Pushcart 2015: Michael Kardos, “Animals” from Crazyhorse, #83

It’s nearly lunchtime and the woman on the phone is getting snippy, so I intentionally flub a word. “I know this must be fistering for you.”
“I beg your pardon?” she says.
“Fistering. Fisterating?”
“Do you mean ‘frustrating’?”
“Yes—I mean that. I use the wrong word sometimes,” I tell her, just as I’ve been taught to say. My confession will cause her temper to subside.
“But your English is really quite good,” she says.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “You are kind.”
“It’s the truth, Raj. Have you ever been to America?” She calls me Raj because she believes it’s my name. Because I told her it is.
“No, Josephine,” I tell her. That’s her name— Josephine Sanders. “Though one of my cousin attends U.C.L.A. He likes America very much.”
I know nothing about this woman other than her name, phone number, and computer model, but I sense she isn’t a bad person. Certainly, her frustration is warranted. The CD-ROM drive on her new computer shouldn’t already be failing.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the process of reading: the collaboration of writer and reader to produce meaning, aesthetic effect. Is the responsibility all on the writer? Does not the reader need to bring something as well? Do some authors, some works, expect a little more? Do some readers, some reads, fall short? When a story doesn’t work, is it due to empathic failure on at least one side – the failure of the writer to give the reader sufficient understanding of the conflict, or the inability of the reader to identify (or identify with) that conflict – that the story does not elicit an emotional response, or elicits a response that is not aesthetically satisfying?

This story is available online (thank you, Crazyhorse) so beware of spoilers ahead: as always, I urge anyone reading here to read the story before proceeding. I am not a literary critic or reviewer; I only report my own experience with what I read, and I wouldn’t want to prematurely contaminate another’s experience. And I’d enjoy hearing the experience others have had with this story.

As I read it for the first time, I noticed the “morphing” quality so many good stories seem to have. With the first paragraph I thought, “Oh, I see, it’s a story about a boy in India who connects with an American via a technical support call and it changes one of their lives in some way.” That frame didn’t last long, of course; tiny, well-placed clues kept undermining it, until I realized something else was going on. A few pages in, it suddenly became a story about an elaborate corporate con, though not the one I expected. Then it became two strangers-in-the-night, a lost dog, an underachiever, a confessional, and I got lost in too many subplots.

Whereas in “Blue” I saw it as metaphor, and thus I could roll with the objectively odd events that transpired, here the coincidences seemed trite and forced (a veterinary school dropout finds a sick lost puppy? Oh please) and I didn’t understand any of the whys: Why does the woman confess? Why does she turn a technical support call into phone sex? (I maybe figured that one out, actually: it was a desperate attempt to be recognized as human) Why does Raj/Charlie shut down when his efforts to help fail? And most of all, why on earth did Kardos write that end scene? There’s inevitable surprise, and there’s ridiculously overblown.

This is a failure of empathy, I thought; the author has failed to uphold his end of the bargain.

Half of that evaluation was accurate.

I’m still not sure whose fault it was. It might have been the dog’s. Just because they’re animals doesn’t mean they’re blameless. But I do know this: There are certain people in the world who have a knack for keeping the peace. And those people have a responsibility. I’m one of those people. I’ve always been one of those people.

I found the story online in PDF form; to make quoting easier (and typos in quoted text less likely), I copy/pasted it to my notes. As happens sometimes with PDFs, that didn’t go terribly well. All “fi” and “fl” combinations resolved to added spaces, which is easy to fix with a global replace. All paragraphing was lost, which is… not. Even though it’s a somewhat longish story, I decided to go through and restore one paragraph break at a time using the book text as a guide. Happily, this would do for a second read as well; I hadn’t been looking forward to that.

Something funny happened while I was finding paragraph breaks: I found the story. Hey, whatever works. And, as rooted in the mundane details of ordinary life as it is, the story is definitely metaphor.

It’s metaphor of how we don’t really care about each other, and what that leads to. It’s metaphor of exploitation: a business exploits those desperate for work, turning them into sub-exploiters who cooperate in the mission: to cheat those desperate for help, at which point those targets exploit whatever means they have to get what they need, and, when that fails, to lash out. Metaphor of a certain lack of persistence: we give up so easily, sometimes we give up on dreams, sometimes on rescue, sometimes on ourselves. We give up on empathy, because it’s too damn hard. That’s the kind of people we are, some of us. I was reminded again of Aesop’s Fable about the Scorpion and the Frog. It’s our nature.

But at one point I turn around and see that more and more people have gathered where we stood—new hires, upper management, the girl from the mailroom—and they’re all waiting their turn to hug my dog, who doesn’t squirm or protest at all as she’s passed around from person to person. She lets herself be folded into each set of arms, remaining completely calm, either because she’s sick or because of the cold or the strange surroundings, or, more likely, because that’s the kind of animal she is.

I do still think the ending is overblown and a bit trite. And the puppy, yeah, that’s a little much on the other end. And maybe that’s the clue: it’s metaphor. If we can all get our collective heads out of our collective asses – and let’s face it, some of us have had our heads up our asses so long, we’ve hung pictures on the walls and called it home – maybe we wouldn’t need helicopters and lost puppies. Maybe there won’t be so much empathic failure. But maybe that’s our nature.

There’s some nice rhythm in here, as well. Phone conversations that play musically. A sudden switch to passive voice that underlines the shift to empathic failure. And, oh, yes: there was empathic failure. The story is about empathic failure.

Funny, how a half-assed rereading turned this into an experience. That’s why I blog stories. Sometimes I have to be forced to overcome my nature.

Pushcart 2015: Susan Stewart, “Pine” (Poetry) from Paris Review, #207

"Ogham Tree Grove"  by Yuri Leitch

“Ogham Tree Grove” by Yuri Leitch

a homely word:
a plosive, a long cry, a quiet stop, a silent letter
           like a storm and the end of a storm,
the kind brewing
           at the top of a pine,
                       (torn hair, bowed spirits, and,
                               later, straightened shoulders)
who’s who of the stirred and stirred up:
          musicians, revolutionaries, pines.

I never realized “pine” had so many possibilities. If you’d like, read the poem online (thank you, Paris Review), and walk through the pines with me:

My first thought was that a phonetic dissection of the word “pine” was an odd way to start. In linguistics, “p” is indeed an unvoiced plosive consonant. “Aye”, yes, a long cry, aye, cry, changing shape along the way. Since my first connection with the word “pine” on reading this was “pine box” – that is, coffin – a long cry would be an appropriate association. But we don’t run into a pine box until later; there’s much more interesting stuff before then. Where was I – yes, the cry. Then, “a quiet stop”; now, the IPA charts I originally learned from had “n” as a nasal, but then I’ve also read about it as an alveolar fricative; and yes, there are those who define it as a stop. Susan Stewart’s a Princeton professor who won a MacArthur “Genius Grant”; I’m not going to argue with her if she wants to call it a stop. And the silent letter; who doesn’t read that and hear “the rest is silence” ?

But wait: we don’t really start with that at all, do we. We start with “a homely word.” “Homely” on face value means “ugly”, but it has meanings shading towards “simple” or “rustic” as well. Pine is an undistinguished wood. I happen to be very fond of it, as it’s hardy, plentiful, thus cheap, and can be very beautiful, or very plain. What I like most about it is that its knots, its flaws, are what make individual boards interesting and unique. It is, however, very soft, unless treated. I’m wondering if there’s some metaphor here, and for what. For people? For poetry? For life?

Or is pine just pine? In Pine-Sol and in pine: “…one means of knowing the real thing is the fake you find in school.” And we have humor, wordplay: “The air had a nip: pine / was traveling in the opposite direction.” Is this a turn signal? Have we have now begun the descent portion of our flight? I don’t think so; it’s way too early, isn’t it? School has just let out… does it start that early, the travelling in the other direction?

Now out of school, I learned a lot from this poem. I didn’t know the White Pine, aka Japanese Pine, often used for bonsai, grows its needles in telltale groups of five. But that’s just the beginning of what I learned:

An alphabet made of trees.
 
In the clearing vanished hunters
        left their arrowheads
        and deep cuts in the boulder wall:
                 petroglyphs, repeating triangles.

There is an alphabet made of trees, shown in the header art above: Ogham, where the pine tree is the ailm, something like an “a”: a single horizontal line. This alphabet is found in texts, and is carved on stones in Ireland. And of course, there is an online transliterator, though I have no idea who created it, or how accurate it is.

I also immediately thought of John Ashbery’s “Some Trees”, that poem I discovered through ModPo that creates a sense of interconnectedness even on a passing mention. So much interconnectedness, yet I struggle to find the overall structure of this poem.

The final stanza:

No undergrowth, though, in a pine forest.
 
Unlike the noisy wash
of dry deciduous leaves,
the needles blanket the earth
 
pliant beneath a bare foot,
stealthy,
        floating,
a walk through the pines.
 
Silence in the forest comes from books.

If you’ve ever walked in a pine forest, you know the spongy feel referenced here. I remember being terrorized by that feeling when I was younger, fearing the ground would absorb me at some point, frozen in place until I had to be carried out. And that last sentence leaves me breathless – an appropriate response, I think.

I see so much in those closing lines: “pliant” is so similar to “plant”; the indent on “floating” gives the word itself a floating sense; is the walk in the pines, and thus the poem, perhaps a life, now come to an end? Is the walk through the pines the reading of a poem on paper? Is there some strangeness to reading it via illuminated pixels instead? Or is it just about pines? I wish I could interpret intelligently.

But maybe interpretation is the wrong approach to this poem, to any poem. Maybe a poem is more than a balance sheet of symbols and sounds; maybe it’s the wind on which we fly, and there’s no need to quantify or characterize. I’m having this very argument, about another poem, with someone right now; the way always presents itself, doesn’t it; it’s up to us to see it, and, if possible, take it. And, by the way, if I see something different in this poem tomorrow, or next year, or in ten years, is it not inherent in poetry that it grow with me, adapt itself to every “me” that reads it, however separated in time and thought they might be?

So what is the poem as a whole, how does it flow, how does it mean? I see the words, but does it make a sentence, a paragraph, a unified idea with a beginning, middle, end? Is it a lifespan: birth in a word, the individuation of sounds and letters, gathering meaning as it goes along, learning to communicate and have useful function, culminating in a pine box, ending in silence of discarded needles, while the tree itself goes on to make more needles? Is the linguistic beginning a layout of the poem: stanzas in turn plosive, cry, stop – the rest is silence –

Or is it just a meditation on the word “pine” and the images it brings the poet?

I’ll admit, I’ve lost the forest for the trees here. But you’ll have to admit, too: they’re pretty awesome trees.

Pushcart 2015: Edward Hoagland, “Hippies and Beats” (non-fiction) from New Letters, #80.1

Being a little younger than the Beat generation writers (although my first book was published in the same year, 1956, as Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and Other Poems) and yet older than the mainstream Hippie movement later on, I observed both the certain skeptical affinity.

I was uncertain through much of this essay. A reminiscence? I don’t sense much affection, or even much connection to the people and things that went before. There’s some compare/contrast, but it’s a short essay, just over four pages, so how informational can it be? For such an august literary personage with such an interesting past (he literally ran off to join the circus as a kid, served in the army, graduated from Harvard, travelled the world writing about peoples and places; how many people can claim those disparate things?) this seems an odd approach.

