[Thanks & gratitude to my friend Brittany Newmark for making her latest poem available to Robert Frost's Banjo.]
Salt & Song
1.
What if you were to sing to me?
Would that be so hard? Am I asking for so much?
Make it in illo tempore
and only in a woman’s voice,
Let her voice taste of salt
and smell of chalk and
let us know the hunger behind the voice
In fact let us hear it once and
then instantly be ground down to dust and course grains
as if some terrible desolation is visited upon those
that even heard her voice
because it will happen soon enough.
Oh look at us. Oh hold us tight
No one shall be amazed
when they realize that it will be
the voice of a woman that calls us home and soothes our reckless past.
This is the caesura I speak of . . .
My opus, will knock down barn doors,
will call a hoedown,
will spread it wings, arch its neck and coo like a fat grey pigeon,
in the next life.
In the meantime we wear the error of our ways like a black eye patch
Heroic and elegant that invariably leads to
some gossip that is told before we even enter a room
and gives us a kind of cachet in certain circles.
In truth we should be overlooked (we have done nothing worthwhile)
Except for the fact that
the Google camera watches us from nearby trees and poles,
Its heart is breaking and it cries its eyes out, for us.
But we do not have the technology yet to tell it that it will be okay.
It will all be all right,
as soon as we . . .
2
Oh ye of little faith
Praise the salt,
Lick it off the back of his neck,
And listen
It tells the story of old wounds and of lives not yet born
It tells the story carried in the DNA
That we don’t talk about don’t dare tell the unborn what will happen in
this life.
They say each of is visited by an angel in the womb and shown the whole
expanse of the world and the angel strikes our baby lips and we forget the vision,
lose sight of the world.
Maybe that’s what going on
Because salt is human, the brine of our being and memory an empty room.
There was a time when I walked around hearing the sonorous calls
Of men like some kind of evangelism. Tonight, America is tired
and bored and angry
The voice now that fills the gaping yawn on the radio speaks of
the religious oppression, and the caller,
“Caller from Athens, Ohio,
Yes you’re on the air”
The voice fills the air with enough sexuality for me to admit, yes my pain
Is of a sexual nature, identity by rote.
We are going off the grid,
Can no longer bear the roar from the black helicopters
3
In the morning I will place the white tulips and the Asian Iris in a cream colored pitcher that holds milk or hurts
that pours out the sad chronic fatigue
We don’t have the technology yet to address the pain, so we treat it like hunger
With daily bread.
What a loss:
And the only words of the song I remember,
Oh my you have a pretty face,
How would it be if we got to see our own lives open like a secret note passed
Out of the camera shot?
Or as a sweep panorama seen at the great distance, like from the
Deck of the Starship Enterprise
The newest among us, how awed and baffled they must feel with their eyes flooded
And any memory of the eternal
wiped clean
Can we tempt fate, or hum and tap our lips to forget what we have seen and then
Admonish each other for not feeling the right sorry.
I know what to do because
If I went into the coffin business people would stop dying.
Brittany Newmark
© 2012
Showing posts with label BN writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BN writing. Show all posts
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Sending You Into The World I Should Say, Something
1.
You will meet people,
keep it simple, make eye contact,
touch their hand, push your hair back.
Listen.
They may ask questions.
You can tell a person by their questions.
“Where has the money gone?”
Say, “There was no money.”
“Not ever?”
“No not ever.”
“What should I say if they ask uhm. . . more?”
“Say the truth”
“If they ask where have I been, what should I tell them?”
“Tell them you’ve been right here all along, beside me. They will understand.”
2.
Desire is an ancient city with four gates
The Gate of Longing
The Gate of Rage
The Gate of Resignation
The Mercy Gate.
You don’t get the choice often
Go in the last gate.
You will know the others already there
milling under the yellow stone arches
Take your time, take mine as well,
watch as people pass
And no matter what
you will give two shekels to whoever is legless, or blind or widowed.
And in the market it will be confused and hot,
piled with sacks of red lentils and barrels of olives.
There will be a war just started or just ended
and the soldiers around the market will speak
either in the patois of defeat or victory.
Seasoned by experience they know “to endure”
does not always mean to outlast.
It can also mean to forgive the hand that swung the club
and to know in the future to move aside.
3
This is how it has always been for someone
and at this time you are the one.
Never be the first to arrive anywhere.
Do this because you do not come from pioneers
but from survivors that follow behind,
gleaners that take what has been dropped along
another’s way and
from this we eat we understand.
So many last minute things I have meant to say,
re: fabric: woven together linen and wool are forbidden.
Wisely, I know you pick wool
it will be cool in heat and warm in cold
Remember the rule,
the sense of distance, that awareness
arrives and awakens
only by wanting something closer.
Brittany Newmark
© 2012
Many thanks to my dear friend Brittany Newmark for making this eloquent & compelling poem available to Robert Frost's Banjo. Thanks, Brittany!
You will meet people,
keep it simple, make eye contact,
touch their hand, push your hair back.
Listen.
They may ask questions.
You can tell a person by their questions.
“Where has the money gone?”
Say, “There was no money.”
“Not ever?”
“No not ever.”
“What should I say if they ask uhm. . . more?”
“Say the truth”
“If they ask where have I been, what should I tell them?”
“Tell them you’ve been right here all along, beside me. They will understand.”
2.
Desire is an ancient city with four gates
The Gate of Longing
The Gate of Rage
The Gate of Resignation
The Mercy Gate.
You don’t get the choice often
Go in the last gate.
You will know the others already there
milling under the yellow stone arches
Take your time, take mine as well,
watch as people pass
And no matter what
you will give two shekels to whoever is legless, or blind or widowed.
And in the market it will be confused and hot,
piled with sacks of red lentils and barrels of olives.
There will be a war just started or just ended
and the soldiers around the market will speak
either in the patois of defeat or victory.
Seasoned by experience they know “to endure”
does not always mean to outlast.
It can also mean to forgive the hand that swung the club
and to know in the future to move aside.
3
This is how it has always been for someone
and at this time you are the one.
Never be the first to arrive anywhere.
Do this because you do not come from pioneers
but from survivors that follow behind,
gleaners that take what has been dropped along
another’s way and
from this we eat we understand.
So many last minute things I have meant to say,
re: fabric: woven together linen and wool are forbidden.
Wisely, I know you pick wool
it will be cool in heat and warm in cold
Remember the rule,
the sense of distance, that awareness
arrives and awakens
only by wanting something closer.
Brittany Newmark
© 2012
Many thanks to my dear friend Brittany Newmark for making this eloquent & compelling poem available to Robert Frost's Banjo. Thanks, Brittany!
Saturday, January 28, 2012
"Ruchama In Her Worn Nightgown,"
[Much gratitude to my friend Brittany Newmark for making this powerful poem available to Robert Frost's Banjo.]
Ruchama In Her Worn Nightgown,
1.
It has taken so long to arrive here, late,
the dust in my shoes
and my pockets
turned out like some clown in a silent film.
Sometimes it was like
Rowing across the lake where all the fish were named for saints
And feeling like you were not a tourist,
(in other words feeling smug)
and then being slighted
And at last knowing, how fragile it is to belong.
Ruchama you had a white dress, before white dresses.
Do you remember it?
I do,
on two counts,
1. it was so much more than I could have ever afforded, even now
and 2. It was braver than I have ever been, especially now.
Nu, your feet are bare,
The wells of your clavicle filled with indiscretion.
No need to worry the last bleeding cuticle
or to scour the teakettle at all hours of the night.
O you must be so cold,
Go, go back to bed. What is happening will go on without you.
It does not concern you.
Stay out of it. No good can come of it.
I am sorry to say that there is no one left to comfort
or to betray.
Whatever beauty was
She has picked another hill to die on.
2
They were good times though,
those parties you used to throw,
And how you served
entire meals of revenge, the sweet breads of ambition,
the small red fruits of petty resentment.
You knew.
Really, what else can you offer to a room full of opportunists?
With their hands outstretched like ghouls in a B movie
They got what they deserved
and that is so rare in this life.
What did you tell me?
You had the salon repainted and the shutters opened wide
and even the workmen
yes especially the workmen thought
of bedding you,
it was hot repetitive work,
they all imagined you
naked. We all always imagined
you naked, with a pool of clothing at your feet.
That thought and those conversations
pure, like an American song on the green radio:
You don’t believe I love you,
Look at the fool I’ve been.
You don’t believe I’m sinkin
Look at the hole I’m in.
By that time, so many had abandoned their rituals, in the fields,
In the camps, in the gulags—
They understood oppression not as the boy in fawn colored pants
looking out of the French doors onto a garden,
but they knew it
from a hut, the inside of a latrine.
Then there was the man, in the army greens
he waded through the canal
choked with corpses, both theirs and ours.
And he told those stories over and over,
or the story was told around him
after he left.
Of course you know
He did not get separated from his unit
He walked away
at nineteen—armed to the teeth
We all know what happened from there, not pretty.
And he left behind a lesson that would serve.
