April 13, 2023

Michael Jon Khandelwal

HAY ELOTE

Hay elote, he shouts
outside my window; I have wondered for years
what message he was bringing. Today,
I learned: there is corn.
I remember growing
up, seeing rows of cornstalks,
sampling the first of the harvest,
smothered in butter and salt.
Hay elote, the man sings out;
corn, it seems, exists here, too. Perhaps
I am not far from the eastern sunrise,
not far from corn,
feeding us all, in the communion
of hunger for food. The sun is huge
over a field; stalks bristle
in the wind. This man knows,
brings corn to my house, offers
me my mother’s hands
in a crowded street.

from Rattle #29, Summer 2008

__________

Michael Jon Khandelwal: “When I lived in Los Angeles, every day, a man would walk by my house shouting—I investigated and found he was selling fresh corn. Something about that touched me, reminded me of my days living in Virginia, days when I would explore the cornfields. I was astonished by this man, and how his words—in a language I didn’t know—sparked my memory so vividly. Of course, I wrote a poem about this man and his corn, as poems, for me, come from the astonishing experience of living.”

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April 12, 2023

Kerry Greer

I’D DRIVE ANYWHERE WITH YOU

We eat dinner in the car. I lock the doors
and then we’re in the real world
of the two of us, inchoate in the half-dark
as surely it has always been somewhere
before here, and after, the accordion
of Time a trick, a thing you can compress
and stretch, and even sit inside.
 
I don’t know how to say this any other way:
He’s not from here. He’s not like anyone
I’ve ever met. 
 
He’s so pleased I ordered him a double
cheeseburger tonight. This is a once-a-month
treat. Fine dining, I say. You should see his face.
He’s six now, and he thinks this might go on
forever. This always growing up, these nights of
life contained and held. We read about Christopher Robin, 
the real boy, while we eat. We discuss the shapes 
that poems make, the little ones you can memorise
together in a moment in the car. Then I play for him
something new and also ancient: the sound from a black 
hole. He says, Oh. And I say, Yes, I know.
I scroll the comments as the chasm speaks, 
searching for the non-believer who will explain
away the chill running down my spine with
Simple Science. You can discount a lot of things
when you’re not listening for a very particular
voice. I say, Did you hear him? And he says,
Yes. 
 
         Nothing needs to be explained between us.
Galaxies will collide one day, 
Andromeda into the Milky Way.
We’ll be long gone. The car, the drive-through,
the streetlights casting yellow orbs into the dark
like fishing nets. You don’t know what’s out there,
but you throw the line, and something moves—someone
echoes back, a Tuvan song, a life—a child asking me: 
Will Heaven hit Andromeda too? 
Like heaven might be somewhere here on earth,
like I might be the one who knows. 
 
We’ll be very far away by then, I say. Picture
a car with jet boosters. Picture a drive-through 
in outer space. I’m in the front seat,
and you’re in the back. What would you like to eat?
 
Through the black pool of night
we float, find all the world’s asleep
except for us. There’s a kind of magic on the edge
of normal family life: a singularity—
only we know what it’s like.
 
At the traffic lights, I watch him in the rear-view mirror. 
He’s smiling. He’s looking out at the sky, macadam 
of gas and dust. Can we do this again? he asks. 
I like our little chats in the car.
 
I nod. I watch the road. I watch the sky.
Nobody waits for us at home. 
We could go anywhere.
We might go anywhere.
 

from Rattle #79, Spring 2023
Tribute to Irish Poets

__________

Kerry Greer: “I’m a Northern Irish poet and writer. I was born in Belfast and lived there until I was eight, when my family moved to Western Australia. I returned to live in Belfast for several years in my early twenties. I continue to feel a very strong connection to Northern Ireland, particularly in my work as a writer. The lyric quality of the Irish vernacular, and the desire to make stories from even mundane events (a common theme in my own family!) is something I consider particularly Irish. I believe these characteristics contribute to the reputation Ireland has as a locus of art, music, and storytelling. Further, I think that Ireland has a legacy of oral storytelling that exists in conversation and everyday interactions, and carries over into their love for the magic of the written word.” (web)

