October 6, 2024

“When the Hundred-Year Flood Hits Home” by Christiana DoucettePosted by

Christiana Doucette

WHEN THE HUNDRED-YEAR FLOOD HITS HOME

There is a gapping
in the chest when the water
outside pours indoors.
 
A continental
shift shuts down the panic that
will only drown me.
 
As the first tree gives
with a rush of wind and that
ground-shaking thunder
 
and then another
and another pound the house
next door. The roar as
 
oak folds shed like its
an old slice of bread around
raw celery spear.
 
There is clarity
of who must do what
to get where safely.
 
A laser focus
on further up and further
in gathering speed.
 
The wind whips razor
blade sheets of rain sideways as
everything roars. Doors
 
slam. My youngest’s hand
holds tight, as I urge older
sisters not to stare
 
but to move move move
to the house up the hill with
no trees and no creek
 
where yellow light pours
from storm-fogged windows like
freshly buttered toast.
 
Then the door opens.
We’re pulled inside where it’s warm.
Where it’s dry. Where it’s
 
safe. I look back home
just as the storm plants a tree
on my bedroom roof.
 

—from Poets Respond

__________

Christiana Doucette: “This poem was written as my phone battery depleted last night. We are on day four of no power, post-Helene. And I am so very grateful for good neighbors and bodily safety. I think we of the South Carolina upstate, and Western North Carolina will be carrying the terror of this storm for a long long time.” (web)

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October 5, 2024

“Big Hat” by Alba Payton ValenciaPosted by

Alba Payton Valencia (age 4)

BIG HAT

I like a big hat
to sit on my head.
 
I carry teddy bears
and blankets inside.
 
How does it all fit?
Because I made it up.
 

—from 2024 Rattle Young Poets Anthology

__________

Why do you like to write poetry?

Alba Payton Valencia: “I like to write poetry because it makes me feel happy and also because I like to write it with my papa. And because it makes me think of my home.”

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October 4, 2024

“Letter to Bob Boynton, Music Prodigy” by Vince GoteraPosted by

Vince Gotera

LETTER TO BOB BOYNTON, MUSIC PRODIGY

Dear Bob: I find myself hearkening back
sometimes to those old days when you and I
were playing in garage bands, way way back
in high school. You were the drummer and I
 
was the guitarist. Remember that time
when we tape recorded a practice song?
It was The Doors’ “Light My Fire.” A damn fine
recording, that was. Rickrock channeling 
 
Morrison, John doing Manzarek, and
me wielding Krieger’s solo note for note,
with you and Steve, best damn rhythm section.
But, you know, Bob, we never really did
 
justice to your skills, not only were you
an excellent drummer; you also played
the flute and, I think, the saxophone too.
Guitar, bass—you were a quintuple threat!
 
Whatever happened to that demo tape,
do you know? We were really kicking ass
that day. But you, old friend, you were excep-
tional: rolling fills and cymbal crashes,
 
keeping time with your strong foot on the kick,
crisp attack on high hat and snare, a prince
on the drum throne. Each time we played, you shook
the stage like a damn earthquake. Thank you. —Vince
 

—from Rattle #85, Fall 2024
Tribute to Musicians

__________

Vince Gotera: “I play bass in the band Deja Blue and also guitar in the duo Groovy News. I’ve played in bands for several decades. Music has been a crucial theme in many of my poems, focusing most often on guitars and guitarists as well as on the act and feeling of performance.” (web)

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October 3, 2024

“The Pleasures of Age” by Thomas DorsettPosted by

Thomas Dorsett

THE PLEASURES OF AGE

Du Nachbar Gott
—Rilke

So what if the neighbors hate you?
(In my case it’s worse: they pass
without saying a word. What joy
that this stains still vulnerable cells

as much as light drizzle scars stones!)
Nothing matters; that’s why I still work.
Poems none read, translations none want;
I’m prodigious as Nature is with her seeds

and almost as indifferent. Some land on rock,
others on thin soil; yet even if a few sprout
and delight, fame won’t cure uncommon colds
and I’ll still walk to the store with a limp.

(Bach is the music One plays in black holes.
This makes no sense to those below sixty
and the odd useless for whom it’s a “fact”
are Cain-strangers.) False-God-fearing neighbors,

if I lay shattered on the kitchen floor,
none of you would help me with the pieces,
yet I’m not shattered at all; I read,
write, play Mozart on the piano;

A good old age—an oxymoron?
One breaks down. One becomes whole.
One travels less. One travels more
via one’s own private jet, a good book.

Is a leaf on a swept sidewalk lonely?
Silence is gregarious; no, I’m not alone
for Somebody listens with infinite gravity;
my Neighbor forever the day I am crushed.

