Pushcart XLI: Melissa Broder, “Forgotten Sound” (poem) from Last Sext (Tin House 2016)

Photo by Martin Stranka: “Rejected”

Photo by Martin Stranka: “Rejected”

I pretended the lust was voices
And I wrote down the voices
And sometimes the voices spoke as I had written them
To confirm what I already knew
Which is that I am a child and ready for petting

Complete poem available online at The Rumpus

I confess that I’ve been a bit puzzled, maybe even slightly put off, by the Broder phenomenon. She earned her MFA, has published several poetry collections since 2010 (including the one featuring this poem), and her bio at Poetry Foundation lists leadership work with literary magazines and organizations. Yet she became a sensation because of her melancholic tweets (@sosadtoday) and her same-titled book of essays about vulnerability and insecurity and, well, being sad – a book she herself felt might make others take her less seriously as a poet, a book that ended up enshrined in everything from Rolling Stone to Elle to The New Yorker. In the film Broadcast News, dysphoric reporter Allen Brooks whines, “Wouldn’t this be a great world if insecurity and desperation made us more attractive? If “needy” were a turn-on?” Turns out, in the right hands, it can be.

I can’t dismiss this poem, and not only because Broder was a prolific and respected poet before her Twitter fame. There’s a powerful haunting quality to it that touches me: the build to the last line, the echo after the words go silent like the click of a closing door, a hollow openness reminiscent of the quality Sinéad O’Connor brought to “Sacrifice”. My admiration for Elton John knows no bounds, but it took O’Connor to expose the emotion, as Broder does with Brooks’ well-defended comedic lament.

Maybe it’s a new confessionalism. Maybe it’s just relief that someone else gets it. I’ve said often I don’t pretend to know what’s “good” and what isn’t; sometimes I don’t even know exactly what it is I feel when I read something; but I still know when I feel something intense, something important, and I did. Isn’t that what a successful poem does?

Pushcart XLI: Cecily Parks, “Hurricane Song” (poem) from O’Nights

"After the Hurricane" by Wayne Rogers (detail)

“After the Hurricane” by Wayne Rogers (detail)

The pines dizzying for a hurricane, the wind
so hotly twirls their skirts and underskirts,
unnerves their pinecones, ratchets up and up
their branches into needle-spangled, needle-spraying
plumes. The white running sunlight falls and tumbles
through the meadow, rattling the grass. The meadow
sweeps me up in its arms so that I lose track of east
and feel that little kidnapped thrill that comes with drastic
weather.
Complete poem available online at Kenyon Review

Imagine a forest as a community filled with the sentience of nature: trees, grass, deer, birds. Now imagine that community dancing in the storm, not fearing it but playing with it. That’s the kind of personification I see in this poem. Pine trees as skirts particularly strikes me as particularly nice imagery; that is how the branches move in a stiff wind. I hear a lot of sibilance – grasses, guess, yes – in several parts of the poem, imitating the sound of wind.

Hannah Fries of Southern Humanities Review points out, in her review that O’Nights, the title of the collection containing the poem, comes from an entry in Thoreau’s journal reporting a friend’s comment: “He thought that Emerson was a very young-looking man for his age, ‘But,’ said he, ‘he has not been out o’ nights as much as you have.'” Being out o’nights has its costs, perhaps, but also its benefits in experience.

The forest has loved itself long enough to do this.
Is now when I should love myself into a safer place,
or is this the place where love makes me safe? I guess yes
and yes.

The idea of being safe from the storm in the forest seem odd, doesn’t it? I’ve experienced hurricanes in Florida and New England, and I’m not trusting enough of the forest to keep me safe. I wonder if Thoreau ever did.

Pushcart XLI: Taije Silverman, “Spiritual Evaluation” (poem) from Massachusetts Review #56.2

If You Think You Have Been the Victim of Witchcraft,
Envy, the Evil Eye, or Bad Luck, Come Inside
and Get a Spiritual Evaluation.

—sign on the Church of Jesus Christ in the Lord, Philadelphia

 

Did you want this baby?
There are a certain number of questions you may pass over
without forfeiting your score on the test.
Do you understand that metaphors involving hummingbirds
are not useful? Do you understand
that you are in no way related to hummingbirds?
If this baby is the size of an a) eraser or b) apricot
or c) memory, will you be able to determine
whether on the day after the hurricane,
the river was as full as a river can be
without flooding the ramp to the bypass?
 
Complete poem available online at Massachusetts Review

That first line is possibly the most meaning-per-word sentence since Hemingway. Yet, because it places the baby in past tense, it’s difficult to reconcile with the rest of the poem, which consistently looks forward in time from the present. I briefly wondered if it could be a backwards poem, but it’s not structured to make backwards-reading seem tenable.

At first, concrete symbols unify the poem and provide a certain momentum: the hummingbird, apricot, eraser, water. Then then there’s a relatively static moon section – interesting choice, since the moon is itself a symbol of change, of fluctuation, not to mention the original fertility symbol with its connection to the female menstrual cycle – followed by the concluding lines including symbols looping back to the beginning to reestablish the unity.

When you picture the moon,
do you see its surface or a not inhospitable orb
that alternates in size according to proximity with rooftops?
This problem is commonly referred to as moon illusion.
This theory is generally known as shape constancy.
With the shape of your body please prove
that the moon does not generate its own light. Do you like
charades? If this baby is a girl, what.
If this baby is a boy. Do you think
you have been the victim of bad luck?
Describe in five words what this baby will fear
if this baby is an apricot. List everyone it will love
if it is an eraser.

I’m trying to get some picture of this scene. My first thought was a woman who’s recently miscarried, seeing a “spiritual healer” to work out her grief. The metaphors seem to indicate someone with a more eclectic approach: shape constancy and the moon illusion, both recognized phenomena, along with apricots and hummingbirds .

But then I thought: what if that first line stands out because it is spoken by someone else, a nurse or doctor, or perhaps a friend trying to offer what she thinks is comfort? What if the rest of the poem is the woman’s response? That doesn’t really fit, however. Too many “you”s. What if it’s a woman talking to herself, conducting some version of a searching and fearless moral inventory while deciding what to do about an unexpected pregnancy? The last lines intrigue me as well: it must be important, this notion of loving someone more than the baby. It invites totally different scenarios, some a bit obscure, involving the father or other children.

