Editor’s Note: This, my beloved weekly poetry series, and I, your faithful editor, are currently on bereavement leave. We shall commune again through poetry on the other side.
Tag: Poetry
SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: RICHARD HOFFMAN
INVENTORY
By Richard Hoffman
What I have given to sorrow,
though I have poured out
all I am again and again,
does not amount to much.
One winter’s snows.
Two loves I could not welcome.
A year of mostly silence.
Another man I might have been.
(Today’s poem originally appeared in AGNI and appears here today with permission from the poet.)
Richard Hoffman is author of the poetry collections, Without Paradise, Gold Star Road, winner of the 2006 Barrow Street Press Poetry Prize and the New England Poetry Club’s Sheila Motton Book Award, and Emblem, as well as the short story collection Interference & Other Stories, and the celebrated memoir, Half the House. He teaches at Emerson College, and currently serves as Chair of PEN New England.
Editor’s Note: After more than two years as the editor of this weekly series, this past Saturday I neglected to feature a poet here for the first time. I was caring for my ill father, and the rest of the world slipped away from me for a few days.
It is difficult to come to terms with sorrow, but the act and art of poetry can function as a medium for shared experience. Today’s poem is both an outlet and an entry point for communion, a masterful confession that can read like an entry in the reader’s own diary.
Want to see more by Richard Hoffman?
Richard Hoffman’s Official Website
Janus Head
“What Good” in Solstice
“Fruit in Season” in Solstice
ThoughtCast
The Itch
The Itch
by Miriam N. Kotzin
On certain summer afternoons
when shadows stretch across the lawn
and deer come out—five doe, one fawn—
a distant wood thrush pipes his tunes.
The deer have come to graze on grass
and eat some apples from the tree.
There’s fruit enough for them and me—
the wood thrush song like opal glass.
But not all afternoons are filled
with ease. Some days all song is stilled—
by what? Perhaps I do not hear,
attending only to what’s near,
distracted, itching to be thrilled.
But air born song cannot be willed.
***
Miriam N. Kotzin teaches at Drexel University where she also co-directs the Certificate Program in Writing and Publishing. Her work has been appeared or is forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly, Shenandoah, Anemone Sidecar, MAYDAY Magazine, Frigg Magazine, and Boulevard. She is the author of the poetry collections Taking Stock; Weights & Measures; and Reclaiming the Dead. “The Itch” was first published in Boulevard, appears in A Handbook of Poetics Including Odd and Invented Forms, Revised an Expanded (4th edition), and is in her forthcoming collection The Body’s Bride. It is reprinted here with permission from the author.
SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: BOBBI LURIE
SLOWLY
By Bobbi Lurie
(Today’s poem originally appeared in The Medulla Review and appears here today with permission from the poet.)
Bobbi Lurie is the author of three poetry collections: Grief Suite, The Book I Never Read, and Letter from the Lawn. Her work has appeared in numerous print and on-line journals, including Gulf Coast, New American Writing, Big Bridge, Otoliths and The American Poetry Review. Dancing Girl Press will be publishing her chapbook, to be let in the back porch, in 2012. Her prose can be found, or is forthcoming, in Noir, Dogzplot, Pure Slush, Wilderness House Literary Review, Melusine, Camroc Press Review and others.
Editor’s Note: I love relationship poetry, and Bobbi Lurie maneuvers throughout the subject with a poet’s delicate, imaginative hand. Her words drift in and out of prose, at times using the form as a structure to house the narrative, and at times straining against the form, creating a tension that mirrors that of the story within.
Want to see more by Bobbi Lurie?
Grief Suite
Counterexample Poetics
Otoliths: “maggots are small minutes in the trash i saw them”
Otoliths: “too much light”
Dogzplot
SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: KAT WHITE
AFTER
By Kat White
After I die,
let it be said
that my pussy tasted
of children’s unspoiled dreams.
May eunuchs charcoal sketch
me and Miles smoking
brown cigarettes and drunk-swaying, broadcast
all night, all over Barcelona TV.
After I am scattered,
let it be said
that I ate joy.
