May 31, 2023

Alicia Ostriker

ODE TO THE AUTOMOBILE AND HUMAN HAPPINESS

How much human happiness can we stand?
I don’t know but don’t we all like to drive fast?
Exceeding the speed limit is a blast,
the cup runneth over running a light and
 
getting away with it; happy too is a leisurely drive
with public radio Bach on the first of May
along the tree-lined Hutchinson River Parkway
heading north, sun bright, elated not yet to arrive,
 
remembering the early cars, the first boyfriend
and his forest green Chevrolet, its new car smell
and his shaving lotion smell, parked on the hill
of glowing kisses that would never end,
 
remaining unconsumed since that first day
like the bush that beckoned Moses to its burning,
promising happiness, or at least promising
freedom, which is what all cars do, anyway.
 
So what do I feel, giving my Prius away
dear as it is, to my dear and handsome son
now that I am a city-dweller? One
feeling is loss, the other feeling: Hooray.
 
He’s manually skilled, he’s in good shape,
he’ll take it camping, climbing with his wife.
I wish them happy highways in this life;
I give away the car. Love’s what I keep.
 

from Rattle #79, Spring 2023

__________

Alicia Ostriker: “I don’t usually write in traditional forms, but this poem somehow asked to be in quatrains. I also don’t usually write about happiness (who does?), so it made me happy that I could do that, and gather past, present, and future happinesses into a single poem, like a little distillation of joy. As Robert Frost says: ‘For once, then, something.’”

Rattle Logo

May 30, 2023

Matthew Gavin Frank

AFTER SENZA TITOLO, 1964

painting by Corrado Cagli

I promised him I would not say
grasshopper, or superman. So

Fortune is this fish and this
flower, and neither are the body—

not some smart flat
of a knife. Not some

wondering about the stars.
The coming into the world

insectile, or some dumb gang
of coral, smacked with its first air—

I can’t look at a fish without thinking
how lucky they are to have

the ocean. How can they watch
the stars? It’s beautiful

what must be substitute,
their words for night,

the different way they
hold their fins.

How we come into
this thin tissue with a stroke

of fingertip over gill, the words
we have to explain, dumb

as the coral—wing to bird, fin
to fish, leaf to tree—is that

the best we can do?
Our heartbreak is last year’s

nest, the frozen lake, the yard
we forgot to rake. The lie

is that we’ll miss our families most.
Instead: the silver batteries

agitating the surface of the water,
the things we aren’t—some wild

mating we can only read about,
all strange biology and our hearts

that are a part of it, kept from us,
something else we’re not. We’re

made up of servants
without a lord, working to push us

toward cold water and
it’s beautiful, we’re science

and there is no substitute
for the stars. Not mother

or husband or daughter, but fish,
but finch, but fir.

from Rattle #32, Winter 2009

__________

Matthew Gavin Frank: “I’ve ran a tiny breakfast joint in Juneau, Alaska; worked the Barolo wine harvest in Italy’s Piedmont; sautéed hog snapper hung-over in Key West; designed multiple degustation menus for Julia Roberts’ private parties in Taos, New Mexico; served as a sommelier in Chicago; and authored a book of poems. Tonight, in the kitchen, I will combine blesbok venison with chocolate, jalapeño, espresso, and blood orange.” (web)

Rattle Logo

May 29, 2023

Howard Nelson

LITTLE RICHARD

What was it that gave me the discerning taste 
when I went into the record store in 1958, 
when I was twelve years old, an ordinary kid (white) 
in the suburbs, middle class, to buy the album 
Here’s Little Richard? It may have been 
the first of the big vinyl discs that became 
my record collection, which was for me for a while there 
(and in a way still is) something like the Bible 
is for religious people. What it really was was 
good fortune, and being young and ignorant, but interested, 
and being able to walk into the record store, 
in the riches of a moment of time. 
And there was Little Richard. 
His screams came out of gospel, 
though I didn’t know that at the time. 
I knew “Tutti Frutti,” “Good Golly Miss Molly,” 
and “Long Tall Sally,” and I’m sure 
Little Richard’s piled high hair 
had something to do with it too.
Early on he crossed back over to gospel, 
but later he crossed back again. 
Many crossings and recrossings, ups and downs, 
comebacks and never-lefts, 
in his long career and life. 
 