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April 11, 2023

Amy Miller

RHODE ISLAND

for my mother

That summer in Misquamicut, when boys
as ripe as roadside corn shot pool in darkened
eighteen-over bars, I found the joy
they buried deep in denim straight-front pockets—

pipe screens, joints, and all the damp and salty
wounded want my navigating hands
could plunder. Home and sunburned, bedroom walls
my gulag—no diary, no dolls—digging sand

and ashes from the trenches of my shoes,
I heard her laughing—late, in bed with Dad,
no malice in her voice, in love—a girl whose
moody boy came home for her with mad

martinis, seven jokes to sleep on, sleep
itself a garland he laid at her feet.

from Rattle #27, Summer 2007

__________

Amy Miller: “When I was twelve, I wrote a story for an English class, and got an A. I wasn’t a good student, so my parents were thrilled, and made me read it in front of some dinner guests one night. My parents hadn’t read the story, and didn’t know the dialogue contained the word ‘bastard.’ When I blurted that word out, the adults were horrified, aghast—I might as well have thrown a cherry bomb in the toilet. That was my first inkling that creating something out of language could actually have an effect.” (web)

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April 10, 2023

Denise Garvey

CONSTANCY

My grandfather knew how to share
iron and leather with a horse
sweat turning the earth, the fertile smell
the plodding, the slow prayer.
Knew the seed he planted
back bending the long field.
A man that would listen to the Clare match
swathed in sweet pipe smoke
the fob watch checked by the Angelus.
 
Granny had a coat made for herself
from the fine worsted bolt that made his suit.
Carefully pinned a pearl in her soft green hat
as he pinned a rose on his lapel and
clasped the silver head of his walking cane.
The one before was shot to just silver in his hand:
Bloody Sunday, Croke Park, the Black and Tans.
 
He saw Wild Bill Cody in London 
with his stagecoach, saddled a Model T himself,
drove tillage laneways of sugar beet for 
The Great Southern and Western Railways.
In the war, he parked the car on blocks
saved the tyres, like seeds.
He was stern to his sons
who smoked Woodbines in goods carriages,
fell asleep, woke in the darkness of wild Kerry,
trudged to a mountainside nugget of light
traced relatives, hospitality
and a safe train home.
 
I saw my grandfather, old,
to a very young girl
pull my granny closer,
kiss her on the lips
and I knew constancy.
I saw granny smile remembering 
his intention to give up courtship for Lent
abandoned, with his bicycle, in the bursting spring.
The home they built is beautiful, substantial to this day,
nestled at the Crossroads in Clonlara,
paid for, by both, working to the bone.
 
She had six living children, and like me, lost one.
I didn’t know then how the loneliness would be
the crying, bereft mysteriously, of the unknown.
Granny, in the dying pain, 
took the cross from the kitchen wall
wrapped it in tissue, stuffed it in an envelope
wrote on it my name, closed the drawer.
 
My grandfather fished trout
cleared the Glen for a playground of sky blue,
taught me the habits of the trees, showed me foxgloves 
guarding rabbit burrows. Talked of ferrets.
Put glory from his garden in vases
and in the end, climbed up the valley
into the meadow of the evening sun.
 
This is the constancy on which I stood naked
in the bath, faced the tirade of my husband’s torment
claimed, for the first married time, my own space.
Waited for the fist to smash through my face.
 

from Rattle #79, Spring 2023
Tribute to Irish Poets

__________

Denise Garvey: “I live in the West of Ireland and run a study centre for students of all ages and abilities. Severely hearing impaired since birth, my childhood world was mainly lived in books and poetry has become an important means of self-reflection and self-expression. Born in Ireland and Irish back to the Norman invasion at least, I am interested in how the traditions of our country, previously so rooted in the extended family, support us, or sometimes undermine us, in our commitment to living full and powerful lives.”

