Poems

July 23, 2014

“Dilemmas of the Angels: Intention” by David RomtvedtPosted by

David Romtvedt

DILEMMAS OF THE ANGELS: INTENTION

The angel loves Sundays—coffee and the paper—
but it’s hard today. A man says he cannot 
support a woman’s right to abortion 
even if she becomes pregnant after being raped.
Such pregnancies, he explains, are
intended by God.
 
She puts down her coffee, turns away, 
and looks out the window into the silence 
of the winter morning—the yard filled with leaves 
fallen from the hundred-year-old cottonwood tree, 
and the two squirrels darting around the trunk as if life
required no thinking.
 
Maybe the man’s right—all killing is murder 
no matter the horror of life’s creation. Still, it eats 
at her—if the Lord intended the pregnancy, He 
intended the rape.
 
She feels his invisible caress and distant gaze, 
hands pulling her gown aside, sometimes roughly.
He must know there can be no product 
from their union.
 
That same Sunday morning, a woman gets up
before her husband and teenaged daughters.
She’s waited all week for this pleasure—
coffee and the paper. But she’s out of milk 
so quick goes to the store, a corner grocery 
like in a movie, run by an old couple 
who know her name and the girls’ names, 
even her husband’s. When she forgets 
the money, they say, “Don’t worry, you can 
pay next time.”
 
That’s when it happens—the rape. The angel
would intervene, wrestle the rapist away,
but she knows it would
do no good.
 
Once she tried playing with an Irish Setter, 
the happiest being she’d ever met. He leapt up 
smiling and his soft paws passed through her 
as through the silk screen in her bedroom, 
touching only her wings,
leaving them bruised.
 
When the Lord got Mary pregnant 
he never knew her. He wanted 
a miracle and made the only 
kind he could.
 
The squirrels are still running around the tree, 
brains swirling in the emptiness of their heads.
The coffee’s as cold as the winter wind 
blowing the leaves against the window.
The angel would claw the skin off her bones 
but she has no bones, no parts
anyone can touch.
 
She shivers then unbuttons her robe. 
Let the Lord watch and imagine
what he intends.
 

—from Rattle #42, Winter 2013

[download audio]

__________

David Romtvedt: “I’m a musician and poet. Language, meaning, and rhythm drive me in both forms—I write poems that don’t have regular meter but I’m always thinking about how the poems move when spoken. I write party dance music that is metrically very regular but I’m always thinking about using language in ways that will break free of the meter a little. My big quest now is to learn Basque, a language of great beauty that is very unlike other European languages.”

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July 22, 2014

“Dilemmas of the Angels: Extraterrestrial” by David RomtvedtPosted by

David Romtvedt

DILEMMAS OF THE ANGELS: EXTRATERRESTRIAL

The aliens land and at first she’s scared.
Has her Lord been keeping secrets?
Another wife and kids in a faraway galaxy?
 
It would be tempting. Imagine saying,
“Let there be light.” And, poof, there’s light.
The magic word is any word you want it to be—
bucket, for example, or asphalt, and into the world
tumble jet planes, hair dryers, and vegetarian restaurants.
 
The Mayans say God made human beings from mud 
but when it rained they washed away and he had 
to start over. So maybe we’re the other family.
 
Now the aliens are stepping out of their ship
which looks like a giant corncob painted blue.
That’s a nice detail, she thinks—that blue.
 
Could be these people created themselves. 
Certainly our Lord didn’t attend so to detail.
Here it was light, dark, firmament, seas, 
vault of heaven—all pretty vague. It wasn’t 
even clear whether angels have sexual organs. 
Take that Cole Porter song—“Birds do it, bees 
do it, even educated fleas do it.” What about angels?
 
The problem is 
there is no one
before whom the Lord 
can bow his head
and be born again.
 
The aliens take off their shoes and socks 
before walking barefoot across the lawn.
There’s something appealing about them—
those smiles. They’re taking off their clothes, 
space suits really, and lying down on the grass. 
They’re wrapping their arms and legs around each other.
They’re doing what is done to create a new being.
 
“Hey,” she shouts, not that she’s a prude 
but she’s been in the garden before 
and knows that the sprinklers come on
at dusk, which it almost is. And what if, under 
the screen of water, they are washed away?
 

