November 13, 2024

“Cribbage Lessons” by Susan JohnsonPosted by

Susan Johnson

CRIBBAGE LESSONS

The summer Dad decided it was time
I learned crib, counting fifteen two,
fifteen four, I loved doing the sums
 
in my head, tallying up the pairs,
runs, as if life were arithmetic,
which at six it was. Going into
 
second grade, the owner of three
hand-me-down bathing suits from
one sister, two cousins, I went
 
swimming five times a day and at
the general store one mile away,
bought a dime’s worth of penny
 
candy from a woman who had to
be a hundred. In four years mom
would have her mastectomy; in ten
 
she’d be dead. We didn’t know any
of that then. Just that it all adds up
until it doesn’t. Then you’re skunked.
 

—from Rattle #85, Fall 2024

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Susan Johnson: “I spent my childhood being outside as much as possible and trying to solve the many puzzles that made up my life. I do the same as an adult, only now it’s language that I use to work through and understand what I encounter. I’m also more accepting when it doesn’t quite add up.”

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November 12, 2024

“Post-Election Abecedarian” by Christine RheinPosted by

Christine Rhein

POST-ELECTION ABECEDARIAN

America, a gleaming ship—mighty engines,
billowing sails—the wind at our backs one minute, hurricanes
careening toward us the next. And our captain-to-be, once again,
does not call for All hands on deck!—alarm bells signaling
Every man for himself! Yes sir—women the first to be
frightened now—new crewmen taking charge of the infirmaries,
galleys, locking up their secret banquets, their fists proudly raised.
How clever, some believe, the constant riggings—ropes tied
into convoluted knots, and maps redrawn, based on coded
judgement. O say, can you see the country’s compass
keeps fogging—despite the talk of reading it clearly,
letting faith lead us, even as the waters darken.
Menacing—the threats we cannot see, the sharkish hunger,
nets upon nets dragged across the evening news. We’re tired
of snagging only lies, of casting for giant truths, what with icebergs
primed to go on melting, and those at the helm
questioning the data—rising temperatures, no big deal!
Rules of the sea, broken. In these stormy gales, our flag
snaps and frays, shackles clang, and the mast
teeters—our nausea churning amid pledges of allegiance.
Until January—beyond January—let us hold our
vessel safe, keep the cracks from spreading, work to
weld, reweld, push onward. Afterall, our children need
extra hope now, need a route out of the rage. Don’t most of us
yearn for a buoyant voyage, for a way to stop our frantic
zigs and zags, to steer together, free ourselves to sail as one?
 

—from Poets Respond

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Christine Rhein: “This poem, written in alphabetical order, is an attempt to confront the chaos that’s been promised, to hope that America’s voyage isn’t doomed, to hope that the planet isn’t doomed.” (web)

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November 11, 2024

“Six Senryu for Erotica” by Sharon FerrantePosted by

Sharon Ferrante

SIX SENRYU FOR EROTICA

 
 
 
my lover’s scent in the morning a wolf howls
 
 
 
on his lap
the bump and grind
of the old truck
 
 
 
romping
on cut grass
our green knees
 
 
 
lobster dinner
he licks the butter
from my chin
 
 
 
role-playing on the old piano
 
 
 
a hard night
I let him melt
in my mouth
 
 
 

—from Rattle #85, Fall 2024

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Sharon Ferrante: “I write poetry because the poem tells me to. It’s like a door I run through in the night: it’s always open, filled with chatter.”

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November 10, 2024

“Haiku [it’s all over]” by petro c. k.Posted by

petro c. k.

HAIKU

 
 
 
it’s all over
but the counting
distant sirens
 
 
 

—from Poets Respond

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petro c. k.: “As one who often writes haiku, it’s always a challenge to distill moments to its essence. When I was sitting with my thoughts, I heard sirens off in the distance, which captured the sense I had of melancholy, anxiety, and unknown dangers on the horizon.” (web)

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November 9, 2024

“Our Waitress’s Marvelous Legs” by Grace BauerPosted by

Grace Bauer

OUR WAITRESS’S MARVELOUS LEGS

It’s men I’m prone to eye, but when she comes
to take our order, I’m too distracted
to think beyond drinks, too awed
by the ink that garments her limbs
to consider appetizers, much less entrees.
 
It’s not polite to stare, I know,
but the fact of her invites it.
Why else the filigreed ankles,
those Peter Max planets orbiting her
left shin, that Botticelli angel soaring
just below her right knee?
 
