September 26, 2024

“August Thistle” by Sonya SchneiderPosted by

Forage by Tammy Nara, mixed media watercolor of a thistle on an expressive blue and brownish pink background

Image: “Forage” by Tammy Nara. “August Thistle” was written by Sonya Schneider for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, August 2024, and selected as the Editor’s Choice.

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Sonya Schneider

AUGUST THISTLE

Now that their bodies hurt, they listen
from their bedroom window
to the goldfinch song—
 
sweet repetition, it sounds
like po-ta-to-chip with a very
even cadence.
 
Wild canaries, says Pa.
They must be feeding
on thistle seed, says Mom.
 
My younger brother sleeps
facing the wall, in the room
across from them. Every night,
 
they lift him to his bed, change
his diaper, tuck the blue quilt
with green squares
 
around his fetal bend.
After forty-two years, there is still
that awkward moment
 
when he wets their hands
with his warm piss. He is music
without words. Still, I ask—
 
When will it be time
to find him a different home?
My father looks out across the dense
 
thicket of invasive species:
prickly-winged stems, bright
purple flowerheads,
 
releasing into the wind.
We love the birds so much, Pa says.
Wild canaries, Mom says.
 
Their bristle-like spines shine
in the moonlight. My brother
sings in his sleep.
 

—from Ekphrastic Challenge
August 2024, Artist’s Choice

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Comment from the series editor, Megan O’Reilly: “The thistle depicted in this image is bold, sharp, and undeniably beautiful, and in ‘August Thistle,’ we witness the sharp beauty of love as we watch an older couple care for a beloved adult child with disabilities while enduring the hardships of their own aging bodies and minds. I love the way the poet subtly connects the ‘sweet repetition’ of birdsong to the dailiness of caregiving tasks, and how much she reveals through the father’s response to the question of rehoming the child: ‘We love the birds so much.’ There is love in the way the poem speaks of this family, love in the parents’ devotion to their child, love in the way the couple admires the birds and the flowers, love and pain coexisting: ‘prickly-winged stems, bright / purple flowerheads.’”

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September 25, 2024

“Shirts of the Distant Past” by Ned BalboPosted by

Ned Balbo

SHIRTS OF THE DISTANT PAST

I remember you some mornings in the midst of getting dressed
Surprised that I recall exactly when I wore you last
 
The paisley patterns spilling over sleeves
The Nehru collars nobody believes
… were popular
The turtlenecks no turtle ever wore
Those V-neck disco shirts that dance no more
… Spectacular!
 
Are you lurking in the closet among other clothes I own?
I gently touch your shoulder—a brief flash, then you’re gone
 
The concert souvenir shirts we outgrew
The obligation gifts we always knew
… were wrapped in haste
Thick cotton plaids lost lumberjacks would covet
That college T tossed out, but how we loved it
… still, such a waste
 
You promised transformation, but what else did you require
The full ensemble led us toward transcendence or desire
(Attire of another age, accessories all the rage)
 
Bell-bottom flares that took flight as we walked
Embroidered jeans so tight that people talked
… of nothing else
Those bomber jackets earthbound boomers froze in
Those leather wristlets grunge guitar gods posed in
… with death’s head belts
 
You folded in your fabric everyone I used to be
Now that you’re gone, I realize I’m left with only me
But if I run across you in some thrift shop bargain rack
Or rummaging recycling bins, what else would you bring back?
Who else will you bring back?
 
Some nights I see you in my dreams of places far away
I’m wearing you as if I haven’t aged a single day
Shirts of the distant past, shirts of the distant past
 

