August 15, 2023

Glenn McKee

LATE FRAGMENT

My glass regardless of its contents
is full of Now—so full of Now

I can drink my fill without fear
of Now going out of business.

When unable to bend an elbow,
I take my Now through a straw.

from Rattle #23, Summer 2005

__________

Glenn McKee: “I suffer from a 60-year-old habit of tearing poetry off my life. Not many pages of my life remain, and those that do hang on like surgical tape plastered on a hairy body. Nevertheless, I intend to write myself out of life.”

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August 14, 2023

Matt Mason

WHY INSTEAD OF BEGGING MY MOM FOR EXTRA ALLOWANCE MONEY SO I COULD BUY A RECORD ALBUM I SHOULD HAVE DECLARED VENDETTA ON THE ELECTRIC LIGHT ORCHESTRA

I was in love with a girl. 
And I can say this with absolute certainty, 
as I was in eighth grade, 
and eight graders know what love is 
 
in ways that you all grow out of 
with your big feet, bad skin, left at the pizza place and walking four miles so you don’t have to call someone for a ride and explain, 
your first kisses, shocking tongue in your mouth, cheeks turned floodplain “experience.”
 
I didn’t need experience. 
I had Saturday afternoon movies on channel 6, 
I had heart-in-fist dedications on Casey Kasem, 
I had first-run Love Boat still on TV, 
 
so fuck your coward jaded blissful first-hand knees-quaking “love,” 
I was in love with a girl 
 
and she wouldn’t call me back. 
I had tried everything. 
 
And by “everything,” I mean 
every thing: I tried funny, 
awkward, 
self-deprecating, 
I tried uncoordinated, I tried brainy, 
I tried stories in class about Santa being hit by an airplane Night Before Christmas style (and 
on the nose of the plane arose such a clatter, the pilot knew at once Saint Nick was a splatter) 
everything. 
was in love 
with a girl 
and the months were winding that love so tight 
it could slip and fly across the classroom and 
crack 
against the blackboard, I 
 
was in love with a girl 
and finally at the point, 
sitting on the lion-print sheets of my bed, 
of admitting love 
was not enough, 
 
that love! 
was not! 
enough! 
 
to bend this universe as it needed to be bent. 
I was in love with a girl 
and sighed 
and turned on my radio 
to WOW or Sweet 98 or whatever the hell it was 
and they said “Here 
is a new song 
by ELO,” 
 
and there’s Jeff Lynne telling me “Hold on tight 
to your dreams,” 
even adding emphasis by rephrasing it in French: “Accroche-toi à ton rêve,” 
and, damn, Universe, 
you had me going, 
I almost gave up on love, 
on love! 
 
In the hindsight of adulthood, 
 
of thirty years unlearning what I learned that day, 
 
of good dates, bad dates, eyelashes, bra straps, 
yelling “What the fuck do you want from me!” loud enough to be heard four apartments down, 
heart-shaped cards, roses and rings, fourteen small teddy bears (one for every month), 
poetry that said way too much about the goddamn moon, 
the disproportionate surprise of warm breath on the inner ear, 
that the Electric 
Light 
Orchestra 
 
maybe could have been a little more specific. 
That “Accroches-toi à ton rêve,” I never did look that up, 
it might only mean: “Don’t eat croutons;” 
 
DJs are not waiting like archangels 
to set the cosmos off their turntable wobble; they 
tie up the request line talking to their girls, 
making promises, 
that sound too much 
like pop songs, 
 
they’re underpaid dudes 
who put needles onto grooves 
and let it 
all 
spin. 
 

from Rattle #80, Summer 2023

__________

Matt Mason: “My favorite poem is one that, at first, makes me wonder if it’s a poem. I love a poem written because that’s what the poet wanted to write and they didn’t worry if it fit the mold or definition or what they were lectured a poem is supposed to be. Not that we shouldn’t study the traditions and forms and histories, but poems like that shine for me: they have surprise, coming in disguises instead of the formal suit or gown we all thought they were supposed to wear back when they were set in front of us in high school. These are the poems that, had they been set in front of me in high school, would have gotten me on fire for poetry years earlier.” (web)