So I ended up back where I started. I’m strongly reminded of Mary Ruefle’s “During a Break from Feeling” which I also found beautifully obscure. I’m not sure what the story is, but I love the imagery, and maybe that’s where I should stay on this one. Maybe the confusion, like the inconstant moon, is intrinsic to the poem. Or am I just making excuses, being lazy?

Confusion is my genre.

Pushcart XLI: Patricia Spears Jones, “Etta James at the Audubon Ballroom” (poem) from A Lucent Fire

Someone knocks over a chair (drunk one)
Fight ready, but this vivid sound stops
fists—who let them big black birds
In? Again. This night. What
 
Flight. Fight. Let’s try dancing the blues
to SMITHEREENS….

 

Audio of the poem available online at PennSound

Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes, a poem just happens to be part of the PennSound archive from the Kelly Writers House at Penn. Then you can not only listen to the poet read her work, but hear her discuss the poem, and her poetry in general, with poet and professor Charles Bernstein.

Maybe you would’ve guessed that the Etta James performance is imagined rather than factual. And maybe, given the historic significance of the location, and the break in the poem, from chaos to order, from abandon to attention at the line “There he stands”:

Your skin beams sweetness while your voice screams
Where’s the fucking fun house?
Your chest blossoms possibilities/ hips thick enough to swing
Which way and oh my
There he stands
In suit sharp as steel and shoes patent leather,
squarish frames/that wiseguy demeanor, the tipped chapeau

that it’s Malcolm X who has the tipped chapeau, whose appearance changes the tone of the Ballroom from chaos to order. But probably not. And in any case, it’s nice to know, not guess. And then you’re ready for that last poignant line.

Jones resists being categorized as a blues poet; she thinks it’s broader than that, encompassing more music, more of the culture of her home and travels, a kind of testimony to her life, heard through a filter and written through a musicality of her own. Imagination is her finest poetic tool, and she uses it well.

Pushcart XLI: Ye Chun, “The Luoyang Poem” (poem) from Lantern Puzzle

1.
 
Gray streets and dim staircases.
 
We slid down the banister:
 
often one of us,
in dream or in memory, fell.

I couldn’t find much about this poem, or the collection whence it comes, so I was worried. Turns out, I found a great deal in it, not in a “this is what the poem means” sort of way (and I wonder if any poem that can be summed up as such is a poem at all) but in a “oh, I see what happened here (I think)” way.

One of the approaches I use when I’m not sure what to do is comparison of the beginning and ending of a poem. That doesn’t always help, but here it was marvelous. Whereas the first stanza above gives a glimpse into a hazily remembered childhood and is painted in gray and dim, the last stanza shows a new direction:

7.
 
That winter, a boy
came riding beside me,
my big coat a dark corner.
 
We rode past the sweet potato vendor and his stove;
they stood in every winter
like a small lighthouse.
 
We rode past Chairman Mao
in front of the Mining Machine Factory
his marble arm waving at us.
 
Black flags of smoke blew above our heads.
 
We rode toward the huge
suddenly blooming setting sun.

The dimness is still there, but there is also the promise of blooming, a setting sun ending one phase of life, the speaker beginning another, of adolescence and youth in spite of what hangs over them. And I’m charmed by the imagery of the sweet potato vendor’s stove as a small lighthouse: a light so that the ship won’t founder on an unexpected shore.

Throughout the poem, I particularly noticed the transitions between the numbered sections. Section 1 above ends with an isolated “fell”, and section 2 starts with “I fell ill”, a completely different sense of the word. That double use prompted me to check for similar transitions, and I found them. Section 2 ends with smoke from the factories, and section 3 begins with the history of burning in this town, from the tragic to the trivial:

3.
 
New dynasty burned houses of the old.
Red Guards burned 55,884 rolls of sutras at the White Horse Temple.
Twenty factories burned the sky blind.
Families of the dead burned paper horses.
Crematoria burned the dead.
My father burned another fall’s leaves.
I burned my diary.

There’s such a layering of history in this stanza in particular, from the speaker’s lifetime back to old Dynasties. I found a few references to the practice of making a paper horse and carriage for a funeral, then burning them in an echo of ancient custom of burying items with the dead. I can’t find a historical reference to burning of Buddhist scripture at the White Horse Temple; 55,884 is such a specific number, I’d love to have more information.

Section 3 ends with a reference to burning ourselves, and the next one observes Luoyang’s cross made by a factory smokestack, a somewhat attenuated transition on the notion of sacrifice. Four ends with distance, and five begins with parents being sent to the city “to build a new nation”, presumably in the era of the Red Guards. Sacrifice underpins every parent’s life, some more than others. Section 5 ends with spit and 6 begins with a dry river. The transition from 6 to 7 is possibly all self-constructed: from peach flowers to a new friendship, a new adolescence, and the literal riding off into the sunset.

So I ended up with a memoir of a place since left, with time whistling around my ears throughout the poem. Quite lovely. I’m almost glad I couldn’t find any other analysis, because it gave me the freedom to create my own.

Pushcart XLI: Mathias Svalina, from “Thank You Terror” (poem) from The Volta

Samad Ghorbanzadeh: "Fictional Reality/Daily Dream" series

Samad Ghorbanzadeh: “Fictional Reality/Daily Dream” series

I was dead
but they kept killing me
by the seaside,
the Super Target,
on a plane,
in a beetle’s husk.
Complete poem available online at The Volta

Allow me to once again admit that I have no idea what I’m doing here. However, I was able to find some information that helped me at least understand the neighborhood we’re in with this poem: dreams and nightmares. Along the way, I became intrigued by the poet as well.

In a Harriet article, I found a video where Svalina explains his approach: “a dream logic.” Ah, that gave me a touchstone. A few years back I did some work on Ishiguro’s “The Village After Dark” and The Unconsoled, and discovered, thanks to an interview in The Paris Review, that the story was a warm-up in the use of the grammar of dreams for the novel. I’m not sure Svalina uses precisely the same approach, but it’s similar enough to serve as some kind of footing for reading this poem.

It’s more of a nightmare, really, the kind induced by constant reminders of terrorism in everyday life. Images shift without warning, and these shifts are accepted as they are in a dream state: personal death in the beauty of the seaside, or the banality of Target, or the more rational setting of a plane, to the surreal beetle’s husk to keep us from feeling too comfortable. The request of Artaud, poet and dramatist, creator of the theatre of cruelty, for sonnets. Flaying that brings joy. And the last stanza, a stabilizing summary, a reminder that the dream, the nightmare, takes us where it will, and while shaped by images and events from the world around you, it is your own mind that is the sculptor of the nightmare.