The two movements – the Beats of the 50s and the Hippies of the 60s – sometimes get conflated by virtue of the shared flouting of convention, but Hoagland points out some fundamental differences: how women are viewed (“The Beats were patriarchal, for the most part”) and the anti-intellectual intellectualism (“The Beats didn’t read very much that wasn’t Buddhist or Beat, but they weren’t anti-literate, like many Hippies, who seemed to regard reading as an Establishment activity”).

And, by the way – did any of it make a difference? How’s the Establishment doing today? Does anyone get the sense that protest itself has been co-opted? Then again, maybe it always has been that way – per deliciously telling phrases like “mainstream Hippie movement”.

But towards the end, music plays in the language, and my heart was indeed captured:

Freedom and ambivalence were what the Hippies sought. The winters were character-building and they learned carpentry, chainsawing, latrine-digging if they stuck around, while their main stoner drug edged toward being decriminalized. But that was less romantic than hitting the road and spilling the beans in compulsive cadences, banging around, depending on the kindness of strangers. My rocking-chair friend and my girlfriend both also died too young, perhaps from a shared distrust of doctors, or from smoking fungicide marijuana. Ginsberg intoned famously at the beginning of “Howl” that “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed…” Dubious, but certainly people he loved.

From the rhythm of that third sentence – a rhythm of rocking chairs and cadences – to the aching nostalgia of the last: Is anything as glorious, as significant, in the retelling as in the experience?

Pushcart 2015: Afaa Michael Weaver, “Visit #1″ (Poetry) from Ploughshares, #38.4


 
 
 
Your grandfather and I walk alike,
each of us counting the brittle spaces
in getting older. At the desk I explain
I want to see my son, and I see you
are now digits on a sheet….
 
 

A poem reveals itself many ways, sometimes recreating itself as it does so. With each sentence, these words move us to a different place, and we come to see, in some faint sense, what the speaker is feeling.

At first, it’s a poem about generations. It remains that throughout, but the implication of the passing of generations is different as we read on: the desk? Digits on a sheet? At first I thought, a hospital. Because that’s what I understand. But if I better understood the world from other points of view, I might have caught on earlier: a father and grandfather are visiting the son in jail.

Each line reveals another aspect of the experience, as the father recalls trips to school, and compares them to this visit. In last year’s Pushcart, I encountered Weaver for the first time through his poem “Blues in Five/Four, The Violence in Chicago”. It, too, had this sense of looking back from the present. But that was more of something lost, whereas here, it’s more of something continued. But this visit is also seen as different.

                   … It is the Detention Center,
not school, not the principal, but men
with violence as hope. My father
and I have come to see you, and we
so much want you to outlive us.
To bury you would pull us down
into the spiked pit of grief that kills.

And yet this is the reality so many must face. It becomes an issue of social justice for many of us, but for this father, and this grandfather, it’s something much more personal, much more painful. “I pray for you. It is my only secret,” says the speaker. I wonder: why a secret? From whom? From the son, who would scorn such sentiment?

Although the poem is not available online, Weaver includes a brief author’s note in the issue of Ploughshares in which this appears. It may be as important as the poem itself. Our children – how can we do this to them? How can we allow it?

Pushcart 2015: Russell Banks, “Blue” from The Barcelona Review, #82

Art by sqbr (modified)

Art by sqbr (modified)

Ventana steps off the number 33 bus at 103rd Street and North-west Seventh Avenue in Miami Shores. It’s almost 6:00 P.M., and at this time of year the city stays hot and sticky thick till the sun finally sets at 8:00. She walks quickly back along Seventh, nervous about carrying so much cash, thirty-five one-hundred-dollar bills. She doesn’t want to pay for the car with a check and then have to wait till the check clears before she can drive it home—no way a used-car dealer who doesn’t know her personally will accept a check from a black woman and let her take the goods home before the check clears. She wants the car now, today, so she can drive to work at Aventura tomorrow and for the first time park in the employees’ lot and on Sunday after church drive her own damn car, drive her own damn car, to the beach at Virginia Key with Gloria and the grandkids.

Since this story is available online (thank you, Barcelona Review ) I’m not going to worry about spoilers; this makes it easier to talk about. However, I urge any reader here who hasn’t yet read the story to do so before proceeding. Like any horror story, the effect is in cumulative construction and the intensification of suspense, and is always best enjoyed first-hand and unspoiled.

Horror story? Some, including the author, might be surprised to hear it described that way. But that’s how I was thinking of it, from the first paragraph. I suppose “suspense” might be another word. “A metaphoric description of daily life for a significant portion of the American population” would work, too. I was a nervous wreck, reading it.

What is she going on about now, you wonder.

Ventana is a decent, reasonable woman moving into middle age, her kids grown, her husband now an ex. She’s been saving $100 a month for nearly 10 years, and has decided on this day to buy a car with the $3500. And I knew, as soon as I read the first paragraph, that something awful was going to happen to this woman. Because why create such a likeable, sympathetic character, and put her in such a banal situation, if not to put her through hell – my favorite writing advice from Steve Almond.

The suspense as I read was in what kind of disaster Ventana would encounter. A random mugging on her way to the car dealership? The more sophisticated robbery of hucksterism by a couple of greedy salespeople who know a pigeon when they see one and have the plucking down to a science? The snarling guard dog she’s locked in the lot with? The random teenager ambling by in the night? The absurd callousness of the fire department rescue squad? The news crew in full vulture mode? The life-or-death roulette every black person plays in every encounter with the police?

A horror story of everyday life.

It’s quieter than usual out there in the world beyond the fence. Traffic is light, and no one is on the street—she can see Seventh Avenue all the way north to the bus stop at 103rd and in the opposite direction down to Ninety-fifth Street, where her pink shotgun bungalow is located three doors off Seventh, the windows dark, no one home. The narrow wooden garage she emptied out a week ago and where she planned to shelter her car tonight is shut and still emptied out, unused, waiting. Along Seventh the streetlights suddenly flare to life. The number 33 bus, nearly empty, rumbles past. A police cruiser speeds by in the opposite direction, lights flashing like the Fourth of July.

The story is included in Banks’ 2014 collection, A Permanent Member of the Family. In a generally positive review of that book for the Minneapolis Star Tribune, Malcolm Forbes criticizes this one story as “so pock-marked with plot holes the reader is forced to suspend disbelief to make it work.” If you look at it as your typical realism, that’s a fair point – Would even the most stereotypically bloodsucking leech of a car salesperson forget a customer is on the lot and lock up for the night? Is the Miami-Dade public service sector really so incompetent as to tell a 911 caller a rescue isn’t a rescue, but a break-in, and the local police precinct should be called instead? Is any news crew really so worried about makeup and lighting and camera angles as to walk away from a woman trapped behind a spiked fence with a snarling guard dog because the story just isn’t interesting enough? For that matter, is a 47-year-old woman going to climb on top of a Ford Escape (in this case, not so much of an escape) to evade attack, and go to sleep, when she has a cell phone in her purse?

That cell phone brings in an interesting line of inquiry: why doesn’t she call someone? Is the fear of looking ridiculous so strong, as to be life-threatening? Has human trust eroded to the point where we can’t depend on others in emergencies? Is it vanity, foolishness – or fear of the connection, the indebtedness, the possibility of refusal? I know times when I’ve asked for help, and times when I’ve paid for services I could ill afford because I was too afraid to ask for help. But if my life were in danger? Why did Banks include the cell phone in the story? What element of character was he revealing? Was he giving us a way to blame the victim? Is this yet another catastrophe Ventana faces – being blamed for her own doom?

I don’t see plot holes at all, because I don’t see the story as realism. I’d rather see the entire story as a metaphor for the kinds of dangers someone like Ventana – a middle-aged black woman with no particular status or power, but a strong sense of pride and decency – faces every day of her life. If the random thieves don’t get you, the greed just might. If the cops don’t shoot you, there’s still the guard dog. Life as suspense, moving through one peril at a time. And sure, there’s a cell phone in her purse, but that means exposing herself in a position of weakness, and seeing that weakness in the other’s eyes with every meeting from then on. And there’s the usual places to call for help, but help never comes, because a black woman in mortal danger just doesn’t play as well on the 11 o’clock news as a cat stuck in a tree. And it’s all her own fault, anyway.

Now, if I read it that way, I see the point of view of the story as: in the end, it’s nature that’s gonna get us. But not nature in its natural state: Nature, refashioned into a form needed by human possessiveness, to fit a need created by human failings. Maybe that’s what we feel gripping our leg, right now.

I don’t think this requires suspension of disbelief at all. I think it may be the most realistic story I’ve read in a long time. And that is pretty horrifying.

Pushcart XXXIX / BASS 2014: Molly McNett, “La Pulchra Nota” from Image #78

15th century illustration from Bartholomew Anglicus, 'On the Properties of Things'

15th c. illustration of a leper rattle from Bartholomew Anglicus,’On the Properties of Things’

My name is John Fuller. I am nine and twenty years of age, born in the year of our Lord 1370, the son of the learned musician and the youngest of twelve children – though the Lord in his wisdom was pleased to take five brothers and two sisters back to the fold. After a grave accident, I no longer possess the use of my hands. Any inaccuracies in this document are not the fault of the scribe, who enjoys a high reputation, but of my own mind. My pain is not inconsiderable. However, I will continue frankly, in as orderly a fashion as I am able, so that these words may accompany my confession to the honorable Vicar of Saint Stephen’s.
My story begins as God knitted me in the womb.

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time over the past few months immersed in medieval theology courtesy of Dante Alighieri. Maybe it’s because I can put myself in the story in all three key roles. Maybe it’s because there’s so much crammed in these fourteen pages – sorrow, love, joy, longing, heartbreak, loneliness, alienation, sacrifice, guilt, stoicism bordering on learned helplessness, a harsh and compassionless justice. Whatever the reason: I absolutely loved this story.

Because all the elements of the story fit so well together, it’s impossible to discuss in detail without spoilers; the first paragraph itself is a kind of spoiler, in fact. I haven’t found it online, so I’ll just make some general observations and encourage everyone to find a copy of BASS 2014 (or back issue #78 of Image, a literary journal with a “commitment to artistic excellence and religious truth… poised to make a lasting impact on the future of our national culture”) to see for yourself how McNett weaves together a music teacher, his wife, his student, and the often inscrutable Will of God.

I also admire the process she went through to get here. In an interview with Dan Klefstad of NPR affiliate WNIJ, she explains how she went from a story that felt too “Glee” to the 14th century via research on the history of vocal instruction. That writer’s decision to move the story from a contemporary choir to the 14th century was genius, and allowed so much else to be brought in: socially moderated rules of conduct which, although passé today, are based on aspects of human relationships, emotions, and desires that have not changed in six hundred years, and the overwhelming pressure of religion.