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April 9, 2023

Ryan Boyland

KEITH OLBERMANN CALLS ANGEL REESE AN IDIOT FOR CELEBRATING IN THE FACE OF CAITLYN CLARK, AND I WANT HER TO DO IT AGAIN …

And again. I want him to wake up
in a cold sweat with her name
on his tongue. Choke
on each micro-French tipped finger.
 
I want his daughter named Angel
and his son named Reese. I want
him to see tigers everywhere.
I want the pump to read $102.85
 
every time he fills up, and I want
him to know why.
I was eleven when Don Imus,
mouth full of tombstones, skin,
 
cracked porcelain,
called the Rutgers women’s basketball team
nappy-headed hoes and I still don’t think
they buried him deep enough.
 
When your only sin is being the best,
which God do you pray to for forgiveness?
They wanted to let Brittney die
for less than a gram. I can’t be silent now.
 
I mean, Keith, right now, somewhere
in East Baton Rouge, a girl with skin
the color of mahogany and cherry oak
and ash is being told she’s too dark to wear red.
 
Keith, I don’t remember the last time I heard
a Black girl’s name in the news for anything
other than dying. Keith,
to be Black and woman in America
 
is to both birth the noose and teach it
to tie itself around your neck.
I am not asking for permission to celebrate,
only that you recognize why she would.
 
Keith, she can’t be quiet when her disrespect
was anything but. Keith, remember Angel.
Manicured hand pointing to finger,
lungs full of the sweetest air,
 
Joyful. Determined. Alive.
 

from Poets Respond
April 9, 2023

__________

Ryan Boyland: “Caitlyn Clark and Angel Reese are two of the best players in college basketball today. When Angel Reese and the LSU Tigers won the national championship this past week, Reese mimicked a celebration that Clark had used the week prior, and was heavily criticized for it.” (web)

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April 8, 2023

Willie James King

SPECULATIVE

So, this is the New South
where whites attend Parks’
funeral in multitudes, yet
send their own children to
separate schools. She died
in poverty, which means,
she was poor in cents
but rich in spirit. So don’t
tell me about change, or
how hard they are trying
while racism wreaks havoc
still, like AIDS, diabetes
that kill; there’s no cure.
Alabama ought to be our
nation’s Athens now. Yet,
most will want to avoid this.
I’ll tell you, I am infused by
so many different races I
almost had all that’s African
erased from me. Yes I want
philosophy, and papillons
in my poems, to focus on
what’s wrong with our being
in Iraq, without wondering
as to who’s got my back.
I would love to be far more
speculative with syllogisms
and not here writing about lies
bigotry, or about what hate is.

from Rattle #31, Summer 2009
Tribute to African American Poets

__________

Willie James King: “I write only compelled to do so. Writing is hard, that is why I love it. Language is as difficult to control as any animal found in the deep, wild woods. They don’t conform. They hold to what they do best, no matter how we holler: Humanity! Humanity! And that is why I write; I might be able to speak not only for myself, but for those without a voice; or, who they think they are, etc.”

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April 7, 2023

S.C. Flynn

THEIR SHARE OF THE DARK

Grand Canal Dock, Dublin

That hour of the night when sick people fall
forever from the high ledges of their lives
and the city is deep in a dream it will not share.
The moon clasps its head in cloudy blue hands,
reflected in the canal but shivering
among the cold, uncaring ripples.
The echoes of your footsteps flee like bats
as you walk into Grand Canal Square
lit by red poles, the only lighthouses needed
since the boats and dock workers have gone.
Everything has been killed by the silence
except the wind’s bitter monologue
blowing the long black flutes of the streets
that seep past the old leper hospital
and on to the crossroads of Misery Hill
where the dead bodies of thieves used to hang,
arguing over their share of the dark. 
 

from Rattle #79, Spring 2023
Tribute to Irish Poets

__________

S.C. Flynn: “I was born in Australia of Irish origin and have now lived in Ireland for seven years. A large part of my poetic project concerns exploring the old country and discovering what my family connection to Ireland means today.” (web)

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