But even he went on to marry and have a life,
(meaning a wife and children)
Alongside a beach and striped umbrellas.
But of course you know that,
How else could he have slipped so neatly
between you and what could have been?
How else was there always sand on your stone floors?
3
I am not sure if I fully understand the premise
But it interests me.
In each generation there are 36 righteous men.
I expect one or two must have been impulsive youths,
hellions in jaunty grey caps.
Or just boys playing chicken on a long dark stretch of highway,
and lost.
They are not angels these men, who may be fewer than 36
they may not even be righteous
But they carry a generation.
I can’t say how to manage the darkness or the isotopes of faith
You can no longer manage even the red scarf or the sassy quip,
they seem sad and ridiculous—old woman, ugly woman.
Because even if they are silent—long gone
the ghosts of guests are well positioned around the room,
just where you placed them
one in the blue velvet chair,
the other just leaning by the bookshelf.
They are not listening they do not look up from the papers they hold out in front of them.
Ruchama, your hand,
you have a tremor.
In the hot wind of August
and in another century
somebody on the fourth floor throws open the door and steps out onto the porch,
Ruchama, you are lovely with a belly full of loquats
that you picked up under the tree, just outside the gates.
Was it stealing?
No more or less than the man,
what he took from you,
he carried back to her
I suppose everybody needs to eat.
Brittany Newmark
© 2012
Ruchama In Her Worn Nightgown,
1.
It has taken so long to arrive here, late,
the dust in my shoes
and my pockets
turned out like some clown in a silent film.
Sometimes it was like
Rowing across the lake where all the fish were named for saints
And feeling like you were not a tourist,
(in other words feeling smug)
and then being slighted
And at last knowing, how fragile it is to belong.
Ruchama you had a white dress, before white dresses.
Do you remember it?
I do,
on two counts,
1. it was so much more than I could have ever afforded, even now
and 2. It was braver than I have ever been, especially now.
Nu, your feet are bare,
The wells of your clavicle filled with indiscretion.
No need to worry the last bleeding cuticle
or to scour the teakettle at all hours of the night.
O you must be so cold,
Go, go back to bed. What is happening will go on without you.
It does not concern you.
Stay out of it. No good can come of it.
I am sorry to say that there is no one left to comfort
or to betray.
Whatever beauty was
She has picked another hill to die on.
2
They were good times though,
those parties you used to throw,
And how you served
entire meals of revenge, the sweet breads of ambition,
the small red fruits of petty resentment.
You knew.
Really, what else can you offer to a room full of opportunists?
With their hands outstretched like ghouls in a B movie
They got what they deserved
and that is so rare in this life.
What did you tell me?
You had the salon repainted and the shutters opened wide
and even the workmen
yes especially the workmen thought
of bedding you,
it was hot repetitive work,
they all imagined you
naked. We all always imagined
you naked, with a pool of clothing at your feet.
That thought and those conversations
pure, like an American song on the green radio:
You don’t believe I love you,
Look at the fool I’ve been.
You don’t believe I’m sinkin
Look at the hole I’m in.
By that time, so many had abandoned their rituals, in the fields,
In the camps, in the gulags—
They understood oppression not as the boy in fawn colored pants
looking out of the French doors onto a garden,
but they knew it
from a hut, the inside of a latrine.
Then there was the man, in the army greens
he waded through the canal
choked with corpses, both theirs and ours.
And he told those stories over and over,
or the story was told around him
after he left.
Of course you know
He did not get separated from his unit
He walked away
at nineteen—armed to the teeth
We all know what happened from there, not pretty.
And he left behind a lesson that would serve.
But even he went on to marry and have a life,
(meaning a wife and children)
Alongside a beach and striped umbrellas.
But of course you know that,
How else could he have slipped so neatly
between you and what could have been?
How else was there always sand on your stone floors?
3
I am not sure if I fully understand the premise
But it interests me.
In each generation there are 36 righteous men.
I expect one or two must have been impulsive youths,
hellions in jaunty grey caps.
Or just boys playing chicken on a long dark stretch of highway,
and lost.
They are not angels these men, who may be fewer than 36
they may not even be righteous
But they carry a generation.
I can’t say how to manage the darkness or the isotopes of faith
You can no longer manage even the red scarf or the sassy quip,
they seem sad and ridiculous—old woman, ugly woman.
Because even if they are silent—long gone
the ghosts of guests are well positioned around the room,
just where you placed them
one in the blue velvet chair,
the other just leaning by the bookshelf.
They are not listening they do not look up from the papers they hold out in front of them.
Ruchama, your hand,
you have a tremor.
In the hot wind of August
and in another century
somebody on the fourth floor throws open the door and steps out onto the porch,
Ruchama, you are lovely with a belly full of loquats
that you picked up under the tree, just outside the gates.
Was it stealing?
No more or less than the man,
what he took from you,
he carried back to her
I suppose everybody needs to eat.
Brittany Newmark
© 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
"My Blue Heaven"
[A remarkable new poem from Brittany Newmark-much gratitude for the privilege of posting it on Robert Frost's Banjo]
My Blue Heaven
Heaven is a continent with no oceans.
And it stands to reason that
all the languages spoken there are dead languages,
So, finally I can use my one phrase in Aramaic
abra’ ki’dab’rah
Meaning: from this utterance I create.
But then I will keep my mouth shut.
In heaven all gray pack mules become horses
prancing with colored streamers or some become storms, huge dust devils
a wild herd across a grassy plain
others are armored steeds en fête for the Emperor’s parade.
In heaven the fact that you died ruined, humiliated
and slow, with those dark brown stains
on the sheets does not matter
because in heaven nobody has any bodily functions to carry
around or leave behind.
Heaven is the green crack of the poppy bud
just before it opens
It is the third prayer of the day.
In heaven David brushes Av’shalom’s hair and all is forgiven.
You can rest; your future is no longer rushing to meet you at some off the chart velocity, weighted by happenstance and awkward failures and phony politics.
Hard to believe but true, in heaven they only play the music you love
That song you long to hear over and over,
and her voice
what is it about that voice?
In heaven the cuffs never fall out of your pants
And a love that ended decades ago one bad winter stays like a secure seam
Stitched into a silk purse made from a sow’s ear.
The light in heaven is not artificial light
(but who am I to speak of the light of heaven,
I am getting ahead of myself, I hope)
Mostly, there are warm nights in the Summer garden and friendly games on the grass
Be advised though that there are drastic changes in heaven concerning human
relationships,
O sweet relief
And after so many azure decades the beloved becomes the lover.
In heaven you will not meet those women with rouged cheeks and ballerina buns they
have gone elsewhere.
I have it on good authority that in heaven there are no arguments, no counter
arguments and no snarky retorts.
I do know that you cannot speak of heaven
Without at some point addressing the here, the now, and
the child that we will meet there,
(oh how fast she has grown, into a lovely lady)
on the sweeping lawn, that we wanted so badly to stay here alongside us
(well I did, I should not speak for you)
in all the narrow beds that preceded the last one.
just breathe, please just breathe.
I wholeheartedly imagine that even a thief in his tunnel
who prays
simply not to be caught will be in the Summer garden for a friendly game,
and among friends finally.
You may not know that until you get there
But
In heaven you can love notions without understanding them
and people that never lived long enough to be.
Brittany Newmark
© 2012
My Blue Heaven
Heaven is a continent with no oceans.
And it stands to reason that
all the languages spoken there are dead languages,
So, finally I can use my one phrase in Aramaic
abra’ ki’dab’rah
Meaning: from this utterance I create.
But then I will keep my mouth shut.
In heaven all gray pack mules become horses
prancing with colored streamers or some become storms, huge dust devils
a wild herd across a grassy plain
others are armored steeds en fête for the Emperor’s parade.
In heaven the fact that you died ruined, humiliated
and slow, with those dark brown stains
on the sheets does not matter
because in heaven nobody has any bodily functions to carry
around or leave behind.
Heaven is the green crack of the poppy bud
just before it opens
It is the third prayer of the day.
In heaven David brushes Av’shalom’s hair and all is forgiven.
You can rest; your future is no longer rushing to meet you at some off the chart velocity, weighted by happenstance and awkward failures and phony politics.
Hard to believe but true, in heaven they only play the music you love
That song you long to hear over and over,
and her voice
what is it about that voice?
In heaven the cuffs never fall out of your pants
And a love that ended decades ago one bad winter stays like a secure seam
Stitched into a silk purse made from a sow’s ear.
The light in heaven is not artificial light
(but who am I to speak of the light of heaven,
I am getting ahead of myself, I hope)
Mostly, there are warm nights in the Summer garden and friendly games on the grass
Be advised though that there are drastic changes in heaven concerning human
relationships,
O sweet relief
And after so many azure decades the beloved becomes the lover.
In heaven you will not meet those women with rouged cheeks and ballerina buns they
have gone elsewhere.
I have it on good authority that in heaven there are no arguments, no counter
arguments and no snarky retorts.