To get the setting and diction right, she read several period texts:

One was a diary written by a man who had a large family; within a month they all died except him.
“I don’t know if it was to the Plague or what happened,” McNett says. “But with every death he gave thanks to God or `Divine Providence’ and so forth. There was no bitterness and almost no sorrow, just complete acceptance.” McNett says she’s not a religious person, but was deeply moved by these accounts. “So I wanted to include at least one person in the story who had that faith.”

~~Molly McNett

John Fuller has more faith on his worst day than most of us do all our lives. Except for one bad moment; yet as for many of us, it’s one bad moment on which everything turns. And it’s the skill of the story that makes me wonder if all that faith is really such a good idea: doesn’t it prevent change? Doesn’t it leave him mired in the past, in rage buried underneath every “Praise be”?

Ken Nichols at Great Writers Steal (one of my favorite craft-oriented writer’s blogs) points out how carefully the story is focused. I’ve always found historical fiction to be problematic, but as Ken points out, “McNett doesn’t focus too closely on the clothing, language, food, science or customs of her specific time and place. Instead, she keeps our attention on what we share with John Fuller, Katherine and Olivia.” He’s absolutely right: what’s important about the setting is the belief system and the emotional lives of the characters, not what anyone’s wearing. The story does a great job of drawing us into those elements.

And those elements are why the story must be set in the 14th century; a contemporary setting wouldn’t make sense. John wouldn’t accept his wife’s vow of celibacy, and/or he’d hop right into bed with his student; in either case, the story would have to be very different. It’d be the story I’ve read a hundred times. This one’s a lot more interesting. Though the mechanisms are less familiar, the story is generated by fundamental motivations I understand. It’s a kind of defamiliarization.

Some stories are highly visual; this one is highly aural. John remembers two sounds from his childhood, one ugly and one beautiful: the leper’s rattle, and the song of the nightingale, his first encounter with what Jerome of Moravia called “la pulchra nota,” the beautiful note. When his wife labors with their children, she makes such a racket the midwife resorts to stuffing her ears with cotton. And there is another encounter with la pulchra nota, as one of his singing students, and a sweet young thing at that, achieves the perfect note:

I would like to end my story at this moment. I would like to linger here at the very crux of joy, where the note, and these words, were as one to me.
But I cannot. I then understood something about music that I had not learned from my father, or Jerome of Moravia, or Isidore of Seville. La pulchra nota the is the moment of beauty absolute, but what follows – a pause, however small – is the realization of its passing. Perhaps no perfection is without this silent realization.

After ecstasy, there’s nowhere to go but down (remember that next time a blushing bride declares her wedding day “the happiest day of my life” – because she might just be, cursedly, right) so it’s no surprise when Olivia’s voice sounds less sweet on future notes.

Steve Almond gives writing advice along the lines of “it’s your job as a writer to put your characters through hell” and McNett certainly does give John a full range of emotional experiences: contentment, grief, sexual frustration, desire, joy, disappointment, rage, guilt, and finally, a kind of passive acceptance that seems saintly – or insane. Perhaps a touch of both. Each twist felt very authentic to me; it wasn’t something written to create a plot, but a pitch-perfect (sorry) recording of an emotional life.

Through the story, I was pulling for John, and that’s part of the writer’s job, too (“give the reader someone to care about”). But I was always aware: John’s wife has her own story as well, as does his student. It’s easy to create a hero among villains – that’s soap opera – but to blend together three characters with elements of each – three flawed noble souls who can’t quite get outside themselves to see another’s needs – is where a real story happens.

[Post originally written in Fall 2014 as part of the BASS 2014 read]

I see this story was also selected for a Pushcart 2015 Prize. I couldn’t agree more.

Pushcart 2015: Hillary Gravendyk, “Your Ghost” (Poetry) from Sugar House Review, #9

Glatzmaier-Roberts model of magnetic field reversal

Glatzmaier-Roberts model of magnetic field reversal

Parted from the scene of old disasters
a magnet pulling one memory in two directions

Sometimes I get stuck when reading Pushcart. I can sense power in a work, but I don’t know what it “means” or how to talk about it. Sometimes I’m just intimidated by a famous name. And sometimes I feel as though I’m treading on sacred ground, and I’m unsure of the appropriate attitude. This is most pronounced when, as in this case, I read the work of a recently deceased poet.

Here is again where I wish I better understood how to “really” read poetry. But all I can do is record my own observations and reactions, and hope that I accumulate some wisdom from the overall experience.

The first thing I noticed with this poem was how the punctuation isn’t visible, but is still there via line breaks. I see very little enjambment (if any) in this poem; each line is a clause unto itself. The ghost of punctuation, unseen, still directs the reading of the poem.

The sense of point-of-view is explicit in the poem, right from the beginning – a magnet pulled in two directions. What a great image: north and south; yet north and south attract each other, so the two poles also unite (I don’t think actual magnets work that way; I have a few physics courses to take before I can understand just how inappropriate that interpretation may be). I wonder if the lines of the couplets are the two directions: hand/mind, puddle/stone; we/you; the braiding of hair “into a soft basket”, a wonderfully intimate image, coupled with holding “nature’s charms at arms length”. And why is the apostrophe missing in “arms”? Not possessive, but plural?

The phrase that jumps off the page at me is “every angled enmity” both because of the initial vowels, and because of the tongue-twisting nature of it. And then, the brow leads to slope leads to axis leads to lines: from concrete body to abstract figures, through serial associations that circle back to a lined brow. The magnet: two poles at opposite ends that pull together.

I know these roads by heart and all the ways back in
An arrow strung up like a party favor points the way

There’s no capitalization for quite some time, either, other than the first word, and “I”. So when I came to a capital, it seemed like it must be a very significant placement, perhaps a section break – but it occurs in the second line of a couplet, then is followed by three repetitions of “I want”. How does that work? In a poem about a lost loved one, does a capital signal a “break” in the couple, as well as the couplet? It comes after finding “all the ways back in”, a phrase that I use quite a bit. The magnet again: the opposite fields leap from the poles, but find their way back to each other.

To read this particular poem, knowing that the poet passed away not long ago at the age of 35: sacred territory. Poem about memory, ghost, magnet, as memory, ghost, magnet pulling in two directions – the sorrow of loss and the joy of art – then finding its way back to unity. Here is where I wish I knew how to really read poetry.

Pushcart 2015: Inara Verzemnieks, “The Last Days of the Baldock” (non-fiction) from Tin House, #57

Given the chance, the more sentimental among them would probably return in summer. Summer was when it seemed as if all the residents of the Baldock threw open the doors of their homes to the bronchial, hawking churnings of the passing semis and wheeled coolers out to the picnic tables that had not yet surrendered to rot. There they would sit, cans clutched in cracked hands, as their dogs whipped smaller and smaller circles around the trunks of the Douglas firs to which they were chained. In those moments, it was possible for them to imagine that they had merely stopped there briefly on a long road trip, that they were no different from the men and women with sunglasses perched on the tops of their heads who trooped in and out of the nearby restrooms, mussed and squinting.

We think we know people, based on very little information about them. Say “librarian”, “football player”, “mother”, “homeless”, and you fill in a lot of blanks to come up with a general idea of what this person is like – quiet or outgoing, smart or stupid, pleasant or scary. Good or bad. Worth knowing, or not.

We think we know people. But we don’t.

Journalist Inara Verzemnieks stumbled upon a community of people who were clinging to the last rung of society’s ladder, trying desperately not to slip further – because they know, as we all do, how hard it is to climb back up even one rung, let alone the whole stretch. It’s a community that was about to be involuntarily dispersed. Perhaps that was the best thing for it; perhaps not. But what struck me was how it challenged every assumption we might make about the people who bear the labels we stick on them, and how uncertain it left me as to right and wrong, good and bad, should and shouldn’t.

The community was that of a group of people who lived at the Baldock rest stop on an Oregon interstate. Homeless, you might say. Or, you might not.

The access they gave me didn’t seem to depend on my being a reporter… Instead, I suspect, they were judging me by a more subtle rubric, reading me for clues that would help them gauge my capacity to understand.

Verzemnieks discovers the Baldock in the course of researching a story of a meal-delivery service. She discovers people like Joleen, who’d lived in a van with her boyfriend for three years on top of some intermittent stays when the weather was too cold for a campground. Joleen’s kids visit her at the Baldock on Mother’s Day. She meets The Mayor, who served as a sort of intake worker: “I don’t have money, booze, or cigarettes to give you, and don’t give me any shit. But I always have food to share. Ain’t no one out here gonna starve.”

We meet Ray (Joleen calls him “Dad” as they’ve forged a particularly strong supportive bond), who feeds his dog Sweetpea and gasses up his old motor home with his Social Security check. He may have lived at the Baldock for twelve, thirteen, seventeen years, no one’s sure. And people like Jack, the newbie, caught first in the housing market collapse, then in trucking industry cutbacks.

It’s easy to sit in judgment on the homeless. Why don’t they get a job? Why don’t they make better decisions? It’s harder to look close, and realize each story is unique. Yes, mental illness and general foolishness come into play, but so does bad luck. And don’t forget: it’s not as easy as you think to get back into society, once you’ve fallen out of it. Yes, some people do it. Then again, some people are Yo-Yo Ma and Einstein and Gandhi. Some people are indeed talented, and that includes a talent for navigating modern life. And some people are not so talented at that particular skill, or perhaps they just lack a support structure – family, friends with extra rooms and generosity. That doesn’t mean they aren’t people.

“You know what I love most about Thanksgiving?” Jack said. “Football. It’s been months since I’ve actually seen a game on TV, not just listen to it on the radio.” Everyone nodded and they talked about how luxurious it would be to sit on a sofa again, stupid with turkey, tasked with no other concerns than whether to flick between the college or pro games. It struck them all as the height of decadence, of insanely good fortune.

The Last Days started with a maintenance worker informing the residents the rest stop would now be the responsibility of the Oregon Travel Experience. The handwriting was on the wall:

Others, like members of any neighborhood group upon hearing rumors of possible planning changes, turned to the public computer at the community center for reconnaissance.…And though none of what they could find was written in what one would call plain, unadorned speech, one phrase in particular, about helping the rest stops achieve their “full economic development potential,” seems to them to translate as having something to do with money – be that making money or saving it. Either way, it was not a concept that they suspected would live comfortably alongside homelessness. Intuition told him that much.

Their intuition is straight-on: “the Baldock Restoration Project” was underway. Notice, it was the rest area, not the people, being restored. A solar energy installation was planned. The State of Oregon has published an official report citing the US Department of Transportation’s “environmental justice Order 5610.2″ and outlining the planning and execution of the relocation of the Baldockians.

To their credit, they didn’t just send in State Troopers; they did make efforts to understand the community, to meet different needs with different solutions. Yet I wonder why, if they were to select one image of one Baldock resident, they chose the one they did.

It’s hard to find fault with a solar energy project; it’s not easy to be against finding stable living situations for people living in their cars. If I’d just read the Oregon report, I might think they’d done a good thing. But now, having met these people on a more intimate level, I’m not sure. The local news story actually offends me with its high-and-mighty, “Ain’t it Awful” hysterics.