May the universe not regret me:
clumsy, tip-toeing, gripping, self-involved, now stumbling
with thick-treaded boots and wide steps through
the constellations and laughing, knowing
I knew nothing.
I ferociously knew nothing.
(Today’s poem originally appeared in Issue 2 of the Stone Highway Review and appears here today with permission from the poet.)
Kat White is an MFA in Creative Writing candidate and Instructor at the University of Memphis. Her creative nonfiction has been published in Phoebe Journal and Photosynthesis Magazine. Her poetry has been published in Blue Collar Review, Axe Factory, Lullwater Review, and Stone Highway Review; she has an upcoming poem in Fade Poetry Journal. Kat is currently at work in Memphis on her nonfiction novel, A Personal Cartography. Contact her at paris_anais@yahoo.com.
Editor’s Note: Kat White is forward-thinking in both her poetic maneuvers and her contemplation. Taking us on a journey from the physical and sexual to the enlightened, she is neither afraid to admit her human flaws nor to laugh at how little one knows in this life. She shines the light of optimism on the way she will be remembered, “After I am scattered, / let it be said / that I ate joy.”
Want to see more by Kat White?
Selection from A Personal Cartography in Phoebe Journal
SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: HOWIE GOOD
ANIMAL LIFE
By Howie Good
1
I didn’t find what I expected, musk or ostrich plumes or ivory, only a room in a forlorn mansion where I paced and muttered through curiously long nights, caravans of the lost forming beneath the windows and a flesh-covered dictionary open on my desk.
2
Somewhere there’s a picture of me with a different face. Why force a giraffe into a flower pot? I keep thinking. I pass a sixth day in bed gnawing my side, but otherwise alone. The gods respond to questions only in the summer when all the windows are open.
3
Along the dark riverbank, moans and shrieks, and nobody with whom to exchange heartbroken glances.
(Today’s poem originally appeared in Issue 2 of the Stone Highway Review and appears here today with permission from the poet.)
Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the new poetry collection, Dreaming in Red, from Right Hand Pointing. All proceeds from the sale of the book go to a crisis center, which you can read about here.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem is an exploration of the human animal. Of what it is to be civilized, to be domesticated, to be caged. And of the loneliness and singularity inherent in the human condition. The consequences of awareness that other animals do not grapple with. The advanced intelligence that causes one to contemplate the idea that “Somewhere there’s a picture of me with a different face.”
Want to see more by Howie Good?
Buy Howie Good’s Books from Amazon
Apocalypse Mambo
Dreaming in Red on Right Hand Pointing
SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: EMILY PETTIT
GOAT IN THE SNOW
By Emily Pettit
A goat is not a sheep, though I know people
who have made this mistake not meaning
to be flippant. This is not how to start a fire
with sticks.
I do not believe that music comes from a place of silence,
just as life does not begin from a point of stillness.
After passing the farm with the goat
it was important to slow down.
Hello goat. Hello officer. So easy to lose track
when going downhill. It isn’t always easy to become calm
after such an outburst of excitement.
Some people don’t have their animals down.
I myself would not recognize a mongoose,
but I know the word mongoose and I know it refers
to an animal, a mammal. I imagine it to be
long-torsoed and beady-eyed, but I don’t know.
Remember when we were at that place
where the floor tilted? That was a place
where we could close our eyes.
They were closed. They were open.
We were accumulating information.
Sometimes this meant we were filing things
and we hate filing things and so it goes.
Later we were laughing.
If you fumble, you’d better laugh.
I’ve seen a goat chase a llama and it’s hard
to take that seriously. Some things
we will repeat over and over again.
I said, I want to be a fly on the wall.
Someone said, Be a goat in the snow.
We like to think of shipwrecks
as beautiful fuck-ups
and that goats’ eyes are the secret to goats.
I think if I had a soul it would be saying soul.
To move quietly past a fence without hesitation
is what a goat does.
(Today’s poem originally appeared in The Daily Pen American and appears here today with the permission of the poet.)
Emily Pettit is the author of Goat in the Snow (Birds LLC, 2011) and two chapbooks: How (Octopus Books) and What Happened to Limbo (Pilot Books). She is an editor for Notnostrums and Factory Hollow Press, as well as the publisher of Jubilat. She teaches at Flying Object.