None of that nightmarishness is alleviated by knowing, thanks to a comment the poet made at a Brooklyn reading, that the title is following Alanis Morissette’s “Thank U”. Maybe he was being ironic.

For those who didn’t bother to check out the Harriet post linked above, it includes an explanation of Svalina’s Dream Delivery Service: for a subscription of about $60 a month, he will write and mail – or deliver, if you happen to live in a city he’s visiting – a dream; nightmares cost a little more. It’s his way of forcing himself to write at least half the day. While a bit flaky, he has a PhD in creative writing, teaches at various places and has published several books so he’s not a total crackpot. Just the right amount of crackpot, I’d say. Is his poetry any good? How would I know? I don’t even have a yardstick. I can only say I’m intrigued.

Pushcart XLI: Tarfia Faizullah, “100 Bells” (poem) from Poetry, January 2015

Artwork by Caitlin Abbott, from original photo by Naib Uddin Ahmed

Artwork by Caitlin Abbott, from original photo by Naib Uddin Ahmed

With thanks to Vievee Francis

 

My sister died. He raped me. They beat me. I fell
to the floor. I didn’t. I knew children,
their smallness. Her corpse. My fingernails.
The softness of my belly, how it could
double over. It was puckered, like children,
ugly when they cry. My sister died
and was revived. Her brain burst
into blood. Father was driving. He fell
asleep. They beat me. I didn’t flinch. I did.

Complete poem available online at Poetry

First, let me point any reader to Faizullah’s post titled “Against Explanation” on the Poetry website Harriet. I’m tempted to just stop here, with an excerpt in which she explains why she can not, will not, explain the poem, except to give a context: she wrote it after reading Vievee Francis’s poem “Say It, Say It Any Way You Can”.

Almost every time I read “100 Bells” in front of an audience, someone asks me to explain it. I’m baffled, because, to me, it’s one of my most transparent poems. I’ve been asked if it’s The Truth. I don’t think that’s what I’m being asked, though. It’s really something else: Did you make it up? Did it happen to you?
…. “I’m saying it,” says the speaker in Vievee’s poem. What’s so masterful about this phrase is how it deflects from the question “Did this happen to you?”

I read this poem three ways; I don’t know if any of them are true (whatever that means), but they feel very real to me, and they coexist at this point, though they were separate at first. I know a lot of very educated people put a lot of stock in the poem standing on its own, but I found meaning expanding with each new piece of ancillary information, and finding meaning is what I’m doing here.

My first reading focused on the Birangona, the Brave Women of War in Bangladesh who, during the 1971 war of independence from Pakistan, were kidnapped, raped, and tortured. After were ignored, lived in shame and silence, until playwright Leesa Gazi spoke with a group of the women and created a play to tell their story and honor the courage it took for them to survive.

Now, I didn’t pick this out of thin air; I was alerted to it via the contributor note that goes with the published version of the poem. Faizulla’s 2014 poetry collection, Seam, featured interviews with the Birangona. I saw this poem as a composite of the experiences of those women, a layering of voice on voice, story on story, a hundred bells speaking through poetry.

Then I found a very different way of reading, through a blog that seems to be a series of school assignments (and again I wish the internet had been around when I was in 9th grade). This reader saw it as a narrative of personal experience. This makes a different kind of sense to me: the repetitions and contradictions reflect the confusion and denial experienced during and after a traumatic event. Again, the layering, but this time, the voices are from one person. The sister and Texas were more dominant in this reading; I was already slightly familiar with Faizullah’s work from having read another of her poems in the Pushcart two years ago, also appearing in Seam as one of a series of elegies written for her sister.

Then I came across the Harriet post. I’d noticed, of course, that there was a dedication line, but I hadn’t known the significance. And now I wonder if it’s a sort of retelling of Francis’ poem, with a different subject.

I wrote the first draft of “100 Bells” after reading Vievee’s poem. I needed to write the breath I didn’t know I had been holding until after I was done reading it, after I was done writing mine.

What a great use of breath, – anima, from the Greek άνεμος the force of life, the medium of the voice as a bridge between two poets and now between them and the readers of this poem. And now the three readings, each involving multiple voices, layer together in one burst of communication. When I read the poem, I don’t “hear” it as written, but as voices talking over each other, all trying to be heard.

I slithered. Glass beneath my feet. I
locked the door. I did not
die. I shaved my head. Until the horns
I knew were there were visible.
Until the doorknob went silent.

It’s awkward that I should run into a poetic discussion of truth after railing about truthiness in nonfiction. But poetry is not nonfiction. It is the artist’s conception of truth. I have no need to ask, Did it happen to you? It happened to someone, and thus it happened to all of us.

Pushcart XLI: David Kirby, “More Than This” (poem) from Rattle #50

When you tell me that a woman is visiting the grave
of her college friend and she’s trying not to get irritated
at the man in the red truck who keeps walking back and forth
and dropping tools as he listens to a pro football
game on the truck radio, which is much too loud, I start
to feel as though I know where this story is going,
so I say Stop, you’re going to make me cry.
 
Complete poem available online at Rattle

Yes, it’s going exactly where you know it’s going, and yes, it made me cry, but does that have to automatically be a bad way to use forty-five lines?

In his Contributor Note at Rattle, Kirby said “A lot of my poems are braids I make of found materials; my contribution is to figure out what the different parts have in common and then unite them tonally.” I’m surprised he’d only heard the cowboy story through his barber; I’ve seen it all over the place, sometimes with just a dog, sometimes with just a horse, once with a kid and a frog.

The threads he braids together are about ways of connecting in grief, and the comfort it might bring. I don’t have much to say about this one, it’s pretty much laid out in front of the reader on a plate. And, of course, there’s an even chance I missed something that drives it further: the title, for instance. It makes an interesting follow-up to “Voltaire Night” with the idea that we’re all grieving, and we can either be alone with it or not, but sharing might make us feel better.

Pushcart XLI: Jane Springer, “Walk” (poem) from Southern Review, Autumn 2015

The kill was accidental the coyotes did not want the meat the meat
didn’t want to be downed that day the rain charged the air
with negative ions we all felt great & walked, garnet crystals flanked
the washed-up creek wind-rush, you know that feeling
of no surveillance?

The speaker of the poem abstractly narrates some kind of leisurely venture into the countryside, and the encounter with… something dead. It’s only referred to as meat, life transformed into death to sustain life in a dramatization of the food chain. We never know exactly what the dead thing is, though there is mention of “cadmium vine down to chartreuse feather”. Is there a chartreuse bird in the wild?