This is what point-of-view can do. And it occurs to me, maybe the “forward/back” “good/bad” theme I’ve been so determined to force on everything, is really a matter of point of view. The Oregon report, while including details of the Baldockians’ varied stories and attempting to take a sociological view, to evince concern and “environmental justice”, is clearly from the observer’s side. Verzemnieks tells the story from the residents’ side. She doesn’t skim over the ugly stuff, but she presents these people as people first. It’s a lot easier to feel compassion for people, when you see them as people, as one of us, instead of one of them.

“Some people would say they wouldn’t be caught dead living like this, in this nasty old RV,” [Ray] said. “But you know what, I consider myself so fortunate to have this. Because when you’ve had nothing – and I’ve been there – living like a no good dirty bum, low as you can go, in the streets, and people won’t even look you in the face, like you’re an animal or something and you don’t have shit, you’re thankful for whatever you can get. Let me tell you, I’ve never been so thankful.”
He jabbed his face with his fists, trying to hide the tears.
“I don’t know what I’d do if I lose this. I can’t live like that again.”
No one spoke.

The piece ends with an intense emotional punch as we see that even success has its price.

Oregon seems to feel it solved the problem. Verzemnieks doesn’t seem so sure. I wonder if there is a solution. I wonder about Joleen, and Jack. I wonder about Ray and Sweetpea. I wonder.

Pushcart 2015: Kathleen Ossip, “Elegies” (Poetry) from Poetry Magazine, December 2013

de Kooning: "Elegy", 1939

de Kooning: “Elegy”, 1939

AMY WINEHOUSE
 
All song is formal, and you
Maybe felt this and decided
You’d be formal too. (The eyeliner, the beehive: formal.)
 
When a desire to escape becomes formal,
It’s dangerous….

The formal definition of “elegy” fits right in to this theme I insist on imposing upon the works in this volume: looking forward, looking back, either /or: the first half of a classic elegy expresses loss, the second half, hope as what was great about the lost one is incorporated into the lives of the living. I’m not sure these elegies fit that exact description. I’m not sure they need to; they do other things.

These five elegies (available online, thank you, Poetry Magazine) come from Ossip’s most recent poetry collection, The Do-Over which is, she said in a Bookslut interview before the book was completed, centered on her own loss of a family member dear to her.

In this section she elegizes a series of public figures: Amy Winehouse, Steve Jobs, Troy Davis, Lucian Freud, and Donna Summer. That’s a wide variety of death there; just the names generate a series of feelings ranging from pity over a life lost too soon to anger over injustice to admiration of talent or accomplishment to a sort of embarrassed nostalgia (come on, you loved disco and you know it). Maybe we feel all those things at once, and much more, with the death of anyone close to us.

TROY DAVIS
 
The clock is obdurate,
Random, and definite.
Obdurate the calendar.
You thump on the cot: another signature.
 
Did it didn’t do it would do it again.
And if a deferred dream dies? Please sign the petition.

In most, there’s an italicized word or phrase: “Understood by music”; “deferred”; “All”. Do these relate to the elegized, to the elegist, to the society that saw the passing of these figures? Words are also repeated, and unexpected words: “Obdurate” and “signature” in Troy Davis’ elegy. Who was it that was obdurate? Davis was, as he maintained his innocence even as sat in the execution chamber. So was the State, who didn’t care about conflicting eyewitness stories and possible coercions. Signatures on petitions to stay the execution were more numerous but less powerful than the signatures that authorized the State to kill him. The italicized “deferred” in this poem breaks my heart; so much is deferred in Davis’ life/death story, not the least of which is our own humanity when we – and it is we, since we allow it – push the plunger on the fatal syringe.

I also see a lot of wordplay in these pieces: “Effects worth undertaking” in Lucien Freud wouldn’t have the same connotation if not in an elegy; “Vengeance is mind says the body” fits Steve Jobs perfectly, as does the repetition of “silver” in multiple forms throughout. Does “silver” have some innate connection to him? Does “silverish” bring to mind imitation, or “silverfish” – book-destroying bugs (bugs!). I’m not sure if it’s seemly to feel such delight as I felt in these elegies, but I admire the thought that went into them, each word, each phrase.

But let’s not leave out the most obvious, wordplay of all: each poem is an acrostic with the subject’s name as the spine word. For some reason, that feels like overkill to me, though I do love a crostic (to which my own obsession with mesostics will attest), and the use of restriction seems both appropriate, and counterappropriate, to an elegy. Death is the ultimate stricture on all of us – or maybe life is. Perhaps death is also the most freeing moment of human existence. Looking back, or looking forward? Is looking the operative word?

There is a sort of elegiac turn in the poems, though not necessarily from grief to hope. It’s more a turn from the departed, to the bereaved. Ossip’s Bookslut interview, done before the book was completed, shows this is a possibility, as she talks with Joseph Harrington about who’s voice dominates an elegy:

Ossip:…the peril of writing an elegy is that you’re going to insert yourself into it and make it not about the other person but about your own grief…. — your grief is part of the story, too. So that’s maybe an honest way — or another honest way — of approaching an elegy, because you know your own grief in a way that you can never know another person….
Harrington: I think that’s true about elegy; it’s about surviving the other person.
Ossip: And it’s about the voice of the bereaved.

All of these high-profile deaths occurred between July 2011 and May 2012; the collection was published this year, but apparently was completed in 2013. I wonder if that was the period during which Ossip was dealing with the death of someone dear to her, or if they were chosen in retrospect. That feels significant to me as well. Inward, outward; forward, back; which way was she looking? Which way do we look as we read them?

Pushcart 2015: Ada Limón, “How to Triumph Like a Girl” (Poetry) from Gulf Coast, #27.


 
 
I like the lady horses best,
how they make it all look easy,
like running 40 miles per hour
is as fun as taking a nap, or grass.
I like their lady horse swagger,
after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up!
 
 

Look what we do to girls. We paint them with their horses, but only if they’re wearing frilly dresses and a happy smile and carrying a soft, feminine rose.

We might even put a girl on a racehorse, but only if her hair is long and flowing and the horse is dancing and everything is beautiful and graceful and gentle.

I didn’t realize this until I went looking for images of a strong woman with a horse. Go see for yourself: the woman wears a flowy dress (or if she’s a cartoon or game figure, a metal bikini), or wears jeans – action clothes – but merely stands, actionless, next to a horse. We fear the power of girls. And when we grow up, we fear the power of women.

Ada Limón ain’t having none of that.

She starts, perhaps, with a sonnet form, that most romantic, genteel of structures. But not a sonnet (it’s available online, thank you Gulf Coast) – her form has 18 lines, two breaks, three sections. She turns the form into what she needs it to be – and that is the definition of power.

“Ears up, girl” – a slight sexual connotation, perhaps, but I hear “Chin up” in this day when women are stripped of rights worldwide, in a day when the US seems determined to force women back into kitchens and bedrooms (except for poor women, of course, who are forced into low-wage jobs because how else can Wall Street and Washington survive except on the backs of uneducated single mothers).

What do ears do? They listen. They allow girls to listen to their racehorse heart.

The same power that turned a sonnet into a paean to female strength can turn little girls, who long ago were transformed from curious engines of creativity into insecure waifs waiting for permission, back again into what they was meant to be, whether that be a quiet poet with flowing hair, or an Olympic medalist. Put her in touch with her racehorse heart, and a girl will find the form that suits her.

Don’t you want to believe it?

I do. But it gets harder all the time.

Pushcart 2015: Frederic Tuten, “The Tower” from Conjunctions, #60

The Library in Michel de Montaigne's Tower

The Library in Michel de Montaigne’s Tower

Sometimes his urine was cloudy. Sometimes gritty with what he called “gravel.” Sometimes his piss flowed bloody and frightening. No matter how disturbing, Montaigne recorded his condition in his travel journal as coolly as he did the daily weather. He was always in various degrees of pain, and he noted that too, but dispassionately, like a scientist in a white lab coat.
Even before he suffered from kidney stones and the burning pain that came with them, Montaigne had long thought about death, and not only his own. He had thought about how to meet it and if doing so gracefully would change the encounter. His closest friend, the man he had loved more than anyone in the world, was to love more than anyone in the world, had died with calm dignity. In his last minutes, in his last words, his dear friends did not begrudge life or beg for more time or express regrets over what was left undone or make apologies to those he might have or had offended or injured. Montaigne thought that when death approached, he would neither wave him away nor welcome him, but say to death’s shadow on the wall, “Finally, no more pain.”
I put my book aside when she walked in.
“I’m leaving you,” she said. She had a red handbag on her arm.

I don’t know enough about Michel de Montaigne, or about Blaise Pascal, for that matter, to do full justice to this story. In fact, one of the ways I can tell how much I like this story, even though I don’t fully understand the nuances, is that it interests me greatly in finding out more about these two philosophers. However, for the moment, I will have to approach this at my current level. As it happens, it works there, too.

The observation of the red handbag, made after hearing his wife is leaving him, tells us a great deal about the narrator. But maybe too much: I can’t decide if he is someone so afraid of the prospect of losing his wife – in the context of Montaigne’s loss of his best friend – that he escapes to a kind of detached observation, or if he truly is the detached thinker, observer, analyst, who does not bother to immerse himself in the everyday experience to feel anything about her departure. Or, for that matter, if she’s a flake who pulls this every other week. Maybe it’s what she routinely says when she goes out for an afternoon.

The conversation that continues after the above opening doesn’t shed any light on the matter:

“For how long?”
“And what about Pascal, will you take him?”
“He’s always favored you.” I was very glad. I could see Pascal sitting in the dining-room doorway, pretending not to listen.
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Don’t you care to know why I’m leaving?” she asked, petulantly, I thought.
“I suppose you’ll tell me.”
“I will, but maybe another time.” She stared at me as if wondering who I was. Then she started to speak but was interrupted by a car-horn blast. I’ve looked out the window and saw a taxi with the man behind the wheel.
“May I help you with your bags?” I asked.
“I’ll send for them later, if you don’t mind.”
“Who will you send?”
“The person who comes.” She stared at me another moment and then left.

Now, this is clearly a literary conversation. It’s much too sly and studied to be the sort of thing people actually say to each other; it couldn’t be used in a movie script unless it was a high-concept piece. But I still loved it. Realism is great, but it’s also nice to sometimes read a more stylized discourse, one that is more of a fencing match than an exchange of information.

Montaigne went to his Tower for ten years to study and write, after his best friend died. Our narrator goes to his study, after his wife leaves.

It welcomed me as never before. My desk with its teetering piles of books and loose sheets of notes and a printer and computer at the Chinese lamp, little pots full of outdated stamps and rubber bands, and instant-coffee jar crammed with red pencils, green paperclips heaped in a chipped, blue teacup, a stapler, an old rotary phone, framed prints of Goya’s Puppet and Poussin’s Echo and Narcissus, Cézanne’s Bathers, and van Gogh’s Wheat Field in Rain greeted and accepted me without any conditions. I could sit at my desk all day and night and never again be presented with the obligation to clear or clean an inch of the disorder. Now, if I wished, I could even sweep away every single thing on the desk and leave it there and hungry. Or I could chop up and burn the desk in the fireplace. I would wait for a cold night. There was plenty of time now to make decisions.