Editor’s Note: I recently heard Emily Pettit read at the Readings at Milk&Roses reading series, a PeopleHerd Poetry Cabaret. She read selections from her newly released Goat in the Snow (Birds LLC, 2011) to the clear delight of the audience. When she read the title poem from her book there was audible appreciation of a higher poetic power. Murmurs could be heard, comprised of oohs and ahs and mumblings to neighbors about how very impressed everyone was with Pettit’s work. For her part, Pettit told the tale of how the book was named before the title poem came into existence, and the poem was created as an afterthought. If you have seen Emily read this piece or have read the book, you are probably thinking something to the tune of “Thank god for afterthoughts.” An exceptionally talented up-and-coming poet, Emily Pettit is someone to look out for, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll buy a copy of Goat in the Snow before its first printing inevitably sells out.
Want to see more by Emily Pettit?
Buy Goat in the Snow
GlitterPony
H_NGM_N
jellyfish
Franki Elliot
Miss in Polish
by Franki Elliot
My grandma can’t tell you my name
but she knows I live in Chicago.
She knows I have a brother,
and he lives in Chicago too.
She adjusts her hospital gown and says,
“You tell them I’m not ready.
I’ll show them.
I’m gonna live another couple years.”
You drove me all the way there,
through washed up towns and stretches of oil refineries.
Wore a nice sweater and shiny shoes even though my family
isn’t the kind you have to impress.
I liked that.
It made me feel safe.
It made me feel like I meant something to someone.
Sitting in the waiting room reading
as strangers whispered grimly into telephones,
you said, “This is the perfect book but man,
is it miserable in here.”
When I go back, the hospital room is freezing and
the doctor stands with a clipboard,
asks her what day is her birthday.
She said she knows there is a four in there somewhere.
I know it because it’s the same birthday as Hitler.
I don’t think she knows that. I hope she doesn’t know that.
And my grandpa has never held my hand
before until today. He has tears quietly running down his
cheeks when he says, “How’s the violin, ponnie?
Still playing?”
***
Franki Elliot is a twenty-something author from Chicago. Originally self published, Piano Rats sold out of it’s first printing quickly and was soon picked up by Curbside Splendor for an October 2011 release. This is her first book. Franki’s favorite artist Shawn Stucky provided the cover art and book design.
SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: NICOLE STEINBERG
Nicole Steinberg’s collection of sonnets, Getting Lucky, was created using editorial copy from Lucky, a women’s style magazine. Each poem contains original text from an issue of Lucky and is named for a woman featured in that issue.
By Nicole Steinberg:
GETTING LUCKY WITH JAMIE
If you want to go a tiny bit hipster, here’s how:
Grab a romper and go to town on the all-natural train
from Jackson Heights to lower Manhattan; mask
any contempt for the matchy-matchy girls under
your straw fedora and un-meltable hair. Always
have Kate Moss’s precise address and phone
number at the ready; indulge in vanilla soft-serve
and run wild through dressing rooms, completely
guilt-free. Hide your arbitrary fears and Connecticut
weakness; call forth your tough, punk rock shine.
Stay pretty in the heat of the New York chill
you’ve dreamed of since you were a teenager, even
after you’re no longer new. Lick your black pearl lips,
telegraph a dose of danger. Let it come, dripping wet.
GETTING LUCKY WITH BECKI
Chances are you’re like me, a midsummer night’s
cowgirl. You smoldering petal, the sweetest
corsage, juicy bloom on the branch—I clutch
the cling of your loungewear, extract the spectrum
from your wafer heart. My preference is the pink
fruit of your cheek: its fancy stitch and classic
mascara smears; the scar, a striking solitaire.
The angelic décor of your hand seems simple,
ideal for rings and glinty bangles—I let it
make me happy. Cat-like nails: perfect, perfect.
For you I’m Michelle Pfeiffer cinched in a belt;
crazy stacked receptionist hung on a hook.
I’m an old-fashioned girl, all over your brow
and under your gown, constantly tied and tasting.