The lack of punctuation in the first few lines, sentences overlapping, images all running together – the story of the coyote, the story of its prey – present nature without the separation into what is beautiful and what is not. The masterpieces of creation blend into the realities: everyone has to eat, including the coyote. But at the same time, another running together is presented, that of different ways to look at the little scene, differing interpretations, maybe different levels. Yes, there’s the predator and prey, but that idea is undermined by the insistence that the meat was not the point of this kill. Throughout the poem, there’s conflicting information about just what is going on: we don’t know what the dead thing was because it’s gone, and if so, doesn’t that mean the coyote took it for food? Or is it so mangled, it’s simply unidentifiable? I hope that wasn’t too graphic. But it’s a graphic poem, and it pulls no punches. And by the way, how does a coyote accidentally kill something?

Punctuation helps to guide our read midway through that first stanza.

It’s not as though the coyotes buttoned up their coyote suits that
morning plotting to leave a being childless. Whether fowl
or furred the mothers left their hymnals in their caves that day
the same as us—it’s not unusual, in fall, to come across
vermillion grasses in the rough part of the field path, but maybe
that’s why the coyotes fled the scene so fast: an eerie fear
the meat belonged to family, but which one?

So much is packed into this stanza: absolution for the coyote; the surprise of violence that is possible at every moment for all of us, human and animal; and that heartbreaking line about family. How do we divide families anyway? All life is related, it’s just a matter of how closely or distantly; we place a boundary at some point, and declare what’s inside is our family and what’s outside is not. Human history – and the very present – is full of violence over who belongs to which family. Even in conquest, does the coyote feel guilt? Or is the fear one of retribution? One is moral, one is practical, but does it matter to the prey? And are we still talking about coyotes, amidst all this language about suits, plotting, childlessness, hymnals, and family, or have we moved to a different level?

We see multiple references to the hunt, and the question, “you know that feeling of no surveillance?” turns up twice. The first time, it’s in reference to the speaker being far away from human support structures – 911, specifically cited – so there’s a touch of risk in the lack of surveillance. The second mention is in a very different context, and implies a more carefree attitude, a heedlessness of risk: “Having had no recent predators, the coyotes must have felt free walking the beat.” By this point I was almost sure that the poem was not, at heart, a nature poem; that nature was the canvas and the paint but the painting had a much broader implication. But I may be overreading.

Again, as with David Hernandez’ poem from last week, I noticed the colors, all described with vivid adjectives that, interestingly, are also nouns: garnet crystals, citron husk, tannic heart, vermillion grasses, cadmium vine, chartreuse feathers. I have no idea if this means anything, but it stood out enough to be noticed. I also see a connection with Robert Wrigley’s “Elk” from earlier in this volume: the use of brutal nature to illustrate humanity.

one might believe
each droplet held an icicle or spectacle for bearing witness
to what pack in nature lay our meat to waste. Rain accents cadmium
vine strung down to chartreuse feather—no lens does justice.
That’s why we took the walk, while shivering, & saw this meat
arrested, fresh, & glittering as if to plead a silent testament:
Aren’t you my kin? Whoever once walked aimless
 
in these woods now walks awake with me in death.

It’s one of those moments when I feel like trying to capture what I feel in words would distort it, maybe erase it; explanation, analysis would not do justice. The poem, a silent testament, stands: who is my brother? And families I never knew I had walk with me in death every day.

Pushcart XLI: David Hernandez, “We Would Never Sleep” (poem) from The Sun #475

poem

We the people, we the one
times 320 million, I’m rounding up, there are really
too many grass blades to count,
wheat plants to tally, just see
the whole field swaying from here to that shy
blue mountain. Swaying
as in rocking, but also the other
definition of the verb: we sway, we influence,
we impress. Unless we’re asleep,
unless the field’s asleep, more a postcard
than a real field, portrait of the people
unmoved.
Complete poem available online at The Sun

Colors. That was the first thing I noticed: grass blades, wheat plants, blue mountain. Like an altered version of “America the Beautiful” with its amber waves of grain, purple mountains, and fruited plain, combining nicely with the notion of America as a population of 320 million blades of grass that make up a huge, beautiful lawn, too many to count, though of course we can and do count them, every ten years in fact. I let myself get distracted by wondering about the difference between RGB and CMYK color mixing systems, and through that realized red was missing. I noticed the influence and the sleep, those are electric words right now, featuring in the political realm as they do, right next to all that American imagery – am I the only one who felt it? – and recalling the title. So I read on.

You know that shooting last week?
I will admit the number dead
was too low to startle me
if you admit you felt the same,
and the person standing by you
agrees, and the person beside that person.
It has to be double digits,
don’t you think?

Red, on.

I wasn’t sure what shooting the poem referred to, so many of them, almost daily, headlines like, in April 2015, Phoenix, AZ: five family members killed “after an apparent dispute over the family business burst into gunfire”, or Douglas County, GA: “Five dead, including gunman” or September in Minnesota: “Five dead in apparent murder-suicide.” Those probably don’t count, though, because they’re family matters, and even though that’s a big part of the problem, it isn’t like a terrorist or a crazy person, something that could actually happen to you, because I’m sure everyone in those families knew they’d die at the hand of their own one day and we know we won’t. So maybe the poem refers to the Chattanooga shootings which has its own Wikipedia entry.

But we’re supposed to be talking poetry here.

I find the progression of the poem to be effective in delivering an emotional kick. It’s true, we don’t pay much attention to “little” incidents any more. Two, three dead, we shrug and move on. Once you’ve read about twenty children plus six of their teachers murdered within minutes, you need more than two or three bodies to make an impression.

The poem spends a little time in that place, but then proposes a solution…

I’m thinking every gun
should come with a microphone,
each street with loudspeakers
to broadcast their banging.
We would never sleep, the field
always awake, acres of swaying
up to that shy blue mountain…

… and comes back to join up the circle, and recapitulate the American landscape, the 320 million blades of grass – minus a few here and there – and all of us sleeping, and just what will it take to wake us up?

Hernandez is known, it seems, as a humor poet, which surprised the hell out of me. I’ve encountered him once before via Pushcart 2014 and his poem “All-American”. I called it “conversational”, something I feel in this poem as well. Both are from his 2016 collection Dear, Sincerely which is indeed full of humor (“We Real Nerds”, an ode to university parking department FAQs, a letter from the sun) punctuated with poems, like this one, that stop your heart, and make you glad you’ve still got a heart that breaks.