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August 13, 2023

Rebecca Starks

HERE WE WERE HAPPY

And still I fall back on the garden
like a firebreak, as if its walls might contain
the inferno sweeping through paradise,
except this time they were given no warning
because god is the municipal government,
and the tree of knowledge is one of three
thousand palm trees planted from seed
and doused with dishwater until they can live
off the rain, and Adam and Eve are the poet
and his wife whose palms cupped the earth
like a child’s face, like water, saving with love
what was ruined by improvement, until
they turned back to ashes laid beneath a stone,
because the tree of life is a banyan tree
whose roots were hung with jars of water
and whose fruit is barely edible, famine food,
and even this wasn’t spared by the flames
sparked by the flaming swords of angels
who guard the memory of what they destroy,
which are mostly faces, and the begots are us,
shameless as the first begetters
professing innocence while stumbling on
comparison: it is like war, like a bomb went off
to which the voice from the whirlwind replies
Have you ever blown the top off a mountain
or changed the tilt of the earth?
Have you ever stoked the dragon’s breath
with burning grass, or hacked sugarcane by hand?
Have you ever blacked out the moon
so you could see the stars and the stars
so you could see your own blindness?
And the snake? you ask. The snake
is the stardust between them. No,
the snake is the words on the stone.
 

from Poets Respond
August 13, 2023

__________

Rebecca Starks: “It is hard to write about the fires in Maui as they are happening and in the face of the terrible loss of life. I took refuge in W.S. Merwin’s palm garden on Maui. The title echoes the words on the stone marking his and his wife’s ashes.” (web)

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August 12, 2023

Lily Karpman (age 13)

THE OLD GREEN RECLINER

I miss the old green recliner
The smell of fried chicken as I opened the door to my dad’s car
The sound of him cooking in the kitchen
Waiting to ask him something until after he mowed the lawn
Throwing a football with him in the backyard
I miss how cool I thought he was when he worked at Wegmans
Going on hikes as a family
Having him chase me and my brother around the house
Him coming upstairs at night to tuck me in
Cooking a meal for him and my mom to have a date night
I don’t like our new recliner
That helps my dad stand up
So he can get in his wheelchair
And drive himself around the ground floor
Waiting for my mom to help him back in the chair
I don’t like our new van
That’s wheelchair accessible
So my dad can drive down our ramp sidewalk
And ride in his wheelchair to my soccer games
Which are the only times he gets out of the house
I wish it wasn’t like this
That my mom wasn’t so stressed
Because she has to help him
Which takes up so much time
That she has to work late into the night
I wish I didn’t have to think about it
But every time I go into our living room
He’s in the recliner
With the wheelchair across from him
Watching TV
And he isn’t walking around the kitchen cooking like he used to
He isn’t picking us up after school with a big box of Royal Farms for us to eat when we get home
He doesn’t mow the lawn anymore
He isn’t throwing a long ball to me in the backyard
Because he can’t
We don’t still hike as a family
We don’t still cook for our parents’ date night in the backyard
We don’t still wait for dad to give us a good night kiss after mom tucks us in
And we don’t still have our old green recliner
 

from 2023 Rattle Young Poets Anthology

__________

Why do you like to write poetry?

Lily Karpman: “I am not a person who verbally expresses their feelings a lot but through poetry I can express exactly how I feel. It is much easier to give the pure feeling through poetry instead of verbally because poetry can be anything. Graceful or sharp, sweet or bitter, the words of every line in every stanza can perfectly express a feeling. So that is why I like writing poetry: it helps me express a feeling at its purest form.”

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August 11, 2023

Justin Tagg (Devoid)

OFFSET

 
Offset by Justin Tagg, white boxes that might be words on a black background

objkt.com | text/plain

Typed.art is a platform on the Tezos blockchain. It allows any keystroke, including universal alt keystrokes and symbols, to be stored on-chain as compositions of text, as opposed to imagery. This has created an unusual opportunity for text-based art. In the example of OFFSET, a grid of “blocks” represents letters and spaces, creating both a minimalist artwork, created entirely with keystrokes, and hiding within it the frame of a private poem. The poem itself is hidden—the words are represented by the larger of two sets of blocks.

