic and The Man
could keep his remedial. Problems
began when I realized my mom
was The Man, too: five feet
two inches, curling red afro,
white with power fist
in the air. Half-black, half-white
boy sitting on the stoop,
counting pieces of glass,
trying not to keep himself down.
Interview with Adrian Matejka
Adrian, the poems in your powerful new book, Map to the Stars, are set in 1980s Indianapolis. Could you talk about your experience growing up in Indy and why you chose to write about this portion of your life?
I wish it was a choice, Shari. I’ve always imagined myself to be the captain of my own poetry ship, but I learned it wasn’t true when I moved back to Indiana in 2012. It was as if these poems were waiting here for me. The catalyst for this book came from the complex experience of coming home after 20 years and trying to reconcile the smells and sights of Indianapolis now vs. the ones I remembered from my childhood here.
While specific places in Indianapolis appear throughout the book, so do planets and stars and references to Star Trek and Voyager 2. Please comment on the tension between what’s below and above.
Well, in the book I think the things that are above—those extraterrestrial possibilities, both real and fictitious —are symbols of hope and opportunity.
I was a big fan of the original Star Trek series, in part because questions of race were less important than questions of discovery and survival. Also, the characters had planetary identities. Spock was Vulcan, not Vulcan-American or something like that, and it wasn’t necessarily held against him.
So as a child, I was under the impression that outer space was an opportunity for equality while the terrestrial sphere was a place where, to borrow my mother’s phrase, the man would always try to keep me down.
As you relived your experiences through writing about them, what’s something you discovered which you might not have otherwise learned?
I think I realized just how much Indianapolis has influenced my world view. How the things I learned here about decorum and morality and friendship have helped me to make halfway decent choices in my life. It’s a weird thing, really, but almost all of the major choices I’ve made have been informed by a Midwestern point of view, one that values modesty over bombast and thoughtfulness over impulsiveness. I used to think I was some kind of impetuous artist and maybe I am a little reckless sometimes on the page. But in my day to day, I’m fairly buttoned up in my interactions and that’s something I learned here.
Your third book, The Big Smoke, is about the life of prize fighter Jack Johnson and consists entirely of persona poems, most of them in the voice of Johnson. What drew you to writing about this person? How did you prepare to write this book and what did you learn about writing through a historical persona?
I worked on TBS for eight years and three of those years were almost exclusively research. So much of what that book ended up becoming was the result of intense preparation and a willingness to subvert my poetic agendas in service of Jack Johnson’s fascinating biography.
I’m also a big boxing fan, mainly because of my mother. She grew up in Logansport before moving to Indianapolis and somehow became a fight fan along the way. She was the one who taught me about the action between the punches, and she also introduced me to Jack Johnson.
You include lots of references to music in your books—usually blues or rap, though in The Big Smoke, opera is important. What do you see as the relationship between music and poetry?
You know, I love music. It’s been one of the great constants in my life, through all of the struggles and minor successes. I’m actually listening to music while I’m doing this. Nick Drake’s song, “Pink Moon” just transitioned to Frank Ocean’s song “Chanel.”
Music is the great enabler of emotion because the sounds go straight from the voice box or piano string to the ear and then to the heart. That’s why it’s the closest to poetry of all of the arts. Both poetry and music rely on sound, patterns, and systems of invention to distill what Ben Okri called “the secret moments of our lives.”
What is your writing process like? And how do you know when a poem is finished?
My writing process changes from book to book and depends on the kinds of poems I’m trying to write. I start everything in a notebook, though, usually as fragments of images or interesting combinations of words. I use sketch pads so I can draw diagrams and pictures when I’m having trouble finding the words. I eventually go back to the fragments and try to open them up into the skeleton of a poem.
Picasso claimed that he never finished a painting because once it was finished, it was dead to him. I feel the same way about poems, but for different reasons. I have never finished a poem because there’s always more to learn and more work to be done. The reading copies of my books are all marked up with edits and revisions. It’s a way for me to remain actively engaged in the poems.
When did you first start writing poetry?
I didn’t start writing poems until college. In middle school, I was in a low-budget rap group with one of my best friends. I wrote terrible bars, though, so the group only lasted for about 6 months. Poetry reminded me of rap music, so I was drawn to it as soon as I was reintroduced to it at IU.
The day I knew I wanted to write poems seriously was the first time I heard Yusef Komunyakaa read. He read at a Bloomington coffee shop called the Runcible Spoon and he sounded like John Coltrane only with words instead of musical notes. It was transcendent.
What poets have most inspired you?
There are so many poets who have inspired me, but I’ll just give a few of the big ones: Gwendolyn Brooks, Lucille Clifton, Emily Dickinson, Robert Hayden, Yusef Komunyakaa, and James Wright. All very different kinds of poets, but they all make great music with words.
What advice do you frequently give to poets in your workshops at I.U.?
I try to get them to understand that poetry is difficult and the way we get better is by reading the masters. Poetry is for anyone who wants to try and write it, but it’s simply not possible to write good poems without reading good poems and learning the history and tradition of the art.
"Music is the great enabler of emotion because the sounds go straight from the voice box or piano string to the ear and then to the heart. That's why it's the closest to poetry of all of the arts." Adrian Matejka |
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March 2017
From the Gulf of Tonkin to Tahiti:
The Poetry of Elizabeth Weber
Elizabeth Weber holds a BA in German from the University of Minnesota, MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Montana, and a PhD in English from SUNY-Binghamton. She has published three collections of poetry, Small Mercies (Owl Creek Press), The Burning House (Main Street Rag) and Porthole Views: Watercolors and Poems on which she collaborated with artist Hazel Stoeckeler (Nodin Press). Her poem “City Generations” was chosen to be a permanent part of the Indianapolis Cultural Trail in 2010. Her poems have appeared in many literary magazines including Calyx, Verse, Kalliope, Puerto del Sol, as well as others. Her translations of poets Ingeborg Bachman and Sarah Kirsch have appeared in Kalliope and CutBank. Her essays and reviews have been published in CutBank, Prairie Schooner, The Human Tradition and The Vietnam War, Montana Magazine, and Consequence: An International Literary Journal Focusing on the Culture of War. She was a poet-in-the-schools-and-communities for the Montana Arts Council and the North Dakota Arts Council. She has taught at Western New Mexico University and the University of Nebraska. Currently, she is an associate professor at the University of Indianapolis where she teaches creative writing and co-directs the
Kellogg Writers Series.
From the Gulf of Tonkin to Tahiti:
The Poetry of Elizabeth Weber
Elizabeth Weber holds a BA in German from the University of Minnesota, MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Montana, and a PhD in English from SUNY-Binghamton. She has published three collections of poetry, Small Mercies (Owl Creek Press), The Burning House (Main Street Rag) and Porthole Views: Watercolors and Poems on which she collaborated with artist Hazel Stoeckeler (Nodin Press). Her poem “City Generations” was chosen to be a permanent part of the Indianapolis Cultural Trail in 2010. Her poems have appeared in many literary magazines including Calyx, Verse, Kalliope, Puerto del Sol, as well as others. Her translations of poets Ingeborg Bachman and Sarah Kirsch have appeared in Kalliope and CutBank. Her essays and reviews have been published in CutBank, Prairie Schooner, The Human Tradition and The Vietnam War, Montana Magazine, and Consequence: An International Literary Journal Focusing on the Culture of War. She was a poet-in-the-schools-and-communities for the Montana Arts Council and the North Dakota Arts Council. She has taught at Western New Mexico University and the University of Nebraska. Currently, she is an associate professor at the University of Indianapolis where she teaches creative writing and co-directs the
Kellogg Writers Series.
I've been a fan of Elizabeth Weber's poems for many years, admiring their
deft imagery, startling insights and irony, far-reaching empathy, and powerful
endings. I find the voice in her poems especially appealing. Though the language
is tightly-crafted, the voice is personable and natural.
In the interview that follows the poems, Elizabeth talks about her impetus to
imaginatively and compassionately envision "the other"--even when that other is
the soldier who killed her brother during the Vietnam War. She talks about why
she is drawn to writing persona poems and how she was able to write about
places she has never personally visited in her most recent book, Porthole Views
of the World. You'll find her favorite prompt, as well as why she decided to enter
the Indiana Master Naturalist program.
When it comes to Elizabeth's poems, I have a lot of favorites. One of these that
I didn't have room for here, "Just Like Real Life," can be found on the Indiana
Humanities website. Click here to read it!
deft imagery, startling insights and irony, far-reaching empathy, and powerful
endings. I find the voice in her poems especially appealing. Though the language
is tightly-crafted, the voice is personable and natural.
In the interview that follows the poems, Elizabeth talks about her impetus to
imaginatively and compassionately envision "the other"--even when that other is
the soldier who killed her brother during the Vietnam War. She talks about why
she is drawn to writing persona poems and how she was able to write about
places she has never personally visited in her most recent book, Porthole Views
of the World. You'll find her favorite prompt, as well as why she decided to enter
the Indiana Master Naturalist program.
When it comes to Elizabeth's poems, I have a lot of favorites. One of these that
I didn't have room for here, "Just Like Real Life," can be found on the Indiana
Humanities website. Click here to read it!
Hazel Stoeckeler, an associate professor emerita of Design, the University of
Minnesota, has murals in the university's Green Hall, Forest Resource Department,
and Ligno Tech Norway of Rothschild, Wisconsin. Her paintings and sketches have
been in many exhibitions and are in various collections including the Minnesota
Historical Society, University of Minnesota Archives and Libraries, and Vesterheim
Norwegian-American Museum, Decorah, Iowa. Since retiring, she has lectured
for Augsburg's College of the Third Age and Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at
the University of Minnesota about the history and culture of the places she visited
during her extensive travels.
Watercolor by Hazel Thorson Stoick Stoeckeler
From Porthole Views of the World (Nodin Press, 2008)
Landscape: Alice Springs, Australia 1991
The Arrernte called it Mparntwe--
place of dreaming caterpillars
that died, became mountains,
and spread their colors across the sky.
You say Alice Springs, Bush country, MacDonnell Mountains,
build slim houses, golf courses, familiar green,
call geckos and dingoes trespassers.
Heat owns this land. Look how it does what it wants,
burns its colors into you, fills you,
until you can't remember who or what you are.
Mparntwe, place of a thousand voices,
place of caterpillars and dreams,
you wish you could put your ear to it,
but the ground is on fire.
Landscape: Alice Springs, Australia 1991
The Arrernte called it Mparntwe--
place of dreaming caterpillars
that died, became mountains,
and spread their colors across the sky.
You say Alice Springs, Bush country, MacDonnell Mountains,
build slim houses, golf courses, familiar green,
call geckos and dingoes trespassers.
Heat owns this land. Look how it does what it wants,
burns its colors into you, fills you,
until you can't remember who or what you are.
Mparntwe, place of a thousand voices,
place of caterpillars and dreams,
you wish you could put your ear to it,
but the ground is on fire.
Watercolor by Hazel Thorson Stoick Stoeckeler
Tropical View: Papeete, Tahiti 1991
This is the view Gauguin had before he went:
Watery greens and blues so lush they melt off the page,
the enticing Tahiti of breadfruit and mangoes,
of flamboyant red-browed firetails and ultramarine lorikeets,
of dark-skinned nymphs in blue or red-flowered sarongs
or nothing but flowers.
"All fresh and blooming from the hand of the creator,"
Melville put it, or according to Bougainville,
"Arcadia of the South Seas."
This is not the view where women were sent to ships
in return for peace and European goods,
not the Tahiti of Jack London filled with corruption and disease,
or the one where Gauguin's fourteen-year-old mistress fled
terrified of his syphilitic sores.
This is the view Gauguin had before he went:
Watery greens and blues so lush they melt off the page,
the enticing Tahiti of breadfruit and mangoes,
of flamboyant red-browed firetails and ultramarine lorikeets,
of dark-skinned nymphs in blue or red-flowered sarongs
or nothing but flowers.
"All fresh and blooming from the hand of the creator,"
Melville put it, or according to Bougainville,
"Arcadia of the South Seas."
This is not the view where women were sent to ships
in return for peace and European goods,
not the Tahiti of Jack London filled with corruption and disease,
or the one where Gauguin's fourteen-year-old mistress fled
terrified of his syphilitic sores.
Watercolor by Hazel Thorson Stoick Stoeckeler
Halong Bay: Gulf of Tonkin, Vietnam 2001
Traditional junks sail among grottos
created by wind and waves
where the dragon descends into the sea,
its tail flailing as it falls, gouging out
shark fin-shaped crags and caves.
Local sailors believe a monster, the Taresque,
lives beneath this lapis-colored sea,
left from legends, shadow and fog.
And will take any tourist for enough dong.
Tourists want to believe in the monster,
in the dragon's tail, anything besides real life
which waits for them back home. The government believes
in spy boats, as governments always do,
sent by imperialists.
I believe in the junk that sails among these shark fin crags.
I believe in wind and wave
and peace.
Traditional junks sail among grottos
created by wind and waves
where the dragon descends into the sea,
its tail flailing as it falls, gouging out
shark fin-shaped crags and caves.
Local sailors believe a monster, the Taresque,
lives beneath this lapis-colored sea,
left from legends, shadow and fog.
And will take any tourist for enough dong.
Tourists want to believe in the monster,
in the dragon's tail, anything besides real life
which waits for them back home. The government believes
in spy boats, as governments always do,
sent by imperialists.
I believe in the junk that sails among these shark fin crags.
I believe in wind and wave
and peace.
Photo by Shari Wagner
The Burning House (Main Street Rag, 2005)
Milkweed
The silky husk broken open
by the cold Fall sun twitches
like the ear of a horse in the breeze.
Its seeds--small paratroopers--
scatter into the landscape.
This is my body blown open,
split apart. I lie in its dark
pod listening to wind and rain.
I am the seed of my grandmothers,
my mother. Their burst bodies
gave me, give me life.
What seeds lie in my body ripening
as I dry into old age
to burst forth into the earth
when I die to rise again,
tiny whirlwinds of light
against the great roll of the prairie?
Milkweed
The silky husk broken open
by the cold Fall sun twitches
like the ear of a horse in the breeze.
Its seeds--small paratroopers--
scatter into the landscape.
This is my body blown open,
split apart. I lie in its dark
pod listening to wind and rain.
I am the seed of my grandmothers,
my mother. Their burst bodies
gave me, give me life.
What seeds lie in my body ripening
as I dry into old age
to burst forth into the earth
when I die to rise again,
tiny whirlwinds of light
against the great roll of the prairie?
Photo of the Indiana Dunes by Elizabeth Weber
The Gila Cliff Dwellings
Below me willows whisper like old men
turning away from the hearth fire
to darkness and prayer.
I imagine sleeping in one of these earth sunk rooms
bowled out to fit my body
under the wings of this cliff.
The cries of swallows sound like children
flashing quick bodies on the pitch below this path.
And here by this round hole, this crumbled archway
my hands grind corn to flour.
I watch the sun turn the shadows
to witches who walk the earth
ready to poison the body with cold arrows.
Why wasn't I born into this life
where the stillborn become sparrows
I lay out grain for all winter long?
I curl, a half moon,
next to my husband on a dirt floor
and take in the thin warmth of his body
that could disperse like wood smoke.
Coyotes howl in the ravine below, shaman spirits
luring me out to claim my soul.
What is this life to me where rain falls
and does not fall, corn grows and does not grow,
and babies sicken and die like so many juniper berries in frost?
Below me willows whisper like old men
turning away from the hearth fire
to darkness and prayer.
I imagine sleeping in one of these earth sunk rooms
bowled out to fit my body
under the wings of this cliff.
The cries of swallows sound like children
flashing quick bodies on the pitch below this path.
And here by this round hole, this crumbled archway
my hands grind corn to flour.
I watch the sun turn the shadows
to witches who walk the earth
ready to poison the body with cold arrows.
Why wasn't I born into this life
where the stillborn become sparrows
I lay out grain for all winter long?
I curl, a half moon,
next to my husband on a dirt floor
and take in the thin warmth of his body
that could disperse like wood smoke.
Coyotes howl in the ravine below, shaman spirits
luring me out to claim my soul.
What is this life to me where rain falls
and does not fall, corn grows and does not grow,
and babies sicken and die like so many juniper berries in frost?
Photo of a door in Hoi An by Elizabeth Weber
To the Person Who Stole My Billfold
Take it, its yours.
Good luck with the zipper that never opened,
and the pockets that never held enough.
Take the fifteen dollars, my video card,
my sports club card, my Visa card,
and my bank card that never carried enough
cash to satisfy me. Take my faculty ID,
my burdens, my dreams, and my driver's license
with the picture that showed some old woman
who said she was me.
Thief, I try to imagine you:
twenty, stocky, dark hair,
you wear a blue down jacket
(it's cold outside), you're male
in my picture (theft has a gender).
As I write this, are you running your dirty fingers
over my face and name?
Are you deciding that I am silly or old,
ugly or stupid? Are you counting
the fifteen dollars I had to get me to Friday
and making jokes to your friends
about what a cheap bitch I am
or cursing me for not having more?
Did I know you?
Did you watch me leave my office,
carry my coffee cup in my right hand
as I headed for the 2nd floor coffee machine?
Or did you just happen to open my door
and walk in and find my billfold
neglected and forlorn on my desk?
Did you feel pride--a good day's work--
as I do when I finish a particularly good poem?
Thief, I have stolen your life, taken you
and your crime, written you here,
and made you mine, in a way you
can never make me yours.
Take it, its yours.
Good luck with the zipper that never opened,
and the pockets that never held enough.
Take the fifteen dollars, my video card,
my sports club card, my Visa card,
and my bank card that never carried enough
cash to satisfy me. Take my faculty ID,
my burdens, my dreams, and my driver's license
with the picture that showed some old woman
who said she was me.
Thief, I try to imagine you:
twenty, stocky, dark hair,
you wear a blue down jacket
(it's cold outside), you're male
in my picture (theft has a gender).
As I write this, are you running your dirty fingers
over my face and name?
Are you deciding that I am silly or old,
ugly or stupid? Are you counting
the fifteen dollars I had to get me to Friday
and making jokes to your friends
about what a cheap bitch I am
or cursing me for not having more?
Did I know you?
Did you watch me leave my office,
carry my coffee cup in my right hand
as I headed for the 2nd floor coffee machine?
Or did you just happen to open my door
and walk in and find my billfold
neglected and forlorn on my desk?
Did you feel pride--a good day's work--
as I do when I finish a particularly good poem?
Thief, I have stolen your life, taken you
and your crime, written you here,
and made you mine, in a way you
can never make me yours.
Photo of a street scene in Hanoi by Elizabeth Weber
Myth
Tonight I am creating
the killer of my brother.
I am reading a Smithsonian article
on Vietnam and looking at a picture
of a freelance photographer
on the shore of Hoan Kien Lake in Hanoi.
Five blurred men surround him
and only he smiles.
He could be my brother's age,
thirty-nine. He could have been
in Chu Lai on February 12, 1968.
He could have waited with a gun in a tree
near a rice paddy and watched
a line of stupid Americans
walk into view on a dike.
He could have aimed his gun at the one
who carried the radio
and seen not a man like himself
with fears and loves, but
a radio, a gun, an obstacle and
thought radio, kill, fire!
All day this man has worked by the lake
and stopped tourists who look
at the dun-colored water
or lean against the trees
to rest and look at what they've bought.
He's made 1,000 dong
and watched fifty people
feed bored ducks.
He walks home through gritty streets,
the day cool with a slight drizzle.
Hawkers call to him
to buy American t.v.'s,
radios--dreams
he can't afford. He walks
and feels the earth go automatic
under his feet.
Home, a daughter comes to greet
him after her bath.
Her skin is wet on his skin
and clothes as she
climbs into his lap
and he holds her.
He has won this moment
with his daughter in his home
where no bullets stir the leaves
in the ginkgo trees outside.
He has survived.
I want to ask him how it was that day.
I want his daughter to listen
to him explain how the bullets entered
my brother's body
and exploded, and how what we hold inside
is torn irrevocably apart.
I want this, and I don't want it.
I want his daughter in his lap.
I want the trees outside still.
I want him to pick up a book
about the creation of the world.
I want her to fall asleep
to the sound of his voice,
telling how near a high plateau
over the Muang Ten River,
the Moon became the wife
of the Morning Star, and they gave birth
to the human race
whose dead children become stars
and how glorious it was
on the first day on this earth
in the beginning.
Tonight I am creating
the killer of my brother.
I am reading a Smithsonian article
on Vietnam and looking at a picture
of a freelance photographer
on the shore of Hoan Kien Lake in Hanoi.
Five blurred men surround him
and only he smiles.
He could be my brother's age,
thirty-nine. He could have been
in Chu Lai on February 12, 1968.
He could have waited with a gun in a tree
near a rice paddy and watched
a line of stupid Americans
walk into view on a dike.
He could have aimed his gun at the one
who carried the radio
and seen not a man like himself
with fears and loves, but
a radio, a gun, an obstacle and
thought radio, kill, fire!
All day this man has worked by the lake
and stopped tourists who look
at the dun-colored water
or lean against the trees
to rest and look at what they've bought.
He's made 1,000 dong
and watched fifty people
feed bored ducks.
He walks home through gritty streets,
the day cool with a slight drizzle.
Hawkers call to him
to buy American t.v.'s,
radios--dreams
he can't afford. He walks
and feels the earth go automatic
under his feet.
Home, a daughter comes to greet
him after her bath.
Her skin is wet on his skin
and clothes as she
climbs into his lap
and he holds her.
He has won this moment
with his daughter in his home
where no bullets stir the leaves
in the ginkgo trees outside.
He has survived.
I want to ask him how it was that day.
I want his daughter to listen
to him explain how the bullets entered
my brother's body
and exploded, and how what we hold inside
is torn irrevocably apart.
I want this, and I don't want it.
I want his daughter in his lap.
I want the trees outside still.
I want him to pick up a book
about the creation of the world.
I want her to fall asleep
to the sound of his voice,
telling how near a high plateau
over the Muang Ten River,
the Moon became the wife
of the Morning Star, and they gave birth
to the human race
whose dead children become stars
and how glorious it was
on the first day on this earth
in the beginning.
William Weber (1947-1968)
From Small Mercies (Owl Creek Press, 1983)
In the Outfield
in memory of William Weber (1947-1968)
1
Across the street
one light is left
in a restaurant. A girl
rubs the counter so mold
won't grow. I watch her
like a sniper. She cleans
everything once
and her heart is like mine.
One shot and she would fall
like the cloth she holds.
The light goes out--no light,
no girl, no heart.
2
I don't know how
it was that day.
Perhaps the sniper sat
while the world throbbed into place.
Perhaps, brother,
butterflies swarmed in your eyes.
The sniper went to the heart:
He pulled the trigger.
It was all he could do.
The thin beat you heard
in your ears was just that--
blood that stops in a second
and turns black in the air.
3
Dear Bill, the monarchs swarmed
without you this September.
Goldenrods blazed.
All I could do was stand
in the outfield and watch them
explode in the sky.
In the Outfield
in memory of William Weber (1947-1968)
1
Across the street
one light is left
in a restaurant. A girl
rubs the counter so mold
won't grow. I watch her
like a sniper. She cleans
everything once
and her heart is like mine.
One shot and she would fall
like the cloth she holds.
The light goes out--no light,
no girl, no heart.
2
I don't know how
it was that day.
Perhaps the sniper sat
while the world throbbed into place.
Perhaps, brother,
butterflies swarmed in your eyes.
The sniper went to the heart:
He pulled the trigger.
It was all he could do.
The thin beat you heard
in your ears was just that--
blood that stops in a second
and turns black in the air.
3
Dear Bill, the monarchs swarmed
without you this September.
Goldenrods blazed.
All I could do was stand
in the outfield and watch them
explode in the sky.
Elizabeth's father looking across the Song Diem Diem River, where William was killed. Photo by Elizabeth Weber
Letter to Abiah from Emily
Since the world is hollow and dollie's stuffed with sawdust . . .
--Emily Dickinson
It was a great while
since you last wrote. I remember
the snows were falling.
Now leaves push out.
Are not leaves the brethren
of snows?
I don't think there will be any sunshine
or singing birds this spring.
Time seems to be growing.
I am a grandame braiding my silver hair,
you a child on a rocking horse.
We are very small, Abiah,
we grow still smaller
in this insect life.
We talk like strangers.
You are wise and nip your fancies.
I let them blossom to bear
no fruit, or perhaps to turn bitter.
The shore is safe, it's true,
but I love to buffet the sea,
and count bitter wrecks
in these pleasant blue waters--
but oh, the water
cataracts, winds
murmuring in my ear. I know
the butterfly,
the insect, the orchid.
We don't have jokes here now,
or poetry--Father has made up his mind
all is real life. I break
on the shore of father's real life, my body
so cold no fire can warm it.
Out on a line white dresses
hang like a banner. Where
do people get the strength
to put on their clothes in the morning?
A sudden light in the orchards--
I think the skies are in blossom.
My friends the hills,
the sundowns, and a dog
as large as myself
know but do not tell:
A horse travels like a bird in the soul.
God will grant me peace,
but love you more.
Since the world is hollow and dollie's stuffed with sawdust . . .
--Emily Dickinson
It was a great while
since you last wrote. I remember
the snows were falling.
Now leaves push out.
Are not leaves the brethren
of snows?
I don't think there will be any sunshine
or singing birds this spring.
Time seems to be growing.
I am a grandame braiding my silver hair,
you a child on a rocking horse.
We are very small, Abiah,
we grow still smaller
in this insect life.
We talk like strangers.
You are wise and nip your fancies.
I let them blossom to bear
no fruit, or perhaps to turn bitter.
The shore is safe, it's true,
but I love to buffet the sea,
and count bitter wrecks
in these pleasant blue waters--
but oh, the water
cataracts, winds
murmuring in my ear. I know
the butterfly,
the insect, the orchid.
We don't have jokes here now,
or poetry--Father has made up his mind
all is real life. I break
on the shore of father's real life, my body
so cold no fire can warm it.
Out on a line white dresses
hang like a banner. Where
do people get the strength
to put on their clothes in the morning?
A sudden light in the orchards--
I think the skies are in blossom.
My friends the hills,
the sundowns, and a dog
as large as myself
know but do not tell:
A horse travels like a bird in the soul.
God will grant me peace,
but love you more.
Interview with Elizabeth Weber
Elizabeth, when did you first start writing poetry?
I wrote my first poem when I was 13. My 8th grade English teacher said we could write a poem instead of an essay, and so I wrote a poem. I got a “B” on it. I think of it as my “B” poem. I started keeping a poetry journal when I was seventeen.
In many of your poems a speaker vividly imagines someone at a distance—for instance, an ancestor, a miscarried child, a thief, or even the Vietnamese soldier who killed her brother. Could you speak about your impetus to imaginatively reach out to envision “the other”?
I started writing persona poems because there were topics that were too close to me that I couldn’t write about directly—my brother’s death in Vietnam, a miscarriage I had, a fiancé’s struggle with multiple sclerosis and others. When I wrote directly about them, the poems came out too sentimental or I got blocked. I studied with Richard Hugo at the University of Montana and he told us that “you owed the truth about your feelings everything and reality nothing.” He also said that the less you know about a subject the better because then your poems were not circumscribed by facts. He wrote poems in which towns he visited triggered poems that weren’t so much about the towns but were more about him or subjects that were dear to him.
So I tried doing the same thing. In my case, I wrote persona poems about places I’d never been to before. It was a way to get my imagination to open up. For instance, “In the Village of Chakala” came from stories my ex-husband told me about a village in Mexico that he stayed in for a month. I think there really was a man named Santos who he met, but the rest I made up. I hadn’t even been to Mexico at the time. Another poem in Small Mercies, “September Closing” is also entirely made up, but it reflects my feelings about the divorce I was going through at the time. Another poem I wrote “The Gila Cliff Dwelling” came because I was fascinated that people would build homes in such a precarious place as a cliff side. One slip and that was it. I tried to imagine the mentality of the people who would build there. But again, I assert my own feelings at the end when I write, “What is this life to me where…/ babies sicken and die like so many juniper berries in the frost?” I had been living with a man who was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and was told he was going to die. First he was running marathons and then he was dying.
But I’m also just interested in the why of things and people around me. Why did this happen? What must it have been like to live here? Why would a person do a thing like that? How might a person who lived here have felt?
I also felt as if I was writing for those who did not have a voice or whose voices were marginalized for whatever reason. For instance, a poem called “The Wind Taking My Name” came from my reading a number of books about those who pioneered in the prairies of Minnesota and the Dakotas. What must it have been like for them in such an alien place? I admit I grew up in prairie country, in the northern country, and for a time lived out on the plains of northwestern Minnesota, where I almost got lost in a blizzard and it was so cold there was a puddle of frozen water in my bathtub.
Your poem, “Myth,” begins with, “Tonight I am creating / the killer of my brother.” I know that you did have an older brother who died in the Vietnam War. Did writing this poem bring a measure of healing? How has your brother’s death affected you and your writing?
Yes, the poem did bring me a measure of healing. I had and still have some anger over my brother’s death. I started out writing the poem in anger. Why did that man survive and my brother not? At the time I had not been to Vietnam (I traveled there in 1996), so I had to imagine everything. I guess that is how writing about others helps. It allows me to view the world from the eyes of others. Once I do that it becomes harder for me to hate or condemn another person. So I end the poem on healing, hope, and love with the image of the killer of my brother holding his daughter on his lap and telling these wonderful Southeast Asian myths. My hope is that in telling these wonderful myths the man is instilling love and peace into his daughter, which will allow her to go into the world whole, without the need for violence.
I should mention that when I write about places and people, I do research. So in this case after reading the Smithsonian article, I also researched Hanoi and Southeast Asian myths. I also had researched how my brother died.
I have many poems about my brother, Bill; some have been published some have not. I admit I am not very good about sending my poems out to be published. I also have written a memoir about Bill’s death and how it might have been one of the factors that impelled the soldiers in his company to commit atrocities and massacre the villagers in My Lai on March 16, 1968. Bill was killed February 12, 1968 and I have read the commanding officers told soldiers in his company that going into My Lai that day was a way to “get one back for Weber.” I have read accounts that have soldiers killing and raping while thinking “This is for Weber.” You can’t imagine what that has done to me.
I was raised in a home where we were to think of others. If my father caught us fighting, he would say, “How can you kids fight? Don’t you know there is a war going on in Korea, people are killing each other? Why can’t you get along?” He wouldn’t even let us watch television shows that contained violence; “shoot ‘em up, beat ‘em shows” he called them. “How can you watch that stuff?” Because he was a professor at the University of Minnesota, he also invited graduate students sometimes with their families from all over the world over for dinner, particularly during holidays. So we met people from China, Turkey, India, etc. It was drilled into us that all people were equal, all people were good. We were never to look down on anyone because of culture, religion, race, class or nationality.
Do you have any thoughts on how poetry can be an instrument for peace in the world?
When I was around twenty, I read a book by Albert Camus, Neither the Victims nor Executioners, which profoundly influenced my worldview. In it he says, “To come to terms, one must understand what fear means: what it implies and what it rejects. It implies and rejects the same fact: a world where murder is legitimate, and where human life is considered trifling.” Somewhere in the book, he also said, we need to imagine our enemy’s fear, we need to imagine our enemy alone and dying. Something like that. I may have added that in my own mind. But I wrote a poem, “The Tarantula,” with Camus’ book in mind. The poem is about an encounter with a tarantula while I was walking in New Mexico. I’m deathly afraid of spiders. I end the poem:
Watching us watch it,
its eyes give back no light.
I want to lie down and stroke
its golden belly. I want to know
the fear that cowers behind its eyes
and the dark hunger
that aches in it. I want to imagine
the death of the tarantula, solitary
and dumb in the wilderness and know
that death is mine.
Perhaps the reason I write persona poems or about places I’ve never been to has to do with getting inside others’ head and culture. Perhaps it goes back to my belief that if I can see inside another’s head, then I can empathize with them. It is giving voice to others. If we empathize, how then can we do harm?
In Porthole Views of the World many of the poems speak to the history of indigenous people, their myths, and relationship to the land. Have you felt influenced by any particular Native American poets? Have any particular tribal myths or beliefs been important to you?
I am interested in peoples’ relationship to the land. Landscape helps form us. I grew up in northern prairie country. My father’s family were and are farmers. When visiting my grandparents, my father and I would drive out into the country with my grandfather to look at other farmers’ fields. He would pick up the soil, look at it, feel it, sometimes in admiration and sometimes in pity. “Mahar is going to have a bad crop this year. Look at all those weeds.” My grandfather also had rules about killing birds. (I admit, I shot birds as a kid.) We were to look at the birds according to what they did for the land. Swallows ate insects and were not to be touched. House sparrows ate the grain and were fair game. Robins ate earthworms, which tilled the soil. But his connection to the land stayed with me. I cannot see myself as separate from it. I see it as alive--soil, rocks, all. So I don’t know if this comes from indigenous peoples’ relationship to the land or my ancestors. I was taught to foretell weather by how the animals and insects were acting.
As for myths, when I was a child, my mother read myths to me at bedtime, mostly Greek and Roman myths, but she also had books on Native American myths, and American frontier myths. I love myths and fairytales.
When I was writing the poems for Porthole Views of the World, I noticed that places became more important to people if there were stories attached them. I began to wonder why. So in one of the poems, “Cape Horn: Chile, 1998” I write: “These myths we make up to ease our fright…/to show we aren’t totally lost.” I found that I wanted to make up stories about these places. I realized this while writing “Hvalsey Ruins: Greenland 2002,” which is about a painting showing the rubble of stones in circles and walls. The place is lovely, but as I write, “[I]t’s not the buntings or redpolls / hopping among the ruins that call to you. / You like a good story.”
The poems in Porthole Views of the World were written to accompany watercolor paintings by Hazel Stoeckeler, but they’re so wonderfully rendered that they also stand by themselves. What did you learn about writing ekphrastic poems as you were doing this project?
First, I had a great time writing these poems. It was more fun writing them than getting them published. This is one large lesson I've learned about writing. The writing in itself is the joy. I had to do a lot research for the book. The poems you see in the book are a quarter of the length of the unedited poem. Each poem, Hazel and I decided, had to be postcard sized. Her watercolors were painted on postcard-sized sheets. So I also learned a lot about editing and condensing. I had to leave a lot of interesting facts and lines out.
What also struck me when I researched these places was how the names changed. Some places even today have two names, the Falklands versus the Malvinas. Names depended on who was in power. I learned that the power to name is a formidable power. It is an erasure of what came before. I address this in the poem, “Landscape Alice Springs, Australia, 1991.” Renaming Mparntwe “Alice Springs” denies the indigenous Arrente ever lived there. We did the same thing in the United States with place names; Denali became Mount McKinley. Renaming as conquest.
In writing these poems, I had to keep a number of different things in mind. First, they were written in reaction to paintings about places. So I had to first look at the paintings and see what images or feelings they evoked in me. When I saw the painting about Alice Springs, I immediately got the image “Heat owns this land.”
I also had to think of the places that these poems were about. Hazel supplied me with her notes about the places, but I also did extensive research about each place. Most of the places I have never visited.
I also looked at other ekphrastic poems to see what had been done before. I noticed that some stood on their own (which is what I tried to do), but for some like Williams Carlos Williams' “The Great Figure 5,” one really needed the painting to get the full effect.
I know that you recently studied with the Indiana Master Naturalist program sponsored by the DNR and put in volunteer hours at the Ornithology Center at Eagle Creek Park. Why did you decide to do this? Has this experience had an effect on your poetry?
I majored in biology as an undergraduate. If I hadn’t been obsessed with poetry, I probably would have become a naturalist. I started volunteering as a way to give back to the community, to learn more about birds, and also to counter all the intellectual work I do as a university professor. Volunteering at the Ornithology Center has been a wonderful learning experience and I’m not just talking about learning about birds! I’ve also learned quite a bit about people. Talking about birds and nature binds us together. I find myself talking about birds and natural history with persons of all sorts of different backgrounds and ages. I don’t know what effect this will have on poetry. Maybe I’ll start writing essays about the experience!
What advice do you commonly give beginning poets in your creative writing classes at the University of Indianapolis?
My first piece of advice is to read all the poetry you can. Students in my classes keep a writer's log, in which they have to read a group of poems by a poet each week and write a response. Find poets whose work you love and look at what they do to make you love their work. Also focus on imagery. Many of my poems come from an image that won’t go away. For instance, I was telling my poetry class the other day my poem “January” came from the line, “There were times I felt like snow / melting against his skin.” I will pick subjects to write about, but those subjects are concrete--a person, a situation, a place. I write about these places to explore my feelings. Consequently, when I write, I don’t have an ending in mind. I think it was E.M. Forster who said, “How do I know what I think until I’ve written about it?”
Do you have a favorite poetry prompt you give them?
There is a poem by Carolyn Forché called “As Children Together.” It is, in a sense, an epistolary poem. You can find a copy of it at http://mypage.siu.edu/puglove/together.htm. I have my students use this as a model for their own poem to write about a friend or relative who is no longer physically present. They need to put in details about what they did with the person, where they lived (be specific), what the weather was like, what dreams they had, loves or hates they had, where they are now, what wishes they have for that person.
Please share with us your five favorite places in Indianapolis.
Eagle Creek Park remains my favorite place. The west side is more wild than the east side. I also like Holliday Park. The downtown canal area. Fort Harrison State Park. The Monon Trail.
Elizabeth, when did you first start writing poetry?
I wrote my first poem when I was 13. My 8th grade English teacher said we could write a poem instead of an essay, and so I wrote a poem. I got a “B” on it. I think of it as my “B” poem. I started keeping a poetry journal when I was seventeen.
In many of your poems a speaker vividly imagines someone at a distance—for instance, an ancestor, a miscarried child, a thief, or even the Vietnamese soldier who killed her brother. Could you speak about your impetus to imaginatively reach out to envision “the other”?
I started writing persona poems because there were topics that were too close to me that I couldn’t write about directly—my brother’s death in Vietnam, a miscarriage I had, a fiancé’s struggle with multiple sclerosis and others. When I wrote directly about them, the poems came out too sentimental or I got blocked. I studied with Richard Hugo at the University of Montana and he told us that “you owed the truth about your feelings everything and reality nothing.” He also said that the less you know about a subject the better because then your poems were not circumscribed by facts. He wrote poems in which towns he visited triggered poems that weren’t so much about the towns but were more about him or subjects that were dear to him.
So I tried doing the same thing. In my case, I wrote persona poems about places I’d never been to before. It was a way to get my imagination to open up. For instance, “In the Village of Chakala” came from stories my ex-husband told me about a village in Mexico that he stayed in for a month. I think there really was a man named Santos who he met, but the rest I made up. I hadn’t even been to Mexico at the time. Another poem in Small Mercies, “September Closing” is also entirely made up, but it reflects my feelings about the divorce I was going through at the time. Another poem I wrote “The Gila Cliff Dwelling” came because I was fascinated that people would build homes in such a precarious place as a cliff side. One slip and that was it. I tried to imagine the mentality of the people who would build there. But again, I assert my own feelings at the end when I write, “What is this life to me where…/ babies sicken and die like so many juniper berries in the frost?” I had been living with a man who was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and was told he was going to die. First he was running marathons and then he was dying.
But I’m also just interested in the why of things and people around me. Why did this happen? What must it have been like to live here? Why would a person do a thing like that? How might a person who lived here have felt?
I also felt as if I was writing for those who did not have a voice or whose voices were marginalized for whatever reason. For instance, a poem called “The Wind Taking My Name” came from my reading a number of books about those who pioneered in the prairies of Minnesota and the Dakotas. What must it have been like for them in such an alien place? I admit I grew up in prairie country, in the northern country, and for a time lived out on the plains of northwestern Minnesota, where I almost got lost in a blizzard and it was so cold there was a puddle of frozen water in my bathtub.
Your poem, “Myth,” begins with, “Tonight I am creating / the killer of my brother.” I know that you did have an older brother who died in the Vietnam War. Did writing this poem bring a measure of healing? How has your brother’s death affected you and your writing?
Yes, the poem did bring me a measure of healing. I had and still have some anger over my brother’s death. I started out writing the poem in anger. Why did that man survive and my brother not? At the time I had not been to Vietnam (I traveled there in 1996), so I had to imagine everything. I guess that is how writing about others helps. It allows me to view the world from the eyes of others. Once I do that it becomes harder for me to hate or condemn another person. So I end the poem on healing, hope, and love with the image of the killer of my brother holding his daughter on his lap and telling these wonderful Southeast Asian myths. My hope is that in telling these wonderful myths the man is instilling love and peace into his daughter, which will allow her to go into the world whole, without the need for violence.
I should mention that when I write about places and people, I do research. So in this case after reading the Smithsonian article, I also researched Hanoi and Southeast Asian myths. I also had researched how my brother died.
I have many poems about my brother, Bill; some have been published some have not. I admit I am not very good about sending my poems out to be published. I also have written a memoir about Bill’s death and how it might have been one of the factors that impelled the soldiers in his company to commit atrocities and massacre the villagers in My Lai on March 16, 1968. Bill was killed February 12, 1968 and I have read the commanding officers told soldiers in his company that going into My Lai that day was a way to “get one back for Weber.” I have read accounts that have soldiers killing and raping while thinking “This is for Weber.” You can’t imagine what that has done to me.
I was raised in a home where we were to think of others. If my father caught us fighting, he would say, “How can you kids fight? Don’t you know there is a war going on in Korea, people are killing each other? Why can’t you get along?” He wouldn’t even let us watch television shows that contained violence; “shoot ‘em up, beat ‘em shows” he called them. “How can you watch that stuff?” Because he was a professor at the University of Minnesota, he also invited graduate students sometimes with their families from all over the world over for dinner, particularly during holidays. So we met people from China, Turkey, India, etc. It was drilled into us that all people were equal, all people were good. We were never to look down on anyone because of culture, religion, race, class or nationality.
Do you have any thoughts on how poetry can be an instrument for peace in the world?
When I was around twenty, I read a book by Albert Camus, Neither the Victims nor Executioners, which profoundly influenced my worldview. In it he says, “To come to terms, one must understand what fear means: what it implies and what it rejects. It implies and rejects the same fact: a world where murder is legitimate, and where human life is considered trifling.” Somewhere in the book, he also said, we need to imagine our enemy’s fear, we need to imagine our enemy alone and dying. Something like that. I may have added that in my own mind. But I wrote a poem, “The Tarantula,” with Camus’ book in mind. The poem is about an encounter with a tarantula while I was walking in New Mexico. I’m deathly afraid of spiders. I end the poem:
Watching us watch it,
its eyes give back no light.
I want to lie down and stroke
its golden belly. I want to know
the fear that cowers behind its eyes
and the dark hunger
that aches in it. I want to imagine
the death of the tarantula, solitary
and dumb in the wilderness and know
that death is mine.
Perhaps the reason I write persona poems or about places I’ve never been to has to do with getting inside others’ head and culture. Perhaps it goes back to my belief that if I can see inside another’s head, then I can empathize with them. It is giving voice to others. If we empathize, how then can we do harm?
In Porthole Views of the World many of the poems speak to the history of indigenous people, their myths, and relationship to the land. Have you felt influenced by any particular Native American poets? Have any particular tribal myths or beliefs been important to you?
I am interested in peoples’ relationship to the land. Landscape helps form us. I grew up in northern prairie country. My father’s family were and are farmers. When visiting my grandparents, my father and I would drive out into the country with my grandfather to look at other farmers’ fields. He would pick up the soil, look at it, feel it, sometimes in admiration and sometimes in pity. “Mahar is going to have a bad crop this year. Look at all those weeds.” My grandfather also had rules about killing birds. (I admit, I shot birds as a kid.) We were to look at the birds according to what they did for the land. Swallows ate insects and were not to be touched. House sparrows ate the grain and were fair game. Robins ate earthworms, which tilled the soil. But his connection to the land stayed with me. I cannot see myself as separate from it. I see it as alive--soil, rocks, all. So I don’t know if this comes from indigenous peoples’ relationship to the land or my ancestors. I was taught to foretell weather by how the animals and insects were acting.
As for myths, when I was a child, my mother read myths to me at bedtime, mostly Greek and Roman myths, but she also had books on Native American myths, and American frontier myths. I love myths and fairytales.
When I was writing the poems for Porthole Views of the World, I noticed that places became more important to people if there were stories attached them. I began to wonder why. So in one of the poems, “Cape Horn: Chile, 1998” I write: “These myths we make up to ease our fright…/to show we aren’t totally lost.” I found that I wanted to make up stories about these places. I realized this while writing “Hvalsey Ruins: Greenland 2002,” which is about a painting showing the rubble of stones in circles and walls. The place is lovely, but as I write, “[I]t’s not the buntings or redpolls / hopping among the ruins that call to you. / You like a good story.”
The poems in Porthole Views of the World were written to accompany watercolor paintings by Hazel Stoeckeler, but they’re so wonderfully rendered that they also stand by themselves. What did you learn about writing ekphrastic poems as you were doing this project?
First, I had a great time writing these poems. It was more fun writing them than getting them published. This is one large lesson I've learned about writing. The writing in itself is the joy. I had to do a lot research for the book. The poems you see in the book are a quarter of the length of the unedited poem. Each poem, Hazel and I decided, had to be postcard sized. Her watercolors were painted on postcard-sized sheets. So I also learned a lot about editing and condensing. I had to leave a lot of interesting facts and lines out.
What also struck me when I researched these places was how the names changed. Some places even today have two names, the Falklands versus the Malvinas. Names depended on who was in power. I learned that the power to name is a formidable power. It is an erasure of what came before. I address this in the poem, “Landscape Alice Springs, Australia, 1991.” Renaming Mparntwe “Alice Springs” denies the indigenous Arrente ever lived there. We did the same thing in the United States with place names; Denali became Mount McKinley. Renaming as conquest.
In writing these poems, I had to keep a number of different things in mind. First, they were written in reaction to paintings about places. So I had to first look at the paintings and see what images or feelings they evoked in me. When I saw the painting about Alice Springs, I immediately got the image “Heat owns this land.”
I also had to think of the places that these poems were about. Hazel supplied me with her notes about the places, but I also did extensive research about each place. Most of the places I have never visited.
I also looked at other ekphrastic poems to see what had been done before. I noticed that some stood on their own (which is what I tried to do), but for some like Williams Carlos Williams' “The Great Figure 5,” one really needed the painting to get the full effect.
I know that you recently studied with the Indiana Master Naturalist program sponsored by the DNR and put in volunteer hours at the Ornithology Center at Eagle Creek Park. Why did you decide to do this? Has this experience had an effect on your poetry?
I majored in biology as an undergraduate. If I hadn’t been obsessed with poetry, I probably would have become a naturalist. I started volunteering as a way to give back to the community, to learn more about birds, and also to counter all the intellectual work I do as a university professor. Volunteering at the Ornithology Center has been a wonderful learning experience and I’m not just talking about learning about birds! I’ve also learned quite a bit about people. Talking about birds and nature binds us together. I find myself talking about birds and natural history with persons of all sorts of different backgrounds and ages. I don’t know what effect this will have on poetry. Maybe I’ll start writing essays about the experience!
What advice do you commonly give beginning poets in your creative writing classes at the University of Indianapolis?
My first piece of advice is to read all the poetry you can. Students in my classes keep a writer's log, in which they have to read a group of poems by a poet each week and write a response. Find poets whose work you love and look at what they do to make you love their work. Also focus on imagery. Many of my poems come from an image that won’t go away. For instance, I was telling my poetry class the other day my poem “January” came from the line, “There were times I felt like snow / melting against his skin.” I will pick subjects to write about, but those subjects are concrete--a person, a situation, a place. I write about these places to explore my feelings. Consequently, when I write, I don’t have an ending in mind. I think it was E.M. Forster who said, “How do I know what I think until I’ve written about it?”
Do you have a favorite poetry prompt you give them?
There is a poem by Carolyn Forché called “As Children Together.” It is, in a sense, an epistolary poem. You can find a copy of it at http://mypage.siu.edu/puglove/together.htm. I have my students use this as a model for their own poem to write about a friend or relative who is no longer physically present. They need to put in details about what they did with the person, where they lived (be specific), what the weather was like, what dreams they had, loves or hates they had, where they are now, what wishes they have for that person.
Please share with us your five favorite places in Indianapolis.
Eagle Creek Park remains my favorite place. The west side is more wild than the east side. I also like Holliday Park. The downtown canal area. Fort Harrison State Park. The Monon Trail.
Downtown Indianapolis at the Canal. Photo by Elizabeth Weber
"This is one large lesson I've learned about writing. The writing in itself
is the joy."
--Elizabeth Weber
This photo and above photo by John Zimmerman
February, 2017
Tenderness Toward All Creation
The Poetry of Marc Hudson
Marc Hudson was raised in California and Virginia and graduated from Georgetown University. He later received a doctorate in medieval studies from the University of Washington. But the poem has always been his happy obsession, and the reason, early on, for gaps in his employment history. He is married to the writer Helen Mundy Hudson.
Their son, Ian, was born in Washington State, but their daughter, Alix, is a native Hoosier.
Marc taught literature and creative writing at Wabash College for 28 years. His most recent collection of poems, East of Sorrow, was published earlier this year by Red Mountain Press of Santa Fe. His other books of poetry are Afterlight, which was awarded the Juniper Prize from the University of Massachusetts Press, Island, Journal for an Injured Son and The Disappearing Poet Blues. His Beowulf: A Translation and Commentary was published by Wordsworth Editions of the United Kingdom. His awards include a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in Poetry, the Strousse Award (from Prairie Schooner), and the Allen Tate Poetry Prize (from The Sewanee Review). He is currently at work on a collection of essays on the ecological imagination and edits a local newspaper column for The Friends of
Sugar Creek.
Tenderness Toward All Creation
The Poetry of Marc Hudson
Marc Hudson was raised in California and Virginia and graduated from Georgetown University. He later received a doctorate in medieval studies from the University of Washington. But the poem has always been his happy obsession, and the reason, early on, for gaps in his employment history. He is married to the writer Helen Mundy Hudson.
Their son, Ian, was born in Washington State, but their daughter, Alix, is a native Hoosier.
Marc taught literature and creative writing at Wabash College for 28 years. His most recent collection of poems, East of Sorrow, was published earlier this year by Red Mountain Press of Santa Fe. His other books of poetry are Afterlight, which was awarded the Juniper Prize from the University of Massachusetts Press, Island, Journal for an Injured Son and The Disappearing Poet Blues. His Beowulf: A Translation and Commentary was published by Wordsworth Editions of the United Kingdom. His awards include a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in Poetry, the Strousse Award (from Prairie Schooner), and the Allen Tate Poetry Prize (from The Sewanee Review). He is currently at work on a collection of essays on the ecological imagination and edits a local newspaper column for The Friends of
Sugar Creek.
Marc Hudson’s meditative poems grapple with loss, personal and planetary,
and yet, in their tenderness and devotion, they are also profound psalms of praise,
calling us to see God in the suffering of the injured and redemption in each note
of creation's ongoing chorus. Like the lighthouse on East of Sorrow’s cover, his poems look outward to stand as witness and warning. They take as their responsibility
the herculean task that W.S. Merwin sets out for today's poet: “One is trying to say
everything that can be said for the things that one loves while there’s still time.”