Pushcart XLI: James Kimbrell, “Pluto’s Gate: Mississippi” (poem) from Cincinnati Review

                        For Private First Class, C. Liegh McInnis
 
I appear to be a full-on rich guy
wheeling into Oxford
down the Cedar-lined drive across from William Faulkner’s
determined to shield myself (my fancy wristwatch
                                             my roadster
                                             both used both fast as hell) from the
                                             shame
I once knew in this my state

Pluto’s Gate was, in the ancient world, the entrance to the Underworld. Proto-travelblogger Strabo, writing in the time just before BCE would turn to CE, wrote: “This space is full of a vapor so misty and dense that one can scarcely see the ground. Any animal that passes inside meets instant death.” Located in the Phrygian city of Hierapolis (today’s Turkey), only eunuchs devoted to the fertility goddess Cybele could tolerate its fumes. The site was unearthed by archeologists in 2013, but lots of people, including poet James Kimbrell, were more than familiar with it long before then.

Kimbrell gives us a tour of the present and past of his home state through the poem. It’s not a narrative as much as it is an evoked memoir. He grew up poor, but the speaker acknowledges the pain of that poverty alongside the recognition that “no one swerved to hit us” the way they swerved to hit the black people on their way to the voter registration sites in 1964. Even in poverty, there is white privilege.

…and we all cry out stumbling in that wilderness
if we had soup we could have soup and crackers
if we had crackers. but of course
we don’t because love comes on like a weight
and a claw and a sucker punch
and in the case of Mississippi
gateway to this our under-country
history is the dish that leaves us skinny

The poem has an off-and-on two-column structure, reminding me of a dialogue. Between whom? Past and present? The speaker, and Mississippi? The poet and PFC C. Leigh McInnis, to whom the poem is dedicated, a friend and fellow poet Kimbrell originally met back when they both served in the Air National Guard? Speaker and reader? The sparse use of punctuation, mostly in quotes, gives some freedom to reading as some words and phrases align one way with a bit of a psychic overhang in another.

The language is rich with allusions blending into each other, most of which I’m probably not even picking up on but I’ll give it a shot:

backwoods Medusa with a kudzu Afro
whose green gaze
sprouts branches from the fluted
columns of Beauvoir
                      O hold my hand brother before we return
peckers in the dirt of our poke-salad geography
redeemed as empty Faygo bottles
in the burned-down shed
in the bamboo patch
behind Bilbo’s poolhall.

The mention of Medusa brings us back to the ancient world, her snake-hair now an Afro of kudzu, the Vine that Ate the South, and bringing in the dual fascination and fear the white world has with black women, often shown in attitudes towards black hair. The columns of Beauvoir, post-bellum estate of Jefferson Davis in Biloxi, brings us back to the South, and pokeweed weaves in the kind of poverty that has people eating weeds. I was a bit surprised to find there may be a guy in Mississippi named Bilbo who happens to have a pool table in his garage, per a Flickr photo, but mostly it brings the obvious to mind, the hobbit pilgrim.

In spite of my fumbling with symbols and references, I greatly enjoyed this poem. The tone has a strong effect on me: a kind of thrumming of different pulses on some subharmonic frequency that’s sad and beautiful and hopeful, all at the same time. The past never leaves us, but matters most in how it affects actions in the present and future, and that is, to a large degree, our choice.

Pushcart XLI: Jamila Woods, “Daddy Dozens” (poem) from Poetry, April 2015

My Daddy’s forehead is so big, we don’t need a dining room
table. My Daddy’s forehead so big, his hat size is equator. So
big, it’s a five-head. Tyra Banks burst into tears when she seen
my Daddy’s forehead. My Daddy’s forehead got its own area code.

Complete poem available online at Poetry

What a fun beginning: I did, in fact, laugh out loud, right there in the coffee shop where I read this, at the line about Tyra Banks. Guilty pleasures confession: I spent more time than I care to admit watching ANTM for a while there. But, like ANTM and everything else under the sun, the poem changes, and while the tone remains this loudmouth bratty teen dragging stock mocks down the page, a lot of truth gets mixed in along the way. We start to understand more about her Daddy, and by the end, we understand some of the loneliness the blustery humor can’t hide any more.

Woods has done poetry slams, musical albums (including a collaboration with Chance the Rapper). Considering how aural that is – and poetry itself is, of course, a spoken art, though it’s not always presented or perceived that way – I’m surprised how much the layout of this poem on the page contributed to its meaning. At first I wasn’t sure it was a poem; maybe the lines are sentences, just breaking at the margins like all paragraphs. But no, I don’t think so. The words are so dense on the page, not in a heavy or cumbersome way, but in a busy, fast-talking sort of way. The blank lines between stanzas give the reader a moment to readjust, the speaker a bit of time to weigh the options of going on or not. And that last line, isolated and alone, makes a perfect ending, visual, aural, and semantic aspects all focused as an underscore.

Pushcart XLI: Allison Benis White, from “Please, Bury Me in This” (poem) from Copper Nickel  #20

I am making a world I can think inside.
 
Cutting faces of paper and taping them on glass like thoughts.
 
Am I a monster, Clarice Inspector asked in The Hour of the Star, or is this what it means to be human?
 
To have a mind, I think as I cut another face.

I’ve checked the page again and again – yes, it’s definitely Inspector, not Lispector. Is that a typo or a twist of phrase? I’m going to assume it is what it’s supposed to be, fitting with the introspection of the poem as the speaker contemplates mortality on Día de Muertos. I misread another line – “tapping on the glass”, as if requesting attention or entry, instead of “taping them on glass “– so it would make sense. The line “To have a mind, I think…” also led me to expect a prerequisite action rather than a prepositional phrase. I have no idea if this is just my sloppy reading or if there’s some attempt to induce a kind of alternate construction. It’s an interesting question. I suppose I’ll never find out.

In an interview with Niki Johnson of Superstition Review, White tells us this is an excerpt from a book-length poem in the form of a series of letters concerning various aspects of death, “[s]o it seems like I’m working on avoiding titling poems forever.” I like that, even though it does aggravate my more obsessive tendencies.

The metaphysical mind exploration continues in this section of the anthology. Right now I’m in the middle of a mooc combining psychology, neuroscience, and religion; there’s some evidence that the pervasive belief in an afterlife is connected to our inability to conceive of being gone. That’s what poems like this are for. The sugar skull, the person, here today, then “I am you gone.”