I do know that you cannot speak of heaven
Without at some point addressing the here, the now, and
the child that we will meet there,
(oh how fast she has grown, into a lovely lady)
on the sweeping lawn, that we wanted so badly to stay here alongside us
(well I did, I should not speak for you)
in all the narrow beds that preceded the last one.
just breathe, please just breathe.
I wholeheartedly imagine that even a thief in his tunnel
who prays
simply not to be caught will be in the Summer garden for a friendly game,
and among friends finally.
You may not know that until you get there
But
In heaven you can love notions without understanding them
and people that never lived long enough to be.
Brittany Newmark
© 2012
Thursday, December 29, 2011
"A Letter From The Committee For the Advancement of Loss"
[A big week for poetry here on Robert Frost's Banjo: today, another stunningly good poem by Brittany Newmark]
A Letter From The Committee For the Advancement of Loss
I am making a drawing of the world,
an analogy in ink dotted outlines
between that which is lost
by our own errant ways
and that which is torn from us
and that which recedes with time.
We will speak of these quietly in hushed tones,
that are leaned into.
It serves as a history lesson,
And that freight an uneven load.
As always, in my imagination
My lecture today begins
as my lecture yesterday began
and as I will begin tomorrow.
There in the repetition of what has been said—a long silence
Once it had everything to do with the chestnut trees
and a poplar wood, a tan pup
tucked under a blue woolen coat with horn buttons.
And I. Steinmetz, a star man
and stone cutter
Who traveled that great distance in a wooden cart
hidden beneath the straw bales.
Dreaming
in a codeine stupor
of ten thousand clocks and brass gears and enamel hands,
And later
licking the icicles beneath a truck’s chassis,
or were they hanging from the roof of a boxcar?
No matter they were cold and slick.
The thirst: a reminder, drink
you must drink.
The long always
winter on the back of the eyelids, specks of snow
the shadow of wolves
Like what the letter should have said:
Dear Mr X,
The committee has met and discussed the unfortunate situation that was your family.
We wish to thank you for your generous contribution to the world of loss. Their names should be blessed and you should be written in the Book of Life
Respectfully Yours,
The Committee For the Advancement of Loss
PS. We cannot await a reply.
Brittany Newmark
© 2011
A Letter From The Committee For the Advancement of Loss
I am making a drawing of the world,
an analogy in ink dotted outlines
between that which is lost
by our own errant ways
and that which is torn from us
and that which recedes with time.
We will speak of these quietly in hushed tones,
that are leaned into.
It serves as a history lesson,
And that freight an uneven load.
As always, in my imagination
My lecture today begins
as my lecture yesterday began
and as I will begin tomorrow.
There in the repetition of what has been said—a long silence
Once it had everything to do with the chestnut trees
and a poplar wood, a tan pup
tucked under a blue woolen coat with horn buttons.
And I. Steinmetz, a star man
and stone cutter
Who traveled that great distance in a wooden cart
hidden beneath the straw bales.
Dreaming
in a codeine stupor
of ten thousand clocks and brass gears and enamel hands,
And later
licking the icicles beneath a truck’s chassis,
or were they hanging from the roof of a boxcar?
No matter they were cold and slick.
The thirst: a reminder, drink
you must drink.
The long always
winter on the back of the eyelids, specks of snow
the shadow of wolves
Like what the letter should have said:
Dear Mr X,
The committee has met and discussed the unfortunate situation that was your family.
We wish to thank you for your generous contribution to the world of loss. Their names should be blessed and you should be written in the Book of Life
Respectfully Yours,
The Committee For the Advancement of Loss
PS. We cannot await a reply.
Brittany Newmark
© 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
"Dear Reader,"
[Another poem from Brittany Newmark—fantastic, & a privilege to post]
Dear Reader,
Easy now, all I am going to do is talk
And not even say
One way
or the other that
The story does not end at the
Good-bye
Or the journey on a snowy evening alongside a vacant lot
in a city full of promise.
No doubt, I have read too much
into our lives,
the lives of our family,
our friends
the tables we gather around.
The light accumulates and settles into the recesses of the room
And never exposes us to one another.
Friends, I am sorry I can’t stay
It is late.
Where have I been?
To Indiana and New Hampshire
Jerusalem, Ohio
Texas, Virginia twice
Each place a promise
And lived well enough to call it a life
A glow aloft
I’ve carried infants in my gut,
my arms,
my heart still asleep
on my back
And been completely fulfilled by a fat fist no bigger than a baked roll
And clenched tight, alive.
A simple observation:
sunflowers growing in an open field always face east
And serve sometimes as the only compass
for the especially impoverished and misdirected.
The ones that notice such things
as the tilt of a thousand flowers.
Reader,
you know
(as well as I,
before I had the words for it you knew)
human hurt—
a water stain
and that in those future beds of straw & hair every kiss will taste like ash.
I promise to no longer be fool-hearted
I promise to no longer mistake the swing of
a girl’s hips
for some hint of melancholy
I promise to linger long enough to be taken
inside.
Brittany Newmark
© 2011
Dear Reader,
Easy now, all I am going to do is talk
And not even say
One way
or the other that
The story does not end at the
Good-bye
Or the journey on a snowy evening alongside a vacant lot
in a city full of promise.
No doubt, I have read too much
into our lives,
the lives of our family,
our friends
the tables we gather around.
The light accumulates and settles into the recesses of the room
And never exposes us to one another.
Friends, I am sorry I can’t stay
It is late.
Where have I been?
To Indiana and New Hampshire
Jerusalem, Ohio
Texas, Virginia twice
Each place a promise
And lived well enough to call it a life
A glow aloft
I’ve carried infants in my gut,
my arms,
my heart still asleep
on my back
And been completely fulfilled by a fat fist no bigger than a baked roll
And clenched tight, alive.
A simple observation:
sunflowers growing in an open field always face east
And serve sometimes as the only compass
for the especially impoverished and misdirected.
The ones that notice such things
as the tilt of a thousand flowers.
Reader,
you know
(as well as I,
before I had the words for it you knew)
human hurt—
a water stain
and that in those future beds of straw & hair every kiss will taste like ash.
I promise to no longer be fool-hearted
I promise to no longer mistake the swing of
a girl’s hips
for some hint of melancholy
I promise to linger long enough to be taken
inside.
Brittany Newmark
© 2011
Saturday, December 3, 2011
"Hepatitis"
[Our somewhat less mysterious Mystery Poet in Residence has kindly agreed to let me post some of her new poems here, & to say the least, I'm jazzed. Brittany Newmark is a stunningly good poet. You will see why I say this here.]
Hepatitis
We all have our own acre of pain
The heat, the bilirubin rising.
Tonight, the feverish body is braille
Under the finger tips
And the swelling smooth and
Warm like a polished stone.
The mystics cure hepatitis by tying live pigeons to the stomach,
After they quiver and die under the leather straps.
You rise
Cured
The world begins again sans jaundiced eye.
The mystics can see to the other end of the world
And everything they see, they know.
While we just diddle around.
The consolation is that we can wait in the ante-
chamber and let Maria Callas pour in from speakers,
and outside the violet sky spreads an ink spill.
In the distance the machines of the world grind glass
and metal conducts particles like musical notes
In some future Opera—of how the world works.
Tonight, nothing extraordinary will happen
not to us at least.
Our lives will be unchanged,
Except the feverish mind can wander
the eyes hot in their sockets see halos around
all the objects in the room, lose their edges and definition and the wall becomes a
Rothko of color.
What if every face you pass on the street
wears the veil of pain, not just a weary countenance,
and every voice hollow at the other
end of the call is asking to be healed?
On their behalf
I could make a tally: the greatest lies ever told?
The check is in the mail
Doing it like this you can’t get pregnant
Arbeit Macht Frei
It’s all conjecture and conjured up
from that remote sad outpost of:
Once there was
like that memory: you were nine and the Goldman’s green Dodge was first base and the sewer grate second and home plate was only imagined
and distant
as the older boys that came racing around the slope and the dogs
began that twilight bark at the ends of their chains.
And when you reach that place, a plateau, you will be free in retrospect,
there, where the river moved slowly through town.
As a student you learned under the electric tube of lights that
hummed like bees,
and sounded the same as the
hive that Samson saw in the lion’s rib cage.
He took something brutal from that image
And then later knew to set the foxes’ tails on fire.
And the fields, they burned.
Tabula rasa.
I can put the two-pronged question out
Is a fable pulled taut
A truth or is it just
another stab at it?
The mystics know tightening the straps
That the pigeons’ honeyed voices and crushed wings cure jaundice
Always,
something else needs to quiver and die for us to be cured.
Recognize that.
What does it matter now?
there are the letters that were never sent
and more that never arrived.
In our dark history guards rolled cigarette from pages of Talmud,
Some of the words could have been worked
into great volumes of the future.
All poems after all are transcribed by
ghost writers and etched into the open palms.
A cataract, a clavicle,
The deep blue endless reality—not giving a shit.
The fabulist realizes: you cannot see what there is not there to see
Like a tattoo on the child’s bones.
Hepatitis
We all have our own acre of pain
The heat, the bilirubin rising.