In the interview that follows this selection of poems, Marc talks about his
environmental concerns, the importance of myth, and how poetry has helped
him cope with the birth injuries and unexpected death, at age 19, of his beloved son,
Ian Geoffrey Hudson. As you will also learn, Marc often finds inspiration for his
poems at Shades State Park, near his home in Crawfordsville. You can go here,
to the Indiana Humanities' Poem & a Prompt for April (2017), to find his beautiful
poem, "The Sugar Creek Sutras."
The Hudson Homestead. Photo by Marc Hudson
From Journal for an Injured Son (The Lockhart Press, 1991)
June 20
Summer Solstice
This day
the door is ajar
to the Other World.
In the north of Iceland
reticent men
are cutting grass
laying it down
neatly in long
swaths for the women
who come after.
They have songs
learned from the whimbrel,
gold rings
said to cure
the grief of being
human. This afternoon
I would like
to go among them.
I would like
to work quietly
shoulder to shoulder
with those men,
swinging my long handled
blade, harvesting
no more than
cloudshadow perhaps
which the women
coming after
gather up
in long pale arms.
June 20
Summer Solstice
This day
the door is ajar
to the Other World.
In the north of Iceland
reticent men
are cutting grass
laying it down
neatly in long
swaths for the women
who come after.
They have songs
learned from the whimbrel,
gold rings
said to cure
the grief of being
human. This afternoon
I would like
to go among them.
I would like
to work quietly
shoulder to shoulder
with those men,
swinging my long handled
blade, harvesting
no more than
cloudshadow perhaps
which the women
coming after
gather up
in long pale arms.
Flowers in the Hudson Garden. Photo by Marc Hudson
From East of Sorrow (Red Mountain Press, 2017)
My God Once Gazed at Me
My God once gazed at me
through my son's eyes when I seated him on the toilet
and when I dressed him in his green Nike shirt
and denim shorts and when I placed his feet
in his orthotics and strapped them on like greaves.
Now I see my God in the grass and in the ants
living and dying among those blades
and in the blue shards of church glass,
St. John wrapped in the tongues of fire.
Mornings and evenings, I carried the burden
to which I prayed. Sometimes my God would smile
when I lifted him from bed
or when I knelt before his wheelchair
fastening his feet to the foot plates.
My God Once Gazed at Me
My God once gazed at me
through my son's eyes when I seated him on the toilet
and when I dressed him in his green Nike shirt
and denim shorts and when I placed his feet
in his orthotics and strapped them on like greaves.
Now I see my God in the grass and in the ants
living and dying among those blades
and in the blue shards of church glass,
St. John wrapped in the tongues of fire.
Mornings and evenings, I carried the burden
to which I prayed. Sometimes my God would smile
when I lifted him from bed
or when I knelt before his wheelchair
fastening his feet to the foot plates.
Detail from the Hudson Homestead. Photo by Marc Hudson
Final Bath
Only Saturday, when I squeezed the last
of the coconut shampoo into my palm,
& lathered your hair, you laughed,
leaning forward on your straps. Water
streaming down your chin made a brief
translucent beard.
This morning, I borrow
a hospital's wash cloth, dip it in a basin,
& daub your face, the fuzz along the line of your jaw,
your narrow chin. With great care, I trace
the rigid wing of your left arm, while your mother
stands opposite, performing the same silent office.
Saturday's ablutions were under the sign of Top Hat,
Fred & Ginger swirling in the mist, "dancing
cheek-to-cheek again" amid scarlet arpeggios, while we
listened to Casey Kasem's Top Forty--me clucking
at the insipid love lyrics to a surfer boy, you cracking
up at my antics, mocking my aged tastes
with a sidelong squint. I loosened your chest straps &
laved your shoulder blades, a little brusquely perhaps,
surprised again you were no longer a boy,
but a lithe young man with a swimmer's shoulders & lats,
narrow hips and, how shall I put it,
your virginal male beauty?
Now I pass the cloth over your chest,
your skin strangely flushed where the blood has pooled
above your heart. (Or is it from the EMT's
frantic lunge at your stillness?)
Now down the relaxed slats of your belly,
along your thighs, marbled calves, lovely
ungainly feet, our cloths sweep
as if, together, we are Christ
ministering to the desert body of Christ.
Under their long lashes, Ian, your eyes appear
half open. Most carefully, they seem to be considering
a difficult equation. Has your breath contrived
somehow to continue without its body,
the way a boat does, when its oars are shipped
and it lifts into the further wave?
Only Saturday, when I squeezed the last
of the coconut shampoo into my palm,
& lathered your hair, you laughed,
leaning forward on your straps. Water
streaming down your chin made a brief
translucent beard.
This morning, I borrow
a hospital's wash cloth, dip it in a basin,
& daub your face, the fuzz along the line of your jaw,
your narrow chin. With great care, I trace
the rigid wing of your left arm, while your mother
stands opposite, performing the same silent office.
Saturday's ablutions were under the sign of Top Hat,
Fred & Ginger swirling in the mist, "dancing
cheek-to-cheek again" amid scarlet arpeggios, while we
listened to Casey Kasem's Top Forty--me clucking
at the insipid love lyrics to a surfer boy, you cracking
up at my antics, mocking my aged tastes
with a sidelong squint. I loosened your chest straps &
laved your shoulder blades, a little brusquely perhaps,
surprised again you were no longer a boy,
but a lithe young man with a swimmer's shoulders & lats,
narrow hips and, how shall I put it,
your virginal male beauty?
Now I pass the cloth over your chest,
your skin strangely flushed where the blood has pooled
above your heart. (Or is it from the EMT's
frantic lunge at your stillness?)
Now down the relaxed slats of your belly,
along your thighs, marbled calves, lovely
ungainly feet, our cloths sweep
as if, together, we are Christ
ministering to the desert body of Christ.
Under their long lashes, Ian, your eyes appear
half open. Most carefully, they seem to be considering
a difficult equation. Has your breath contrived
somehow to continue without its body,
the way a boat does, when its oars are shipped
and it lifts into the further wave?
Detail from Hudson Homestead. Photo by Marc Hudson
Helen's Tears
March 2003
We lay him down, we let him go,
his mother, his sister, and I,
into the wooden hull of his coffin
with its brass fittings, into the furrows
of the winter earth. We said good-bye.
Since then, no thaw:
Only sleet and wind and the mustering
of an army. Our son, like one of those gone
for a soldier to the Gulf, one of the myriad
terra cotta minions buried with the Emperor,
Ian Geoffrey Hudson, 19. Now the blind ones
pin a shroud over Guernica and parley of war,
now they posture, "Operation Shock and Awe."
Hot metal will rain on Baghdad. A human dust
will rise and mingle with the red Tigris wind,
dust as fine as the snow that blows over Indiana today
will gather in clouds and refract the sunlight
over Benares. Countless particles will ride the jet streams
east over the Pacific providing nuclei for rain to fall
on Olympic forests, into sword ferns and salal,
the cataracts of the Elwha and the Hoh,
and some few, perhaps, will soldier on over
the Continental Divide, to drift down as droplets
into Iowa or Illinois or maybe as far as this watershed
of the Wabash, of Rock River, to fall like Helen's tears
after the burning of Ilium, the death of Priam and his sons
dispersed into the world the molecules of sorrow
but falling that day as individual crystals of snow
on my son's grave, making what is so unbearable
appear beautiful. Friend, fellow citizen,
war is the worst inhuman thing.
And burying your child, even in peace,
is like placing into a boat every little possession
you held dear, and pushing it into the breakers.
March 2003
We lay him down, we let him go,
his mother, his sister, and I,
into the wooden hull of his coffin
with its brass fittings, into the furrows
of the winter earth. We said good-bye.
Since then, no thaw:
Only sleet and wind and the mustering
of an army. Our son, like one of those gone
for a soldier to the Gulf, one of the myriad
terra cotta minions buried with the Emperor,
Ian Geoffrey Hudson, 19. Now the blind ones
pin a shroud over Guernica and parley of war,
now they posture, "Operation Shock and Awe."
Hot metal will rain on Baghdad. A human dust
will rise and mingle with the red Tigris wind,
dust as fine as the snow that blows over Indiana today
will gather in clouds and refract the sunlight
over Benares. Countless particles will ride the jet streams
east over the Pacific providing nuclei for rain to fall
on Olympic forests, into sword ferns and salal,
the cataracts of the Elwha and the Hoh,
and some few, perhaps, will soldier on over
the Continental Divide, to drift down as droplets
into Iowa or Illinois or maybe as far as this watershed
of the Wabash, of Rock River, to fall like Helen's tears
after the burning of Ilium, the death of Priam and his sons
dispersed into the world the molecules of sorrow
but falling that day as individual crystals of snow
on my son's grave, making what is so unbearable
appear beautiful. Friend, fellow citizen,
war is the worst inhuman thing.
And burying your child, even in peace,
is like placing into a boat every little possession
you held dear, and pushing it into the breakers.
Detail from Hudson Homestead. Photo by Marc Hudson
Composition in Yellow
Against the coming darkness, the sunflower lifts its many
blazing crowns & the monarch tumbles into the milkweed
burdened with eggs. I saw this as I came from the garden
with three red zinnias and a sprig of yarrow
for my son's grave. There is yellow enough here
what with the Coreopsis & the butterweed & the pollen
baskets & dusty abdomens of bees, the cucumbers
clambering up the stout stems of the sunflowers,
the daisies & the daylilies & the squash blossoming
out of the green chaos of the compost.
Ah, the profuse swelter of July, his birthday month,
my Leo son's, the cowlick of his yellow hair remembered
in the innumerable rays & coronas of the Compositae.
Against the coming darkness, the sunflower lifts its many
blazing crowns & the monarch tumbles into the milkweed
burdened with eggs. I saw this as I came from the garden
with three red zinnias and a sprig of yarrow
for my son's grave. There is yellow enough here
what with the Coreopsis & the butterweed & the pollen
baskets & dusty abdomens of bees, the cucumbers
clambering up the stout stems of the sunflowers,
the daisies & the daylilies & the squash blossoming
out of the green chaos of the compost.
Ah, the profuse swelter of July, his birthday month,
my Leo son's, the cowlick of his yellow hair remembered
in the innumerable rays & coronas of the Compositae.
Mill Creek Falls. Photo by Brookie White
If Walt Whitman Is Grass
then William Stafford is lichen
subsisting on boulders above the timberline,
a pioneer symbiont
at the cold edge of possibility.
And if Robert Frost
might be seen as eastern hemlock,
then Stafford is the neighborly organism
pointing the traveler north.
I never saw him
precisely as a man, even in person
could never bring that plain,
unassuming face into focus.
So I liken him to this reticent
habitué of granite.
Once, after hearing him read,
I walked out into Seattle rain
feeling a strange elation,
as if I were the acolyte
of a mild-mannered apocalypse,
as if through infinite space
a fine mist were processing,
blurring well-kept boundaries.
So I imagine him dissolving
the speeches of politicians
the way lichen softens, then
assimilates, the most obdurate rock.
then William Stafford is lichen
subsisting on boulders above the timberline,
a pioneer symbiont
at the cold edge of possibility.
And if Robert Frost
might be seen as eastern hemlock,
then Stafford is the neighborly organism
pointing the traveler north.
I never saw him
precisely as a man, even in person
could never bring that plain,
unassuming face into focus.
So I liken him to this reticent
habitué of granite.
Once, after hearing him read,
I walked out into Seattle rain
feeling a strange elation,
as if I were the acolyte
of a mild-mannered apocalypse,
as if through infinite space
a fine mist were processing,
blurring well-kept boundaries.
So I imagine him dissolving
the speeches of politicians
the way lichen softens, then
assimilates, the most obdurate rock.
Mill Creek tributary. Photo by Brookie White
A Few Songs from the Sixth Extinction
I remember the demented trillings
in the rain-washed Willapas west of Skamakowa,
the gick gick of cricket frogs, insomniac
nights Northern Virginia 1955,
and not so long ago, the tonk tonk
from a small pond near the derelict
Dari King on the road to Shades, Indiana--
as if a drunken monk
were pounding on a rain barrel.
Who among us can remember Viosca's Frog,
its whistle of an Ivorybill
from old growth Louisiana bottomlands?
Or the pippids of Surinam, the plantannas
of Central Africa warbling
under the cold tarns of volcanic mountains.
And in el Valle de Antón
in the ancient crater there, the small creek
called "The Thousand Frog Stream"--
you had to step most gingerly
on the green bank, so many golden ones
had gathered. Who can speak of their music
without falling silent?
And the Giant Tree Frog, its song of a rope
jerked through an unoiled pulley, its creaking
of a mechanism in need of repair.
Their silence is the silence of dead water.
I remember the demented trillings
in the rain-washed Willapas west of Skamakowa,
the gick gick of cricket frogs, insomniac
nights Northern Virginia 1955,
and not so long ago, the tonk tonk
from a small pond near the derelict
Dari King on the road to Shades, Indiana--
as if a drunken monk
were pounding on a rain barrel.
Who among us can remember Viosca's Frog,
its whistle of an Ivorybill
from old growth Louisiana bottomlands?
Or the pippids of Surinam, the plantannas
of Central Africa warbling
under the cold tarns of volcanic mountains.
And in el Valle de Antón
in the ancient crater there, the small creek
called "The Thousand Frog Stream"--
you had to step most gingerly
on the green bank, so many golden ones
had gathered. Who can speak of their music
without falling silent?
And the Giant Tree Frog, its song of a rope
jerked through an unoiled pulley, its creaking
of a mechanism in need of repair.
Their silence is the silence of dead water.
Photo Courtesy of the General Lew Wallace Study and Museum.
He Hears the Hyla and Thinks of Orpheus
They sing into evening,
monks in chapels
of skunk cabbages:
beget, beget, beget
and continue all night
in a powder-green rain
reeking of silage and ruminating
beasts.
Rain and frogsong
fill the night,
the Eros-swollen membrane.
Orpheus, they say,
was dismembered by maenads,
his harp set among the stars.
He is here in the frog echolalia:
Hyla regilla,
Rana aurora aurora.
Eurydice stands
by a cobra-hooded
swamp flower.
She likes the song so well
she has forgotten
she is dead. The frogs
gaze forward.
In a tenor not meant for her,
they sing.
They sing into evening,
monks in chapels
of skunk cabbages:
beget, beget, beget
and continue all night
in a powder-green rain
reeking of silage and ruminating
beasts.
Rain and frogsong
fill the night,
the Eros-swollen membrane.
Orpheus, they say,
was dismembered by maenads,
his harp set among the stars.
He is here in the frog echolalia:
Hyla regilla,
Rana aurora aurora.
Eurydice stands
by a cobra-hooded
swamp flower.
She likes the song so well
she has forgotten
she is dead. The frogs
gaze forward.
In a tenor not meant for her,
they sing.
Photo of Wabash College. Photo by John Zimmerman
From Afterlight (University of Massachusetts Press, 1983)
A History of Rain
So you arrive in the old country of rain.
The road sign says Mist, Jewell,
Vernonia. Woodsmoke
is rising against the rain
so slowly, you wonder if time
is passing, and did the alders
have leaves this year? Walk on
through a covered bridge and the sun
pours through a thousand knotholes
in lasers of smoking light.
When you emerge it is raining
as it only rains in the first chapter of Genesis,
a rain without ambiguity and guile,
a rain with pointed arches and high clerestories
where the aquiline features of saints
are smoothed away like a child's
in sleep. You discover
your vocation: you will write
the history of rain, you will set down
on usnea and moss the lineage of mist,
the martyrdom of clouds. You will record
the resurrections rain accomplishes,
its infinite extension and seeming absence,
as if it fell to no purpose
but to elicit meditation,
the pause of the scribe before the window,
transparence of a mind
given over to rain.
A History of Rain
So you arrive in the old country of rain.
The road sign says Mist, Jewell,
Vernonia. Woodsmoke
is rising against the rain
so slowly, you wonder if time
is passing, and did the alders
have leaves this year? Walk on
through a covered bridge and the sun
pours through a thousand knotholes
in lasers of smoking light.
When you emerge it is raining
as it only rains in the first chapter of Genesis,
a rain without ambiguity and guile,
a rain with pointed arches and high clerestories
where the aquiline features of saints
are smoothed away like a child's
in sleep. You discover
your vocation: you will write
the history of rain, you will set down
on usnea and moss the lineage of mist,
the martyrdom of clouds. You will record
the resurrections rain accomplishes,
its infinite extension and seeming absence,
as if it fell to no purpose
but to elicit meditation,
the pause of the scribe before the window,
transparence of a mind
given over to rain.
Interview with Marc Hudson
Marc, you write movingly about your son, Ian, in poems expressing both grief and celebration. Would you be willing to give us some background about your son? What has poetry been for you in the face of loss?
Our son, Ian Geoffrey Hudson, was born in Okanogan, Washington, in late July 1983. Due to a difficult delivery and a crash c-section, he was flown from the small Okanogan hospital to a regional hospital in Spokane with a NICU. Though Ian survived his first night, his doctors were not optimistic about his future: he had suffered “a profound neurological insult” as a result of anoxia. In his first few months, Ian seemed to be coming along, but at five months he developed a seizure disorder, infantile spasms, that correlates with profound brain injury. In one sense, that correlation proved true--Ian would have little control over any of his physical movements. But he did learn to use a letter board, and thereby was able to communicate. He turned out to be a brilliant child--Readers Digest did a piece about him in the early nineties. He was a cheerful and good-natured young man, with a whimsical sense of humor and a love of bad puns. And he wrote a few poems as well. He graduated from high school with honors, but he died, suddenly, one night in late December 2002, at the age of nineteen.
Poetry, as I think of it, is always a path toward understanding, of oneself and the mysteries. I suppose that is its most important purpose. In his first few months, especially after the seizures began, my wife and I were both anxious about his future. To be more exact, I was full of despair and could hardly bear the thought of the hardness of his life, and of our own lost dreams for him. Poetry helped me see my life and Ian’s as part of a larger story. In February through July of his first year, I wrote the many poems that became Journal for an Injured Son. Looking back at those poems, I see them as an effort to find greater compassion for our circumstances and solidarity with others with difficulties. It helped that Ian had such a kindly, comic nature. He made you feel good being around him. When he died, it was a bolt out of the blue and my wife and daughter and I were devastated. But poetry was there, in a different light, it seemed--to remember him, see him more clearly, and mourn. I wrote a catabasis, a long journey poem into the Underworld, and other poems. The years of grief that followed were my spiritual awakening, and poetry helped me walk that path with a bit more courage. I began to see things in a different light. God, or whatever you want to call the energy that sustains creation, is nearer now.
Frequently in your nature poems there is a concern for what’s been lost or is in danger of being lost. What are some of your thoughts about the role of the poet as an environmentalist?
Some lines come back to me from Galway Kinnell-- “The dream / of all poems and the text / of all loves--Tenderness toward Existence.” As a Christian poet, I do believe in the sacredness of life, all life, all species. Some of Earth’s species are becoming extinct as a result of human activities, especially the generation of greenhouse gases that, not so gradually, are warming our planet and eliminating the habitats of many species. We are now in the midst of a tremendous die-off of species, and it is, I believe, a poet’s ethical responsibility to find ways to awaken others to this fact. For me, the ideal poem of this kind would make clear the absolute value of each creature in itself as a unique being but also because it contributes to the ecological whole on which our human project depends. If one is conscious of this, one must act for change, not simply for the reduction of greenhouse gases, but for a moral order that is generous and inclusive, one that favors environmental and social justice (the two, of course, are deeply linked)--a “tenderness toward existence.” In this struggle for a moral civilization, a poet is simply another citizen, though one with exceptional language gifts.
But in the above explanation, I feel I miss the mark somewhat. I don’t believe the best poems are essentially moral acts of premeditated ecological argument. More often, they come into being as intuitions of beauty, or apprehensions of some quirky or comic or wondrous particularity. They are irrational, strange, paradoxical, “cunning as snakes, innocent as doves,” as the Jesus of Matthew instructs. That is, the poem works with the grain of the cosmos, willy-nilly, which, I believe, is an elusive order that trends toward Love. Thus poetry evolves in the direction of tenderness and caritas toward all creatures. So, if you’ve been able to follow me along this circuitous path, I guess what I am saying is that the poem is moral by design, but not necessarily the poet’s intentional design.
You told me that you often find inspiration for your nature poems at Shades State Park and that you even like to write there. Which aspects of the park do you most enjoy? What is your writing process like at the park?
I reckon, like any somewhat wild place, I love the fact that the forest there, and the moist canyons, the many springs and small streams and Sugar Creek itself, ask me to be still and listen. I am in the presence of something much older and greater than my little self and so I must attend, if I am to learn anything. So I most love that requirement to obey and be, if I can, a sort of amanuensis to what the place tells me. In regards to particulars, I love a certain bench above a stream--I won’t say which one--where I can sit of an autumn afternoon and watch the late gold or scarlet leaves sever their ties to the canopy and join their fellows in the dark earth or busy stream beds. I love the crows that gaggle about so noisily and self-importantly, as if it were their sole delight to be ill-tempered. I love the smooth silver boles of the beech trees, as must all human lovers, so frequently, and illicitly, do they inscribe their hearts on them.
My writing process there is simple: I listen, I pay attention and remember: genesis is always this very moment coming into being. It is Buddha. It is God. The words are given, I commit them to memory or to my tablet. I take them back to my house where the poem will keep refining itself over the next few months or years. At that moment, I have scores and scores of years ahead of me, or so it seems.
What advice do you have for beginning poets wanting to write nature poems?
Get a hold of a few field guides--to birds, to trees, to insects--use them whenever you visit the place you love. First, be conversant with the natural history of that place. Walk slowly. As William Stafford says, “Place your feet with care.” Scribble images in a small spiral notebook you can keep in your hip pocket. Remember what W.C. Williams says, “No ideas but in things.” That is, feed your poems clear images and particulars. And don’t be stingy: look at the thousands upon thousands of winged seeds a single maple tree produces. Not all of them will become seedlings. Nor all of those seedlings great trees: but a strong image casts a shadow as vast as an oak. Especially: Listen. The place will speak to you, give you phrases, whole lines, sometimes, whole poems. If I am truly honest: I only plagiarize Dame Natura. She is our greatest poet. The poet is always her understudy. And, finally, this: read the poets: Gary Snyder, Emily Dickinson, Theodore Roethke, Elizabeth Bishop (start with my list, if you wish, but be sure to develop your own). Commit to memory as many poems as you can. Scribble every day and never blot a line, though you incessantly revise. The least image can suggest the greatest.
You sometimes make allusions to mythology in your poems. What are some of your reasons for doing this?
I’ve always felt those old stories have a rich truthfulness: through such characters as Orpheus, the poet who descends into the Underworld seeking his beloved, we first learn about the enduring mysteries of love, life and death: we have perhaps our first encounter with the divine. Also, I find Jung’s ideas of the archetypes plausible: we see in them certain enduring human traits and patterns of human behavior. Finally, many of the poets I have most admired--John Keats, Ezra Pound, William Butler Yeats, Louise Gluck, to name a few--have been students of myth, and wrote many a lovely poem channeling myth. In the Renaissance, among certain poets, such as Dante, Spenser and the early Milton, we find a whole body of secret knowledge hinted at in the dark language of myth. So I am drawn to myths because in their symbols they suggest and conceal in ways that tantalize my imagination. And some myths, as our most sacred myth of Christ the Redeemer, encourage me to perceive the Reality that is visible in the particulars of our shadowy lives and in the bread and the wine that is our daily sustenance. I know contemporary American poetry tends to be wary of myth, and considers it, perhaps, outmoded, but I am not the least bit suspicious of symbols that resonate with my psyche. As Prospero put it, “We are such stuff as dreams are made on.” And myth is the language of dreams, one key to understanding our dreams and, thus, ourselves.
In East of Sorrow, you make some references to Walt Whitman. Your poems, like his, are inclusive, reaching out to find connections, to encompass what’s near and far. Do you feel Whitman has had an important influence on you?
I like what you say about Whitman. He is wonderfully inclusive and visionary. He knows that the poem is a collusion between the homely American vernacular and an endless hunger to express what is inexpressible. I have found great encouragement in his work, like you have, I suspect. He made America the project of his poetry and opened a door--a reservoir?--for all who followed him. Male, female, gay, straight, trans, disabled, white, black, folks of all skin tones and religions, all nations. He is our world poet, and revered in all countries, as in our own, where freedom, equality, and justice are sought for. I love him for his generosity and imagination and for the tradition of poetry that flows from the ocean of his work. So in his lineage are, among many others, William Carlos Williams, Langston Hughes, Pablo Neruda, Antonio Machado, Theodore Roethke, Adrienne Rich, Gary Snyder, Simon Ortiz, Mark Doty, Lucille Clifton, Etheridge Knight, Jimmy Santiago Baca, all of whom are poets I deeply prize. He is the most generative of poets, an inexhaustible well.
What poets do you especially admire?
I have already provided a catalogue, but please indulge me a moment more. Of course, Shakespeare, whose plays I taught for many years at Wabash. For the audacity of his verbal invention and his knowledge of the human heart. I am tempted to go on. But let me just mention the Beowulf poet, whom I studied closely for many years, and translated. And our contemporary, the wisdom poet (also a brilliant essayist and fiction writer), Wendell Berry, especially his Sabbath poems.
What are your six favorite places in Crawfordsville?
Numero uno would have to be our little family homestead, its gardens, house, white pine and silver maples, goldfinches and memories. Two: the Lew Wallace Study and Museum, for its beautiful grounds and for that astonishing Byzantine/Greco/Romanesque American fantasy of a study, and for the venerable General and his equally admirable wife, Susan Wallace, not to mention the lovely people who work there. A second second would be Wabash College, that jewel of a campus, its hallowed brick and creaky stairways, its voluble community of students, scholars, all that makes it tick: the Arboretum, the Petty Patch, the Natatorium. Three: St. John’s Episcopal Church and its loving community. Four: the Crawfordsville Public Library, a comfortable space for reading and contemplation. Five: the shore of Sugar Creek that laces along the north side of town. Six: the Athens Art Gallery, another place for contemplation.
Marc, you write movingly about your son, Ian, in poems expressing both grief and celebration. Would you be willing to give us some background about your son? What has poetry been for you in the face of loss?
Our son, Ian Geoffrey Hudson, was born in Okanogan, Washington, in late July 1983. Due to a difficult delivery and a crash c-section, he was flown from the small Okanogan hospital to a regional hospital in Spokane with a NICU. Though Ian survived his first night, his doctors were not optimistic about his future: he had suffered “a profound neurological insult” as a result of anoxia. In his first few months, Ian seemed to be coming along, but at five months he developed a seizure disorder, infantile spasms, that correlates with profound brain injury. In one sense, that correlation proved true--Ian would have little control over any of his physical movements. But he did learn to use a letter board, and thereby was able to communicate. He turned out to be a brilliant child--Readers Digest did a piece about him in the early nineties. He was a cheerful and good-natured young man, with a whimsical sense of humor and a love of bad puns. And he wrote a few poems as well. He graduated from high school with honors, but he died, suddenly, one night in late December 2002, at the age of nineteen.
Poetry, as I think of it, is always a path toward understanding, of oneself and the mysteries. I suppose that is its most important purpose. In his first few months, especially after the seizures began, my wife and I were both anxious about his future. To be more exact, I was full of despair and could hardly bear the thought of the hardness of his life, and of our own lost dreams for him. Poetry helped me see my life and Ian’s as part of a larger story. In February through July of his first year, I wrote the many poems that became Journal for an Injured Son. Looking back at those poems, I see them as an effort to find greater compassion for our circumstances and solidarity with others with difficulties. It helped that Ian had such a kindly, comic nature. He made you feel good being around him. When he died, it was a bolt out of the blue and my wife and daughter and I were devastated. But poetry was there, in a different light, it seemed--to remember him, see him more clearly, and mourn. I wrote a catabasis, a long journey poem into the Underworld, and other poems. The years of grief that followed were my spiritual awakening, and poetry helped me walk that path with a bit more courage. I began to see things in a different light. God, or whatever you want to call the energy that sustains creation, is nearer now.
Frequently in your nature poems there is a concern for what’s been lost or is in danger of being lost. What are some of your thoughts about the role of the poet as an environmentalist?
Some lines come back to me from Galway Kinnell-- “The dream / of all poems and the text / of all loves--Tenderness toward Existence.” As a Christian poet, I do believe in the sacredness of life, all life, all species. Some of Earth’s species are becoming extinct as a result of human activities, especially the generation of greenhouse gases that, not so gradually, are warming our planet and eliminating the habitats of many species. We are now in the midst of a tremendous die-off of species, and it is, I believe, a poet’s ethical responsibility to find ways to awaken others to this fact. For me, the ideal poem of this kind would make clear the absolute value of each creature in itself as a unique being but also because it contributes to the ecological whole on which our human project depends. If one is conscious of this, one must act for change, not simply for the reduction of greenhouse gases, but for a moral order that is generous and inclusive, one that favors environmental and social justice (the two, of course, are deeply linked)--a “tenderness toward existence.” In this struggle for a moral civilization, a poet is simply another citizen, though one with exceptional language gifts.
But in the above explanation, I feel I miss the mark somewhat. I don’t believe the best poems are essentially moral acts of premeditated ecological argument. More often, they come into being as intuitions of beauty, or apprehensions of some quirky or comic or wondrous particularity. They are irrational, strange, paradoxical, “cunning as snakes, innocent as doves,” as the Jesus of Matthew instructs. That is, the poem works with the grain of the cosmos, willy-nilly, which, I believe, is an elusive order that trends toward Love. Thus poetry evolves in the direction of tenderness and caritas toward all creatures. So, if you’ve been able to follow me along this circuitous path, I guess what I am saying is that the poem is moral by design, but not necessarily the poet’s intentional design.
You told me that you often find inspiration for your nature poems at Shades State Park and that you even like to write there. Which aspects of the park do you most enjoy? What is your writing process like at the park?
I reckon, like any somewhat wild place, I love the fact that the forest there, and the moist canyons, the many springs and small streams and Sugar Creek itself, ask me to be still and listen. I am in the presence of something much older and greater than my little self and so I must attend, if I am to learn anything. So I most love that requirement to obey and be, if I can, a sort of amanuensis to what the place tells me. In regards to particulars, I love a certain bench above a stream--I won’t say which one--where I can sit of an autumn afternoon and watch the late gold or scarlet leaves sever their ties to the canopy and join their fellows in the dark earth or busy stream beds. I love the crows that gaggle about so noisily and self-importantly, as if it were their sole delight to be ill-tempered. I love the smooth silver boles of the beech trees, as must all human lovers, so frequently, and illicitly, do they inscribe their hearts on them.
My writing process there is simple: I listen, I pay attention and remember: genesis is always this very moment coming into being. It is Buddha. It is God. The words are given, I commit them to memory or to my tablet. I take them back to my house where the poem will keep refining itself over the next few months or years. At that moment, I have scores and scores of years ahead of me, or so it seems.
What advice do you have for beginning poets wanting to write nature poems?
Get a hold of a few field guides--to birds, to trees, to insects--use them whenever you visit the place you love. First, be conversant with the natural history of that place. Walk slowly. As William Stafford says, “Place your feet with care.” Scribble images in a small spiral notebook you can keep in your hip pocket. Remember what W.C. Williams says, “No ideas but in things.” That is, feed your poems clear images and particulars. And don’t be stingy: look at the thousands upon thousands of winged seeds a single maple tree produces. Not all of them will become seedlings. Nor all of those seedlings great trees: but a strong image casts a shadow as vast as an oak. Especially: Listen. The place will speak to you, give you phrases, whole lines, sometimes, whole poems. If I am truly honest: I only plagiarize Dame Natura. She is our greatest poet. The poet is always her understudy. And, finally, this: read the poets: Gary Snyder, Emily Dickinson, Theodore Roethke, Elizabeth Bishop (start with my list, if you wish, but be sure to develop your own). Commit to memory as many poems as you can. Scribble every day and never blot a line, though you incessantly revise. The least image can suggest the greatest.
You sometimes make allusions to mythology in your poems. What are some of your reasons for doing this?
I’ve always felt those old stories have a rich truthfulness: through such characters as Orpheus, the poet who descends into the Underworld seeking his beloved, we first learn about the enduring mysteries of love, life and death: we have perhaps our first encounter with the divine. Also, I find Jung’s ideas of the archetypes plausible: we see in them certain enduring human traits and patterns of human behavior. Finally, many of the poets I have most admired--John Keats, Ezra Pound, William Butler Yeats, Louise Gluck, to name a few--have been students of myth, and wrote many a lovely poem channeling myth. In the Renaissance, among certain poets, such as Dante, Spenser and the early Milton, we find a whole body of secret knowledge hinted at in the dark language of myth. So I am drawn to myths because in their symbols they suggest and conceal in ways that tantalize my imagination. And some myths, as our most sacred myth of Christ the Redeemer, encourage me to perceive the Reality that is visible in the particulars of our shadowy lives and in the bread and the wine that is our daily sustenance. I know contemporary American poetry tends to be wary of myth, and considers it, perhaps, outmoded, but I am not the least bit suspicious of symbols that resonate with my psyche. As Prospero put it, “We are such stuff as dreams are made on.” And myth is the language of dreams, one key to understanding our dreams and, thus, ourselves.
In East of Sorrow, you make some references to Walt Whitman. Your poems, like his, are inclusive, reaching out to find connections, to encompass what’s near and far. Do you feel Whitman has had an important influence on you?
I like what you say about Whitman. He is wonderfully inclusive and visionary. He knows that the poem is a collusion between the homely American vernacular and an endless hunger to express what is inexpressible. I have found great encouragement in his work, like you have, I suspect. He made America the project of his poetry and opened a door--a reservoir?--for all who followed him. Male, female, gay, straight, trans, disabled, white, black, folks of all skin tones and religions, all nations. He is our world poet, and revered in all countries, as in our own, where freedom, equality, and justice are sought for. I love him for his generosity and imagination and for the tradition of poetry that flows from the ocean of his work. So in his lineage are, among many others, William Carlos Williams, Langston Hughes, Pablo Neruda, Antonio Machado, Theodore Roethke, Adrienne Rich, Gary Snyder, Simon Ortiz, Mark Doty, Lucille Clifton, Etheridge Knight, Jimmy Santiago Baca, all of whom are poets I deeply prize. He is the most generative of poets, an inexhaustible well.
What poets do you especially admire?
I have already provided a catalogue, but please indulge me a moment more. Of course, Shakespeare, whose plays I taught for many years at Wabash. For the audacity of his verbal invention and his knowledge of the human heart. I am tempted to go on. But let me just mention the Beowulf poet, whom I studied closely for many years, and translated. And our contemporary, the wisdom poet (also a brilliant essayist and fiction writer), Wendell Berry, especially his Sabbath poems.
What are your six favorite places in Crawfordsville?
Numero uno would have to be our little family homestead, its gardens, house, white pine and silver maples, goldfinches and memories. Two: the Lew Wallace Study and Museum, for its beautiful grounds and for that astonishing Byzantine/Greco/Romanesque American fantasy of a study, and for the venerable General and his equally admirable wife, Susan Wallace, not to mention the lovely people who work there. A second second would be Wabash College, that jewel of a campus, its hallowed brick and creaky stairways, its voluble community of students, scholars, all that makes it tick: the Arboretum, the Petty Patch, the Natatorium. Three: St. John’s Episcopal Church and its loving community. Four: the Crawfordsville Public Library, a comfortable space for reading and contemplation. Five: the shore of Sugar Creek that laces along the north side of town. Six: the Athens Art Gallery, another place for contemplation.
Wabash College Bell Tower. Photo by John Zimmerman
"I know contemporary American poetry tends to be wary of myth, and considers it, perhaps, outmoded, but I am not the least bit suspicious of symbols that resonate with my psyche. As Prospero put it, “We are such stuff as dreams are made on.” And myth is the language of dreams, one key to understanding our dreams and,
thus, ourselves."
Marc Hudson
"I know contemporary American poetry tends to be wary of myth, and considers it, perhaps, outmoded, but I am not the least bit suspicious of symbols that resonate with my psyche. As Prospero put it, “We are such stuff as dreams are made on.” And myth is the language of dreams, one key to understanding our dreams and,
thus, ourselves."
Marc Hudson
January 2017
Two Bridges West of the Last Crossroad
The Poetry of Stephen R. Roberts
Born and raised in Noblesville, Indiana, and a graduate of Earlham College, Stephen R. Roberts retired after thirty-eight years in the insurance claims business. In the thirty-odd years he has been writing, he’s published over four hundred poems in various literary periodicals. Most recently, these include Borderlands, BlueStem, New Laurel Review, Briar Cliff Review, Willow Springs, Water–Stone, Big Muddy, Comstock Review, Slant, Blueline, Connecticut River Review, Third Wednesday, and Arsenic Lobster. Over the years he has given readings at the Indianapolis Museum of Art, Bloomington, Greenwood, Shelbyville, Columbus, Chicago, and various infamous venues around Indianapolis, including the old poetic watering holes of the Alley Cat Tavern and the Slippery Noodle Inn.
He has five published chapbooks, the two most recent being Small Fire Speaking in the Rain and Rhubarb Desoto. His full length collection, Almost Music from Between Places, was published by Chatter House Press in 2012. He’s now cautiously piecing together a second book under the working title, Falling Together.
Two Bridges West of the Last Crossroad
The Poetry of Stephen R. Roberts
Born and raised in Noblesville, Indiana, and a graduate of Earlham College, Stephen R. Roberts retired after thirty-eight years in the insurance claims business. In the thirty-odd years he has been writing, he’s published over four hundred poems in various literary periodicals. Most recently, these include Borderlands, BlueStem, New Laurel Review, Briar Cliff Review, Willow Springs, Water–Stone, Big Muddy, Comstock Review, Slant, Blueline, Connecticut River Review, Third Wednesday, and Arsenic Lobster. Over the years he has given readings at the Indianapolis Museum of Art, Bloomington, Greenwood, Shelbyville, Columbus, Chicago, and various infamous venues around Indianapolis, including the old poetic watering holes of the Alley Cat Tavern and the Slippery Noodle Inn.
He has five published chapbooks, the two most recent being Small Fire Speaking in the Rain and Rhubarb Desoto. His full length collection, Almost Music from Between Places, was published by Chatter House Press in 2012. He’s now cautiously piecing together a second book under the working title, Falling Together.
I admire the poems of Stephen R. Roberts for their unexpected turns, their
sharp imagery, sly wit, and compassion. They transport us down the less
traveled routes, to out-of-the-way places like a rural Quaker cemetery, a bar
in Mechanicsburg, a farm auction, an old hardware store, or three miles under
the sea where part of the earth's crust is missing. Wherever they take us, we find
that our perspective undergoes some significant shifting and our own fate
seems bound to that place and the people connected to it. In the interview that
follows the poems, Stephen describes his writing process, talks about how his
career in the insurance business affected his poetry, shares advice for beginning
poets, and explains why he collects geodes.
"Hayrake" by Stephen R. Roberts
From Almost Music From Between Places (Chatter House Press, 2012)
Farm Shadow Auction
At a nearby farm auction, a hundred years drawn
from the barn, from behind the chicken-house.
I pluck an item from a warped table,
a battered shovel, a wooden-handled saw.
An old hay-rake peers from a forest of horseweed,
as if prehistoric, ambling out of its own lost dream.
There are fossils here between slabs of broken bales,
shattered cornstalks and the swirling chaff of rumors.
Shadows of porch-swing slats click across worn boards.
The front yard oak leans into what could be the past.
Empty rooms hang on curtainless windows in this house
two bridges west of the last crossroad.
A home where children once played, worked the fields,
beat thistles down to nubbins, to what remains.
An auctioneer cries the cries of the family once, twice . . .
as an old woman moves from shadow to bid, to shadow.
Two hundred yards east, a housing development looms.
Dozers hulk into their own shadows, great predators waiting.
Many here hope to buy a particular item or two for the sake
of reminiscence, or what they believe can be remembered--
the way the wind flowed down off the long fields,
if wind could be purchased, if shadows could speak.
Farm Shadow Auction
At a nearby farm auction, a hundred years drawn
from the barn, from behind the chicken-house.
I pluck an item from a warped table,
a battered shovel, a wooden-handled saw.
An old hay-rake peers from a forest of horseweed,
as if prehistoric, ambling out of its own lost dream.
There are fossils here between slabs of broken bales,
shattered cornstalks and the swirling chaff of rumors.
Shadows of porch-swing slats click across worn boards.
The front yard oak leans into what could be the past.
Empty rooms hang on curtainless windows in this house
two bridges west of the last crossroad.
A home where children once played, worked the fields,
beat thistles down to nubbins, to what remains.
An auctioneer cries the cries of the family once, twice . . .
as an old woman moves from shadow to bid, to shadow.
Two hundred yards east, a housing development looms.
Dozers hulk into their own shadows, great predators waiting.
Many here hope to buy a particular item or two for the sake
of reminiscence, or what they believe can be remembered--
the way the wind flowed down off the long fields,
if wind could be purchased, if shadows could speak.
"Falling Together" by Stephen R. Roberts
Lone Survivor
The year the factory blowed
crows went wild.
A smell of meat lingered
like bad weather or a busted knee.
Rivers froze deeper
than anyone could remember.
Graves wouldn't settle.
Owls flapped downstream daytimes,
the sun weak as a last breath.
Crows pecked roadways
like black seamstresses stitching
at something that wouldn't
go back together again.
Talk crackled around fires that winter
of Xavier McMoon huddled
in his silent stupor. Some said drunk,
others shell-shocked or dumbfounded.
He wouldn't talk about it.
Wouldn't show no one the place
where his hands had been
the moment before it all let go.
The year the factory blowed
crows went wild.
A smell of meat lingered
like bad weather or a busted knee.
Rivers froze deeper
than anyone could remember.
Graves wouldn't settle.
Owls flapped downstream daytimes,
the sun weak as a last breath.
Crows pecked roadways
like black seamstresses stitching
at something that wouldn't
go back together again.
Talk crackled around fires that winter
of Xavier McMoon huddled
in his silent stupor. Some said drunk,
others shell-shocked or dumbfounded.
He wouldn't talk about it.
Wouldn't show no one the place
where his hands had been
the moment before it all let go.
"Dead Ash" by Stephen R. Roberts
Quaker Chainsaw
I teach my son to drive the truck
in the Chester Friends Cemetery.
There are no roads, not a trace
to follow between the headstones.
Watch left turns, I say, what you strike
could cause a meandering of old Quakers.
We are here to cut the woods back.
This place where we poke plastic flowers
and worry about the neglect of stone.
Trees have a way of leaning
into cemeteries, bowing condolences
in a simple language of light and shadow.
My son worries in reverse, backing between
faded names and cedars flexed as sin.
The chainsaw barks Thee and Thou quickly
and sharp as a whack from the dozing pole
once brought down on those who drifted
from silent prayer to sleep.
I teach my son to drive the truck
in the Chester Friends Cemetery.
There are no roads, not a trace
to follow between the headstones.
Watch left turns, I say, what you strike
could cause a meandering of old Quakers.
We are here to cut the woods back.
This place where we poke plastic flowers
and worry about the neglect of stone.
Trees have a way of leaning
into cemeteries, bowing condolences
in a simple language of light and shadow.
My son worries in reverse, backing between
faded names and cedars flexed as sin.
The chainsaw barks Thee and Thou quickly
and sharp as a whack from the dozing pole
once brought down on those who drifted
from silent prayer to sleep.
"Guitar Trees" by Stephen R. Roberts
Down in Mechanicsburg
There are three Mechanicsburgs in Indiana.
But you'd be hard pressed to find anyone
in any of the three with a wrench in hand,
grease on his jeans, and a jacked-up smile
smeared across his face in a welcome mode.
Some of the men are slouched on barstools
in the six taverns between them, lights
down, smoked up, the spatter of bar-talk
grinding just under the slow country
sounds on the battered jukebox.
In any one of them now someone is saying,
Ain't no better way or place to spend
a morning than right here.
And another one's nodding, not really
taking the statement under consideration.
Just nodding his head, his mind elsewhere, down
at the plant where he was this time last year,
banding boxes, packing axles. But not now,
not in these times with the factory down, the old
lady getting half days over at the dollar store.
There's good reason to be here in a bar
in any of the three Mechanicsburgs in Indiana,
credit due up to the chin with the next cold beer,
and a Bic lighter flickering in the dim light
off the deep end of the pool table.
There are three Mechanicsburgs in Indiana.
But you'd be hard pressed to find anyone
in any of the three with a wrench in hand,
grease on his jeans, and a jacked-up smile
smeared across his face in a welcome mode.
Some of the men are slouched on barstools
in the six taverns between them, lights
down, smoked up, the spatter of bar-talk
grinding just under the slow country
sounds on the battered jukebox.
In any one of them now someone is saying,
Ain't no better way or place to spend
a morning than right here.
And another one's nodding, not really
taking the statement under consideration.
Just nodding his head, his mind elsewhere, down
at the plant where he was this time last year,
banding boxes, packing axles. But not now,
not in these times with the factory down, the old
lady getting half days over at the dollar store.
There's good reason to be here in a bar
in any of the three Mechanicsburgs in Indiana,
credit due up to the chin with the next cold beer,
and a Bic lighter flickering in the dim light
off the deep end of the pool table.
"Geodes 2" by Stephen R. Roberts
Sharpening the Pencil
With a pocketknife I sharpen my pencil,
shave curlings of wood for the point I must make
to write this. Reveal grain patterns and lead.
Or what is called lead but isn't--the opposite of poetry.
Root and mineral intermingle in the earth,
a sheen of graphite reflecting darkly the adhesion
of wood to memory. I shave this back precisely
so as not to break the point, and recall
old men who carried pencils in the high pockets
of overalls next to oblong tobacco stains. And always
a pen knife or jack knife down low in big pockets
where their big hands reached deeper than I could imagine.
Who sat around iron-belly stoves over winter,
under the quenching shade of sugar maples in summer.
And were nowhere to be found in transitional seasons
of planting and harvest. But there, in the heat and cold
they inscribed with blades of pocket knives and pencils
how slow days would unfold. Slivers of wood sifted down
like ducks alighting on pond water.
Shavings settled at their feet. Tall tales took root.
Their sharpened pencils moved meticulously in their hands
over scraps of board, bits of paper, to draw diagrams,
plans or maps, without a straightedge, without measuring--
a day, a year, or decades, one life at a time.
With a pocketknife I sharpen my pencil,
shave curlings of wood for the point I must make
to write this. Reveal grain patterns and lead.
Or what is called lead but isn't--the opposite of poetry.
Root and mineral intermingle in the earth,
a sheen of graphite reflecting darkly the adhesion
of wood to memory. I shave this back precisely
so as not to break the point, and recall
old men who carried pencils in the high pockets
of overalls next to oblong tobacco stains. And always
a pen knife or jack knife down low in big pockets
where their big hands reached deeper than I could imagine.
Who sat around iron-belly stoves over winter,
under the quenching shade of sugar maples in summer.
And were nowhere to be found in transitional seasons
of planting and harvest. But there, in the heat and cold
they inscribed with blades of pocket knives and pencils
how slow days would unfold. Slivers of wood sifted down
like ducks alighting on pond water.
Shavings settled at their feet. Tall tales took root.
Their sharpened pencils moved meticulously in their hands
over scraps of board, bits of paper, to draw diagrams,
plans or maps, without a straightedge, without measuring--
a day, a year, or decades, one life at a time.
Detail from "Dead Ash" by Stephen R. Roberts
At the Old Hardware Store
You enter as the spring-bell on the door rings.
No one's in sight over an expanse of warped,
pine-board flooring. You pace down the center aisle.
You need a screw to finish a task you've started.
Here in the screw section of the old hardware store
on Main in this little town you've never set foot in
you need a screw with a certain head and thread pattern
or it will never do, the job will never be complete.
You find drawers and bins and plastic packets of screws.
Above them, indecipherable charts concerning fastening
devices hang from rusted wires, aisle three, mid-way back
in the store you entered, as the spring-bell on the door rang.
No one responded or came to your assistance.
But now you hear a back door open, a floorboard creak,
someone approaching through the casket-sized containers
stacked three high near the rear of the establishment.
The footsteps persist into the heavy hand-tool section
which, you notice, includes several styles of axes
hanging on the wall below a red stain on the ceiling
that seems to be in the shape of Vermont or Idaho.
You notice the blades are held in place by the screws
you need. And you wonder if a helpful or wrinkled hand
is reaching for the proper weapon. Or if your job will ever
be complete, as the spring-bell on the door rings.
You enter as the spring-bell on the door rings.
No one's in sight over an expanse of warped,
pine-board flooring. You pace down the center aisle.
You need a screw to finish a task you've started.
Here in the screw section of the old hardware store
on Main in this little town you've never set foot in
you need a screw with a certain head and thread pattern
or it will never do, the job will never be complete.
You find drawers and bins and plastic packets of screws.
Above them, indecipherable charts concerning fastening
devices hang from rusted wires, aisle three, mid-way back
in the store you entered, as the spring-bell on the door rang.
No one responded or came to your assistance.
But now you hear a back door open, a floorboard creak,
someone approaching through the casket-sized containers
stacked three high near the rear of the establishment.
The footsteps persist into the heavy hand-tool section
which, you notice, includes several styles of axes
hanging on the wall below a red stain on the ceiling
that seems to be in the shape of Vermont or Idaho.
You notice the blades are held in place by the screws
you need. And you wonder if a helpful or wrinkled hand
is reaching for the proper weapon. Or if your job will ever
be complete, as the spring-bell on the door rings.
"Geodes 4" by Stephen R. Roberts
Geography Lesson Exposed
British scientists have embarked on a mission to study a huge area
on the Atlantic seabed where the earth's crust is mysteriously missing.
I have minimal reason to believe
part of the earth's crust may be missing
three miles down, 2000 miles southwest
of the Canaries. I see this in a newspaper
on my birthday as if I didn't have enough
to worry about--little things like eyesight,
hindsight, hearing, memory warps and lapses.
The article indicates the Canaries
are in the Atlantic, which is probably right.
But it's also a species of little yellow birds
that sing and, in the past, were taken deep
into mineshafts to warn of deadly gases--
not by singing, but by dying in tiny cages.
The article specifies it's 2000 nautical miles.
I can't remember what a nautical mile is.
But if I traveled 2000 regular miles
I think I'd be in the neighborhood
which is about as close as I'd want
to be, considering the description:
an area of dense, dark green rock
from the earth's mantle, exposed.
This sounds like the plant's suffered
a stupendous hernia. Something else
I worry about every time I lift
anything over three or four pounds,
which, if I remember correctly,
is the weight of an average human brain
burbling tectonic questions, forgetting
answers year by year, cell by trembling cell.
British scientists have embarked on a mission to study a huge area
on the Atlantic seabed where the earth's crust is mysteriously missing.
I have minimal reason to believe
part of the earth's crust may be missing
three miles down, 2000 miles southwest
of the Canaries. I see this in a newspaper
on my birthday as if I didn't have enough
to worry about--little things like eyesight,
hindsight, hearing, memory warps and lapses.
The article indicates the Canaries
are in the Atlantic, which is probably right.