Little Richard was not little—he was five feet ten.
His name was Richard Pennimen. 
Somehow he lived to be eighty-seven.
Even musicians thought of as the pioneers
were influenced in their pioneering
by what Little Richard had already done.
Elvis said he was his inspiration.
Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis, the Everly Brothers,
recorded his songs. The first time he toured Europe, 
the opening act was The Beatles. 
He gave Paul McCartney singing lessons. 
If you want to remember him on his passing, 
I recommend watching the video of him doing “Lucille” in 1957.
He’s wearing a beautiful baggy white suit, it must have been linen,
and there are three saxophone players moving in sync behind him, 
two guitars, bass, and drummer, also in white suits, 
and Richard out front, with his tall pompadour,
standing-dancing at the piano, skinny mustache, blazing eyes. 
Nobody’s eyes opened wider than Little Richard’s. 
He had a purity, a beauty, a laughter and a fire. 
But you might also watch Otis Redding’s 
induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.
Otis, of course, was long gone, more 
than twenty years, but it was a good choice 
to have Little Richard do the honors. 
He had a gift for public speaking, 
as frenetic, and beautiful in its way, as his singing. 
He was no longer young that evening, 
but the energy and his spirit were still with him. 
“I’m still here—I still look decent,” he said, 
and he did, still with his mustache, now 
with a long mullet of lustrous curls.
Who better to sing selections 
from Otis’s songs? Just a few verses. 
And when Otis’s widow, Zelma,
came up to accept the award, Richard
put his arms around her, and held her. 
And when she had given her moving, tearful
two sentence speech, it was beautiful 
how he walked with her, how he escorted her, 
with great tenderness, from the stage.
 

from Rattle #79, Spring 2023

__________

Howard Nelson: “I’ve been writing poems that are a kind of personal archeology—poems of memories from early years, which are also celebrations of cultural figures important to me, and important to the bigger flow of the historical moment I happened to drop into, being born when I was. So, Little Richard. One of the flamboyant greats. Other poems in this vein, to James Brown, Otis Redding, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, The Ronettes, and others, are in my book That Was Really Something.” (web)

Rattle Logo

May 28, 2023

Wendy Videlock

LIGHTS TURN OFF IN MAY AT THE GATEWAY ARCH TO ASSIST MIGRATORY BIRDS

It makes sense in every sense
of the word
to turn the lights off
 
for the song bird,
that she may find her way.
True, too, for the waterfowl,
 
the barn owl, the cactus wren—
even the mouse prefers
a darkened house
 
in which to nibble her grains.
It’s even true
the fiddler’s tune
 
will only begin to dance
when under a subtle
crescent moon.
 
If not for the dark, no spark,
says the sparrow and
the meadowlark—
 
beware the ones
who fear the dark, who refuse
to look a shadow in the eye,
 
who have no interest
in the sky unless it’s rendered
itself so blue
 
it won’t reveal
the distance between it
and you. It isn’t the moral
 
but the heart of the story:
the raven’s claw, the falcon’s beak
the eagle’s scree,
 
the rotting little memento mori.
There is no wing,
no blissful flight,
 
no finding your way,
no resting gently in the nest
and nuzzling your little egg
 
without the calling
of the rest: the grief song,
the suddenly wan,
 
the fallen star, the weight of loss,
the lights that flicker,
and turn off.
 

from Poets Respond
May 28, 2023

__________

Wendy Videlock: “I was recently asked why poets seem to be so fascinated by birds. I thought for a moment about how I could carry on at length about the bird as metaphor, as symbol, as guiding star, as constant companion wherever we go—about beauty itself—about life itself—about death itself—and then I finally just said, we can learn a lot about birds …” (web)