I love this passage; I think we all know that feeling of returning “home” whether it be a family, a house, or a room. Our narrator expresses far more emotion, even sexuality – entering the room that welcomed him, feeling greeted and accepted – than when he’s talking about his wife. Again, I can’t decide if he really is this locked out from feeling, or if he is stanching the flow of blood from an inner wound, if he truly hates his wife (there are hints that she is awful, but I didn’t see enough of her to be sure; and perhaps she has her reasons for being awful at this point) – or if he know his wife will return shortly.

Which brings me back to the overarching question: what is up with this guy?

To answer that fully, I think I would need to study Montaigne a lot more. An hour of looking through the Stanford Online Encyclopedia of Philosophy (which never fails, no matter what the article or how familiar I think I am with the topic, to go over my head by the third sentence) isn’t nearly enough. But apparently Montaigne had some contradictions going on as well: he believed in immersing oneself in everyday experience to learn, yet isolated himself, etching Latin and Greek quotes on the beams of his tower library, including the one shown here: “I am human; nothing human is strange to me.” I wonder if the irony is as applicable to Montaigne as it is to our narrator, who appears to be more attuned to his study, and his cat, Pascal, better than his wife.

Pascal – the cat – also serves as a point of introspection. He disappears, presumably run out of a window. There’s a connection between Pascal the cat and the philosopher Pascal’s observation, “We run heedlessly into the abyss after putting something in front of us to stop us seeing it,” since at the very end of the story, our narrator says, “You should have stayed home.” It’s not clear to whom he’s speaking, his wife, or the cat – or himself, longing for the study, or even Montaigne, who should’ve never entered the tower – or perhaps never should have left, since that was his intellectual and spiritual home. Which is the abyss, in the story – real life, or his study?

In my research, such as it is, on Montaigne, I discovered a book review in The Guardian, written by Colin Burrow, Michel de Montaigne: Accidental Philosopher by Anne Hartle, that seemed particularly appropriate to this story:

Consciousness for tower people is being partly a body, partly a pen, partly a voice, partly a half-memory of someone else’s voice, partly the thing that enables you to realise that you are all those things at once (although this bit of consciousness doesn’t always function very well and needs a lot of encouragement), and partly a set of uneasy attitudes, ranging from shame to self-satisfaction, towards what in yourself is received and what seems immediate. Thinking is done not by starting from the beginning, but by thinking onwards and backwards and hoping that some clarification will emerge.
~~Colin Burrow

I see a lot of the narrator in that. He has no idea what he’s doing, but he keeps doing it. Does he hope to figure it out some day? Does he care? Or is he so self-satisfied, he needs no confirmation from anyone other than himself?

I wonder if I’m just dense, or if this is how the story is written, to leave so much open, to have us watch this man and wonder about him. Forward/back, good/bad, partly this/partly that. Maybe all at once. Intriguing.

This is the second Tuten story I’ve read thanks to Pushcart; the first was more focused on art (particularly Cézanne’s Bathers, which also appears here in the study) but was likewise over my head, yet had the same mysterious, inescapable appeal.

Pushcart 2015: Rebecca Gayle Howell , “My Mother Told Us Not to Have Children” (Poetry) from Rattle, #42

Tom French: from the "Duality" series

Tom French: from the “Duality” series

She’d say, Never have a child you don’t want.
Then she’d say, Of course, I wanted you
 
once you were here. She’s not cruel. Just practical.
Like a kitchen knife. Still, the blade. And care.

The duality I’ve been noticing in this volume so far is at its most explicit here, embedded in some of our most emotional language. Tough love. Smother love. I love you to pieces. In this poem (available online as both text and audio, thank you, Rattle), we see both sides. A kitchen knife is an essential tool; it’s also a weapon. Just like mother love. The interplay of blade and care plays throughout the piece. A bath in dirty water, tenderness that feels like drowning. Drowning that feels like air: the freedom to say what something is.

The line breaks contribute to the duality with enjambments that could go either way, or change on continuation after the break: “Of course, I wanted you” sounds like the end of a sentence, but it isn’t; that clause offers comfort, the next takes it away. I’m befuddled, however, by the transition from brothers and sisters to crickets eating the back forty; is this a simile? Or a juxtaposition of two images? I’m not sure. Could it be either/or?

But I found something else that commanded most of my attention: “Instead, our estate was honesty…” I found my anger intensely triggered by that line. I’m damn sick of people who proudly boast, “At least I’m honest,” which seems to mean, “I don’t care about your feelings enough to do the work to deliver the truth in a way that won’t hurt you. My need to say whatever I think be it useful/appropriate or not, is more important than you and your petty feelings.” I think this kind of honesty is thinly-veiled aggression, not a virtue. Go away and don’t come back until you learn how to behave.

I’m not sure if it’s the poem, or me, or the combination of the two (sometimes we find something at the moment we need it; we call it coincidence), but it’s something that demands I listen.

Pushcart XXXIX: Michelle Seaton: “The Prospects” from One Story #180, 6/22/13

Via Deadspin

Via Deadspin

But for now the prospects still live at home, in football-fervent cities and towns, among the hollowed-out factories, the vacated office parks, under the care of their parents, the unemployed and the over-mortgaged, the downgraded part-timers, the patriotic, the doggedly informed, the God-fearing and peace-loving, the green-thinking and Internet-surfing, but most of all, the hopeful…. And in these homes, each prospect is still a boy who seems to ingest his body weight in food five or six times a day, whose use a pizza or roast chicken as an appetizer, a boy who can down a quart of milk while standing at the open refrigerator door, a child who cannot look both ways before crossing the road, who cannot be trusted with the car or the television remote because he has no impulse control, no sense that others also exist. Yet, this child seems tailor-made for the triple-XL world which he will inhabit, a world of super portions, mega-churches, and 56-inch plasma screens…

[post originally written summer 2013]
I’m not usually big on sports-recruiting stories: the exploitation, the lying, the haves having more while the broken bodies of ruined young men (and women; I read Little Girls in Pretty Boxes) pile up. I feel like if you’ve seen one “prospect” story, you’ve seen ’em all. I suppose I’m a bit jaded about it all. It’s a system beloved by exploiters and exploitees alike, even by those chewed up and left by the wayside in many cases, so who am I to sputter.

That unanimity may be changing, though, and that’s why this story has a certain relevance: a former student athlete is suing the NCAA, and cutting players in on a piece of the pie is a minor cause célèbre for the Left (sandwiched between analyzing mass shootings, single shootings of unarmed teenagers, and voter suppression, not to mention the occasional Royal Baby vs Poor Baby comparison; I don’t think anyone at MSNBC has slept for the past six months).

Michelle Seaton, a former sports reporter, understands the ubiquity of the issue; in fact, she credits her selection of POV to that very ubiquity in her One Story Q&A: “A third-person plural narrator is in a position to emphasize how many of these conversations go on every season and how interchangeable they are.” But she wants to show me I am wrong, that there is another way to write about it. And she does a great job.

This piece (it’s closer to creative non-fiction than a short story) hangs out with the kids and their parents at first, as in the quote above. But it earns its keep when it then shifts its focus to the recruiters – not the guys raking in the big bucks, but the front-liners doing the hard work, just trying to survive on the fringes of a sport that’s left them unable to do much else – and suddenly becomes a narrative with a past, present, and grim future:

A recruiter in a small program is a man who stocks shelves and collects tip money for each delivered pizza and sells athletic shoes in a sporting goods store.… He is a man who once dreamed of greatness as a coach, but whose dreams have shrunk to one goal, that of a paid position at any program.
On rainy days these recruiters limp with little reminders of injuries…. Each man can narrate the whole scenario of his injury, can tell it with a smile that hides some other, more complicated feeling, that hides the vivid remembrance of lighting out on the grass, on the turf, gulping for air and try not to puke from the throbbing, the stinging, the skin tightening around the swelling, the others crowding around as the pain comes in waves, sharp and then tall and thin in a long, shrill shout when the trainer palpates the hot skin, squeezing the accumulating blood and marrow, crunching the dislocated bits of tendon or cartilage between thumb and forefinger, then waiting for the trainer to glance up at the sad and knowing expression, before giving a quick handshake that hurts everyone that this bone, this joint, this ligament, this tendon, this body, this tool so carefully tended will never again be what it was just a few minutes ago.

I have to admit this isn’t my favorite One Story offering (but there’s pretty stiff competition, since they’ve been hitting it out of the park lately; I’ve found the past six stories, going all the way back to February, extraordinary). Still, I can appreciate the structural composition, and I give Seaton a 10 for style: long sentences that peak at just the right moment. If I weren’t so tired of the institutionalization of sport next to the marginalization of teaching, health and child care (as per the map above, the highest paid state employee in 40 states is a university sports coach), I might be more enthusiastic about content.

[Addendum: This story made the Pushcart XXXIX volume; couldn’t have been a more timely appearance. And that infographic still depresses me – though I continue to be amused that Nevada’s highest-paid state employee is, not a football coach, but a plastic surgeon. For Conservatives wondering where our values have gone, I think this map shows that pretty clearly.]

Pushcart 2015: Philip Levine, “Albion” (Poetry) from Threepenny Review, #132

Map of the Lower Mississippi's evolving floodplains, from cartographer Harold Fisk's 1944 report, Geological Investigation of the Alluvial Valley of the Lower Mississippi River.

Map of the Lower Mississippi’s evolving floodplains, from cartographer Harold Fisk’s 1944 report, Geological Investigation of the Alluvial Valley of the Lower Mississippi River.

On narrow roads twisting
between the farms, if farms
these were and not fallow
fields set off by stone walls
too low to keep anything
in or out.

What business do I have posting about poetry, any poetry, let alone the work of a former US Poet Laureate? That my feeds were flooded with sorrows and tributes last February upon his death intimidates me further: Can I do him justice? No, I can’t, but I’ve admitted all along I have no idea what I’m doing. This is my classroom; this is how I’m learning. So I hope Mr. Levine will understand, and his many admirers will not take offense, should I get it wrong. But while my expertise and knowledge may be insufficient, I had some very strong impressions as I read this poem (available online, thank you, Threepenny Review).

The first was what seemed like multiple references to Robert Frost. A stone wall, birch trees, the word “undergrowth”. Granted, none of those things are so unusual. But the wall is “too low to keep anything in or out”; the undergrowth “separated us”; and the birch tree, paired with sycamores, calling to mind not a Frost poem, but a quotation from an included in one of his early collections: “Zaccheus he did climb the tree our lord to see”.

That was forty years ago
or more. We were still
young or young enough,
and new to the adventure,
so of course we kept going,…

All of these appear in the first half of the poem, which, by the way, is the second thing I noticed: what seems to me like a clear division into the first 30 lines, recounting a memory, and the second 30 lines, reconsidering that memory in light of greater experience gained since then. I’m probably overreaching, but I wonder if there’s a looking back at a poetic life itself, a muse – an escape, an elevated perspective, via birches and the sycamore – a lifelong companion.