But it's also a species of little yellow birds
that sing and, in the past, were taken deep
into mineshafts to warn of deadly gases--
not by singing, but by dying in tiny cages.
The article specifies it's 2000 nautical miles.
I can't remember what a nautical mile is.
But if I traveled 2000 regular miles
I think I'd be in the neighborhood
which is about as close as I'd want
to be, considering the description:
an area of dense, dark green rock
from the earth's mantle, exposed.
This sounds like the plant's suffered
a stupendous hernia. Something else
I worry about every time I lift
anything over three or four pounds,
which, if I remember correctly,
is the weight of an average human brain
burbling tectonic questions, forgetting
answers year by year, cell by trembling cell.
Detail from "Falling Together" by Stephen R. Roberts
From Rhubarb DeSoto (Pudding House Publications, 2004)
Something For Julie
In a restaurant, early morning,
two women departing after coffee,
I overhear one say to the other--
“I bought some artificial flowers, ribbon,
and a little basket. I’m going to make up
something for Julie for her coffee table.”
And I think, Julie
doesn’t want that on her coffee table.
Julie doesn’t even want a coffee table.
She wouldn’t have one if you
hadn’t hauled it down from your attic
with the Christmas decorations.
Julie doesn’t want artificial flowers.
Or a second-hand manger scene.
And Julie doesn’t need ribbon.
She has enough ribbon left over
from previous lives to tie bows
on every second of her future.
Julie doesn’t want your little baskets.
And she prays nightly
that you don’t take up knitting again --
the babies scream in awkward clothing.
And Julie screams from inside
little baskets that are everywhere.
It’s what you hear
when she doesn’t answer her phone.
Doesn’t open her door.
Something For Julie
In a restaurant, early morning,
two women departing after coffee,
I overhear one say to the other--
“I bought some artificial flowers, ribbon,
and a little basket. I’m going to make up
something for Julie for her coffee table.”
And I think, Julie
doesn’t want that on her coffee table.
Julie doesn’t even want a coffee table.
She wouldn’t have one if you
hadn’t hauled it down from your attic
with the Christmas decorations.
Julie doesn’t want artificial flowers.
Or a second-hand manger scene.
And Julie doesn’t need ribbon.
She has enough ribbon left over
from previous lives to tie bows
on every second of her future.
Julie doesn’t want your little baskets.
And she prays nightly
that you don’t take up knitting again --
the babies scream in awkward clothing.
And Julie screams from inside
little baskets that are everywhere.
It’s what you hear
when she doesn’t answer her phone.
Doesn’t open her door.
Interview with Stephen R. Roberts
Steve, where do you find your poetic inspiration?
I find inspiration both inside and all around nature. I sit outside on my deck observing the various birds that come to my feeders, especially keeping an eye on the Cooper’s Hawk who’s always planning an ambush of the others. Or I may study the trees, perhaps a Sweet Gum shivering mysteriously when there isn’t a trace of wind. Or maybe there’s a single cloud in the sky, shaped like Vermont but shifting into a hazy, new-fangled amphibian before my very eyes.
Many times I have found inspiration for a poem while reading the poetry of others. A certain line, image, or even a single word sometimes sparks and then ignites the language of a new poem.
I make it a point to have a pen and notebook with me. I jot things down that are not poems as yet, but they could turn out to be leads or entries into a new poem of mine.
I also clip weird little newspaper articles and tuck them into my notebook for further reference. Articles with titles like “Mysterious Giant Ghost Squid Found in Lake Michigan” or “Prehistoric Man Discovered with Knitting Needles.” For me, these may be fruitful starting points a few mornings later when I open my notebook to an empty page in the belief there’s a poem waiting. I write down the date and time, place the pen to paper.
And so it begins. I have little idea where the poem is headed. I have no preconceived notions of meaning or message or how to get there, if anywhere. Getting there—to the completion of a poem—is the intriguing reward of poetry. As Richard Wilbur said, “It’s so wonderfully uncalled for, to write a poem where there was none before.”
Like Wallace Stevens and Ted Kooser, you had a career with an insurance company. How did you find time to write poetry? Did working with insurance claims have any effect on the type of poetry you wrote?
Stevens and Kooser, I believe, were insurance executives, confined to an office environment the majority of the time. Evidently, they closed their office doors and fiddled with words that had nothing to do with insurance. My job as an insurance adjuster allowed for a lot of time in the field. This involved meeting people of various backgrounds at their homes after traumatic experiences. Auto accidents, house fires, break-ins, and car thefts. Not the best of circumstances for general socializing. But it did acquaint me with all sorts of people, many of them characters of one sort or another. This helped with ideas for character-driven poems. I wrote many of these early on and still do on occasion.
As far as making time for poetry is concerned, luckily I am a morning person. I would head out early to whatever town I had business in. I’d take a corner booth at the local coffee shop or McDonalds, read poetry, or scribble words in my notebook that just might evolve into poems.
I also watched and listened to people. (I believe this is called Poetic Eavesdropping.) That’s obviously where my poem, “Something For Julie,” came from. I wrote down a direct quote from another customer which turned into the first stanza of the poem. The second stanza was my immediate take on her comment. The poem proceeded from there, all on its own.
What is your writing process like?
It’s made possible by placing pen to paper. I can’t compose a poem in my head. At first it’s like trying to find a subject for a very short novel with one main character and three sets of bizarre, identical twins. It’s hard to tell which way to go. There are so many options, so many tongues to consider. But there is definitely something magical in the connection of pen, page, and the poet’s mind. If this is the Muse, so be it. It’s the way poetry works for me.
As I said, I’m a morning person. Much of my writing takes place in the early hours. A first line goes into my notebook. Once I have a first line, I write rather quickly, allowing the pen or mind to wander, without concern as to destination. This is simply because, astonishingly, I don’t necessarily know where I am going.
I like to follow a piece of advice from poet, Michael Homolka: “Write away from your subject. Write away from what you thought you wanted to write. You have decided what the poem is about too early.”
Later I transfer these hand scribbles over to the computer and begin forging them (not faking, but gently beating them with heavy-mental iron tools) into, perhaps, the poem they were meant to be.
This may go through several stages before I present it to myself as a “finished poem.”
When do you know that a poem is finished?
Maybe this is a trick question, with a trick answer. I usually stop at the end of a page. That’s about the right length for an average poem. Perhaps a page and a half. The longest poem I’ve published is three pages, not an epic by any stretch of the imagination.
A poem may be finished when imagination stretches just far enough to form a cryptic tension that satisfies the writer and, at the same time, involves the reader into probing the mystery that remains for both. It may or may not be the same mystery.
This recalls a quote from poet-writer, Ben Lerner: “Good poetry enlists the participation of the reader in the construction of meaning. It is not meant to be passively consumed.”
A new poem of mine may seem to be finished one morning or the following day. But when I put it aside for a week or two or longer, surprisingly, when I go back to it, I quickly realize it isn’t finished. I’m not sure a poem is ever finished, although there comes a time to lay it aside, call it complete. After all, poets must move on to poems yet to be. Or they never will.
What advice do you have for beginning poets?
To beginning poets: If you’re asked what poets you like and your answer is Edgar Allan Poe, you’ve got your work cut out for you.
Read poetry. The old poets. Contemporary poets. All types of poetry. You’ll be surprised at what a broad spectrum poetry encompasses. Find what you like, what carries you into your own poems. Keep a notebook handy. If you have a thought, or if a line of a possible poem comes to mind, don’t try to file it away in your head. There are too many hiding places in there; it could be lost forever. Use the notebook. Jot your thought down. You don’t have to try to turn it into a poem at that moment. But, when the time comes, you may have something to start with. That way you won’t be staring off into space, looking like some phony, lost dreamer during your own personal poetry time. You’ll actually be scribbling words and more.
After you have a poem, recite it. Say it out loud. Catch the sounds it makes. Change the sounds that don’t fit. It always surprises me when I hear some people at poetry gatherings reading their own work as if it’s the first time they’ve ever heard it aloud. Putting a poem down on paper is only part of the process. Listen to it over and over. Then revise. Get back to work, making it better. And forget about publishing for a while. Read some more poets. Make some more poetry.
Who are some of the poets you most enjoy reading?
There’s been a revolving door with poets coming and going through the years. The ones I used to read I still go back to in many cases. And I still enjoy their works. It’s always exciting to find a new poet, to add another favorite to my list. A partial, inexact, chronological listing would be:
W.S. Merwin, James Dickey,
Galway Kinnell, David Wagoner,
Jared Carter, Lisel Mueller,
Mary Oliver, Linda Pastan,
Gerald Stern, Charles Simic,
James Tate, Stephen Dobyns,
Wendell Berry, Ruth Stone,
Jim Harrison, John Ashbery,
Bob Hicok, Tony Hoagland,
Dean Young, Heather Bell,
John Herschel
You told me that you collect geodes. When did you start collecting these rocks, and what draws you to them?
About those geodes:
My father had a rock collection in our backyard when I was young. There were several geodes in the collection, including a huge one, fifteen inches in diameter or more. It was said my grandfather found it in a local creek bed and hauled it home in a horse-drawn wagon. There was another, smaller geode which had a two-inch hole in one side that you could peer into and spy on the little mysterious world of crystal. I suppose this is where my fascination with geodes began.
Years later, when I took up hiking, I discovered different colors and forms of the rocks and brought some home. I loved the broken ones that hadn’t quite made it to the crystal stage. I like geodes, in general, because they seem to have more of a journey behind them, more of a story to tell, than other types of rocks. They don’t necessarily reveal everything, though. Much like poems, they leave parts of their stories untold. Discussing these stones, reminds me of Jared Carter’s excellent poem, “Geodes,” in his collection, Work, For the Night Is Coming.
Also, in pondering the rocks, I am reminded of a quote by poet Marge Piercy from “Sage and Rue”: “The small things of this world are sufficient and magical. . . . I praise things that remain themselves / though cut off from what fed them, through transformations.”
Sounds like a poem to me.
What is your favorite place in Hamilton County?
This may sound selfish, but it would have to be my own little woodland. I know it well, tree by tree, shrub by shrub, where and when each kind of wildflower blooms. I keep trails cleared through it. I walk these spring, fall, and winter. There are too many mosquitoes and too much poison ivy in the summer. But, in the other three seasons, many of my poems have come to light in the serenity and essential silences of the woods. Sometimes, while passing through these trees, I think of a line in Faulkner’s, As I Lay Dying, when Darl says, “If you could just ravel out into time. That would be nice.”
It’s also nice to have other favorite places, tucked away in childhood memories, which are meant to be kept secret for a while longer. Who knows, poems could be waiting there.
Steve, where do you find your poetic inspiration?
I find inspiration both inside and all around nature. I sit outside on my deck observing the various birds that come to my feeders, especially keeping an eye on the Cooper’s Hawk who’s always planning an ambush of the others. Or I may study the trees, perhaps a Sweet Gum shivering mysteriously when there isn’t a trace of wind. Or maybe there’s a single cloud in the sky, shaped like Vermont but shifting into a hazy, new-fangled amphibian before my very eyes.
Many times I have found inspiration for a poem while reading the poetry of others. A certain line, image, or even a single word sometimes sparks and then ignites the language of a new poem.
I make it a point to have a pen and notebook with me. I jot things down that are not poems as yet, but they could turn out to be leads or entries into a new poem of mine.
I also clip weird little newspaper articles and tuck them into my notebook for further reference. Articles with titles like “Mysterious Giant Ghost Squid Found in Lake Michigan” or “Prehistoric Man Discovered with Knitting Needles.” For me, these may be fruitful starting points a few mornings later when I open my notebook to an empty page in the belief there’s a poem waiting. I write down the date and time, place the pen to paper.
And so it begins. I have little idea where the poem is headed. I have no preconceived notions of meaning or message or how to get there, if anywhere. Getting there—to the completion of a poem—is the intriguing reward of poetry. As Richard Wilbur said, “It’s so wonderfully uncalled for, to write a poem where there was none before.”
Like Wallace Stevens and Ted Kooser, you had a career with an insurance company. How did you find time to write poetry? Did working with insurance claims have any effect on the type of poetry you wrote?
Stevens and Kooser, I believe, were insurance executives, confined to an office environment the majority of the time. Evidently, they closed their office doors and fiddled with words that had nothing to do with insurance. My job as an insurance adjuster allowed for a lot of time in the field. This involved meeting people of various backgrounds at their homes after traumatic experiences. Auto accidents, house fires, break-ins, and car thefts. Not the best of circumstances for general socializing. But it did acquaint me with all sorts of people, many of them characters of one sort or another. This helped with ideas for character-driven poems. I wrote many of these early on and still do on occasion.
As far as making time for poetry is concerned, luckily I am a morning person. I would head out early to whatever town I had business in. I’d take a corner booth at the local coffee shop or McDonalds, read poetry, or scribble words in my notebook that just might evolve into poems.
I also watched and listened to people. (I believe this is called Poetic Eavesdropping.) That’s obviously where my poem, “Something For Julie,” came from. I wrote down a direct quote from another customer which turned into the first stanza of the poem. The second stanza was my immediate take on her comment. The poem proceeded from there, all on its own.
What is your writing process like?
It’s made possible by placing pen to paper. I can’t compose a poem in my head. At first it’s like trying to find a subject for a very short novel with one main character and three sets of bizarre, identical twins. It’s hard to tell which way to go. There are so many options, so many tongues to consider. But there is definitely something magical in the connection of pen, page, and the poet’s mind. If this is the Muse, so be it. It’s the way poetry works for me.
As I said, I’m a morning person. Much of my writing takes place in the early hours. A first line goes into my notebook. Once I have a first line, I write rather quickly, allowing the pen or mind to wander, without concern as to destination. This is simply because, astonishingly, I don’t necessarily know where I am going.
I like to follow a piece of advice from poet, Michael Homolka: “Write away from your subject. Write away from what you thought you wanted to write. You have decided what the poem is about too early.”
Later I transfer these hand scribbles over to the computer and begin forging them (not faking, but gently beating them with heavy-mental iron tools) into, perhaps, the poem they were meant to be.
This may go through several stages before I present it to myself as a “finished poem.”
When do you know that a poem is finished?
Maybe this is a trick question, with a trick answer. I usually stop at the end of a page. That’s about the right length for an average poem. Perhaps a page and a half. The longest poem I’ve published is three pages, not an epic by any stretch of the imagination.
A poem may be finished when imagination stretches just far enough to form a cryptic tension that satisfies the writer and, at the same time, involves the reader into probing the mystery that remains for both. It may or may not be the same mystery.
This recalls a quote from poet-writer, Ben Lerner: “Good poetry enlists the participation of the reader in the construction of meaning. It is not meant to be passively consumed.”
A new poem of mine may seem to be finished one morning or the following day. But when I put it aside for a week or two or longer, surprisingly, when I go back to it, I quickly realize it isn’t finished. I’m not sure a poem is ever finished, although there comes a time to lay it aside, call it complete. After all, poets must move on to poems yet to be. Or they never will.
What advice do you have for beginning poets?
To beginning poets: If you’re asked what poets you like and your answer is Edgar Allan Poe, you’ve got your work cut out for you.
Read poetry. The old poets. Contemporary poets. All types of poetry. You’ll be surprised at what a broad spectrum poetry encompasses. Find what you like, what carries you into your own poems. Keep a notebook handy. If you have a thought, or if a line of a possible poem comes to mind, don’t try to file it away in your head. There are too many hiding places in there; it could be lost forever. Use the notebook. Jot your thought down. You don’t have to try to turn it into a poem at that moment. But, when the time comes, you may have something to start with. That way you won’t be staring off into space, looking like some phony, lost dreamer during your own personal poetry time. You’ll actually be scribbling words and more.
After you have a poem, recite it. Say it out loud. Catch the sounds it makes. Change the sounds that don’t fit. It always surprises me when I hear some people at poetry gatherings reading their own work as if it’s the first time they’ve ever heard it aloud. Putting a poem down on paper is only part of the process. Listen to it over and over. Then revise. Get back to work, making it better. And forget about publishing for a while. Read some more poets. Make some more poetry.
Who are some of the poets you most enjoy reading?
There’s been a revolving door with poets coming and going through the years. The ones I used to read I still go back to in many cases. And I still enjoy their works. It’s always exciting to find a new poet, to add another favorite to my list. A partial, inexact, chronological listing would be:
W.S. Merwin, James Dickey,
Galway Kinnell, David Wagoner,
Jared Carter, Lisel Mueller,
Mary Oliver, Linda Pastan,
Gerald Stern, Charles Simic,
James Tate, Stephen Dobyns,
Wendell Berry, Ruth Stone,
Jim Harrison, John Ashbery,
Bob Hicok, Tony Hoagland,
Dean Young, Heather Bell,
John Herschel
You told me that you collect geodes. When did you start collecting these rocks, and what draws you to them?
About those geodes:
My father had a rock collection in our backyard when I was young. There were several geodes in the collection, including a huge one, fifteen inches in diameter or more. It was said my grandfather found it in a local creek bed and hauled it home in a horse-drawn wagon. There was another, smaller geode which had a two-inch hole in one side that you could peer into and spy on the little mysterious world of crystal. I suppose this is where my fascination with geodes began.
Years later, when I took up hiking, I discovered different colors and forms of the rocks and brought some home. I loved the broken ones that hadn’t quite made it to the crystal stage. I like geodes, in general, because they seem to have more of a journey behind them, more of a story to tell, than other types of rocks. They don’t necessarily reveal everything, though. Much like poems, they leave parts of their stories untold. Discussing these stones, reminds me of Jared Carter’s excellent poem, “Geodes,” in his collection, Work, For the Night Is Coming.
Also, in pondering the rocks, I am reminded of a quote by poet Marge Piercy from “Sage and Rue”: “The small things of this world are sufficient and magical. . . . I praise things that remain themselves / though cut off from what fed them, through transformations.”
Sounds like a poem to me.
What is your favorite place in Hamilton County?
This may sound selfish, but it would have to be my own little woodland. I know it well, tree by tree, shrub by shrub, where and when each kind of wildflower blooms. I keep trails cleared through it. I walk these spring, fall, and winter. There are too many mosquitoes and too much poison ivy in the summer. But, in the other three seasons, many of my poems have come to light in the serenity and essential silences of the woods. Sometimes, while passing through these trees, I think of a line in Faulkner’s, As I Lay Dying, when Darl says, “If you could just ravel out into time. That would be nice.”
It’s also nice to have other favorite places, tucked away in childhood memories, which are meant to be kept secret for a while longer. Who knows, poems could be waiting there.
"They (geodes) don't necessarily reveal everything, though. Much like poems, they leave parts of their stories untold." Stephen R. Roberts |
|
Photograph by Rachel Eliza Griffiths
December 2016
Wade in the Water:
The Poetry of Mitchell L. H. Douglas
Mitchell L. H. Douglas is an Associate Professor of English and Director of Creative Writing at Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis (IUPUI). He is a founding member of the Affrilachian Poets, a Cave Canem graduate fellow, and Poetry Editor for PLUCK!: The Journal of Affrilachian Arts & Culture. His second poetry collection, \blak\ \al-fə bet\, winner of the 2011 Lexi Rudnitsky/Editor's Choice Award, was published by Persea Books in 2013. His debut collection, Cooling Board: A Long-Playing Poem (2009 Red Hen Press), was nominated for an NAACP Image Award in the Outstanding Literary Work-Poetry category and a Hurston/Wright Legacy Award in 2010. A native of Louisville, Kentucky, he lives in Indianapolis.
To visit Mitchell's website, click here. You can hear him read many of his poems on The Poet's Weave.
Wade in the Water:
The Poetry of Mitchell L. H. Douglas
Mitchell L. H. Douglas is an Associate Professor of English and Director of Creative Writing at Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis (IUPUI). He is a founding member of the Affrilachian Poets, a Cave Canem graduate fellow, and Poetry Editor for PLUCK!: The Journal of Affrilachian Arts & Culture. His second poetry collection, \blak\ \al-fə bet\, winner of the 2011 Lexi Rudnitsky/Editor's Choice Award, was published by Persea Books in 2013. His debut collection, Cooling Board: A Long-Playing Poem (2009 Red Hen Press), was nominated for an NAACP Image Award in the Outstanding Literary Work-Poetry category and a Hurston/Wright Legacy Award in 2010. A native of Louisville, Kentucky, he lives in Indianapolis.
To visit Mitchell's website, click here. You can hear him read many of his poems on The Poet's Weave.
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Mitchell Douglas' poetry runs deep and is seeped in soul, like the music he loves and the Ohio River he grew up near. His poetry is memorable for its agile, musical lines, vivid imagery, respect for family roots, tenderness, and sense of history. There's much empathy in his poems and a healing quality--a sense of "wading into the water." In fact, part of his poem, "The Waters" is engraved in the stone fountain at Eskenazi Health. In the videos below, you can hear Mitchell reading that poem, as well as others from his books. In the interview, he talks about the inspiration for his two books, his long-time relationship with the Affrilachian Poets, and his ideas on what poets can do to help increase public contact with poetry. |
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From \blak\ \al-fə bet\ (Persea Books, 2013)
Alabama, 1976 Met America in an observation car long before I knew a history book-- her stories raced down southbound rails, tales by passengers & porters, first class to coach. In the bubble of an Amtrak destined for Birmingham, I sat with Granddaddy, saw barbed wire & tobacco barns pulled west to east like film advancing. A height where people are too close to be ants, air too rich to gasp. A wanderer's view, our windows open to home. |
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Photo by Hadley Fruits, Eskenazi Health Public Art Archives, "The Waters" by Mitchell L. H. Douglas
Al Green was a preacher
before he was a pastor--
let me explain. If you can't find
a sermon in "Love & Happiness,"
something's wrong. He slides
from one strange world to the next
like Uncle Jimmy navigating his sky blue Cougar
down West Market. Al testifies
& we glide, past the Coffee Cup,
where we ate greasy burgers
in white paper, the ring & sugar
of onions steamed inside. Past
Jay's, where momma bought my black
Chuck Taylors for first grade. Past
the Cavalier Inn, a bar
only a biker could love, peeling paint
& look-away faces. Past the Laundromat
where Daddy George washed our clothes
in big chrome troughs that ate our change,
bleached our robes.
Al would know this world, would sing
of the corners' jut to meet you,
the pain of the angle, how one street
runs right into the next, no one
raising eyebrows. We ride deeper west, rising
out of our seats and settling back to the cushions
with each pock in the road. Past St. Columba
where I bloodied Jay's nose in the lunch line.
Best friend, how many times
can I say I'm sorry? Past Shawnee
where Momma, Aunt Sissy, and Uncle Jimmy
said high school is not enough. Past
empty Nehi bottles, bodies
of cigarettes bent in gutters,
what smoldered in the grip of unknown lips
discarded for other pleasures.
Many a lesson waits
on our streets, like how to catch
lightning bugs in mayonnaise jars,
how to poke holes in lids
to let trophies breathe. How
to balance your weight
on two bicycle wheels,
never fall, ride
like the unfettered skip
of your heart.
before he was a pastor--
let me explain. If you can't find
a sermon in "Love & Happiness,"
something's wrong. He slides
from one strange world to the next
like Uncle Jimmy navigating his sky blue Cougar
down West Market. Al testifies
& we glide, past the Coffee Cup,
where we ate greasy burgers
in white paper, the ring & sugar
of onions steamed inside. Past
Jay's, where momma bought my black
Chuck Taylors for first grade. Past
the Cavalier Inn, a bar
only a biker could love, peeling paint
& look-away faces. Past the Laundromat
where Daddy George washed our clothes
in big chrome troughs that ate our change,
bleached our robes.
Al would know this world, would sing
of the corners' jut to meet you,
the pain of the angle, how one street
runs right into the next, no one
raising eyebrows. We ride deeper west, rising
out of our seats and settling back to the cushions
with each pock in the road. Past St. Columba
where I bloodied Jay's nose in the lunch line.
Best friend, how many times
can I say I'm sorry? Past Shawnee
where Momma, Aunt Sissy, and Uncle Jimmy
said high school is not enough. Past
empty Nehi bottles, bodies
of cigarettes bent in gutters,
what smoldered in the grip of unknown lips
discarded for other pleasures.
Many a lesson waits
on our streets, like how to catch
lightning bugs in mayonnaise jars,
how to poke holes in lids
to let trophies breathe. How
to balance your weight
on two bicycle wheels,
never fall, ride
like the unfettered skip
of your heart.
Photo by Hadley Fruits, Eskenazi Health Public Art Archive, "The Waters" by Mitchell L. H. Douglas
On the first drive-by
my family of five packs "the brown tank,"
four-door fortress--a Ford not made any more.
On a Sunday cruise, a car passes, wide tires,
white hide, like the General Lee, bleached.
Every seat filled: a wizard at the wheel,
a shotgun lookout & two backseat drivers
ready to spit & roll, throw sharp tongues
from soiled mouths to scream
niggers.
Mother and father
can't bring themselves to speak,
brother & sister my bone flesh
bookends. Our car keeps rolling,
no hum, like the engine is scared
to burn.
There will be reruns,
without Uncle Jesse,
Bo & Luke,
or a Waylon Jennings soundtrack--
strangers who won't visit
via TV, a word in rage
until the last ear is gouged.
my family of five packs "the brown tank,"
four-door fortress--a Ford not made any more.
On a Sunday cruise, a car passes, wide tires,
white hide, like the General Lee, bleached.
Every seat filled: a wizard at the wheel,
a shotgun lookout & two backseat drivers
ready to spit & roll, throw sharp tongues
from soiled mouths to scream
niggers.
Mother and father
can't bring themselves to speak,
brother & sister my bone flesh
bookends. Our car keeps rolling,
no hum, like the engine is scared
to burn.
There will be reruns,
without Uncle Jesse,
Bo & Luke,
or a Waylon Jennings soundtrack--
strangers who won't visit
via TV, a word in rage
until the last ear is gouged.
Photo by Hadley Fruits, Eskenazi Health Public Art Archive, "The Waters" by Mitchell Douglas
The Sorrows (A Fret In Three Chords)
I.
| Each day, sun | to borrowed sun, in hours | of sweat & sorrow
| Aligned as three | stars, the belt of Orion, | three brothers--
| Duke, Buddy | & Bo--stretch cracked hands | to scorned earth,
| Grab a heart's fill, | Mr. Minter's dept the fly | in ear, one
| Bale the saving | grace. How can six hands | cover such tall orders?
| Even tempered | but hardly satisfied, | they live in lack.
II.
| Eluding pangs | of moonlight, hunger of night, | three men blood bound
| Allow little rest, | limbs swing like hour, minute, | & second hands, flesh
| Drawn through | spiked clouds at their ankles, | the pits of their stomachs
| Growl in time | to work songs, the sun's lash. | The seeds inside the clouds,
| Buddy says, | can work as feed scattered | for peck of beak. Minter's
| Ether now, | bad dream floating, light | as a bale of cotton.
III.
| End our toil in vain, | the rusted reigns |that clank a twelve-bar blues
| Albeit an invisible | instrument. We | hunker in the shadow of sound
| Divided in the map | of the row, one more | sack, full to feed the wicked
| Gin, fast master | of commerce, tool | of chaos raised in wage of war
| Buddy says fits | the best warlord. | Call him boss if you want, Buddy
| Evokes another name: | face slap & upper | hand(s), black finger to fret.
I.
| Each day, sun | to borrowed sun, in hours | of sweat & sorrow
| Aligned as three | stars, the belt of Orion, | three brothers--
| Duke, Buddy | & Bo--stretch cracked hands | to scorned earth,
| Grab a heart's fill, | Mr. Minter's dept the fly | in ear, one
| Bale the saving | grace. How can six hands | cover such tall orders?
| Even tempered | but hardly satisfied, | they live in lack.
II.
| Eluding pangs | of moonlight, hunger of night, | three men blood bound
| Allow little rest, | limbs swing like hour, minute, | & second hands, flesh
| Drawn through | spiked clouds at their ankles, | the pits of their stomachs
| Growl in time | to work songs, the sun's lash. | The seeds inside the clouds,
| Buddy says, | can work as feed scattered | for peck of beak. Minter's
| Ether now, | bad dream floating, light | as a bale of cotton.
III.
| End our toil in vain, | the rusted reigns |that clank a twelve-bar blues
| Albeit an invisible | instrument. We | hunker in the shadow of sound
| Divided in the map | of the row, one more | sack, full to feed the wicked
| Gin, fast master | of commerce, tool | of chaos raised in wage of war
| Buddy says fits | the best warlord. | Call him boss if you want, Buddy
| Evokes another name: | face slap & upper | hand(s), black finger to fret.
The Ohio River, Photo by Shari Wagner
The Absence of Mamie Lee
"Weep not, weep not, she is not dead;
she's resting in the bosom of Jesus."
James Weldon Johnson, "Go Down Death"
Thanksgiving, the first without you,
there are three pound cakes, none
close to your thick buttered sweet.
Momma, Aunt Cookie, Aunt Sissie,
all bake their version in tribute.
Still full from turkey & dressing,
we place the soft offerings
on the kitchen counter,
grab plates, forks & wait our turn.
No one attempts to duplicate
your biscuits. Buttermilk,
flour, no measure--nothing
written to follow.
The cakes bring smiles,
but they are not yours,
& we keep tasting,
as if the more we eat,
the more we will remember.
Baking maps to the hereafter,
hoping one day to walk
the route.
"Weep not, weep not, she is not dead;
she's resting in the bosom of Jesus."
James Weldon Johnson, "Go Down Death"
Thanksgiving, the first without you,
there are three pound cakes, none
close to your thick buttered sweet.
Momma, Aunt Cookie, Aunt Sissie,
all bake their version in tribute.
Still full from turkey & dressing,
we place the soft offerings
on the kitchen counter,
grab plates, forks & wait our turn.
No one attempts to duplicate
your biscuits. Buttermilk,
flour, no measure--nothing
written to follow.
The cakes bring smiles,
but they are not yours,
& we keep tasting,
as if the more we eat,
the more we will remember.
Baking maps to the hereafter,
hoping one day to walk
the route.
|
From cooling board: a long-playing poem (Red Hen Press, 2009)
Ascension (A Lesson for Miss Martha) Church. Church & God. I don't know how else to say it. Every Sunday Donny hears me rise early, start the biscuits & bacon, practice the solo just in case Sister Wilson don't show. Every service, Donny takes notes with his eyes, spies my gestures to stretch soprano, let baritone roll low. After church, I push a microphone toward the floor, hang a ukulele on his shoulder, rest the tiny body on his belly. Play what the Lord put on your heart, I say, here's your ticket. He looks through the roof, past me, eyes all china & coffee. Three years old & ten times wise, his fingers mark the strings like dog-eared pages in my favorite hymnal, dance like a scroll unfurled, the scripture most revered. |
|
|
Troubadour, 1971
California sisters don't sit back, they sing back--sip gin & tonics, slap a girlfriend's shoulder, shout "Go 'head" & "That's all right" from the tables by the exit. We are music: You, backup without microphones, stand-ins for Roberta on "You Got a Friend"; me, a midnight declaration through the heat of red lights, electric keys. Sing, sing with me California sisters, like the marquee bears your name, & the man who wouldn't spring for a ticket can hear you carry on from the couch at home. Sing, like the bartender's last call is the last call you'll ever hear, & you can't leave until you hit every note just so. Sing, sing with me California sisters, over brick thick cigarette smog, the off-beat clap of Mr. One-Whisky-Too-Many, the hip slap & shake of a crescent tambourine rattling like a gourd of cowrie shells, Angel City cat call, ancient bell. Earl summons a conga pop with the cup of his hands, Phil picks & skips, teases a tip-toe rhythm low E to high. Willie pulls those four strings into a trance that thumps through our chests & the scream starts in the front row hits the back wall & Marshall reverb hums over our bowed heads-- each & every hand caught in a soul clap, inseparable song: no instrument greater than the next. Sing, sing with me California sisters. This is no place to live unheard. |
|
|
In Case You Thought It Was Easy
Our first date, that soul food place near campus, you feeding me corn pudding with a crooked spoon, your hand beneath my chin to catch what my lips could not. The day you gave a single rose, said one is for love, one dozen for show. The look on your face when I sing, like you want to know the notes, be where they come from. That perfume you bought 'cause you thought it was my favorite, forgot it was the one I said I'd never wear, whatever pigs grew wings or fires froze. (I wore it every blessed day 'til the bottle ran dry). Our daughters asking why daddy can't come home. Should I go on? |
|
Indianapolis Architect Donna Sink designed this bus shelter that features Mitchell's poem, "Circle, Chorus."
Moving Forward Bus Shelter, Indianapolis Cultural Trail
Washington Street, west of Illinois Street
Circle, Chorus
Lead us
through your streets, speak
of this grand steel path. Lead us
through glass & light
to breathe--your circle heart
as stone drum. All
that spins
our lives
beats here:
the pour of Illinois to Washington,
flood of feet in time
through parted doors.
The chorus
of our stride (step
stomp) sometimes louder
than traffic, clamor
in waning hours, urban
symphony. Voices raised
in praise for family, love--
sharp harmony--
evening bell: the song
that calls us home
@ close
of day.
Washington Street, west of Illinois Street
Circle, Chorus
Lead us
through your streets, speak
of this grand steel path. Lead us
through glass & light
to breathe--your circle heart
as stone drum. All
that spins
our lives
beats here:
the pour of Illinois to Washington,
flood of feet in time
through parted doors.
The chorus
of our stride (step
stomp) sometimes louder
than traffic, clamor
in waning hours, urban
symphony. Voices raised
in praise for family, love--
sharp harmony--
evening bell: the song
that calls us home
@ close
of day.
An Interview with Mitchell L. H. Douglas
Mitchell, your first book, Cooling Board, explores the artistic development and personal tribulations of soul legend Donny Hathaway. What drew you to writing about this particular person?
I have loved Donny’s music for longer than I can remember. When I turned 33, the same age Donny was when he died, I found myself thinking more and more about writing poems for him. When I say for him and not about him, I mean to say that I considered my writing process a tribute to an artist I love who, I believe, still hasn’t received enough praise. For years, I was one of the few people who had written an entire text devoted to Donny (poet Ed Pavlic was the other). In a way, I guess that’s fitting. Perhaps poetry can tell a truth other mediums can’t. In 2016, UMass professor Emily J. Lordi published the first non-fiction book on Donny, an examination of “Donny Hathaway Live” published as part of the popular 331/3 series that tells the stories behind important albums. She sought my input including my poems and Pavlic’s insight as well. I was honored to help.
I love the format of Cooling Board—the way it’s set up like the two sides of a record, with liner notes, chart listings, and alternate takes. How did you come up with this unique idea of a “long-playing poem” in the form of an album?
My first Donny Hathaway poems were written when I was a student in the MFA program at Indiana University Bloomington. One of the last courses I took for my degree was a class studying the long poem with poet Kevin Young. After reading Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology and Langston Hughes’s Montage of a Dream Deferred, we agreed as a class that a long poem could consist of multiple parts or poems as long as the work as a whole achieved a singular voice.
My culminating project for the course was the beginning of what eventually became Cooling Board: 15 pages of Donny persona poems. Like Hughes intended Montage to be a long poem, I saw my project for Kevin’s class the same way. Hughes and Cornelius Eady’s Brutal Imagination, a book of poems that gives voice to the imaginary kidnappers created by Susan Smith, influenced my decision to write in persona. The poems wouldn’t be about Donny, they would BE Donny.
Listening to Donny’s music was an integral part of writing poems in his voice. When I came across his music in CD form, the packaging recreated the liner notes from his albums released in the 70s. I loved the way the liner notes described the music in poetic terms, how they stood not only as text but were visually striking in the way the commentary was divided in columns and separated with vertical lines. Not only did I start writing poems that mimicked the format of liner notes, I began thinking that the true representation of Donny—the man and the music—was an album. When I came to Red Hen Press with a book of poems split between a side A and B, liner notes poems, alternate takes (poems that appeared in multiple versions throughout the book) and a list of “personnel” that listed Donny’s collaborators who I felt were present in the poems (whether formally named or not), they got it. I brought them a manuscript that embraced the content of an album and they pushed the physical form. It was their idea to make the book square like an album cover (it was a perfect fit for the book cover art that I commissioned from Chicago poet and visual artist Krista Franklin). This was a sign that I had found the right publisher.
You use various personas throughout this book—speaking in the voices of Hathaway, Roberta Flack, and Hathaway’s grandmother, mother, and wife. What did you learn about working with personas through the writing of these poems?
Persona is a great challenge. Studying someone, what they care about, researching their life, visiting the places they lived, talking to friends and family. I took the skills I learned as a newspaper reporter and applied them to research for poetry. Writing persona poems relies on restraint. In the past, I have referred to the process as informed imagination. Based on your research, interviews, and exploration of the places the subjects of your poems occupy, you narrow the physical and psychic distance between you. The restraint comes in allowing yourself to imagine only what could be true based on your research.
Debra Kang Dean calls Cooling Board a labor of love that “gives expression to poetry’s most intimate function: to save what we love.” When I read your most recent book, \blak\ \al-fə bet\, I felt that this collection was also a labor of love and preservation. Please talk about the inspiration for this book and what it means to you.
The death of my grandmother is the engine that powers \blak\ \al-fə bet\ . She was the center of my family, and I wasn’t quite sure what our future looked like without her. The book is an attempt to preserve her legacy by sharing my grandparents' roots in migrating from Alabama to Kentucky and the struggles they faced along the way. I wanted the world to know why two Selma kids with grade school educations raising nine children—most with advanced degrees—were worthy of praise.
It strikes me that \blak\ \al-fə bet\, seeks to both preserve and to inspire change. Could you speak to the importance of those two functions of poetry?
One of the commitments I’ve made to myself as a writer is to create a new poetic form with each book. In Cooling Board it was the alternate take. In \\blak\ \al-fə bet\, it’s the fret: a six-line form based on the six strings of a guitar. Creating new forms is a reminder to embrace experimentation and to be a catalyst for change. I want to raise awareness and interest in poetry, to make readers excited and surprised about what they find. What I don’t want to do is be caught in a rut and not take my writing to new places. If your art is about being safe, you probably aren’t creating very interesting art. Teachers often tell their writing students to take risks. That sounds good, but we need to follow our own advice.
What poets have been most influential to your development as a poet? Do you have one all-time favorite poetry book?
I can’t name a single book, but I can give you a short list of poets who have significantly changed my work:
Lucille Clifton
Nikky Finney
Kelly Norman Ellis
Yusef Komunyakaa
Kevin Young
Li-Young Lee
Langston Hughes
What advice do you most frequently give your students?
No image, no poem.
A poem is not simply description, it is transformation. Use image to show your reader a world they could inhabit and then take them there.
I noticed that you are a founding member of the Affrilachian Poets. What are the goals of this group, and what has it meant to you?
Making the invisible visible has become our motto over the years. We’ve been around since 1991, an idea honed in the mind of former Kentucky Poet Laureate Frank X Walker. In the beginning we workshopped our poems privately and helped each other grow as poets, breaking out of the private critiques to share our poems in readings at the University of Kentucky where we started and around Lexington. Craft was key, but also the idea of community: that we would be poets devoted to growing as artists and a family that supports each other in art and life. I know I would not be writing now if it weren’t from the support of the Affrilachian Poets. I have joined other poetry families, Cave Canem among them, but the Affrilachian Poets were the start of a very important education.
How does it feel to have your poem “Circle, Chorus” as part of the Cultural Trail in Indianapolis? Do you have any ideas as to what poets might do to increase public contact with poetry?
I am extremely proud to know people who never expected to encounter a poem in their daily lives are presented with one in the heart of the city. I believe a poet’s job is to hold his hand out, not up. I’m not fond of building walls. Poets are inventive by nature. We can take part in increasing public contact with poetry by reading at open mics, reciting a poem on a street corner, or printing poems—our own and others— and posting them randomly on bulletin boards. We should always be ready to show others who may be hesitant about the accessibility of poetry that this art is for everyone.
What is your favorite place in Indianapolis?
You’re likely to find me hanging out in Fountain Square or digging through crates of records in Broad Ripple. I’m a big fan of the IMA, too. Any place that is welcoming of art is where I want to be.
"I believe a poet's job is to hold his hand out, not up." Mitchell L. H. Douglas |
|
November, 2016
Reality at a Slant: The Poetry of Maura Stanton
Maura Stanton’s first book of poetry, Snow on Snow, was selected by Stanley Kunitz for the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award and published in 1975. She has published five other books of poetry, Cries of Swimmers (Utah 1984), Tales of the Supernatural (Godine 1988), Life Among the Trolls (Carnegie Mellon 1998), Glacier Wine (Carnegie Mellon 2002) and Immortal Sofa (University of Illinois 2008) as well as a novel and three books of short stories. Her poems and stories have appeared in Southwest Review, Antioch Review, The Atlantic, The New Yorker, Poetry, Southern Poetry Review, New England Review, River Styx, American Poetry Review, The Yale Review, The Hudson Review and many other magazines and anthologies. She has won two fellowships from the National
Endowment for the Arts, an O’Henry Award, the Supernatural
Fiction Award from the Ghost Story.com and the Nelson Algren
Award from The Chicago Tribune. Her poems have been featured on
The Writer’s Almanac, Poetry Daily and the BBC radio program Words
and Music. She lives in Bloomington, Indiana.
Reality at a Slant: The Poetry of Maura Stanton
Maura Stanton’s first book of poetry, Snow on Snow, was selected by Stanley Kunitz for the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award and published in 1975. She has published five other books of poetry, Cries of Swimmers (Utah 1984), Tales of the Supernatural (Godine 1988), Life Among the Trolls (Carnegie Mellon 1998), Glacier Wine (Carnegie Mellon 2002) and Immortal Sofa (University of Illinois 2008) as well as a novel and three books of short stories. Her poems and stories have appeared in Southwest Review, Antioch Review, The Atlantic, The New Yorker, Poetry, Southern Poetry Review, New England Review, River Styx, American Poetry Review, The Yale Review, The Hudson Review and many other magazines and anthologies. She has won two fellowships from the National
Endowment for the Arts, an O’Henry Award, the Supernatural
Fiction Award from the Ghost Story.com and the Nelson Algren
Award from The Chicago Tribune. Her poems have been featured on
The Writer’s Almanac, Poetry Daily and the BBC radio program Words
and Music. She lives in Bloomington, Indiana.
Maura Stanton's poetry reveals a fresh and magical dimension to all sorts of
things--a deer decoy, a box of scented soap, a wildlife calendar, the postures
of Chinese martial arts, the words on a license plate . . . . I'm in awe of her
inventiveness, sly wit, engaging voice, and empathy for others--whether
those others are human, animal or inanimate.
In the interview that follows her poems, Maura gives us an interesting glimpse
into her creative process--including what triggers the subject for a poem and
how the poem starts taking shape on paper. She also mentions the benefits of
imitation exercises and some of the poets she particularly admires.
Besides writing, Maura also paints. Her watercolors and oils appear in this
feature.
"Oleander in a Box," 16x20, oil on canvas
From Immortal Sofa (University of Illinois, 2008)
Milk of Human Kindness
Tastes like the melted centers of toasted marshmallows. Tastes like tears
of nectar squeezed out of clover blossoms. Tastes like sips from rivers
running through lands of milk and honey. Remember those wax bottles
filled with colored liquids, how as a child you bit off the top and sucked
out the sweet purple, or red, or orange? You opened waxed cartons in
the lunchroom, stuck in your straw, bubbled and gurgled. You loved
chocolate best. So did your friends. And there was always enough to
drink, more than you could finish. But now your mouth is dry. The milk
of human kindness tastes like a punch in the nose. It tastes like phlegm,
like snot. Tastes metallic like coins you don't give to homeless teenagers
panhandling downtown, tastes like your blood-pressure medicine, tastes
like a dry martini, tastes like the ring of soured froth in the cat's unwashed
bowl, still sitting in the sink. She's meowing at the refrigerator door. She
knows where you keep it.
Milk of Human Kindness
Tastes like the melted centers of toasted marshmallows. Tastes like tears
of nectar squeezed out of clover blossoms. Tastes like sips from rivers
running through lands of milk and honey. Remember those wax bottles
filled with colored liquids, how as a child you bit off the top and sucked
out the sweet purple, or red, or orange? You opened waxed cartons in
the lunchroom, stuck in your straw, bubbled and gurgled. You loved
chocolate best. So did your friends. And there was always enough to
drink, more than you could finish. But now your mouth is dry. The milk
of human kindness tastes like a punch in the nose. It tastes like phlegm,
like snot. Tastes metallic like coins you don't give to homeless teenagers
panhandling downtown, tastes like your blood-pressure medicine, tastes
like a dry martini, tastes like the ring of soured froth in the cat's unwashed
bowl, still sitting in the sink. She's meowing at the refrigerator door. She
knows where you keep it.
"Reflections," 16x20, oil on canvas
Practicing T'ai Chi Ch'uan
From where I waver in the tall mirror
shaping my arms and legs into the postures
of the photographs, I see I've got them wrong.
I'll never learn Deflect, Parry and Punch,
Strike with Palm and Descend, or Kick with Right Heel.
But then I come across White Crane Spreads Wings
and imagine gliding high above my town,
headed south out over the reservoir
casting a shadow. Suddenly I see
how other movements may be hidden inside
my body like paper ready to be unfolded.
Grasp the Bird's Tail. Wave Hands Like Clouds.
I sweep my arms first this way, and then that,
watching a sleek crow dive past my window
as I shift left and right. Here's Work at Shuttles.
That's how I shop the grocery store each week,
gliding dreamily behind my wire cart,
my fingers mechanically gathering stuff
though what they long to do is Strum the Lute
and fill the bright aisles with heavenly music.
The White Snake Flicks Out Tongue. I know
that quick hello from living in this town
for years, but where inside me is the skill
to Part the Wild Horse's Mane? I lift
my arms above my head, trying to remember
backwards through centuries to a seacoast
where a shadowy person with my DNA
saw the first hoof prints across the wet sand.
But it must have been aeons ago when something
slimy and quick, that evolved to be me,
learned to Insert Needle to Sea Bottom.
I close my eyes, trying to conjure the warm
watery planet, sizzling with lightning bolts,
where I darted and turned my somersaults
and then, diving through transparent depths,
inserted myself through the waving seaweed
and came back up, my eye filled with joy.
From where I waver in the tall mirror
shaping my arms and legs into the postures
of the photographs, I see I've got them wrong.
I'll never learn Deflect, Parry and Punch,
Strike with Palm and Descend, or Kick with Right Heel.
But then I come across White Crane Spreads Wings
and imagine gliding high above my town,
headed south out over the reservoir
casting a shadow. Suddenly I see
how other movements may be hidden inside
my body like paper ready to be unfolded.
Grasp the Bird's Tail. Wave Hands Like Clouds.
I sweep my arms first this way, and then that,
watching a sleek crow dive past my window
as I shift left and right. Here's Work at Shuttles.
That's how I shop the grocery store each week,
gliding dreamily behind my wire cart,
my fingers mechanically gathering stuff
though what they long to do is Strum the Lute
and fill the bright aisles with heavenly music.
The White Snake Flicks Out Tongue. I know
that quick hello from living in this town
for years, but where inside me is the skill
to Part the Wild Horse's Mane? I lift
my arms above my head, trying to remember
backwards through centuries to a seacoast
where a shadowy person with my DNA
saw the first hoof prints across the wet sand.
But it must have been aeons ago when something
slimy and quick, that evolved to be me,
learned to Insert Needle to Sea Bottom.
I close my eyes, trying to conjure the warm
watery planet, sizzling with lightning bolts,
where I darted and turned my somersaults
and then, diving through transparent depths,
inserted myself through the waving seaweed
and came back up, my eye filled with joy.
"The Portara, Naxos Island, Greece," 16x20, oil on canvas
From Glacier Wine (Carnegie Mellon, 2002)
Gifts
Lilac, lavender, lily of the valley--
I lift the soap up to my face.
I'm Christmas shopping for my aunt,
who's forced to discontinue chemo,
hardly able to keep food down.
I used to send her panettone,
boxes of glazed apricots,
or lavish travel books on Ireland--
things I thought a nun would like
to unwrap after Midnight mass.
But the many worldly objects
I've fingered in a dozen shops--
handblown glass, engagement books,
tote bags stenciled with sleeping cats--
seemed so wrong I stepped into
this fragrance store for inspiration.
And yet a wave of guilt chokes me
as I give my credit card to a clerk
for this little stack of boxes,
wildflowers sealed in glycerin,
hand-milled distilled carnations,
lanolin ovals of English violet.
Is this to be my final gift?
The clerk hands the card back.
My thumb runs over the numbers
embossed on the slick front,
and with a tingle I remember
stroking my aunt's holy cards
enclosed with childhood birthday presents,
pictures of Mary dressed in blue
bending over the swaddled child,
or martyrs smiling serenely
from the rack, their legs broken.
My favorite scene was Jesus
surprising his mother in the temple,
his expression rapt and tender
as he taught the amazed elders.
I'd stroke the textured halos
around the sacred heads, as if
sanctity might rub off on me
absorbed through my human skin.
Now it's only money's ghost
I touch, slipping my card
back with others into my wallet,
before I grab the paper bag
off the glass counter, hoping
in spite of my devouring gloom
that my aunt's face is shining
like the saints, that this soap
smells to her of heavenly gardens.
Gifts
Lilac, lavender, lily of the valley--
I lift the soap up to my face.
I'm Christmas shopping for my aunt,
who's forced to discontinue chemo,
hardly able to keep food down.
I used to send her panettone,
boxes of glazed apricots,
or lavish travel books on Ireland--
things I thought a nun would like
to unwrap after Midnight mass.
But the many worldly objects
I've fingered in a dozen shops--
handblown glass, engagement books,
tote bags stenciled with sleeping cats--
seemed so wrong I stepped into
this fragrance store for inspiration.
And yet a wave of guilt chokes me
as I give my credit card to a clerk
for this little stack of boxes,
wildflowers sealed in glycerin,
hand-milled distilled carnations,
lanolin ovals of English violet.
Is this to be my final gift?
The clerk hands the card back.
My thumb runs over the numbers
embossed on the slick front,
and with a tingle I remember
stroking my aunt's holy cards
enclosed with childhood birthday presents,
pictures of Mary dressed in blue
bending over the swaddled child,
or martyrs smiling serenely
from the rack, their legs broken.
My favorite scene was Jesus
surprising his mother in the temple,
his expression rapt and tender
as he taught the amazed elders.
I'd stroke the textured halos
around the sacred heads, as if
sanctity might rub off on me
absorbed through my human skin.
Now it's only money's ghost
I touch, slipping my card
back with others into my wallet,
before I grab the paper bag
off the glass counter, hoping
in spite of my devouring gloom
that my aunt's face is shining
like the saints, that this soap
smells to her of heavenly gardens.
"Merry Go Round Horse," 11x14, oil on panel
Faux Deer
Once, hiking a ridge line in October woods,
I held my breath, surprised to spot a doe
turning to gaze at me. She didn't leap
across my path, and disappear in the brush,
so I dared a step, and then another step,
wishing I could stroke her velvet nose,
or murmur endearments into her big ears.
That's when I found she was a rigged-up decoy,
set up to fool the poachers. She'd been shot
over and over, her hide seared with bullets.
