Lexi Pelle: “Frank X. Gaspar wrote, ‘It’s never the aboutness of anything but the wailing underneath it.’ This poem, although based on a relatively uncharged article, was a slow settling into that wailing.” (web)
You got the tattoos you always wanted. The two betta fish on your arm, sunk in red, the black spider lilies across your stomach. You love the kids you teach now. First graders who will do anything you want as long as you say, you really disappointed me last time! but you love them so much & know that they can do so much better. I saw online that you finally learned how to do liquid eyeliner. No more smudging, no more muddy brown eyeshadow. Every photo of you featuring just a flick upwards like another eyelash. Maybe you finally started writing people back, even though I’m not included on this list. Maybe you finally told your parents you changed your major—do your cousins at church know? Does your mom love you now in the way you want, now that you’re baptized? Can you live with yourself? I know you don’t pray to God. I know you don’t believe in yourself either. I know it’s been a while since you said anything real, following every shot by the rule of thirds. Do you remember when we first met. Two years ago right before summer came down on us hard. April a prologue to our sleeplessness. Our regret, the correspondence of it, how it multiplied, we said a lot of things like, please try therapy, and, basically, think like a social media safety guideline. I’m still downing three fistfuls of melatonin every night. Still stripping back hangnails like wallpaper, hoping for the raw of it. I keep running myself into the direction of your house but that’s nothing now. Isn’t it. I’m so glad you’re doing well now. You and your dog and an impossible view, the way Phoebe Bridgers sings it, even though you still forget to eat. Even though us. Even though you don’t remember don’t you remember / don’t you still want us? Do you even need to think about how it felt? 4am, trading messages back and forth until our typos began tripping into themselves, dawn just another alarm to shut out. Every confession that curdled in our arms. The truth was, our parents could both get better. They could have been nicer. Picked us up from school and came clean. You could have loved me, and I would’ve let you.
Ruoyu Wang: “I like poetry because it allows the intimacy for me to create a transitional space where these fragments from my life and my identity and the people I love are able to emerge into a fuller, lighter truth.”
Miseong Kong: “I once lived to play classical guitar to the best of my ability, to the scrutiny of the masters, and that life produced some beautiful sounds but sacrificed my love of the guitar. Then I tried living to take small moments of life into poetry and that life produced some beautiful poetry but sacrificed too many small moments. Prompt poetry sacrifices the joy of freedom and, of all joys, maybe that is the easiest to let go? Let then the music flow in response, as words, constrained.”
Prompt: Find someone’s last words, and use that as an epigraph in a poem where “death” is not mentioned by name.
Note from the series editor, Katie Dozier: “All too often with epigraphic poems, the quote is more interesting than the poem itself. Here, the shocking last words of Frances Weller are immediately juxtaposed to the micro-memoir first line of the poem—and that brilliant contrast propels us through her life full of struggles. Instead of speculating as to her secret, Beswick explores empathy through the motion of her great-grandmother’s ever-moving hands during two world wars. Beswick’s tactile details are so well-crafted that we don’t just read her poem, we feel the heat of the iron and smell the smoke of her cigarette. The title both reveals the poem to be an extended metaphor for growth in the midst of adversity, and speaks more directly to the eventual fate of all of our secrets.”
Jeff Knight: “I have played bar band and coffeehouse gigs in Austin (including with my old band Blue Haiku), have made money busking, worked for almost ten years as a professional songwriter for an educational curriculum company, and recently signed a contract (and got a paycheck) with Fervor Records to place some country-rock songs I co-wrote. I’m just a ham-and-egger on guitar but find that writing, arranging, and performing songs is satisfying in a similar way to poetry: you mess with it and mess with it until you think it’s done and then hope it will connect with people’s hearts and heads. And sometimes it does.” (web)
Frances Klein: “There has been a lot of online discourse this week about an article in The Atlantic lamenting that students no longer come to college prepared to read full books. Although I disagree with the author’s chosen villain (she blames high school teachers) I related to the experience of having students enter creative writing classes with an expressed distaste for reading. I have been teaching creative writing to high school students for many years, and in the last five years or so I have noticed a major shift in the ‘influences’ students identify for their writing. More and more, kids who claim they want to be writers are open about disliking reading. When asked to talk about the influences on their writing, they identify TV shows, musicians, and online influencers. In real life, I try to be patient and understanding, to help guide students to texts that sparks their interest and draw them in to loving reading. This poem, however, was written from my knee jerk reaction of frustration, from the ‘what I wish I could say,’ point of view.” (web)
Jennifer Hambrick: “In my first career, I performed as a professional flutist with major orchestras and in studio recording sessions. Classical music got under my skin during my tender years through an intense study of dance, and pop radio was the soundtrack for my adolescence. That musical immersion helped prepare me for all of my work with music, including my current career as a professional singer, classical music broadcaster, multimedia producer, and cultural journalist. I don’t often write poetry about music, but I do always write poetry—whatever the theme or subject—musically, by ear. The word-rhythms and vowel and consonant sounds I hear in my mind’s ear guide me through the creation of every poem I write. In this sense, the process of writing poetry is, for me, nothing short of making music with words, and the most important ingredient in my writing process is second nature to all good musicians: listening.” (web)
