Matthew King: “Like Stephen Dunn, I started writing poems to get girls to like me. (He says ‘that’s the glib answer,’ but it doesn’t sound glib to me.) All these years later, I’m still trying to write love poems, though where love is not of the kind that I’ve come to think of as a ‘narcissism of two,’ with lovers gazing upon themselves reflected in each other, but where it’s a shared, responsive reception of the being of things, from different perspectives, in which speaking and hearing lovers—whether together or apart—reciprocally, deepeningly, open themselves and the world to each other.” (web)
Christine Potter: “The story about the plane with the emergency escape window that blew out stayed in the news a long time, probably because we have all flown on airplanes and worried about something like that happening—and also, of course, because the pilots of that flight landed it with nobody killed or badly injured. I hate flying worse than almost anything else, but I do it when I have to, so of course I read the news articles, horrified and fascinated. The whole thing also felt like a metaphor for something much bigger.” (web)
Miracle Thornton: “When I encountered the Aesop fable, the moral of the story—an individual caught between pride and loyalty—immediately resonated with me. Growing up, I always felt pulled between the environment of my home and my hometown. It was difficult to understand who I was when it changed depending on the room, depending on whomever else occupied the space. The bird was a powerful conduit and spoke to the illusive aspects of my ever-evolving sense of self.”
Haley Jameson: “I journal through poetry. I’ll write about a mundane event or follow a train of thought to the end. It’s healing to get it out of my head and see it written down in front of me, whether it makes sense or not.” (web)
The paper opens at the pressure of the pen and the ink sinks into the fiber.
I almost wrote “welcomes” but the paper doesn’t make that decision. It doesn’t “allow” the ink to enter it, either. Paper exists in its absorbent state and whatever presses upon its surface, whatever arrives, it is powerless against.
Just as the pen is powerless, once the tip is pressed down, to prevent the ink from flowing out.
I almost wrote “escaping” but that seems to imply capability, more choice in action, the ability to avoid, than what is held by pen and ink.
Welcomes. Allow. Escaping.
It’s like Gaza. The people in their homes do not welcome or allow the explosions. Like the paper, their homes simply sit, open to, powerless against, the incursions of missiles and bombs and bullets. Targeted or not, the explosives don’t escape to Palestinian homes.
Richard Krawiec: “The continuing tragedy of Palestine brings daily video of destroyed homes, people defenseless to the ordinances inflicted on them. To the point where the UN just a day ago, Friday January 5, called Gaza ‘uninhabitable.’ Yet, people are powerless to stop the flow of attacks.” (web)
Annie Finch (from the conversation): “I was a middle child, overlooked in a lot of ways. Poetry kept me company. It became my spiritual heartbeat. I spent a lot of time alone outside in nature, and I would sit and recite words to myself over and over. It was a kind of self-hypnosis. And finally, my mother was quite a serious poet. That’s probably the most important factor of all. When I got a little older, I saw her writing poems, and I would share mine with her, and she would share hers with me, and I learned a lot about her frustrations. I think on some level I’m kind of carrying out some of her dreams.” (web)
Prompt: Write a poem that begins with an idiomatic expression that you take literally or incorrectly, and see where it goes.
Note from the series editor, Katie Dozier: “The voice of this poem feels like peeling an apple in a single strand, but with a sudden, biting shift in narrative that gives it more weight than a barrel of fruit. The kind of poem that leaves you bobbing afterwards; I was particularly riveted by how it turns the idiom on its head twice.”