Pushcart XLI: Elizabeth Scanlon, “The Brain Is Not the United States” (poem) from Boston Review, April 2015

The brain is not the United States, the brain is the ocean,
Dr. Yquem said, referring to its activity as opposed to its structure,
the brain is not the United States whose borders are mapped
and whose expansion is inhibited by bodies of water —
 
The brain is the ocean who is vast
and incorporates every chemical dumped into it,
whose depths we do not know, whose darkness we fear
in the most primordial way,
who stymies knowing up from down when one sinks fast into its long pull.

Complete poem available online at Boston Review

Ah, how cool, a poem that triggers a soundtrack (earworm alert) picked up in one of my moocs on how the brain perceives spatial location. For the second time in as many weeks, a Pushcart piece has fit right in with several of the brain/mind moocs I’ve taken over the past few years. Scanlon, it appears, is no stranger to these issues: another of her poems, “Stroop”, accurately characterizes the Stroop test; “will over sensation” is as good a way as any to phrase System 2 and System 1. So she knows the territory, probably better than I do.

But I felt I needed to sweep that aside and read the poem on its face. But it wasn’t possible, because we all bring everything we’ve ever learned, felt, experienced to everything we read, just as we bring our entire lives to every next moment.

With the Dr. Yquem reference, I tried to fit this into some grim tale of someone with some physical or mental brain disease, but it’s just too playful a poem, and I discovered Yquem is a French winery, which fits nicely with the chemicals dumping into the brain. I do love the distinction between structure and function; that’s straight from a couple of brain/mind moocs, in fact.

Wordplay abounds, but it’s subtle, maybe not even there and I’m inventing it. Dr. Yquem, for instance: is that really to evoke wine, or am I making that up, and it refers to an actual person? But who, if not a physician – a neuroscience professor? When the speaker gives the French word for brainle cerveau – I’m reminded that the Spanish word for head is cabeza and for beer is cerveza and now she’s got me doing it. Like Dan Reeder’s song above, it’s irresistibly catchy.

Despite all that, the language hints at something much darker than random babbling over afternoon wine, a darkness that shows up again and again in words and phrases – darkness, “its long pull”, medication, salvo and artillery and “a slow gun”, “a warning”. But as a whole, the poem is so much fun, using subject as in math to leapfrog to subject as in subordinate of royalty, the Pledge of Allegiance, taxes.

Then the last stanza:

The brain is not the United States, it is the ocean
and we are everywhere on its shores,
never knowing it entirely.

And I change my mind again, feeling a kind of desolation in that last line. Is this a woman touring France getting a little tipsy in the afternoon and letting her mind wander, getting to know previously unexplored or little-used corridors, watching how it works as it leaps from one association to another? Or is it a woman using wine to drown out her terror at some catastrophe: an illness, a failed marriage, a lost job? Just general anxiety? I don’t know.

In these dark days I tend towards play, much as the speaker does. I hope she has better luck than I do.

Pushcart XLI: Sea Sharp, “The Tallgrass Shuffles” (poem) from Storm Cellar 4.2

Cover art from Sharp's recent collection

Cover art from Sharp’s recent collection

 
last night the wind said
be careful girl the
moon be watching
 
said keep your fingers
out the mud keep your tongue
in your head said the moon
 
is watching you said she’ll pull
you apart like the tide
when your time comes girl
 
Complete poem available online from Storm Cellar

One of the many benefits I get from reading Pushcart is that I “meet” so many interesting writers through their work. So far, I’ve been most intrigued by poet/math tutor Dominica Phetterplace, by the late Steinbjørn B. Jacobsen from the Faroe Islands, and now by Sea Sharp, intersectional “refugee of Kansas” now living in England.

I had a strong sense of the oppression of this poem on first read. I thought of Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl” with all the commandments and blame and implied terror of the world, the need to step very carefully even though you see others dance and dream and you can’t understand why you’re different. The moon imagery brought two things to mind: the moon is strongly associated with the feminine, and the moon sits up there in the sky above us all glowing white. I thought I had to choose. It wasn’t until I read Sharp’s website that I realized I didn’t, that the two conceits could coexist, and that’s the point.

However, it wasn’t until I read about her recently published poetry collection, The Swagger of Dorothy Gale & Other Filthy Ways to Strut that this poem came into focus for me. Now, I admit, I have no idea if this is one of the poems in the volume, but it has to be, it just must: Dorothy being chased down that Yellow Brick Road by a cautionary wind and a scolding, judging moon that has nothing to do with any wizard. Shuffling? Forget that; not this Dorothy Gale, no matter what the wind says.

Another great aspect of Pushcart is that I see some literary journals I otherwise wouldn’t. Storm Cellar calls itself “a literary journal of safety and danger” which, too, fits this poem. Focusing on, but not exclusive to, the Midwest, they look for “authors and artists who are under-represented in the Anglophone literary world. We want everybody to get weird and enlightened and learn and fall in love and have superpowers.” My wish list.

Pushcart XLI: Alex Dimitrov, “Cocaine” (poem) from The Adroit Journal #13

People disappear.
And go looking for a place to be looked at.
All the way down Wilshire and above us: like a sheet of indigo tile.
As we waited, our nicotine glowed in the distance like flies
to some heaven, some high road.
“Who sat on mountaintops in cars reading books aloud to the canyons?”
Like gods and at home being extras at best.

Complete poem available online at The Adroit Journal

I give up. Doesn’t happen often – I can usually find something to grab onto in any poem, essay, or story, even if I don’t really understand what’s going on – but here, I found myself at a complete loss after many readings, whispered, shouted, silent. Even after I found an interview with the poet in which he explicitly discusses the origins of the poem – two trips to LA, passing down the same block of Wilshire a year apart – I still don’t follow. I’m feeling pretty stupid right now, particularly since it was nominated by three poets in addition to the journal itself, so its meaning and excellence are clearly evident to those who know what to look for – and I’m missing it entirely. Guidance welcomed.

Pushcart XLI: David Tomas Martinez, “Consider Oedipus’ Father” (poem) from Poetry, June 2015

It could have been a car door
                leaving that bruise,
 
as any mom knows,
almost anything could take an eye out,
 
and almost anybody could get their tongue
                frozen to a pole,
 
which is kind of funny
                to the point of tears
                plus a knee slap or two
that an eye can be made blue, pink
by a baby’s fist, it fits
perfectly in the socket. It’s happened to me.
                Get it?