She’s a walking illustration, adorned
to amaze, yet as seemingly nonchalant
as the homely white-sneakered HoJo girl
I myself once was, describing the specials
of the day, listing our options for dressings,
then scribbling the choices we make
on her hand-held pad.
 
My companion can’t help wondering how far
up the ante goes, says he bets there’s a piercing
or two at the end of the, so to speak, line.
I’m more inclined to ponder motivation
and stamina—how long and how much
she suffered to make herself a work of art.
For I have no doubt, she sees her own flesh
as a kind of canvas. Her body as frame
and wall and traveling exhibition,
a personal statement on public display.
 
Same could be said of the purple tights
I wear beneath my frilly black skirt—
too bold a choice for some people’s tastes,
but not a permanent commitment.
Clothes make the woman more
than the man, despite the familiar adage,
and body as both self and other is
a contradiction we live with, however comfortably
—or not—we grow into our own skins.
 
I’ll admit part of what I feel
is admiration, even envy.
Whatever she may ever become
in this world, she will never again be drab.
She’ll wear this extravagance
of color and form as she grays
into more—or less—wisdom.
 
But tonight she simply performs
her duty as server, courteous and efficient
as she does what she can to satisfy
the hunger we walked in with, but not
the hunger the sight of her
inspires us to take home.
 

—from Rattle #36, Winter 2011

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Grace Bauer: “I am currently bent on surviving another winter in Nebraska, which might explain the longing for otherwise and elsewhere that keeps cropping up in my poems.”

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November 8, 2024

“Migration Ghazal” by Matt DhillonPosted by

Matt Dhillon

MIGRATION GHAZAL

My ship is two hands held together to cross the water.
What hope you carry, don’t spill a drop across the water.
 
If one spills out, we push his name like a prayer
into the palms of the dark, the body lost on the water.
 
Prayers we make into boats with the bowls of our hands
on the bones of our chests, to push one across the water.
 
Hands unlearn their work, relearn to feed us.
Each day a crossing, now toss on the water.
 
Like half-finished sentences, we move on unheard. 
Practice the words of that country across the water.
 
The ferryman of souls is crossing to the country past sleep.
All immigrants eventually reach his ship and ripple the last water.
 
What comes biting on a dark night like memories?
Hook one and pull the silverfish from the glossed water.
 
Migrants wash in the river, the words for things 
flake off, float like skins on top of the water.
 
In two hands I take you on the river of forgetting
Who am I, you ask in this country across the water.
 
Now we are no one. Mother, Father, Brother, Daughter,
all our names washed off on the water.
 

—from Rattle #85, Fall 2024

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Matt Dhillon: “Immigration is a profound threshold to cross. I’ve been thinking a lot about crossings and how change comes to us with both growth and loss.”

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November 7, 2024

“Smoking Ceremony” by Hemat MalakPosted by

Hemat Malak

SMOKING CEREMONY

You call me arsonist, mad firefly:
our photos curl and crackle in the sink.
Those years together burn—smoke thick with sighs.
 
I watch the tendrils dance to cleanse the sky
which colours now in hues of rose and pink.
Call me artist—my madness paints goodbye
 
in letters on this canvas, nearly dry.
Make no mistake: this is forever-ink.
The years are burned, the smoke has choked our sighs.
 
The letters starburst into butterflies,
and here’s a toast to which we both can drink:
from arson’s match, we made two fireflies—
 
these children smelted from our mouths and eyes;
our love left bubbles as we watched it sink,
but years have burst into a thousand sighs.
 
There’s comfort as the seasons prophesize—
the vow of fall: to bloom again in spring.
No arsonist, that madness burnt me dry,
this smoke of years in flames to bless our sighs.
 

—from Prompt Poem of the Month
October 2024

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Prompt: Write a villanelle that mentions your favorite season. Make each refrain slightly different.

Note from the series editor, Katie Dozier: “This villanelle burns through turns of phrases with such elegance that we feel like we’re watching a chimney on a cold winter’s day. Hemat lights up the possibilities of language, showing us how a match struck in a slightly different way can entirely change the meaning of a line. The subtlety of ‘hues of rose and pink’ further highlights that distinction—as the two colors appear to be synonyms but their connotations beg to differ. With its brilliant twist from ‘arsonist’ to ‘artist,’ this poem will glow in our minds for many years to come.”

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