September 28, 2010

“Postcards From Bohol” by Angela Narciso TorresPosted by Rattle

Angela Narciso Torres

POSTCARDS FROM BOHOL

Emerald mounds rise from the deep,
their white shoulders shedding turquoise
waters. When we scoop the wet sand
fine putty sluices through our fingers.
Our heels sink inches with every step,
leaving blurred footprints where small
crabs fine-pencil disappearing tracks.

By dusk the tide has receded a hundred feet,
revealing the ribbed sea bed, ghost-pale
in the gathering dark. Scores of starfish
dot the rippled sand, white limbs etched
in gray, splayed under the night sky—
a universe in reverse. Ian, shirt flapping,
lifts a sun starfish, purple knobs radiating
on luminous limbs. We huddle around him,
our cheeks flushed with twilight.

Driving through the country with windows
down, we count nipa huts, their thin walls
woven from palm, dark and light fronds
alternating, a diamond pattern framed in bamboo.
Air infused with green—kamogong, acacia, tanguile.
Dogs bark, a rooster tied to a gatepost scratches
and pecks, cocks its head. Children in faded blue
uniforms wave shyly, their feet coated in red dust.

Rain falls in fits and starts. A drizzle
filters the air like gauze, taming the warm breeze.
Wind brings muffled cries of faraway children,
the hum of cicadas, drums from a fiesta
enfolded in the wash of waves. Across
the verandah, two gardeners in yellow shirts
are sharing a meal of fish and rice.

The waves tell of beauty that comes unbidden,
approaching as a lover walks through a door,
each time familiar yet heart-stopping.
Hermit crabs scuttle sideways on the sand,
their paths crossing and uncrossing, shells
of lavender and coiled pearl plucked
from caves of night. The sea has the calm sadness
of what cannot stay: a waxing gibbous moon,
our sons, bent over a pool of silver fish,
their cheekbones limned with watery light
thin shoulders barely touching.

—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
Tribute to Filipino Poets

August 27, 2010

“Electrodomestico” by Prartho SerenoPosted by Rattle

Prartho Sereno

ELECTRODOMESTICO

One day the iceman came no more.

Neither did the coalman with his telescopic chute.

Nor the junkman with his horse and cart,

his dust and sweat-streaked face.

Not even the milkman’s xylophone

of bottles could be heard jangling

through the magenta streets of dawn.

That day the wide-eyed band of women

in calico aprons, pockets bulging with

clothespins, were swept away to a buzzing

world where everything came with its own

complication of cord. But these women of faith

knew what to do. They dove in and took refuge

in Houdini’s secret, hiding a small brass key

in their mouths.

And they did what they’d always done,

took everyone in—the plug-in refrigerator

and washing machine, a menagerie of electric

can openers, ice-crushers, and coffee mills.

And the Edsel of home appliances:

the sit-down steam press that could snatch

a shirt from your hands, send it back

an origami waffle with melted buttons.

It was Fat Tuesday in the history of man’s

imagination, a festival of dazzling inventions,

each one out-doing the next. The bobby pin

bowed to the Spoolie, the Spoolie

to the electric roller. The wood-sided

station wagon sidled up, wired

with a radio and its very own garage.

And the suburbs—that great yawn of grass

with its pastel stutter of houses, all

stocked with friendly products: Hamburger

Helper, Aunt Jemima, a detergent

called Cheer, a dish soap named Joy.

Turquoise linoleum nests, feathered

with vim and verve where they delivered

us, girls who grew into flowers, ceding

ourselves to the wind. They watched

in dismay as we pulled up those tender

roots and headed out for the likes of India

or Back to the Land. They couldn’t understand

why we left our humming dowries behind—

plug-in frying pans, carving knives, and brooms.

But on our way out they drew near,

as mothers do, and slipped us the keys—

the small brass keys they’d kept all the while

in their mouths, but never used.