I shivered to think of someone sighting along
a rifle barrel from the ravine below,
and ran back to the trail, forgetting her
on the drive home. But today I remember
my spoiled hike as I read this news story,
DEER DECOYS CATCH POACHERS IN ACT.
Our state now has sixteen look-alikes
with detachable antlers that can revise
a buck into a doe, and other creatures,
fake owls, eagles, coyotes, hawks, wild turkeys
posing as game, hidden in the state parks.
In the AP photo, conservation officers
carry Artie out of the bare grey woods
for repair. He's in pieces, his antlered head
unswiveled from his lacerated trunk.
I star at the scene, trying to match it
to some lost feeling, that dreamy moment
before I grasped the danger we were in
and simply stood there in childlike wonder
at the magic deer, unafraid of me,
who seemed to have stepped from a fairy tale
where animals talk, and humans understand.
Once, hiking a ridge line in October woods,
I held my breath, surprised to spot a doe
turning to gaze at me. She didn't leap
across my path, and disappear in the brush,
so I dared a step, and then another step,
wishing I could stroke her velvet nose,
or murmur endearments into her big ears.
That's when I found she was a rigged-up decoy,
set up to fool the poachers. She'd been shot
over and over, her hide seared with bullets.
I shivered to think of someone sighting along
a rifle barrel from the ravine below,
and ran back to the trail, forgetting her
on the drive home. But today I remember
my spoiled hike as I read this news story,
DEER DECOYS CATCH POACHERS IN ACT.
Our state now has sixteen look-alikes
with detachable antlers that can revise
a buck into a doe, and other creatures,
fake owls, eagles, coyotes, hawks, wild turkeys
posing as game, hidden in the state parks.
In the AP photo, conservation officers
carry Artie out of the bare grey woods
for repair. He's in pieces, his antlered head
unswiveled from his lacerated trunk.
I star at the scene, trying to match it
to some lost feeling, that dreamy moment
before I grasped the danger we were in
and simply stood there in childlike wonder
at the magic deer, unafraid of me,
who seemed to have stepped from a fairy tale
where animals talk, and humans understand.
"Red Leaves, Naples, Florida Botanical Garden," 16x20, oil on canvas
From Life Among the Trolls (Carnegie Mellon, 1998)
Drugstore Trolls
Why, I'd forgotten these half-human faces,
The wrinkled foreheads split as if by knives,
The beady eyes ringed with satanic red.
In grade school they crouched inside our desks,
Naked, sexless, only their DayGlo hair
Distinguishing them, which you could twist or pull,
Or tuck into misshapen, hollow skulls
Until they were as ugly as you wished.
When I opened my desk, my troll grinned up
As if it read my lazy, rebellious thoughts--
Forget arithmetic, learn to duck and shirk
Down here in the dark where nothing matters
Except the throbbings of your porkchop heart.
Today's trolls seem cuter, the pulpy faces
Pulled sideways like taffy, the clawless hands
Extended to display four blunt thumbs
Like children's safety scissors with curved tips,
And each one's dressed in a spiffy outfit.
This one's a nurse, this one rides a surf board,
And here's a farmer strutting in overalls.
I think about all the kids I used to know
Grown up, pushing their battered wire carts
Full of stuff like mine--hangers on sale,
Flowerpots, contact lens solution,
Catnip mice--who'll stop at this display
Set up inside their own hometown drugstore,
And wonder why they suddenly feel chilled
As they stare at shelves of supernatural dolls
Now changed into he's and she's, given lives
So like our lives they seem like mockery--
The policeman troll with his badge and gun
Ready to shoot the troll in prison stripes,
The purple-haired bride whose filmy dress
Hides a pair of big flat feet that match
The groom's feet below his black tuxedo,
And the artist troll in a splattered smock,
Beret pinned rakishly to bohemian hair,
A brush glued across the pawlike palm.
Drugstore Trolls
Why, I'd forgotten these half-human faces,
The wrinkled foreheads split as if by knives,
The beady eyes ringed with satanic red.
In grade school they crouched inside our desks,
Naked, sexless, only their DayGlo hair
Distinguishing them, which you could twist or pull,
Or tuck into misshapen, hollow skulls
Until they were as ugly as you wished.
When I opened my desk, my troll grinned up
As if it read my lazy, rebellious thoughts--
Forget arithmetic, learn to duck and shirk
Down here in the dark where nothing matters
Except the throbbings of your porkchop heart.
Today's trolls seem cuter, the pulpy faces
Pulled sideways like taffy, the clawless hands
Extended to display four blunt thumbs
Like children's safety scissors with curved tips,
And each one's dressed in a spiffy outfit.
This one's a nurse, this one rides a surf board,
And here's a farmer strutting in overalls.
I think about all the kids I used to know
Grown up, pushing their battered wire carts
Full of stuff like mine--hangers on sale,
Flowerpots, contact lens solution,
Catnip mice--who'll stop at this display
Set up inside their own hometown drugstore,
And wonder why they suddenly feel chilled
As they stare at shelves of supernatural dolls
Now changed into he's and she's, given lives
So like our lives they seem like mockery--
The policeman troll with his badge and gun
Ready to shoot the troll in prison stripes,
The purple-haired bride whose filmy dress
Hides a pair of big flat feet that match
The groom's feet below his black tuxedo,
And the artist troll in a splattered smock,
Beret pinned rakishly to bohemian hair,
A brush glued across the pawlike palm.
"Storm over Venice," 16x20, oil on canvas
From Tales of the Supernatural (Godine, 1988)
The Cuckoo Clock
Before I could tell time, I'd sit and wait
For the cuckoo in my mother's wooden clock
To open his red door, and sing "cuckoo."
I never knew how many times he'd sing,
But the song was regular, and a long trill
Gave me a chance to look inside his house
Where it was dark and smelled of sweet pine.
I used to wonder what he did in there
Under the curlicues of his painted roof.
I guessed he had a parlor, and two chairs
Pulled up before a real brick fireplace.
He drank tea from thin, china cups,
Smeared honey on his crackers, wiped his beak,
And thought of ways he might invite me in.
Though I was large, I was his favorite.
There was no other reason to appear
So often in our kitchen, where the noise
Of younger brothers rose against my ears.
But I couldn't shrink. Too soon I knew
How long an hour lasted, and I climbed
Up on a kitchen chair and pulled the door
Open before it was time for him to sing.
I saw the mechanism, how he fitted
Neatly on his spring above the gear wheel;
And afterwards he ordered me to bed,
Insisted on time for play and homework.
Then yesterday, standing across the street
From my own house, a grown-up clapboard house,
I had the dizzy feeling that I'd shrunk .
This was the cuckoo's house, though I was forty.
I looked at the red door and the pretty trim.
I was small enough to enter, turn the knob,
Sit down in the other chair before his fire,
Sink back, and rest. Why did I hesitate?
I waited on the curb while cars roared past.
I stared at my door, dismissing fancy,
Then went inside to my familiar rooms.
The fireplace was cold, the tea unmade.
I walked around on rugs and oak floors,
And finally paused before the cuckoo clock
Which hung in my dining room--the same clock,
A gift from my mother. It had not ticked
For ten years. The iron chains hung still
Beneath the faded, intricate facade
Coated with fine dust. I put my finger
On the door. I wondered if he heard me.
His lintel was so low. And was his floor
A mess of rubble, dirt, feathers, and hair?
I heard him stirring somewhere in the dark
Preparing to greet me, his beak open
Not to sing, but to swallow me at last.
The Cuckoo Clock
Before I could tell time, I'd sit and wait
For the cuckoo in my mother's wooden clock
To open his red door, and sing "cuckoo."
I never knew how many times he'd sing,
But the song was regular, and a long trill
Gave me a chance to look inside his house
Where it was dark and smelled of sweet pine.
I used to wonder what he did in there
Under the curlicues of his painted roof.
I guessed he had a parlor, and two chairs
Pulled up before a real brick fireplace.
He drank tea from thin, china cups,
Smeared honey on his crackers, wiped his beak,
And thought of ways he might invite me in.
Though I was large, I was his favorite.
There was no other reason to appear
So often in our kitchen, where the noise
Of younger brothers rose against my ears.
But I couldn't shrink. Too soon I knew
How long an hour lasted, and I climbed
Up on a kitchen chair and pulled the door
Open before it was time for him to sing.
I saw the mechanism, how he fitted
Neatly on his spring above the gear wheel;
And afterwards he ordered me to bed,
Insisted on time for play and homework.
Then yesterday, standing across the street
From my own house, a grown-up clapboard house,
I had the dizzy feeling that I'd shrunk .
This was the cuckoo's house, though I was forty.
I looked at the red door and the pretty trim.
I was small enough to enter, turn the knob,
Sit down in the other chair before his fire,
Sink back, and rest. Why did I hesitate?
I waited on the curb while cars roared past.
I stared at my door, dismissing fancy,
Then went inside to my familiar rooms.
The fireplace was cold, the tea unmade.
I walked around on rugs and oak floors,
And finally paused before the cuckoo clock
Which hung in my dining room--the same clock,
A gift from my mother. It had not ticked
For ten years. The iron chains hung still
Beneath the faded, intricate facade
Coated with fine dust. I put my finger
On the door. I wondered if he heard me.
His lintel was so low. And was his floor
A mess of rubble, dirt, feathers, and hair?
I heard him stirring somewhere in the dark
Preparing to greet me, his beak open
Not to sing, but to swallow me at last.
"Venice," 5x7, watercolor on paper
Wander Indiana
Introduced in January 1984, the "Wander"
plates have been a cause for much unhappiness
and confusion--not only for Indiana residents,
but also for motorists around the country. . . .
Some thought "Wander" was a county--a large
one--somewhere in central Indiana.
--Newspaper Editorial
How did I come to be here? I suppose
I was like other girls at first, just shyer.
I used to stand outside the practice room
Listening to Chopin on the piano
With my eyes closed, imagining love.
I was a wise man in the Christmas play,
No lines to speak, but the whole stage to cross
Pretending to follow a light-bulb star.
I liked to spin the globe in my homeroom
After school, and stop it with my finger.
Then I grew up, got glasses, read thick books.
I saw the sights that all explorers see
When I began to travel, yet somehow
The pictures in the books were always brighter--
"Smiling mermaids, combing their yellow hair"
The caption said, but when I reached that shore
And saw the mermaids sprawled upon their rocks,
I saw how thin they were, how they shivered,
And tried to dry their wet tails with their hair.
I heard the rumors about Shangri-la:
Yes, most of them are true, the palms sway
And gentle unicorns crop the green grass
Below the snow-capped, shadowy mountains,
But people stopped me on broad avenues
To ask me a question: Was I ever happy
Down there where snow fell? If I said "Yes,"
They turned from me in shock, almost angry,
Swept up their gauzy robes, and walked away.
That's when I crossed the Iceberg Sea to Limbo
And disembarked in the ramshackle port.
It looked so ordinary, a town of bars
And rutted streets. Inside the "Rainy Daze"
I asked a sailor if he ever tried
To catch a glimpse of Heaven through the fog.
He shook his head, lifting his heavy stein.
But it was on my short voyage to Hell
That I first heard of Wander, Indiana.
I waited on the shore beside the Lethe
Among the mingling shades. I had no right
To passage on the ferry for the dead,
And the shades jostled me, mocking, annoyed.
I was loveless, hopeless, but I was alive,
Solid enough to weight the buoyant wood
Of the deck, remind them of their losses.
After the ferryman refused to take me
I pleaded with the dead. Where should I go?
Wander, Indiana some voices hissed
Above the groan of oars, the shrieks and moans.
And so I drove across the big prairie
Searching for the narrow road to Wander.
The sky was blue, the rustling corn uncut.
I passed the quarry and the water tower,
Drove into the county seat at twilight--
It looked real. I knew that strangers slept
Soundly at the Bide-a-Wee Motel,
Then drove away, never suspecting the trick:
The whole town, the whole enormous county,
Is made of drifting vapor, molecules
Combined--no one knows how--to resemble
Shapes of houses, hardware stores, and people.
None of us exist. We're clouds of matter
Driven by gusts of passion, lips dissolving
As we smile at you, and give you directions.
Introduced in January 1984, the "Wander"
plates have been a cause for much unhappiness
and confusion--not only for Indiana residents,
but also for motorists around the country. . . .
Some thought "Wander" was a county--a large
one--somewhere in central Indiana.
--Newspaper Editorial
How did I come to be here? I suppose
I was like other girls at first, just shyer.
I used to stand outside the practice room
Listening to Chopin on the piano
With my eyes closed, imagining love.
I was a wise man in the Christmas play,
No lines to speak, but the whole stage to cross
Pretending to follow a light-bulb star.
I liked to spin the globe in my homeroom
After school, and stop it with my finger.
Then I grew up, got glasses, read thick books.
I saw the sights that all explorers see
When I began to travel, yet somehow
The pictures in the books were always brighter--
"Smiling mermaids, combing their yellow hair"
The caption said, but when I reached that shore
And saw the mermaids sprawled upon their rocks,
I saw how thin they were, how they shivered,
And tried to dry their wet tails with their hair.
I heard the rumors about Shangri-la:
Yes, most of them are true, the palms sway
And gentle unicorns crop the green grass
Below the snow-capped, shadowy mountains,
But people stopped me on broad avenues
To ask me a question: Was I ever happy
Down there where snow fell? If I said "Yes,"
They turned from me in shock, almost angry,
Swept up their gauzy robes, and walked away.
That's when I crossed the Iceberg Sea to Limbo
And disembarked in the ramshackle port.
It looked so ordinary, a town of bars
And rutted streets. Inside the "Rainy Daze"
I asked a sailor if he ever tried
To catch a glimpse of Heaven through the fog.
He shook his head, lifting his heavy stein.
But it was on my short voyage to Hell
That I first heard of Wander, Indiana.
I waited on the shore beside the Lethe
Among the mingling shades. I had no right
To passage on the ferry for the dead,
And the shades jostled me, mocking, annoyed.
I was loveless, hopeless, but I was alive,
Solid enough to weight the buoyant wood
Of the deck, remind them of their losses.
After the ferryman refused to take me
I pleaded with the dead. Where should I go?
Wander, Indiana some voices hissed
Above the groan of oars, the shrieks and moans.
And so I drove across the big prairie
Searching for the narrow road to Wander.
The sky was blue, the rustling corn uncut.
I passed the quarry and the water tower,
Drove into the county seat at twilight--
It looked real. I knew that strangers slept
Soundly at the Bide-a-Wee Motel,
Then drove away, never suspecting the trick:
The whole town, the whole enormous county,
Is made of drifting vapor, molecules
Combined--no one knows how--to resemble
Shapes of houses, hardware stores, and people.
None of us exist. We're clouds of matter
Driven by gusts of passion, lips dissolving
As we smile at you, and give you directions.
"Sea Birds, Naples, Florida," 16x20, oil on canvas
From Cries of Swimmers (Utah, 1984)
Wildlife Calendar
I read my fortune in this calendar
Where animals are frozen into place
Against composed landscape, sky or snow.
In January the shaggy mountain goat
High on his rocky crag meant dizziness
For each day I breathed delusive air,
Dreaming a continent below me,
Strange cities to the east and west.
Now all February, a green sea turtle
Crosses shingle beach above his shadow,
Heading, the caption says, for the Pacific.
And marking off the days, I tell myself
He always hears the metrics of the ocean
Above the dull grate of pebble on pebble.
In winter I slowly lift the pages forward
Looking for lucky months. But this March
A long-tailed weasel peers around a log
Alert for the first stir of new-born mice.
The elephant seal's grey and battered head
Dominates April, and at once I know
Why something pulls my eyelid down and down
As if a bit of lead weighted the fold--
When Menelaos wrestled the god Proteus
Through all his transformations, lion and snake,
Leopard, and soaking water and cypress tree,
He hugged at last Proteus' final shape:
A huge seal, rank and sorrowful,
Who croaked the tale of Agamemnon's death.
The whitetail fawn representing May
Stares at her photographer in terror
As if she knows the out-of-focus woods
(Flattened by the telephoto lens
Into the pure green of one dimension)
Will deepen in a moment, glade by glade,
For the passage of her natural enemies.
In June the sober posture of five owls,
Once sacred to Athena, marked with wisdom,
Convinces me that on our literal earth
No libation poured upon the ground
Could draw a goddess down to intervene
In any contest: The owls wait drowsily
For seasonable prey to brave the twilight.
Inside the large square for every month
Each day's a smaller square, and inside that
I might imagine space for hours and minutes,
The minutes filled with tiny second squares
Presided over by the one-celled creatures
Who live inside a drop of water, absorbing
The substance of the water as they swim.
But that perspective makes my room waver:
I focus on the emblem for July,
The curve of antler on the caribou
Against the blue slope of distant glacier,
Finding hope in the grandeur of background,
And in the grasping pose of brown bears
Possibly dancing in the August river.
And now the Eastern brown pelican,
Pressed into abstract shape, his round eye
The center of the pattern he can't see,
Introduces the month of my birthday.
I've seen omens in the visible world
Even since the clown on my pink cake
Caught fire as I blew out the candles
Trying to get my wish. Yet as I trace
My finger over this bird's perfect wing,
I realize I've begun to wish again.
Maybe the habit's deeper than I know,
A permanent spell, part of the autumn
When even the massive cheetah of October
Licks her cubs, her muscles in repose.
Quickly I turn the page to November
Where penguins crowd together on slick rocks--
And now I've reached the end of speculation.
Here the snow falls into the ocean,
Turning to salt; the waves rush up the rocks,
Leave necklaces of foam across the beach
Where the identical birds jostle and slide,
Beginning to form a black calligraphy
In a language I've forgotten how to read.
Stampeding through the December snowstorm
The panting elk see only the blurred trees
Along their nearest way. Not a hoofprint
Exists behind them as they hurry forward
Over the invisible grass of next spring.
Wildlife Calendar
I read my fortune in this calendar
Where animals are frozen into place
Against composed landscape, sky or snow.
In January the shaggy mountain goat
High on his rocky crag meant dizziness
For each day I breathed delusive air,
Dreaming a continent below me,
Strange cities to the east and west.
Now all February, a green sea turtle
Crosses shingle beach above his shadow,
Heading, the caption says, for the Pacific.
And marking off the days, I tell myself
He always hears the metrics of the ocean
Above the dull grate of pebble on pebble.
In winter I slowly lift the pages forward
Looking for lucky months. But this March
A long-tailed weasel peers around a log
Alert for the first stir of new-born mice.
The elephant seal's grey and battered head
Dominates April, and at once I know
Why something pulls my eyelid down and down
As if a bit of lead weighted the fold--
When Menelaos wrestled the god Proteus
Through all his transformations, lion and snake,
Leopard, and soaking water and cypress tree,
He hugged at last Proteus' final shape:
A huge seal, rank and sorrowful,
Who croaked the tale of Agamemnon's death.
The whitetail fawn representing May
Stares at her photographer in terror
As if she knows the out-of-focus woods
(Flattened by the telephoto lens
Into the pure green of one dimension)
Will deepen in a moment, glade by glade,
For the passage of her natural enemies.
In June the sober posture of five owls,
Once sacred to Athena, marked with wisdom,
Convinces me that on our literal earth
No libation poured upon the ground
Could draw a goddess down to intervene
In any contest: The owls wait drowsily
For seasonable prey to brave the twilight.
Inside the large square for every month
Each day's a smaller square, and inside that
I might imagine space for hours and minutes,
The minutes filled with tiny second squares
Presided over by the one-celled creatures
Who live inside a drop of water, absorbing
The substance of the water as they swim.
But that perspective makes my room waver:
I focus on the emblem for July,
The curve of antler on the caribou
Against the blue slope of distant glacier,
Finding hope in the grandeur of background,
And in the grasping pose of brown bears
Possibly dancing in the August river.
And now the Eastern brown pelican,
Pressed into abstract shape, his round eye
The center of the pattern he can't see,
Introduces the month of my birthday.
I've seen omens in the visible world
Even since the clown on my pink cake
Caught fire as I blew out the candles
Trying to get my wish. Yet as I trace
My finger over this bird's perfect wing,
I realize I've begun to wish again.
Maybe the habit's deeper than I know,
A permanent spell, part of the autumn
When even the massive cheetah of October
Licks her cubs, her muscles in repose.
Quickly I turn the page to November
Where penguins crowd together on slick rocks--
And now I've reached the end of speculation.
Here the snow falls into the ocean,
Turning to salt; the waves rush up the rocks,
Leave necklaces of foam across the beach
Where the identical birds jostle and slide,
Beginning to form a black calligraphy
In a language I've forgotten how to read.
Stampeding through the December snowstorm
The panting elk see only the blurred trees
Along their nearest way. Not a hoofprint
Exists behind them as they hurry forward
Over the invisible grass of next spring.
"Portrait of a Lady," 16x20, oil on canvas
Shoplifters
I'd smoke in the freezer
among the hooked beefsides,
wondering about the shoplifters
who wept when the manager's
nephew tugged them to his office.
He made me search the women.
I found twenty cans of tuna fish
under the skirt of a mother whose son
drowned in a flash flood out west.
Now he haunted her,
begging for mouthfuls of fish.
Candles fell from a nun's sleeves.
She meant to light the route
for tobogganists on the convent hill.
Two old sisters emptied beans
from their big apron pockets,
claiming they cured rheumatism.
Soon I recognized snow
drifting across faces at the door,
watching in the round mirrors
the way hands snatched out
unhesitatingly at onions.
In the mirrors everyone stole,
buttoning coats again, looking
once over their shoulders
while eggs bulged in a mitten
or salt sifted from their hems.
Did they think me an angel
when I glided in my white uniform
down the soap aisle, preventing
some clutch of fingers?
An old man I caught last year
stuffing baloney down his trousers
lived alone in a dim bedroom.
The manager said cupcake papers
blew across his floor--
hundreds, yellow, white & pink.
Now he peers through the window,
watching me bag groceries
for hours until my hands sweat.
I'd smoke in the freezer
among the hooked beefsides,
wondering about the shoplifters
who wept when the manager's
nephew tugged them to his office.
He made me search the women.
I found twenty cans of tuna fish
under the skirt of a mother whose son
drowned in a flash flood out west.
Now he haunted her,
begging for mouthfuls of fish.
Candles fell from a nun's sleeves.
She meant to light the route
for tobogganists on the convent hill.
Two old sisters emptied beans
from their big apron pockets,
claiming they cured rheumatism.
Soon I recognized snow
drifting across faces at the door,
watching in the round mirrors
the way hands snatched out
unhesitatingly at onions.
In the mirrors everyone stole,
buttoning coats again, looking
once over their shoulders
while eggs bulged in a mitten
or salt sifted from their hems.
Did they think me an angel
when I glided in my white uniform
down the soap aisle, preventing
some clutch of fingers?
An old man I caught last year
stuffing baloney down his trousers
lived alone in a dim bedroom.
The manager said cupcake papers
blew across his floor--
hundreds, yellow, white & pink.
Now he peers through the window,
watching me bag groceries
for hours until my hands sweat.
An Interview with Maura Stanton
Maura, in your poems the seemingly ordinary never remains ordinary. People, animals, objects, and settings become linked to the magic of fairytale or myth. Would you say something about your search to find this imaginative dimension and its importance to you?
Imagination (a slant way of seeing reality) is what engages me in poems and stories. So when I write I try to discover ways of seeing that are new and fresh. My poems might be triggered by what I encounter in daily life—such as finding a dead moth in a bottle of mineral water—or funny items like a board game for Jane Austen’s novel Pride and Prejudice—or by some interesting turn of phrase (our old Indiana license plate motto WANDER INDIANA). I grew up on the edge of Peoria, Illinois. I used to pretend that the cloud banks on the horizons were mysterious mountain ranges.
What is your favorite fairy tale or myth and why?
The Sea Fairies by L. Frank Baum was my favorite book when I was growing up. It was about an ordinary girl named Trot and her friend, Captain Bill, an old man with a wooden leg. Trot encounters mermaids and gets to be one for a while. There’s a monster called Zog who tries to kill the mermaids by heating the water, or freezing the water, but he’s defeated in the end. I also loved Baum’s more famous book, The Wizard of Oz. When you live on the prairie at the edge of a town you can see tornadoes on the horizon. We had an old cellar with an outside door just like Dorothy did, and I remember huddling down there in the dark.
How do you typically receive the inspiration for a poem?
I kept seeing a lost glove that somebody had stuck into the wire mesh of the tennis court fence in Bryan Park. Birds were starting to peck at the lining. That inspired a poem. So did the remark I heard walking around the park: “I had a basket of Danish strawberries—they were the most strawberry strawberries I’ve ever had.” When I was grocery shopping a few weeks ago, I spotted a grasshopper on the candy display. That’s what I started writing about the next morning. Sometimes I’m inspired by what I read. I subscribe to a journal called France-Amerique and I was reading about Louis-Phillip, the king of France, how as a young man he’d traveled around America in the 18th Century with this two brothers. I loved the idea of three princes riding on horseback down in Kentucky, one of them painting watercolors.
What is your writing process like?
It starts with a lot of dreaming and doodling. I’ll sit in my chair with my lap desk and stare out the window. I may grab Emily Dickinson and read a few lines until I find a word I like. But mostly I’m scribbling words—images—and lines on paper until something clicks and I start getting so excited that I write too fast and can’t read my own handwriting. That’s the point when I move to the computer.
You write in poetry and fiction. How do you determine if what you want to write about should take the form of poetry or prose?
If I’m going to write a poem, I’ll sit down with my lap desk and paper. If I’m going to write a story, I’ll start at the computer and try to discover an opening sentence that will take me into a story—give me a character and plot. I usually determine the genre in advance, but sometimes a poem will steal the subject I’ve been saving for a story. That happened with the three princes. I was saving them for a story but a poem got to them first. I’ve learned to never hold anything back—I’m a spendthrift when I write, using up everything I’ve got on hand.
The class that had the most impact on me while I was in the MFA program at Bloomington, was your imitation workshop. We studied the voices of about six or seven contemporary poets and then wrote poems trying to imitate them. Why do you think imitation exercises are important for developing poets and who are some of the poets you learned from as you were developing your distinct voice?
Imitation forces you to look at the structure of the poems you admire—it allows you to study the way they are put together so that you can internalize the process and use it later on your own material. Painters have always done this. Cezanne spent days at the Louvre and filled twenty some notebooks with drawings of paintings and sculptures that he admired. He copied Velazquez, Michelangelo, Rubens. He taught himself composition this way, and how to use color. Manet and Berte Morisot met while they were at the Louvre copying paintings. When I taught myself to write in blank verse, I used Robert Frost’s poem “Birches” as a kind of cookie cutter—not just for the sound of the lines, but also for the way he was able to turn the ordinary world into something extraordinary. Another poet I used to imitate, because I loved his smoothness and elegance, was Donald Justice. Other poets I like to read when I want to freshen my ear and eye are Ted Kooser, Wislawa Szymborska, Elizabeth Bishop, Billy Collins, Robert Hayden, and Francis Ponge.
What’s the most important advice you can offer for poets just getting started?
Read lots of poetry!
What’s one of your favorite places in Bloomington or Monroe County?
My two favorite cities are Bloomngton, Indiana, and Venice, Italy. In both cities I can walk everywhere I want to go. In Bloomington, I especially like Bryan Park, the Waldron Art Center, the Courthouse Square, 4th Street with all the restaurants, Pygmalion’s Art Supply where you can pet cats, Sahara Mart, and the beautiful campus with its woods and water meadows.
Maura, in your poems the seemingly ordinary never remains ordinary. People, animals, objects, and settings become linked to the magic of fairytale or myth. Would you say something about your search to find this imaginative dimension and its importance to you?
Imagination (a slant way of seeing reality) is what engages me in poems and stories. So when I write I try to discover ways of seeing that are new and fresh. My poems might be triggered by what I encounter in daily life—such as finding a dead moth in a bottle of mineral water—or funny items like a board game for Jane Austen’s novel Pride and Prejudice—or by some interesting turn of phrase (our old Indiana license plate motto WANDER INDIANA). I grew up on the edge of Peoria, Illinois. I used to pretend that the cloud banks on the horizons were mysterious mountain ranges.
What is your favorite fairy tale or myth and why?
The Sea Fairies by L. Frank Baum was my favorite book when I was growing up. It was about an ordinary girl named Trot and her friend, Captain Bill, an old man with a wooden leg. Trot encounters mermaids and gets to be one for a while. There’s a monster called Zog who tries to kill the mermaids by heating the water, or freezing the water, but he’s defeated in the end. I also loved Baum’s more famous book, The Wizard of Oz. When you live on the prairie at the edge of a town you can see tornadoes on the horizon. We had an old cellar with an outside door just like Dorothy did, and I remember huddling down there in the dark.
How do you typically receive the inspiration for a poem?
I kept seeing a lost glove that somebody had stuck into the wire mesh of the tennis court fence in Bryan Park. Birds were starting to peck at the lining. That inspired a poem. So did the remark I heard walking around the park: “I had a basket of Danish strawberries—they were the most strawberry strawberries I’ve ever had.” When I was grocery shopping a few weeks ago, I spotted a grasshopper on the candy display. That’s what I started writing about the next morning. Sometimes I’m inspired by what I read. I subscribe to a journal called France-Amerique and I was reading about Louis-Phillip, the king of France, how as a young man he’d traveled around America in the 18th Century with this two brothers. I loved the idea of three princes riding on horseback down in Kentucky, one of them painting watercolors.
What is your writing process like?
It starts with a lot of dreaming and doodling. I’ll sit in my chair with my lap desk and stare out the window. I may grab Emily Dickinson and read a few lines until I find a word I like. But mostly I’m scribbling words—images—and lines on paper until something clicks and I start getting so excited that I write too fast and can’t read my own handwriting. That’s the point when I move to the computer.
You write in poetry and fiction. How do you determine if what you want to write about should take the form of poetry or prose?
If I’m going to write a poem, I’ll sit down with my lap desk and paper. If I’m going to write a story, I’ll start at the computer and try to discover an opening sentence that will take me into a story—give me a character and plot. I usually determine the genre in advance, but sometimes a poem will steal the subject I’ve been saving for a story. That happened with the three princes. I was saving them for a story but a poem got to them first. I’ve learned to never hold anything back—I’m a spendthrift when I write, using up everything I’ve got on hand.
The class that had the most impact on me while I was in the MFA program at Bloomington, was your imitation workshop. We studied the voices of about six or seven contemporary poets and then wrote poems trying to imitate them. Why do you think imitation exercises are important for developing poets and who are some of the poets you learned from as you were developing your distinct voice?
Imitation forces you to look at the structure of the poems you admire—it allows you to study the way they are put together so that you can internalize the process and use it later on your own material. Painters have always done this. Cezanne spent days at the Louvre and filled twenty some notebooks with drawings of paintings and sculptures that he admired. He copied Velazquez, Michelangelo, Rubens. He taught himself composition this way, and how to use color. Manet and Berte Morisot met while they were at the Louvre copying paintings. When I taught myself to write in blank verse, I used Robert Frost’s poem “Birches” as a kind of cookie cutter—not just for the sound of the lines, but also for the way he was able to turn the ordinary world into something extraordinary. Another poet I used to imitate, because I loved his smoothness and elegance, was Donald Justice. Other poets I like to read when I want to freshen my ear and eye are Ted Kooser, Wislawa Szymborska, Elizabeth Bishop, Billy Collins, Robert Hayden, and Francis Ponge.
What’s the most important advice you can offer for poets just getting started?
Read lots of poetry!
What’s one of your favorite places in Bloomington or Monroe County?
My two favorite cities are Bloomngton, Indiana, and Venice, Italy. In both cities I can walk everywhere I want to go. In Bloomington, I especially like Bryan Park, the Waldron Art Center, the Courthouse Square, 4th Street with all the restaurants, Pygmalion’s Art Supply where you can pet cats, Sahara Mart, and the beautiful campus with its woods and water meadows.
"Imagination (a slant way of seeing reality) is what engages me in poems and stories." Maura Stanton |
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October 2016
Re-Writing Family History: The Poetry of Linda Neal Reising
Linda Neal Reising, a native of Oklahoma and a member of the Western Cherokee Nation, lives in Posey County, Indiana, and holds an M.A. in Humanities from the University of Evansville. She retired after thirty-two years of teaching English. Her work has been published in numerous journals, including The Southern Indiana Review, Nimrod, and The Comstock Review. Linda’s poems and fiction have also been included in a number of anthologies, including Fruitflesh: Seeds of Inspiration for Women Who Write (HarperCollins), And Know This Place: Poetry of Indiana (Indiana Historical Society), Storm Country, and Lost on Route 66: Tales of the Mother Road (Gondwana Press). For four years, she worked as a staff writer for Posey Magazine, an on-line publication. In 2009, Linda won the Judith Siegel Pearson Writing Award, a national competition for poetry concerning women. She was named the winner of the 2012 Writer’s Digest Poetry Award. Her chapbook, Re-Writing Family History, was a finalist for the 2015 Oklahoma Book Award and was named the winner of the Oklahoma Writers’ Federation Poetry Book Prize.
Re-Writing Family History: The Poetry of Linda Neal Reising
Linda Neal Reising, a native of Oklahoma and a member of the Western Cherokee Nation, lives in Posey County, Indiana, and holds an M.A. in Humanities from the University of Evansville. She retired after thirty-two years of teaching English. Her work has been published in numerous journals, including The Southern Indiana Review, Nimrod, and The Comstock Review. Linda’s poems and fiction have also been included in a number of anthologies, including Fruitflesh: Seeds of Inspiration for Women Who Write (HarperCollins), And Know This Place: Poetry of Indiana (Indiana Historical Society), Storm Country, and Lost on Route 66: Tales of the Mother Road (Gondwana Press). For four years, she worked as a staff writer for Posey Magazine, an on-line publication. In 2009, Linda won the Judith Siegel Pearson Writing Award, a national competition for poetry concerning women. She was named the winner of the 2012 Writer’s Digest Poetry Award. Her chapbook, Re-Writing Family History, was a finalist for the 2015 Oklahoma Book Award and was named the winner of the Oklahoma Writers’ Federation Poetry Book Prize.
Linda Neal Reising's first collection of poems serves as a wonderful model of
how to write poetry inspired by family history. These poems are emotionally
powerful without being sentimental. They help the past step into the
present with fresh language and strong imagery. They invite us into their
world and ultimately enlarge our own.
In her interview, Linda speaks with insight about the memoir writing process,
her Cherokee heritage, and how she went about instilling a love of poetry in
her high school students.
The photographs here are from her family album.
From Re-Writing History (Finishing Line Press, 2014)
Re-Writing Family History
Let's say you do meet
at the candy counter of Woolworth's
Five & Dime, as she counts back mills
from your pack of Juicy Fruit purchase.
And let's say you do ask her out,
and she agrees to a movie at the Coleman,
afterward a burger at Doc's Tarry Awhile.
But let's say this time you don't elope
after eleven months, motoring
across the Arkansas line to stand
before the J.P.--she vestal
in her white graduation dress,
and you sweating in your borrowed suit.
Let's say instead that she gives in
and takes you to her room
above the First National--the only place
she's ever lived on her own.
We can see her, shy--shaking with doubt
or desire--fumbling with her blouse,
and you, gently helping
with each cloth-covered button.
Let's say you lead her to the Murphy bed,
tell her she's more beautiful than Rita Hayworth.
And once you are spent, we see you leave
while she sleeps, her black curls
splayed across the white pillow case.
Let's say this time you stay in school, escape
the draft. Your clean nails clack on the typewriter
as you finish your thesis on Stand Watie,
Cherokee general, last to surrender.
And there you are lecturing to rooms
filled with chalk dust and young women,
who pass notes to each other about passes
they wish you'd make.
While she goes back to the candy counter,
waiting for your return,
plopping scoops of gumdrops
onto the silver scale,
weighing her options.
Re-Writing Family History
Let's say you do meet
at the candy counter of Woolworth's
Five & Dime, as she counts back mills
from your pack of Juicy Fruit purchase.
And let's say you do ask her out,
and she agrees to a movie at the Coleman,
afterward a burger at Doc's Tarry Awhile.
But let's say this time you don't elope
after eleven months, motoring
across the Arkansas line to stand
before the J.P.--she vestal
in her white graduation dress,
and you sweating in your borrowed suit.
Let's say instead that she gives in
and takes you to her room
above the First National--the only place
she's ever lived on her own.
We can see her, shy--shaking with doubt
or desire--fumbling with her blouse,
and you, gently helping
with each cloth-covered button.
Let's say you lead her to the Murphy bed,
tell her she's more beautiful than Rita Hayworth.
And once you are spent, we see you leave
while she sleeps, her black curls
splayed across the white pillow case.
Let's say this time you stay in school, escape
the draft. Your clean nails clack on the typewriter
as you finish your thesis on Stand Watie,
Cherokee general, last to surrender.
And there you are lecturing to rooms
filled with chalk dust and young women,
who pass notes to each other about passes
they wish you'd make.
While she goes back to the candy counter,
waiting for your return,
plopping scoops of gumdrops
onto the silver scale,
weighing her options.
Our Mothers Would Not Let Us Watch
Our mothers would not let us watch
from any closer than the backyard.
There were no sirens
or flashing lights,
only a row of rusty pickups
and one sheriff's car.
The men were fishing the mine pits,
those gaping mouths that never swallowed,
except during July and August
when the sun glinted off the water,
sending a secret code to summer-bleached boys.
There was a fence,
but its sagging wires called sneakered feet to climb,
"Come learn the truth the parents try to hide."
They shed their clothes
and left them, shells on a chatpile beach.
The men plucked three bodies out
and gently laid them on the tailgates.
When my father returned,
I wanted to ask him what they looked like up close.
Were their eyes open?
Had the water leached the tan from their arms?
Instead, he grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard.
And his eyes were pools
that had no bottoms.
Our mothers would not let us watch
from any closer than the backyard.
There were no sirens
or flashing lights,
only a row of rusty pickups
and one sheriff's car.
The men were fishing the mine pits,
those gaping mouths that never swallowed,
except during July and August
when the sun glinted off the water,
sending a secret code to summer-bleached boys.
There was a fence,
but its sagging wires called sneakered feet to climb,
"Come learn the truth the parents try to hide."
They shed their clothes
and left them, shells on a chatpile beach.
The men plucked three bodies out
and gently laid them on the tailgates.
When my father returned,
I wanted to ask him what they looked like up close.
Were their eyes open?
Had the water leached the tan from their arms?
Instead, he grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard.
And his eyes were pools
that had no bottoms.
Philco Faith
Grandma Mamie went to hell.
That's what Reverend Peacock said
On the day he buried her.
He believed the only roll called up yonder
Was the First Assembly of God's.
He had not seen her worship at the TV temple,
Following the Philco faith.
Oral Roberts, eyes clenched
And arms uplifted as if begging
For a lightning bolt, commanded those at home
To rise, to touch the set, to be healed.
Many times I heard Grandma begging Uncle Harley,
A Hemingway man whose kidneys
Had shriveled into dried beans,
To lay his hands, barely held up by his little girl wrists,
On the glowing Bakelite box.
One day he stood beside her
And placed his palm on Oral's mouth.
I heard a crackle like flame.
Static electricity
Harley said.
But the faithful one bound for hell
Shook her head, convinced that the Holy Ghost
Arrived via rabbit ears.
Grandma Mamie went to hell.
That's what Reverend Peacock said
On the day he buried her.
He believed the only roll called up yonder
Was the First Assembly of God's.
He had not seen her worship at the TV temple,
Following the Philco faith.
Oral Roberts, eyes clenched
And arms uplifted as if begging
For a lightning bolt, commanded those at home
To rise, to touch the set, to be healed.
Many times I heard Grandma begging Uncle Harley,
A Hemingway man whose kidneys
Had shriveled into dried beans,
To lay his hands, barely held up by his little girl wrists,
On the glowing Bakelite box.
One day he stood beside her
And placed his palm on Oral's mouth.
I heard a crackle like flame.
Static electricity
Harley said.
But the faithful one bound for hell
Shook her head, convinced that the Holy Ghost
Arrived via rabbit ears.
Beets
My mother waltzed inside
the old washtub, the one
that stood on tall, feminine legs,
tapered to points as if wearing heels.
It filled the tiny yellow kitchen,
with its rick-rack trimmed curtains
and black cat clock, wagging
its tail and eyes.
She put the beets on to boil
inside a granite pot, dark
as a country sky, sprinkled
with white stars. Inside the tub
went cold water, pumped
fresh from the well.
When the beets grew tender,
she slid them into the cool bath,
and my sister and I, armed
with paring knives, sliced off
their green Mohawks, then gently
slipped their skins away,
revealing steaming hearts,
straight from Snow White.
And sometimes we didn't wait
for the pickling, the mixture
of vinegar and sugar and cinnamon
that burned our noses, but bit
right in, red oozing at the corners
of our lips, trailing down our chins,
as if we were creatures
doomed to live forever.
And for a moment,
it felt that way.
My mother waltzed inside
the old washtub, the one
that stood on tall, feminine legs,
tapered to points as if wearing heels.
It filled the tiny yellow kitchen,
with its rick-rack trimmed curtains
and black cat clock, wagging
its tail and eyes.
She put the beets on to boil
inside a granite pot, dark
as a country sky, sprinkled
with white stars. Inside the tub
went cold water, pumped
fresh from the well.
When the beets grew tender,
she slid them into the cool bath,
and my sister and I, armed
with paring knives, sliced off
their green Mohawks, then gently
slipped their skins away,
revealing steaming hearts,
straight from Snow White.
And sometimes we didn't wait
for the pickling, the mixture
of vinegar and sugar and cinnamon
that burned our noses, but bit
right in, red oozing at the corners
of our lips, trailing down our chins,
as if we were creatures
doomed to live forever.
And for a moment,
it felt that way.
Like Wild Paints
Our fan bus shuttled past redbuds
and daffodils rambling foothills
as we neared the state line,
headed for the Seneca Indian School--
tall, glowering building guarding
the baseball field--where their boys,
year-round boarders, warmed up,
skin gleaming like copper kettles in sunlight.
We were Indian, too--Cherokee, Shawnee,
Wyandotte--but paler, bleached
by Irish or Scottish blood, not like these boys--
Seminoles freighted from Florida swamps
or Lakota hauled from the Black Hills and set here.
They never spoke to us girls--giggling and flirting
on the rickety bleachers--or even smiled,
eyes always averted, downcast, except
when they stepped up to bat.
Then they held their chins high--
warriors or gods or both--watched
as the ball hurled toward the plate,
then sent it orbiting into brambles
beyond the fence, before galloping
the bases like wild Paints,
their manes whipping behind,
with one thought--to run,
run!
Our fan bus shuttled past redbuds
and daffodils rambling foothills
as we neared the state line,
headed for the Seneca Indian School--
tall, glowering building guarding
the baseball field--where their boys,
year-round boarders, warmed up,
skin gleaming like copper kettles in sunlight.
We were Indian, too--Cherokee, Shawnee,
Wyandotte--but paler, bleached
by Irish or Scottish blood, not like these boys--
Seminoles freighted from Florida swamps
or Lakota hauled from the Black Hills and set here.
They never spoke to us girls--giggling and flirting
on the rickety bleachers--or even smiled,
eyes always averted, downcast, except
when they stepped up to bat.
Then they held their chins high--
warriors or gods or both--watched
as the ball hurled toward the plate,
then sent it orbiting into brambles
beyond the fence, before galloping
the bases like wild Paints,
their manes whipping behind,
with one thought--to run,
run!
Cruising Rt. 66, Miami, OK
If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?
--from "Free Bird" by Lynryrd Skynyrd
On Saturday nights we'd cruise down Main
in the '52 Chevy my father bought
from a man who stopped driving at ninety.
We called it The Gray Greaser, giggled
at its old-person must and push-button starter,
and pumped it full of gasoline, one dollar at a time.
We'd roll into town before dark,
over the Neosho bridge,
past Ken's Bar-B-Que,
through Doc's parking lot,
by the Coleman Theater
where Will Rogers once twirled a rope,
around E.C.'s Drive-In,
and back to Doc's.
We were faroutgroovyheavyman
in our fringed suede jackets, fringed ponchos,
fringed boots--always on the fringe--
belting out Janis Joplin
from the rolled-down windows,
asking the Lord to buy us a Mercedes Benz.
Our faces--painted with peace signs,
bleeding daisies, weeping hearts--were framed
by long sheets of ironed hair.
We were masters
of the over-the-shoulder toss.
Once parked, boys would lean in through the windows--
boys who would go to jail,
who would go to war,
would go too soon--
including one who got famous singing
about a sweet home in Alabama--
even though he came from Oklahoma--
like all the rest of us.
If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?
--from "Free Bird" by Lynryrd Skynyrd
On Saturday nights we'd cruise down Main
in the '52 Chevy my father bought
from a man who stopped driving at ninety.
We called it The Gray Greaser, giggled
at its old-person must and push-button starter,
and pumped it full of gasoline, one dollar at a time.
We'd roll into town before dark,
over the Neosho bridge,
past Ken's Bar-B-Que,
through Doc's parking lot,
by the Coleman Theater
where Will Rogers once twirled a rope,
around E.C.'s Drive-In,
and back to Doc's.
We were faroutgroovyheavyman
in our fringed suede jackets, fringed ponchos,
fringed boots--always on the fringe--
belting out Janis Joplin
from the rolled-down windows,
asking the Lord to buy us a Mercedes Benz.
Our faces--painted with peace signs,
bleeding daisies, weeping hearts--were framed
by long sheets of ironed hair.
We were masters
of the over-the-shoulder toss.
Once parked, boys would lean in through the windows--
boys who would go to jail,
who would go to war,
would go too soon--
including one who got famous singing
about a sweet home in Alabama--
even though he came from Oklahoma--
like all the rest of us.
Coyotes
Thoughts of War on a Cold Night
The coyotes mourn each night
for their moon-faced mother,
who waxed the sky
until it sparkled, then disappeared.
Or perhaps they grieve
for their children.
A neighboring farmer brags
that he's found a den,
dug near a drainage ditch
in his field. It's always best
to kill the young first.
When I was a girl,
hunters swooped low
in their red and white planes,
giant hawks, chasing the coyotes
from their holds,
while pick-ups with howling
wooden boxes in their beds
raced down the dusty roads.
The men freed whining hounds
and, clutching their rifles,
ran behind, whooping
war cries.
Later, the victors drove past,
slowly now, with corpses
draped over the hoods
of their trucks, the tails
flapping in the wind
like fallen flags.
Thoughts of War on a Cold Night
The coyotes mourn each night
for their moon-faced mother,
who waxed the sky
until it sparkled, then disappeared.
Or perhaps they grieve
for their children.
A neighboring farmer brags
that he's found a den,
dug near a drainage ditch
in his field. It's always best
to kill the young first.
When I was a girl,
hunters swooped low
in their red and white planes,
giant hawks, chasing the coyotes
from their holds,
while pick-ups with howling
wooden boxes in their beds
raced down the dusty roads.
The men freed whining hounds
and, clutching their rifles,
ran behind, whooping
war cries.
Later, the victors drove past,
slowly now, with corpses
draped over the hoods
of their trucks, the tails
flapping in the wind
like fallen flags.
The Trail
I cannot believe that the United States Government will still
continue to pursue . . . in her relations with the Indians . . . the
purpose of removing nation after nation of them from the
lands of their lands of their fathers into the remote wilderness.
--John Ross, Cherokee Chief, 1822
After the season's first deep snow
has swabbed its cotton of silence
across the morning farm,
I take his small hand,
hefting him over the drifts
toward the field--hemmed
by firs and bare willow whips.
I point out the tracks, etched
overnight by moon-struck travelers.
Here--the tiny handprints
of masked and gloved marauders,
criss-crossing the ellipses left by rabbits.
There--the erratic tic-tac-toe of birds,
the sly pads of coyotes,
disappearing into the undergrowth
of barren brambles.
I teach him
to read these signs,
to follow the paths,
to track the wild.
Later, when he's older,
I'll tell the story of another trail
his earlier grandmothers followed
so many bitter winters ago,
leaving along the miles their footprints--
erased by the biting white wind.
I cannot believe that the United States Government will still
continue to pursue . . . in her relations with the Indians . . . the
purpose of removing nation after nation of them from the
lands of their lands of their fathers into the remote wilderness.
--John Ross, Cherokee Chief, 1822
After the season's first deep snow
has swabbed its cotton of silence
across the morning farm,
I take his small hand,
hefting him over the drifts
toward the field--hemmed
by firs and bare willow whips.
I point out the tracks, etched
overnight by moon-struck travelers.
Here--the tiny handprints
of masked and gloved marauders,
criss-crossing the ellipses left by rabbits.
There--the erratic tic-tac-toe of birds,
the sly pads of coyotes,
disappearing into the undergrowth
of barren brambles.
I teach him
to read these signs,
to follow the paths,
to track the wild.
Later, when he's older,
I'll tell the story of another trail
his earlier grandmothers followed
so many bitter winters ago,
leaving along the miles their footprints--
erased by the biting white wind.
An Interview with Linda Neal Reising
Linda, what was the impetus for writing a collection of memoir poems?
Most of my poems grow out of reading, observing, and remembering. I didn’t set out to write a collection of memoir poems, but when I was assembling a full-length book, I noticed that a large number of my poems were based upon memories or family stories. Since there were so many, I formed them into a chapbook, organizing the poems in roughly chronological order. I chose the title, Re-Writing Family History, from a poem I wrote when my parents were celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary. I felt the title was appropriate because anyone writing memoir, in poetry or prose, is to a certain extent re-writing the actual events.
What advice do you have for poets wanting to write about family history through poetry?
For many years, I was a member of the Ohio Valley Writers’ Guild along with novelist Marilyn Durham, author of The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing. She once gave me some advice that I will always remember. When you are writing, you can’t have the ghost of your grandmother looking over your shoulder. I think that is very important for people who are writing family history. Don’t be afraid to tell the truth, even if it’s a little ugly or unflattering at times.
Secondly, try to avoid sentimentality. That’s one of the hardest things to do when writing about people you love or loved. I wrote the poem “Philco Faith” when Matthew Graham, a wonderful poet and professor at the University of Southern Indiana, challenged the class to write a “grandma poem” that was not sentimental. My opening line, “Grandma Mamie went to hell,” accomplishes that, I think.
Finally, don’t worry so much about the reactions you will receive from family members. Let’s face it, most will never read your work. I found, however, that my relatives who did, specifically my sister and a number of cousins, loved my chapbook. No one was offended.
To what extent did you re-write the past in these poems? How much loyalty did you feel to the facts?
All of the poems is Re-Writing Family History are factual to a certain extent, some more than others. However, I believe that all memories, especially those recalling events from when we were very young, are always colored by the stories we’ve heard repeated throughout the years and by our own imaginations. Also, minute details that might not be clearly remembered need to be added or embellished in order to bring a poem to life. The title poem of my chapbook, although it contains factual information about my parents’ relationship, is really a “what-if” poem, a re-imagining of what could have happened in their lives but didn’t. I think it’s important for those writing memoir poems to always choose art over fact.
In what ways has your Cherokee heritage influenced your vision as a writer?
