January 8, 2024

“They Ask if I’ve Seen the News” by Rami FarawiPosted by

Rami Farawi

THEY ASK IF I’VE SEEN THE NEWS

like it’s a lost dog, but really it’s impossible
to miss, it’s big the news, yet everyday they
insist on making more stories—floor after
floor, the news is tall, the news towers, it’s
hard to imagine stairs that only go up, but
what do you want me to say, mayday the ne
ws is breaking? we already know this, laugh,
                  drink white wine          play Jenga
on a night in—      pull from the bottom and
      put on top                  build another story
make the news taller by breaking it
          pull, make another story              ask if
we’ve seen it                  if we’ve heard it
            take the stairs                    never short
on materials        just breath      always extra
today to pull from            just pull
the news will never break        we’re sure
        of it                      just breaking’s all just
one more flight       to the top story      wow
                    would you look at
                            the view
 

—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023

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Rami Farawi: “This poem started from me trying to add a shape to the news, a density, like something you could mine for every day, like it’s a natural resource. I guess, when I thought about it like that, I was amazed by how much energy we put into reporting on what’s happening, and by how we watch the news like we have no idea what is.”

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January 7, 2024

“Second Coming” by Nicholas MontemaranoPosted by

Nicholas Montemarano

SECOND COMING

Now, I want to address this—
this situation—
if you want to call it that—
I guess it’s a situation
we have going on down in Mexico—
where else, where else—
no offense to Mexico
and the wonderful people
the good ones
who live in Mexico—
people will say—
I can hear them already—
people will say I said this, I said that—
he hates Mexicans!
I can hear them now—
let them say whatever they want,
we know the truth.
So, we have this situation,
if you want to call it that,
down in Mexico—
though it goes beyond Mexico
because people are saying—
well, you know what people are saying
about this boy—
how old is he, thirteen, fourteen—
that he’s the second—
I can’t even bring myself to say it—
it feels wrong, doesn’t it—
and of all places, Mexico—
again, there’s nothing wrong with Mexico—
actually, there’s a lot wrong with Mexico,
a lot of problems in Mexico,
but if there’s ever going to be a second coming—
I didn’t want to say it, but okay—
it would be an American,
let’s face it, we all know that,
because this is the greatest country on—
and have you seen photos of this boy,
he’s a little bit, how to say it without—
let’s just say that some people,
and I can see why,
maybe you felt this way too,
take a close look, the shape of the face, the body,
some people mistook him for a girl,
there’s something, what’s that word,
androgynous,
you know that word,
there’s something—
you look and you’re not sure,
boy or girl,
the long hair, long eyelashes,
maybe he goes by they-them-it,
who knows,
but we’ll say he—
he doesn’t say much,
have you noticed that,
other people say things about him,
I find that strange,
don’t you,
other people say he’s this and that,
they use the word messiah,
they’re actually using that word
down in Mexico,
and here’s the thing,
he’s never denied it,
and let me tell you,
I know about having to deny things,
if someone says something about you
that’s not true,
you have to deny it,
you have to,
you deny it aggressively,
but this kid, boy, girl, who knows,
doesn’t say a word
when they say what they say about him,
which to me says something,
and we have all these reports
of miracles and healings,
the blind can see, the lame can walk,
people rising from the dead—
this is what people are saying,
but he denies nothing,
which means that he—
listen, what I want to know is
why are there so many blind and lame
in this small town in Mexico
where this kid lives,
what’s going on there,
this kid’s born and there’s a boom
in people who need healing,
what’s happening down there—
sometimes people are the opposite
of who we think they are,
that’s all I’m saying,
and this is all over the news,
it’s all anyone can talk about
when there are much more important things
to talk about,
like today—
look at all of you out there,
who knows how many tens of thousands,
people are making pilgrimages to Mexico
to see this kid,
many, many people,
but nowhere near as many
as are in this arena today,
the news wants to talk about him,
they inflate the numbers,
and you know what,
if he were American, they’d ignore him,
because they hate America,
but he’s Mexican,
so it’s all right to say he’s this and that,
frankly, I think it’s sacrilegious,
it’s anti-Christian to say what people are saying
about him-they-it,
maybe he’s a thing,
you’ve seen that movie where—
you know the one where the alien
from outer space, and everyone thinks
he’s here to save the world,
but in the end—
well, you know how that ended—
I mean, if you had a video of the kid
walking on water, even then I’d say
it’s fake, it’s AI, you can do anything
with AI, believe me, you can’t believe
anything these days—
like I said, there’s something very strange
going on down in Mexico,
and I don’t mean good-strange,
I’ll leave it at that,
and if you’re looking for a second coming,
if you’re looking for someone
to save us,
well, I don’t want to say here I am,
I’ll say here we are,
all of us in this arena today—
and I’d debate that kid,
I’m not afraid,
not that he says much,
he’d probably just stand there
and stare at me—
gives me the creeps—
we’ll have a staring contest,
I’ll look into his eyes,
I won’t blink,
he can look into my eyes
as long as he wants,
he won’t find anything there.
 