Complete poem available online at Poetry

A brutal poem, but in vocabulary, it’s also a very subtle poem, as subtle as the excuses the abused tell for their injuries. Lots of words of injury in innocuous contexts: tears, slap, sock-et, and hands, lots of hands.

My favorite line is almost comic: “For me, a woman’s tears / are IKEA instructions / on the European side.” I’m not sure what’s so hard to figue out, but I guess I’m the wrong one to ask.

I found myself uncomfortable as I read, at least until it gets into more analytical territory:

I’m sure for Laius, Oedipus’s father, it was the same.
                Think of him sleeping
after having held a crying Jocasta
because they had fought for hours
because she was stronger.
 
                Who knew better the anger of young Jocasta?
Knew that when the oracle, or the police,
                come, they are taking someone with them.
 
I’m sure Laius looked at the crib
                and thought better you
than me, kid
.

I’m not sure I understand the reference to Jocasta’s strength. Though she had nothing to do with Laius’ sins that brought on his curse, I always thought of her as a full participant in the abandonment of the baby Oedipus. I’ll give her mixed feelings, that she might be devastated as she pierced his ankles. I do love that sense of Laius trying to weasel his way out of another scrape. Excuses. Always excuses. The man gets the title; the woman gets the blame, the woman and her tears, her strength, damn her.

I had a hard time getting a grip on this one. That doesn’t mean it didn’t hit squarely on point, just that I’m not able to come up with much, or am not willing to publicly come up with much. It might be one of those things you get or you don’t.

Pushcart XLI: Martin Espada, “The Beating Heart of the Wristwatch” (poem) from Purple Passion Press

My father worked as a mechanic in the Air Force,
the engines of planes howling in his ears all day.
One morning the wristwatch his father gave him was gone.
The next day, he saw another soldier wearing the watch.

Complete poem available online at The Progressive

In the age of cell phones and digital watches, have we lost the sense of time tick-tocking away? Maybe that’s overly romanticized, but I think there’s something about those regular clicks that subconsciously reminds us of time slipping away, maybe for the good, maybe for the bad. I wasn’t quite expecting the turn this poem gave to the ticking of a wristwatch, however: as a son’s reminder of his father’s heart, a perpetual keepsake that survives the loss of a parent.

The poem features at least three father-son pairs: the speaker’s father and his father; the speaker and his father; and the watch thief and his son. Quite possibly, the watch thief’s father is implied there as well. I wasn’t aware of the watch as a masculine symbol of one’s father, but why not. It could be, as well, that the symbolism is unique to the speaker, and he’s merely projecting it onto others, assuming they feel as he does.

When he died, I stole my father’s wristwatch.
I listened to the beating heart of the watch.
The heart of the watch kept beating long after
my father’s heart stopped beating. Somewhere,
the son of the man who stole my father’s wristwatch
in the Air Force holds the watch to his ear and listens
to the heart of the watch beating. He keeps the watch
in a sacred place where no one else will hear it.

The second stanza starts in what I consider a very confusing way: if the father’s watch was stolen years before, is this a replacement watch? Why would he have to steal it, and from whom? There must be a reason the poet chose to write it this way, so I tried to see it in different ways: maybe we’ve changed speakers, it’s the son of the watch thief – but no, he’s referenced later in the stanza. Maybe I’m just getting tangled up in minutiae. But it stopped me, and it’s an odd place to stop.

The repetition of phrases – “the beating heart of the watch. The heart of the watch kept beating…” does have a rhythmic presence. I also felt the last line of the poem – ” We listen for the heartbeat and hear the howling” – had a lot of rhythmic howling in the repeated “h” sounds, linking back to the howling of the jet engines and the howling night the father got drunk in the first stanza.

I find it kind of surprising, given the subject, that the poem doesn’t have a more obvious rhythmic structure. Maybe it does, and I just don’t have the ear to pick it up; maybe it’s meant as contrast.

I’m a big fan of the digital world, from the computer I’m typing this on right now, to, yes, the cheap no-wind watches that helps us catch the trains on time. I’m not sure if such things even last the decades needed to become associated with one wrist. If they do, I’m sure a son would treasure it passed down from his father. But he won’t know its beating heart. Does that matter?

Pushcart XLI: Adrian Matejka, “The Antique Blacks” (poetry) from Copper Nickel #2

– For Sun Ra, Richard Pryor, Guion S. Bluford & the 13 other black astronauts who made it to outer space

 

In Richard Pryor’s origin myth of black
size, the two most magnanimous black men
 
in the world are peeing off the 30th Street Bridge
into the White River’s busted up water. & above,
 
Constellations in the sky’s pat afro seem
as indiscriminant as linked in hair & more mundane
 
lights move lowly on the horizon the way cop
lights always move when black people think
 
about congregating outside of church. One
brother stairs towards Saturn & says, Man,
 
this water is cold. The other looks in the same
direction & says, Yeah, & it’s deep, too.
 
*
 
They are as the upward inflection of it –
                the honeyed smile of space
                front & center in our heads –
                Voyager winking
                like a gold incisor
                on its way out
                                of this solar system.

Last week, just days before reading this poem for the first time, I found this clue in a NYT Sunday crossword puzzle: “Old bandleader with an Egyptian-inspired name”. I didn’t know, so only came up with “Sun Ra” incidentally as other clues filled in 18-across. I looked it up to be sure, and discovered the jazz and electronic music artist Sun Ra, leader of Arkestra (I had to say it out loud before I got it, but I’m dense). Although Sun Ra is no longer on this astral plane, the Arkestra performed on NPR’s Tiny Little Desk Concerts as recently as 2014.

So I was thrilled to come across his name again in this poem, this time linked to Richard Pryor, Guion S. Bluford, the first African-American astronaut in space, the thirteen who came after him – and a teenager in Indianapolis.

And again I will admit I’m overmatched and refer to a more educated source for a more professional reading, this time Rebecca Schwarz of The Review Review. She cites the ease with which the poem moves through different forms, similar to the ease with which Matejka moves from Richard Prior comedy to poetic imagery of space travel to his own youth in Indianapolis to Sun Ra in a poetic version of jazz improv.

This movement also characterizes Matejka’s early life: “My mother told me I lived in Germany and in 10 states before the age of 7. That’s healthy, I’m sure”, he says in an interview with Emily Bonner of Barely South Review.