—from Rattle #32, Winter 2009

__________

Prartho Sereno: “A California Poet in the Schools, I’ve spent the past ten years hanging out with mystic poets, i.e., my students in fifteen schools in Marin County. Anything I get right in my poems I owe to them, especially the second graders.” (web)

April 29, 2010

“Turn of the Century Portrait” by Alan SoldofskyPosted by Rattle

Alan Soldofsky

TURN OF THE CENTURY PORTRAIT

After he was laid off, he stood in the heat,
listening to the arguments of afternoon.
Around him, cars nosed into their stalls.
He noticed a blister between his thumb

and forefinger, a broken whitish flap
of skin, no one to complain to but the wind.
So he spoke to no one in his gnarled accent,
the car radio abrading his brow

and sat hunched, hands on the wheel
of the ‘81 Cutlass, speedometer stuck at 60,
before turning the key, hearing,
the cylinders fire their fat familiar bursts,

that brilliant hollow-throated thrum,
rattling down his arms’ ulnar nerves.
A wrecked alphabet affixed to the driver’s side
corner of the windshield, decals peeling off

sun-seared glass, a smell like bacon left out
all day in the pan, an incipient rancidness,
a metallic tang of blood pooled
behind his tongue, eyes suddenly stung

by salt dripping off his forehead. The surge
bringing down its full weight upon him,
knowing what a piece of shit all this is,
and what the hell is he going to do about it.

—from Rattle #22, Winter 2004

August 25, 2009

AMERICAN FUTURE by Peter BethanisPosted by Rattle

Review by Michael Meyerhofer

AMERICAN FUTURE
by Peter Bethanis

Entasis Press
Suite 72
1901 Wyoming Avenue NW
Washington, DC
ISBN 978-0-9800999-4-2
2009, 100 pp., $12.00
www.entasispress.com

I am still reeling from Peter Bethanis’s American Childhood, a wonderfully refreshing book full of big, good poems that span a twenty year period (1988-2008) and range in topic from American consumerism to the life of Li Po, along the way addressing divorce, fatherhood, identity, and loneliness. Right out the gate, Bethanis dazzles us with his title poem:

In 1963 the morning probably seemed harmless enough
for my parents to sign on the dotted line
as the insurance man talked to them for over an hour
around a coffee table about our future.
“This roof wasn’t designed to withstand meteors,”
he told my father…

Here, we see Bethanis’s chief talents as a storyteller: subtle rhythm, imagery, and humor. Sincerity follows in abundance—in this poem and others, like these poignant lines from “Fishing with Grandfather”: “The doctors have given you three, / maybe four months, but nothing stops / your hands from bicycling in bass after bass, / each one flopping like an amp needle to the boat’s side.” These lines might label Bethanis a Deep Imagist, but there are meta-poems here, too, plus excellent turns of phrase like this opening to “The Sophist’s Cellar”: “The sophist stubs his toe / on the meaning of things.” Bethanis is clearly a man who owns many hats, and wears them all quite well.

(more…)

June 11, 2009

“The Neighbor’s Tale” by Phyllis AboafPosted by Rattle

Phyllis Aboaf

THE NEIGHBOR’S TALE

We live in the same building,
A six-story apartment house in Queens.
She’s just three doors down, has been there
For the last twenty years. I’m more recent.
Two years ago I moved in with my husband,
Now, my Ex.
Things change.
She’s thirty years my senior. Twice divorced.
From time to time she talks about her life
With weary, wry bemusement. I’ve not noticed
Any bitterness, just quiet resignation in her voice.

She calls me “Hon,” I join her in the basement
Where we do our wash together every Sunday.
We pool our quarters, share detergents, fabric softener,
And compare notes: About the doorman, we decide he’s sleazy.
About the radiators, too much heat on her side of the hall
(Hot flashes make it worse), not enough on mine.
But that’s ok.
I like the aching chill.
It keeps me edgy and unsettled.
Also, I am forced to put on layers which protect me
And help me to feel larger than I am.
I tell her that on my side of the building,
Construction’s taking place across the street.
And that the dust and soot which seep
Through the cracks of my apartment window,
I find curiously reassuring—coating everything
With a soft, grey fuzz.
I’m pleased to see how fast it accumulates.
It’s something I can have—it seems uniquely mine.
I can keep it if I want to. It’s my choice.

I meet her in the elevator. She’s all dressed up—
Hair blow-dried, blue Hermes scarf tied just so,
Coach bag, expensive leather belt, earrings, diamond watch,
Manicured and pedicured. “How’s my make-up?” she asks.
“You look great,” I say, sincere and also envious
Of her courage. Her back is straight, her high-heeled sandals click
Along the dark, marbled entrance to the lobby.
The stylish cut of her Armani suit conceals her thickened waist.
Beneath the low-cut jacket, powdered flesh reveals
Considerable cleavage.