—from Rattle #37, Summer 2012

__________

Thomas Dorsett: “One afternoon, over 40 years ago, I got on the subway on my way to the New School in New York City. I had signed up for a course in poetry taught by the great Jose Garcia Villa. My brother had warned me that he often severely criticized student work. I was very nervous. A little while later, he read some student poems and, true to form, demolished them. Then he came to mine. After reading it, he looked up, and asked Thomas Dorsett to identify himself. I stood up—Here it comes, I thought; my poem must be especially bad. ‘You will become a poet,’ he said. I just stared in amazement until he told me to sit down. That night I thought that I must do something on the side so I can afford to eat. So I became a physician, too. After 60, I added a third ‘p’ and have become an avid amateur pianist.”

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October 2, 2024

“In the Arboretum” by Mark FishbeinPosted by

Mark Fishbein

IN THE ARBORETUM

I tune my guitar
to the bird who sings in almost E,
the one with almost perfect pitch
while counting 1 & 2, 3, 1 & 2, 3.
 
This is where it spends the season,
hidden in the leaves, I suppose
having sex with he’s or she’s;
I’m not sure of the species.
It’s brown and lives in trees—
here I play en plein air,
not practice ornithology,
and it’s summer everywhere.
 
Other birds in reds, and yellows,
go from A-flat and end in C,
and often chirp a bit off key.
Crows sound like there’s worms in their throats
and the piccolo bird is a blabbermouth …
but it is summer, after all!
It’s just the usual rehearsing
with flutes and brass of passing geese.
 
Now the woodpecker rattles a drum roll
and applause rises from a breeze
which brings the forest to its feet.
 
I play Romanza, by the infamous Anonymous,
and the bird who sings in almost E
repeats his phrases 1 & 2, 3;
Duets for Guitar and Woodland Bird,
Opus 8. All rights reserved.
 

—from Rattle #85, Fall 2024
Tribute to Musicians

__________

Mark Fishbein: “I am known as PoetwithGuitar (email, website, and social media). After playing at folk clubs in the ’60s and rock bands in Paris in the early ’70s, I joined the Musician Union Local 802 in New York and played in various venues for a year. My last gig was at a Hawaiian restaurant for several months in a small tiki band. Realizing my music talents were average at best, I took a business opportunity, and stuck to poetry. However, I later took up classical and Brazil style playing, and now perform in a ‘piano bar’ format at art and poetry events, private parties and banquets, and to accompany my readings. I have four published books. This poem is part of a collection of fifty poems, Poems in the Key of Music, currently seeking publication. I currently live in Chicago.” (web)

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October 1, 2024

“After Her Affair” by Lynne KnightPosted by

Lynne Knight

AFTER HER AFFAIR

Here’s what he does to reclaim the ravine:
He puts on leather gloves and strips 
the bank of brambles. This takes weeks.
He burns the debris in a pile late one night
while sparks shoot out like stars into the dark.
 
Then he digs for hidden roots and rakes
the bank clean. By now it’s summer.
He plants spider yarrow, witch hazel, 
arbutus and wild ginger. Lady’s mantle,
slender hairgrass, wild lily of the valley.
 
Hellebore along the narrow path above,
fireweed by the creek bed. All winter 
under rain the ravine readies itself. 
Buds, bursting. And when the flowers
come, the ravine studded with yellows
 
and whites, reds and grape blues, 
he stands at the window, his hands
still sore from the digging and planting,
the tending, his bones aching a little
deeper, the brambles nowhere to be seen.
 

—from Rattle #42, Winter 2013

__________

Lynne Knight: “I walk by this ravine almost every morning. Years ago, it was overrun with brambles. Then one year, whoever lived in the house by the ravine slowly cleared the brambles and planted wildflowers. I walk at dawn, so I never saw anyone at work. But it was easy to imagine a source for all the energy it must have taken to reclaim the ravine, the way it was easy to turn the brambles into metaphor.”

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September 30, 2024

“Shaking Hands with the Dead” by R.G. EvansPosted by

R.G. Evans

SHAKING HANDS WITH THE DEAD

They took a piece of cadaver
and put it in my wrist,
dead ligament better than
no ligament at all.
I wiggle my thumb,
now free of all pain,
and think of the rest of the body
that gave itself unknowingly
to free me of my suffering.
The dead are generous that way,
corneas and kidneys,
piece by piece making life
more livable for the living,
these messiahs among us,
the Kings of Pieces
waiting to live again. 
They even give their hearts
and ask for nothing in return.
 

—from Rattle #85, Fall 2024
Tribute to Musicians

__________

R.G. Evans: “I’ve played music in bands and solo almost all my life, but since retiring from teaching I’ve spent much more time than before playing at wineries, country clubs, and listening rooms all over New Jersey. I’ve dedicated myself to songwriting, too, with two albums already released and a third I’m in the process of recording now. How has music impacted my poetry? I believe the transaction is the other way around. My work as a poet has helped me write lyrics that are tight, image-driven, and (I’m told) very original. I don’t allow myself the easy out of ‘moon/June’ rhymes or other cliched conventions of popular music, and that rises from my belief that a poet—and a songwriter—has a duty to write something that’s never been written before, not something that’s already familiar. Take for example the opening lines of my ‘love’ song ‘Hearts and Minds’: ‘We go together like a weapon and a wound.’ I like to think that my favorite songwriter, the late great Warren Zevon, would approve.” (web)

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