One of Schwarz’ observations strikes me as the essence of writing, all writing: the poem has an intimate feel when the subject is the vastness of space or the progress of history, and feels universal when it returns to the most personal moments. This reminds me also of Roxane Gay’s comment from a few years ago: that an essay must “look outward as much as it looks inward.” This poem does both at the same time, reversing mood and subject, turning the personal universal and the universal personal:

The moon was still out the Tuesday morning I got my first
real curl & Guion S. Bluford became the first black man
into outer space. August 30, 1983. I styled my wet frond
like Purple Rain Prince: left side tucked behind my ear, right
side getting activator in the same eye I would have used
to telescope the Challenger as it eclipsed Kennedy Space Center
at midnight in the habit of every brother I have ever met
trying to get away from something without a quotient. Math,
astrophysics – it doesn’t matter. It all equals escape. All
those funny words related to spaceflight, too – velocity,
trajectory, stamina
….

Maybe that’s why I loved the poem without being able to pin it down (though I always swoon at any mention of the Voyager Music from Earth recording sent to space almost 40 years ago; I still remember the excerpts included on the Cosmos record). I felt right there with Matejka making his Prince curl; I understand the dream of escape. Like Schwartz, I felt the joy in the poem, a poem that includes sobering images but always, always, looks up, like the cap of Richard Prior’s characters or the tip of the space shuttle on the launchpad – or a young man in Indianapolis who loves words.

I’ll offer one additional observation: the poem begins and ends in couplets, a form I associate with a pair-bond of some kind. Here, I’d say it’s the poet talking to the reader, and I think it might be what creates that sense of intimacy. “I’m going to tell you something,” says the poem. All we have to do is listen.

I’m not sure how to read the title. Antique Black is sometimes used as a home furnishings designation, but it’s more of a descriptive than prescriptive phrase and can mean anything from a rubbed black finish to plain old black paint with the name fancied up. The notion of a rubbed finish is interesting in this context: friction, applied by hand, polishes the stain unevenly, leaving a slightly mottled matte finish that’s hard to machine-replicate. I suppose Sun Ra, Bluford and Prior are now an older generation, pointing upward for Matejka’s generation, and even more, his students at Indiana University where he teaches.

Forthcoming this month is Map to the Stars, Matejka’s collection examining “the tensions between race, geography, and poverty in America during the Reagan Era.” I’m pretty sure, from the description (I can’t find a TOC) this poem is included.

Pushcart XLI: Emily Skillings, “Basement Delivery” (poem) from Jubilat #28

Having lived so long without one, we forgot
what a basement felt like—how it seemed
to the carrier(s), to the inhabitant(s),
the structure(s), that there was an underneathness
to all that daily interaction and exchange—
i.e. an empty teacup hovering just above a pool.

Complete poem available online at Jubilat

Welcome to another round of “Karen doesn’t have a clue about how poetry works (but that doesn’t stop her from blogging about it)”.

Let’s start with the teacup above a pool. To me, a teacup is a strong symbol of social propriety and decorum, linked to the Queen, delicate sandwiches, formal luncheons intended primarily to show off new hats. A teacup is fragile, merely a swirl of porcelain in space, as opposed to a coffee cup which is solid and practical. I’m not saying that’s what a teacup actually is, just what it brings to mind. Then there’s the pool below, with its unknown depths and shifting surface, a place where one could dive in or drown, who knows which.

Then there’s the basement. All houses have foundations, but a basement is something else, a hollow in a foundation, where old junk or dormant ideas are stored, a place that can become another room someday when the time is right or just stay a spidery place for laundry machines and boxes of the past.

My family moved from New England to South Florida when I was a kid; we lost our basement along the way. A house with a basement feels different, at least the houses I’ve been in. The floors echo. And there’s always something else, something unseen, beneath. In metaphorical terms, this could be viewed as positive or negative – it’s great to have a sense of where one came from, to have space for future memories, but doesn’t memory also limit our expectations? And did I mention spiders? And sump pumps? – but it seems to me the poem treats it as positive, keeping a vibrant, energetic tone throughout.

I get the general idea of being without a basement as being without that extra, out-of-sight-out-of-mind storage, and the installation of a basement as expansion of the capacity for memory, for depth of experience. The installation itself is whimsical and fun: of course, basements aren’t installed in this way (I know nothing about construction, but I suspect it’s not possible to install a basement under an existing house). Ten women arrive to install it. Why women? Because women tend to keep family memories more than men? Why ten? The number required for a minyan? A sufficient generational span to warrant a basement of the past?

Alternate take, based on a true story: When I was a mere lass of 19 or so, I made some self-deprecatory remark and a friend answered, “You know what bothers me about you? Your abasement.” I spent a couple of beats trying to figure out why I was a basement before it clicked. I don’t think that’s anywhere in the text of the poem, but every reader brings a different past – a different basement, if you will – to a read, and that’s mine for this one. I tried reading the poem in that light, in fact. A poem about installing abasement would be a very different poem, wouldn’t it? Darkness, underneath the pink (I’m still haunted by “The Spring Forecast” from a few weeks ago) and the we and the freed collection? Is this a poem about the erosion of confidence that comes, for so many girls, at puberty? Is the substory that comes at first blush of waking sexuality a sense of shame, of a new context in every social exchange? And again I’ve fallen into some super-subjective abyss. Give me a minute to climb out…

Then I have formal questions. Why three sets of six lines plus a couplet, enjambed with the last sestet? Does trochaic pentameter (if that’s what it is; I have some congenital inability to accurately parse meters, especially when they are just a bit irregular, as they are here and in most modern poetry) add some level of meaning? What function does this serve? Must it serve a function, whether aesthetic or symbolic? And semantic questions: Why the (s)s in the first stanza? To me it adds to the whimsy, maybe just because it looks like smiles, but is there a deeper, more poetically valid reason? And that last line: while keeping the importance of time forefront (it was again again), the whimsicality of the poem stretches to another level, almost to wordplay with “Leave no stone already.” There’s a confusion of past and present, but why end on that switch? To confound the past’s role, now strengthened by the basement, in expectations of the future?

This is why I get so frustrated with poetry: significance of any element varies from poem to poem. I’m going to stick with what grabs me – the teacup and the basement and the pink and the ten strong women and foundational memory, background, context (oh, but I do so love the abasement angle, it followed me home, I promise to feed it every day, can I keep it, please, please?) – until I learn a better way to read.

In her On Poetry podcast episode, Skillings (a Columbia teaching fellow and MFA candidate) mentions she’s only been paid for two poems. “No one goes into poetry for money anyway,” says host Gabriela Garcia. Same could be said for all that’s important and irreplaceable. Her first full-length collection, a compilation of her work over the last four years (including this poem) will be released this Fall.