I grew up knowing that I was Cherokee, but due to a variety of circumstances, my family had lost a great part of the culture before I was born. My great-grandmother, Ma’am, was the last to speak Cherokee. My father, in later years, regretted that he refused her offers to teach him the language. However, one thing that survived in my family was storytelling. My grandmother often spoke of her family traveling on the Trail of Tears and of the unscrupulous attorneys who later cheated her mother and grandmother out of their allotments in Bartlesville and Claremore, Oklahoma. I think my love of storytelling first started by listening to these tales.
It was only as an adult, when I began researching, that I found there was so much more to my grandmother’s stories. I am descended from Tassel, a Cherokee chief; Richard Fields, Jr., a Cherokee war chief who tried to re-settle his people in Texas; and William Blythe, whose family owned Blythe Landing in Tennessee. It was from this spot, where the Hiwassee and Tennessee Rivers come together, that thousands of Cherokees were forced to camp before being ferried across the river on my family’s flatboats to begin the Trail of Tears. Of course, the Blythes were also forced to Oklahoma after their job was done.
It’s difficult for my Cherokee heritage not to pop up in my poems. First of all, I think the relationship with nature that is found in some of my poetry is connected to my Cherokee roots, as is the sense of place. Secondly, since I grew up in an area where the government had forced numerous Indian nations, almost everyone I knew as I was growing up was of Indian descent—Cherokee, Seneca, Wyandotte, etc. So, of course, many of the people I write about are Native American. Finally, I feel a sense of duty to educate those who do not know about the removal of the Indians, a sad chapter from our American history. This displacement and attempted genocide is a part of our country’s past that many people today are either ignorant of or eager to ignore. Some might argue that these events happened a long time ago, but in the scope of history, it really hasn’t been so long. Also, many injustices toward Native peoples continue today.
Since you grew up in Oklahoma and are a member of the Western Cherokee Nation, do you feel a sense of displacement living in Indiana?
I moved to Indiana when I married my husband in 1980, so I have been here a long time now, except for the years when I returned to Oklahoma to care for my father. When I first arrived in Hoosier country, it was a bit of a culture shock. First of all, I had to learn a new vocabulary. Since we live in an area filled with people of German descent, I had to learn what a kuchen was, and I had never heard of a bierstube, a springerle, or a spatzie! Also, when I first arrived, people were always asking me if I was French or Italian. They knew I was different, but they didn’t know what I was. Finally, I had to learn to “tone down” the communication with strangers. Where I grew up, a person standing in line at a grocery store would know the life story of the person behind him by the time he checked out. I quickly found this doesn’t happen at Wal-Mart in Evansville!
What poets have been particularly important to you and why?
There are so many poets who have been important to me at different stages of my life. As a young girl growing up in rural Oklahoma, I spent summers reading since my mother didn’t drive and we lived too far from town to walk to activities. Although we didn’t have a lot of “extras,” my parents always made sure that we had books. I first fell in love with poetry because of a collection containing the works of Byron, Keats, and Shelley. I remember discovering the sheer beauty of words through their work. Later, when I was in high school, I first read the free verse poetry of Rod McKuen. Although today his work is dismissed by many as being poorly written and sentimental, I do think he opened up new possibilities for a generation of young writers who had only studied traditional, formal poetry. Now, as an adult, I’ve had the privilege to work with some of the best poets writing today—Ted Kooser, Ellen Bryant Voigt, Heather McHugh, Dana Gioia, Jared Carter, and many others. I feel so lucky to have attended conferences and workshops in many different states. Not only have I learned from the “big names” but also from so many fellow participants who might not ever win the Pulitzer Prize but who are creating incredible poetry. But most of all, the poets in First Mondays, my writing group, have been important to me. Their support and guidance have had a lasting impact on my work and life.
What collection of poems are you currently working on?
I’m currently working on my first full-length poetry collection. To be more precise, I’m re-working the book. At this stage, it wants to be a book in four parts. One of the sections contains many of the poems found in Re-Writing Family History, my chapbook. The other parts deal with nature, women’s issues, and news events. Right now, the collection feels like a living, breathing entity. It keeps growing, morphing, and changing its mind about what it wants to be.
Another project that I hope to work on this winter is a second poetry chapbook. Since you can take the woman out of Oklahoma, but you can’t take Oklahoma out of the woman, my writing will again focus on the Sooner state. However, I plan for these poems to be about women pioneers, not about my own family and experiences.
You taught for many years as a high school English teacher. What words of wisdom do you have for teachers wanting to instill a love of poetry in their students?
For teachers wishing to instill a love of poetry in their students, I would suggest spending more time reading and writing poetry rather than analyzing. I used to start off my poetry unit by reading “An Introduction to Poetry” by Billy Collins, in which the poet talks about teachers beating a poem to find its meaning. I then took the class through group activities that generated poems immediately. I found this gave students confidence. Each day, we read poems that I brought to class, not just the ones inside the textbook, since students didn’t always relate to the more traditional choices. We studied the elements of poetry—such as personification, metaphor, and alliteration— but the students were required to use the elements in their own writing, not just write a definition or pick out examples. I also submitted their work to various publications and contests. Many became published authors and winners of local, regional, and national competitions. At the end of every year, I always put together an anthology of the students’ poems. To sum it up, my goal was to make them all think of themselves as poets, not just students of poetry.
Describe your favorite place in Posey County.
My favorite place in Posey County is definitely New Harmony. There is something magical and mystical about this quaint town on the banks of the Wabash. Not only is this site visually breathtaking, with its golden raintrees and fields of peonies, but it’s also a spiritual place. The faith of the Rappites and the lessons of the Owen community reverberate throughout the buildings, the gardens, and the labyrinths. And then there are the arts! New Harmony is a magnet for artists, musicians, actors, and writers. It is as if they draw strength and inspiration from the Utopian societies of the past, as well as helping create a new Utopia of their own.
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It was only as an adult, when I began researching, that I found there was so much more to my grandmother's stories. Linda Neal Reising |
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September 2016
The Art of Juxtaposition: The Poetry of Kyle Craig
Originally from Bloomington, Indiana, and a graduate of Indiana University, Kyle D. Craig now lives in Indianapolis, where he works as a mental health counselor. He also teaches at the Indiana Writers Center, particularly classes in Japanese forms poetry, and most recently, poetry as memoir. He is the developer and facilitator of the Indianapolis Haiku Group, and serves as the Facebook and Twitter handler for the Haiku Society of America. His haiku, haibun, and tanka have been published in numerous journals both nationally and internationally. His free verse poems have been published in Tar River Poetry, Sou’wester, Blue Earth Review, South Dakota Review, and Flying Island. His first collection of poetry, entitled Invisible Tea and published by Red Moon Press, came out in August of 2016. Click here to visit his website.
The Art of Juxtaposition: The Poetry of Kyle Craig
Originally from Bloomington, Indiana, and a graduate of Indiana University, Kyle D. Craig now lives in Indianapolis, where he works as a mental health counselor. He also teaches at the Indiana Writers Center, particularly classes in Japanese forms poetry, and most recently, poetry as memoir. He is the developer and facilitator of the Indianapolis Haiku Group, and serves as the Facebook and Twitter handler for the Haiku Society of America. His haiku, haibun, and tanka have been published in numerous journals both nationally and internationally. His free verse poems have been published in Tar River Poetry, Sou’wester, Blue Earth Review, South Dakota Review, and Flying Island. His first collection of poetry, entitled Invisible Tea and published by Red Moon Press, came out in August of 2016. Click here to visit his website.
I've been exceedingly fortunate to know Kyle Craig, first, as a member of my Indiana Writers Center workshops and now as a fellow IWC faculty member and friend. His first collection of poems, Invisible Tea, is a meditative and beautifully crafted book that works its magic with warmth, wit and keen observation. Boundaries dissolve through startling juxtapositions, and what's as ordinary as a child's cry in the night becomes the vehicle for spiritual awakening. Brewed with humility, Invisible Tea attunes us to the paradox that an empty cup is full.
Each poem below is accompanied by one of Kyle's haiga. Click here to hear NPR Art of the Matter host, Sharon Gamble, interview Kyle about this Japanese art form (June 10, 2016).
my daughter's eyes . . . / the way raindrops / cling to irises
From Invisible Tea (Red Moon Press, 2016)
My Buddhist Lessons
--after David Shumate
Five months old, my daughter teaches me how to be
Buddhist. Her sleep sack is a simple robe. Her bottle,
a begging bowl. A semi-bald head and verbal silence
serve as outward signs of her inner refuge. Place a
crayon in her hand and she marks the page in Sanskrit.
Sit her on a mandala patterned play mat and she
mumbles mantras to a sangha of Taggie toys. When
she wants to teach me about desire, she lunges for a
stuffed tiger. To instruct how desire leads to grasping,
she takes the tiger and clutches him to her chest. To
teach how grasping leads to suffering, she shakes him
and begins to cry. To impart the lesson that liberation
comes through non-attachment, she throws him to
the floor and squeals in joy. Her compassionate nature
even allows me to accumulate merit. Change me. Hold
me. Feed me. And at night her screams ring out like
tiny bells, to remind me that the purpose of my life is
to awaken.
sunrise
a tiny thumb rubs
mala beads
My Buddhist Lessons
--after David Shumate
Five months old, my daughter teaches me how to be
Buddhist. Her sleep sack is a simple robe. Her bottle,
a begging bowl. A semi-bald head and verbal silence
serve as outward signs of her inner refuge. Place a
crayon in her hand and she marks the page in Sanskrit.
Sit her on a mandala patterned play mat and she
mumbles mantras to a sangha of Taggie toys. When
she wants to teach me about desire, she lunges for a
stuffed tiger. To instruct how desire leads to grasping,
she takes the tiger and clutches him to her chest. To
teach how grasping leads to suffering, she shakes him
and begins to cry. To impart the lesson that liberation
comes through non-attachment, she throws him to
the floor and squeals in joy. Her compassionate nature
even allows me to accumulate merit. Change me. Hold
me. Feed me. And at night her screams ring out like
tiny bells, to remind me that the purpose of my life is
to awaken.
sunrise
a tiny thumb rubs
mala beads
our promise / not to go to bed angry . . . / fading sunlight
The Only Photo of My Wife
With Her Father
Two and a half years old, she sits side saddle across
his thigh and smiles wide enough to swallow the sun.
His arm folds over her lap, his wrist hooks the nook
of her waist, his fingers hold the string to a balloon
drifting up and nearly out of frame. Look once and his
arm is a seatbelt of skin and bone that fastens her to
the seat of his body, keeps her from toppling towards
ruin. Look again and she is a paper weight that tethers
him to earth, without which he would soar and melt
into the blue of sky, leave her to walk forever alone and
against the wind.
yard sale
all the ages
she's ever been
With Her Father
Two and a half years old, she sits side saddle across
his thigh and smiles wide enough to swallow the sun.
His arm folds over her lap, his wrist hooks the nook
of her waist, his fingers hold the string to a balloon
drifting up and nearly out of frame. Look once and his
arm is a seatbelt of skin and bone that fastens her to
the seat of his body, keeps her from toppling towards
ruin. Look again and she is a paper weight that tethers
him to earth, without which he would soar and melt
into the blue of sky, leave her to walk forever alone and
against the wind.
yard sale
all the ages
she's ever been
abandoned house / the holes / in their story
We Regret To Inform You
Your membership recently expired. Your husband
was spotted with her last night. We are completely
out of mashed potatoes. Smoking inside is strictly
prohibited. Your father got stuck at work. The tickets
were non-refundable. We chose another applicant.
Hair scrunchies went out in the 80s. There's no one
here by that name. You are not tall enough to ride this
ride. This is not a working number. Your transmission
is shot. It was the last flight out. Your credit card has
been declined. We're not equipped to handle a party
of that size. Santa is not coming this year. We located
your fingerprints at the scene.
snow storm
grocery store shelves
out of milk
Your membership recently expired. Your husband
was spotted with her last night. We are completely
out of mashed potatoes. Smoking inside is strictly
prohibited. Your father got stuck at work. The tickets
were non-refundable. We chose another applicant.
Hair scrunchies went out in the 80s. There's no one
here by that name. You are not tall enough to ride this
ride. This is not a working number. Your transmission
is shot. It was the last flight out. Your credit card has
been declined. We're not equipped to handle a party
of that size. Santa is not coming this year. We located
your fingerprints at the scene.
snow storm
grocery store shelves
out of milk
How to Write Haiku
Know the difference between the sound of rain hitting
a window and the sound of rain dripping from a
window awning. Familiarize yourself with the cries
of cicadas and the complex lives of tree frogs. Length
and width are not what count; ladybugs, crickets, and
butterflies should suffice. Make the wind a friend. Let
it whisper to you about its love of autumn, the silly
games it plays with leaves, or how it likes to race along
the bends of dry riverbeds. Study shadows of spring or
snowflakes falling upon fence posts in winter. Cherry
blossoms are a safe bet, as is morning birdsong or white
egrets. Speaking of birds and their words, they should
warble, trill, or croon. Scents emanating from kitchens
should waft. Pick foods like persimmons, lentils, and
butternut squash. When it comes to objects, candles
make a nice choice. And if you don't develop a close
relationship with the moon, it may be better to not
even begin at all.
writing session
forming a partnership
with silence
Know the difference between the sound of rain hitting
a window and the sound of rain dripping from a
window awning. Familiarize yourself with the cries
of cicadas and the complex lives of tree frogs. Length
and width are not what count; ladybugs, crickets, and
butterflies should suffice. Make the wind a friend. Let
it whisper to you about its love of autumn, the silly
games it plays with leaves, or how it likes to race along
the bends of dry riverbeds. Study shadows of spring or
snowflakes falling upon fence posts in winter. Cherry
blossoms are a safe bet, as is morning birdsong or white
egrets. Speaking of birds and their words, they should
warble, trill, or croon. Scents emanating from kitchens
should waft. Pick foods like persimmons, lentils, and
butternut squash. When it comes to objects, candles
make a nice choice. And if you don't develop a close
relationship with the moon, it may be better to not
even begin at all.
writing session
forming a partnership
with silence
The Human Condition
is like lifting your hands to applaud at the peak of a
beautiful aria performed in the final moments of a
funeral, only to slowly draw them back into your lap,
gently place one over the other, glance downwards at the
floor.
window awning
evening rain's
steady crescendo
is like lifting your hands to applaud at the peak of a
beautiful aria performed in the final moments of a
funeral, only to slowly draw them back into your lap,
gently place one over the other, glance downwards at the
floor.
window awning
evening rain's
steady crescendo
left out again . . . / a red-winged blackbird's / yellow band
Why I Love Starfish
Their name makes me imagine stars hung in the ocean
and fish who swim across the sky. They look like a
child swooshing her arms and legs to make angels in
the snow, deflated circus tents, or elongated fingers
submerged in the sand. Their bodies feel like a side-
walk and their limbs come together like a four way
stop. Who wouldn't be more calm by slowing down
their movement to six inches a minute? Who couldn't
get more done by having three extra arms? And how
could your perception not change with eyes attached
to your feet?
allowing myself
to be dominated . . .
spring tide
Their name makes me imagine stars hung in the ocean
and fish who swim across the sky. They look like a
child swooshing her arms and legs to make angels in
the snow, deflated circus tents, or elongated fingers
submerged in the sand. Their bodies feel like a side-
walk and their limbs come together like a four way
stop. Who wouldn't be more calm by slowing down
their movement to six inches a minute? Who couldn't
get more done by having three extra arms? And how
could your perception not change with eyes attached
to your feet?
allowing myself
to be dominated . . .
spring tide
For the Gym Teachers
--after reading the poem "For the Sleepwalkers"
by Edward Hirsch
Today I want to say something wonderful
for the gym teachers who rule the world
with whistles, who unstack orange cones
and spread them across glossy wood floors,
who summon basketball goals from the sky
by the turn of a key, the push of a button.
I respect the way gym teachers are willing
to work behind the scenes, spending hours
matching and stacking balls of all sizes
and shapes, gauging their levels of air,
checking their bodies for wear, offering
them the shelter of bags and boxes,
the comfort of racks and shelves. In fact,
it's time for the lessons they've imparted
to grow beyond the bleacher filled rooms
with banners of regional championships
hanging from the rafters. Let's turn them
loose into the streets decked out in neon
track suits and Velcro athletic sneakers.
Let them scream at the two playing chess
on a sidewalk cafe to standup for jump rope
and jumping jacks, or make the woman
reading a Franzen novel on a bus stop bench
drop down and give us twenty. The artist
situated under the shade of a silver maple
with canvas and brush can begin practicing
his rope to climb. Those sitting in meditation,
start picking out your teams for dodgeball.
Everyone else, put down those double lattes
and lineup for relay races. Let gym teachers
watch over us, make us better than we are
by grabbing pencils nestled behind their ears,
charting our progress on wooden clipboards.
--after reading the poem "For the Sleepwalkers"
by Edward Hirsch
Today I want to say something wonderful
for the gym teachers who rule the world
with whistles, who unstack orange cones
and spread them across glossy wood floors,
who summon basketball goals from the sky
by the turn of a key, the push of a button.
I respect the way gym teachers are willing
to work behind the scenes, spending hours
matching and stacking balls of all sizes
and shapes, gauging their levels of air,
checking their bodies for wear, offering
them the shelter of bags and boxes,
the comfort of racks and shelves. In fact,
it's time for the lessons they've imparted
to grow beyond the bleacher filled rooms
with banners of regional championships
hanging from the rafters. Let's turn them
loose into the streets decked out in neon
track suits and Velcro athletic sneakers.
Let them scream at the two playing chess
on a sidewalk cafe to standup for jump rope
and jumping jacks, or make the woman
reading a Franzen novel on a bus stop bench
drop down and give us twenty. The artist
situated under the shade of a silver maple
with canvas and brush can begin practicing
his rope to climb. Those sitting in meditation,
start picking out your teams for dodgeball.
Everyone else, put down those double lattes
and lineup for relay races. Let gym teachers
watch over us, make us better than we are
by grabbing pencils nestled behind their ears,
charting our progress on wooden clipboards.
Interview with Kyle D. Craig
Kyle, you work a lot in Japanese poetry forms like the haiku and haibun. What draws you to these traditional forms?
Well, like other forms of poetry, haiku are always evolving. For instance, many people still believe that haiku are written in a 5-7-5 syllable count. In actuality, very few English-language haiku published in professional haiku journals today are written in 5-7-5. The Japanese language and English language are very different.
Traditionally, Japanese writers mostly wrote in 5-7-5 onji, which means “sound symbols” or “sound units.” We eventually learned that Japanese onji and English syllables are not synonymous. The words “modern haiku,” for instance, would be two words and four English syllables. In Japanese, however, those same two words would produce a total of seven onji. Thus, we can see right away by this fact that much of what we as Americans think of as “traditional” haiku is different from what we previously thought.
I think for me personally, I believe haiku are wonderful vehicles for carrying images, tones, and moods to readers and/or listeners. Part of this rises from the utilization of juxtaposition. In haiku, we love to take two different things and juxtapose them with the hope that something new is created, something that will resonate internally with the reader or listener. Also, the use of juxtaposition allows for readers and listeners of haiku to make their own connections between the two parts of haiku. Thus, two people can be reading or listening to the same haiku and have very different connections and experiences formulating in their brains. For me, this is what makes haiku intriguing.
How do you make these forms your own?
I think this is easier to answer in terms of haibun than haiku. I say that only because I’m not sure with haiku the goal is to make them your own. Although I’ve received some praise saying that my haiku speak to modern themes and issues, in haiku the notions of ego and identity often get pushed to the background, if not eliminated completely. While some Western poets might be very motivated by the idea of creating something very unique or individually expressive, I think with haiku there is more of a focus in finding authenticity in what connects us and is communal. Perhaps this is why the theme of nature takes such precedence in many haiku.
If we speak of haibun, however, there is much more room for individual expression. The haibun consists of prose or prose poetry interspersed with or end-capped by haiku. They gained popularity as a form when Basho began to compose them. Basho’s haibun were predominately travel narratives, a combination of his journeys interspersed with tightly crafted haiku. Today’s haibun, however, are not only written by people in countries all around the world, but the subject matter and styles vary greatly. Some seem like prose poems. Others are nature sketches. Some haibun are very autobiographical, while others are more post-modern in that they work with fragmentation and dissociative experiences to connect with readers. Because of this variety, I believe haibun offers a lot for writers in trying to develop their own style and voice.
What advice do you have for poets wanting to try some of these forms?
I think reading some modern haiku is helpful. Journals such as Frogpond and Modern Haiku are great investments, or maybe start with The Heron’s Nest since it is online and free. A few years ago I read this haiku on The Heron’s Nest website:
nighttime
in the hospice aquarium
the pulse of fish gills
—Joyce Clement
For me, this haiku has everything. Nature. Humanity. Vitality. Fragility and mortality. Darkness and light. There are so many connections one can choose to make with this haiku. The breathing of the fish and last breaths of those in hospice. The contrast between darkness and light. Does the fish tank represent the world? I don’t know. One of the great things about haiku is they don’t put forth metaphor or simile. They simply state the images and the juxtaposition between them. It’s the reader’s mind making various connections that may turn to metaphor or simile.
So, I suppose I would say read a lot and learn to appreciate. Appreciation breeds motivation, at least for me, making me want to try my hand at creating the same kind of things that have brought me so much wonder and awe. Perhaps this can work for others as well.
You recently had your first book, Invisible Tea, published by Red Moon Press. What did you learn from the process of pulling together a collection of poems that might be helpful to poets not yet published?
I think the most important thing is to be behind your own work, or at the very least, to know why these are the right poems at the right time for you, and then to let them go. I say that because I was both proud of much of the work I created for Invisible Tea and, at the same time, ready to let them go and move on to something else. I utilize this philosophy with my writing, my teaching, and now that the book is out, my public readings. I spend a lot of time trying to create the best poem, the best class, and the best reading I can, but there’s also a time to let go. I prepare hard, give it all I’ve got, and then live with the results. I try my very best but also recognize there are new seasons, and with them, I must let some things go and allow them to be fresh for others, and allow newer things to be fresh for me.
What is your next writing project?
I’m not entirely sure. I’m writing new poems. There are also several essays rolling around in my head that are waiting to be written. My long term goal will be to produce another collection of poems. I wouldn’t be surprised, however, if some smaller projects get put out before that. Maybe a chapbook of poetry or haiku. Maybe pulling together everything I’ve written about my daughter and putting that out. I’ve also been creating pictures and taking pictures as my interest in another Japanese form, called haiga, had steadily grown. There could be an e-book there. I’m not really sure. I’ll continue working and see where the process leads me. I feel like projects have their own energy or life, so perhaps they’ll let me know when they’re ready and the shape they would like to take.
Where do you write, and what part of the writing process do you most enjoy?
I write everywhere. The couch. The coffee shop. The trail or the forest. You might imagine by this that I carry around pen and paper waiting for inspiration to strike, but that’s not me. My writing time is very intentional. While I don’t know what I’m going to end up writing, I know that I’m there to write. I believe a lot in variety. The place or the method that I utilized today might not work for me tomorrow.
As for the writing process, my favorite part is discovery. In his book Triggering Town, Richard Hugo puts forth the notion of a triggering subject, where you begin with something and in trying to write about it, you discover the real core or subject matter of the poem, which is often something else. Poet Stephen Dunn has famously stated that he’s not really “in” the poem until he surprises himself. And William Stafford was famous for his notion of “following the thread.” So, I think when we put these together, it sums up my process pretty well. I start out trying to write about something, and then something else emerges (a word, an image, a phrase, a concept) that surprises me, and when it does I then try to follow that thread and see where it leads me. I like the discovery of that process.
In her new book Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert says she prefers curiosity to passion. She argues that you may not know where your passion lies, or passion might come and go, or passion might lead you to dangerous places. Curiosity, on the other hand, is a gentle force, one that only asks, What are you interested in right now, even in the smallest way? I think she’s onto something there. I think curiosity is the path that leads us to discovery.
You teach workshops for the Indiana Writers Center and facilitate the Indianapolis Haiku Group. Could you talk a bit about the benefits of belonging to a writing workshop or group?
Well, in my professional life I work as a mental health counselor. And while each person I see is unique and might be working through a particular set of issues, there are also things that are true for all of them simply because they are human beings. For instance, the need to be heard, or to be seen, or for their feelings to be felt. Recognition and validation are important for everyone. So, I think belonging to a writing workshop or group can provide this. People are vulnerable and courageous enough to bring forth the treasures hidden within them through their writing, and the group reciprocates by hearing and seeing their words, commenting on them, letting them know that they felt them, that they matter. I think in its most idealized state, this is one of the major benefits of a writing workshop or group.
What is your favorite place in Marion County?
My first answer would be wherever my daughter is. Probably a second answer could be wherever I get caught in a good conversation. But since I think your question is more specifically focused on physical place, I suppose the Monon trail comes to mind. I like that nature and people and business and everything in between is all interacting at the same time. I like that someone might be trying to get back in shape and jogging past a couple who are taking a walk because they haven’t got to spend any quality time together lately. I like that someone is out walking their dog, or that a new mother is strolling her baby because she needs to get out of the house. I feel like people feel the pressure of our culture and world today. It’s probably way too romanticized, but I like to think of the Monon as a place of reprieve.
Kyle, you work a lot in Japanese poetry forms like the haiku and haibun. What draws you to these traditional forms?
Well, like other forms of poetry, haiku are always evolving. For instance, many people still believe that haiku are written in a 5-7-5 syllable count. In actuality, very few English-language haiku published in professional haiku journals today are written in 5-7-5. The Japanese language and English language are very different.
Traditionally, Japanese writers mostly wrote in 5-7-5 onji, which means “sound symbols” or “sound units.” We eventually learned that Japanese onji and English syllables are not synonymous. The words “modern haiku,” for instance, would be two words and four English syllables. In Japanese, however, those same two words would produce a total of seven onji. Thus, we can see right away by this fact that much of what we as Americans think of as “traditional” haiku is different from what we previously thought.
I think for me personally, I believe haiku are wonderful vehicles for carrying images, tones, and moods to readers and/or listeners. Part of this rises from the utilization of juxtaposition. In haiku, we love to take two different things and juxtapose them with the hope that something new is created, something that will resonate internally with the reader or listener. Also, the use of juxtaposition allows for readers and listeners of haiku to make their own connections between the two parts of haiku. Thus, two people can be reading or listening to the same haiku and have very different connections and experiences formulating in their brains. For me, this is what makes haiku intriguing.
How do you make these forms your own?
I think this is easier to answer in terms of haibun than haiku. I say that only because I’m not sure with haiku the goal is to make them your own. Although I’ve received some praise saying that my haiku speak to modern themes and issues, in haiku the notions of ego and identity often get pushed to the background, if not eliminated completely. While some Western poets might be very motivated by the idea of creating something very unique or individually expressive, I think with haiku there is more of a focus in finding authenticity in what connects us and is communal. Perhaps this is why the theme of nature takes such precedence in many haiku.
If we speak of haibun, however, there is much more room for individual expression. The haibun consists of prose or prose poetry interspersed with or end-capped by haiku. They gained popularity as a form when Basho began to compose them. Basho’s haibun were predominately travel narratives, a combination of his journeys interspersed with tightly crafted haiku. Today’s haibun, however, are not only written by people in countries all around the world, but the subject matter and styles vary greatly. Some seem like prose poems. Others are nature sketches. Some haibun are very autobiographical, while others are more post-modern in that they work with fragmentation and dissociative experiences to connect with readers. Because of this variety, I believe haibun offers a lot for writers in trying to develop their own style and voice.
What advice do you have for poets wanting to try some of these forms?
I think reading some modern haiku is helpful. Journals such as Frogpond and Modern Haiku are great investments, or maybe start with The Heron’s Nest since it is online and free. A few years ago I read this haiku on The Heron’s Nest website:
nighttime
in the hospice aquarium
the pulse of fish gills
—Joyce Clement
For me, this haiku has everything. Nature. Humanity. Vitality. Fragility and mortality. Darkness and light. There are so many connections one can choose to make with this haiku. The breathing of the fish and last breaths of those in hospice. The contrast between darkness and light. Does the fish tank represent the world? I don’t know. One of the great things about haiku is they don’t put forth metaphor or simile. They simply state the images and the juxtaposition between them. It’s the reader’s mind making various connections that may turn to metaphor or simile.
So, I suppose I would say read a lot and learn to appreciate. Appreciation breeds motivation, at least for me, making me want to try my hand at creating the same kind of things that have brought me so much wonder and awe. Perhaps this can work for others as well.
You recently had your first book, Invisible Tea, published by Red Moon Press. What did you learn from the process of pulling together a collection of poems that might be helpful to poets not yet published?
I think the most important thing is to be behind your own work, or at the very least, to know why these are the right poems at the right time for you, and then to let them go. I say that because I was both proud of much of the work I created for Invisible Tea and, at the same time, ready to let them go and move on to something else. I utilize this philosophy with my writing, my teaching, and now that the book is out, my public readings. I spend a lot of time trying to create the best poem, the best class, and the best reading I can, but there’s also a time to let go. I prepare hard, give it all I’ve got, and then live with the results. I try my very best but also recognize there are new seasons, and with them, I must let some things go and allow them to be fresh for others, and allow newer things to be fresh for me.
What is your next writing project?
I’m not entirely sure. I’m writing new poems. There are also several essays rolling around in my head that are waiting to be written. My long term goal will be to produce another collection of poems. I wouldn’t be surprised, however, if some smaller projects get put out before that. Maybe a chapbook of poetry or haiku. Maybe pulling together everything I’ve written about my daughter and putting that out. I’ve also been creating pictures and taking pictures as my interest in another Japanese form, called haiga, had steadily grown. There could be an e-book there. I’m not really sure. I’ll continue working and see where the process leads me. I feel like projects have their own energy or life, so perhaps they’ll let me know when they’re ready and the shape they would like to take.
Where do you write, and what part of the writing process do you most enjoy?
I write everywhere. The couch. The coffee shop. The trail or the forest. You might imagine by this that I carry around pen and paper waiting for inspiration to strike, but that’s not me. My writing time is very intentional. While I don’t know what I’m going to end up writing, I know that I’m there to write. I believe a lot in variety. The place or the method that I utilized today might not work for me tomorrow.
As for the writing process, my favorite part is discovery. In his book Triggering Town, Richard Hugo puts forth the notion of a triggering subject, where you begin with something and in trying to write about it, you discover the real core or subject matter of the poem, which is often something else. Poet Stephen Dunn has famously stated that he’s not really “in” the poem until he surprises himself. And William Stafford was famous for his notion of “following the thread.” So, I think when we put these together, it sums up my process pretty well. I start out trying to write about something, and then something else emerges (a word, an image, a phrase, a concept) that surprises me, and when it does I then try to follow that thread and see where it leads me. I like the discovery of that process.
In her new book Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert says she prefers curiosity to passion. She argues that you may not know where your passion lies, or passion might come and go, or passion might lead you to dangerous places. Curiosity, on the other hand, is a gentle force, one that only asks, What are you interested in right now, even in the smallest way? I think she’s onto something there. I think curiosity is the path that leads us to discovery.
You teach workshops for the Indiana Writers Center and facilitate the Indianapolis Haiku Group. Could you talk a bit about the benefits of belonging to a writing workshop or group?
Well, in my professional life I work as a mental health counselor. And while each person I see is unique and might be working through a particular set of issues, there are also things that are true for all of them simply because they are human beings. For instance, the need to be heard, or to be seen, or for their feelings to be felt. Recognition and validation are important for everyone. So, I think belonging to a writing workshop or group can provide this. People are vulnerable and courageous enough to bring forth the treasures hidden within them through their writing, and the group reciprocates by hearing and seeing their words, commenting on them, letting them know that they felt them, that they matter. I think in its most idealized state, this is one of the major benefits of a writing workshop or group.
What is your favorite place in Marion County?
My first answer would be wherever my daughter is. Probably a second answer could be wherever I get caught in a good conversation. But since I think your question is more specifically focused on physical place, I suppose the Monon trail comes to mind. I like that nature and people and business and everything in between is all interacting at the same time. I like that someone might be trying to get back in shape and jogging past a couple who are taking a walk because they haven’t got to spend any quality time together lately. I like that someone is out walking their dog, or that a new mother is strolling her baby because she needs to get out of the house. I feel like people feel the pressure of our culture and world today. It’s probably way too romanticized, but I like to think of the Monon as a place of reprieve.
the morning news
always seems to stir a thunderstorm inside me, splintering my soul like sycamore bark |
|
August 2016
Where the Elements Meet: The Poetry of Edward Byrne
Edward Byrne is an editor, literary critic, photographer, and author of
eight collections of poetry, most recently a trilogy of volumes: Tidal Air,
Seeded Light, and Tinted Distances. He has also edited two anthologies of
poetry, including Poetry from Paradise Valley. He is a professor in the
English Department at Valparaiso University, where he serves as editor
of Valparaiso Poetry Review and co-editor of Valparaiso Fiction Review.
Edward's images of the Indiana Dunes are featured on this page. You can view his folio magazine, Indiana Dunes: Photographs & Paragraphs, by
clicking here.
Where the Elements Meet: The Poetry of Edward Byrne
Edward Byrne is an editor, literary critic, photographer, and author of
eight collections of poetry, most recently a trilogy of volumes: Tidal Air,
Seeded Light, and Tinted Distances. He has also edited two anthologies of
poetry, including Poetry from Paradise Valley. He is a professor in the
English Department at Valparaiso University, where he serves as editor
of Valparaiso Poetry Review and co-editor of Valparaiso Fiction Review.
Edward's images of the Indiana Dunes are featured on this page. You can view his folio magazine, Indiana Dunes: Photographs & Paragraphs, by
clicking here.
The shoreline is never distant in Edward Byrne's poetry. If it's not physically present,
then it's in the flow of light and shadow and the ruffling of wind. It's in the pull of memory and the reaching forward of couplets. I sense incoming waves even in the rich musicality of the language—patterns of assonance and alliteration so lovely I find myself reading his poems aloud. How fortunate that someone who loved the Atlantic coastline of his boyhood found a shoreline to explore and treasure when he moved to Northern Indiana thirty years ago—fortuitous for him and for us.
On Saturday, September 10th at 6 p.m., you're invited to hear Edward and several other
poets read poems inspired by the Indiana Dunes on the outdoor deck of the Paul H. Douglas Center for Environmental Education. Bring your own environmental poem to share at the
open mic. See the Home page for more details. Come early, like I will, and hike a nearby dune trail!
LAKE WAVE IN MOONLIGHT
From Seeded Light (Turning Point, 2010)
Moonlight in the City
One July evening when I was eleven,
not a block from the waterfront, the day
yet hot, I waited by myself in the middle
of a vacant lot and watched as a fresh wash
of moonlight began to flow over rooftops,
and the sky beyond dust-covered billboards
just started to fill with clustered stars.
The splintered grids of far-off apartment
fire escapes glittered against their backdrop
of red brick as if lit by the flick of a switch.
In the distance, even the paired lines
of elevated train tracks, stretching like bars
along the edge of the shore, appeared
to shine, and those symmetrical rows
of windows on the warehouses below
seemed almost to glow. Warning lights
pulsed all along the span of that great
bridge over the river, as hundreds of bright
buds suddenly stippled those rippling
waters now deepening to the blue of a new
bruise. Steel supports wound around
one another into braided suspension cables
dipping toward either end and glinting
beneath that constellation still slowly
showing in the darker corridor overhead.
Already, I could see the outlines of lunar
topography, and I thought of that old
globe my grandfather had once given me
only days before he died—of how
I’d felt its raised beige shapes representing
the seven continents, and of the way
he told me he’d been to every one of them.
Somewhere in the city, summertime
sounds—the high screams of sirens
and muffled bass thumps of fireworks--
played like the muscular backup music
pumping from some local garage band.
But I stood listlessly under sharp-angled
shadows cast by street lamps, among
an urban wreckage of broken cinder blocks
and glistening shards of shattered panes,
and I listened to the wind-clank of chain-link
fencing around that grassless plot of land,
knowing that night my father was far away
again, driving deliveries along an interstate,
and my mother was sitting alone at home,
as were her neighbors, awaiting the first
broadcast of a man walking on the moon.
Moonlight in the City
One July evening when I was eleven,
not a block from the waterfront, the day
yet hot, I waited by myself in the middle
of a vacant lot and watched as a fresh wash
of moonlight began to flow over rooftops,
and the sky beyond dust-covered billboards
just started to fill with clustered stars.
The splintered grids of far-off apartment
fire escapes glittered against their backdrop
of red brick as if lit by the flick of a switch.
In the distance, even the paired lines
of elevated train tracks, stretching like bars
along the edge of the shore, appeared
to shine, and those symmetrical rows
of windows on the warehouses below
seemed almost to glow. Warning lights
pulsed all along the span of that great
bridge over the river, as hundreds of bright
buds suddenly stippled those rippling
waters now deepening to the blue of a new
bruise. Steel supports wound around
one another into braided suspension cables
dipping toward either end and glinting
beneath that constellation still slowly
showing in the darker corridor overhead.
Already, I could see the outlines of lunar
topography, and I thought of that old
globe my grandfather had once given me
only days before he died—of how
I’d felt its raised beige shapes representing
the seven continents, and of the way
he told me he’d been to every one of them.
Somewhere in the city, summertime
sounds—the high screams of sirens
and muffled bass thumps of fireworks--
played like the muscular backup music
pumping from some local garage band.
But I stood listlessly under sharp-angled
shadows cast by street lamps, among
an urban wreckage of broken cinder blocks
and glistening shards of shattered panes,
and I listened to the wind-clank of chain-link
fencing around that grassless plot of land,
knowing that night my father was far away
again, driving deliveries along an interstate,
and my mother was sitting alone at home,
as were her neighbors, awaiting the first
broadcast of a man walking on the moon.
DUNE TRAIL UNDER DARKENING SKIES
Coronary Thrombosis
Even when he skidded down that gravel drive,
a lane rising as white in the late moonlight
as a snow-blown mountain trail in midwinter,
and fled for who-knows-where, his old coat
thrown on in flight against an unseasonable
chill and already smelling from a night-long
dribble of cheap, hard liquor, his head still
filled with those foul thoughts that had been fed
by the soft, sweet talk of a barmaid he’d once
held close in the shadows of a hotel room
(a woman whose whiff of perfume he had
always embraced, but someone he no longer knew),
as he raced past the rows of damaged grain
or sped alongside the erosion of those dull,
empty fields with topsoil now washed away
by wind and rain, he must have just begun
to sense the clamp of that blood clot tightening
inside him—his fingers numbing, as though
feeling the steering wheel through thick
gloves; surely, despite any anger against this fate
he had been given, he must have hung on
for life until the bottom rocks of that roadside
ravine suddenly glistened in the angled beams
of headlights and spilled across his windshield
like some storm of meteorites suddenly appearing
on the backdrop of a black horizon one summer
at midnight, though tossed toward Earth ages ago.
Even when he skidded down that gravel drive,
a lane rising as white in the late moonlight
as a snow-blown mountain trail in midwinter,
and fled for who-knows-where, his old coat
thrown on in flight against an unseasonable
chill and already smelling from a night-long
dribble of cheap, hard liquor, his head still
filled with those foul thoughts that had been fed
by the soft, sweet talk of a barmaid he’d once
held close in the shadows of a hotel room
(a woman whose whiff of perfume he had
always embraced, but someone he no longer knew),
as he raced past the rows of damaged grain
or sped alongside the erosion of those dull,
empty fields with topsoil now washed away
by wind and rain, he must have just begun
to sense the clamp of that blood clot tightening
inside him—his fingers numbing, as though
feeling the steering wheel through thick
gloves; surely, despite any anger against this fate
he had been given, he must have hung on
for life until the bottom rocks of that roadside
ravine suddenly glistened in the angled beams
of headlights and spilled across his windshield
like some storm of meteorites suddenly appearing
on the backdrop of a black horizon one summer
at midnight, though tossed toward Earth ages ago.
DUNE SUCCESSION TRAIL
From Tidal Air (Pecan Grove Press, 2002)
Cormorants in Morning Light
All along the bay, a blue blur of morning
haze has just begun to burn away. Somewhere
in the distance the lone motor of an outboard
mutters an inexplicable and impatient pattern
of speech as if to remind us of its presence.
Beyond the point, the first blinding shards
of sunlight start to skitter across the water’s
surface, backlighting this colony of cormorants
perched and poised upon a collection of coastal
crags. Clustered together with spread wings,
dark arcs of shadow drying in a light sea breeze,
they resemble sketch marks of charcoal or black
fans—perhaps in days gone by, props of burlesque
dancers—or an array of shawls worn in mourning.
Cormorants in Morning Light
All along the bay, a blue blur of morning
haze has just begun to burn away. Somewhere
in the distance the lone motor of an outboard
mutters an inexplicable and impatient pattern
of speech as if to remind us of its presence.
Beyond the point, the first blinding shards
of sunlight start to skitter across the water’s
surface, backlighting this colony of cormorants
perched and poised upon a collection of coastal
crags. Clustered together with spread wings,
dark arcs of shadow drying in a light sea breeze,
they resemble sketch marks of charcoal or black
fans—perhaps in days gone by, props of burlesque
dancers—or an array of shawls worn in mourning.
HORIZON CLOUDS AT SUNSET
Autism: Seeking Inklings in an Old Video
He held mussel shells—indigo blue inside and black
on back—or those round pebbles he had
found rolling like dark marbles in the tidewater
wash as if he had a handful of hard candy.
The wind’s speed picked up, the sea shining behind
him, each wave displayed like a crinkled
sheet of tinfoil unfurled under that day’s final
splay of sunlight. Every one of our son’s
uneasy steps at the ocean’s edge left an impression,
still refilling with water—even as I witness
it now, in midwinter three years later. We could
not have known then to watch for the few
symptoms we would soon learn to view with fear.
Even those little hints we missed, a lack
of balance whenever he would lean to lift another
stick of driftwood, as if the shoreline’s
slant had suddenly become too steep, or the tipped
head and sideways glance he’d give us,
though we thought he only wanted reassurance,
were never seen as dubious sorts of acts
that ought to indicate a reason to have misgivings.
But to the two of us, now so suspicious,
feeling guilt, every unsure move that camera caught
appears to be uninvestigated evidence left
behind, even in this scene when the tape runs to its end.
He sits on the sand, back toward the shore,
counting out his collection of shells in a single file,
as if pretending every one of them were part
of some private treasure, the way anyone might
arrange family keepsakes, jewels or gems
kept as heirlooms somewhere in a darkened drawer,
brought out for comfort in a time of grief.
He held mussel shells—indigo blue inside and black
on back—or those round pebbles he had
found rolling like dark marbles in the tidewater
wash as if he had a handful of hard candy.
The wind’s speed picked up, the sea shining behind
him, each wave displayed like a crinkled
sheet of tinfoil unfurled under that day’s final
splay of sunlight. Every one of our son’s
uneasy steps at the ocean’s edge left an impression,
still refilling with water—even as I witness
it now, in midwinter three years later. We could
not have known then to watch for the few
symptoms we would soon learn to view with fear.
Even those little hints we missed, a lack
of balance whenever he would lean to lift another
stick of driftwood, as if the shoreline’s
slant had suddenly become too steep, or the tipped
head and sideways glance he’d give us,
though we thought he only wanted reassurance,
were never seen as dubious sorts of acts
that ought to indicate a reason to have misgivings.
But to the two of us, now so suspicious,
feeling guilt, every unsure move that camera caught
appears to be uninvestigated evidence left
behind, even in this scene when the tape runs to its end.
He sits on the sand, back toward the shore,
counting out his collection of shells in a single file,
as if pretending every one of them were part
of some private treasure, the way anyone might
arrange family keepsakes, jewels or gems
kept as heirlooms somewhere in a darkened drawer,
brought out for comfort in a time of grief.
TRAIL END AT BEACH IN INDIANA DUNES
From Dark Refuge (Whale Sound, 2011)
Still in Spring
My son tries to climb a steep dune
rising high behind the beach, stopping
just a second after each awkward
step to contemplate the next. As I lag
back a bit, snap a picture—capture
one moment in a frozen pose, hoping
to halt the motion of time—I notice
how bright daylight briefly fades away
from the camera’s frame. Narrow
clouds slowly cross just above a bluff,
floating past as easily as those two
offshore scows we once watched slip
into a distant mist. Although I am
sure the shifting north breeze will not
be seen in this quick photograph,
and though nobody needs to know how
a cold lake current suddenly carried
its bitter wind in early spring weather,
I will never forget the chilled gust,
the hurried air still ruffling Alex’s hair.
Still in Spring
My son tries to climb a steep dune
rising high behind the beach, stopping
just a second after each awkward
step to contemplate the next. As I lag
back a bit, snap a picture—capture
one moment in a frozen pose, hoping
to halt the motion of time—I notice
how bright daylight briefly fades away
from the camera’s frame. Narrow
clouds slowly cross just above a bluff,
floating past as easily as those two
offshore scows we once watched slip
into a distant mist. Although I am
sure the shifting north breeze will not
be seen in this quick photograph,
and though nobody needs to know how
a cold lake current suddenly carried
its bitter wind in early spring weather,
I will never forget the chilled gust,
the hurried air still ruffling Alex’s hair.
AUTUMN IN INDIANA
Beneath Leaf Shadow
My son sits on one of the cement
benches beneath bulky shadows
of park oaks, again awaits the late
flash of sunlight that will angle
below those long lower branches
like a white page of stationery
secretly slipped under someone’s
shut door. Leaves flutter above
like black moths with each breeze.
Alex enjoys the way he seems
to disappear in the darker corridor
of shade, as though no one will
know he’s still there, staying safely
away from sight like some young
thrush tucked into its nest, just
knotted twigs, or as a cold hand
is hidden in the pocket of an old
coat, hoping for more warmth.
My son sits on one of the cement
benches beneath bulky shadows
of park oaks, again awaits the late
flash of sunlight that will angle
below those long lower branches
like a white page of stationery
secretly slipped under someone’s
shut door. Leaves flutter above
like black moths with each breeze.
Alex enjoys the way he seems
to disappear in the darker corridor
of shade, as though no one will
know he’s still there, staying safely
away from sight like some young
thrush tucked into its nest, just
knotted twigs, or as a cold hand
is hidden in the pocket of an old
coat, hoping for more warmth.
DUNE TREES IN WINTER
From Tinted Distances (Turning Point, 2011)
After Your Father’s Funeral
Waiting in the car at your family farm
while you packed your bags, I listened
to old blues music from an FM station
in a distant city and watched high clouds
cross a field of sky, each one as white
as a patch of onrushing water splashing
over some stone that’s broken through
the river’s surface, until a few new pools
of sunlight arrived. Behind the red barn,
a long line of linens or sagging tee-shirts
dried under sudden sunshine. A pasture
of high grass—only interrupted by a lone
shade tree where a couple of cows knelt
to rest—waved in the wind, as all the tall
blades slowly swayed, dancing in rhythm
with those sorrowful songs on the radio.
After Your Father’s Funeral
Waiting in the car at your family farm
while you packed your bags, I listened
to old blues music from an FM station
in a distant city and watched high clouds
cross a field of sky, each one as white
as a patch of onrushing water splashing
over some stone that’s broken through
the river’s surface, until a few new pools
of sunlight arrived. Behind the red barn,
a long line of linens or sagging tee-shirts
dried under sudden sunshine. A pasture
of high grass—only interrupted by a lone
shade tree where a couple of cows knelt
to rest—waved in the wind, as all the tall
blades slowly swayed, dancing in rhythm
with those sorrowful songs on the radio.
SUN AFTER FIRST SNOW
Echo Canyon: Noon After First Frost
A love of landscape’s a true affection for regret . . .
—“Stray Paragraphs in February, Year of the
Rat,” Charles Wright
As cottonwood and aspen swell the slopes
at either side, those narrowing ends of a lone
birch tree’s upper branches extend above me
in this sunlight like fine lines of filament wire,
each shoot bending briefly with every sudden
swirl of southern wind. Already, my memory
of morning’s meager birdsong is fading
in this midday silence. Even the unexpected
heat seems to sweep away any recollection
of translucent frost that only hours earlier
had glazed those wet stones glowing
along the river bed, its current now slowed
to a trickle, and had slid a thin sheet of ice
fitted like a sleeve of snakeskin onto fallen,
twisted limbs in the chilled dawn air.
And though this was not yet winter’s coat,
but just a dress rehearsal, as one season clings
to life all across this little timbered canyon--
another furrow cut into these mountains
by a glacier ages ago, as accurate as the slit
a sculptor could chisel out of granite--
the last few wildflowers are opening again.
A love of landscape’s a true affection for regret . . .
—“Stray Paragraphs in February, Year of the
Rat,” Charles Wright
As cottonwood and aspen swell the slopes
at either side, those narrowing ends of a lone
birch tree’s upper branches extend above me
in this sunlight like fine lines of filament wire,
each shoot bending briefly with every sudden
swirl of southern wind. Already, my memory
of morning’s meager birdsong is fading
in this midday silence. Even the unexpected
heat seems to sweep away any recollection
of translucent frost that only hours earlier
had glazed those wet stones glowing
along the river bed, its current now slowed
to a trickle, and had slid a thin sheet of ice
fitted like a sleeve of snakeskin onto fallen,
twisted limbs in the chilled dawn air.
And though this was not yet winter’s coat,
but just a dress rehearsal, as one season clings
to life all across this little timbered canyon--
another furrow cut into these mountains
by a glacier ages ago, as accurate as the slit
a sculptor could chisel out of granite--
the last few wildflowers are opening again.
Interview with Edward Byrne
Ed, I know that you have a deep appreciation for the Indiana Dunes—you write about the Lake Michigan shoreline and photograph its trails. What draws you to this particular area of the state?
I grew up in New York just a short distance from the ocean beaches or bays that I often visited and I include in my poetry. When I moved to Indiana more than thirty years ago, I discovered the nearby Lake Michigan coastline evoked memories of those earlier locations I cherished. After I conducted research into the history of this area, I found myself fascinated by the movement to save the Indiana Dunes in the early 1900s.
Consequently, I became interested in the biographies of some of the leaders in the effort to declare the shoreline preserved park land, especially Frank V. Dudley, the painter who focused almost solely on the Indiana Dunes landscape and promoted its beauty. In fact, I have explored the lakefront to discover the site of his famous studio cabin that had been built among the dunes and demolished, like hundreds of other structures, to make room for the state park, and I was pleased to find a bit of the foundation still embedded under the sand in the dunes. I don’t think anyone else even knows it is there.
As a poet and photographer, my goal has been to continue Dudley’s work through my words and images to bring awareness about the magnificence of the Indiana Dunes. Recently, I have placed this into practice with the online folio magazine I produce, Indiana Dunes: Photographs & Paragraphs, which can be viewed at the following link: https://edwardbyrnephotography.wordpress.com/blog-entries/
The natural world is very much present in your poems even when the focus is on a relationship between two people. Could you comment on nature as a dynamic force in your poetry?
As part of my Ph.D. work, I studied the American Romantic writers of the nineteenth century. I identified with their notion that the natural world ought to be viewed as a model for life and the outer landscape as a mirror reflecting the inner landscape of human emotions. Additionally, I teach a course on the history of American environmental literature, which has been a strong influence on my philosophy and style of writing.
