December 13, 2017

Karen J. Weyant


The wind is always warm here. Breezes snap
through their T-shirts, hot metal and sun burn

their arms and bare legs. They stand
near the cabs, kneel by the rattling tailgates.

It’s here where they learn how to catch maple seeds
in their teeth, and how to spit them out.

Here, they learn how to dig pebbles
and bits of gravel from beneath their skin.

Some say that their bodies turn hollow,
that one can hear wind whistling through their collar bones

and shoulder blades. Some say they almost sprout wings.
But they never fly. They only learn how to balance.

Even now, you will know them, these girls
who survived quick trips to grocery stores,

wrong turns on narrow one-way streets,
even moving days, when they sat propped up,

steadying chipped coffee tables and couches.
Their ponytails are tangled with knots

that never unraveled from the way the wind
always combed through their long hair.

from Rattle #57, Summer 2017
Tribute to Rust Belt Poets


Karen J. Weyant: “Born and raised in the Rust Belt, I know that rust runs through my veins. Rust coats my work, my studies, and my car. Even now, as an English professor in a small Rust Belt community college, I tell my students not to be ashamed of rust. It can make the world look at things in a different way.” (website)

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December 12, 2017

Amy Miller


In the pink video the rabbit
keeps moving and the man
could be a hunter or a drunk until
you see what he’s doing—he’s saving
you, world, the singed pelt of your panic
that’s running toward the fire.
You have this crazy impulse to go
home, regardless of how it burned,
is burning even now. The safe
little room remains in your mind,
the quiet, the bed. So you turn back
to the flaming ground, trees
screaming, blood sky, back
to what’s gone and what
you remember. But the man
won’t stop calling, as obsessed
as you, so now you run
toward him and his hand
finds some loose part of you
to pull and then suddenly
he’s warm and telling you
I have you. You don’t know
where he’s carrying you—
the camera stops too soon—
and it was only random math,
spark, ignition, two arcs,
trajectories that brought you
both here, but now
he’s walking you right out
of hell, both of you
so alive and surprised.

from Poets Respond
December 12, 2017

[download audio]


Amy Miller: “Out of the horrible news of this week’s fires in Southern California came this wonderful, strangely moving video footage of an unidentified man saving a panicked rabbit from a raging fire along a roadside in La Conchita, CA. It’s hard to watch it and not think of metaphors of a world in flames and one person compelled to bravery to save just one soul, the one that’s in peril right in front of him. It brought to my mind the old adage of ‘Whoever saves a life saves the world entire,’ attributed variously to the Talmud, the Quran, and Oskar Schindler.” (website)

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December 11, 2017

Laszlo Slomovits


He sat at a table in the bookstore signing autographs.
We stood all around, awkward, clinging, fawning,
and he was kind, quite patient, understanding,
and separate as a sun that keeps its planets in orbit,

until she walked in. Tall, gorgeous, not looking for
our attention nor shielding from it. He stood up, said,
“Excuse me,” and walked to meet her. When they
embraced it was clear they’d once been lovers.
Long ago. Neither of them hid or flaunted it.
They stood pressed together for a long time.

Stepping back, they held each other at arm’s length,
without hunger, regret, or words. Then they both
let go, turned and walked back, she to the door
and he to the table. And we continued standing near,
even more awkward, smiling, warmed throughout,
while he continued signing his name in our books.

from Rattle #57, Summer 2017
Tribute to Rust Belt Poets

[download audio]


Laszlo Slomovits: “Born in Budapest, Hungary, I left after the 1956 Revolution with my twin brother and Holocaust-surviving parents, lived in Israel for three years, then moved to Kingston, New York, at age eleven. I went to college at the University of Rochester in upstate New York, where as a senior, I met my wife. She was accepted to grad school at the University of Michigan, so we moved to Ann Arbor thinking we’d be here a year or two—and never left. Perhaps because of all my traveling as a child, and learning three languages early on, inner regions of memory and imagination have often been more important to me than outer locales and their dialects. I’ve thought often about the effect of living here on my writing; so many writers talk about the value and even necessity of a sense of place. But all I’ve arrived at after 44 years, is that something of the grounded, pragmatic nature of this region and its people has combined with my underlying sense of rootless everywhere-ness. Voices and subjects that attempt to weave the secretly symbolic with the down to earth are what I’m always looking for. Throughout these years, working as a folk musician with my twin brother, I have traveled throughout Michigan, nearby Rust Belt states, and many other regions of the U.S. and Canada. At some point I recognized Ann Arbor as a place I could call home, for which I feel very grateful.” (website)