GETTING LUCKY WITH GEORGIA
Beneath the V-neck shirt, it’s all about a schoolgirl
spin; peer closely. The surface is gamine, library-ish—
you couldn’t find a sweeter-looking chanteuse,
preppy Marie Antoinette fresh out of the gardens
of Versailles. Slim cuffed khakis and studded
ballet slippers; thick, translucent frames over pale
quartz eyes; brass bullet hanging from a wispy chain:
officially the most fun thing in an long, long time.
Sumptuous, stormy, ultra-malleable—I didn’t know this
icy puppy could be so subversive. My vanilla rosette,
coquettish lightweight who never learned how to drive:
Skip the country club for bedhead and heavy metal;
flash an arresting stretch of shoulder. Get twisted and
wild in full-throttle red: the gleam of your lips, just-bitten.
(Today’s poems originally appeared in H_NGM_N and Lyre Lyre, and appear here today with the permission of the poet.)
Nicole Steinberg is the editor of the literary anthology Forgotten Borough: Writers Come to Terms with Queens, as well as an editor at large at LIT magazine. Her poetry has appeared in H_NGM_N, No Tell Motel, BOMB, Gulf Coast, and other publications. She is the author of Birds of Tokyo (Dancing Girl Press, 2011) and founder of Earshot, a NYC reading series. She currently lives in Philadelphia.
Editor’s Note: I recently saw Nicole Steinberg read at the Moonshot Magazine Holiday Party at Brooklyn’s own The Home Of. After the reading, when I asked my fellow audience members what they liked best, each and every one of them gave the same response. Nicole Steinberg was the clear audience favorite, and the words on everyone’s lips were Getting Lucky.
Steinberg’s reappropriated text functions as a telling commentary on modern American society and the gendered molds it imposes on women and girls. The counterculture revolution urged from within the controlled, sonnet form gives tongue-in-cheek nods to the norm while flipping the bird with glittery fingernails.
Want to see more by Nicole Steinberg?
H_NGM_N
Lyre Lyre
Wicked Alice
Gulf Coast
The Nepotist
Buy Birds of Tokyo
Buy Forgotten Borough: Writers Come to Terms with Queens
SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: J. P. DANCING BEAR
NOT PERSEPHONE
By J. P. Dancing Bear
tonight you’re feeling a little vulturish: in your tuxedo: it’s not a pomegranate on your silver tray: and she’s not Persephone: but you offer it to her anyway: she is weary of the way the paring knife slides out of the wall: or how peeling painting of your ancestors: framed as they are: revert to feathers: the curtains cascade to a pool: ripple and sway: a staircase next to them: that has no beginning: play Miles Davis: cool and sublime: dancing her closer to a painting of steps: spiraling up and away: you ask if it’s okay: to call her by a mythical name: she hunches her shoulders: stares at the currents below: she got that look in her eye: the one that says I could make this work
for Seth Abramson
(Today’s poem originally appeared in The Medulla Review, and appears here today with permission from the poet.)
J. P. Dancing Bear is the author of nine collections of poetry, most recently, Inner Cities of Gulls (2010, Salmon Poetry), winner of a PEN Oakland-Josephine Miles National Literary Award. His forthcoming Family of Marsupial Centaurs will be released by Iris Press, and Fish Singing Foxes will be released by Salmon Poetry. His poems have been published in Mississippi Review, Natural Bridge, Poetry Kanto, Verse Daily and many other publications. He is editor for the American Poetry Journal and Dream Horse Press. Bear also hosts the weekly hour-long poetry show, Out of Our Minds, on the public station KKUP, also available as podcasts.
Editor’s Note: Today’s poem invites us to enter a scene where modernity and mythology dance in the light of cinematic prose. Phrase directs phrase and image forwards image so that we are audience to the intimacy between man and woman, tinted with seduction, danger, and promise.
Want to see more by and about J. P. Dancing Bear?
Buy Inner Cities of Gulls
Buy Conflicted Light
J. P. Dancing Bear’s Official Website (click on “poems” to see more work on line)
The American Poetry Journal
Dream Horse Press
As It Ought To Be 