I notice that your poems are written in couplets. What do you find appealing about this form?
As the lines in my poems grew longer over the years, I wanted to add some white space on the page to break the density and to offer readers opportunities for reflection on the language. In fact, the indented second line creates a two-step couplet, which allows readers to perceive the couplet as a pair of lines or one extended line. In addition, I know the first and final lines of stanzas always seem to attract extra emphasis. Couplets consist of only first and final lines; therefore, each line receives some prominence.
You mention jazz musicians like John Coltrane, Miles Davis, and Lester Young in some of your poems. Does your appreciation for jazz influence your poetry or the way you write?
My two-step couplet presents an appearance of order and set form, while the words are more informal with a conversational tone and free verse. This tension between stanza patterns and casual language partially derives from my great interest in jazz, especially the bebop or cool jazz musicians who sometimes improvised and presented variations upon the base of a standard song. For instance, think of a popular example, Miles Davis playing “Bye, Bye, Blackbird.” If I listen to music while writing, my selections are almost always instrumental jazz classics, particularly because I would be distracted by the words of any music accompanied by lyrics. Furthermore, I try to create a lyrical feel in my poetry that emulates musical tone or harmony through various techniques, such as end rhyme, internal rhyme, near rhyme, alliteration, assonance, consonance, and onomatopoeia.
What is your writing process?
Usually I start a poem out of curiosity. When a word or phrase sounds lyrical or evokes an incident containing interesting elements of imagery, I try to explore where that fragment will lead me. I always emphasize the process of discovery to my creative writing students, explaining how a writer follows one glimpse of an image, develops action, and works through conflict until some sort of consequence, maybe a moment of illumination, reveals itself. As Robert Frost famously mentioned, the process of discovery is a necessary and rewarding aspect of writing: “No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader. For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn't know I knew.”
In some ways as a photographer, I also imagine a camera zoom lens focused on specific details of a scene, then pulling away and opening up the entire setting until a complete wide-angle landscape or situation is composed in the poem with a sense of revelation and resolution. As the poem evolves, I am conscious of a need to use the visual and lyrical language to uncover apparent or implied narrative, perhaps suggesting a storyline or condition for contemplation by the speaker in the work with aspects that also will invite readers to consider more complex responses. Again, to quote Frost about the movement of a poem: “It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life—not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion.”
When did you first start writing poetry?
I began writing poetry for fun in high school, imitating Edgar Allan Poe, as many do. However, when I was a college student majoring in math and chemistry, I enrolled in an introduction to creative writing course as an elective, and I started to write more mature works at that point. I then took an advanced poetry class with Mark Strand (who became a mentor and friend for decades), and he encouraged me to consider poetry even more seriously by applying for graduate school in creative writing.
Who are some of your favorite poets?
My wife likes to joke that my poetic influences begin with “three Bobs: Robert Frost, Robert Lowell, and Robert Penn Warren.” However, she also suggests to be completely honest I should add a fourth: Bob Dylan. I teach a seminar on Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson, one of my favorite courses, and I feel much of American poetry—including my own—attempts to blend the best of both poets. Indeed, I like the way Charles Wright, an important contemporary influence, has described his poetry as an effort to marry the styles of Whitman and Dickinson. As a student and an apprentice, my mentors were my teachers: Mark Strand, John Ashbery, and Dave Smith. In addition, I find myself attracted to many poets whose work I believe to be precise and carefully crafted, such as Elizabeth Bishop, Claudia Emerson, David Bottoms, Linda Bierds, and others. Since Shakespeare’s poetry was one of the areas for testing in my Ph.D. exams and an inspiration, I finally must offer a nod to the excellence in his sonnets as influential.
As editor of Valparaiso Poetry Review, what advice do you have for unpublished poets who want to start submitting poems to literary magazines?
The advice I received as a beginner seems appropriate to repeat. Write the best work you can. Compete with your past poems to excel. Offer the poems to journals with the expectation of a high percentage of rejection at first. Do not be discouraged; instead, develop a sense of perseverance. Most importantly, carefully read as much poetry from the past and from contemporaries as you can, and be open to absorb the lessons learned from those works.
If you could meet one of the environmental writers whose works you’ve taught at Valparaiso University, who would that be and why?
The obvious answer might be Henry David Thoreau since his influence has permeated so much of what has followed. In addition, reading the extensive journals he kept for decades, I could have numerous topics to explore with him. Indeed, looking at his daily writings, I can envision his being comfortable in today’s world as a blogger I’d add to my online subscriptions. However, I would also be eager to have a conversation with John Muir about his philosophy, his writings, his adventures, his activism, and his instrumental role in the preservation of natural landscapes through the development of national parks for the American people.
"I always emphasize the process of discovery to my creative writing students, explaining how a writer follows one glimpse of an image, develops action, and works through conflict until some sort of consequence, maybe a moment of illumination, reveals itself." —Edward Byrne |
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July 2016
Arts in the Parks Poets: Four Pathways to Poetry This month's Through the Sycamores features four Indiana poets with Arts in the Parks projects: Vienna Bottomley, Joyce Brinkman, Liza Hyatt, and Kelvin McKelvey. Each of these poets has a unique project that benefits the public as it celebrates poetry's connection to nature. As an Arts in the Park poet myself (at Fort Harrison State Park), I can attest to the importance of this new program in strengthening appreciation for both poetry and the natural world. I strongly encourage poets to consider a project for 2017. The Indiana Arts Council has announced that guidelines will soon be available. Clicking here will take you to the webpage. |
Vienna Bottomley: Potato Creek Poetry
Vienna Bottomley has been writing poetry since a young age when she first started observing and composing poems about local wildlife in her hometown of Westfield, Indiana. She earned a B.A. in English with Creative Writing and Theology from the University of Notre Dame where she served as a poetry editor for the literary magazine, Re: Visions, and as an undergraduate publishing intern for the journal, Religion and Literature. Vienna just completed coursework for a Master's in English degree from Notre Dame and is excited to be starting law school at Notre Dame as a "triple domer" in the fall. Her poetry primarily reflects her interests in history, wildlife preservation, religious liberty, and social justice. Her poem "Art with a Heart" appears on Massachusetts Ave., as part of the Indianapolis Cultural Trail.
Visit her Poetry by Potato Creek website and blog by clicking here.
Vienna Bottomley has been writing poetry since a young age when she first started observing and composing poems about local wildlife in her hometown of Westfield, Indiana. She earned a B.A. in English with Creative Writing and Theology from the University of Notre Dame where she served as a poetry editor for the literary magazine, Re: Visions, and as an undergraduate publishing intern for the journal, Religion and Literature. Vienna just completed coursework for a Master's in English degree from Notre Dame and is excited to be starting law school at Notre Dame as a "triple domer" in the fall. Her poetry primarily reflects her interests in history, wildlife preservation, religious liberty, and social justice. Her poem "Art with a Heart" appears on Massachusetts Ave., as part of the Indianapolis Cultural Trail.
Visit her Poetry by Potato Creek website and blog by clicking here.
Trees at Potato Creek by Vienna Bottomley
Sequential Poems Written at Potato Creek State Park, June 2016
Tales of a Playground Sentry
You watch the world circle
Like a red-tailed hawk
As you swing from a tractor
Tire the color of cornflowers
And feel your shoulders bake
Red in the afternoon heat.
You scale a tower built
Of weathered wood stacked
Like Lincoln logs and survey
The tree line, the shady depths
Brimming with bird calls and ominous
Insect chatter. You guard the gravel
Path to the water’s edge until
Your longing for cool relief
Drives you down from your
Sun-drenched post. You sprint
Toward the lake shore and, falling,
Collapse in a bed of grasses soft
To trample underfoot.
Tales of a Playground Sentry
You watch the world circle
Like a red-tailed hawk
As you swing from a tractor
Tire the color of cornflowers
And feel your shoulders bake
Red in the afternoon heat.
You scale a tower built
Of weathered wood stacked
Like Lincoln logs and survey
The tree line, the shady depths
Brimming with bird calls and ominous
Insect chatter. You guard the gravel
Path to the water’s edge until
Your longing for cool relief
Drives you down from your
Sun-drenched post. You sprint
Toward the lake shore and, falling,
Collapse in a bed of grasses soft
To trample underfoot.
Worster Lake dock by Vienna Bottomley
By Worster Lake
Trampled cattails plunge
like oaken oars into the smooth
Surface of a glass fogged
By algal clouds that shift
With each sputtered breath
Of a rusted boat’s motor.
Fishermen retreat to secluded
Coves shaded by slender branches
Of maple trees. Down by the dock,
A couple chats in Pennsylvania
Dutch. They rest against the lakeside
Slope like two boulders draped
In darkness and watch water beat
Against the wooded shore.
Trampled cattails plunge
like oaken oars into the smooth
Surface of a glass fogged
By algal clouds that shift
With each sputtered breath
Of a rusted boat’s motor.
Fishermen retreat to secluded
Coves shaded by slender branches
Of maple trees. Down by the dock,
A couple chats in Pennsylvania
Dutch. They rest against the lakeside
Slope like two boulders draped
In darkness and watch water beat
Against the wooded shore.
Interview with Vienna Bottomley
What is your Arts in the Parks project?
I am writing ten poems about Potato Creek State Park and am teaching weekly haiku writing workshops for children visiting the park. Throughout the summer, I'll be updating my blog at poetrybypotatocreek.com as a way to share my experiences with the park and with the poetry writing process.
What was your motivation in applying for this project?
I particularly enjoy nature poetry, so the opportunity to spend the summer in the park writing about nature appealed to me. I also thought that the grant represented a great way to share poetry with the public while celebrating the centennial of Indiana's state parks.
Why did you choose your particular park?
I currently reside in South Bend while attending law school at Notre Dame. I have been wanting to explore the area's local parks more, particularly Potato Creek. Some of my fondest memories are of summers spent at my grandparents' lake cottage in Northern Indiana. With my Arts in the Parks project, I wanted to return to such a secluded lakeside setting.
Has your project started yet? If so, please describe your favorite experience so far.
I began my project this week. So far my favorite experience has been spending an afternoon wandering along the park's bike trail and observing the park's wildlife from the beach. I have also enjoyed teaching thirteen visiting children about poetry through a haiku writing workshop that I offered at the nature center last week.
How has your appreciation for the natural world affected your development as a writer?
My appreciation for the natural world motivates me to write since it represents the majority of my poetry's subject matter. My observations of nature are what give me the ideas and images that I later incorporate into my creative work as a writer. Trips to parks have inspired many of my writings in the past, and I look forward to seeing how Potato Creek will shape the works that I create this summer.
What advice do you have for other poets thinking of applying for an Arts in the Parks grant for 2017?
I would advise poets to apply for the grant, especially if they have a specific park in mind that they would like to explore. I would also recommend that poets work with a park to take advantage of nature centers and campgrounds as places to interact with the public. Setting up a table near these high-traffic areas will allow you to share your project with a large variety of park visitors.
What is your Arts in the Parks project?
I am writing ten poems about Potato Creek State Park and am teaching weekly haiku writing workshops for children visiting the park. Throughout the summer, I'll be updating my blog at poetrybypotatocreek.com as a way to share my experiences with the park and with the poetry writing process.
What was your motivation in applying for this project?
I particularly enjoy nature poetry, so the opportunity to spend the summer in the park writing about nature appealed to me. I also thought that the grant represented a great way to share poetry with the public while celebrating the centennial of Indiana's state parks.
Why did you choose your particular park?
I currently reside in South Bend while attending law school at Notre Dame. I have been wanting to explore the area's local parks more, particularly Potato Creek. Some of my fondest memories are of summers spent at my grandparents' lake cottage in Northern Indiana. With my Arts in the Parks project, I wanted to return to such a secluded lakeside setting.
Has your project started yet? If so, please describe your favorite experience so far.
I began my project this week. So far my favorite experience has been spending an afternoon wandering along the park's bike trail and observing the park's wildlife from the beach. I have also enjoyed teaching thirteen visiting children about poetry through a haiku writing workshop that I offered at the nature center last week.
How has your appreciation for the natural world affected your development as a writer?
My appreciation for the natural world motivates me to write since it represents the majority of my poetry's subject matter. My observations of nature are what give me the ideas and images that I later incorporate into my creative work as a writer. Trips to parks have inspired many of my writings in the past, and I look forward to seeing how Potato Creek will shape the works that I create this summer.
What advice do you have for other poets thinking of applying for an Arts in the Parks grant for 2017?
I would advise poets to apply for the grant, especially if they have a specific park in mind that they would like to explore. I would also recommend that poets work with a park to take advantage of nature centers and campgrounds as places to interact with the public. Setting up a table near these high-traffic areas will allow you to share your project with a large variety of park visitors.
Joyce Brinkman: Creating a Poet's Path at Pokagon
Joyce Brinkman, Indiana Poet Laureate 2002-2008, believes in poetry as public art. She creates public poetry projects involving her poetry and the poetry of others. Collaborations with visual artists using her poetry for permanent installations include her words in a twenty- five foot stained glass window by British glass artist Martin Donlin at the Indianapolis International Airport, in lighted glass by Arlon Bayliss at the Indianapolis-Marion County Central Library and on a wall with local El Salvadoran artists in the town square of Quezaltepeque, El Salvador. Her printed works include two chapbooks, Tiempo Español, and Nine Poems In Form Nine, and two collaborative books, Rivers, Rails and Runways, and Airmail from the Airpoets with fellow "airpoets" Ruthelen Burns, Joe Heithaus and Norbert Krapf. Joyce has received fellowships from the Mary Anderson Center for the Arts, the Arts Council of Indianapolis, and the Vermont Studio. She received a grant from the Indiana Arts Commission to explore poetry with the orangutans at the Indianapolis Zoo. Her latest books include the multinational, multilingual book Seasons of Sharing A Kasen Renku Collaboration, from Leapfrog Press and Urban Voices: 51 Poems from 51 American Poets from San Francisco Bay Press, which she co-edited with Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda. She is a graduate of Hanover College and lives in Zionsville, Indiana, with her husband and a sweet cat.
Joyce Brinkman, Indiana Poet Laureate 2002-2008, believes in poetry as public art. She creates public poetry projects involving her poetry and the poetry of others. Collaborations with visual artists using her poetry for permanent installations include her words in a twenty- five foot stained glass window by British glass artist Martin Donlin at the Indianapolis International Airport, in lighted glass by Arlon Bayliss at the Indianapolis-Marion County Central Library and on a wall with local El Salvadoran artists in the town square of Quezaltepeque, El Salvador. Her printed works include two chapbooks, Tiempo Español, and Nine Poems In Form Nine, and two collaborative books, Rivers, Rails and Runways, and Airmail from the Airpoets with fellow "airpoets" Ruthelen Burns, Joe Heithaus and Norbert Krapf. Joyce has received fellowships from the Mary Anderson Center for the Arts, the Arts Council of Indianapolis, and the Vermont Studio. She received a grant from the Indiana Arts Commission to explore poetry with the orangutans at the Indianapolis Zoo. Her latest books include the multinational, multilingual book Seasons of Sharing A Kasen Renku Collaboration, from Leapfrog Press and Urban Voices: 51 Poems from 51 American Poets from San Francisco Bay Press, which she co-edited with Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda. She is a graduate of Hanover College and lives in Zionsville, Indiana, with her husband and a sweet cat.
Photo of a wild violet by Joyce Brinkman
Poems from Airmail From The AirPoets (San Francisco Bay Press, 2011)
Waiting
On a moonlight night
when I walk among green pines
and hear the crunch below my feet
of dry snow-laden grass,
I think about the way
the world still finds the grace
to wait in pristine patience
for the peace I cannot find.
Waiting
On a moonlight night
when I walk among green pines
and hear the crunch below my feet
of dry snow-laden grass,
I think about the way
the world still finds the grace
to wait in pristine patience
for the peace I cannot find.
Photo of Spatterdock by Joyce Brinkman
Block Island Choir
Spring Peeper carols
loft through night’s dark cathedral
Anthem to new spring
Spring Peeper carols
loft through night’s dark cathedral
Anthem to new spring
Interview with Joyce Brinkman
What is your Arts in the Parks project?
I'm working with Park staff to designate a "Poet's Path" and create a downloadable audio poetry workshop that visitors can use as they walk along it.
What was your motivation in applying for this project?
I love the Indiana landscape. I am a big fan of our Indiana State Parks. They present the best of the wild world for Hoosiers to enjoy. I feel that helping people through art enjoy and better understand the environments that the parks hold is a wonderful legacy to leave to others.
Why did you choose your particular park?
This project is an old dream from the time I was Indiana Poet Laureate. One of the things I did during my time as laureate was poetry readings in state parks. Fred Wooley was the Naturalist at Pokagon State Park. Fred lamented that budget cuts had taken arts programs out of the parks. He and I talk about creating a poet's path and developing a poetry workshop that visitors could use at anytime. The difference is that then we planned to put the workshop on cassette tapes. There was no money for this project then, but when the Arts in the Parks grants were introduced this seemed a perfect fit. Fred has retired, but I still see this as part of his legacy. Fred was committed to his job and sought to provide the best experiences for those who came to his park.
Has your project started yet? If so, please describe your favorite experience so far.
I started in the winter. Pokagon is always a great park, but in winter it is spectacular. It snowed every day I was there. I love snow, especially when I don't have to shovel it; to me there is such a peacefulness about it. I met with Marie, the Naturalist there, and I walked trails, crossing paths with wild turkeys. She and I agreed on the location for the Poet's Path.
Then I was blessed with unbelievably beautiful, sunny, but mild spring days. This time the peacefulness came from the dueling banjo sounds of the green frogs and the melodic calls of the red-winged blackbirds in the reeds.
I'm looking forward to my summer and fall trips, and I hope I can create through the audio workshop a program that will inspire participants to love Pokagon and its wildlife as much as I do.
How has your appreciation for the natural world affected your development as a writer?
As a child I spent a lot of time outdoors. I began writing poetry when I was in the third grade and I began by writing about the woods, a meadow, and animals. My preference is always to be close to the wildlife that so perilously shares this world with us. They are often still my inspiration.
What advice do you have for other poets thinking of applying for an Arts in the Parks grant for 2017?
My advice is to have a focused project, especially if you are doing your project in a park that isn't close to where you live. There are many great locations for these projects and it's important to get the arts out to all points in the state. I love Pokagon, but it's not close to my home and I'm trying to capture a whole year's worth of park experience in my project. That means many long trips to the park to encounter the landscape in each season. The way the environment changes there's something different every day. I'm thrilled to be doing it, but a more focused approach is probably advisable for most artists.
What is your Arts in the Parks project?
I'm working with Park staff to designate a "Poet's Path" and create a downloadable audio poetry workshop that visitors can use as they walk along it.
What was your motivation in applying for this project?
I love the Indiana landscape. I am a big fan of our Indiana State Parks. They present the best of the wild world for Hoosiers to enjoy. I feel that helping people through art enjoy and better understand the environments that the parks hold is a wonderful legacy to leave to others.
Why did you choose your particular park?
This project is an old dream from the time I was Indiana Poet Laureate. One of the things I did during my time as laureate was poetry readings in state parks. Fred Wooley was the Naturalist at Pokagon State Park. Fred lamented that budget cuts had taken arts programs out of the parks. He and I talk about creating a poet's path and developing a poetry workshop that visitors could use at anytime. The difference is that then we planned to put the workshop on cassette tapes. There was no money for this project then, but when the Arts in the Parks grants were introduced this seemed a perfect fit. Fred has retired, but I still see this as part of his legacy. Fred was committed to his job and sought to provide the best experiences for those who came to his park.
Has your project started yet? If so, please describe your favorite experience so far.
I started in the winter. Pokagon is always a great park, but in winter it is spectacular. It snowed every day I was there. I love snow, especially when I don't have to shovel it; to me there is such a peacefulness about it. I met with Marie, the Naturalist there, and I walked trails, crossing paths with wild turkeys. She and I agreed on the location for the Poet's Path.
Then I was blessed with unbelievably beautiful, sunny, but mild spring days. This time the peacefulness came from the dueling banjo sounds of the green frogs and the melodic calls of the red-winged blackbirds in the reeds.
I'm looking forward to my summer and fall trips, and I hope I can create through the audio workshop a program that will inspire participants to love Pokagon and its wildlife as much as I do.
How has your appreciation for the natural world affected your development as a writer?
As a child I spent a lot of time outdoors. I began writing poetry when I was in the third grade and I began by writing about the woods, a meadow, and animals. My preference is always to be close to the wildlife that so perilously shares this world with us. They are often still my inspiration.
What advice do you have for other poets thinking of applying for an Arts in the Parks grant for 2017?
My advice is to have a focused project, especially if you are doing your project in a park that isn't close to where you live. There are many great locations for these projects and it's important to get the arts out to all points in the state. I love Pokagon, but it's not close to my home and I'm trying to capture a whole year's worth of park experience in my project. That means many long trips to the park to encounter the landscape in each season. The way the environment changes there's something different every day. I'm thrilled to be doing it, but a more focused approach is probably advisable for most artists.
Liza Hyatt: Fort Ben Writers Project
Liza Hyatt is the author of The Mother Poems (Chatter House Press, 2014), Under My Skin, (WordTech Editions, 2012), Seasons of the Star Planted Garden (Stonework Press, 1999), and Stories Made of World(Finishing Line Press, 2013). She has been published in various regional, national, and international journals and anthologies. In both 2006 and 2015, she received an Individual Artist Project Grant from the Indiana Arts Commission (IAC). She is an art therapist (ATR-BC, LMHC) and adjunct professor at both St. Mary of the Woods College and Herron School of Art and Design. She hosts a monthly poetry reading at the Lawrence Art Center on the east side of Indianapolis. She is the author of Art of the Earth: Ancient Art for a Green Future (Authorhouse, 2007), an art-based eco-psychology workbook. For more information, visit www.lizahyatt.com
Click here to visit Liza's Fort Ben Writers website.
Liza Hyatt is the author of The Mother Poems (Chatter House Press, 2014), Under My Skin, (WordTech Editions, 2012), Seasons of the Star Planted Garden (Stonework Press, 1999), and Stories Made of World(Finishing Line Press, 2013). She has been published in various regional, national, and international journals and anthologies. In both 2006 and 2015, she received an Individual Artist Project Grant from the Indiana Arts Commission (IAC). She is an art therapist (ATR-BC, LMHC) and adjunct professor at both St. Mary of the Woods College and Herron School of Art and Design. She hosts a monthly poetry reading at the Lawrence Art Center on the east side of Indianapolis. She is the author of Art of the Earth: Ancient Art for a Green Future (Authorhouse, 2007), an art-based eco-psychology workbook. For more information, visit www.lizahyatt.com
Click here to visit Liza's Fort Ben Writers website.
Photo of Fort Harrison State Park creek by Liza Hyatt
:Both poems are from Stories Made from World (Finishing Line Press, 2013) and were written at Fort Harrison State Park
DEER SKULL
As I bend to touch
the tender flesh
of the hidden throat
of Jack-in-the Pulpit,
suddenly, I see beside it a skull,
naked, white, weathered,
like a whelk shell
washed up whole
onto the wet forest shore.
The tiny tracings where
soft plates grew together
within the fawn
are more intricate
than if some artist,
wed to perfect detail,
had lived between skin and bone
just to engrave in secret writing
how life was made.
I pick it up, hold it, turn it over.
Inside, an ant explores
white canyons and arches carved by
a wind more subtle than wind,
the inner architecture
we live supported by
but never know.
The eye sockets,
the sinus chambers,
the case which housed the brain --
pure symmetry.
Long after death,
in the afterlife of pure bone,
beauty.
DEER SKULL
As I bend to touch
the tender flesh
of the hidden throat
of Jack-in-the Pulpit,
suddenly, I see beside it a skull,
naked, white, weathered,
like a whelk shell
washed up whole
onto the wet forest shore.
The tiny tracings where
soft plates grew together
within the fawn
are more intricate
than if some artist,
wed to perfect detail,
had lived between skin and bone
just to engrave in secret writing
how life was made.
I pick it up, hold it, turn it over.
Inside, an ant explores
white canyons and arches carved by
a wind more subtle than wind,
the inner architecture
we live supported by
but never know.
The eye sockets,
the sinus chambers,
the case which housed the brain --
pure symmetry.
Long after death,
in the afterlife of pure bone,
beauty.
Photo of squirrel corn by Liza Hyatt
Snail
The.
leaf.
mold.
is. wet.
with.
rain.
and. the. soil.
is.
pungent.
I swell.
then.
flatten.
A slow.
wave.
I.
am.
moving.
Something. two-hoofed.
thunders.
over.
I. freeze. in. its. shadow.
Stay. still.
Feel. the. world. vibrate.
Why.
hurry?
This.
is.
a good.
place.
to.
taste.
the.
earth.
(Please read this poem aloud, at a snail’s pace.)
The.
leaf.
mold.
is. wet.
with.
rain.
and. the. soil.
is.
pungent.
I swell.
then.
flatten.
A slow.
wave.
I.
am.
moving.
Something. two-hoofed.
thunders.
over.
I. freeze. in. its. shadow.
Stay. still.
Feel. the. world. vibrate.
Why.
hurry?
This.
is.
a good.
place.
to.
taste.
the.
earth.
(Please read this poem aloud, at a snail’s pace.)
Interview with Liza Hyatt
What is your Arts in the Parks project?
My project is the Fort Ben Writers project. I've placed self-serve boxes of writing prompts at the visitor's center, trailheads, and shelters throughout the park. There are 10 different prompts to respond to. Participants write responses to the prompts and send them to editorfortbenwriters@gmail.com and I then post their writing into an online blog where park users can read each other's writing about their experiences at the park. All the writing prompts can also be found on this blog (www.fortbenwriters.com). I am also leading a nature writing hike on July 9th, meeting at 1:00 p.m. at the Delaware Shelter. And on August 23, the Poets Laureate of Lawrence poetry series I host will be meeting at the Theater at the Fort and then heading to the park to write. Finally, on October 1 from 2-4 pm all who have submitted writing to the blog are invited to read their work at the park in a public reading.
What was your motivation in applying for this project?
I have written many poems in response to my visits to the park and wanted to create a way that others can connect to share their writing inspired by time at the park. I hoped that creating a literary forum through an online blog would help build community.
Why did you choose your particular park?
I live near Fort Harrison (which the locals affectionately call Fort Ben). It has been essential to my creative and spiritual life for as long as it has been a state park.
Has your project started yet? If so, please describe your favorite experience so far.
Yes--my project has started. Since the beginning of May, the writing prompt boxes have been available for the public. I placed 20 writing prompt sheets in each one and when I checked on them a week later, all the prompts had been taken, much to my surprise. The writing prompts keep disappearing, so I know people are taking them with them and using them. I have received one submission of writing so far. When I fill the writing prompt boxes, I talk to people and invite them to send me their writing. Everyone seems happy to be invited, so that is fun. Another fun experience was crossing paths with Shari and her daughter Iona one day when I was at the park tending my boxes. It is pleasing to know other artists are out loving the park with me. In terms of waiting to see when submissions start rolling in, my fear is that people will be too shy to send their writing in. So, please, everyone who reads this, come to Fort Ben, respond to one or more of the prompts available, and send me everything you write!
How has your appreciation for the natural world affected your development as a writer?
The natural world has always been at the core of what I write. I started writing as a kid in order to feel more fully connected to the natural world and this longing for connection with other living creatures and the world itself continues to be the main reason I write.
What advice do you have for other poets thinking of applying for an Arts in the Parks grant for 2017?
Figuring out how to engage in a meaningful way with the public is the key. I feel like I am still in the process of discovering if my method of writing prompt boxes is going to build the community I envisioned. So, ask me in October this same question and I can say more.
What is your Arts in the Parks project?
My project is the Fort Ben Writers project. I've placed self-serve boxes of writing prompts at the visitor's center, trailheads, and shelters throughout the park. There are 10 different prompts to respond to. Participants write responses to the prompts and send them to editorfortbenwriters@gmail.com and I then post their writing into an online blog where park users can read each other's writing about their experiences at the park. All the writing prompts can also be found on this blog (www.fortbenwriters.com). I am also leading a nature writing hike on July 9th, meeting at 1:00 p.m. at the Delaware Shelter. And on August 23, the Poets Laureate of Lawrence poetry series I host will be meeting at the Theater at the Fort and then heading to the park to write. Finally, on October 1 from 2-4 pm all who have submitted writing to the blog are invited to read their work at the park in a public reading.
What was your motivation in applying for this project?
I have written many poems in response to my visits to the park and wanted to create a way that others can connect to share their writing inspired by time at the park. I hoped that creating a literary forum through an online blog would help build community.
Why did you choose your particular park?
I live near Fort Harrison (which the locals affectionately call Fort Ben). It has been essential to my creative and spiritual life for as long as it has been a state park.
Has your project started yet? If so, please describe your favorite experience so far.
Yes--my project has started. Since the beginning of May, the writing prompt boxes have been available for the public. I placed 20 writing prompt sheets in each one and when I checked on them a week later, all the prompts had been taken, much to my surprise. The writing prompts keep disappearing, so I know people are taking them with them and using them. I have received one submission of writing so far. When I fill the writing prompt boxes, I talk to people and invite them to send me their writing. Everyone seems happy to be invited, so that is fun. Another fun experience was crossing paths with Shari and her daughter Iona one day when I was at the park tending my boxes. It is pleasing to know other artists are out loving the park with me. In terms of waiting to see when submissions start rolling in, my fear is that people will be too shy to send their writing in. So, please, everyone who reads this, come to Fort Ben, respond to one or more of the prompts available, and send me everything you write!
How has your appreciation for the natural world affected your development as a writer?
The natural world has always been at the core of what I write. I started writing as a kid in order to feel more fully connected to the natural world and this longing for connection with other living creatures and the world itself continues to be the main reason I write.
What advice do you have for other poets thinking of applying for an Arts in the Parks grant for 2017?
Figuring out how to engage in a meaningful way with the public is the key. I feel like I am still in the process of discovering if my method of writing prompt boxes is going to build the community I envisioned. So, ask me in October this same question and I can say more.
Kelvin McKelvey: Creative Hikes
Poet and writer Kevin McKelvey grew up near Lebanon, Indiana, and graduated from DePauw University and Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Some of his Deam Wilderness poems have been published in Dream Wilderness, a chapbook, and a full-length book of the same name is forthcoming in 2017. His poems, blogs, essays, and stories have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. At University of Indianapolis, he works as an Associate Professor in the English Department. He lives with his wife and three children in Indianapolis in a house built in the 1870s.
He can be found online at kevinmckelvey.org.
Poet and writer Kevin McKelvey grew up near Lebanon, Indiana, and graduated from DePauw University and Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Some of his Deam Wilderness poems have been published in Dream Wilderness, a chapbook, and a full-length book of the same name is forthcoming in 2017. His poems, blogs, essays, and stories have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. At University of Indianapolis, he works as an Associate Professor in the English Department. He lives with his wife and three children in Indianapolis in a house built in the 1870s.
He can be found online at kevinmckelvey.org.
Photo by Shari Wagner
from Alehouse, 2009
Siipiiwi
—the Miami Indian word for river
River, río, riparian—who first spoke “Ri”
at a large flowing expanse of water
and understood the response?
In vulgar Latin or Old French,
how did water say water?
how did eddy say eddy?
Every Gaul and Roman uttered “Ri”
as fields creeped closer to banks
and trees disappeared.
The Miami knew untouched rivers,
the Waa-paah-siki, the Bright White River,
not this silted, polluted flow.
They knew the Kingfisher’s call,
the heron’s spearing bill,
the trolling pike and muskellunge
in the clear water,
the limestone bottoms’ gurgle,
and they knew the river water lapped against
rooted and tangled banks, shaded—siipiiwi.
Siipiiwi
—the Miami Indian word for river
River, río, riparian—who first spoke “Ri”
at a large flowing expanse of water
and understood the response?
In vulgar Latin or Old French,
how did water say water?
how did eddy say eddy?
Every Gaul and Roman uttered “Ri”
as fields creeped closer to banks
and trees disappeared.
The Miami knew untouched rivers,
the Waa-paah-siki, the Bright White River,
not this silted, polluted flow.
They knew the Kingfisher’s call,
the heron’s spearing bill,
the trolling pike and muskellunge
in the clear water,
the limestone bottoms’ gurgle,
and they knew the river water lapped against
rooted and tangled banks, shaded—siipiiwi.
Photo by Shari Wagner
The Mississinewa at Marion
What’s left of elevator factory, stamping plant,
auto parts factories, Christmas decoration factory,
layers behind the dam. The early mills’ sawdust
and chaff divide industrialization from the Miami’s
winter fire ashes in their sacred river.
Bones, shells, tools eroded like treaties.
The river’s good flow, the rail line and till plain,
built gas-boom factories and the Victorians,
union jobs, two high schools with Voc. Ed.,
a town divided enough to hang two men
on the courthouse lawn and turn it into a
Saturday night social. Factories are gone,
the town is half its size. Carp and catfish
swish muck and toxic metals that always resettle
into the same retelling. The silt binds these
layers in a book of blood and dust and soot.
What’s left of elevator factory, stamping plant,
auto parts factories, Christmas decoration factory,
layers behind the dam. The early mills’ sawdust
and chaff divide industrialization from the Miami’s
winter fire ashes in their sacred river.
Bones, shells, tools eroded like treaties.
The river’s good flow, the rail line and till plain,
built gas-boom factories and the Victorians,
union jobs, two high schools with Voc. Ed.,
a town divided enough to hang two men
on the courthouse lawn and turn it into a
Saturday night social. Factories are gone,
the town is half its size. Carp and catfish
swish muck and toxic metals that always resettle
into the same retelling. The silt binds these
layers in a book of blood and dust and soot.
Interview with Kevin McKelvey
What is your Arts in the Parks project?
I will complete five creative hikes at Mounds, Prophetstown, and Ouabache State Parks and at Mississinewa and Salamonie Reservoirs in which we'll do a mix of writing, drawing, and collaborative work on a short trail at each area.
What was your motivation in applying for this project?
Getting out into the parks with visitors and collaborating with them on more ways to creatively engage the park.
Why did you choose your particular parks?
I wanted to explore more Indiana rivers, and this was a great way to visit some of the tributaries of the Wabash.
Has your project started yet? If so, please describe your favorite experience so far.
My favorite has been seeing the diverse natural areas in Indiana for myself and the ways people enjoy them.
How has your appreciation for the natural world affected your development as a writer?
I grew up on the edge of a cornfield, so I feel like all I've ever written about is the natural world. First poems, now a novel and essays and more poems.
What advice do you have for other poets thinking of applying for an Arts in the Park grant for 2017?
The parks staff is great and wants to help you bring your idea to fruition. Find parks or forests or reservoirs that will inspire your own writing, then figure out a way to engage park visitors in your ideas. Your ideas and inspiration will only be better with insights from park visitors.
What is your Arts in the Parks project?
I will complete five creative hikes at Mounds, Prophetstown, and Ouabache State Parks and at Mississinewa and Salamonie Reservoirs in which we'll do a mix of writing, drawing, and collaborative work on a short trail at each area.
What was your motivation in applying for this project?
Getting out into the parks with visitors and collaborating with them on more ways to creatively engage the park.
Why did you choose your particular parks?
I wanted to explore more Indiana rivers, and this was a great way to visit some of the tributaries of the Wabash.
Has your project started yet? If so, please describe your favorite experience so far.
My favorite has been seeing the diverse natural areas in Indiana for myself and the ways people enjoy them.
How has your appreciation for the natural world affected your development as a writer?
I grew up on the edge of a cornfield, so I feel like all I've ever written about is the natural world. First poems, now a novel and essays and more poems.
What advice do you have for other poets thinking of applying for an Arts in the Park grant for 2017?
The parks staff is great and wants to help you bring your idea to fruition. Find parks or forests or reservoirs that will inspire your own writing, then figure out a way to engage park visitors in your ideas. Your ideas and inspiration will only be better with insights from park visitors.
Jessica enjoys the trails in Posey County.
June 2016
Trails Through New Harmony: The Poetry of Jessica D. Thompson
Jessica D. Thompson has worked as a Human Resource professional for over 25 years. She is an amateur photographer and poet. One of her goals in life is to finish planting her yard in flowers so she no longer has to mow grass.
Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in small press journals across the country, including Appalachian Heritage, Atlanta Review, Chaffin Journal, Kudzu, Midwest Quarterly, Nerve Cowboy, New Southerner, Sow’s Ear, and Tiferet Journal, and can be found in the following anthologies: Mapping the Muse: a Bicentennial Look at Indiana Poetry (Brick Street Poetry, Inc), Bigger Than They Appear: Anthology of Very Short Poems (Accents Publishing), New Poetry from the Midwest (New American Press), and Circe’s Lament: Anthology of Wild Women Poetry (Accents Publishing).
She is the grateful recipient of the James Baker Hall Memorial Prize in Poetry (New Southerner, 2013); the Kudzu Poetry Prize (Kudzu, 2014); and was named a finalist in the Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize (Ruminate Magazine, 2014). Her chapbook, Bullets and Blank Bibles, is available from the publisher, Liquid Paper Press in Austin, Texas. Look for her poem, “Cataloging the Mood Ring Diaries,” in the fall issue of Still: The Journal.
Trails Through New Harmony: The Poetry of Jessica D. Thompson
Jessica D. Thompson has worked as a Human Resource professional for over 25 years. She is an amateur photographer and poet. One of her goals in life is to finish planting her yard in flowers so she no longer has to mow grass.
Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in small press journals across the country, including Appalachian Heritage, Atlanta Review, Chaffin Journal, Kudzu, Midwest Quarterly, Nerve Cowboy, New Southerner, Sow’s Ear, and Tiferet Journal, and can be found in the following anthologies: Mapping the Muse: a Bicentennial Look at Indiana Poetry (Brick Street Poetry, Inc), Bigger Than They Appear: Anthology of Very Short Poems (Accents Publishing), New Poetry from the Midwest (New American Press), and Circe’s Lament: Anthology of Wild Women Poetry (Accents Publishing).
She is the grateful recipient of the James Baker Hall Memorial Prize in Poetry (New Southerner, 2013); the Kudzu Poetry Prize (Kudzu, 2014); and was named a finalist in the Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize (Ruminate Magazine, 2014). Her chapbook, Bullets and Blank Bibles, is available from the publisher, Liquid Paper Press in Austin, Texas. Look for her poem, “Cataloging the Mood Ring Diaries,” in the fall issue of Still: The Journal.
When I found the poem, "Praise Be to Crows," in Mapping the Muse: A Bicentennial Look at Indiana Poetry, I was struck by the magic of the lines and by the fact that I didn't know anything about its author, Jessica Thompson, a poet who wrote with such an accomplished voice. With a bit of googling, I discovered her award-winning poem, "The Blacksmith," in the New Southerner and was impressed by its narrative compression, lyrical lines, and evocative imagery. It wasn't long before I got a hold of Jessica's chapbook, Bullets and Blank Bibles--a book I enjoyed so much that I read it through at one sitting.
Jessica's free verse ballads and litanies speak for those who can't: plants and animals lost or displaced due to development, working class people struggling in difficult and sometimes violent situations, loved ones struggling with terminal illness or experiences of war. Like her photographs of New Harmony, Jessica's poems also have a strong sense of place and find poignant connections between the past and the present.
"Iris" by Jessica D. Thompson
Poems from Bullets and Blank Bibles
Published by Liquid Paper Press, Austin, Texas, 2013
Future Home of the Mammoth Mega Church
This land has been a working farm
for as long as I can remember.
Come late fall, the song of frogs
and their, Hurry! Hurry!
The end is near: find a place
to huddle down and pray.
A fox runs over the surveyed
ground. Blessed are the meek
for they shall inherit the Earth.
Blessed is the carpenter bee,
the caterpillar and the serpent.
Blessed are those with horns:
cattle, deer, the numbered
buffalo (hallowed be thy name).
Blessed are the pitchforks
that lift up the hay.
Blessed the trees now marked
with X's. Body of Christ, full
of grace: cowslip and May
apple. Gone the wake-robin,
Indian pipe, ginseng and wood
violet. All turned to dust
and for this:
a church filled with hymnals
from which we will mouth
the words.
Listen, the sound of wings: geese flying south.
Published by Liquid Paper Press, Austin, Texas, 2013
Future Home of the Mammoth Mega Church
This land has been a working farm
for as long as I can remember.
Come late fall, the song of frogs
and their, Hurry! Hurry!
The end is near: find a place
to huddle down and pray.
A fox runs over the surveyed
ground. Blessed are the meek
for they shall inherit the Earth.
Blessed is the carpenter bee,
the caterpillar and the serpent.
Blessed are those with horns:
cattle, deer, the numbered
buffalo (hallowed be thy name).
Blessed are the pitchforks
that lift up the hay.
Blessed the trees now marked
with X's. Body of Christ, full
of grace: cowslip and May
apple. Gone the wake-robin,
Indian pipe, ginseng and wood
violet. All turned to dust
and for this:
a church filled with hymnals
from which we will mouth
the words.
Listen, the sound of wings: geese flying south.
"Joy" by Jessica D. Thompson
Crushed Velvet
My grandpa is buried on the land
where his grandpa farmed.
Before he died, he would lift me up
on the back of his mule,
lead the way down a worn path
to the cemetery.
Using a scythe, he would cut down
weeds that threatened to erase
our memory of the dead.
At each stone, he told me each name:
This one a sister who died at birth,
an uncle who drowned (some said
it was suicide), his father, shot dead
in a card game.
When cars died, they were parked
in an out-of-the-way place
on the farm. That's where cats
went to have their kittens. That's
where my brother and I played,
kneeling on a crushed velvet
seat, gripping a stiff steering wheel,
pretending we were rushing
down a new highway--
a long way from dying.
My grandpa is buried on the land
where his grandpa farmed.
Before he died, he would lift me up
on the back of his mule,
lead the way down a worn path
to the cemetery.
Using a scythe, he would cut down
weeds that threatened to erase
our memory of the dead.
At each stone, he told me each name:
This one a sister who died at birth,
an uncle who drowned (some said
it was suicide), his father, shot dead
in a card game.
When cars died, they were parked
in an out-of-the-way place
on the farm. That's where cats
went to have their kittens. That's
where my brother and I played,
kneeling on a crushed velvet
seat, gripping a stiff steering wheel,
pretending we were rushing
down a new highway--
a long way from dying.
"The Wabash River Near New Harmony" by Jessica D. Thompson
Crickets Crying
Uncle Ray loved fishing more than eating, more
than sleeping. Saturday mornings, in the summer
of my twelfth year, my brother and I would hop
in the back of his pickup and head for the river.
We always stopped at the bait shop on the edge
of town. Mobs of night crawlers, thick red-purple
masses intertwined. No eyes, no ears, just bodies,
writhing, touching. The cries of the crickets
as they beat their pointy heads against the mesh
lid, somehow knowing their fate: to be stuck
on the end of a hook, drowned or eaten alive.
But the worst was the bony man behind the counter,
with blood dried under his fingernails. I hated
how his eyes glazed over as he looked me up and
down. The same frozen gaze as the glass-eyed fish
mounted
on the wall. How he licked his thin lips before
puckering, whistling to himself. How it made
my skin crawl to watch flies walk across the hairs
on his arms and him not even flinch.
How his stare made me want to take a knife
and cut off the two bumps sticking out of my
chest. How it made me envy the slim hips
of my brother. How the bile rose in my throat
at the sounds: worms writhing, crickets crying,
thin lips licking. The smell of rotting meat.
How the muscles in my legs twitched, alive
with adrenaline, ready to run.
How I hated that he called me, Hon--
like he already knew me.
Uncle Ray loved fishing more than eating, more
than sleeping. Saturday mornings, in the summer
of my twelfth year, my brother and I would hop
in the back of his pickup and head for the river.
We always stopped at the bait shop on the edge
of town. Mobs of night crawlers, thick red-purple
masses intertwined. No eyes, no ears, just bodies,
writhing, touching. The cries of the crickets
as they beat their pointy heads against the mesh
lid, somehow knowing their fate: to be stuck
on the end of a hook, drowned or eaten alive.
But the worst was the bony man behind the counter,
with blood dried under his fingernails. I hated
how his eyes glazed over as he looked me up and
down. The same frozen gaze as the glass-eyed fish
mounted
on the wall. How he licked his thin lips before
puckering, whistling to himself. How it made
my skin crawl to watch flies walk across the hairs
on his arms and him not even flinch.
How his stare made me want to take a knife
and cut off the two bumps sticking out of my
chest. How it made me envy the slim hips
of my brother. How the bile rose in my throat
at the sounds: worms writhing, crickets crying,
thin lips licking. The smell of rotting meat.
How the muscles in my legs twitched, alive
with adrenaline, ready to run.
How I hated that he called me, Hon--
like he already knew me.
"The Old Rooming House" by Jessica D. Thompson
Something Taken
The first thing she did was take the guns
down from the bedroom wall.
Finally, her eyes could close
without thinking about steel barrels,
wooden stocks, all those triggers
ready to go off
with the touch of a finger.
She used a crowbar on the rack,
enjoyed the sound of screws
lifting out of plaster.
Plied it back and forth until it balanced
on itself, then fell away clean.
For something taken, something
must be given:
she would paint the walls in a wash
of yellow. Then, for the first time,
she noticed the blinds--
how they resembled bars.
The first thing she did was take the guns
down from the bedroom wall.
Finally, her eyes could close
without thinking about steel barrels,
wooden stocks, all those triggers
ready to go off
with the touch of a finger.
She used a crowbar on the rack,
enjoyed the sound of screws
lifting out of plaster.
Plied it back and forth until it balanced
on itself, then fell away clean.
For something taken, something
must be given:
she would paint the walls in a wash
of yellow. Then, for the first time,
she noticed the blinds--
how they resembled bars.
"Early Morning Walk" by Jessica D. Thompson
The Cleaning Lady
The cleaning lady is in the men's room
mopping the speckled gray linoleum.
She has shined the stainless steel sinks,
emptied the trash and erased the amber
trails of misdirected streams. Soon,
one by one, she'll throw up each
horseshoe shaped seat. They'll clack
and fall, clack and fall--
like so many hungry mouths.
She'll straddle commode after commode,
thrust a stiff brush down every hole.
That's when she'll notice her hands
and come to understand
how thin a layer of latex is--
how it's the only thing that separates her
from the piss and moans of men.
The cleaning lady is in the men's room
mopping the speckled gray linoleum.
She has shined the stainless steel sinks,
emptied the trash and erased the amber
trails of misdirected streams. Soon,
one by one, she'll throw up each
horseshoe shaped seat. They'll clack
and fall, clack and fall--
like so many hungry mouths.
She'll straddle commode after commode,
thrust a stiff brush down every hole.
That's when she'll notice her hands
and come to understand
how thin a layer of latex is--
how it's the only thing that separates her
from the piss and moans of men.
"Hugging Trees" by Jessica D. Thompson
Inkblot (married sleep)
Viewed from overhead,
we form an inkblot
as we lie in bed.
Each facing an outer wall,
backs together, knees
bent in unison, soles
of our feet touching.
We could be a butterfly
or some monster
ready to pounce upon
the unsuspecting other.
The something wed
to symmetry:
mirrored, married sleep.
Viewed from overhead,
we form an inkblot
as we lie in bed.
Each facing an outer wall,
backs together, knees
bent in unison, soles
of our feet touching.
We could be a butterfly
or some monster
ready to pounce upon
the unsuspecting other.
The something wed
to symmetry:
mirrored, married sleep.
"Behind the Garden Gates" by Jessica D. Thompson
Uncollected Poems
The Blacksmith
—for Martin
Before a hammer meets an anvil,
there is a pause midair
and time is suspended.
He forged horseshoes in a fire
built each day before sunrise.
Before bed, he would brush
her hair one hundred strokes.
I never saw such tenderness.
He must have thought of water
falling from a sun-struck cliff.
He must have thought of rose
petals floating in a rain barrel.
He must have thought he heard
a whisper of wings--
a sparrow
singing in the palm of his hand.
Previously published in New Southerner
Winner of the James Baker Hall Memorial Prize
The Blacksmith
—for Martin
Before a hammer meets an anvil,
there is a pause midair
and time is suspended.
He forged horseshoes in a fire
built each day before sunrise.
Before bed, he would brush
her hair one hundred strokes.
I never saw such tenderness.
He must have thought of water
falling from a sun-struck cliff.
He must have thought of rose
petals floating in a rain barrel.
He must have thought he heard
a whisper of wings--
a sparrow
singing in the palm of his hand.
Previously published in New Southerner
Winner of the James Baker Hall Memorial Prize
"The Poet's Backyard" by Jessica D. Thompson
This God of My Waking
I still had my milk teeth
when I saw him drop
to his knees in the dark
Appalachian dirt,
the serpent severed in half.
Mother running, tearing
at the strings of her apron,
tendrils of hair
escaping her bun, wild
pink and white morning
glories
reaching for light.
She saved him with words
she gave to the wind.
She saved him when
she took fire into her mouth.
Three times she went there,
three times she spat.
Only then did I dare believe
he was mortal,
this god of my waking
days
falling to earth.
Previously published in Ruminate Magazine
Finalist in the 2014 Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize
I still had my milk teeth
when I saw him drop
to his knees in the dark
Appalachian dirt,
the serpent severed in half.
Mother running, tearing
at the strings of her apron,
tendrils of hair
escaping her bun, wild
pink and white morning
glories
reaching for light.
She saved him with words
she gave to the wind.
She saved him when
she took fire into her mouth.
Three times she went there,
three times she spat.
Only then did I dare believe
he was mortal,
this god of my waking
days
falling to earth.
Previously published in Ruminate Magazine
Finalist in the 2014 Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize
Interview with Jessica D. Thompson
Jessica, I understand that your family roots are in Kentucky. When did you move to Indiana and to what extent do you feel connected to the landscape of Posey County and the historic town of New Harmony?
Our family moved from Kentucky to New Albany in southern Indiana when I was eight years old. I was fortunate enough to have a creek just down the street where I spent hours exploring and a large field behind our house where I perfected my tree climbing.
President Dwight D. Eisenhower had signed the Interstate Highway System a few years earlier, and as a result, I witnessed the building of Interstate 64 and the Sherman Minton Bridge which connected New Albany to the west side of Louisville, Kentucky. This happened over a three-year period, and during that time, I watched as trees were knocked down, streams dammed, and plants of all kinds eradicated and covered over with concrete. This had a profound impact on me and changed how I look at surrounding landscapes. It has caused me to become more observant of natural elements passing away, and I hope it has made me more sensitive to the effect these losses have on all of us, both from an aesthetic as well as a historical viewpoint. Growing up, I also witnessed the effects of urban renewal and saw families displaced. I had friends who had to move away because their low-income housing was being bulldozed for a parking lot, an overpass, or other so-called modernizations.
My husband, Hugh, and I first came to New Harmony on our honeymoon in 1990. We loved it so much that we kept coming back. In 1997, we began the seven-year renovation of our 1895 cottage on Church Street (SR 66), moving here full-time in 2004.
For me, the best way to connect with a landscape is to walk it—just as I did as a child in Floyd County, where I roamed neighborhoods divided by small creeks and open fields. I feel very fortunate to live in New Harmony, which is a walker’s paradise with its many woodland trails that lead to the Wabash River and its public gardens and open fields. During the past twelve years, I’ve been witness to the disappearance of old barns and silos, and far too many landmark trees—sometimes by natural causes, other times by the not-so-natural hand of man.
