March 24, 2023

Anne Casey

PORTRAIT OF KEVIN BARRY IN THE IRISH TIMES

I look at him and I say
There’s a man who’s broken
his nose once or twice, eyes like
cut-steel rivets, stiff lower lip edgy over
Vermeer-strobed gingersnap strands and—
that wild tawny thicket afly against
a soft Guinness scenario, an allusion
of khaki (a flirtation of shoulder,
mind you), something military maybe:
an intimation of risk or a nod
to some rebel hero—says I though,
Never mind that auld jut o’
fierceness—say what you like,
there’s a man who can write.
 

from Rattle #79, Spring 2023
Tribute to Irish Poets

__________

Anne Casey: “I was born and grew up in County Clare on the western seaboard of Ireland in a family and hometown steeped in Irish history, poetry, and mythology. I graduated from University College Dublin and worked in the capital for several years before emigrating to Australia where I live currently. Here, I am researching the lives of Irish famine refugees to Australia for a PhD in Creative Writing (poetry and creative non-fiction) at the University of Technology Sydney where I also research and teach. Covid years aside, I return annually to visit family and friends, and to read poetry, in Ireland. Though currently exiled, I consider myself wholly Irish. I am a regular contributor to Irish cultural engagements here hosted by the Irish Consulate. As a journalist and poet, my work (including regular contributions featuring in the Irish Times’ Most Read) is profoundly Irish in its lyrical aspect (which echoes my unassailable west Clare accent!) and in its political voice. I grew up in the ‘rebel county’ which suffered greatly under British rule. One third of our people died during the famine, largely as a result of colonial policies. My family home was burnt to the ground by British soldiers in 1921, my 13-year-old grandfather barely escaping; my other grandparents regularly told me stories of being held at gunpoint by the Black and Tans and being beaten for speaking in our native tongue, which had been outlawed during British colonisation. Throughout my childhood, I was surrounded by poetry and imbued with the understanding of how poetry had been used for millennia in our country as a source of hope and a voice of political resistance. My poetry is interwoven with the accents, myths, history, mores and preoccupations of half my life spent in Ireland (forever pulsing through my veins) and has always been unabashedly political.” (web)

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March 23, 2023

The Kitchen Goddess by JoAnne Tucker, painting of woman in orange dress dancing in a frying pan

Image: “The Kitchen Goddess” by JoAnne Tucker. “The Rebirth of Venus” was written by Luisa Giulianetti for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, February 2023, and selected as the Artist’s Choice. (PDF / JPG)

__________

Luisa Giulianetti

THE REBIRTH OF VENUS

I blew that half shell. Took to the waiting shore
found new digs and never looked back. Feet
happily calloused and belly full. In this kitchen
 
I reign supreme. Stir my own pot. Garland
my tresses with wild rosebuds. My monarch
gown wings marigold as I glissade
 
across the maple floor to the awaiting catch.
I hold a fanned scallop between my thumb
and forefinger, slide the knife and twist. Prize
 
open the hinge. Free plump flesh from its frilly
skirt. Rinse, dry, salt. Sear the lot in cast iron.
Tang their sweetness with fresh orange. Pair
 
with earthy fennel. Create counterbalance.
Like dancing. Like mercy. Arms boughed in offering
for this body that spins me. Holds me. I linger
 
in betweenness: falling and stillness. The firm
and laze of muscle. My tongue curls sturdy seeds,
cradles supple bites. The ancient skillet seasons
 
flavors anew. I feast memory—ocean, sand, brine.
Instead of praying, I sauté. Leap.
The world, glorious and hungry, beneath my feet.
 

from Ekphrastic Challenge
February 2023, Artist’s Choice

__________

Comment from the artist, JoAnne Tucker: “I was delighted and surprised at the range of emotions and different journeys that were expressed in the poems which I reviewed. The pastel painting was part of a show calling for work on the theme of the kitchen goddess. I approached the painting from a whimsical point of view placing a dancer in a frying pan. The poem that I have selected captures the playfulness of the painting. It is called ‘The Rebirth of Venus’ and the opening lines refer back to the painting ‘Birth of Venus’ by Botticelli. I have fond memories of seeing that painting when I visited the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. I laughed with delight with the phrase ‘found new digs.’ While the Botticelli painting was not on my mind when I created my kitchen goddess, the reference shows how two paintings inspired the poem, and I love that. In the poem, the poet has the dancing goddess opening a scallop and of course the original Venus is standing in a scallop shell. In addition, the poet also captured so well the feeling of the dancer in the kitchen ‘reigning supreme.'”