I also notice some microrhythms and line breaks. It’s interesting I’ve been noticing these details so much this year; maybe I’m just stuck on the concrete, it’s a phase I’m going through as a result of too many poetry classes and not enough poetry. Pretty much any text can be seen in a pattern – I did quite a con job in college on the fig tree dream segment of The Bell Jar to get through an assignment on rhythm – and I don’t have the experience to tell the difference between coincidence, sophistry, and authentic nuance. Still, the phrase “stone walls” does have a spondaic meter that sounds like a stone wall, and adding “too low” to that just emphasizes it over four beats. I also like that the undergrowth that separated us is hyphenated via line break.

I can’t recall how long we
stood there nailed to the spot,
hand in hand, expectant,
as though anything
could tell us where we were.

Then there’s the multiple reading of those lines. “As though anything could tell us” has both a negative sense – a sarcastic, “sure, like anything could do that” sense – and a more positive sense: hold your breath, pay attention, because it could be anything, the slightest little detail, that could have meaning. I can’t help but assume the phrasing was chosen deliberately to show how easy it is to turn things around, to see ourselves as lost when we’re just waiting. And to mark the different perspectives: forty years ago, youth saw the expectant meaning; now age, burdened with the futility of many lost expectations, nevertheless admires and perhaps envies the naïveté it once possessed.

And again, that theme I wondered about with the first story: looking forward and back at the same time (we look forward in youth, back in old age, but can we do a bit more of both at all times?) and the human capacity to interpret reality in different ways, depending on one’s inclination. Can anything tell us where we are? Because right now (always, really, but now is where we are always most likely to get lost), I think we really need to know.

Pushcart 2015: Maribeth Fischer, “The Fiction Writer” (non-fiction) from Yale Review, #101

"The Storyteller" :  Zimbabwean art

“The Storyteller” : Zimbabwean art

Even now, I see her hands and forearms covered with ink – phone numbers, dates, reminders about meetings, words she wanted to remember. And once, sitting at the bar at Smitty McGee’s, she swung around on her stool, lifted the hem of her skirt and showed us her leg, covered to mid-thigh with writing: notes about the novel she was working on; a song lyric she’d heard while driving. Another time, over coffee in the morning, I saw words from the day before imprinted on the side of her face. I knew how she slept then, hands tucked under her cheek. I didn’t mention that the words were there and later, after she saw herself in the mirror, she said, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Geez, would you let me run around with my dress stuck in the back of my underwear too?”
       “It was hardly noticeable,” I laughed. The ink had been smudged, like faint bruises.
       I’m still not sure why I didn’t tell her she had writing on her face – it is the kind of thing you’d want your friend to let you know. It seems fitting that I didn’t, though, for this is how I’ll always remember her: words literally pushed into the pores of her skin.
       Writing a story on her body so that her body had a story.
       In the end, this was all she was – a story we would tell repeatedly. Each time, we would embellish it more, highlighting certain moments, habits, things she used to say or do.
       Like stripping an old car for salvageable parts: that’s what we would do to her life.
       It’s what she had done to ours.

Stories. A writer’s life revolves around stories, of course, but so do many aspects of our lives, as illustrated by many of the works I’ve already encountered in this volume: the woman who tells her son a story, and the son who lives the story she tells, in “The Mother”; the story a young writer-to-be, misplaced in military service, told himself about his adequacy in the face of absurdity, while the perpetrators of that absurdity told themselves it was a necessary security precaution, in “My White House Days”; the story the perpetually down-on-his-luck loser of “Say” told to get a song from the only person who mattered; the stories we tell to get through blackouts, lonely evenings, jobs that grate down our ethical sense, or to comfort us in a world that seems at odds with everything important to us. Stories that tell us what we want to hear, when we can’t hear it anywhere else. Stories let us make sense of the world.

Maribeth Fischer tells us a horror story in which the monster is a story.

She was bamboozled by a twinned pair of diabolical flim-flam artists: one, a new friend, and the other, her own tendency, the one we all have, to see what she wanted to see, to fulfill some subconscious need. When Natalie, a fellow writer came to town and showed interest in her, Fischer was swept away with the feeling of being noticed, of being chosen by someone who seemed greater than herself. She threw herself into the friendship, as she had in other relationships, urgently trying “to make myself indispensable; if I’m not , no one will need me. And if no one needs me, no one will want me.” It’s not as flattering as being selfless and compassionate, but, as examined in “Annie Radcliffe, You Are Loved”, it probably underlies a great deal of do-gooderness in the world. Fischer is astute enough, and honest enough (what admirable honesty!), to recognize it later as she writes this memoir.

But not at the time.

Natalie affected more than just Fischer. The heretofore lackluster writing group blossomed and expanded, developed energy and enthusiasm. She was, after all, a Success, having landed a lucrative two-book contract with Random House, which led to requests for an article series by The New Yorker, then a second article series. The town was so overwhelmed by their good fortune to have this amazing resource available to them, no one really noticed there wasn’t a single word in actual print…

Because for the nine months that Natalie was in our lives, she was a big-time author whose life was about to change in wonderful, dramatic ways. She was a wonderful teacher and Kent was in love with her and she was, as Randy Lee said, happy. And I was a woman who was fun and spontaneous. Fun. A word that had been gone from my life until Natalie brought it back to me…. The members of the writers’ guild began to see themselves as writers, began to believe that their stories mattered. And so they did. And I can’t help it: I find something beautiful in this capacity to believe so fervently in the stories we fabricate that we become what we dream.

If Fischer had written this as fiction, it would’ve been too unbelievable. How gullible are these people, we’d wonder. But I’ve been there.

There are people who not only can project the image of What They Are so strongly it overshadows the reality of what they are, but they know exactly who will be susceptible and who will not. I’ve had “friends” like this. They are Batmans who know when they see a Robin. These friendships can work, for a time. It’s only when Robin thinks maybe Batman should do something a little different in this case, or when Robin gets a little limelight, that Batman gets upset. As Fischer says in a turning point in her relationship with Natalie: “…I had unknowingly betrayed her, broken an unspoken pact.” Two things happen then: the relationship falls apart, which feels like catastrophe to Robin; but that’s followed by a gradual regaining of sight, the ability to see the story one has been acting out. Someone else’s story. Not a story of rescue and redemption, but a story of dominance, and, surprisingly, mutual need.

There’s an Armenian motto I came across several years ago, via a sculpture by John Ventimiglia featured in my local public library: “Three apples fell from heaven: one for the storyteller, one for the listener, and one for the world.” That’s pretty astute writing advice right there: a story requires, not just a teller, but a listener, who has a pre-existing milieu of beliefs and needs into which the story falls; from there, it moves outward. Fischer tells us how that interaction might play out when the listener is herself a storyteller.

Stories, the only thing that allowed Scheherazade to survive for a thousand and one nights.
Stories, the only thing that allows anyone to survive loving someone she will one day lose.

Even though she eventually recognized how she’d been fooled – her friend Kent had been bilked out of a considerable sum, in fact – Fischer still felt a loss, the loss of the story, the belief. This is what turns the essay from a “This happened to me” story into a story that, as Roxane Gay tweeted a couple of years ago, “look[s] outward as much as it looks inward.” The writer, whose job it is to make the reader believe, is by nature a believer of the story that surprises, that takes unexpected twists and turns. The writer is vulnerable to the perils of belief, the price of her art.

Pushcart 2015: Louise Glück, “Approach of the Horizon” (Poetry) from Threepenny Review, #133

One morning I awoke unable to move my right arm.
I had, periodically, suffered from considerable
pain on that side, in my painting arm,
but in this instance there was no pain.
Indeed, there was no feeling.

As someone who frequently talks, and thinks, in metaphors, I love the images and wordplay that run through this poem (available online, thank you, Threepenny Review). Life as an airplane ride really perks up “please return your tray tables and seats to their original upright position,” doesn’t it?

That central metaphor is surrounded by other more unusual images. In particular, I was struck by the monitor that beeps and chirps with the heartbeat, something we’re all familiar with even if we’ve never been ill; either we’ve been at someone else’s bedside, or maybe we’ve just seen it in a movie. Then there’s the moment when the beep lengthens into a long tone – or, as in the poem, when the line that bounces with each beat of the heart becomes ” a straight line, / like a minus sign.” A new way of seeing flatlining: person, minus life. Or: life, minus one person.

My rather superficial observations were greatly deepened by a couple of other resources I stumbled across in my travels. One of them, from Boston Review, is Craig Morgan Teicher’s review of Glück’s Faithful and Virtuous Night – the collection in which this poem appears (and recent winner of the National Book Award). I wasn’t aware that the book was a portrait of a dying painter; that adds to the poem. Teicher also points out the opposites and reversals: the character is a painter rather than a poet (bringing to mind O’Hara’s “Why I Am Not a Painter” perhaps?) and male rather than female, and is based on a similar reversal of a character Glück used previously. All these inversions – do they mean something? Of course they do.

And here’s where PMF Johnson’s comments got me to recognize what was happening with the last stanza, the last word. If I may draw on another source (I need all the help I can get), a post by Ken Nichols of Great Writers Steal explained how James L. Dickey teaches the reader how to read his poem “Falling” so that by the time we get to the climactic moment, we know how the punctuation works. I think Glück is doing something like that here. By calling attention to double meanings of words like “left” – the left arm, or the arm that is left, that is, not paralyzed – as well as the many common uses of “departed”, we’ve been trained in what to look for, so we’re ready for the final lines:

I will be brief. This concludes,
as the stewardess says,
our short flight.
 
And all the persons one will never know
crowd into the aisle, and all are funneled
into the terminal.

The word “terminal”, of course, means ending, and is often used in relation to death; we’ve been primed to see the parallel meanings. But because of the airplane flight imagery throughout, there’s another sense: we finish our flight at a terminal, but we also go to the terminal to take a new flight, to travel somewhere else.

A long time ago, my father gave me a book of poetry for Christmas. It wasn’t a particularly “good” book – a typical anthology, thematically organized, a sort of “Poetry’s Greatest hits” but because I was 13 and had only read the few poems from English class, these seemed quite special. I still have the book (he wrote on the frontispiece, “From Dad, Christmas 1969″) and one of the entries was an unattributed poem sometimes referred to as “The Ship” or “On the Shore” or, since it’s of uncertain origin, by any of a dozen other titles. The speaker is at that moment when one shore loses sight of the ship – but the other shore just now sees it approaching. Glück’s work is far more subtle, of course, and includes many other nuances, but I was 13 again, and remembering this book from so long ago.

In the past few years, I’ve become very aware of my own mortality in a personal and imminent way. My family is long dead. As I read history, it’s a parade of rulers, artists, and often, ordinary people, who are now not of this earth. As celebrity after celebrity dies, watching tv becomes a recitation of “He’s dead now.” Even Spock eventually dies – but doesn’t necessarily end.

That’s the human adventure: is death an end, or a beginning? Can it be both? And again, we’re back to the “is it good or bad, light or dark, forward or back” sense I’ve been encountering as I’ve read this volume.