When the Harmonist Society, a group of Separatists from the German Lutheran Church first settled New Harmony in 1814, it was considered the western frontier of Indiana. Two hundred years later, it still has the feel of a town perched on the edge—a place where visions and dreams can still come true. New Harmony is a town where, as Emily Dickinson would say, one can “dwell in possibility.” That’s the connection I feel with New Harmony and why I love calling it home. The plants and trees also keep me here—the peonies and golden rain trees and the naturalized petunias that somehow keep coming back year after year to bloom in private gardens.
When did you first start writing poetry?
I first started writing poetry in the sixties, while in high school. Like a lot of teenagers of that era, my poetry was full of angst. The Vietnam War, protest songs, and assassinations influenced my early poems. I admit to drafting them while wearing rose-colored glasses.
It wasn’t until 2004, when I moved to New Harmony, that I started seriously writing poetry. Two years later, I started sending my poems to small-press journals with hopes of publishing them.
What does poetry mean to you—narrowed down to a few statements?
--Poetry is necessary.
--Sometimes it’s a way to reach people who might not otherwise have consciously chosen to go to the place where you’ve taken them in the poem.
--Poetry, good poetry, always has an element of surprise.
--Poetry is the difference between existing and living.
--I cannot imagine a world without poetry.
Who are some of your favorite poets?
Just off the top of my head . . . Rumi, Rilke, Neruda. Also, Ruth Stone, Deborah Digges, Marie Howe, Jane Hirshfield, Dorianne Laux, and Nikky Finney. Most recently, Ross Gay for his book, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude—I admire his ability to integrate his love of gardening with his poetry.
Do you have a few all-time favorite poems? What do you admire most about them?
That’s a tough one to narrow down. I’ll go with these four:
“The Blessing” by Charles Wright (for its message of transcendence and that glorious ending: “Suddenly I realize. That if I stepped out of my body. I would break into blossom.”).
“After Twelve Days of Rain” by Dorianne Laux (for its imagery and ability to connect to universal truths).
“When My Brother Was an Aztec,” Natalie Diaz (for her skill in expressing the horrific in a such beautiful way).
“Little Sleep’s Head Sprouting Hair in the Moonlight” by Galway Kinnell (for its richness of language and music).
I love your poem “The Blacksmith” for its music and imagery and sense of surprise. Maurice Manning who awarded it the James Baker Hall Memorial Prize compares it to “Felix Randall” by Gerard Manley Hopkins and says, “. . . it reminds us to look for tenderness where we might not expect it.” Could you talk a bit about this poem—including what inspired it?
“The Blacksmith” is dedicated to my great-grandfather, Martin Pharris, who if still alive today, would be 132 years old. Although I did not spend a lot of time with him, I do vividly remember his blacksmith shop in Spring Lick, Kentucky. His wife, my great-grandmother, Muldia Pharris, was a sweet little woman who, for as long as I can remember, wore her hair in a bun. The two of them were a sharp contrast: she, petite and soft—he, tall and lanky, with a sharp, angular face and large hands. After starting the poem, I remembered my grandmother (Martin and Muldia’s daughter) telling me that if I wanted shiny hair, I should brush it one hundred strokes each night; and how, when she was a young girl, she could remember her father brushing her mother’s waist-length hair at night. There’s something hypnotic about the act of brushing long hair, and as I stayed in that place, the images in the poem floated to the surface: water falling from a sun-struck cliff—rose petals floating in a rain barrel—a sparrow (the brush) singing in the palm of his hand.
The photos you’ve sent me for this page are stunning. Why are you drawn to photography?
I think there are correlations between taking photographs and writing poetry. I just finished reading Thomas Merton’s, When the Trees Say Nothing, edited by Kathleen Deignan (Sorin Books, 2003). In Chapter 7, “Presences,” Merton writes:
“ . . . the camera does not know what it takes: it captures materials with which you reconstruct not so much what you saw as what you thought you saw. Hence the best photography is aware, mindful of illusion and uses illusion, permitting and encouraging it—especially unconscious and powerful illusions that are not normally admitted in the scene.”
The same can be said about writing poetry.
What type of poetry collection are you currently working on?
The heavy stuff: birth/death.
Do you have any advice for beginning poets?
Most of this has been said before, but . . . I would say . . . read more than you write. Subscribe to poetry journals. Join a writer’s group. When editing, read your work out loud. Make every word count. Cut. Cut. Cut. Don’t underestimate the power of line breaks. Make room for empty spaces within your poems (acknowledge how the poem breathes). Believe in your poems. If you don’t believe in them, no one else will.
What's your favorite place in Posey County?
That would have to be the trails in New Harmony that lead to the Wabash River. They wind through woodlands and alongside fields. The scenery is always changing because of the immense sky overhead, and the light changes according to the season. I never know what wildlife I’ll see. It could be deer, dragonflies and damselflies, turtles, snakes, water birds, and eagles. Even those times I don’t see wildlife, I know they’ve been there because of their tracks: egrets, raccoons, and even, once, the tracks of a bobcat. There’s also a multitude of plants that bloom—such as ironweed, morning glories, smartweed, chicory—and lots of butterflies. The trails, winding through woodlands and fields, are especially magical at dusk on summer evenings when the lightning bugs are out in mass.
Jessica, I understand that your family roots are in Kentucky. When did you move to Indiana and to what extent do you feel connected to the landscape of Posey County and the historic town of New Harmony?
Our family moved from Kentucky to New Albany in southern Indiana when I was eight years old. I was fortunate enough to have a creek just down the street where I spent hours exploring and a large field behind our house where I perfected my tree climbing.
President Dwight D. Eisenhower had signed the Interstate Highway System a few years earlier, and as a result, I witnessed the building of Interstate 64 and the Sherman Minton Bridge which connected New Albany to the west side of Louisville, Kentucky. This happened over a three-year period, and during that time, I watched as trees were knocked down, streams dammed, and plants of all kinds eradicated and covered over with concrete. This had a profound impact on me and changed how I look at surrounding landscapes. It has caused me to become more observant of natural elements passing away, and I hope it has made me more sensitive to the effect these losses have on all of us, both from an aesthetic as well as a historical viewpoint. Growing up, I also witnessed the effects of urban renewal and saw families displaced. I had friends who had to move away because their low-income housing was being bulldozed for a parking lot, an overpass, or other so-called modernizations.
My husband, Hugh, and I first came to New Harmony on our honeymoon in 1990. We loved it so much that we kept coming back. In 1997, we began the seven-year renovation of our 1895 cottage on Church Street (SR 66), moving here full-time in 2004.
For me, the best way to connect with a landscape is to walk it—just as I did as a child in Floyd County, where I roamed neighborhoods divided by small creeks and open fields. I feel very fortunate to live in New Harmony, which is a walker’s paradise with its many woodland trails that lead to the Wabash River and its public gardens and open fields. During the past twelve years, I’ve been witness to the disappearance of old barns and silos, and far too many landmark trees—sometimes by natural causes, other times by the not-so-natural hand of man.
When the Harmonist Society, a group of Separatists from the German Lutheran Church first settled New Harmony in 1814, it was considered the western frontier of Indiana. Two hundred years later, it still has the feel of a town perched on the edge—a place where visions and dreams can still come true. New Harmony is a town where, as Emily Dickinson would say, one can “dwell in possibility.” That’s the connection I feel with New Harmony and why I love calling it home. The plants and trees also keep me here—the peonies and golden rain trees and the naturalized petunias that somehow keep coming back year after year to bloom in private gardens.
When did you first start writing poetry?
I first started writing poetry in the sixties, while in high school. Like a lot of teenagers of that era, my poetry was full of angst. The Vietnam War, protest songs, and assassinations influenced my early poems. I admit to drafting them while wearing rose-colored glasses.
It wasn’t until 2004, when I moved to New Harmony, that I started seriously writing poetry. Two years later, I started sending my poems to small-press journals with hopes of publishing them.
What does poetry mean to you—narrowed down to a few statements?
--Poetry is necessary.
--Sometimes it’s a way to reach people who might not otherwise have consciously chosen to go to the place where you’ve taken them in the poem.
--Poetry, good poetry, always has an element of surprise.
--Poetry is the difference between existing and living.
--I cannot imagine a world without poetry.
Who are some of your favorite poets?
Just off the top of my head . . . Rumi, Rilke, Neruda. Also, Ruth Stone, Deborah Digges, Marie Howe, Jane Hirshfield, Dorianne Laux, and Nikky Finney. Most recently, Ross Gay for his book, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude—I admire his ability to integrate his love of gardening with his poetry.
Do you have a few all-time favorite poems? What do you admire most about them?
That’s a tough one to narrow down. I’ll go with these four:
“The Blessing” by Charles Wright (for its message of transcendence and that glorious ending: “Suddenly I realize. That if I stepped out of my body. I would break into blossom.”).
“After Twelve Days of Rain” by Dorianne Laux (for its imagery and ability to connect to universal truths).
“When My Brother Was an Aztec,” Natalie Diaz (for her skill in expressing the horrific in a such beautiful way).
“Little Sleep’s Head Sprouting Hair in the Moonlight” by Galway Kinnell (for its richness of language and music).
I love your poem “The Blacksmith” for its music and imagery and sense of surprise. Maurice Manning who awarded it the James Baker Hall Memorial Prize compares it to “Felix Randall” by Gerard Manley Hopkins and says, “. . . it reminds us to look for tenderness where we might not expect it.” Could you talk a bit about this poem—including what inspired it?
“The Blacksmith” is dedicated to my great-grandfather, Martin Pharris, who if still alive today, would be 132 years old. Although I did not spend a lot of time with him, I do vividly remember his blacksmith shop in Spring Lick, Kentucky. His wife, my great-grandmother, Muldia Pharris, was a sweet little woman who, for as long as I can remember, wore her hair in a bun. The two of them were a sharp contrast: she, petite and soft—he, tall and lanky, with a sharp, angular face and large hands. After starting the poem, I remembered my grandmother (Martin and Muldia’s daughter) telling me that if I wanted shiny hair, I should brush it one hundred strokes each night; and how, when she was a young girl, she could remember her father brushing her mother’s waist-length hair at night. There’s something hypnotic about the act of brushing long hair, and as I stayed in that place, the images in the poem floated to the surface: water falling from a sun-struck cliff—rose petals floating in a rain barrel—a sparrow (the brush) singing in the palm of his hand.
The photos you’ve sent me for this page are stunning. Why are you drawn to photography?
I think there are correlations between taking photographs and writing poetry. I just finished reading Thomas Merton’s, When the Trees Say Nothing, edited by Kathleen Deignan (Sorin Books, 2003). In Chapter 7, “Presences,” Merton writes:
“ . . . the camera does not know what it takes: it captures materials with which you reconstruct not so much what you saw as what you thought you saw. Hence the best photography is aware, mindful of illusion and uses illusion, permitting and encouraging it—especially unconscious and powerful illusions that are not normally admitted in the scene.”
The same can be said about writing poetry.
What type of poetry collection are you currently working on?
The heavy stuff: birth/death.
Do you have any advice for beginning poets?
Most of this has been said before, but . . . I would say . . . read more than you write. Subscribe to poetry journals. Join a writer’s group. When editing, read your work out loud. Make every word count. Cut. Cut. Cut. Don’t underestimate the power of line breaks. Make room for empty spaces within your poems (acknowledge how the poem breathes). Believe in your poems. If you don’t believe in them, no one else will.
What's your favorite place in Posey County?
That would have to be the trails in New Harmony that lead to the Wabash River. They wind through woodlands and alongside fields. The scenery is always changing because of the immense sky overhead, and the light changes according to the season. I never know what wildlife I’ll see. It could be deer, dragonflies and damselflies, turtles, snakes, water birds, and eagles. Even those times I don’t see wildlife, I know they’ve been there because of their tracks: egrets, raccoons, and even, once, the tracks of a bobcat. There’s also a multitude of plants that bloom—such as ironweed, morning glories, smartweed, chicory—and lots of butterflies. The trails, winding through woodlands and fields, are especially magical at dusk on summer evenings when the lightning bugs are out in mass.
"New Harmony is a town where, as Emily Dickinson would say, one can 'dwell in possibility.'” |
|
Front Row, left to right: Doris B. Myers (Wheatfield), Pat Kopanda (DeMotte), Dale Ferestad (Lake Village), Jackie Huppenthal (Dyer), John Groppe (Rensselaer) Back Row: Pam Hueser (Rensselaer), Mick Fiala (Rensselaer), Shannon Anderson (Rensselaer), C Lee Tressel (Rensselaer), Judith Lachance-Whitcomb (Schererville), Wallace Gazaway (Brook), Connie Kingman (Rensselaer), Mont Handley (Crown Point), Chris Lasara (Wheatfield)
May 2016
Prairie Writers Guild:
Nurturing a Community of Writers Passionate About Place
I learned about the Prairie Writers' Guild last December at the release party for Mapping the Muse: A Bicentennial Look at Indiana Poetry. I helped to read aloud its collaborative poem, "Prairie," a collection of quatrains celebrating the plants and animals of northwestern Indiana.
I met John Groppe, a member of the Prairie Guild, at that reading, and he gave me a copy of the newly-released From the Edge of the Prairie (2015), the Guild's annual anthology. The book was lovely, and I knew from John's enthusiasm that The Prairie Writers' Guild is an amazing group of people, deeply connected to each other and their landscape.
Many of the Guild's most-active members were not able to be present for the photograph: George Kalamaras (Fort Wayne), Norbert Krapf (Indianapolis), J. Patrick Lewis (Ohio), Jared Carter (Indianapolis), Sally Nalbor (Crown Point), Ed Habrowski (Fair Oaks), Beverley Topa (Crown Point), Judy Kanne (Rensselaer), James Kenny (Indianapolis), Deborah Taylor Josway (Hammond), Mary Bess Hayward (Rensselaer), Diane DeBok (Iowa), Mary Ann Cain (Fort Wayne), and Henry Ahrens (Ohio).
Prairie Writers Guild:
Nurturing a Community of Writers Passionate About Place
I learned about the Prairie Writers' Guild last December at the release party for Mapping the Muse: A Bicentennial Look at Indiana Poetry. I helped to read aloud its collaborative poem, "Prairie," a collection of quatrains celebrating the plants and animals of northwestern Indiana.
I met John Groppe, a member of the Prairie Guild, at that reading, and he gave me a copy of the newly-released From the Edge of the Prairie (2015), the Guild's annual anthology. The book was lovely, and I knew from John's enthusiasm that The Prairie Writers' Guild is an amazing group of people, deeply connected to each other and their landscape.
Many of the Guild's most-active members were not able to be present for the photograph: George Kalamaras (Fort Wayne), Norbert Krapf (Indianapolis), J. Patrick Lewis (Ohio), Jared Carter (Indianapolis), Sally Nalbor (Crown Point), Ed Habrowski (Fair Oaks), Beverley Topa (Crown Point), Judy Kanne (Rensselaer), James Kenny (Indianapolis), Deborah Taylor Josway (Hammond), Mary Bess Hayward (Rensselaer), Diane DeBok (Iowa), Mary Ann Cain (Fort Wayne), and Henry Ahrens (Ohio).
Jasper County is the third largest county in the state and the leading agricultural county. Photo by John Groppe
John Groppe (Rensselaer, Indiana)
Spring Plowing
The snow gone,
Glinting discs open the earth
To the sun and grackles.
Being part of the Prairie Writers Guild has meant abiding friendships that have led to our celebrating births of babies as well as the deaths of dear friends. We call ourselves a guild of writers and thereby feel an obligation to one another to produce the best annual book that we can. Toward that end we encourage, support, and challenge each other to develop our own writing so that the guild as a whole will be distinguished by each book we produce. In short, the Prairie Writers is a dedication grounded in friendship.
Spring Plowing
The snow gone,
Glinting discs open the earth
To the sun and grackles.
Being part of the Prairie Writers Guild has meant abiding friendships that have led to our celebrating births of babies as well as the deaths of dear friends. We call ourselves a guild of writers and thereby feel an obligation to one another to produce the best annual book that we can. Toward that end we encourage, support, and challenge each other to develop our own writing so that the guild as a whole will be distinguished by each book we produce. In short, the Prairie Writers is a dedication grounded in friendship.
John Groppe took this photo one winter morning along the Iroquois River.
Jackie Huppenthal (Dyer, Indiana)
quietly encased
spring locked in icy embrace
beauty clenched in cold
Prairie Writers means support and encouragement. The writers, poets, editors, and artists are friendly and inspirational.
Mary Bess Hayward (Rensselaer, Indiana)
Thanks to this group, I've been able to start co-originating all the 210 Beatitudes' Discipleship Lessons that I've written, compiled, taught, and continue to edit! Thank goodness they know what comes where in this "writing territory." I am so glad for their wisdom.
quietly encased
spring locked in icy embrace
beauty clenched in cold
Prairie Writers means support and encouragement. The writers, poets, editors, and artists are friendly and inspirational.
Mary Bess Hayward (Rensselaer, Indiana)
Thanks to this group, I've been able to start co-originating all the 210 Beatitudes' Discipleship Lessons that I've written, compiled, taught, and continue to edit! Thank goodness they know what comes where in this "writing territory." I am so glad for their wisdom.
Photo by Connie Kingman
Connie Kingman (Rensselaer, Indiana)
arising at dawn
the scent of last night's campfire
lingers in my hair
The Prairie Writers Guild is a fulfillment of a vision. I knew there must be writers in this rural area of Indiana. I just knew it. And it turned out there were. All I had to do was hang an invitational poster on the library bulletin board, and they arrived. My heart overflows with warmth when I see how this network of writers has come to care not only about each other's writing, but also about each other personally.
Beverly Topa (Crown Point, Indiana)
. . . In addition to the opportunity to network with other writers . . . , being a member has also offered me the benefit of receiving publishing information and sharing in the joy of others' successes, as well as commiserating with them over the ups and downs of the writing profession. Another plus is the inspiration and support that has come from being around folks who share the same passion for writing that I do. Beyond that, the most valuable gift has been the expansion of my circle of friends, because I have, indeed, come
to look upon the members of the Prairie Writers Guild as treasured friends.
arising at dawn
the scent of last night's campfire
lingers in my hair
The Prairie Writers Guild is a fulfillment of a vision. I knew there must be writers in this rural area of Indiana. I just knew it. And it turned out there were. All I had to do was hang an invitational poster on the library bulletin board, and they arrived. My heart overflows with warmth when I see how this network of writers has come to care not only about each other's writing, but also about each other personally.
Beverly Topa (Crown Point, Indiana)
. . . In addition to the opportunity to network with other writers . . . , being a member has also offered me the benefit of receiving publishing information and sharing in the joy of others' successes, as well as commiserating with them over the ups and downs of the writing profession. Another plus is the inspiration and support that has come from being around folks who share the same passion for writing that I do. Beyond that, the most valuable gift has been the expansion of my circle of friends, because I have, indeed, come
to look upon the members of the Prairie Writers Guild as treasured friends.
A view from John Groppe's yard in Renseelaer
J. Patrick Lewis (Westerville, Ohio)
ants on a berry--
the silver-blue universe
crumbling overhead
I'm a Johnnie-Come-Lately to the fecund world of Prairie
Writers. A graduate of St. Joseph's College (1964), I did not
discover poetry until the hoary age of forty, and I never
looked back. After a wonderful return to the College as the
U.S. Children's Poet Laureate (2011-2013), I was invited to
contribute to the Journal. And the editors have been
extremely kind to include my poems in the subsequent
issues. From the Edge of the Prairie houses a vibrant
community of Midwestern poets who are passionate about
poetry of place. I'm delighted to count myself among them.
ants on a berry--
the silver-blue universe
crumbling overhead
I'm a Johnnie-Come-Lately to the fecund world of Prairie
Writers. A graduate of St. Joseph's College (1964), I did not
discover poetry until the hoary age of forty, and I never
looked back. After a wonderful return to the College as the
U.S. Children's Poet Laureate (2011-2013), I was invited to
contribute to the Journal. And the editors have been
extremely kind to include my poems in the subsequent
issues. From the Edge of the Prairie houses a vibrant
community of Midwestern poets who are passionate about
poetry of place. I'm delighted to count myself among them.
Photo by Connie Kingman
Norbert Krapf (Indianapolis, Indiana)
Consistency
Not a single raindrop
falls in the wrong
place anywhere.
Anyone who has written and tried to publish literature, especially poetry, knows how important it is to have the support of a writing community, in a culture which doesn't much value poetry. I was invited to join early on, though I live in Indianapolis but went to St. Joseph College in Rensselaer in the early 1960s. I was delighted to see the Prairie Writers organize and begin to publish the annual At the Edge of the Prairie and have been glad to take an ongoing part in its vital life by having my poems appear in that publication's pages regularly.
Lou Wilkinson
Mepps spinner flashing
giant pike looking for new bling
I nail'd that bad boy
Consistency
Not a single raindrop
falls in the wrong
place anywhere.
Anyone who has written and tried to publish literature, especially poetry, knows how important it is to have the support of a writing community, in a culture which doesn't much value poetry. I was invited to join early on, though I live in Indianapolis but went to St. Joseph College in Rensselaer in the early 1960s. I was delighted to see the Prairie Writers organize and begin to publish the annual At the Edge of the Prairie and have been glad to take an ongoing part in its vital life by having my poems appear in that publication's pages regularly.
Lou Wilkinson
Mepps spinner flashing
giant pike looking for new bling
I nail'd that bad boy
Photo of ash bark by Connie Kingman
Shannon Anderson (Rensselaer, Indiana)
fresh falling snowflakes
blanket once brown bark branches
beautiful contrast
I look forward to each monthly meeting, as a chance to bond with others who are in love
with words as much as I am. Support abounds and I have made many friends through our
fellowship together.
Mont Handley (Crown Point, Indiana)
ditch lilies explode
painting roadside with starburst
transient glory
fresh falling snowflakes
blanket once brown bark branches
beautiful contrast
I look forward to each monthly meeting, as a chance to bond with others who are in love
with words as much as I am. Support abounds and I have made many friends through our
fellowship together.
Mont Handley (Crown Point, Indiana)
ditch lilies explode
painting roadside with starburst
transient glory
Photo of a moon flower by John Groppe
Judith Lachance-Whitcomb (Schererville, Indiana)
soft wind fingers flow--
a soul weary now caressed
seizes daydream's Spring
As a relative newcomer to Prairie Writers Guild, I was drawn into this circle
of writers immediately. Many of the people were longtime members,
but they welcomed me in a way that made me feel I had been there all along.
They eagerly shared their talent, comments, and joy of writing. Even though
I am able to attend only a few meetings a year, I always find the same sense
of 'belonging' when I do go. They truly are a legacy of joy to the Indiana writing
community.
soft wind fingers flow--
a soul weary now caressed
seizes daydream's Spring
As a relative newcomer to Prairie Writers Guild, I was drawn into this circle
of writers immediately. Many of the people were longtime members,
but they welcomed me in a way that made me feel I had been there all along.
They eagerly shared their talent, comments, and joy of writing. Even though
I am able to attend only a few meetings a year, I always find the same sense
of 'belonging' when I do go. They truly are a legacy of joy to the Indiana writing
community.
Photograph by John Groppe
Pat Kopanda (DeMotte, Indiana)
In pond fog mist
a ghostly statue on a stump
the egret
I have not missed one meeting, such is the joy of this group. The writers are my muse. Their support has allowed me to write and self-publish four books.
Carlee Alson
I joined the Prairie Writers Guild in the fall of 2013. I
was a newlywed and new in town, and the group gave
me familiarity and support while I settled into my brand
new life. I'd been part of vibrant writing communities in
northeast Ohio, Chicago, and Minneapolis/St. Paul, and
so it was a great comfort to find other writers doing the
essential work of creating. I continue to be deeply inspired
by my fellow Guild members. Each writer is living a
remarkable life.
In pond fog mist
a ghostly statue on a stump
the egret
I have not missed one meeting, such is the joy of this group. The writers are my muse. Their support has allowed me to write and self-publish four books.
Carlee Alson
I joined the Prairie Writers Guild in the fall of 2013. I
was a newlywed and new in town, and the group gave
me familiarity and support while I settled into my brand
new life. I'd been part of vibrant writing communities in
northeast Ohio, Chicago, and Minneapolis/St. Paul, and
so it was a great comfort to find other writers doing the
essential work of creating. I continue to be deeply inspired
by my fellow Guild members. Each writer is living a
remarkable life.
I took this photo of wild sunflowers at the restored prairie at Prophetstown State Park.
Why the title "From the Edge of the Prairie"?
By Connie Kingman
The early French explorers, upon reaching the southern border of Lake Michigan, saw before them an expanse of unforested grassland. Further exploration revealed this native landscape reached west to the Rockies, south into Texas, and north to the Northern border of the United States. The French had no word to define this new landscape; however, their word for meadow best suited it, and so called it "prairie."
The area around Jasper County, Indiana, lies on the most eastern boundary of the prairie, a jutting finger that stretches the prairie into northwest Indiana.
Prairie is a beautiful sounding word, a word that evokes large, open spaces, adventure, the spirit of freedom and dreams. While being at the edge suggests being at the end of something, it also focuses attention to the beginning of another thing, demanding a new perception. The edge, that awesome place where ideas materialize, dreams evolve, and hope resides, is the inspiration of this collection.
Just before the turn of the recent century, our native prairie regained the interest of gardeners, naturalists, and conservationists. Through their efforts remnants of the prairie have been saved, restored, and reintroduced into our country's landscape. What a loss it would have been if the beauty of the prairie with its grasses, wildflowers, and wildlife quietly disappeared without anyone taking notice. The Prairie Writers' Guild, also, is taking notice, lest we forget, by recording life here at the edge of the prairie.
By Connie Kingman
The early French explorers, upon reaching the southern border of Lake Michigan, saw before them an expanse of unforested grassland. Further exploration revealed this native landscape reached west to the Rockies, south into Texas, and north to the Northern border of the United States. The French had no word to define this new landscape; however, their word for meadow best suited it, and so called it "prairie."
The area around Jasper County, Indiana, lies on the most eastern boundary of the prairie, a jutting finger that stretches the prairie into northwest Indiana.
Prairie is a beautiful sounding word, a word that evokes large, open spaces, adventure, the spirit of freedom and dreams. While being at the edge suggests being at the end of something, it also focuses attention to the beginning of another thing, demanding a new perception. The edge, that awesome place where ideas materialize, dreams evolve, and hope resides, is the inspiration of this collection.
Just before the turn of the recent century, our native prairie regained the interest of gardeners, naturalists, and conservationists. Through their efforts remnants of the prairie have been saved, restored, and reintroduced into our country's landscape. What a loss it would have been if the beauty of the prairie with its grasses, wildflowers, and wildlife quietly disappeared without anyone taking notice. The Prairie Writers' Guild, also, is taking notice, lest we forget, by recording life here at the edge of the prairie.
An Interview with Connie Kingman
Connie Kingman is founder and director of the Prairie Writers Guild and serves as managing editor of their anthology From the Edge of the Prairie. She is a freelance garden writer and member of the Garden Writers Association and Indiana State Federation of Poetry Clubs. She is co-author of August, a chapbook collection of haiku, written between two friends during the month of August.
Shari Wagner: Connie, as founder of the Prairie Writers Guild, what was your impetus for starting this group and how did you go about getting it started?
Connie Kingman: I attended the Midwest Writers Workshop (Muncie, Indiana) in 2003 and left bursting with inspiration. On the long drive home, I began wondering how many other writers might be living in the Rensselaer area and unable to attend workshops because of the travel time required and the registration and lodging costs. Would they be served by the creation of a local writers’ network? To find out, I publicized a call out of interested writers to meet on January 29, 2004, at the local library. Approximately 18 writers attended or expressed interest in the initial meeting. The consensus of those present was to form a writers group and adopt the name “Prairie Writers Guild.”
Eighteen is a great response. How did you go about publicizing that initial meeting at the library? A lot of people have told me they'd like to start a writing group but don't know where to begin.
It was such a simple process. I created a flyer on my computer with large letters announcing the formation of a local writers group. I kept the body of the flyer simple, adding only the time, date, and place, and included my phone number for those unable to attend the initial meeting. In addition, I sent this information to our local newspaper for inclusion in its daily calendar of events. This technique should work at any place where writers might hang out: coffee shops, small cafes, etc.
What do you do at a typical meeting?
The Guild meets on the first Wednesday of the month at local eateries in and around the Rensselaer area. The six o'clock, come-as-you-are meetings are informal affairs that adapt to the needs of the writers. On occasion speakers are invited for inspiration or to offer writing exercises and tips. The only constant is the reserved time for those attending to read their work for feedback and critique. Most often this is the entire purpose of meetings. Business items that are conducted are updates on the publication of our annual anthology, From the Edge of the Prairie, and reading, submission, and publication opportunities currently available to the Guild and its members. The November meeting is set aside for celebration for this is the time that the current edition of From the Edge of the Prairie is "hot off the press"—a time for toasting and autographing!
I have a copy of last year's anthology. It's a beautiful book! How did your group come up with the idea to create an anthology? And could you also say a bit about the collaboration between poets and visual artists in these books?
The difficulty of "getting published" was discussed at the first meeting, and the decision was made to attempt the process ourselves. Without a clue as how to accomplish this task, we forged ahead. Rensselaer is fortunate to have a printer with the capability to publish perfect bound books, and one that was willing to work with us. Rensselaer Printco gave us freedom to create the book we wanted without having to adhere to the rules and limitations of a self-publishing company. Fellow member John Groppe, with his years of experience as an English college professor, volunteered to co-edit our publication with me, and with the help of a few other volunteer readers, we began. Within nine months, we had our first publication.
John and I are both photographers. Between the two of us, we snapped a few photos that related to some of the stories and inserted them at points to break up the text. Along the way, other members began to submit their photographs and artwork. The covers of the Edge have all been graced by the work of local artists. A few years ago, we held a meeting at the Lillian Fendig Gallery (Rensselaer), to view the artwork of the Jasper County Art League as inspiration for writing. The exercise was so successful that we asked the artists if we could publish their artwork to accompany our writing. The artists agreed, and now this collaborative exercise has become a permanent feature within our book.
The first year of publication, St. Joseph's College (Rensselaer) student Natalie Lapacek volunteered to help with layout. The college had the software, and Natalie knew how to use it. The second year, we hired Beth Bassett (Brook), a professional in this line of work, and she has remained with us, giving our publication the polish we had been seeking. Working with local writers, artists, professionals, and those with ties to this area of Indiana has instilled in our publication a unique sense of character and place that truly represents the Prairie Writers Guild.
Your group includes old and young. How does this diversity of ages affect the Prairie Writers Guild?
The varying ages of our members create a sense of family. If we express a generation as 25 years, then our membership spans four generations. And each member, no matter the generation, brings a unique voice to the genre(s) through which they write. If space allowed, I would name each one and sing their praises.
How important is the group’s connection to the landscape of northwestern Indiana?
I think the answer to this question can be found in our body of work. Hardly a story or poem can be found within the Edge that is not inspired in some way by this landscape. Whether corn-rowed and vibrant in summer or snow-laden and bleak in winter, this vast once-prairie landscape indelibly pens its own stories on our psyches. In our most recent volume, two-thirds of the work is in some way connected to the landscape, whether it serves as a supporting element or as the main character.
What’s the most important advice you have for a writers group that wants to sustain itself over the years?
To maintain a larger group of writers, there must be found in at least one individual the vision and desire to ensure the longevity of the group. Then, along the way, it is crucial for members to nurture each other as they strive to become better writers. This not only encourages each writer to improve, but it also creates a bond among the members. Finally, plan for the future. Continually welcome new members; inspire them, for within their ranks will be found the next individual(s) that will take the group forward.
Do you have a favorite memory from one of your meetings?
The Guild’s first publication celebration in November of 2004 ranks among the best. It seems that everyone attended that night. We gathered at a local pub. The tables and chairs were arranged so that we could all sit together, so anxious to see ourselves in print. It was magical!
Is there anything you’d like to add?
The Prairie Writers Guild is thankful for the continued support of our past Indiana Poet Laureates--Joyce Brinkman; Norbert Krapf; Karen Kovacik; George Kalamaras--of U.S. Children's Poet Laureate, 2011-13, J. Patrick Lewis; and distinguished poets Jared Carter and Philip F. Deaver. They have generously allowed us to publish their work alongside ours, demonstrating their encouragement for our homegrown enterprise. And on behalf of the Prairie Writers Guild, Shari, we thank you for taking notice of our Guild and spotlighting our endeavors.
Connie Kingman is founder and director of the Prairie Writers Guild and serves as managing editor of their anthology From the Edge of the Prairie. She is a freelance garden writer and member of the Garden Writers Association and Indiana State Federation of Poetry Clubs. She is co-author of August, a chapbook collection of haiku, written between two friends during the month of August.
Shari Wagner: Connie, as founder of the Prairie Writers Guild, what was your impetus for starting this group and how did you go about getting it started?
Connie Kingman: I attended the Midwest Writers Workshop (Muncie, Indiana) in 2003 and left bursting with inspiration. On the long drive home, I began wondering how many other writers might be living in the Rensselaer area and unable to attend workshops because of the travel time required and the registration and lodging costs. Would they be served by the creation of a local writers’ network? To find out, I publicized a call out of interested writers to meet on January 29, 2004, at the local library. Approximately 18 writers attended or expressed interest in the initial meeting. The consensus of those present was to form a writers group and adopt the name “Prairie Writers Guild.”
Eighteen is a great response. How did you go about publicizing that initial meeting at the library? A lot of people have told me they'd like to start a writing group but don't know where to begin.
It was such a simple process. I created a flyer on my computer with large letters announcing the formation of a local writers group. I kept the body of the flyer simple, adding only the time, date, and place, and included my phone number for those unable to attend the initial meeting. In addition, I sent this information to our local newspaper for inclusion in its daily calendar of events. This technique should work at any place where writers might hang out: coffee shops, small cafes, etc.
What do you do at a typical meeting?
The Guild meets on the first Wednesday of the month at local eateries in and around the Rensselaer area. The six o'clock, come-as-you-are meetings are informal affairs that adapt to the needs of the writers. On occasion speakers are invited for inspiration or to offer writing exercises and tips. The only constant is the reserved time for those attending to read their work for feedback and critique. Most often this is the entire purpose of meetings. Business items that are conducted are updates on the publication of our annual anthology, From the Edge of the Prairie, and reading, submission, and publication opportunities currently available to the Guild and its members. The November meeting is set aside for celebration for this is the time that the current edition of From the Edge of the Prairie is "hot off the press"—a time for toasting and autographing!
I have a copy of last year's anthology. It's a beautiful book! How did your group come up with the idea to create an anthology? And could you also say a bit about the collaboration between poets and visual artists in these books?
The difficulty of "getting published" was discussed at the first meeting, and the decision was made to attempt the process ourselves. Without a clue as how to accomplish this task, we forged ahead. Rensselaer is fortunate to have a printer with the capability to publish perfect bound books, and one that was willing to work with us. Rensselaer Printco gave us freedom to create the book we wanted without having to adhere to the rules and limitations of a self-publishing company. Fellow member John Groppe, with his years of experience as an English college professor, volunteered to co-edit our publication with me, and with the help of a few other volunteer readers, we began. Within nine months, we had our first publication.
John and I are both photographers. Between the two of us, we snapped a few photos that related to some of the stories and inserted them at points to break up the text. Along the way, other members began to submit their photographs and artwork. The covers of the Edge have all been graced by the work of local artists. A few years ago, we held a meeting at the Lillian Fendig Gallery (Rensselaer), to view the artwork of the Jasper County Art League as inspiration for writing. The exercise was so successful that we asked the artists if we could publish their artwork to accompany our writing. The artists agreed, and now this collaborative exercise has become a permanent feature within our book.
The first year of publication, St. Joseph's College (Rensselaer) student Natalie Lapacek volunteered to help with layout. The college had the software, and Natalie knew how to use it. The second year, we hired Beth Bassett (Brook), a professional in this line of work, and she has remained with us, giving our publication the polish we had been seeking. Working with local writers, artists, professionals, and those with ties to this area of Indiana has instilled in our publication a unique sense of character and place that truly represents the Prairie Writers Guild.
Your group includes old and young. How does this diversity of ages affect the Prairie Writers Guild?
The varying ages of our members create a sense of family. If we express a generation as 25 years, then our membership spans four generations. And each member, no matter the generation, brings a unique voice to the genre(s) through which they write. If space allowed, I would name each one and sing their praises.
How important is the group’s connection to the landscape of northwestern Indiana?
I think the answer to this question can be found in our body of work. Hardly a story or poem can be found within the Edge that is not inspired in some way by this landscape. Whether corn-rowed and vibrant in summer or snow-laden and bleak in winter, this vast once-prairie landscape indelibly pens its own stories on our psyches. In our most recent volume, two-thirds of the work is in some way connected to the landscape, whether it serves as a supporting element or as the main character.
What’s the most important advice you have for a writers group that wants to sustain itself over the years?
To maintain a larger group of writers, there must be found in at least one individual the vision and desire to ensure the longevity of the group. Then, along the way, it is crucial for members to nurture each other as they strive to become better writers. This not only encourages each writer to improve, but it also creates a bond among the members. Finally, plan for the future. Continually welcome new members; inspire them, for within their ranks will be found the next individual(s) that will take the group forward.
Do you have a favorite memory from one of your meetings?
The Guild’s first publication celebration in November of 2004 ranks among the best. It seems that everyone attended that night. We gathered at a local pub. The tables and chairs were arranged so that we could all sit together, so anxious to see ourselves in print. It was magical!
Is there anything you’d like to add?
The Prairie Writers Guild is thankful for the continued support of our past Indiana Poet Laureates--Joyce Brinkman; Norbert Krapf; Karen Kovacik; George Kalamaras--of U.S. Children's Poet Laureate, 2011-13, J. Patrick Lewis; and distinguished poets Jared Carter and Philip F. Deaver. They have generously allowed us to publish their work alongside ours, demonstrating their encouragement for our homegrown enterprise. And on behalf of the Prairie Writers Guild, Shari, we thank you for taking notice of our Guild and spotlighting our endeavors.
Photos by John Groppe: a barbershop once on Rensselaer's town square (above); St. Joseph's College; Jerry and Wendy Hughes' barn.
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"If we express a generation as 25 years, then our membership spans four generations." ". . . This vast once-prairie landscape indelibly pens its own stories on our psyches." |
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April 2016
Following the Brush: The Poetry of David Shumate
David Shumate is the author of Kimonos in the Closet (2013), The Floating Bridge (2008) and High Water Mark (2004), winner of the 2003 Agnes Lynch Starrett Poetry Prize. His poetry has appeared widely in literary journals and has been anthologized in Good Poems for Hard Times, The Best American Poetry, and The Writer’s Almanac as well as in numerous other anthologies and university texts. David is poet-in-residence at Marian University and a lecturer in Butler University’s MFA program. He lives in Zionsville, Indiana.
Pictured above is a cabin in Kagawong, Northern Ontario, that has been in Carol Shumate's family for a hundred years. For part of the summer, the Shumate's use it as as retreat--Carol, for her art and David, for his writing.
Following the Brush: The Poetry of David Shumate
David Shumate is the author of Kimonos in the Closet (2013), The Floating Bridge (2008) and High Water Mark (2004), winner of the 2003 Agnes Lynch Starrett Poetry Prize. His poetry has appeared widely in literary journals and has been anthologized in Good Poems for Hard Times, The Best American Poetry, and The Writer’s Almanac as well as in numerous other anthologies and university texts. David is poet-in-residence at Marian University and a lecturer in Butler University’s MFA program. He lives in Zionsville, Indiana.
Pictured above is a cabin in Kagawong, Northern Ontario, that has been in Carol Shumate's family for a hundred years. For part of the summer, the Shumate's use it as as retreat--Carol, for her art and David, for his writing.
Artwork by Carol Shumate
When she was younger, my aunt, a farm wife in northern Indiana, used to go on what
were called "Mystery Trips." She would board a bus with strangers, no one knowing
the destination until they arrived. She and the other pilgrims might end up at the
Kentucky Derby or the doorstep of the World's Largest Egg. Similarly, each of David
Shumate's beautifully-crafted prose poems is a kind of Mystery Trip. Expect some
sharp, surreal turns along the way, but the poems will never throw the reader from the
bus. At the end of each journey, we find ourselves where we never expected to be--
looking at the world from some odd, new, remarkable angle, a perspective in which
the ordinary and mythic somehow coalesce.
From High Water Mark by David Shumate
Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004
Used with Permission
What Hemingway Learned from Cézanne
You must build a sentence like a mountain. You must start
someplace flat. Someplace where you can stand and see the
land roll out for miles. You must let the wind die down. The
rain clear. Then you may bring them, one block at a time. You
must pile them upon one another and lean each new one
closer to the center so that it will hold as it rises toward the
sky. Each piece must be inevitable. Like a scripture you cannot
erase. You must use the colors of the earth. Colors with a
sense of gravity. Colors that over time dig roots of their own
and feed off the rest. You must leave places for animals. Caves
and gullies. Tall stands of pines. Streams that begin as snow
and melt and gather and gush and fall quiet on the flats where
trout live their secret lives. If there must be people in this
landscape, let their lives be the troubled lives of good people
who would like to follow these mountain paths back up to the
top but cannot find the way.
Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004
Used with Permission
What Hemingway Learned from Cézanne
You must build a sentence like a mountain. You must start
someplace flat. Someplace where you can stand and see the
land roll out for miles. You must let the wind die down. The
rain clear. Then you may bring them, one block at a time. You
must pile them upon one another and lean each new one
closer to the center so that it will hold as it rises toward the
sky. Each piece must be inevitable. Like a scripture you cannot
erase. You must use the colors of the earth. Colors with a
sense of gravity. Colors that over time dig roots of their own
and feed off the rest. You must leave places for animals. Caves
and gullies. Tall stands of pines. Streams that begin as snow
and melt and gather and gush and fall quiet on the flats where
trout live their secret lives. If there must be people in this
landscape, let their lives be the troubled lives of good people
who would like to follow these mountain paths back up to the
top but cannot find the way.
Artwork by Carol Shumate
Custer
He is a hard one to write a poem about. Like Napoleon.
Hannibal. Genghis Khan. Already so large in history. To do it
right, I have to sit down with him. At a place of his own
choosing. Probably a steakhouse. We take a table in a corner.
But people still recognize him, come up and slap him on the
back, say how much they enjoyed studying about him in school
and ask for his autograph. After he eats, he leans back and
lights up a cigar and asks me what I want to know. Notebook in
hand, I suggest that we start with the Little Big Horn and work
our way back. But I realize that I have offended him. That he
would rather take it the other way around. So he rants on
about the Civil War, the way west, the loyalty of good soldiers
and now and then twists his long yellow hair with his fingers.
But when he gets to the part about Sitting Bull, about Crazy
Horse, he develops a twitch above his right eye, raises his
finger for the waiter, excuses himself and goes to the restroom
while I sit there along the bluffs with the entire Sioux nation,
awaiting his return.
He is a hard one to write a poem about. Like Napoleon.
Hannibal. Genghis Khan. Already so large in history. To do it
right, I have to sit down with him. At a place of his own
choosing. Probably a steakhouse. We take a table in a corner.
But people still recognize him, come up and slap him on the
back, say how much they enjoyed studying about him in school
and ask for his autograph. After he eats, he leans back and
lights up a cigar and asks me what I want to know. Notebook in
hand, I suggest that we start with the Little Big Horn and work
our way back. But I realize that I have offended him. That he
would rather take it the other way around. So he rants on
about the Civil War, the way west, the loyalty of good soldiers
and now and then twists his long yellow hair with his fingers.
But when he gets to the part about Sitting Bull, about Crazy
Horse, he develops a twitch above his right eye, raises his
finger for the waiter, excuses himself and goes to the restroom
while I sit there along the bluffs with the entire Sioux nation,
awaiting his return.
From The Floating Bridge by David Shumate
Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, 2008
Used with Permission
Chinese Restaurant
After an argument, my family always dined at the Chinese
restaurant. Something about the Orient washed the bitterness
away. Like a riverbank where you rest for awhile. The owner
bowed as we entered. The face of one who had seen too much.
A revolution. The torture of loved ones. Horrors he would never
reveal. His wife ushered us to our table. Her steps smaller than
ours. The younger daughter brought us tea. The older one took
our orders in perfect English. Each year her beauty was more
delicate than before. Sometimes we were the only customers
and they smiled from afar as we ate duck and shrimp with our
chopsticks. After dinner we sat in the comfort of their silence.
My brother told a joke. My mother folded a napkin into the shape
of a bird. My sister broke open our cookies and read our fortunes
aloud. As we left, my father always shook the old man's hand.
Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, 2008
Used with Permission
Chinese Restaurant
After an argument, my family always dined at the Chinese
restaurant. Something about the Orient washed the bitterness
away. Like a riverbank where you rest for awhile. The owner
bowed as we entered. The face of one who had seen too much.
A revolution. The torture of loved ones. Horrors he would never
reveal. His wife ushered us to our table. Her steps smaller than
ours. The younger daughter brought us tea. The older one took
our orders in perfect English. Each year her beauty was more
delicate than before. Sometimes we were the only customers
and they smiled from afar as we ate duck and shrimp with our
chopsticks. After dinner we sat in the comfort of their silence.
My brother told a joke. My mother folded a napkin into the shape
of a bird. My sister broke open our cookies and read our fortunes
aloud. As we left, my father always shook the old man's hand.
Artwork by Carol Shumate
Mannequins
At auction I buy two dozen mannequins and set them around the
house. I give each a name and dress them in tuxedos. Gowns.
Work clothes. Pajamas. I set a few in front of the television. Two
at the kitchen table. A man on the toilet. A woman in the shower.
Four on the lawn with croquet mallets. At night vandals arrange
them in obscene positions. But I don't mind. I'm glad they're
interested. Two mannequins lie naked in the spare bedroom
staring up at the ceiling. One dangles by his neck from a rope in
the workshop. Pull him once--the garage door opens. Pull him
again--it closes. The rest are stacked in the purgatory of my
closet. My neighbors think I'm a pervert. My mother doesn't
believe in psychiatrists but makes an exception in this case. Last
week the police searched the place and left laughing. When my
lover arrives she calls them by their proper names. She brings a
new hat for one. A paisley scarf for another. Then she turns the
lights out and stands quite still among them. I know which one
she is. But I play along with her little game.
At auction I buy two dozen mannequins and set them around the
house. I give each a name and dress them in tuxedos. Gowns.
Work clothes. Pajamas. I set a few in front of the television. Two
at the kitchen table. A man on the toilet. A woman in the shower.
Four on the lawn with croquet mallets. At night vandals arrange
them in obscene positions. But I don't mind. I'm glad they're
interested. Two mannequins lie naked in the spare bedroom
staring up at the ceiling. One dangles by his neck from a rope in
the workshop. Pull him once--the garage door opens. Pull him
again--it closes. The rest are stacked in the purgatory of my
closet. My neighbors think I'm a pervert. My mother doesn't
believe in psychiatrists but makes an exception in this case. Last
week the police searched the place and left laughing. When my
lover arrives she calls them by their proper names. She brings a
new hat for one. A paisley scarf for another. Then she turns the
lights out and stands quite still among them. I know which one
she is. But I play along with her little game.
From Kimonos in the Closet by David Shumate
Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, 2013
Used with Permission
My Desk Sets Sail
Again this morning my desk sets sail like a schooner from its
harbor. It is a fragile craft easily shattered on the shores. So far
good fortune has accompanied me as if soggy old Poseidon were
my friend. I lick my finger and raise it to the wind as I've seen
sailors do, though I do not know what this portends. When I am
hungry, I cast out a net. When it's time to sleep, I stretch out on the
deck. I travel for weeks on this little galleon. Rowing with only a
pen. Then I approach an island and natives paddle out in their long
canoes to escort me to their shores where their shaman is waiting.
He calls me son and leads me toward the bonfire they've built in
my honor, shaking his rattle along the way. He says I'm shorter
than I seemed in his vision. With a little less hair. His warriors lift
my desk up out of the waters and tie it to the trunk of a palm so the
tides won't carry it away.
Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, 2013
Used with Permission
My Desk Sets Sail
Again this morning my desk sets sail like a schooner from its
harbor. It is a fragile craft easily shattered on the shores. So far
good fortune has accompanied me as if soggy old Poseidon were
my friend. I lick my finger and raise it to the wind as I've seen
sailors do, though I do not know what this portends. When I am
hungry, I cast out a net. When it's time to sleep, I stretch out on the
deck. I travel for weeks on this little galleon. Rowing with only a
pen. Then I approach an island and natives paddle out in their long
canoes to escort me to their shores where their shaman is waiting.
He calls me son and leads me toward the bonfire they've built in
my honor, shaking his rattle along the way. He says I'm shorter
than I seemed in his vision. With a little less hair. His warriors lift
my desk up out of the waters and tie it to the trunk of a palm so the
tides won't carry it away.
Artwork by Carol Shumate
The Art of the Moors
Last night the Moors loaded their artists on ships and sent them
abroad. They believe they have designs that come directly from
the divine and want to share them with us. They would like the
keys to our churches. Our schoolhouses. Our subways. So they
can fill them with floral patterns. With the patterns of peacocks.
And such small deer. To demonstrate the purity of their intent,
the Moors have covered the hulls of several ships with wondrous
blue mosaics. Just now one is sailing into our harbor. It looks like
a mosque turned inside out. Or an Alhambra lifted from the land.
Their kind-faced artists are waving from the deck. They seem
anxious to join us on the piers. The choice is ours. Shower them
with flowers. Or place sentinels on the shore.
Last night the Moors loaded their artists on ships and sent them
abroad. They believe they have designs that come directly from
the divine and want to share them with us. They would like the
keys to our churches. Our schoolhouses. Our subways. So they
can fill them with floral patterns. With the patterns of peacocks.
And such small deer. To demonstrate the purity of their intent,
the Moors have covered the hulls of several ships with wondrous
blue mosaics. Just now one is sailing into our harbor. It looks like
a mosque turned inside out. Or an Alhambra lifted from the land.
Their kind-faced artists are waving from the deck. They seem
anxious to join us on the piers. The choice is ours. Shower them
with flowers. Or place sentinels on the shore.
David and Carol Shumate's favorite artist retreat
The Tang Dynasty
After a career of composing verses in the royal court, most poets
of this golden age snuck out the palace's back door and ran away
to the mountains. As if life were one long game of hide-and-seek.
They had simple names. Wang Wei. Tu Fu. Li Po. They drank
whenever they liked. And gave in to slumber if it subdued them.
When they awoke, they took walks along the mountain paths.
Then raised up the pen to render this complex world simple
again. So much was sacred back then. Rivers. Gulls. Frost. Deer.
Chrysanthemums. Women who lay awake in the night. Friends
arriving in the afternoon with baskets of vegetables and mint and
a bottle of wine to share. That age has long since passed. Though
they left behind much to emulate. It's easy to find the front door.
Signs are plastered everywhere. But you have to feel along a dark
wall to find the latch to lift that will get you out the back.
