January 6, 2023

“The Closing List” by Stephen CohenPosted by

Stephen Cohen

THE CLOSING LIST

turn the signs, close the blinds, lock the door 
count the till, clean the grill, sweep and mop the floor 
put all the receipts in a drawer 
put the dry goods in a bin, put the wet goods in the walk-ins 
clean the ovens and the countertops and the silver and the pans and pots 
turn off the dishwashing machine after you get everything restaurant 
clean prepare a statement for the bank, put the money in the safe 
say goodnight to the help, thank you, you don’t need their help anymore 
take off your restaurant clothes, move across the restaurant floor 
there’s no restaurant here anymore 
count the till, clean the grill, sweep and mop the floor 
change the signs, shut the blinds, put a padlock on the door 
there’s no restaurant here anymore, anymore, anymore
 

—from Rattle #78, Winter 2022

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Stephen Cohen: “I am a writer and a performing, recording, and visual artist. I write poetry because it is one of the best ways for us human beings to express our thoughts and feelings. ‘The Closing List’ directly addresses life in these historic times.” (web)

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January 5, 2023

“The Sister of Icarus” by Mary Ellen RedmondPosted by

Mary Ellen Redmond

THE SISTER OF ICARUS

At the craft store, two angel wings
reveal themselves under the sheer
shirt of the girl in front of me.
 
Clear indigo lines etched over both
shoulder blades and beyond, each feather
meticulously outlined. I remember her
 
apple-white skin, chestnut hair, the sound
of coins clinking and her slipping away
 
swinging her bag of purchases:
feathers, glitter, and glue.
 

—from Rattle #37, Summer 2012

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Mary Ellen Redmond: “I write poems to stay sane, saving thousands of dollars in therapy. I support this habit by teaching twelve-year-olds to read critically and write well, dot their i’s and cross their t’s. Along with two fat and happy cats, I live on Cape Cod, a glacial afterthought that juts into the Atlantic off the coast of Massachusetts.”

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January 4, 2023

“How to Become a Happy Woman, e.g.” by Danielle CarnePosted by

Danielle Carne

HOW TO BECOME A HAPPY WOMAN, E.G.

First, get a hose.
Even if there’s a water shortage due to drought,
Stand around dousing the grounds for hours and hours.
I mean relentlessly. 
Grow moss, remembering you earned it by not showering
During the pandemic.

 

Second, forget everything you’ve been told. (Except 
The foregoing.)
Smoke and drink whatever and whenever you want.
Stay up all night every night watching movies,
Almost religiously.
Lean hard on Australians; they dominate the natural horror flick.

 

Third, buy white begonias and find sweet summer dresses online. 
If anyone asks, explain it’s your only life. 
Place orders to arrive each Friday,
By routine delivery.
While waiting, don’t do a thing you don’t feel like doing and never,
Ever regret it.

 

Finally, do a deep squat in the garden shaded by the tree. (Oh, 
And also, no undies.)
As you dig the begonias some holes, the aromas rising from 
Under the dresses will blend with the scents of drenched dirts 
And roots and worms, deliciously.
Sweating, wet yourself down with the hose, then get some sleep.
 

—from Rattle #78, Winter 2022

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Danielle Carne: “As a professional arbitrator and mediator, I resolve other people’s conflicts. Poetry must be where I work on my own.” (web)

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January 3, 2023

“Faith” by Alan ShapiroPosted by

Alan Shapiro

FAITH

In no beyond or elsewhere all too bright
or dark to see by; not in the chilly joy
of preemptive mourning, the voodoo exchange of veil
for ghostly face, but in the veil itself,
the dazzle of quick shade becoming redtipped
flare of wing igniting as the hawk
banks in the last light before it drops from sight
to rise again with something in its talons;
and also in the talons, in the stunned thing
still twitching, though it can’t escape, because
“The beauty of nature is the silence of God,”
and silently just now across the valley,
down the mountain pasture, the shadow of wind
is grass that turns grass into shadowy water,
setting the green adrift with greener rippling.

—from Rattle #23, Summer 2005

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Alan Shapiro: “To me, the only thing that has kept me going through the years, as a writer, is that deep, private, self-forgetful joy that I feel when I’m working. When you sit down at the table and it’s eight o’clock in the morning and then you look up and it’s, God, it’s three o’clock in the afternoon. All that time has gone by as if in a single moment. And in that prolonged moment, you were completely given over to the task at hand, you were joyful, even if you were writing about how joyless your life has been. Because you had totally forgotten everything but the poem you were trying to make.”