Pushcart 2015: Daniel Tovrov, “The News Cycle” from Zyzzyva, #99

Ruben Ubiera:  "Death Of Journalism" (2008)

Ruben Ubiera: “Death Of Journalism” (2008)

Doom comes in cycles here. Right now, everyone is preparing for the end. Resumes are being sent out wildly, clips are being saved, contacts are being pressed for leads; no one is actually working. The Global Financial Times, it seems, is about to fold. Jeremy Black, from the Politics desk, has been tape-recording editorial meetings and forwarding every e-mail from management to his personal account. He plans on writing a book about the company once the end finally does come. There certainly isn’t a shortage of material. In little more than two years, the GF Times has become a textbook example of how not to run a newspaper. Jeremy’s worried he’ll be sued, which is probably true, but I don’t think the parent company (whichever it is) has the resources for any sort of robust legal effort, even with its alleged cult money. Jeremy says I need a backup plan, too, before it’s too late. But I’m not worried. I’ve seen this before – the doom, that is. Everything will be fine. Anyway, I’m too focused on my Syrian Proxy War story. If this really is all coming to an end, that needs to go out ASAP. It’s an important piece, I sincerely believe, and it’s good. I did good journalism, despite all the obstacles that management put forth, and if the paper does come crumbling down, this piece could land me my next job. Even if it doesn’t come crumbling down, this piece could land me another job. And for that reason the story needs to go out before it’s either scooped or before the situation on the ground changes and renders it irrelevant.

Anyone remember Broadcast News? Holly Hunter as Jane Craig, a True Believer in the sacred covenant between Society and Journalism, watching the network news organization she belongs to turn away from investing in serious reporters in favor of Hairdos with great camera personality, from the mission of informing the public to the business of market shares? I haven’t seen the movie in years, but I can still picture her in that auditorium, the thinning audience bored until she shows a video about a 10,000-domino trick that pushed a US trade policy story off the evening lineup. The remnants of the audience cheers for the dominos. “I know, it’s fun,” says Jane. “I know it’s fun. I like fun. It’s just not news.” The last of the audience walks out.

And that was before the Internet.

The narrator of this story is no True Believer. Maybe she (more likely he, but why not live dangerously) once was, but now she’s trying to keep a paycheck, and that means pumping out the kinds of stories that draw massive hits. As she says: “It was hard to write about Syria while generating web traffic…”. To her credit, she’s still trying.

This is one of those stories that’s nearly impossible to read – the paragraphs are pages long, and the stretches about the details of the online news business – “GF Times spams Google, Google catches on and changes up. GF Times constricts while management punishes us – either with mandatory night and weekend shifts, new desk assignments, or hit quotas – Hoa breaks the new algorithm, hits go up again, and then back to the start” – are nearly as incomprehensible (and horrifying) as the details about atrocities in Syria. But guess what: modern life is nearly impossible to read (not to mention pretty horrifying). Just try to figure out who owns Newsweek, if you still remember that Newsweek used to be a solid information-and-analysis journal – and this story is a barely-disguised narration of its purchase by IBT, “an innovative digital media company.” As for the Middle East, the UK’s Financial Times found the perfect way to describe the nonsensical chaos – and that was before ISIS. Um, I mean, ISIL. Whatever.

It’s an impossible story. That’s why it’s perfect – and why it’s crucial.

This narrator shows us exactly the mess of pottage we’ve traded our birthright for. The Fourth Estate – the Free Press – is now about search engine optimization. It’s about finding out what we want to read, and telling us that. What we need to know to make decisions about our lives, our votes, our kids, our beliefs, is just… too hard. Too long to read.

Like the paragraphs in this story.

Jeremy, from the politics desk, has been able to survive the bad times by writing flattering, aggrandizing articles about Ron and me and Paul. To protect his reputation, Jeremy published them under a pseudonym, which no one bothers him about so long as he’s getting hits. The Pauls have a relatively small but cult-like following – to the cheese who (when not stockpiling guns in their doomsday bunkers, no doubt) read and share every article that mentions the libertarian congressman; if it’s favorable, it goes up on RonPaul.com. “Fred Romain,” has three pieces there now. I wonder if he’ll include in his book, because what Jeremy is doing sure as hell isn’t journalism. But one Ron Paul article takes an hour to write and on burdens Jeremy for the rest of the day so he can do something meaningful. During the last Great Google Downgrade, I got lucky twice. First, a lunatic in Belgium attacked a bus stop with a hand grenade, killing two and injuring six. The assailant also blew off his own arm, which lay photogenic lady next to a pommes frites cart. Normally, that’s not a big story, but the attacker had brown skin, so leading headlines with “terrorists?” In them generated a nice amount of traffic. The story was somewhat difficult to follow from New York, but because I was allowed to copy-and-paste the body of my original story and reposted with a new, slightly updated lede – examples: “a third man now is in critical condition after…” or “police are looking for a second suspect in Liege, Belgium, where…” – I was able to pump out stories faster than our competitors and siphon off some extra traffic that way. The man turned out to be a local, and not a terrorist. Just a guy who snapped. It turns out that brown people are actually quite common in Liege, the fact that became another article. The second lucky break was when a Christian pastor was hanged as an apostate in Iran. His name was Youcef Nadarkhani and he led the congregation of 30 from his basement church in Rasht. Iran’s religious police arrested Nadarkhani during the Christmas-night raid. Nine others were arrested but eventually released. The Gilan district court found Nadarkhani guilty of converting Muslim men over the age of 13, a crime under Ayatollah Khomeini’s founding fatwas. Despite international pressure, Tehran went ahead and sentenced him to death, drawing scorn from world leaders and 150,000 unique page views for me, a personal record that was rewarded with a twenty-five dollar gift card to Starbucks from the GF times. That’s what people want to read about. Muslims persecuting Christians. “They don’t want to read about Iranians training Syrian militia in a desert somewhere,” Jeff Polaski, our editor-in-chief, explained to me.

Impossible to read. Admit it, it’s nowhere near as fun as a dress that might be white and gold or blue and black. But there are a couple of key sentences in there – “which no one bothers him about so long as he’s getting hits” and “That’s what people want to read about. Muslims persecuting Christians” – that should scare us to death. Because that’s why we’re reading what we’re reading, and that’s why we see the world the way we do. We get our news from Buzzfeed and Jon Stewart. To be fair, Jon Stewart often hits the nail on the head (don’t miss the 3:25 mark). But he’s lasted 17 years because he surrounds it with goofiness to make it palatable.

Youcef Nadarkhani is a real person, by the way, and he really was imprisoned for three years, released, re-imprisoned, re-released. Who am I talking about, you ask. See?

A quick google of “Daniel Tovrov” turned up some interesting tidbits. Like, he’s in the MFA program at Columbia (or was, I’m guessing, at the time this story was written). Like, this is his first published fiction. Like, it’s not his first published writing – he has plenty of journalism clips on his website, including several news stories on the Middle East for the International Business Times – the same IBT that bought Newsweek. Like I said, barely disguised.

I wish I could get everyone to read this story. But most people will glance at the paragraphs that go on for pages, they’ll see stuff about Syria and some technobabble, they’ll say, “It doesn’t look like something I’d enjoy.” You’re not supposed to enjoy it. You’re supposed to be scared shitless. Or enraged. But what we’re supposed to do about all this, I’m not sure. Resist clickbait? Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. And I’ll admit: I’ve descended into hopelessness. But I’m 60. I’m checking out soon. What about you – is this the world you want to live in, where what you think you know is never challenged by pesky complexity?

The final line I originally wrote for this post was: “Move over, Jonathan Swift and Joseph Heller, there’s a new master satirist in town.” Except this isn’t really satire. And if that doesn’t scare the hell out of you, well, it doesn’t matter, I’m sure tomorrow will bring another blue/black (or gold/white) dress to keep you entertained while someone else decides our lives – and decides who’ll write what to tell us how happy we should be about that.

Pushcart 2015: LaToya Watkins, “The Mother” from Ruminate, #29

"The Geneaology of Jesus – A Countdown to Christmas" by Jessica Lynette

“The Geneaology of Jesus – A Countdown to Christmas” by Jessica Lynette

The Visits done died down a little bit now. Some still come. The rustlers like this one sitting in front of me. They still ask bout Hawk. Bout how he came to call hisself the Messiah. Bout who his daddy is, but I ain’t got nothing for them.
I look out the window I keep my chair pulled up next to. Ain’t no sun, just cold and still. Banjo lift his head up when he see my eyes on him but it don’t take him long to let it fall back on his paws. He done got his rope a little tangled up. Can’t move too much with it like that, but he can breathe and lay down. He alright. I’ll go out and work out the knot when I can – when this gal leave.
It’s cold out there, but I ain’t too worried bout Banjo. He got natural insulation. I’m the one cold and I’m on the inside – supposed to be on the inside cause I’m a person. I ain’t got no insulation though.

Character; setting; diction: three of the mainstays of fiction. And this story – a story about storytelling – is a master class on all.

First, diction. Diction, in good fiction, informs and is informed by character. Watkins has chosen a first-person narrator, and for this character, that means a story written in dialect. It’s not easy to write in dialect. I don’t even like using the word “dialect” since it hints that there’s a standard of normal and everything else is other, but it’s a word useful in linguistics, without any hint of valuation, to describe a subset of spoken language characteristic of a particular group, a twist on language that is understandable to those outside the dialect group, but has its own rules and quirks. Dialects quickly become stigmatized (even academia or medspeak, dialects used by the highly-educated; linguistics doesn’t discriminate, that’s what amateurs are for).

I often have trouble reading stories written in dialect because they tend to include lots of apostrophes. Those apostrophes indicate absence; missing letters. More normality indicators. One of the reasons I like the way Watkins has written this story is that she’s left out the apostrophes. Yes, “about” is “bout”, but that’s different from “’bout”, I think. Visually, it’s cleaner, easier to read. Symbolically, I prefer it too: it doesn’t scream, “Something is missing here!” The word is just spelled differently, because that’s how it’s used in the dialect. She also avoids apostrophizing –ing’s by just including the –ing. Few of us speak in written English; all the little things, “gonna” and “wanna” and “yeah” show up, even when we write “going to” so why not just write it, and let people read it as they hear it, which is probably with the elided “g” anyway. We get the idea; we know how Ms. Hawkins – oh, hell, call her momma, that’s who she is, not Ms. anything – speaks. Her word choice, her sentence structure, aside from pronunciation – number, tense, vocabulary – provides the information we need to hear her as she speaks. Poking our eyes out with hundreds of apostrophes isn’t necessary. Bravo.

Setting and character are also interwoven:

I pretend in my mind I was raised here and not on 34th. Just pretend I been on the East side all along. On the East side where good-time whoring didn’t never catch, even if being strung out on drugs did. Where snow come to cover up the dirt in places where grass don’t never grow, like icing covering up chocolate cake or brownies or anything dark and sweet. The East side. Where you be happy poor and don’t try to pretend you can whore your way out. I just pretend in my mind I was brought up poor and wasn’t never no whore.

Again, we know exactly what the East side is, though I wasn’t sure what it was the East side of. It doesn’t matter. And don’t kid yourself, we all try to whore our way out. We’ll meet a few young ladies in this story who aren’t whores in the sexual sense, but they sure are trying to whore their way out (or in, perhaps): they’re reporters. As momma says, “… I know her kind. She want her story. She’ll cry to get it.”

That moves us into the story of the story. The unveiling is multi-layered and wonderful, a little at a time, so I’m not going to play spoiler.