—from Poets Respond
January 7, 2024

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Nicholas Montemarano: “When Donald Trump visited Iowa this week, he continued his longstanding tactic of fearmongering about ‘terrorists’ and people from ‘mental asylums’ crossing the border from Mexico to the United States. My imagination took things from there: How would Trump respond to something seemingly miraculous happening in Mexico? The double meaning of the title occurred to me only after I’d written this persona poem.” (web)

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January 6, 2024

“The Tale of La Llorona” by Raquel Vasquez GillilandPosted by

Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

THE TALE OF LA LLORONA

I was born with one eye open
on the back of my head. It made
it easy to walk along the branches
of mango trees. Limb to limb,
finger to finger, I walked to the
house of my mother, then to my
grandmother’s. In between
I discovered the House of Vasquez,
connected to me and my sister
and my mother like the marrow
of bone. Inside the house were
secrets. An eyelash at the grave
of my mother ’s sister. A black pupil
looking from my grandmother’s
silver hair. I asked my mother,
why are the Vasquez women
born with so many eyes? And
she said she thinks it’s because
we have so many tears. When
I was pregnant, it became difficult
to wrap my bear feet around
mango tree arms. Once, a wind
blew so hard, I fell. My baby slipped
all the way down to where I open,
to where my body becomes a star.
In order to push him out, I had to cut
open my fourth eye. For the first time,
I saw whole from the back and
the front. And my God. This world
is made of nothing but estrellas.
My spine fell out of my body and
latched to the tree as my baby did
to my breast. And when I cried, the
tears came from both sides. The tears
were saltier than the ocean. I didn’t know
this at the time, but they were also sweet.

—from Tales from the House of Vasquez
Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

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Raquel Vasquez Gilliland: “Nearly two years after having a nervous breakdown after the birth of my son, I started to examine this experience with poetry. Mental illness runs on my mother’s side of the family—with the Vasquez women, specifically—and in searching for the reasons why, I found stories. Some of these are from the lips of my grandmother and mother, some are ones I unearthed inexplicably, from the fertile dirt where poems grow.” (web)

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January 5, 2024

“Naming Them” by Teddy DevittPosted by

Teddy Devitt

NAMING THEM

Names of number, or of no consequence,
Names held dear, or to the least offence,
Names he’d weighed, had tried, and counted,
Names he’d framed, had polished, mounted,
Names he’d loved and lost; or the to-be-soon,
Names he’d met in passing. Names he’d sung,
Or had hung to in a drunken afternoon,
Names he stuttered, half forgotten, half there;
Names he resurrected from cobbled paths,
From under stairs. Names of his sisters, brothers,
A daughter; step daughter, if I’d gathered,
Aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins,
Twice removed. Anyone who had bothered.
Name of his friends’ friends’ friends’ friends
And their sworn enemies, teachers, neighbours,
Milkmen, postmen, a shop keep, a bailiff.
Names of his longest to most recent employers,
Names he had made up, names he had dreamt,
Names he had ticked off in bed as he slept,
Names he had sworn with blood, oath, and flesh,
Names that had lingered long after breath,
Names he’d peeped at, from close, or afar,
Names to whom he’d hung pictures, thrown darts.
But when the day came for his own farewell,
There was nothing. No words. No half remembered hymn.
Only the nameless air and the absence of him.
 