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January 2, 2023

“Oscar’s Invention” by Anders Carlson-WeePosted by

Anders Carlson-Wee

OSCAR’S INVENTION

Fuck no she didn’t leave me over money. 
She left me cause I have no ass. It’s true—
a belt holds on my hips about as good 
as an oiled-up pole dancer. That’s why 
I invented these strapless suspenders. 
Can’t see em, can you? Good, that’s the idea. 
Almost went bankrupt makin the prototype. 
My wife kept sayin What suspenders?— 
you aint wearin nothin. But riddle me this: 
Are my jeans pooled at my feet? I swear, 
bonafide genius dumbfounds belief 
with simplicity. Same goes for the truth. 
Like if I told you my wife left me cause 
I got less milkshake than a garter snake, 
you’d say there’s gotta be more to that story. 
Like what? I go to work one day and come 
back home to no trace of her. No photos. 
No toothbrush. Not even the carrots 
she raised in the garden beds, just holes 
in the earth like buckshot where she plucked em 
free. And of course, she got custody. 
And the house eventually, which, I’ll admit, 
I mortgaged to pay for the patent. 
You think that was the dagger? Here I am 
workin to cure auto-pantsin for the assless 
and she’s fussin over a little loan? Yes or no: 
could I win her back if I doubled down 
and got those silicone implants? Fine, 
shake your head, but I don’t think you respect 
how bad it is when God forgets to blow up 
your balloons. Hell, I’d show you, but these 
suspenders are a bitch to get back into.
 

—from Rattle #78, Winter 2022

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Anders Carlson-Wee: “As the son of two Lutheran pastors, I grew up on sermons. I tried hard to not listen, especially during my teen years, but I couldn’t resist a good story: my parents both preach in a personal narrative mode, telling stories of daily human experience as a means to evoke the sacred. This preaching style has had a large impact on my writing style. As for why I write—if I understood that, I don’t think I’d have the drive to spend the energies of my life pursuing it.” (web)

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January 1, 2023

“Christmas Vigil at Sacramento International Airport” by Alison DavisPosted by

Alison Davis

CHRISTMAS VIGIL AT SACRAMENTO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

At a wobbly metal table, I sit sketching
chalk dudleyas and milkweed. A woman
 
behind me explains loudly into her phone
that every seat on every flight on every other
 
airline is booked. All the rentals cars in the county
are taken. The hotels that shuttle to and from
 
the airport are all full. More people keep flowing
in through the double doors, eager-eyed
 
and flanked with festive baggage. An agent
with a megaphone continuously announces that
 
all flights are canceled and no new reservations
are being made. The woman behind me cries.
 
I consider for a moment asking her to come home
with me, imagine for a moment spending a night
 
with someone I might love, comfort, even touch
in some small way. She shuffles off before I can offer
 
good tidings. I start shading the delicate blossoms
of a globe gilia. A mother lays her coat on the ground
 
and changes her newborn baby’s diaper then tucks
the barely earth-kissed body into a stroller to sleep.
 
They have nowhere to go. My ride arrives.
The fog is too thick to see the stars.
 

—from Poets Respond
January 1, 2023

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Alison Davis: “I spent two days at the Sacramento airport, trying to get a Southwest flight to Kansas City. We were all sent home on the first day and told to use the website or call customer service to rebook. The service line and the website were both down, so I went back to the airport to try and get us new flights. When I arrived, all the departure signs still showed that flights were leaving. By the time I left, each one had been canceled. While I waited to get picked up, I drew in my sketchbook, eavesdropped, daydreamed, and felt the weight of displaced people everywhere.” (web)

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December 31, 2022

“How to End a Year” by Samuel A. BetikuPosted by

Samuel A. Betiku

HOW TO END A YEAR

Your silhouette arched on the railing
of the balcony takes stock of space and time,
the world so far-flung and your eyes so far-
reaching you mistake yourself for God,
though your hands are full of holes, fault
 
lines riddling the tract of a life you would
gladly exchange for another. But now is not
the time for penance but for the savor of grace
in the air. The city alive at your feet, pulsing
 
blend of sound and light, a wild stallion
broken for you. How in the house the boombox
breathes in tandem with the tangos of those
you love, who beam like characters at the end
 
of a fairy tale. Isn’t this lilting world shaped
as an open door? You can walk through it
and never come back. Overhead, the dusky sky
 
bursts into a fit of colors, fire flowers blooming
from an orchard of mirth, and a time flows
into another like a dazzling river beckoning you
 
to drink.
 

—from Poets Respond
December 31, 2022

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Samuel A. Betiku: “During a class, a lecturer I greatly admire said: ‘It’s a dangerous thing to live in the past; don’t allow yourself to be left behind.’ This poem was the aftermath of the impression those words had on me.”

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