Tonight, the feverish body is braille
Under the finger tips
And the swelling smooth and
Warm like a polished stone.
The mystics cure hepatitis by tying live pigeons to the stomach,
After they quiver and die under the leather straps.
You rise
Cured
The world begins again sans jaundiced eye.
The mystics can see to the other end of the world
And everything they see, they know.
While we just diddle around.
The consolation is that we can wait in the ante-
chamber and let Maria Callas pour in from speakers,
and outside the violet sky spreads an ink spill.
In the distance the machines of the world grind glass
and metal conducts particles like musical notes
In some future Opera—of how the world works.
Tonight, nothing extraordinary will happen
not to us at least.
Our lives will be unchanged,
Except the feverish mind can wander
the eyes hot in their sockets see halos around
all the objects in the room, lose their edges and definition and the wall becomes a
Rothko of color.
What if every face you pass on the street
wears the veil of pain, not just a weary countenance,
and every voice hollow at the other
end of the call is asking to be healed?
On their behalf
I could make a tally: the greatest lies ever told?
The check is in the mail
Doing it like this you can’t get pregnant
Arbeit Macht Frei
It’s all conjecture and conjured up
from that remote sad outpost of:
Once there was
like that memory: you were nine and the Goldman’s green Dodge was first base and the sewer grate second and home plate was only imagined
and distant
as the older boys that came racing around the slope and the dogs
began that twilight bark at the ends of their chains.
And when you reach that place, a plateau, you will be free in retrospect,
there, where the river moved slowly through town.
As a student you learned under the electric tube of lights that
hummed like bees,
and sounded the same as the
hive that Samson saw in the lion’s rib cage.
He took something brutal from that image
And then later knew to set the foxes’ tails on fire.
And the fields, they burned.
Tabula rasa.
I can put the two-pronged question out
Is a fable pulled taut
A truth or is it just
another stab at it?
The mystics know tightening the straps
That the pigeons’ honeyed voices and crushed wings cure jaundice
Always,
something else needs to quiver and die for us to be cured.
Recognize that.
What does it matter now?
there are the letters that were never sent
and more that never arrived.
In our dark history guards rolled cigarette from pages of Talmud,
Some of the words could have been worked
into great volumes of the future.
All poems after all are transcribed by
ghost writers and etched into the open palms.
A cataract, a clavicle,
The deep blue endless reality—not giving a shit.
The fabulist realizes: you cannot see what there is not there to see
Like a tattoo on the child’s bones.
Brittany Newmark
© 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
"This Poem"
[Today is a great day for the blog, because we're welcoming back our "Mystery Poet in Residence, B.N.—but now appearing under her current nom de plume, Brittany Newmark. This is a powerful & moving poem, & I feel honored to post it on Robert Frost's Banjo.]
This Poem
This poem will not survive
Even the brittle page it is written on
Or the cool night that shapes the
Bare tree branches and ices slick asphalt
The page that opens onto the sheave of other similar silent pages
each accumulating the greasy ash smudge of deeper
secrets, resentments and loss
that collect in the dark.
Better to imagine the yellow and green plastic of ride along toys,
a blue wooden boat that transported the
children across the great lake to stand tiny on a distant shore.
Come home, come home,
We are waiting
for you
And have warmed your place next to us,
Whatever it was
(that came between us)
forgotten
Already.
This poem will not be read in the dim halo
of a sodium street light and will never document the things kept hidden in our pockets,
never recommend me for anything more that what I have here in my hand. Empty the
coins that haven’t been, the bent keys
The light returns like an echo.
But there are still pages holding out for meaning
Here is the part in the book I told you about
The scene when we walk
And when I turn
The path back is strewn with abandoned objects
Brittany Newmark
© 2011
This Poem
This poem will not survive
Even the brittle page it is written on
Or the cool night that shapes the
Bare tree branches and ices slick asphalt
The page that opens onto the sheave of other similar silent pages
each accumulating the greasy ash smudge of deeper
secrets, resentments and loss
that collect in the dark.
Better to imagine the yellow and green plastic of ride along toys,
a blue wooden boat that transported the
children across the great lake to stand tiny on a distant shore.
Come home, come home,
We are waiting
for you
And have warmed your place next to us,
Whatever it was
(that came between us)
forgotten
Already.
This poem will not be read in the dim halo
of a sodium street light and will never document the things kept hidden in our pockets,
never recommend me for anything more that what I have here in my hand. Empty the
coins that haven’t been, the bent keys
The light returns like an echo.
But there are still pages holding out for meaning
Here is the part in the book I told you about
The scene when we walk
And when I turn
The path back is strewn with abandoned objects
Brittany Newmark
© 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
"First Aid Kit"
[Crayon bombs away in this "wishful" poetic excursion by Barbie Angell—& her drawing that accompanies it is quite remarkable! Enjoy!]
I want to spray some Bactine
From sea to shining sea,
Then pour them all a Coke
And sing of what could be.
I’d love to write a ballad
And rock the world to sleep
And wrap their dreams like presents
As something they could keep.
I’d cry to fill the oceans
Or scream to kill the noise.
I’d read the poems of Silverstein
To all the girls and boys.
I’d give away my money
Or write the greatest book.
I’d quote E.F. Hutton every hour
If I could get them just to look.
Barbie Dockstader Angell
© 2009-present
First Aid Kit
I wish I had a band-aid
To cover up the earth.
To heal it and protect it.
To prepare it for rebirth.I want to spray some Bactine
From sea to shining sea,
Then pour them all a Coke
And sing of what could be.
I’d love to write a ballad
And rock the world to sleep
And wrap their dreams like presents
As something they could keep.
I’d cry to fill the oceans
Or scream to kill the noise.
I’d read the poems of Silverstein
To all the girls and boys.
I’d give away my money
Or write the greatest book.
I’d quote E.F. Hutton every hour
If I could get them just to look.
I’d take Robert Fulghum’s words to heart
And drop some Crayon bombs.
I’d invite the world to a potluck lunch
If it would make them get along.
Barbie Dockstader Angell
© 2009-present
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
“Tea Party”
[Hey folks, how about a big Robert Frost’s Banjo welcome to our newest regular contributor, Rockstar Poet in Residence Barbie Dockstader Angell! Barbie brings a unique poetic voice to the blog, & she’ll be paired with L.E. Leone on alternating poetic Tuesdays at least thru the summer. The artwork is by Barbie as well. Enjoy!]
Tea Party
Welcome to my shell.
Please make yourself at home.
Hang your coat on my Insecurity.
Set your hat on that dusty old phone.
Wipe your feet on my Self-Esteem,
it’s lying in front of the door.
Sorry I can’t show you my Beauty,
I forgot to pick it up at the store.
There’s some Sanity there on the table....
not much, but take what’s left.
I’d show you my heart, but it’s out for repairs,
minor damage by my last guest.
Could you please hold this Grudge for a moment
while I check on the cake of Despair?
And let me know if you’re feeling cold,
I have plenty of Shame you can wear.
There’s fresh Wishes in the cookie jar,
I made them myself last nite,
or I can brew up a pot of Bitterness,
if you’re more in the mood for a fight.
I can’t offer intelligent chatter,
my Brain died while I was in school.
But if you’re hurting for some entertainment,
I’d be more than happy to play the fool.
Barbie Dockstader Angell
from And She Said… © 2009
Tea Party
Welcome to my shell.
Please make yourself at home.
Hang your coat on my Insecurity.
Set your hat on that dusty old phone.
Wipe your feet on my Self-Esteem,
it’s lying in front of the door.
Sorry I can’t show you my Beauty,
I forgot to pick it up at the store.
There’s some Sanity there on the table....
not much, but take what’s left.
I’d show you my heart, but it’s out for repairs,
minor damage by my last guest.
Could you please hold this Grudge for a moment
while I check on the cake of Despair?
And let me know if you’re feeling cold,
I have plenty of Shame you can wear.
There’s fresh Wishes in the cookie jar,
I made them myself last nite,
or I can brew up a pot of Bitterness,
if you’re more in the mood for a fight.
I can’t offer intelligent chatter,
my Brain died while I was in school.
But if you’re hurting for some entertainment,
I’d be more than happy to play the fool.
Barbie Dockstader Angell
from And She Said… © 2009
Thursday, May 5, 2011
“And She Said…”
Poetry has become quite the “serious” art from over the past 200 hundred plus years, hasn’t it? I could trace these developments to fellows like Hölderlin & Hugo & Wordsworth, but this isn’t that kind of book review. After all, Barbie Dockstader Angell, the poet who wrote And She Said…, has said she “writes poetry for people who don’t know they like poetry.” & those people probably aren’t interested in the history of Romanticism!But it’s worth noting that at other points in time, poets who relied on wit & humor were often highly esteemed. That’s not to say there are no funny “serious” poets nowadays (an oxymoron, but presumably you follow my drift). But it is to say that poets like Shel Silverstein, Dorothy Parker, Ogden Nash & Dr Seuss tend to fall outside the current poetical canon, no matter how much folks are entertained by their works. But these writers are Barbie Dockstader Angell’s true literary forebears—in fact, one reviewer stated, “if Shel Silverstein and Dorothy Parker had conceived a child, the result would have been Barbie Dockstader Angell.”