—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023

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Teddy Devitt: “I write poems because it feels like filling an empty space or solving a puzzle. I enjoy making moments, thoughts, and feelings into something concrete.” (web)

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January 4, 2024

“Grass in My Hair” by Bruce McRaePosted by

Bruce McRae

GRASS IN MY HAIR

I was arguing
with the scarecrow.
His voice
was like a wall
of sand coming
closer and closer.
He had corn
on his breath
but no mouth
to speak of.
His mind
was a straw stalk
in the wind,
all the colours
of a golden
rainbow, there,
but not there,
even his pinstripes
soil-scented.
And I was saying
to the scarecrow,
“We end,
we begin.”
I was telling him
the true names
of all the dead.
I was asking
a stupid question:
“Where’s the crow
inside my head?”
Which he thought
quite funny,
a perpetual grin
on his dried lips,
his eyes seeing
into the far distance,
a tear forming
in the new silence
that summer, and he
impeccably dressed.

—from Rattle #35, Summer 2011

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Bruce McRae: “‘Grass In My Hair’ was written in bed during the summer of 2008. In fact, all my poems are written lying down. It was inspired by the heat of August, a cornfield from my youth in Southern Ontario, and The Wizard of Oz.” (web)

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January 3, 2024

“Married to Amazement” by James CrewsPosted by

James Crews

MARRIED TO AMAZEMENT

The man I married sat next to me
after our wedding, October light pouring in
over dusty pews as he loosened his tie
and sipped from a cup of apple cider,
closing his eyes to savor the taste.
 
Now I think I didn’t marry him so much
as his amazement for the everyday,
the way he still gasps each time we see
something new—baby painted turtle
plodding through a stream in the quarry,
 
or a neon-orange caterpillar inching
across crisp leaves on the trail,
how he kneels to film it from every angle
while I crouch beside him, in awe
of his awe, learning all that I can.
 

—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023

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James Crews: “I live in Shaftsbury, Vermont, with my husband and have been writing poetry since the third grade when my teacher, Mrs. Brown, required us to recite a new poem each week, and I thought it would be more fun if I wrote and memorized my own. I believe in the power of writing to heal and release, and write the poems I most would want to meet in the world.” (web)

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January 2, 2024

“Ten Sloppy Haiku of Ordinary Life” by Bruce CohenPosted by

Bruce Cohen

TEN SLOPPY HAIKU OF ORDINARY LIFE

Magazines in the doctor’s
Waiting room are never current.
I skim, anyway, the outdated.
 
What appears to be a deflated father unloads 
Vacation gear from his trunk onto the highway’s 
Soft shoulder so he can unbury his spare.
 
The cashier licks his fingers, un-crumples—
Holds the bills up to the light, counts—recounts—
Suspecting I am, like everyone, counterfeit.
 
The dissolving snow makes some boys 
Giddy for baseball or playing outside without jackets; 
Others melt with the snow.
 
Noisy woodpeckers at the birdfeeder 
Bully sparrows & hog sunflower seeds.
Chipmunks hoard what spills onto the grass. 
 
When I tried on my new suit for the seamstress, I boasted
My grandfather had been a tailor, hoping for a discount,
At least good service. She said nothing with pins in her mouth.
 
Under my inherited quilt, 
I sweat with terror.
Blanket kicked off, I shiver.
 
I order lunch from my car into a speaker.
Some days I have no idea what I want.
Most days the window-kid doesn’t make a mistake. 
 
Even though I don’t believe 
In God, sometimes I make bargains 
Or ask for small favors.
 
I reach as far back as possible in the supermarket 
Cooler for the most recently stocked milk 
& still squint to read the expiration date.
 

—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023

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Bruce Cohen: “My favorite quote is from a Wislawa Zymborska poem that reads, ‘I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.’”

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