—from Rattle #85, Fall 2024
Tribute to Musicians

__________

Ned Balbo: “I’ve played guitar since I was 5, keyboards since I was 13, and ukulele since I was 42, but my time as a ‘professional’ musician—someone paid to play—is scattershot and humble. Ice rinks, a Knights of Columbus Hall, a campers’ convention in Yaphank, a crowd of disco-loving retirees at Montauk’s Atlantic Terrace Motel, company picnics, school dances, private parties, and more—these were where I played guitar, sang, and devised versions of the Beatles, Bowie, et al. in two Long Island cover bands. The Crows’ Nest or Tiffany’s Wine-and-Cheese Café hosted noise-filled solo acoustic gigs, with more receptive listeners for original songs and covers of Elvis Costello or Eno at my undergrad college’s coffeehouse. More recently, I’ve written lyrics to Mark Osteen’s preexisting jazz scores (look for the Cold Spring Jazz Quartet on Spotify, Amazon, CDBaby, and elsewhere) and returned to solo songwriting and recording with ‘ned’s demos’ at Bandcamp. As a relic from the age when lyrics were sometimes scrutinized with poetry’s intensity, I listen closely to the sonics of language, whether sung or spoken, and look up to lyricists whose words come alive both aloud and on the page.” (web)

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September 24, 2024

“Hello, I Must Be Going” by Krista KlandermanPosted by

Krista Klanderman

HELLO, I MUST BE GOING

When we finally took her cigarettes away
Nana tried to smoke chicken bones, lighting
each gnarled end with matches we forgot to
check her pocket for. “You’re a sweetie” was
her mantra, repeated like her old blue parakeet
she forgot to feed, and it died slowly, like the
smile from her face as she sat in
the blue velour chair, staring out the front window
like she was watching a Garbo movie.
When we came to bring her groceries,
those bags like birthday presents,
she would hike up her sweat pants
like an umpire contemplating a play and
wander to the kitchen, her fingers playing with the
edge of her t-shirt, and peer through
blue eyes, as clean as a slate, as we pulled
cans of fruit cocktail and snack cakes magic-like from
brown paper sacks. She had the looks of Marilyn,
never left the house in any shoes but heels, even
ironed Boompa’s boxers until her mind moved on and
forgot to leave a note. When we came over today
she looked through me like I was a pane of glass. My
face like one she saw once in a magazine ad,
or in the crowd at St. John’s Sunday mass.
She asked me who I was, her voice like the hello you
speak into the phone, distant and hollow like she
was across a lake. The glimmer of recognition in
her face like a dying ember stoked for the last time
before burning out altogether. She put her hands
up to her ashen face, devoid of the makeup she
caked on like Tammy Faye, and felt for her once pretty
eyes, that broke a hundred hearts, as they betrayed
her with tears, splashing down her face, surprising her
like rain on someone else’s cheeks.

—from Rattle #27, Summer 2007

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Krista Klanderman: “I write because, like artists, I like to create pictures. Since there are more words than colors and I tend to get more paint on me than the canvas, I write poetry. I like how simple connected lines and arcs form letters that make words that can be put together in ways to lift, bend, or enlighten someone’s life. I am a listener, an observer and a thinker. Most of my poetry attempts to capture moments most people forget to notice.”

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September 23, 2024

“The Concert” by Austin AlexisPosted by

Austin Alexis

THE CONCERT

The geometric sound of Bach:
refreshing seems not the right word;
satisfying feels more like it,
like a chaste kiss
delivered with just the right timing,
just the right pressure,
just the right intention
at just the right angle.
 
Or are his notes, his phrases,
the rectangular steps of a palace
turned into a public monument,
sunlight illuminating the façade
until the limestone is iridescent
 
as only music can be
when it is composed with love,
as an expression of love,
and performed with care
more compassionate than romantic?
 
No love rings more empathetic
than these string melodies—
with the woodwinds being tender
in their temperate, balanced trills.
The harpsichord beats are ardent hearts.
Even the brass echoes mellow
with empathy for all who listen,
all who understand how these structures,
this order, these rhythmic pulses
verge on an affection that is more than erotic.
 