—from Rattle #42, Winter 2013

[download audio]

__________

David Romtvedt: “I’m a musician and poet. Language, meaning, and rhythm drive me in both forms—I write poems that don’t have regular meter but I’m always thinking about how the poems move when spoken. I write party dance music that is metrically very regular but I’m always thinking about using language in ways that will break free of the meter a little. My big quest now is to learn Basque, a language of great beauty that is very unlike other European languages.”

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July 21, 2014

“Hepatitis C” by Michael D. RileyPosted by

Michael D. Riley

HEPATITIS C

It’s a new disease, meaning some
microscope found it out ten years ago
and added it to its sisters, A and B,
long renowned for fear and loathing.
 
It showed up after a needle-stick
Annie suffered at work, but who can tell.
It might have been simmering forty years
from her childhood anemia transfusions.
 
Here it is anyway, transforming her blood
just enough to be seen. All else is tame.
It might remain so all her life.
Or it might creep. Or rage.
 
It wears evil’s mystery well for so young
a disease: we can’t predict it or cure it
but now we know it’s here. It loves
the liver and can’t wait to take that red meat
 
down new trails of sacrifice. (Unless,
as I said, it doesn’t.) When (if) it starts
though, it will move by the most
infinitesimal steps: tiny crow’s feet
 
by the eyes, networks of fragile
varicosities on her cheeks, a slowing
step of energy indistinguishable 
for months—or years—from aging itself.
 
The symptoms, in short, are subtle
in the extreme and will require the most
careful attention, or inattention,
the strain of which is identical.
 

—from Rattle #42, Winter 2013

__________

Michael D. Riley: “‘Hepatitis C’ came out of another of life’s bizarre, ridiculous, yet perfectly ordinary experiences: fertile ground for poems, I’ve found. Yet, ‘All art is failure,’ as Richard Hugo reminds us, a Sisyphean labor when compared to our hopes. Rilke was clearly right when he said, ‘If you don’t have to write poetry, don’t.’ He meant that kindly. It’s harder work than scrubbing stone floors, Yeats said, but instead of fame and cash, you’ll be thought ‘an idler’ by ‘the world.’ Tough dues! Yet our dominatrix of a muse can at times tease out rewards so magical as to seem (and perhaps be) sacred. Like a woman’s labor pains. ‘Never again,’ she lies. If you, like me, can’t stay away for long: Get to work. But always remember, as Eliot says, ‘For us there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.’”

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July 20, 2014

“How I Fathom the Crash” by Megan CollinsPosted by

Megan Collins

HOW I FATHOM THE CRASH

I think about the toothbrushes, tucked in their travel packs
like snug children. I think about the pairs of underwear,
counted to match the number of days away. I wonder
what books the passengers were reading, if the authors
ever considered their words might turn to kindling, or if
it’s true what people say—that stories survive us all.

I can’t envision the bodies, but I can imagine passports
and receipts, the in-flight magazines that barely get a glance.
I can feel the plastic wrappings of airport snacks, how they
sometimes slip beneath fingertips just before they’re torn apart.
I think about seat backs and tray tables in their upright and locked
positions; I think of wedding rings twirled, feet set on the floor.

Then I picture the wings reattaching to the plane, which arcs back
into the sky, swallowing its own smoke as it goes. I picture the pages
of books being turned in reverse, the endings getting farther and farther
away. I picture the kisses that saw each person off that morning, watch
the couples’ eyelids slide to a close once more. Then, while they still
have moments to spare, their lips come together like hands in prayer.

—from Poets Respond
July 20, 2014

__________

Megan Collins: “When I heard that nearly 300 people died in the Malaysia Airlines plane that crashed in Ukraine on Thursday, I couldn’t comprehend the size of that loss. Three hundred people is more than went to my high school at one time, but that number still felt too abstract to me. I found that I could only fathom the weight of that tragedy by thinking of it in terms of its smallest parts—the items that everyone packs, the familiar routines of a flight, and the goodbyes that nobody ever anticipates will be final. Focusing on these things brought the situation to light for me: these people, who’d packed up their things and held onto boarding passes with their destinations written on them, had believed that their lives would go on.”