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March 22, 2023

David Butler

LOVE! HIS AFFECTIONS DO NOT THAT WAY TEND …

… unless it was love of the bottle. Word was
he’d drunk the family farm, acre 
by acre, till a neighbour took the shell 
of the house for a shelter. The smell
of him: soiled coat and pants, face 
rain-cudgelled and ogre-fierce; he’d 
shout after those that taunted, loose
foul words from whiskey stupors, spittle
white lava round a cavernous mouth.
He pitched for a while the bones of a camp
in a copse, found it kicked asunder,
found it burned out. His corpse 
was dragged from the Dargle last winter; 
drowned pulling his dog from the water.
 

from Rattle #79, Spring 2023
Tribute to Irish Poets

__________

David Butler: “Poetry is most interesting when it engages the auditory imagination, so that I try to evoke, using the sounds and rhythms of English as it is spoken in Ireland (and, occasionally, the Irish language itself), what might be termed acoustic portraits of local themes.” (web)

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March 21, 2023

David Bottoms

SLOW NIGHTS IN THE BASS BOAT

Some nights when the fishing slows,
when the stripers
and hybrids drift through the cove like elusive thoughts,
you crank in the jig, prop the rod in the boat.

Some nights the trees on the bank are black and soundless,
a fat wall of darkness,
and the silence on the water feels like the voice
of a great absence.

Across the wide cove the lights of the bait shop
flicker like insects,
and, finally, a few stars struggle through the shredded clouds.

Silence, then, exceeds the darkness. Silence.

You grasp the gunnels and lean forward,
you catch a long breath.
That gnawing in your chest sharpens and spreads.
Your grip tightens.

The rustle in your ears is something grand and awful
straining to announce itself.
Your jaw trembles. Out of your yearning
the silence shapes a name.

from Rattle #39, Spring 2013
Tribute to Southern Poets

__________

David Bottoms: “Now on the spot where my house sat there’s a Kentucky Fried Chicken, and the K-Mart parking lot is covering the place where my grandfather’s house and store were. When my daughter was a kid we’d drive by and I’d say, “This is where we lived, right here,” and she’d say, “Kentucky Fried Chicken?” But you know, a lot of times at night when I try to go to sleep that old landscape plays over in my mind and it’s just sad, in a way, to have lost that, to have lost that connection and know that I’m one of the few people left who has any sense of that place, what it was and what it meant to folks. Maybe it didn’t mean so much then, but right now it means a lot. It means a whole lot.” (web)

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March 20, 2023

Katherine Bode-Lang

SPRING MELT

They separate in March:
the first of our friends

to decide on divorce.
We tiptoe around the month;

we’ve been fighting,
too. Our house is an

over-starched shirt.
The month is dark with rain,

the streets all slick
like sadness. We wait,

rarely patient, for a thaw,
for our hands to unknot

into hands again. But
our friends are an ice floe

breaking apart in spring’s
thick current. We pull

the muck of winter
from the gutters, hope

the water runs clean again;
nothing more than this:

we hold onto each other
like upturned boats—

even if cold can never
really go away, even if

we might always feel the frost
at the edges of our bodies.

from Rattle #27, Summer 2007

__________

Katherine Bode-Lang: “I’m a recent MFA graduate from Penn State, and live in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania, with my husband, Andrew, and our cat, Grace. When I’m not teaching or writing, I’m a volunteer book mender at the county library.”

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March 19, 2023

Christine Potter

REVENGE

My problem is I don’t want it, even on my ex who
flung the wicker lid of a laundry hamper after me
the night I said Now you’ve made it easy, and left.
 
I never saw his face again—really. Unless maybe
once in the parking lot at a lake we both liked, his
round, silver glasses flashing August three PM sun
 
sixty feet away. He squinted. I felt a familiar lurch
in my stomach even before I looked back at him—
or someone else. I’m still not sure. Forty years ago!
 
I never want revenge. And it wasn’t easy. His lawyer
was ferocious, served me papers over a dictionary,
a few LP records and a chili pot, that Christmas Eve.
 
Believe me, I couldn’t even shoot Putin. I’d probably
just insult him, get myself jailed for keeps. I feel bad
for people. I’m a snowstorm like today’s snowstorm—
 
wet, torn-up newsprint wind-spiraled, worrying only
our bamboo—which blew through its boundary-pots
last summer. And now it’s all set to invade everything.
 

from Poets Respond
March 19, 2023

__________

Christine Potter: “I write poems almost every day, but sometimes I don’t know what I’m really writing about. I keep coming back to a long-ago time in my life when I had to leave a bad marriage. I’ve never understood the predatory lawyer thing in a circumstance like that … and I was mulling it over in yet another poem when I realized I was writing about Ukraine again (something I also do a lot). Or maybe I was writing about both things at once, which is how metaphor works. Someone always starts a war, of course. And you have to defend your home against brutal attack, of course! But the cycle of revenge—it’s just not in me. I don’t understand it. This news story about the pacifist psychologist broke my heart. He must be like me.” (web)

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March 18, 2023

Wendy Videlock

MERCHANT CULTURE

What’s the going rate for a poem these days?
—JM

I’ll trade you a drop of snow

for a lyrical poem,
a parking lot
for a river stone,
a soldier’s heart
for a kettle of gold,
the justice card
for the nine of swords,
a Persian word
for an off-chord;

a thousand tears,
a thousand tomes
and a drop of snow
for a lyrical poem.

from Rattle #40, Summer 2013

__________

Wendy Videlock: “A friend recently scolded me for never having written a manifesto. ‘Here’s my manifesto,’ I said: ‘Everybody’s got their own egg to hatch.’” (web)

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