Barbie Angell’s collection And She Said… really is a delight. It’s comprehensive & at 120 pages, longer than the average slim volume of poetry. But make no mistake: And She Said… is a book—it’s coherent, largely consistent & all of a piece. We find ourselves in the presence of a voice that describes disappointment & disillusionment, but who can find dark humor in the daily heartbreak to which we’re all prone. & there are also moments of real light & optimism.
One way in which this optimism enters the book is thru a series of Barbie Angell’s own colored
pencil drawings—the drawings are crisp & colorful & well-executed in a “naïve” style that dovetails very nicely with the poetry—see the picture to the left, which is one of my favorites (Barbie Angell has shared with me that she may make the prints available for purchase in the future—here’s hoping!) In addition, her use of various fonts & typefaces throughout the collection has a tendency to unify the collection—a bit counter-intuitive, but true. The book is visually pleasing.However, as delightful as the drawings & layout are, this is a book of poems, & this is how the book ultimately will be judged. On that basis, the book passes muster very well. Of course, if you are looking for another Mary Oliver or Elizabeth Bishop, Barbie Dockstader Angell is not your poet; but if you judge the book on its own terms & in terms of Barbie Angell’s poetic intentions, then it is a definite success.
As a poet, Barbie Angell has some very real technical gifts. Her ear for meter is good & she rhymes with great facility. Obviously, both of these are crucial attributes for a poet who’s inspired by the work of Shel Silverstein! Let’s face it, free verse can be funny (my friend Jonah Winter has written some hysterically funny free verse, & I've been known to insert a punch line or two myself) but rhyme has always been a touchstone of witty poetry. & Barbie Angell has a sharp wit that she wields poetically on a number of subjects—from “Life as a Girl,” in which she notes
I don’t want another sleazy ad by Hardee’s and Diet Coke.
All I’m offered is bodywork when it’s my engine that is broke.
Why does society do this to their women and their girls?
And what do you do as a rag doll when you live in a Barbie Doll world?
on to the futility of wishes and desires in “Wanting Nothing”:
I’m getting used to wanting nothing,
and it’s harder than I thought.
It’s made from unobtanium
and nothing can’t be bought.
Barbie Dockstader Angell is also adept at using personification in intriguing ways—it’s really a major strength of her poems, & again, as with her ear for meter & rhyme, very much fits with the type of verse she writes. In her poems, abstract concepts take on apparent physical reality: she meets Truth in the subway & describes the way he is dressed; Paranoia becomes a detective who keeps “tabs on” the poet; Certainty & Uncertainty are companions that accompany the poet on walks; Love becomes a character in a murder mystery.
In several of the best personification poems, various abstract concepts become types of food, & I would say that poems like “Insatiable Appetite” (in which Angell writes: “I had a misunderstanding today/with relish on the side”), “Tea Party,” (which you can read right here next Tuesday—more on that in a moment!) & “Eat at Joe’s” are among my favorites. In fact, I like “Eat at Joe’s” so well—& believe it illustrates many of the strengths of Barbie Angell’s writing—that I reproduced it at the bottom of the post. It will give you some idea of this poet’s unique voice.
“And She Said…”is available at Barbie Angell’s live performances in & around Asheville, North Carolina. For those of us who aren’t lucky enough to live where we can see Barbie Angell perform, the book can also be obtained by contacting her thru her website at this link. Also I’d recommend checking out Barbie Angell’s YouTube channel here; she’s a talented performer & really knows how to put her poems across live.
Finally, I’m very happy to announce that Barbie is joining my old friends B.N. & L.E. Leone in a powerful woman’s triumvirate of Robert Frost’s Banjo resident poets! Yes, Barbie Dockstader Angell, AKA Rockstar Poet in Residence, is this blog’s newest regular contributor & her poems (with illustrations!) will be appearing every other Tuesday (alternating with L.E. Leone’s) at least thru the summer. Please be sure to check that out & don’t be bashful about saying hello to Barbie Angell in a comment.
Now, please check out Barbie Dockstader Angell’s “Eat at Joe’s”:
Eat at Joe’s
The menu is deceiving.
The descriptions are benign.
All the reasons that you salivate
are ringing in your mind.
Though it’s all well-represented
and the pictures are concise,
the problem with the menu
is that nothing’s that precise.
In reality it’s different.
Nothing’s ever that surreal.
And the menu doesn’t show you
how thing’s taste or how they feel.
A question doesn’t smell the same
if it’s smoked over a fire.
A grudge is bland without regret.
There’s no frosting on desire.
A slice of life is way too big
to eat all by yourself.
And nothing’s quite as tasty
as a piece of mental health.
This menu is a reference point
to help you decide
what makes the perfect entrée
or what you’d like on the side.
Our prices are fairly decent.
The portion size is good.
The diet plate is stir-fried lies
and a helping of “I don’t think I should.”
But don’t rely on what you read,
or the pictures that they show.
Just grab a menu and a seat,
because you can’t get it to go.
Barbie Dockstader Angell
© 2009-present
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Two Poems by Barbie Angell
the meeting.
i bumped into Truth on the subway,
his clothing was ragged and torn,
and he looked with dismay
at Hatred and Rage,
and with pity at Anger and Scorn.
it seems he had left with the world in this mess
and had given up trying to try.
and he gazed up at me,
with this look so serene,
and the tear of Fate caught in his eye.
he had hidden himself in the details
by sealing up all of the doors.
he retreated inside,
just a new place to hide,
far from the violence and wars.
he had lost all his faith in Humanity
and Humanity lost faith in him,
as he started to fear for his sanity,
seeing children abused
and the face of Love bruised
while Ignorance lied on a whim.
’cause he needed a decade to think
and mix it around in his brain.
the Hurt we inflict,
the Evil, the Sick,
the Torture, the Horrors, the Pain.
he returned with a sense of frustration
that no one could help him defeat.
quite unable to find
a Peace in his mind
that would aid his attempts in the street.
see he couldn’t abide by Injustice
and he didn’t find Racism fair
and he just couldn’t see
why someone like me
could’ve found any reason to care.
i bumped into Truth on the subway
and our meeting just doesn’t seem real.
to encounter blind grace
in such a chance place,
that’s made up of concrete and steel.
barbie dockstader angell
© 1995-2011
She’s Come Undone.
I saw her today
and she’s still unraveling.
She twists her hands in her lap,
as if she could somehow knot the ends.
For a sense of closure maybe,
or to keep herself together.
Either way, it doesn’t seem to be working.
Pieces of her scattered across the coffee shop floor.
They mixed in with the stray cigarette butts
and empty sugar packets finally released
from the confines of their ceramic caddy.
And I stared at her.
Wanting to talk to her and let her know that
someday,
somewhere,
I was certain that a glue would hit the shelves of
some tiny, little environmentally friendly store for
$29.95 an application and she would be saved from
the daily chore of reassembling her jigsaw self.
But before I could decide just how to correctly
phrase all that was swimming furiously through my
brain, she was gone.
She left behind quite a bit of herself that afternoon.
And it took the bus boy a half an hour to clean up the mess....
barbie dockstader angell
© 2011
i bumped into Truth on the subway,
his clothing was ragged and torn,
and he looked with dismay
at Hatred and Rage,
and with pity at Anger and Scorn.
it seems he had left with the world in this mess
and had given up trying to try.
and he gazed up at me,
with this look so serene,
and the tear of Fate caught in his eye.
he had hidden himself in the details
by sealing up all of the doors.
he retreated inside,
just a new place to hide,
far from the violence and wars.
he had lost all his faith in Humanity
and Humanity lost faith in him,
as he started to fear for his sanity,
seeing children abused
and the face of Love bruised
while Ignorance lied on a whim.
’cause he needed a decade to think
and mix it around in his brain.
the Hurt we inflict,
the Evil, the Sick,
the Torture, the Horrors, the Pain.
he returned with a sense of frustration
that no one could help him defeat.
quite unable to find
a Peace in his mind
that would aid his attempts in the street.
see he couldn’t abide by Injustice
and he didn’t find Racism fair
and he just couldn’t see
why someone like me
could’ve found any reason to care.
i bumped into Truth on the subway
and our meeting just doesn’t seem real.
to encounter blind grace
in such a chance place,
that’s made up of concrete and steel.
barbie dockstader angell
© 1995-2011
She’s Come Undone.
I saw her today
and she’s still unraveling.
She twists her hands in her lap,
as if she could somehow knot the ends.
For a sense of closure maybe,
or to keep herself together.
Either way, it doesn’t seem to be working.
Pieces of her scattered across the coffee shop floor.
They mixed in with the stray cigarette butts
and empty sugar packets finally released
from the confines of their ceramic caddy.
And I stared at her.
Wanting to talk to her and let her know that
someday,
somewhere,
I was certain that a glue would hit the shelves of
some tiny, little environmentally friendly store for
$29.95 an application and she would be saved from
the daily chore of reassembling her jigsaw self.