But it’s the perfume that’s a dead giveaway.
(I catch a fragrant whiff as she walks by.)
Expensive. Sultry.
Of course! It’s Friday night. She has a date!
No, just heading to a fancy singles bar, whereas I
Will spend the evening sleeping on my futon
With my cat.
One day she catches me off guard. My eyes are puffy,
Hair a mess. I know I look like shit—baggy sweatpants, dirty tee—
I see a new expression in her eyes—pained, perhaps maternal,
Full of pity. Or is it empathy? But then it passes.
No girlish hugs allowed.
She knows better than to make a move—

For ours is a strange alliance—fragile, delicate—
Equal parts intimacy and reticence; we have
An unspoken agreement to talk about everything,
Hold nothing back—except the truth about our lives
And how our hearts are shrinking, drying up like prunes.

She says, “I can’t give up, I know
I’m really ‘over the hill,’ but I keep trying.
You shouldn’t give up either, you’re too young.”
But I have.

Later on, I muse on that expression, ‘over the hill,’
And consider how my own internal, personal geography
Is somewhat different.
No hills to speak of
And no valleys either.
Just a dull, flat, horizon-less expanse
With nothing to see in any direction.

At night the city’s summer sounds soon take over
Sirens, rap music from passing cars, people’s voices…
We say goodnight, she calls out, “You take care now.”

Each of us walks into
A dark apartment
That the other’s never seen
And never will.

We prefer it that way, my neighbor and I—
We do not wish to know each other better.
There’s comfort in not naming what we are.

—from Rattle #30, Winter 2008
Rattle Poetry Prize Honorable Mention

May 17, 2009

“Motel Night Attendant” by Mark Evan JohnstonPosted by Rattle

Mark Evan Johnston

MOTEL NIGHT ATTENDANT

Out here on Route 38,
I’ve learned the difference
between noise and sound.
Sound is familiar: the whirr
and clank of the ice machine,
the clink of a radiator,
the sough of the wind,
an occasional train.
Here noise means trouble.
Number 32, angry
with his wife, throws
a Gideon at her head.
I only hope he doesn’t
throw the lamp.
I sit here beneath
sixty watts of darkness
reading a trash novel,
waiting for the cheap tinkle
of this small bell to sound
but it never does.
Everything is in order:
the linens (call them that)
for tomorrow’s chambermaids (call them that),
the books, the Coke machine.
I make sure the Planter’s peanuts
don’t turn green
behind their sun-struck plastic.
Sometimes I almost hope
for trouble: a random shout,
an untimely splash in the pool,
a crying out that doesn’t
have to do with sex.
I want to have to go down
to Number 18 and set
things straight.
Years ago (here comes old Krebs),
we had a murder here,
before my time.
(He works the night-trick
at the mill.)
Some loon got trashed
(Krebs doesn’t stop to talk)
and poured beer on his wife
while she was getting off
on the Magic Fingers.
(Krebs always leaves
his shoes outside his door.)
He cried and tried to blame
it on the management, but
it came out he tampered
with the wires. Dupard
was his name, Canadian.
But don’t get me wrong.
I’m not looking to open up
Number 10 and find someone
dangling from the south end
of my sheets, or blood
pooling from under
the bathroom door.
Krebs, a night’s work himself,
has the country music on too loud.
The 3:15 sounds lonely,
the bell stands mute,
the buzzing of our new
neon sign would like
to drive me crazy.
But that’s not a noise.
That’s a sound.
No trouble tonight.

—from Rattle #27, Summer 2007

September 10, 2008

Essay: “A Split Personality” by Anne WebsterPosted by Rattle

Anne Webster, RN

A SPLIT PERSONALITY

When I was fourteen, my Uncle John—then in his twenties—chased his pert, blonde wife through their neighborhood with an axe. Grandmother explained that he had something called schizophrenia, or a split personality. I imagined the playful, sweet John I knew cut down the center, as with that axe, the nice part off him peeled away from the violent half.

A few years later when I graduated from high school, I thought of John, and wondered if, like him, my two halves would always be at war. In my case, the smart, creative person and the numbingly practical fought to control my future. Despite a desperate yearning for college, where I wanted to follow in the footsteps of one of my two heroes—the impressionist Mary Cassatt or the scientist Marie Curie—my divorced mother, a government stenographer, declared she could barely feed and clothe me, much less pay for college. She suggested instead that I use my typing skills to take a government job as a stenographer in the Forestry Department where she worked.