—from Rattle #85, Fall 2024
Tribute to Musicians

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Austin Alexis: “I was a member of St. George’s Choral Society, one of the oldest choral societies in the United States. Being involved with music in such an intimate way has influenced my choice of subject matter. Musicians such as Bach, Prince, Leontyne Price, and Beethoven appear in my poetry. My vocabulary has been impacted by my involvement with music, with words such as harmony, pace, melody, and rhythm frequently used by me in technical and non-technical ways. My sense of structure is heightened as a result of studying music, especially in the way I see stanzas as a series of episodes, which is similar to the way modern composers structure work, with loosely related intervals united in a work as ‘episodes’ rather than movements. The direct emotive appeal that music offers has caused me to work in a more emotional way. Lastly, music has taught me to listen to the absence of noise and/or what lurks beyond words, and to attempt to capture those fleeting sensations in language.” (web)

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September 22, 2024

“Ode to the New York Lanternfly” by Kirsten Shu-ying ChenPosted by

Kirsten Shu-ying Chen

ODE TO THE NEW YORK LANTERNFLY

I can’t stop admiring the dead.
They cover my every direction
leaving behind the spectacular
carnage of their significant
and insignificant lives.
Is it when we gather
and with whom
that stamps us into memory?
Is it the streets devouring
the daily pandemonium
and a late warmth rising
against our indifference
to the surrounding miracle?
First we take flight
then the loose ends of our lives
fray into thinner stories
until only the dog is sated
only the ceaseless gaze
of here and now
is turned to you in prayer—
the air filled with ideas
you have spent your life
escaping. The footsteps
of any family curse.
The learning of your own
desire
to annihilate
or how it feels
to hold a creature
even once
by its wings.
 

—from Poets Respond

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Kirsten Shu-ying Chen: “It’s that time of year again. Walking around this weekend in the late summer heat with hordes of Lanternflies everywhere and various tensions in the air, I couldn’t help but see their stamped out deaths as somewhat reflective of both the very real human deaths that seem to surround and numb us daily, as well as the metaphorical deaths we negotiate internally within ourselves. Why are we humans so driven to destroy? Where does this desire come from? And what—if any—good can we do with it? Admittedly, I’ve got more questions than answers.” (web)

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September 21, 2024

“Choices” by Miles RosenbergPosted by

Miles Rosenberg (age 9)

CHOICES

The volcano was erupting red fire.
Outside, next door, my friend was using a good,
old watering can on his garden,
training for a gardening competition.
Inside his warm house, his brother
was eating vanilla ice cream at his piano.
Lol.
After the house comes the street.
Around the block comes the candy man.
He’s cold and blue.
His door is frozen. Suddenly, boom goes the volcano.
 

—from 2024 Rattle Young Poets Anthology

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Why do you like to write poetry?

Miles Rosenberg: “Writing poetry makes it so I have no fear.”

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September 20, 2024

“So God Will Know You” by Brendan ConstantinePosted by

Brendan Constantine

“SO GOD WILL KNOW YOU”

after Miroslav Valek

Go out, get us some money
and kill a dog. Take this coat,
this book of matches, a knife
from the wall to kill a dog
on the way. You need medicine;
if not now, you will—aspirin,
quinine, a packet of God.
These things are still strong
enough to heal the country
and kill a dog. Sulfur traps
in their intestines, from fruit,
toad stools; any limb off
a chocolate rabbit is death,
as it happens. This happens,
we spread a newspaper, cut
an onion, wait with each other.
You kill a dog; a shepherd, a bull,
a fool hound. Tell whoever
complains the dog has killed
your dog first, your older dog.
They won’t persist. The earth
is fed on the incorrigible. People
here worship this about the land;
that it is made rich by eating
thieves: the rabbit, the crow,
the pale gopher. Thus and so
we light a fire in a fireplace
and read half our book. Or sleep
in our beds and wake standing
by the window. If we call out,
the dogs inside us run away,
then creep back. They can
never come under our hands,
their softnesses. You must
keep the right things with you,
the family spoons, good spoons
to trade, to dig, to attract a dog.
You must expect to lose these
or not get enough for them. Have
some tea or ginger in your pocket
to offer the hermit, the widow
who takes you in against night,
the wild boy-man who thinks
he must be alone. Have a way
to mention us so they know
you cannot linger. At dawn
come home with money;
on the way, kill a dog.

—from Rattle #35, Summer 2011

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Brendan Constantine: “I grew up in a house where poetry was a tradition, something read at bedtime, something framed on the wall. I was such a part of my environment I didn’t notice it until I was 27. I was sitting in a cafe in London and I began to write on a napkin. The next day I bought a notebook.” (web)

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