But before I could decide just how to correctly
phrase all that was swimming furiously through my
brain, she was gone.
She left behind quite a bit of herself that afternoon.
And it took the bus boy a half an hour to clean up the mess....
barbie dockstader angell
© 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
February Moonsong
the moon turning round from white to
white in morning’s sky where mercy appeared
irrelevant, the cottonwood’s naked black
February limbs reached for that sky that after-
noon—a Union Pacific graffiti-tagged freight
train surging beside a black & blue river the
rain pinging the gray tin roof that evening, the
season’s first rain as if metaphorical tears could wash this a-
way—moonset along the mesa in nimbus
overcast & bitterbrush—a heart tattooed &
straining—a freight train inside the tunnel—a mild
edema, a waxing moon holding water, a white
rope hammock in graying snow between the
cottonwood & the locust—the unin-
habited house trailer atop the bluff where trees
did not take root, the rusted drag harrow
cast off in a sky gray snowdrift—gibbous moon
in an afternoon sky weighed down with
power lines, expectation, a promise of ice the
damaged heartbeat the naked trees the train’s
graffiti as far as the eye can see
Jack Hayes
© 2011
My mid-February poetry spasm continues today with another new poem—& a reminder: if you're interested in reading the poetry from my most recent book, The Spring Ghazals you can either read them on the dedicated blog at the rate of two per week (Wednesday & Saturday), or purchase the book from one of these fine outlets:
Lulu
Amazon
Barnes & Noble (new—& a bargain at $11.40 US!)
Amazon UK (£7.94)
Both Amazon & Lulu have the book for $12 US.
white in morning’s sky where mercy appeared
irrelevant, the cottonwood’s naked black
February limbs reached for that sky that after-
noon—a Union Pacific graffiti-tagged freight
train surging beside a black & blue river the
rain pinging the gray tin roof that evening, the
season’s first rain as if metaphorical tears could wash this a-
way—moonset along the mesa in nimbus
overcast & bitterbrush—a heart tattooed &
straining—a freight train inside the tunnel—a mild
edema, a waxing moon holding water, a white
rope hammock in graying snow between the
cottonwood & the locust—the unin-
habited house trailer atop the bluff where trees
did not take root, the rusted drag harrow
cast off in a sky gray snowdrift—gibbous moon
in an afternoon sky weighed down with
power lines, expectation, a promise of ice the
damaged heartbeat the naked trees the train’s
graffiti as far as the eye can see
Jack Hayes
© 2011
My mid-February poetry spasm continues today with another new poem—& a reminder: if you're interested in reading the poetry from my most recent book, The Spring Ghazals you can either read them on the dedicated blog at the rate of two per week (Wednesday & Saturday), or purchase the book from one of these fine outlets:
Lulu
Amazon
Barnes & Noble (new—& a bargain at $11.40 US!)
Amazon UK (£7.94)
Both Amazon & Lulu have the book for $12 US.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Blameless Mouth – the Stories We Tell
This is the task Fox-Wilson tackles in her debut collection, Blameless Mouth; she sets herself the task of exploring stories about hunger, consumption, satiety & want both culturally & in her own experience. These are fundamental issues, speaking both to our overall human condition & more specifically to our situation as members of a consumer society. But the poet doesn’t stop there. She also specifically examines how these issues affect her & women in general—at its core, Blameless Mouth is deeply feminist.
Ms Fox-Wilson includes retellings—“re-visions” in a sense—of several important cultural myths. There are at least a half dozen poems that treat the creation myth & the Eden story, all from Eve’s perspective. For instance in the poem “Eviction,” which gives a title to the first of the book’s five sections, Eve describes herself as the coolheaded one, while Adam becomes hysterical about their eviction from Eden. We read:
Even then, as Adam cried
about the loss of home and work and God,
as angels watched us pack, I calculated
our rations, how long we’d remain sated,
how long the fruit would last.
This introduces a theme that is central to the book: the woman’s role as provider, & how that cultural role affects her consumption. While Fox-Wilson sees the consumerist society as preying on women in terms of body image & self-esteem, she also sees a built-in self-denial faced by women that makes them refuse to satisfy their own wants. She discusses this most eloquently in the poem “The Day I Learned the Definition of Lacuna.” Fox-Wilson writes:
I saw
all the women in my family
who came before me, trimming the fat
off their own meat, slipping the best parts
onto a child’s plate.
This poem & others with a similar thematic concern (especially “Better to Eat Us With,” which I’ve reproduced with Jessica Fox-Wilson’s permission as a companion post) can be read against “Womyn’s Center Topless Spaghetti Dinner,” “Maenads” & “Daughter to Mother.” The first of these describes a wildly exuberant spaghetti dinner at a Women’s Center, & as such seems to locate a form of healthy consumption in the midst of poems of insatiable want. “Maenads,” which immediately follows “Womyn’s Center” is a somewhat darker vision of women being free to explore their appetites. Finally, “Daughter to Mother” is an interesting re-telling of the Persephone/Demeter myth—in this case, Persephone welcomes her Underworld incarnation because the act of consumption has also given her power.
They do not ask anything of me;
their mouths forever shut. I sit
on my black throne, gorge
on the sight of all
the heavy, full bodies. I absorb
every nutrient I need
from their forsaken lives.
As in the “Lacuna” poem, again we have a dialogue between mother & daughter. This poem is preceded by a piece entitled “Things My Mother Did Not Teach Me,” which describes how the poet’s mother could deftly slice an apple. Apples again—Eve & Snow White, who appears in the poems “Waiting for Snow White” & in the very strong piece, “Inside My Glass Coffin.” This is again a mother-daughter dialogue in which Snow White’s entombment in the glass coffin is contrasted with the stepmother’s fixation with her mirror. & at that rate, Snow White’s release by Prince Charming takes on a whole new meaning in Fox-Wilson’s vision:
I was no more
a beautiful girl, captured in her prime. I was
like her, a woman imprisoned against her will,
in her own fragile and perishable body.
Blameless Mouth is a strong & engaging collection of poetry, & not simply because of Jessica Fox-Wilson’s willingness to handle deep & compelling themes. As illustrated by the quotes (& I could go on at length with examples), Fox-Wilson also is skilled in her handling of poetic language. Here are two more quotes I can’t resist:
Wrap your body in thousand thread count cotton sheets
and you can be the woman, sleeping at home, wrapped
in thousand thread count cotton sheets.
“Magazine Says: You’ve Worked Hard”
At the heart of a shipwreck
is a child
staring into a hungry mouth broken boards/splintered teeth
shiver/sink
descend into black depths,
learn to breathe water.
"At the Heart of a Shipwreck"
This is writing by a poet who has a clear conception of voice, image & rhetoric, who can convey both strong emotion & precise thought.
I give Blameless Mouth an enthusiastic recommendation. You can purchase the book on Lulu.com at this link; & don't forget to check out one of the poems from the book, "Better to Eat Us With," in the post immediately preceding this one. You also can join me in following Jessica Fox-Wilson on her excellent blog, everything feeds process.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Writers Talk with Tess Kincaid (aka "Willow")
I'd just like to add that if you want to put together a successful blog, Life at Willow Manor would be a great model to use. Tess has assembled a blog that is always diverting to read & is always a visual pleasure as well. I had the pleasure of meeting Tess last spring during a cross-country road trip, & I must say that the good spirit found in her blog presentation is also abundantly there when you meet her in person. Finally, please don't forget to check out the Writers Talk blog, where you'll find a set of three poems by Ms Kincaid!
When did you first realize your identity as a writer?
Poetry has always been an integral part of me. My earliest memories are of my grandmother reading the delightful Hoosier poet, James Whitcomb Riley. As a precocious colt-legged girl, I adored memorizing little pieces for “show and tell”. Fascinated with the rhythm and textures of words, I read poetry aloud to a captive audience, my youngest sister and her stuffed animals. It became a delicious habit, which I imposed on my closest friends, and later, my husband and children. It wasn’t until a year or so ago, waking up one day in an empty nest, that I began to write my own poetic tools of torture. Only in recent months has it occurred to me, that I am, indeed, a poet; a curious, sadistic notion.
Describe your creative process.
I am a collector, a magpie at heart. I keep several notebooks handy to jot down words and phrases that tickle my fancy. Sometimes an entire poem will come to me in that wonderful semi-lucent space, just before waking, and other times the process is like digging a trench. Most of my inspiration comes from my macro views of the mundane.
Could you describe your relationship to the publishing process?
Since I am a fairly new writer, I am currently sending my first chapbook manuscript out for publication, a process which I’ve found is not for the faint of heart. It is, however, a huge encouragement to know hundreds are currently reading my poetry posted via my blog, Life at Willow Manor.
How has being a writer affected your relationships?
My husband and adult children have been my personal cheerleaders, but many of my friends and extended family don’t really “get” me, as a poet. I’ve learned to skirt the subject, if I throw out the word “poetry” and it lands like a dead fish on the coffee table.
How would you describe the community of writers you belong to?