The story gets into several issues, but storytelling itself is central. The stories we tell ourselves. The stories we tell others. Stories passed on, misunderstood (deliberately or not), abused. Stories retold for the wrong reasons, and the right reasons. Stories that doom us, and stories that save us. Stories that save others. Momma is a goddess of stories, and she’s got one that never seemed to matter to anyone until her son, some kind of self-proclaimed Messiah, died in a cult mass-suicide. But she’ll only give her story to someone who needs – and deserves – it.

I think bout my last conversation with Hawk. He talked bout earthly fathers and his heavenly one. “Well, you know in one them books, Matthew, I think, when everybody get to begetting somebody else?” She nod her head. “Well, Hawk told me that ain’t had nothing to do with Jesus momma. That’s all bout Joseph. The step-daddy.”
“That’s right. The genealogy in that book is Joseph’s,” she say, nodding her head. She interested in what I got to say now.
“Well, if the Jesus, the one you and half the world think was the Messiah, and his disciples ain’t care nothing about who was and wasn’t his real daddy, why we always trying prove DNA and mess today?”

Some stories are more important than others. And some stories are more important in how they’re told, and why. Momma is absolutely correct: with all the fuss in Matthew (and Luke) about the Virgin Birth, when push comes to shove, Matthew gives Joseph’s genealogy as Jesus’, until it comes to the last line, when all the begatting turns into “and Joseph was the husband of Mary.” Biblical scholars explain there’s a reason Matthew did this: he was writing for a Jewish audience, and this type of genealogy, linking Jesus to the patriarch Abraham, was important in fulfilling scriptural promise. Mary’s lineage just won’t do for that (Luke uses it in his gospel, though he too includes Joseph). Biblical scholarship is complicated.

The stories we tell, how we tell them, to whom. And why.

Pushcart selected this story from Ruminate Magazine, a journal ” created in April 2006 by a group of fellow writers, artists, and believers who wanted a space for the thoughtful expressions of those who are nudged forward, backward, and sideways by faith in God” and featuring ” short stories, poetry, creative nonfiction, and visual art that resonate with the complexity and truth of the Christian faith”. Some stories are complicated.

In an interview for the UT/Dallas newspaper, Watkins, a doctoral student and instructor, explained her motivation for telling this story: “I wanted to explore the black, matriarchal experience in West Texas since it’s a place that never saw slavery firsthand. It was a place with imported segregation; that separation wasn’t forced, but understood.”

The stories we tell. They matter.

Pushcart 2015: Ellen Bryant Voigt, “Geese” (Poetry) from Granta, #124

there is no cure for temperament it’s how
we recognize ourselves but sometimes within it
a narrowing imprisons or is opened such as when my mother
in her last illness snarled and spat and how this lifted my dour father
into a patient tenderness thereby astounding everyone
but mostly it hardens who we always were

Maybe the most obvious thing about this poem is the best place to start: the lack of punctuation, of capitals, of any notational signal as to where a sentence starts or stops, whether blocks of meaning are separated by brief pauses of commas, longer pauses of semicolons, are parts of lists, are asides within em-dashes, or end with the full stop of a period.

Whereas I, or any reader, really, would be able to notice this, Katy Diddon, in her Kenyon Review piece on Voigt’s book from which this poem comes, relates the technique to mortality through Voigt’s role as an elegist: “I believe that her choice to write without punctuation in this volume changes the argument with mortality; in particular, she puts conclusions into flux, which alters each poem’s trajectory, and therefore transforms the elegy on almost every level.”

Since I, as poetically naïve as I am, was unfamiliar with Voigt and thus had no idea she was known as an elegist, and wasn’t even aware this poem was an elegy (though it does deal with her mother’s death), I’ll have to take Diddon’s word for it. Makes sense: the period as finality, the eschewal of periods and other guiding marks a move towards fluidity, continuation. It makes great sense – if I recall correctly (and verification confirms the basics), the poetic form of elegy moves from mourning a loss to bringing the essence of what was good about the lost one into the present, and projecting that good into the future: sorrow, then hope and strength as a legacy of the beloved.

Voigt herself gives a slightly different take on this punctuation choice in her Granta:

I shouldn’t discount having my sixty-fifth birthday, which causes its own sort of impatience. After several years of idling – either silence, or more-of-the-same – I began a new poem that had a great deal of repetition, a great deal of descriptive excess, and multiple, very fast tonal shifts; somewhere around draft #25, it occurred to me those shifts could happen more easily if I removed the syntactical markers – i.e., the conventional punctuation that helps ‘chunk’ the functional parts of an English sentence. This required me to think more carefully about how those markers might be implied rather than notated, and in turn freed the line to be the sole manager of pace and pause, moments of rest. And I found that very exciting – enough so to make a commitment to the protocol and its possibilities. So there is no punctuation at all in the new book.

I’ve tried to keep that in mind when examining the poem (as opposed to just reading it), looking for ways the rhythm affects pace and even meaning.

In reading the poem out loud, I found some interesting progressions and patterns. The first stanza, quoted above, starts out in perfect iambic pentameter: “There is no cure for temperament it’s how” but that line begs to be continued of course, into the next line which also starts in perfect iambs: “we recognize ourselves but sometimes within it” – oh, a little shuffling at the end there, though it could still be considered pentameter if shift from iamb to anapest, but then it all goes to hell in the center of the stanza, and the next two lines are jumble of everything, until we get to the final line of the stanza and revert back to (nearly) perfect iambic pentameter: “But mostly it hardens who we always were.” Mostly. She could’ve written that to be perfectly regular, but she didn’t; she only wrote in mostly perfect meter. Language rhythm and syntax working together.

And yes, there is a clear break, rhythmically and semantically, as well as visually, between the two stanzas, if the remaining group of lines can appropriately be called a stanza.

if you’ve been let’s say a glass-half-empty kind of girl
you wake to the chorus of geese overhead
forlorn for something has softened their nasal voices
their ugly aggression on the ground they’re worse than chickens
but flying one leader falling back another moving up to pierce the wind
no one in charge or every one in charge in flight each limited goose
adjusts its part in the cluster just under the clouds
do they mean together to duplicate the cloud

And yes, again, we start off with a mostly iambic line again (hexameter this time) and at first it tracks just fine, even without punctuation, but then we’re caught up in the center which gets a little peculiar, rhythmically and even semantically – I gave up trying to “punctuate” it, are the geese forlorn for something, or are they forlorn – because something has softened their nasal voices, and what is the thing with chickens, is that an aside, I’ve put it in em-dashes but I’m something of an em-dash addict. In any case, the poem at that point is describing how a flock of geese moves, one goose leads, then another, “no one in charge or everyone in charge” and yet they all get where they’re going together, just as the poem seems to break up but still gets to the end, where the last five lines again settle down and speak of forcing blooms in winter.

So we have a wife and mother dying, and the normally-dour father finds his gentleness is accentuated by the scene. What about the daughter, the speaker? Is she a glass-half-empty kind of girl, arriving at the conclusion that in geese or families, “there is no end to hierarchy”; or is she a take-charge girl who forces blooms by “a premature and structured dark”? Can she be both? Undecided? Something else: an observer, recorder, an elegist? Is the premature dark a bad thing… can it be a good thing?

It’s a lovely poem to play with. In the end, we have some choice in how we react to our surroundings, whether a death or a flock of geese or winter. The degree of choice we have depends perhaps on something within us, as does the choice we make, and how we view the aftermath. We can let darkness defeat us – or we can use it to help us bloom.

Pushcart 2015: Thomas E. Kennedy, “My White House Days” (non-fiction) from New Letters , V79#3-4

I used to be able to tell about this straight out. Not that I was proud of it, but neither was I ashamed. Years ago, I had what used to be referred to as a nervous breakdown. I tried to kill myself. When I broke down, I decided it was because of secrets, and I didn’t want anymore secrets. Then I began to heal and didn’t want to talk about the breakdown any longer, tended to gloss over that period of my biography.
At the time, late summer-early fall of 1963, I worked in the White House – in the executive office building, now referred to as the old EOB, which housed inter alia the office of the Vice President. JFK was president. I worked as a stenographer for the White House Communications Agency – WHCA, responsible for the president’s travel. You might think you see where this is going – 1963, responsible for the president’s travel – but it’s probably not what you think.

Now, I didn’t write 30 books, as Kennedy has, nor did I go to writing school and I certainly don’t teach it (as Kennedy does), but it seems to me, if you’re going to write an essay about My Years in the White House, and your name is Kennedy, your first sentence should be “No, not one of those Kennedys” instead of tucking that information into the middle of the piece. I guess that’s why I’m not a writer. And I suppose, if he’s written 30 books and won numerous awards (this is his second Pushcart), I should’ve recognized the name. Maybe that’s my problem, but it’s just the beginning of how jerked-around I felt by this piece.

But none of that is the point. Or maybe it is the point, since Kennedy gets pretty jerked around himself, by the military in the name of National Security. The absurdity of all that, and its effect on a perfectly normal, bright and promising boy whose only failing was earnestness, is the point.

A product of Queens, NY parochial school and a less-than-idyllic home life, he joined the military in 1963 hoping for an assignment in France, where he could learn more about the literature and language he had already come to love. When offered a position at the White House, however, he saw it as a privilege to serve the President, so France would have to wait.

What he didn’t count on was the security interview:

His questions seemed ordinary enough that I don’t remember them – until he asked:
“Have you ever engaged in normal sexual relations with a woman?”
Suddenly I was back in confession with the priest. But I had what I thought was the right answer – that is, the answer they wanted…
With mild indignation, I said, “No!
The major looked up at me from his pad and asked, with slight incredulity, “No?
The trap had snapped shut. I had exposed myself to the suspicion that I was a rat who smelled strange bread in women. There was no going back. I blushed. “No.”
His eyes were on me, then dropped to his pad, where I imagined his printing in all caps the word RISK. “Have you ever had abnormal sexual relations with a woman?”

And it goes downhill from there, culminating in Kennedy’s “nervous breakdown”. Thankfully, he recovered, though it took some time – about 50 years, in fact – to come to terms with it.

To those born in the Digital Age, or even the Age of Aquarius, it may seem implausible that a 19-year-old male would assume that chastity was a virtue, or, for that matter, not a subject of shame. To those of us who grew up in the same era, perhaps around Fundamentalists rather than Catholics, and perhaps had our own troubles that assured our chastity was not at risk, and also specialized in giving authority figures the answers they wanted, let me assure you it isn’t that outlandish. I had my “nervous breakdown” – my first two, in fact – before I realized, courtesy of the psychiatric profession, that chastity was a symptom, though of what, I was never sure.

So I have some appreciation for what Kennedy went through. That he went through it at the hands of the government, in the name of some bizarrely intertwined combination of morality and national security, is tragic.

Just recently I saw the film The Imitation Game, and by coincidence a rerun of the older Fat Man and Little Boy. Both of these were set in the WWII era. Both involved men older and with more experience in the world than the 19-year-old Kennedy, but were nonetheless ground up by military authority, here or in the UK, in the name of national security. How we treat our heroes! Worse, how we treat our kids, on their way to becoming heroes, should they make the mistake of entering the military in a state of earnest innocence.