Rattle Logo

May 27, 2023

Sharon L. Charde

LOVE’S EXECUTIONER

I come from a proud Polish poet sent to Siberia, right
arm cut from his body, punishment for poems—

the first daughter of a man from Naples who was
a baby in a ship’s hold, women screaming and praying

the rosary, afraid of God’s teeth, chocolate cake,
my mother’s blood, my car crashing into yours

on the Mass Pike or 84, and the brown spots and bruises
on my arms, afraid of saying yes and bank accounts

and a branch of the big silver maple falling on my roof.
I believe in the gray flannel pants of the therapist who

took them off, the room I shared with the other one
in Beijing, the woman who lives alone on an island

who cannot tell our story because she has forgotten it.
They say I always wanted to get out and I should go

back to church and not much else except that I was
the girl who got A’s and they wanted me to keep

getting A’s but then I got C’s and in that apartment
in Philadelphia I pulled the green and blue bedspread

off the bed and draped it over the kitchen table, made
a little tent so I could scream while the babies cried

and no one would hear—and you were gone then
but I don’t want to talk about that and me pushing

the cheap plaid stroller your mother got with S&H
green stamps waiting for another baby that I didn’t

want but when it came I did want it, such a beautiful
soft baby holding me and I didn’t know the seeds

of death were in him already. Do you know this, if
you are very good and do all the proper rituals

like making a different hamburger casserole every
night, scrubbing the tile in the bathroom on Saturday

morning, ironing all the pillowcases—that even if you
do this you will not get the prize of keeping your children

alive. Tell me why I love her again when I am love’s
executioner and dream I was a girl in a burn unit

who will not recover, tell me what will come from
the apartment on the second floor which is all blue

with a white bed as big as a small ship and a window
over a bathtub that looks out onto the tree I almost

backed into with my red Saab and the Dresden girls
on the mantle over the fireplace that cannot burn

anything. Tell me about the woman who lives there
who walks with a black cane and wears a blue sweater

and I wore one too that day though I never wear blue
and yesterday how I was the wind and she bound me in.

from Rattle #34, Winter 2010
Tribute to Mental Health Workers

__________

Sharon L. Charde: “My younger son died twenty years ago in a mysterious accident in Rome; my older son graduated from college a week after his funeral and left home to live his life. I knew I was not needed as a mother anymore, I had burned out in my job as a family therapist and that to survive, I had to return to my first love, writing poems. This love and practice has sustained me more than anything else since then. When people tell me that my poems have affected their lives in powerful ways, that I speak in an honest and clear voice, that my grief supports theirs, I want to keep on writing and I do.” (web)

Rattle Logo

May 26, 2023

Kat Lehmann

OCEAN ANCIENT AND EVOLVING

 

from Rattle #79, Spring 2023

__________

Kat Lehmann: “I haven’t seen anyone else write sudo-ku. I started playing with the form last summer while doodling and watching my daughter’s swim practice. People ask me how I do it, but it’s hard to explain. I mean, how do you explain how to write a single haiku, let alone ten interwoven haiku? It’s a meditative experience, really. I’ve found that I have to write all ten at once so the poem stays balanced. If I start with one strong haiku, it doesn’t work. They all have to be able to shift and learn to play together. There’s also the obvious grammatical considerations so you don’t get stuck with a preposition as the last word.” (web)

Rattle Logo

May 25, 2023

All of Us by Lou Storey, a complex pastoral landscape of simplified images of towns and fields with a quilt-like quality

Image: “All of Us” by Lou Storey. “The World Beneath” was written by Devon Balwit for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, April 2023, and selected as the Editor’s Choice. (PDF / JPG)

__________

Devon Balwit

THE WORLD BENEATH

Peel the disappointed world
back to its precursor—a child’s
 
town of bright primaries, streets
where the sun finds no impediment
 
and the wind none richer,
none poorer. No one suffers
 
or dies there—not even one
invisible dog sniffing the blue
 
salt air. The boats in the harbor,
the phone poles, the hills
 
and the houses all speak
a language before language,
 
that tuneful hum above
the shapes in a board-book.
 
There even shadows hesitate
to fall, mother nowhere
 
in sight, the afternoon lazy
and long.
 

from Ekphrastic Challenge
April 2023, Editor’s Choice

__________

Comment from the editor, Megan O’Reilly: “As the title indicates, the poet imagines Lou Storey’s colorful and complex piece as depicting a ‘precursor’ to our current world (‘the disappointed world’), a more pure and essential civilization, and after viewing it through that lens, I can’t see it any other way. I found the language here to be irresistibly interesting, effortless lines that so aptly describe a place that doesn’t quite exist but is simultaneously more real than reality. I was particularly struck by ‘the houses all speak / a language before language, / that tuneful hum above / the shapes in a board-book,’ which I interpret as an incredible expression of the primitive way we experience the world as pre-verbal children, and a passage that will stick in my mind for a long time.”

Rattle Logo