It’s exciting to be part of a virtual “Bloomsbury” community of talented poets and writers. The immediate feedback and rapport is tremendously supportive. Last February, I started a creative writing group blog, Magpie Tales, which has been the impetus for much of my writing.
What are your future goals in terms of writing?
My current goal is to procure a publisher for my poetry. I also have a rough outline for an autobiographical novel, actually more biography than novel, since truth is often stranger than fiction.
Bonus question: If your writing were a musical instrument, what would it be?
A button accordion, since my writing is small and quirky.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
All Knees Shall Bend And Every Tongue Shall Vow (part 5)
[Here's the conclusion of B.N.'s story]
May G-d Bless And Keep You Always
Inez stood for an instant in the kitchen door, dressed only in Julian’s black silk robe. Claude was already up drinking coffee and there was someone named Patrick involved in preparing a very elaborate—something.
“Nutmeg?” he said cheerfully over his shoulder.
“In the cabinet over the stove.” Claude said not looking up from the paper. Claude cleared a place for Inez.
“He believes breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Claude said to Inez.
“It is.” Patrick responded brightly, as he spun around cradling a bowl while whisking away the contents. He looked just like Tin Tin in the cartoon. Claude had moved into middle age somewhat gracefully she thought—perhaps not as gracefully as Julian but he seemed less strident, calmer. For years he had often struck her as facile and easily stirred—reading some new pop psych idea and applying it all over the room—the chairs, the door, the sink—everything would have a ridiculous reason something he read and just applied freely—this was honest, that was not—Robert Bly—beating a drum, half naked, or buck, inner children, howling men, sweat lodges, howling at the moon, nursing old wounds—facile—as useless as applying a band aid to the spurting jagged stump of the torn off limb. The question that pushed to the front of Inez' mind was why was he still here, living in the back of the house. But by all rights why not ask her why she was still in Flatbush, living over Mrs. Mermelstein.
At the exact moment Inez poured her mug full of coffee, Patrick started listing all the violations he had endured; immediately it was proving to be very tedious. With singsong authority he was explaining his issues in the work place; Inez doubted he had the need to work, or even a particular aptitude for anything. He may well have been merely showing up everyday to attend to the issues. The right to marry whom he chose, which Inez thought a remote possibility given what she was seeing—but she was not a morning person. He talked with strain, like he was pitching words over a fence. Long story short, he struggled, at a summer camp in the Berkshires and again at boarding school in Vermont. “It was painful very painful.” Oh God, Inez thought. Where’s Patrick, weren’t you watching him? Was the gate up? He just toddled out to stand out in the wide dangerous world—a four-lane highway. Had he never even seen a photograph of let’s say Babi Yar, Rwanda? Did he not also jump out of his skin when a jet passed overhead?
Her head was shot through with painful hoofs stamping—wild beasts. He looked at Inez for a response—which she had none, save to turn to Claude. “Tylenol?” she said flatly. “Hall medicine cabinet. I’ll get it,” he said.
Patrick kept talking. Enough, she thought, please, little one—shut the fuck up. Had she just said that, or just thought it. She was not sure. She looked at him to try to read a response—his eyes radiated the self-importance of a nocturnal creature that had just stepped into the night and had the whole jungle to himself—aroused glandular eyes—black and gold—shining.
He’s high. Inez thought.
She gulped the pills, chasing them with coffee. As they were standing side by side next to the kitchen counter Inez could not help but assess the age difference between Patrick and Claude. It was vast, decades. It made her feel grim and sad. In the never ending conversation that her mother had about this country, the city, and all the flaws of the American people, the goyim mostly, the neighbors sometimes, she had once turned to Inez when they were out walking and a man who had been feeding pigeons approached them. At that moment as he passed them on the sidewalk her mother added an item to the list: In America nobody seemed to notice that there was nothing in this life sadder than an old faygale. Her mother always used age as the great equalizer. Actually, Inez could think of a few things but for the first time in her life Inez had reason to recall the statement.
“So where’s Julian already?” Patrick asked smoothing the pocket of his light green pants. “Breakfast is done and I need to be pushing off. Tell him I left the shirt in the closet—it didn’t work for me. I’ll call him—have fun, gotta give her credit she keeps trying.”
When the door closed behind him, Claude turned to Inez and said, “You can tell Julian the coast is clear he can come out now. I am sorry. I better go check on Miranda.” He made “the reefer” sign with his fingers to his lips.
Her face went hot with hurt. No, Nathan was not the last blow.
In her room Miranda played on email
Ya ya sistas & bros—made it to Dad’s. Bored crazy. Aunt’s wedding—love my dress, shows da girls in their best light—ha ha. Gotta find something/somebody to do here. Hpe there are gr8 guys at the wedding—for real
I’m hot you’re not
Lov ya all.
She hit send. The machine made a whoosh sound.
Claude knocked at the door holding a sleeve of cookies two paper cups and a jug of milk. He sat at the bottom of the unmade bed. “Cookies for Breakfast?” Miranda flopped back against the bed. “They’re your favorite,” he says twinkling a cookie between his fingers. She felt for an instant outside herself—like she was outside her window and not actually in the room. She noticed she gets this feeling whenever she smokes that stuff that Emily bought from that guy on West 86th. It made her watch herself at a distance. Then, she feels like she is in an old TV sitcom, canned laughter, applause— Claude wanted her to just start pouring her heart out and then they’ll hug. Yup the whole tedious story right there on the tip of her tongue—like her mother wasn’t on the phone to her father, like her father just happened to forget to tell Claude—Miranda here forever. Mom is getting treatments so she may not die. She burst out laughing—“where’s the remote.” Laughter filled the room—like fistfuls of gold confetti.
“Oh by the way, I will play private chauffer to your SAT.” Claude said as he playfully tossed a stuffed toy rabbit from the dresser to Miranda.
The wedding was in the gardens of a former estate, a gray stone mansion up on a hill that overlooked the water. Julian walked Cleo down the aisles. At the reception the settings were ludicrous when they only meant to be witty. There was a long white tent stretched out on a lush green lawn. The reception felt subdued and dreamy—women gliding by with pastel pink and green drinks. Handsome waiters bearing trays of champagne. The tablecloths were trimmed in gold trim to match the guests. Miranda bounced and skipped on the sweeping lawn next to the elegant white tent. She was holding a glass of champagne and laughing a loud dirty laugh. Each time Inez looked she was gripping her father’s elbow and then reaching for a greedy grab at trays as they passed. When Inez stood next to them, Miranda leaned over and hugged Inez across the chest and placed her hard candy mouth right next to Inez’s ear.
Inside the tent Julian sipped the wine and watched dust sparkle in a diminishing patch of sunlight on the lawn. Maybe it was the wine. These small sips gave him time to reflect—sometimes he could catch a glimpse of himself, as he was, as he thought he was—either way they were nothing like who he had expected to become—all the photographs in his mind—untaken. Great art and artifacts had passed through his hands. Relics surely people had died for and some that had rescued others. Once he held in his hand a tiny Ruben, its sale saved a whole Jewish Family. Another time, he found behind the frame of minor Flemish painter a stash of letters—yes, lives were lived in his “transactions”
He was older this night, last week and a year ago, than his father had been when he died. What had this age given him anyway? Not new worlds—Not love, even that was a bawdy, freakish parade float of money or politics. He refilled the glass and his thoughts loosened a bit more—what we believe today we may not believe tomorrow or the day after. Surely, somewhere, he thought someone is on the brink of a very large truth, a new reality. In the bright light of the future a new truth will be spoken —one without hurts or wounds. He could hear sounds falling out of the darkness—the rustling of some beast crouching at the door. Pointless. Nobody knows. What makes anyone love her and not her, or him and not him? The truth for now is that we don’t want to know either.
With relief he thought that soon Claude would be stepping off the ferry onto the little island where the trees were knotted and stunted by the sea air. Tonight there would be parties with sangria and bluefish salad. Miranda would come crashing through the door—all that spun confection. He would let her into the world, just not yet. Cleo and her new husband would rise and fall to each other.
He listened to the music. Horses horses, imagined hoofs on the cobblestones—Fear? No, just footfalls.
In the back of the imposing gray Mansion there was a large bluestone terrace looking out over the water. Inez rounded a corner and went through an archway of pink fairy roses, a bower with the last bits of daylight breaking through. It stretched like a hallway and lush flowers hung like strings of beads, bits of costume jewelry.
What had the child said to her?
“You’re all up in the Kool-Aid and don’t even know the flavor. Don’t think my father is going to sleep with you. You’re not his type.” That’s what she said, leaking irony from both corners of her red mouth. All the coarse bravado, the carnal insight slashed Inez across her face like a straight razor.
Yet in this moment there were still the tender night noises, and the vista. Actually the view was maybe the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. The water so wide and dark, she knows she can’t cross over. The boats, sails waving like the banners of ancient tribes. Inez loosened her shoes and freed her feet to rub her toes out and hung the green silk scarf over the back of a chair. She waited, for the sea change, a hundred little crayon colored sailboats drifting past. How the boys gravitated toward her now, held in that orbit. Would there be many or few? Who could know? Which would stay, if any? Poor girl, little mouse, will be all alone. Inez waited; soon night would darken the world into an unrecognizable form. Tonight meteors, not planes streaking past would hiss and sputter as they hit the water.