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July 19, 2014

“Motor City Tirade” by Dawn McDuffiePosted by

Dawn McDuffie

MOTOR CITY TIRADE

Send us your homeless, your crazy.
The lady who wears a wedding veil
every day with her fox stole and twenty necklaces—
better she lives in the city; she would be locked up
after one day on the clean streets
of Bloomfield Hills.
Hookers belong in the city
just like wastewater sent in from the county
in exchange for clean water pumped back
for comfortable lives.
Whole rivers flow under the pavements,
constrained by tiles, carrying no light
but still making a path to the Great Lakes.
And hidden children in ghetto schools
breathe burning garbage,
roach droppings and asbestos dust,
and flunk out when they miss
too many days.
They don’t visit the shiny casino
that displaced the local pool.
Now we must host the happy gambler.
Nothing as perfect as those casino streets
edged with pots of pink geraniums.
Oh, it can be so pleasant here and also
near the mayor’s house where the four-foot
snowfall is promptly whisked away
while the rest of us pray the electricity
won’t give out. Aging circuits
keep the lights flickering. I watch them
up and down the street from my house,
wires popping and writhing
when the load just gets too heavy.

—from Rattle #20, Winter 2003

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July 18, 2014

“The Pangolin’s Love Story” by Skylar KendallPosted by

Skylar Kendall (age 11)

THE PANGOLIN’S LOVE STORY

I fell in love at the farmer’s market
With the prettiest pangolin the world has seen.
Her scales were lovely, so plump and smooth.
They shined with a polished gleam, deep green.
 
I was knocked back by her elegance,
a blast of pure gorgeousness.
Her olive scales, her lovely sheen!
I had to befriend that miss.
 
My legs wiggled like jelly,
as I inched towards the beautiful girl.
My cheeks turned to a bright red,
and my heart fluttered and twirled.
 
I finally managed to say “Hello,”
And ask her, “What’s your name?”
I eagerly awaited her answer
But alas, no reply came.
 
I told her of my life in India
escaping famished trackers.
I escaped losing my scales for medicine
And being served with crackers.
 
I hid away upon a boat
To avoid those terrible straits.
I slipped into the cargo hold
To fend off those dreadful fates.
 
Within about a week,
I arrived at Fisk Mill Cove.
I rushed to the market to find some food,
And there I found my love.
 
Once I finished telling my story,
my girl just sat there like a rock.
She didn’t budge a single inch,
And she didn’t make a sound or talk.
 
“Mademoiselle, are you okay? 
Is everything alright? 
Maybe you’re hungry, 
so I’ll go get us a bite.”
 
I walked over to the nearest anthill 
and picked up some ants to munch. 
I laid them at the lady’s feet,
but she didn’t seem to want lunch.
 
I took a closer look at her, 
but I couldn’t find her eyes or tail. 
And then it dawned on me that green 
is not the normal color of our scales …
 
I fell in love for the first time—
but it was all a joke.
The love of my life turned out to be
a ripe globe artichoke.
 
I took the artichoke home, 
and I ate it with some chips.
That artichoke didn’t make a good girlfriend, 
but it sure made a good dip!

—from 2014 Rattle Young Poets Anthology

__________

Why do you like to write poetry?

Skylar Kendall: “I’m a musician, and writing songs is very similar to writing poetry. They both use rhythm and sound to create a certain feeling. Poetry is a way to express my thoughts, and to share a moment with anyone who reads my words. For this poem, I was trying to get people to think of pangolins, and make people laugh.”

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July 17, 2014

“Man on the Floor” by Jack PowersPosted by

Jack Powers

MAN ON THE FLOOR

I remember my thirteen-year-old self walking through my sister’s freshman dorm as the girls yelled, “Man on the floor! 
Man on the floor!” and I, not yet a man but hoping, looked for any excuse to fetch forgotten items from the car 
or just stand in that hallway soaking in that mix of fear, annoyance and flirtation. My idea of a man then was probably my father’s 
 
paycheck-earning, pipe-smoking, golf-ball-whacking, bourbon-swilling silence or James Bond’s unstirred cool. No, it was probably 
just playing football, basketball—and baseball until someone learned to throw a curve. And girls—Courtney Carron, in particular that fall, 
and dreams of getting a hand under her tight shirt. Even over the bra would have had me standing taller for a week. Once my dad, 
 
after a hot afternoon of golf and a cart of cold beers, broke a rib mowing the lawn when the mower overheated and 
kicked back into his chest. I’d been hearing the mower roar and stop, roar and stop, watching my father search through the grass 
before screwing something back in and restarting, but I didn’t know until afterwards that the mower was out of oil.  
 