Full Text:

Our love
is like a
wave
unleashed
surrender
to it
let
yourself
be
offset.

from Rattle #80, Summer 2023
Tribute to NFT Poets

__________

Justin Tagg (Devoid): “Literary NFTs have a promise that’s not yet entirely fulfilled—that of storing original text on the blockchain itself (as opposed to being stored only as imagery), rendering it framable, tradable, and composable—with NFTs that are coded to communicate with other NFTs. Whilst NFTs have already ensured that poetry can be framed and traded as provably original works of art, it’s the ability to store text on-chain that will reframe the concept of ‘page’ in ways not seen in our lifetime. There are many examples of on-chain text, but it’s still in the minority—whereas I expect it will become the gold standard in the future. For now, the opportunity with NFTs to render a piece of poetry as provably original or of a limited edition has meant I’m able to sell individual pieces of poetry without the need for a publisher. If somebody enjoys my words, they can add my microfiction or poetry to their collection in the same way they might do with visual work. Most of my poetry has been explored through the Tezos blockchain, which is an inexpensive but robust network to publish NFTs. In addition, by allowing visual and literary work to be distributed on the same ‘rails’—as opposed to using independent media-specific distribution models—we’ve also seen a flourish of collaborations between ‘pictures’ and ‘words’ that have revealed a fertile space between the two forms that is blurring the lines between them.” (web)

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August 10, 2023

Todd Davis

TATTOO

Try telling the boy who’s just had his girlfriend’s name
cut into his arm that there’s slippage between the signifier
and the signified. Or better yet explain to the girl
who watched in the mirror as the tattoo artist stitched
the word for her father’s name (on earth as in heaven)
across her back that words aren’t made of flesh and blood,
that they don’t bite the skin. Language is the animal
we’ve trained to pick up the scent of meaning. It’s why
when the boy hears his father yelling at the door
he sends the dog that he’s kept hungry, that he’s kicked,
then loved, to attack the man, to show him that every word
has a consequence, that language, when used right, hurts.

from Rattle #23, Summer 2005

__________

Todd Davis: “I loved poetry growing up. My dad would read Keats and Wordsworth and Frost to us at the dinner table. But I didn’t think I could write it until I read Maxine Kumin’s ‘The Excrement Poem.’ As the son of a veterinarian, I wasn’t exactly sure what poems were made of, what was acceptable to write about and what wasn’t. Kumin showed me that all my years of cleaning shit from kennel floors was worth something, that poems are part of the body and the body doesn’t know the difference between the sacred and the profane.”

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August 9, 2023

Matt Mason

THE ISSUE OF RATTLE

I enjoy reading the issue
of Rattle with all my friends in it
until I realize this issue
of Rattle has all my friends in it
and not me; it’s like a party
they all threw, and it’s not
like they didn’t invite me, it’s more
like they invited me to submit up to four poems,
then considered the entry for several months,
then said no.             Still, these poems
are wonderful, sharp lines
of loveliness, you talent-laden fuckers.
Maybe I’ll send
this poem to Rattle
and they’ll love it so much
that there won’t be room for
any other poems. I hope not.
My friends are so beautiful, I 
love the world I get to see
through their brilliant fucking eyes.
 

from Rattle #80, Summer 2023

__________

Matt Mason: “My favorite poem is one that, at first, makes me wonder if it’s a poem. I love a poem written because that’s what the poet wanted to write and they didn’t worry if it fit the mold or definition or what they were lectured a poem is supposed to be. Not that we shouldn’t study the traditions and forms and histories, but poems like that shine for me: they have surprise, coming in disguises instead of the formal suit or gown we all thought they were supposed to wear back when they were set in front of us in high school. These are the poems that, had they been set in front of me in high school, would have gotten me on fire for poetry years earlier.” (web)

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