After a career of composing verses in the royal court, most poets
of this golden age snuck out the palace's back door and ran away
to the mountains. As if life were one long game of hide-and-seek.
They had simple names. Wang Wei. Tu Fu. Li Po. They drank
whenever they liked. And gave in to slumber if it subdued them.
When they awoke, they took walks along the mountain paths.
Then raised up the pen to render this complex world simple
again. So much was sacred back then. Rivers. Gulls. Frost. Deer.
Chrysanthemums. Women who lay awake in the night. Friends
arriving in the afternoon with baskets of vegetables and mint and
a bottle of wine to share. That age has long since passed. Though
they left behind much to emulate. It's easy to find the front door.
Signs are plastered everywhere. But you have to feel along a dark
wall to find the latch to lift that will get you out the back.
An Interview with David Shumate
Shari Wagner: Your poems are so inventive in their subject matter, descriptive details, twists and turns and surprising leaps—was there something special about your childhood that fostered the development of your amazing imagination?
David Shumate: Perhaps the sheer ordinariness of it! I was raised in a town in Kansas called Prairie Village, which was swallowed up by suburban Kansas City as it sprawled southward through what once were wheat and corn fields. If a film producer were looking for an average American town to set a film about the 1950’s in, my hometown would provide the perfect backdrop.
Some of what takes place in my poems, these twists you refer to, may be an attempt to escape this common place, the mundane, the predictable. On the other hand, a large percentage of what occurs in my poems is not actually an act of the imagination at all but based, often loosely, on events and characters I have encountered or heard of over the years, rearranged kaleidoscopically and conveniently to suit the needs of the poem.
However, I shouldn’t discount the fact that the mythical Dorothy was from Kansas, too, and she ended up faraway in a land of flying monkeys and scarecrows that speak.
What is your writing process like? How much is it like the journey in your poem, “My Desk Sets Sail?”
I think that poem captures much of the spirit of my process. Each writing session is a kind of voyage, often rudderless, drifting into the unknown. A few years back I heard Michael Ondaatje quoting the ancient Chinese phrase, “Follow the brush,” in this same context, and I felt that it was an even more accurate, and certainly more concise, expression of what I experience while writing. The implication is that the brush, the tool of expression, has some kind of inherent intelligence and can serve as a guide. In fact, though, it seems to me the phrase recognizes that as we write we are drawing upon a more subtle layer of the self, a layer just beyond the conscious level, and that is what is serving as our guide. Thus, following the brush means allowing the intuitive level of the self to take over for the intellectual level. I end up feeling my way through a poem rather than thinking my way through it.
Could you talk about your relationship to the Chinese poets you celebrate in your wonderful poem, “The Tang Dynasty?”
I think I first came to understand my deepest connection with poetry through the poems of the Chinese, through the translations of Kenneth Rexroth and Arthur Waley, in particular. I admired the way their common language, their simple imagery affected me, transported me, in ways that Western poetry generally had not. Japanese poetry had somewhat the same effect. Both have taught me the power of economy, the power of surprise rising from the ordinary. I go back to their work again and again.
You write in the form of the prose poem. Is that related to what you just said about the power of surprise rising from the ordinary?
Yes. I’m drawn to its ordinariness, its lack of pretension. Entering it, a reader can feel at home, as in a paragraph. Unintimidated. But once inside, the ground often tends to swell. Its tectonic plates shift. And you don’t come out where you might have expected to exit. I first encountered this form in the work of Juan Ramon Jimenez, translated by Robert Bly, and became instantly intrigued. I write in other forms as well, but this is primarily what I’ve been publishing.
What suggestions do you have for writers who would like to try this form?
Find a way to make any form your own. Try it on as you might a hat. Tilt it this way, then that. But with the prose poem in particular, finding the balance between the purely narrative approach and the purely surreal can be challenging. The former can feel flat. The latter can feel self-indulgent. Much like the form itself teeters between two worlds—the world of poetry and the word of prose—the subject matter of a prose poem often teeters between the actual and the imagined. It works best when it finds that perfect balancing point where it feels quite unforced, unstrained, inevitable. I found myself addressing some of my guiding principles for writing in my poem “What Hemingway Learned From Cézanne.” A line in that poem reads, “Every piece should be inevitable. Like a scripture you cannot erase.” I strive to locate that inevitable word, phrase, image, that perfect balancing point.
Is the desire to find balance important to you in other ways as well—in ways beyond the act of writing?
Yes. Balance is oddly essential for me. If I’m feeling chaotic, unsettled, when I write, not much comes. My best writing seems to come from a state of rather substantial integration of mind, intellect, senses, memory, etc. It is a coherent state of being. The writing process itself, when working well, enhances that integration. The poem is a byproduct of that more keenly focused state of mind. I write to return to that integration.
Where do you go to celebrate the surprise of the ordinary in Boone County and /or the Marion University campus?
I don’t have a particular place. A few nearby forests. A few familiar paths. But I’m mostly drawn to the inner landscapes when I write and to the way they merge with the outer. I find myself walking along the paths of that past, real and imagined. Poetry is best, I think, when it takes us along the common path and delivers us to the territory of myth.
If you could meet anyone from Indiana history, who would it be? Where would you meet and what would you converse about or do?
Lincoln. And Tecumseh. Neither was born here, but both of their lives were shaped by Indiana. If I were fortunate enough to meet either or both of them, I know enough at this stage in my life to speak as little as possible and listen instead.
Shari Wagner: Your poems are so inventive in their subject matter, descriptive details, twists and turns and surprising leaps—was there something special about your childhood that fostered the development of your amazing imagination?
David Shumate: Perhaps the sheer ordinariness of it! I was raised in a town in Kansas called Prairie Village, which was swallowed up by suburban Kansas City as it sprawled southward through what once were wheat and corn fields. If a film producer were looking for an average American town to set a film about the 1950’s in, my hometown would provide the perfect backdrop.
Some of what takes place in my poems, these twists you refer to, may be an attempt to escape this common place, the mundane, the predictable. On the other hand, a large percentage of what occurs in my poems is not actually an act of the imagination at all but based, often loosely, on events and characters I have encountered or heard of over the years, rearranged kaleidoscopically and conveniently to suit the needs of the poem.
However, I shouldn’t discount the fact that the mythical Dorothy was from Kansas, too, and she ended up faraway in a land of flying monkeys and scarecrows that speak.
What is your writing process like? How much is it like the journey in your poem, “My Desk Sets Sail?”
I think that poem captures much of the spirit of my process. Each writing session is a kind of voyage, often rudderless, drifting into the unknown. A few years back I heard Michael Ondaatje quoting the ancient Chinese phrase, “Follow the brush,” in this same context, and I felt that it was an even more accurate, and certainly more concise, expression of what I experience while writing. The implication is that the brush, the tool of expression, has some kind of inherent intelligence and can serve as a guide. In fact, though, it seems to me the phrase recognizes that as we write we are drawing upon a more subtle layer of the self, a layer just beyond the conscious level, and that is what is serving as our guide. Thus, following the brush means allowing the intuitive level of the self to take over for the intellectual level. I end up feeling my way through a poem rather than thinking my way through it.
Could you talk about your relationship to the Chinese poets you celebrate in your wonderful poem, “The Tang Dynasty?”
I think I first came to understand my deepest connection with poetry through the poems of the Chinese, through the translations of Kenneth Rexroth and Arthur Waley, in particular. I admired the way their common language, their simple imagery affected me, transported me, in ways that Western poetry generally had not. Japanese poetry had somewhat the same effect. Both have taught me the power of economy, the power of surprise rising from the ordinary. I go back to their work again and again.
You write in the form of the prose poem. Is that related to what you just said about the power of surprise rising from the ordinary?
Yes. I’m drawn to its ordinariness, its lack of pretension. Entering it, a reader can feel at home, as in a paragraph. Unintimidated. But once inside, the ground often tends to swell. Its tectonic plates shift. And you don’t come out where you might have expected to exit. I first encountered this form in the work of Juan Ramon Jimenez, translated by Robert Bly, and became instantly intrigued. I write in other forms as well, but this is primarily what I’ve been publishing.
What suggestions do you have for writers who would like to try this form?
Find a way to make any form your own. Try it on as you might a hat. Tilt it this way, then that. But with the prose poem in particular, finding the balance between the purely narrative approach and the purely surreal can be challenging. The former can feel flat. The latter can feel self-indulgent. Much like the form itself teeters between two worlds—the world of poetry and the word of prose—the subject matter of a prose poem often teeters between the actual and the imagined. It works best when it finds that perfect balancing point where it feels quite unforced, unstrained, inevitable. I found myself addressing some of my guiding principles for writing in my poem “What Hemingway Learned From Cézanne.” A line in that poem reads, “Every piece should be inevitable. Like a scripture you cannot erase.” I strive to locate that inevitable word, phrase, image, that perfect balancing point.
Is the desire to find balance important to you in other ways as well—in ways beyond the act of writing?
Yes. Balance is oddly essential for me. If I’m feeling chaotic, unsettled, when I write, not much comes. My best writing seems to come from a state of rather substantial integration of mind, intellect, senses, memory, etc. It is a coherent state of being. The writing process itself, when working well, enhances that integration. The poem is a byproduct of that more keenly focused state of mind. I write to return to that integration.
Where do you go to celebrate the surprise of the ordinary in Boone County and /or the Marion University campus?
I don’t have a particular place. A few nearby forests. A few familiar paths. But I’m mostly drawn to the inner landscapes when I write and to the way they merge with the outer. I find myself walking along the paths of that past, real and imagined. Poetry is best, I think, when it takes us along the common path and delivers us to the territory of myth.
If you could meet anyone from Indiana history, who would it be? Where would you meet and what would you converse about or do?
Lincoln. And Tecumseh. Neither was born here, but both of their lives were shaped by Indiana. If I were fortunate enough to meet either or both of them, I know enough at this stage in my life to speak as little as possible and listen instead.
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"Find a way to make any form your own. Try it on as you might a hat. Tilt it this way, then that." --David Shumate |
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March 2016
Forging Stories to Last: The Poetry of Thomas Alan Orr
Thomas Alan Orr is the author of Tongue to the Anvil (Restoration Press, 2014) and Hammers in the Fog (Restoration Press, 1995). Recent work has appeared in Yellow Chair Review and Mapping the Muse: A Bicentennial Look at Indiana Poetry. He has work forthcoming in Merton Seasonal, the journal of the International Thomas Merton Society. His poem “Soybeans” was read into the record of the Maine State Legislature in 2008 and appears in the anthology Good Poems (Penguin, 2002), edited by Garrison Keillor. Thomas moves in two worlds, helping low-wage workers build a better life in the urban neighborhoods of Indianapolis and living in rural Shelby County, sharing a 130-year-old farmhouse with his wife, Theresa Garcia.
Forging Stories to Last: The Poetry of Thomas Alan Orr
Thomas Alan Orr is the author of Tongue to the Anvil (Restoration Press, 2014) and Hammers in the Fog (Restoration Press, 1995). Recent work has appeared in Yellow Chair Review and Mapping the Muse: A Bicentennial Look at Indiana Poetry. He has work forthcoming in Merton Seasonal, the journal of the International Thomas Merton Society. His poem “Soybeans” was read into the record of the Maine State Legislature in 2008 and appears in the anthology Good Poems (Penguin, 2002), edited by Garrison Keillor. Thomas moves in two worlds, helping low-wage workers build a better life in the urban neighborhoods of Indianapolis and living in rural Shelby County, sharing a 130-year-old farmhouse with his wife, Theresa Garcia.
Through memorable detail and lyrical language, Thomas Orr’s poems paint portraits of people
closely attuned to the Indiana landscape. Facing all manner of challenges—physical, economic,
or natural—the resilient characters in his poems persevere to become, each in their own way,
heroic. Orr’s poetry reminds us that imaginative understanding—the ability to put oneself in
another’s place—is one of the poet’s keenest tools. His work shows us, among many things, that
the raw material of poetry is all around us—in life stories that will be lost if the poet doesn’t
shape them into art.
Cover Photo: The author's grandfather, George Willard Orr, and team are cultivating potatoes
in East Bangor, Maine, c. 1925.
The photos on this page were taken by Thomas Orr. Pictured above is the Orr farm in Shelby County.
From Tongue to the Anvil: New and Selected Poems (Restoration Press, 2014)
Copyright 2014 by Thomas Alan Orr. Used by permission of the author.
Good Wood
It was in the forties, baseball’s greatest years. The Kid,
The story goes, Ted Williams, made the long trek from Boston,
Following the track of trains that hauled white ash straight
And hard, out of cool northern forests, to southern Indiana,
Where the magic work on wood began at Hillerich and Bradsby,
Maker of bats, the best in the world. The old craftsman said:
Two knots, Teddy, for extra hardness. Imagine sunset
On the Ohio River, Louisville nearing sleep, and among
The shadows a man crawling through piles of lumber looking
For thirty-three ounces of strength and beauty, power for power;
To do what he called the single hardest thing in sport:
Hitting a baseball where you want it to go. Remember
Michelangelo, spurning oxcarts full of mediocre stone
To prowl the quarries around Carrara in search of marble
To match his gift. It is the same. And not for nothing
Was Williams called the Splendid Splinter, born to the wood.
Copyright 2014 by Thomas Alan Orr. Used by permission of the author.
Good Wood
It was in the forties, baseball’s greatest years. The Kid,
The story goes, Ted Williams, made the long trek from Boston,
Following the track of trains that hauled white ash straight
And hard, out of cool northern forests, to southern Indiana,
Where the magic work on wood began at Hillerich and Bradsby,
Maker of bats, the best in the world. The old craftsman said:
Two knots, Teddy, for extra hardness. Imagine sunset
On the Ohio River, Louisville nearing sleep, and among
The shadows a man crawling through piles of lumber looking
For thirty-three ounces of strength and beauty, power for power;
To do what he called the single hardest thing in sport:
Hitting a baseball where you want it to go. Remember
Michelangelo, spurning oxcarts full of mediocre stone
To prowl the quarries around Carrara in search of marble
To match his gift. It is the same. And not for nothing
Was Williams called the Splendid Splinter, born to the wood.
Dueling tractors in a field bordering old growth woods. All the ground around the Orr home is actively farmed.
Soybeans
The October air was warm and musky, blowing
Over brown fields, heavy with the fragrance
Of freshly combined beans, the breath of harvest.
He was pulling a truckload onto the scales
At the elevator near the rail siding north of town
When a big Cadillac drove up. A man stepped out,
Wearing a three-piece suit and a gold pinky ring.
The man said he had just invested a hundred grand
In soybeans and wanted to see what they looked like.
The farmer stared at the man and was quiet, reaching
For the tobacco in the rear pocket of his jeans,
Where he wore his only ring, a threadbare circle rubbed
By working cans of dip and long hours on the backside
Of a hundred acre run. He scooped up a handful
Of small white beans, the pearls of the prairie, saying:
Soybeans look like a foot of water on the field in April
When you’re ready to plant and can’t get in;
Like three kids at the kitchen table
Eating macaroni and cheese five nights in a row;
Or like a broken part on the combine when
Your credit with the implement dealer is nearly tapped.
Soybeans look like prayers bouncing off the ceiling
When prices on the Chicago grain market start to drop;
Or like your old man’s tears when you tell him
How much the land might bring for subdivisions.
Soybeans look like the first good night of sleep in weeks
When you unload at the elevator and the kids get Christmas.
He spat a little juice on the tire of the Cadillac,
Laughing despite himself and saying to the man:
Now maybe you can tell me what a hundred grand looks like.
The October air was warm and musky, blowing
Over brown fields, heavy with the fragrance
Of freshly combined beans, the breath of harvest.
He was pulling a truckload onto the scales
At the elevator near the rail siding north of town
When a big Cadillac drove up. A man stepped out,
Wearing a three-piece suit and a gold pinky ring.
The man said he had just invested a hundred grand
In soybeans and wanted to see what they looked like.
The farmer stared at the man and was quiet, reaching
For the tobacco in the rear pocket of his jeans,
Where he wore his only ring, a threadbare circle rubbed
By working cans of dip and long hours on the backside
Of a hundred acre run. He scooped up a handful
Of small white beans, the pearls of the prairie, saying:
Soybeans look like a foot of water on the field in April
When you’re ready to plant and can’t get in;
Like three kids at the kitchen table
Eating macaroni and cheese five nights in a row;
Or like a broken part on the combine when
Your credit with the implement dealer is nearly tapped.
Soybeans look like prayers bouncing off the ceiling
When prices on the Chicago grain market start to drop;
Or like your old man’s tears when you tell him
How much the land might bring for subdivisions.
Soybeans look like the first good night of sleep in weeks
When you unload at the elevator and the kids get Christmas.
He spat a little juice on the tire of the Cadillac,
Laughing despite himself and saying to the man:
Now maybe you can tell me what a hundred grand looks like.
The Tick Tock Lounge is a popular pub on 10th Street. Tom worked at the Boner Neighborhood Center at 10th & Beville.
Old Girls
Shuffling along Tenth Street between the food stamp office
And the grocery store, they reminded you of raccoons,
Their wide dark-ringed eyes furtive and watchful,
Two sisters with unlikely names, stealing past sixty.
“Our daddy was in the war. He’s never been right since.”
His military pension kept them going, mostly,
Until the twenty-fifth of every month. When you visited,
Their crinkling faces hid some deep amusement,
While Cleantha pulled her ear and Jolene clicked her dentures.
“He’s asleep,” they whispered, sitting close together on the sofa,
Though you never saw past the pale green curtain,
Wondering with weird alarm, if he was really there.
The brown picture on the wall showed a slender doughboy
Grinning timelessly into the space between these two
And the world that waited like a rummage sale.
Shuffling along Tenth Street between the food stamp office
And the grocery store, they reminded you of raccoons,
Their wide dark-ringed eyes furtive and watchful,
Two sisters with unlikely names, stealing past sixty.
“Our daddy was in the war. He’s never been right since.”
His military pension kept them going, mostly,
Until the twenty-fifth of every month. When you visited,
Their crinkling faces hid some deep amusement,
While Cleantha pulled her ear and Jolene clicked her dentures.
“He’s asleep,” they whispered, sitting close together on the sofa,
Though you never saw past the pale green curtain,
Wondering with weird alarm, if he was really there.
The brown picture on the wall showed a slender doughboy
Grinning timelessly into the space between these two
And the world that waited like a rummage sale.
Tom says, "Pocket watch and boots--that pretty much defines me though I have stepped up to the digital age!"
Eminent Domain
She learned to sleep through traffic noise
Growing louder on the two-lane into town,
And she ignored the dozers breaking ground
For subdivisions on the next farm over.
She was born in the house before
It had running water and electric lights,
And she remembered her father’s first tractor
And his mercy for the old workhorse,
Whom he put out to pasture—not shooting him
When he couldn’t pull anymore.
When the interstate came through
And the house was targeted for demolition,
She held them off for three days with a shotgun
Before they lobbed teargas through the window
And two brawny troopers hauled
Her skinny little frame out on a stretcher.
The outrage faded as the county prospered.
Some things stand in the way of progress,
And it’s easier just to shoot them
When they can’t pull anymore.
She learned to sleep through traffic noise
Growing louder on the two-lane into town,
And she ignored the dozers breaking ground
For subdivisions on the next farm over.
She was born in the house before
It had running water and electric lights,
And she remembered her father’s first tractor
And his mercy for the old workhorse,
Whom he put out to pasture—not shooting him
When he couldn’t pull anymore.
When the interstate came through
And the house was targeted for demolition,
She held them off for three days with a shotgun
Before they lobbed teargas through the window
And two brawny troopers hauled
Her skinny little frame out on a stretcher.
The outrage faded as the county prospered.
Some things stand in the way of progress,
And it’s easier just to shoot them
When they can’t pull anymore.
A weather vane perches atop Orr's 130-year-old farmhouse.
Piano Mover
I remember the time
Junior Button came down
From Pelham Hill with his driver
In that old Impala with bullet holes
And “Live Free or Die” plates.
Junior was big as a round baler,
His eyes like aggie marbles.
He walked with a bull penis cane
And wore a Boston Braves cap
Way back on his curly red hair.
I smelled the Blackjack gum
On his breath when he touched
My head like a preacher,
Only more mysterious, saying,
“Avin’ a birthday, ain’t ya, son?”
The stairs were steep
With a turn in the middle.
Junior went up slowly, cane tapping,
Head cocked, hands outstretched,
Taking in the space.
He laid hands on the piano,
Playing middle C. The sound
Was like a breeze in the upstairs hall.
If he knew I was there, he didn’t say,
But smiled in my direction.
His leather harness tightening,
The upright slid over stairs,
Bucking once, belly full of noise.
He whispered and it floated down
Like a sweetly gentled horse.
Folks said he lost his sight
In the Big One fighting Japanese,
Which goes to show how little
They knew about Junior,
Who loved daylight to move pianos.
I remember the time
Junior Button came down
From Pelham Hill with his driver
In that old Impala with bullet holes
And “Live Free or Die” plates.
Junior was big as a round baler,
His eyes like aggie marbles.
He walked with a bull penis cane
And wore a Boston Braves cap
Way back on his curly red hair.
I smelled the Blackjack gum
On his breath when he touched
My head like a preacher,
Only more mysterious, saying,
“Avin’ a birthday, ain’t ya, son?”
The stairs were steep
With a turn in the middle.
Junior went up slowly, cane tapping,
Head cocked, hands outstretched,
Taking in the space.
He laid hands on the piano,
Playing middle C. The sound
Was like a breeze in the upstairs hall.
If he knew I was there, he didn’t say,
But smiled in my direction.
His leather harness tightening,
The upright slid over stairs,
Bucking once, belly full of noise.
He whispered and it floated down
Like a sweetly gentled horse.
Folks said he lost his sight
In the Big One fighting Japanese,
Which goes to show how little
They knew about Junior,
Who loved daylight to move pianos.
Two of the Flemish Giants that Tom raises.
Farm Hands
Tilling beans at sunset, he stops midfield,
turns off the loud rumbling tractor, and steps
from the cab, with its high technology
and satellite tracking, to hear again
the skittering killdeer and the choir
of peeping frogs among the trees. He lays
his palm on the ground as if to feel
the heartbeat of a vast and hidden life.
His wife is milking in the barn, alone
in good company with cows at rest,
her palm against a pregnant flank to catch
the flutter of a tiny beating heart.
Late at night, too tired to talk, palm to palm
they touch, enjoined, lives rooted in sweet land.
Tilling beans at sunset, he stops midfield,
turns off the loud rumbling tractor, and steps
from the cab, with its high technology
and satellite tracking, to hear again
the skittering killdeer and the choir
of peeping frogs among the trees. He lays
his palm on the ground as if to feel
the heartbeat of a vast and hidden life.
His wife is milking in the barn, alone
in good company with cows at rest,
her palm against a pregnant flank to catch
the flutter of a tiny beating heart.
Late at night, too tired to talk, palm to palm
they touch, enjoined, lives rooted in sweet land.
Tom took this winter view of his 130-year-old Homestead.
Indiana Badlands
He wears a hat made of sky
and walks his cougar through the corn.
A buzzard circles overhead.
Now is not the time to ask his name.
A woman watches from the doorway.
She clutches a tiny cameo
and her Bible hides a derringer.
Love will test her vigilance.
It could be midnight. It might be noon.
Time plays every trick it knows
out here. Light moves, they say,
like a ghost across level ground.
The harrowing is hard,
the furrows slaked with tears.
Beware the walking man.
Give solace to the one who waits.
He wears a hat made of sky
and walks his cougar through the corn.
A buzzard circles overhead.
Now is not the time to ask his name.
A woman watches from the doorway.
She clutches a tiny cameo
and her Bible hides a derringer.
Love will test her vigilance.
It could be midnight. It might be noon.
Time plays every trick it knows
out here. Light moves, they say,
like a ghost across level ground.
The harrowing is hard,
the furrows slaked with tears.
Beware the walking man.
Give solace to the one who waits.
An Interview with Thomas Orr
Shari Wagner: Tom, you've lived in Indiana for more than forty years, but you were born and grew up in New England. Why did you move to Indiana, and why have you stayed here?
Thomas Orr: I came to Indiana to perform alternative service as a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War. We came expecting to complete a two-year term of service, though shortly after our arrival President Nixon cancelled all orders of induction. I was technically free of my obligation, but I felt that I’d made a commitment to the youth-serving organization which had agreed to host us. I stayed on for a year, working on East Tenth Street in Indianapolis.
My late wife, Debby, worked and went to graduate school while I took another social service job with a neighborhood center on Tenth Street. I stayed on Tenth Street for six more years. That neighborhood has a strange ambience, and it took hold of me. My friend Jared Carter, probably Indiana’s greatest living poet, still lives there. I met some colorful characters (some of whom populate my early poems) and made many fast friends.
I am a country guy at heart, and we eventually bought a small farm in Shelby County, where we live today. I am a product of rural New England. It’s who I am—reserved, understated, frugal (ask my wife). I always thought that I would go back to New England to live, and maybe I will someday, but I really enjoy the life we have made here, nourished by the agrarian spirit of our country surroundings and the vibrant energy of a growing city with many cultural amenities nearby. I’ve made a lot of poetry from that lively alchemy!
You have a lot of memorable characters in your poems. There’s the blind piano mover who navigates a piano down narrow stairs, a woman who holds off the interstate dozers for three days with a shotgun, a farmer who drives himself to the hospital after losing his foot in an auger. One of the things that I find striking about your characters, whether they live on Tenth Street or on a farm, is their resiliency. Could you comment on that?
I guess I’ve always been drawn to people who overcome, who rise above their circumstances— ordinary people who accomplish extraordinary things—often in complete obscurity. They define the human condition. The psalmist-poet says we are “fearfully and wonderfully made.” Apart from the sheer fascination I have for these characters, I think their stories of life lived in extremis are also a way of exploring big ideas—the meaning of suffering, the imminence of death, the possibility of transcendence—without speaking abstractly. Wordsworth could get away with writing an ode on intimations of immortality, but I have a compulsion to make such musings more concrete. Besides, I’ve never been much good at confessional writing and these characters are much more interesting than I am!
You’ve mentioned a couple of things you find appealing about poetry as story—the chance to work with character and to explore important ideas in a concrete way. Are there other things that draw you to narrative poetry?
Story is the most ancient poetic strategy we know, from Homer to Job. It is perhaps the most accessible form of imaginative expression. I’ve always tried to write the kind of poem that would resonate with the “common” reader—the man or woman who is literate but not necessarily “literary”—and I’ve been gratified by the response to many of the short narrative lyrics that appear in my books.
I can trace the arc of my own poetic inheritance in New England from Longfellow to E. A. Robinson to Frost—all of whom were storytellers of the first order. And there is a parallel tradition in the Midwest, from Riley and Vachel Lindsey to Masters and Sandburg. I also read Robinson Jeffers from an early age. Jeffers said he wanted to write poems that would last a thousand years, and it’s no accident that he chose narrative as his primary poetic mode.
When you write poems about people who work the land, do you feel as if you’re trying to preserve or immortalize a certain way of life that’s disappearing?
Certainly I want to honor people who work close to the land without romanticizing it. Farming has changed tremendously over the course of a few generations—in some ways for the better but also for the worse. The small family farm is quickly becoming a thing of the past, so I do think it’s important to preserve this legacy in our collective memory. The picture on the cover of my second book is of my grandfather working a field with a team of horses. It seems idyllic, but it wasn’t. Before the advent of the tractor, farming was often backbreaking, unforgiving work. Even so, the farming lifestyle can still evoke a sense of fundamental wholeness and connection with something larger than ourselves. The poem “Farm Hands,” from the second book, tries to capture this idea in the context of modern-day farming.
I look around in the supermarket and wonder how many people really understand where their food comes from. I’m all for thanking farmers. On the other hand, factory farming is one of the great sins of our civilization. By some estimates, we’ve lost at least a foot of topsoil in our fields in the last century from deep plowing (not to mention fertilizer runoff into the aquifer). And total confinement animal operations for meat production can be horrendous. We are beginning to see a return to smaller farming enterprises—organic and locally grown foods. That’s a good thing, though not yet cost effective at the point of purchase for families of limited means.
But a final word about the poetry in this regard. I want to emphasize the importance of place in these poems—the deep attachment to the land in both good times and bad. I’ve written of rich harvests and also of tornadoes and killing blizzards and the wildness lurking just beyond the plowed field. If there is a genuine Indiana poetic idiom, I’d argue that it is characterized by a profound sense of place—the big sky and vast open ground of a vibrant (though much diminished) farm culture. Such a geography calls out for direct, evocative language that expresses strong convictions without polemic.
Do you have any advice for young poets who want to feel more passionately attached to where they live? And any advice, in general, about the art of writing poems?
I’m reminded of the great line in “The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai”: “Wherever you go, there you are.” If you’re young, it may take some time to discover that place of “passionate attachment,” so make the most of where you are. Poets are the best observers, bar none. Pay attention.
Hone your craft and don’t be in such a rush to publish. A lot of young poets publish too early and way too much. Jared Carter gave me some good advice: When you finish a poem, stick it in the drawer for six months and then read it again. If it still holds up, it might be worth something.
The esteemed poet and critic, Dana Gioia, has observed the tendency of modern poetry to become an insider’s game—a conversation among academics and writing program graduates who are mostly talking to each other. Perhaps his concern is exaggerated, but I think more poets should think about audience. Write as if your poem will make a difference in the world and ask whose life will be enriched by reading your poem.
What is your favorite place in Shelby County?
The Homestead is hard to beat! I spend a lot of time in the barn with my animals. I raise Flemish Giant rabbits. Rabbits are remarkable creatures. They calm the spirit. The barn itself is a tranquil place, good for creative reflection while doing chores or working on one of the many projects that clamor for attention.
Also, I enjoy visiting a large tract of old growth woods across the road from the farm. It is owned by the Nature Conservancy. There’s no public right of way so there are very few visitors. Many of the trees are over a hundred years old. Stepping into the woods is like entering a different time. It’s immensely peaceful and beautiful. Trees are good companions.
Shari Wagner: Tom, you've lived in Indiana for more than forty years, but you were born and grew up in New England. Why did you move to Indiana, and why have you stayed here?
Thomas Orr: I came to Indiana to perform alternative service as a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War. We came expecting to complete a two-year term of service, though shortly after our arrival President Nixon cancelled all orders of induction. I was technically free of my obligation, but I felt that I’d made a commitment to the youth-serving organization which had agreed to host us. I stayed on for a year, working on East Tenth Street in Indianapolis.
My late wife, Debby, worked and went to graduate school while I took another social service job with a neighborhood center on Tenth Street. I stayed on Tenth Street for six more years. That neighborhood has a strange ambience, and it took hold of me. My friend Jared Carter, probably Indiana’s greatest living poet, still lives there. I met some colorful characters (some of whom populate my early poems) and made many fast friends.
I am a country guy at heart, and we eventually bought a small farm in Shelby County, where we live today. I am a product of rural New England. It’s who I am—reserved, understated, frugal (ask my wife). I always thought that I would go back to New England to live, and maybe I will someday, but I really enjoy the life we have made here, nourished by the agrarian spirit of our country surroundings and the vibrant energy of a growing city with many cultural amenities nearby. I’ve made a lot of poetry from that lively alchemy!
You have a lot of memorable characters in your poems. There’s the blind piano mover who navigates a piano down narrow stairs, a woman who holds off the interstate dozers for three days with a shotgun, a farmer who drives himself to the hospital after losing his foot in an auger. One of the things that I find striking about your characters, whether they live on Tenth Street or on a farm, is their resiliency. Could you comment on that?
I guess I’ve always been drawn to people who overcome, who rise above their circumstances— ordinary people who accomplish extraordinary things—often in complete obscurity. They define the human condition. The psalmist-poet says we are “fearfully and wonderfully made.” Apart from the sheer fascination I have for these characters, I think their stories of life lived in extremis are also a way of exploring big ideas—the meaning of suffering, the imminence of death, the possibility of transcendence—without speaking abstractly. Wordsworth could get away with writing an ode on intimations of immortality, but I have a compulsion to make such musings more concrete. Besides, I’ve never been much good at confessional writing and these characters are much more interesting than I am!
You’ve mentioned a couple of things you find appealing about poetry as story—the chance to work with character and to explore important ideas in a concrete way. Are there other things that draw you to narrative poetry?
Story is the most ancient poetic strategy we know, from Homer to Job. It is perhaps the most accessible form of imaginative expression. I’ve always tried to write the kind of poem that would resonate with the “common” reader—the man or woman who is literate but not necessarily “literary”—and I’ve been gratified by the response to many of the short narrative lyrics that appear in my books.
I can trace the arc of my own poetic inheritance in New England from Longfellow to E. A. Robinson to Frost—all of whom were storytellers of the first order. And there is a parallel tradition in the Midwest, from Riley and Vachel Lindsey to Masters and Sandburg. I also read Robinson Jeffers from an early age. Jeffers said he wanted to write poems that would last a thousand years, and it’s no accident that he chose narrative as his primary poetic mode.
When you write poems about people who work the land, do you feel as if you’re trying to preserve or immortalize a certain way of life that’s disappearing?
Certainly I want to honor people who work close to the land without romanticizing it. Farming has changed tremendously over the course of a few generations—in some ways for the better but also for the worse. The small family farm is quickly becoming a thing of the past, so I do think it’s important to preserve this legacy in our collective memory. The picture on the cover of my second book is of my grandfather working a field with a team of horses. It seems idyllic, but it wasn’t. Before the advent of the tractor, farming was often backbreaking, unforgiving work. Even so, the farming lifestyle can still evoke a sense of fundamental wholeness and connection with something larger than ourselves. The poem “Farm Hands,” from the second book, tries to capture this idea in the context of modern-day farming.
I look around in the supermarket and wonder how many people really understand where their food comes from. I’m all for thanking farmers. On the other hand, factory farming is one of the great sins of our civilization. By some estimates, we’ve lost at least a foot of topsoil in our fields in the last century from deep plowing (not to mention fertilizer runoff into the aquifer). And total confinement animal operations for meat production can be horrendous. We are beginning to see a return to smaller farming enterprises—organic and locally grown foods. That’s a good thing, though not yet cost effective at the point of purchase for families of limited means.
But a final word about the poetry in this regard. I want to emphasize the importance of place in these poems—the deep attachment to the land in both good times and bad. I’ve written of rich harvests and also of tornadoes and killing blizzards and the wildness lurking just beyond the plowed field. If there is a genuine Indiana poetic idiom, I’d argue that it is characterized by a profound sense of place—the big sky and vast open ground of a vibrant (though much diminished) farm culture. Such a geography calls out for direct, evocative language that expresses strong convictions without polemic.
Do you have any advice for young poets who want to feel more passionately attached to where they live? And any advice, in general, about the art of writing poems?
I’m reminded of the great line in “The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai”: “Wherever you go, there you are.” If you’re young, it may take some time to discover that place of “passionate attachment,” so make the most of where you are. Poets are the best observers, bar none. Pay attention.
Hone your craft and don’t be in such a rush to publish. A lot of young poets publish too early and way too much. Jared Carter gave me some good advice: When you finish a poem, stick it in the drawer for six months and then read it again. If it still holds up, it might be worth something.
The esteemed poet and critic, Dana Gioia, has observed the tendency of modern poetry to become an insider’s game—a conversation among academics and writing program graduates who are mostly talking to each other. Perhaps his concern is exaggerated, but I think more poets should think about audience. Write as if your poem will make a difference in the world and ask whose life will be enriched by reading your poem.
What is your favorite place in Shelby County?
The Homestead is hard to beat! I spend a lot of time in the barn with my animals. I raise Flemish Giant rabbits. Rabbits are remarkable creatures. They calm the spirit. The barn itself is a tranquil place, good for creative reflection while doing chores or working on one of the many projects that clamor for attention.
Also, I enjoy visiting a large tract of old growth woods across the road from the farm. It is owned by the Nature Conservancy. There’s no public right of way so there are very few visitors. Many of the trees are over a hundred years old. Stepping into the woods is like entering a different time. It’s immensely peaceful and beautiful. Trees are good companions.
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"Write as if your poem will make a difference in the world and ask whose life will be enriched by reading your poem." |
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Nancy Pulley with "Grape Expectations." Photo taken by Daniel Orr
February 2016
Attentive to the Heartland: The Poetry of Nancy Pulley
Nancy Pulley is the author of Warren Avenue (Chatter House Press, 2014) and two chapbooks: Dream Puzzle (Arts in the Heartland Publishing, 2009) and Tremolo of Light, winner of the 2nd Indiana Poetry Chapbook Contest sponsored by the Writers Center of Indiana. Her poems have appeared in The Flying Island, Arts Indiana Literary Supplement, Passages North, Plainsongs, Sycamore Review, Humpback Barn Collection, A Linen Weave of Themes, and Tipton Poetry Journal, as well as other journals and publications. She is a graduate of Indiana Central College (now the University of Indianapolis) and a recent recipient of an Indiana Arts Commission Individual Artist Grant in Poetry. Nancy, a retired Case Manager for Aging and Community Services in Columbus, lives in Bartholomew County with her husband, sculptor Bob Pulley.
Attentive to the Heartland: The Poetry of Nancy Pulley
Nancy Pulley is the author of Warren Avenue (Chatter House Press, 2014) and two chapbooks: Dream Puzzle (Arts in the Heartland Publishing, 2009) and Tremolo of Light, winner of the 2nd Indiana Poetry Chapbook Contest sponsored by the Writers Center of Indiana. Her poems have appeared in The Flying Island, Arts Indiana Literary Supplement, Passages North, Plainsongs, Sycamore Review, Humpback Barn Collection, A Linen Weave of Themes, and Tipton Poetry Journal, as well as other journals and publications. She is a graduate of Indiana Central College (now the University of Indianapolis) and a recent recipient of an Indiana Arts Commission Individual Artist Grant in Poetry. Nancy, a retired Case Manager for Aging and Community Services in Columbus, lives in Bartholomew County with her husband, sculptor Bob Pulley.
Nancy's attentive eye caught this hummingbird in her garden. She took the garden photos featured here.
Nancy Pulley’s poems are rich in imagery, insight, and empathy. She enters the life of whatever she’s writing about—whether it’s a lost parent, a “rag man” on a junk wagon, lady bugs trapped in the house, antiques longing to be touched, or a mist-breathing pond. We discover through her attentive poems that whatever is ordinary may also be enchanted. Here is a poet with a strong sense of place, happy to be rooted to the earth in Ogilville, Indiana.
Cover design by Dylan Pulley
Poems from Dream Puzzle:
Antique Store
Let yourself be lost in time.
You could be shopping
for old hats, walking into
a picture painted
a hundred years ago.
Lot’s wife may show up
in a silver salt-shaker.
This is a magic store if you
take the vase home
and rub it right, if you
plant those old beans,
if you open the gold-flecked pages
of a book and take the words
attentively into your mind.
It isn’t the money
that makes it happen here,
but your breath
in the ancient flute.
In this cluttered room, you
pick up things and
they become your life.
A key or a fountain pen,
an old jigsaw puzzle,
may work the past and future
together before your eyes.
Take your time in the store
before your time is taken.
The amber necklace, the people,
the dresser scarf, wait for your footsteps
on a wooden floor, the opportunity
after so many years, to be touched.
Antique Store
Let yourself be lost in time.
You could be shopping
for old hats, walking into
a picture painted
a hundred years ago.
Lot’s wife may show up
in a silver salt-shaker.
This is a magic store if you
take the vase home
and rub it right, if you
plant those old beans,
if you open the gold-flecked pages
of a book and take the words
attentively into your mind.
It isn’t the money
that makes it happen here,
but your breath
in the ancient flute.
In this cluttered room, you
pick up things and
they become your life.
A key or a fountain pen,
an old jigsaw puzzle,
may work the past and future
together before your eyes.
Take your time in the store
before your time is taken.
The amber necklace, the people,
the dresser scarf, wait for your footsteps
on a wooden floor, the opportunity
after so many years, to be touched.
Bob Pulley's sculptures with a pond in the background.
Security Light
I sit beside that mist-breathing pond,
that moon-filled pond, that pond
with fishes slapping water, and encounter
the part of me that is drowning, that lies below
a shivering surface, sometimes makes
its crazy belly flop of a leap
into the great open sky. Now, there is a light,
a slick of brightness oozing
over waters, crowding out the moon.
Night is a place for the imagining,
where each thought bubbles up big and sonorous
as a bullfrog’s call. I am afraid
of all things mysterious being found out,
lit up at the wrong moment, dumb
and transfixed in our relentless safety lights.
We need the night, the soft muttering
of ducks returning home
to some unseen inlet, the putting away
of our day beneath a cloak of black feathers.
I sit beside that mist-breathing pond,
that moon-filled pond, that pond
with fishes slapping water, and encounter
the part of me that is drowning, that lies below
a shivering surface, sometimes makes
its crazy belly flop of a leap
into the great open sky. Now, there is a light,
a slick of brightness oozing
over waters, crowding out the moon.
Night is a place for the imagining,
where each thought bubbles up big and sonorous
as a bullfrog’s call. I am afraid
of all things mysterious being found out,
lit up at the wrong moment, dumb
and transfixed in our relentless safety lights.
We need the night, the soft muttering
of ducks returning home
to some unseen inlet, the putting away
of our day beneath a cloak of black feathers.
Poems from Warren Avenue:
Junk Wagon
Beyond hollyhocks and click bugs
back in the black cinder alley
came the muffled thud
of horseshoes, the long neigh,
quick flick of the fly-clouded tail.
Then the lurch, the slow
forward motion
of a wooden box on wheels
carrying rags, a sensuous tangle
of neighbors’ unneeded clothing.
When creaking wheels
were even with the back gate,
we heard a call part carnival shill
part bible beating preacher
and a good part Negro spiritual.
“Rags” he said, or “Rag man.”
“Who’s got rags?” But it could have been
“Swing low,” or “Rock my soul.”
After supper, in late summer, we listened
to his deep bass pass the end
of the alley, move over a few streets, blend in
finally with cicada, whippoorwill, the low
sad trains, the huff and sigh of evening.
Junk Wagon
Beyond hollyhocks and click bugs
back in the black cinder alley
came the muffled thud
of horseshoes, the long neigh,
quick flick of the fly-clouded tail.
Then the lurch, the slow
forward motion
of a wooden box on wheels
carrying rags, a sensuous tangle
of neighbors’ unneeded clothing.
When creaking wheels
were even with the back gate,
we heard a call part carnival shill
part bible beating preacher
and a good part Negro spiritual.
“Rags” he said, or “Rag man.”
“Who’s got rags?” But it could have been
“Swing low,” or “Rock my soul.”
After supper, in late summer, we listened
to his deep bass pass the end
of the alley, move over a few streets, blend in
finally with cicada, whippoorwill, the low
sad trains, the huff and sigh of evening.
Ironing Day
I liked the way clothes rumpled in the basket
like a cluster of Peter Pan’s shadows
and how Mom stood, feet a little apart,
and ran the iron over blouses with purpose
as if to take away all the wrinkles of the world.
I liked the way the iron hissed and huffed
like a dragon, and steam rose up around
my mother’s face. I loved it when the sun
came through the kitchen window,
lit up my mother and the cloud surrounding her.
It was only a matter of time before I
was gathered to the ironing board, stitched to my mother
by this domestic thread, her blue-veined hand
coming from behind, covering my hand on the iron
until we played that ironing board like a violin.
I liked the way clothes rumpled in the basket
like a cluster of Peter Pan’s shadows
and how Mom stood, feet a little apart,
and ran the iron over blouses with purpose
as if to take away all the wrinkles of the world.
I liked the way the iron hissed and huffed
like a dragon, and steam rose up around
my mother’s face. I loved it when the sun
came through the kitchen window,
lit up my mother and the cloud surrounding her.
It was only a matter of time before I
was gathered to the ironing board, stitched to my mother
by this domestic thread, her blue-veined hand
coming from behind, covering my hand on the iron
until we played that ironing board like a violin.
Ghosts
When the plastic Halloween mask
of Casper the Friendly Ghost was put on my face,
the rubber band pinched
my head like a troubling thought.
Behind that mask, no one could see
my feverish worry, ghost stories from school
that were hovering in my mind. That night,
when spirits walked, I could hear my father
shuffling through the blood red maple leaves
of our tree lawn. His voice was in a cold
North wind and I imagined him
invisible, wanting to wear again the costume of his body.
I turned that sweet, smiling ghost face
up to the next neighbor, beginning to understand
that there would never, in my
whole life of longing, be enough candy.
When the plastic Halloween mask
of Casper the Friendly Ghost was put on my face,
the rubber band pinched
my head like a troubling thought.
Behind that mask, no one could see
my feverish worry, ghost stories from school
that were hovering in my mind. That night,
when spirits walked, I could hear my father
shuffling through the blood red maple leaves
of our tree lawn. His voice was in a cold
North wind and I imagined him
invisible, wanting to wear again the costume of his body.
I turned that sweet, smiling ghost face
up to the next neighbor, beginning to understand
that there would never, in my
whole life of longing, be enough candy.
Grape Jelly
When she picked the clusters of grapes
they dropped into the splint basket
with a satisfying plunk. She put them
in a huge enamel pan and while they cooked,
the house smelled of wildness, of the whole
outdoors brought in, of sweet skins
and juicy pulp, of plenty. The house
filled with grape scent from the toy box
in the front bedroom to the
cold, dark pantry. She felt full
with the scent, no longer a widow waiting
for the next veteran’s check.
The girls danced in and out of the kitchen
while she hung the white bag
over the faucet, ladled hot grapes
until the bag was bulging, until the bag
dripped bright purple into a waiting pan.
That color, like no crayon, like no paint,
stained the bag, her palms. Her daughters
loved to watch as she squeezed the cooling cloth
until the veins stood out on the back of her hands
as if she had somehow taken the arbor,
the grapes, the juice into her very blood.
When she picked the clusters of grapes
they dropped into the splint basket
with a satisfying plunk. She put them
in a huge enamel pan and while they cooked,
the house smelled of wildness, of the whole
outdoors brought in, of sweet skins
and juicy pulp, of plenty. The house
filled with grape scent from the toy box
in the front bedroom to the
cold, dark pantry. She felt full
with the scent, no longer a widow waiting
for the next veteran’s check.
The girls danced in and out of the kitchen
while she hung the white bag
over the faucet, ladled hot grapes
until the bag was bulging, until the bag
dripped bright purple into a waiting pan.
That color, like no crayon, like no paint,
stained the bag, her palms. Her daughters
loved to watch as she squeezed the cooling cloth
until the veins stood out on the back of her hands
as if she had somehow taken the arbor,
the grapes, the juice into her very blood.
An Interview with Nancy Pulley
Shari Wagner: Nancy, in addition to being a poet, you’re an avid gardener. I was impressed when I saw the lovely grounds around your home last August, an area that included flowerbeds, a vegetable garden, and even a small greenhouse. Could you talk about your impulse to write poems and your motivation to garden? How are these two activities connected within your life?
Nancy Pulley: I like how a person can start with the earth and through attention and care and work, they can create a garden with vegetables that are edible or flowers that are beautiful or sweet-scented. I have recently been fascinated with the idea of alchemy, of turning something common into metaphorical gold. It isn’t too different with the process of poetry. You start with that blank field and start caring for the words until something happens. I can’t seem to take the word “care” out of the equation. There is some play involved in both the garden and writing, but there is a personal involvement for me in both. When I am working with the earth or walking in nature, it is as if I find parts of myself out there, and the same with poetry. Discovery, surprise and comfort are there in the garden and in poetry.
Your deeply-moving book, Warren Avenue, explores a childhood that contained much loss. Your father died when you were only a year old, and your mother succumbed to breast cancer when you were ten. That comfort you just mentioned—were you able to find that as you wrote about memories that must have been painful? Did any alchemy occur?
In thinking about my childhood, I was able to imagine what my mother must have gone through as a single mother of three young girls, and as a result I filled out my memory of her and she came alive for me for those moments when I wrote towards her. I’ve only started to realize what was missing by not having a father. I think part of the alchemy is that the imagination can fill in whatever is missing in a life, can create words or paintings or music that fills the empty spaces.
In terms of comfort, when I was writing the poem about the ironing board, I felt like my mother was behind me guiding me with those blue-veined hands, her presence there after 55 years. In a way, when I put words around her death, the loss, it feels like I’ve caged something that was lurking just on the other side of the fence.
What is your writing process like? Do you have a routine that helps free your imagination to reach that "other side of the fence?"
I usually write three pages in my journal before I work on any poems. Someone suggested a long time ago, maybe Alice Friman, that you need to write at least three pages because the first page and a half is just getting to something deeper. I do find that the writing starts out more superficial, but by the second page some idea might come to light that was beyond the fence. It is a little like the unusual poetic ideas are buried and you have to write out the other stuff that is on top to get to them. Then I go back to my journals later to find poems or maybe just a line that I like.
Who are some of your favorite poets? What poet do you think has influenced you the most?
I started in college really liking the romantic poets, especially William Wordsworth: “The world is too much with us; late and soon, / Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.” Poetry was what started me to actually think for myself. Some other favorites are Rumi, Emily Dickinson, Mary Oliver, Rainer Marie Rilke, James Wright, Louis Gluck, and Wendell Berry.
The poet who influenced me the most is Emily Dickinson. I like the way she turns the common into something magical or mystical. During the women’s movement, I saw her as my ideal, a woman who could talk about important matters and be taken seriously. My favorite poem by her is “The Soul selects her own Society— / Then—shuts the Door—.” Some of her poems gave me permission to be the person I am today. I saw her as a woman alone, quietly writing about death, the soul, grief, rapture. The fact that she blazed that trail made it easier for me to walk there.
Like Dickinson, you're deeply rooted to a place. In Mapping the Muse: A Bicentennial Look at Indiana Poetry, your poem, "Heartland," celebrates the Midwest and Bartholomew County in particular. Could you reflect on what you appreciate about where you live and how it has influenced your poetry?
Once, an acquaintance who moved to Columbus from New York mocked Indiana for being boring. This sparked a whole journal entry. Here is a little of what I appreciate about the heartland: “No oceans stretching as far as the eye can see, but a landscape of cedar and pine ebbing and flowing, lunging like waves and our ordinary birds, redbirds, riding those dark green waves. . . . Will the coastlines ever understand this isn’t just an acceptance of second best? This is a lifelong love, a peaceful walk in a woodland glade, a soul that pops up with morels in spring, a heart that runs up under the bark of maple trees aching for spring, and every year there is sweet syrup.”
Columbus is also a cultural center, a place to enjoy art, dance, poetry, plays, and music. It is the best of both worlds, but in terms of my poetry, nature has been the primary influence. I see in the heartland a majestic commonness, and my poetry reflects that commonness in language and subject. I used to feel I wasn’t smart enough to write a different kind of poem. Now, I find myself looking for the common miracle, the spring ephemeral that comes up out of rot and dead leaves.
Before we close, do you have any advice to offer beginning poets?
I think I would just tell them what I still tell myself from time to time. Find a quiet place and write even if it is just two or three times a week. Read other people's poetry. Learn from others, then try to find your voice and don't feel like you have to write like other people. Play, experiment, and enjoy the process.
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"You start with that blank field
and care for the words until something happens." |