So when my father tiptoed around the house, saying, “I’m fine,” through   gritted teeth, I wanted to shout, “Just say it hurts” and 
“Just say you’re an idiot.” Of all the things I’d sworn I’d do differently than him, my ability to admit my idiocy has never developed. 
I’ve learned to apologize, but—there’s always a “but” as I need to explain why every stupid thing I’ve ever done 
 
seemed like a good idea at the time and I wonder if the girls were really yelling, “Idiot on the floor! Idiot on the floor!” 
The first year I taught, I wore sneakers to school because I didn’t have any adult shoes. My boss suggested I take charge of the class more: 
use a point system, assign seats and buy some shoes. But I didn’t want to make the class any more oppressive than it already was 
 
so I threw her a bone and bought semi-comfortable shoes that weren’t too dorky. The shoes seemed like one more part 
of the disguise I was sure they’d all figure out someday. They say everyone feels powerless; the last to know they have power 
are those who have it. Is that true for the clueless as well? What clues have I missed? I think of Edie years ago 
 
calling me an asshole. I had to agree. “But,” I wanted to explain, “I’d spent years dreaming of that night—
when we climbed into your parents’ car in that dark garage and laid the seats flat, when I was finally inside you—
I wasn’t thinking about Kerry arriving from LA in a week—” but Edie didn’t want to hear it. And I didn’t try to explain. How could I? 
 
The day before he died, my father awoke in his hospital bed and said, “Everything in Springfield is just like it was—
Dreisen’s Fountain, McDougal’s Grocery. The whole street is the same.” “Did you see anyone there?” I asked, 
not sure if it was dream or dementia. But my father’s eyes had turned to the wall. Sensing the end—hoping really, 
 
because the next stop was a nursing home he’d made clear he never wanted to see—I went to get my family from the lounge.  
All I could hear was the squeak of my semi-adult shoes on linoleum in that hospital hall. Stroke and dementia 
had softened my father, made him kinder. He seemed to appreciate us all more. “You’re a better father than I was,”
 
he said one night after he’d watched me coach Will in some peewee basketball game and if he wasn’t my father 
I would have hugged him, but I needed a stroke myself to break the habits of our long history. “Thanks” is all I could sputter, 
not “The rules have changed. You did your best.” In class, a student said, “You forget 90% of your dreams 
 
in the first ten minutes you’re awake.” What percent of my dreams did I forget by age twenty? The list of failings 
my thirteen-year-old self nurtures increases by one. Some Septembers the freshmen boys’ attempts to saunter down the halls 
are so uncertain, it’s as if the ground is shifting. I want to shout, “Man on the floor!” to embolden their strides 
 
if only for a moment. I think of having yelled at my own son, now probably back from school and rooted 
to the couch and his computer, and I cringe at how much I sounded like my own father: sarcastic, impatient,
wanting the problem solved now. When I open the door he’s already glued to his laptop eating Chex Mix. “Sorry,” I say. 
“What?” he says, trying to keep one eye on me and one on the screen. “I’m an idiot,” I say. And he flips it shut 
and says, “What?” Before I can say, “But …” the dog starts barking and    barking. I don’t know what he’s trying to say. 
I kneel on the floor to calm him, but his barking grows more frenzied, his furious tail sweeps magazines off the tables.  
 
The dog picks up a toy and begins a high-pitched whine that sounds like singing. My son is asking, “What are you doing?” 
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter what I say, just what I do. The dog keeps singing. My son’s brow furrows in confusion and concern.
But I can only lay back on the floor, close my eyes and slow my breath as if I could fall asleep and wake up and start all over again.
 

—from Rattle #42, Winter 2013
2013 Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Jack Powers: “I wrote the first draft of ‘Man on the Floor’ in my head while walking my dog. Charlie and our walk figured prominently in the early drafts. Although most of it ended up on the cutting room floor, the cadence of a walk and the in-and-out-of-my-head movement of my brain on a walk seem to still be there. And Charlie still gets a little song at the end.” (web)

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