B.N.
© 2010
May G-d Bless And Keep You Always
Inez stood for an instant in the kitchen door, dressed only in Julian’s black silk robe. Claude was already up drinking coffee and there was someone named Patrick involved in preparing a very elaborate—something.
“Nutmeg?” he said cheerfully over his shoulder.
“In the cabinet over the stove.” Claude said not looking up from the paper. Claude cleared a place for Inez.
“He believes breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Claude said to Inez.
“It is.” Patrick responded brightly, as he spun around cradling a bowl while whisking away the contents. He looked just like Tin Tin in the cartoon. Claude had moved into middle age somewhat gracefully she thought—perhaps not as gracefully as Julian but he seemed less strident, calmer. For years he had often struck her as facile and easily stirred—reading some new pop psych idea and applying it all over the room—the chairs, the door, the sink—everything would have a ridiculous reason something he read and just applied freely—this was honest, that was not—Robert Bly—beating a drum, half naked, or buck, inner children, howling men, sweat lodges, howling at the moon, nursing old wounds—facile—as useless as applying a band aid to the spurting jagged stump of the torn off limb. The question that pushed to the front of Inez' mind was why was he still here, living in the back of the house. But by all rights why not ask her why she was still in Flatbush, living over Mrs. Mermelstein.
At the exact moment Inez poured her mug full of coffee, Patrick started listing all the violations he had endured; immediately it was proving to be very tedious. With singsong authority he was explaining his issues in the work place; Inez doubted he had the need to work, or even a particular aptitude for anything. He may well have been merely showing up everyday to attend to the issues. The right to marry whom he chose, which Inez thought a remote possibility given what she was seeing—but she was not a morning person. He talked with strain, like he was pitching words over a fence. Long story short, he struggled, at a summer camp in the Berkshires and again at boarding school in Vermont. “It was painful very painful.” Oh God, Inez thought. Where’s Patrick, weren’t you watching him? Was the gate up? He just toddled out to stand out in the wide dangerous world—a four-lane highway. Had he never even seen a photograph of let’s say Babi Yar, Rwanda? Did he not also jump out of his skin when a jet passed overhead?
Her head was shot through with painful hoofs stamping—wild beasts. He looked at Inez for a response—which she had none, save to turn to Claude. “Tylenol?” she said flatly. “Hall medicine cabinet. I’ll get it,” he said.
Patrick kept talking. Enough, she thought, please, little one—shut the fuck up. Had she just said that, or just thought it. She was not sure. She looked at him to try to read a response—his eyes radiated the self-importance of a nocturnal creature that had just stepped into the night and had the whole jungle to himself—aroused glandular eyes—black and gold—shining.
He’s high. Inez thought.
She gulped the pills, chasing them with coffee. As they were standing side by side next to the kitchen counter Inez could not help but assess the age difference between Patrick and Claude. It was vast, decades. It made her feel grim and sad. In the never ending conversation that her mother had about this country, the city, and all the flaws of the American people, the goyim mostly, the neighbors sometimes, she had once turned to Inez when they were out walking and a man who had been feeding pigeons approached them. At that moment as he passed them on the sidewalk her mother added an item to the list: In America nobody seemed to notice that there was nothing in this life sadder than an old faygale. Her mother always used age as the great equalizer. Actually, Inez could think of a few things but for the first time in her life Inez had reason to recall the statement.
“So where’s Julian already?” Patrick asked smoothing the pocket of his light green pants. “Breakfast is done and I need to be pushing off. Tell him I left the shirt in the closet—it didn’t work for me. I’ll call him—have fun, gotta give her credit she keeps trying.”
When the door closed behind him, Claude turned to Inez and said, “You can tell Julian the coast is clear he can come out now. I am sorry. I better go check on Miranda.” He made “the reefer” sign with his fingers to his lips.
Her face went hot with hurt. No, Nathan was not the last blow.
In her room Miranda played on email
Ya ya sistas & bros—made it to Dad’s. Bored crazy. Aunt’s wedding—love my dress, shows da girls in their best light—ha ha. Gotta find something/somebody to do here. Hpe there are gr8 guys at the wedding—for real
I’m hot you’re not
Lov ya all.
She hit send. The machine made a whoosh sound.
Claude knocked at the door holding a sleeve of cookies two paper cups and a jug of milk. He sat at the bottom of the unmade bed. “Cookies for Breakfast?” Miranda flopped back against the bed. “They’re your favorite,” he says twinkling a cookie between his fingers. She felt for an instant outside herself—like she was outside her window and not actually in the room. She noticed she gets this feeling whenever she smokes that stuff that Emily bought from that guy on West 86th. It made her watch herself at a distance. Then, she feels like she is in an old TV sitcom, canned laughter, applause— Claude wanted her to just start pouring her heart out and then they’ll hug. Yup the whole tedious story right there on the tip of her tongue—like her mother wasn’t on the phone to her father, like her father just happened to forget to tell Claude—Miranda here forever. Mom is getting treatments so she may not die. She burst out laughing—“where’s the remote.” Laughter filled the room—like fistfuls of gold confetti.
“Oh by the way, I will play private chauffer to your SAT.” Claude said as he playfully tossed a stuffed toy rabbit from the dresser to Miranda.
The wedding was in the gardens of a former estate, a gray stone mansion up on a hill that overlooked the water. Julian walked Cleo down the aisles. At the reception the settings were ludicrous when they only meant to be witty. There was a long white tent stretched out on a lush green lawn. The reception felt subdued and dreamy—women gliding by with pastel pink and green drinks. Handsome waiters bearing trays of champagne. The tablecloths were trimmed in gold trim to match the guests. Miranda bounced and skipped on the sweeping lawn next to the elegant white tent. She was holding a glass of champagne and laughing a loud dirty laugh. Each time Inez looked she was gripping her father’s elbow and then reaching for a greedy grab at trays as they passed. When Inez stood next to them, Miranda leaned over and hugged Inez across the chest and placed her hard candy mouth right next to Inez’s ear.
Inside the tent Julian sipped the wine and watched dust sparkle in a diminishing patch of sunlight on the lawn. Maybe it was the wine. These small sips gave him time to reflect—sometimes he could catch a glimpse of himself, as he was, as he thought he was—either way they were nothing like who he had expected to become—all the photographs in his mind—untaken. Great art and artifacts had passed through his hands. Relics surely people had died for and some that had rescued others. Once he held in his hand a tiny Ruben, its sale saved a whole Jewish Family. Another time, he found behind the frame of minor Flemish painter a stash of letters—yes, lives were lived in his “transactions”
He was older this night, last week and a year ago, than his father had been when he died. What had this age given him anyway? Not new worlds—Not love, even that was a bawdy, freakish parade float of money or politics. He refilled the glass and his thoughts loosened a bit more—what we believe today we may not believe tomorrow or the day after. Surely, somewhere, he thought someone is on the brink of a very large truth, a new reality. In the bright light of the future a new truth will be spoken —one without hurts or wounds. He could hear sounds falling out of the darkness—the rustling of some beast crouching at the door. Pointless. Nobody knows. What makes anyone love her and not her, or him and not him? The truth for now is that we don’t want to know either.
With relief he thought that soon Claude would be stepping off the ferry onto the little island where the trees were knotted and stunted by the sea air. Tonight there would be parties with sangria and bluefish salad. Miranda would come crashing through the door—all that spun confection. He would let her into the world, just not yet. Cleo and her new husband would rise and fall to each other.
He listened to the music. Horses horses, imagined hoofs on the cobblestones—Fear? No, just footfalls.
In the back of the imposing gray Mansion there was a large bluestone terrace looking out over the water. Inez rounded a corner and went through an archway of pink fairy roses, a bower with the last bits of daylight breaking through. It stretched like a hallway and lush flowers hung like strings of beads, bits of costume jewelry.
What had the child said to her?
“You’re all up in the Kool-Aid and don’t even know the flavor. Don’t think my father is going to sleep with you. You’re not his type.” That’s what she said, leaking irony from both corners of her red mouth. All the coarse bravado, the carnal insight slashed Inez across her face like a straight razor.
Yet in this moment there were still the tender night noises, and the vista. Actually the view was maybe the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. The water so wide and dark, she knows she can’t cross over. The boats, sails waving like the banners of ancient tribes. Inez loosened her shoes and freed her feet to rub her toes out and hung the green silk scarf over the back of a chair. She waited, for the sea change, a hundred little crayon colored sailboats drifting past. How the boys gravitated toward her now, held in that orbit. Would there be many or few? Who could know? Which would stay, if any? Poor girl, little mouse, will be all alone. Inez waited; soon night would darken the world into an unrecognizable form. Tonight meteors, not planes streaking past would hiss and sputter as they hit the water.
B.N.
© 2010
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