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December 10, 2017

Mia Kang


Because the edges don’t obtain
in the would-be winter

something in me
goes the way of the world

Climbing at a normal pace
toward a figure on the stairs

something in me
gets everywhere

from Poets Respond
December 10, 2017

[download audio]


Mia Kang: “From wherever we stand, it’s hard to know what to say, or do, or how to stand, and especially how to love, or how to withstand love, under threat.” (website)

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December 9, 2017

Joel Chace


impossible to have sat
through class after class
to have scrawled a reams
worth of lined paper with
homework that would look
like Arabic now to have
taken an actual goddamn
final exam jesus and not
just pass it but end
up with a flying mothercolor
grade 35 years ago 35
years all burned
away like valley fog
to remember nothing except
that Mrs. Barnhart the teacher
already near the end
of her long road over
the math mountains and had
cranked around far too
many switchbacks would
say at miraculously random
moments the words “value” or
“and yet” it’s absolutely
true and it was like a
whacky gift she kept on
giving for instance
she’d say turning away
from the rune-crammed
blackboard chalk dust misting
off her fingertips and cheeks she’d
say “that’s the
way we lick that
problem … value” or
“just remember this
formula you’ll
be all right … and
yet” 23 “values”
and 21 “and yets” the
record for one forty-minute
period Mary Pat Doyle with
the jet black hair kept
track her face still floats
up in dreams still
that young and stunning and so
does Mrs. Barnhart’s still hard
and thick like granite like
marble which she’s definitely
mouldering under by now what would
it be like to find both
of them again Mrs. Barnhart and say
“there was something of
value after all” and Mary
Pat Doyle and say “look
we can’t undo a thing we
followed certain signs
and countersigns and we are
where we are and yet
if we’d ended
up together that might
have been a perfect solution

from Rattle #11, Summer 1999
Tribute to Editors


Joel Chace: “My maternal grandparents were farmers and staunch Upstate New York Republicans. Across town, however, lived my paternal grandparents, who I would visit regularly. This grandfather was a brakeman on the Delaware & Hudson Railroad, and he voted for Eugene V. Debs every time Debs ran for president. My grandmother was a painter. My mother worked for a time on Wall Street. My father was a jazz trombonist and vocalist, who was on the road for a dozen years until his marriage in 1942. I write in order to come closer to understanding my own origin and being, out of the vortex of these lives.”

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December 8, 2017

Ed Ruzicka


That winter I lived with a woman on a hill hit hard
by winds off Lake Michigan as it sat and thrashed
and spat. Jammed mammoth slabs of ice one atop another.
Formed a frozen shelf wide and jagged as wave-works
themselves and run over by razors, sirens, blasts of wind
that tore into flesh and against which our heater
rattled out its weak defense. We huddled together
under quilts to read and make love in the ambergris
glow of shallow lamp light. She rose to steam the kitchen
with soups and teas we took in half lotus on the bed.

I worked in a factory made of cinder blocks and racket.
Men, women stood eight hours at machines tall as elevators,
gun-metal grey and dripping oil. Machinists cut, drilled,
punched, formed, joined steel, aluminum, tin. Each
to the same task weeks on end at machines precision
set by foremen that skulked about, growling or
quietly absorbed. A dim cast relieved only by what
eked out of florescent tubes or wafted down from
high-set panes no one had ever been paid to clean.

I was hired to move parts station to station.
A “trucker” who shared my weekly check with
barkeeps while the Blackhawks or the Packers
blared above. She bought the vegetables, cubed beef,
seven-grain loaves of bread that kept us going.

There was a tiny gas heater beside the tub that
had to be lit to flame for twenty minutes. She
always bathed by candle light and had an oval
daguerreotype hung in there showing a bare shouldered
belle who tucked her chin demurely.
Next to that her gray cat would perch to stick its paw
out and catch drips of silver from the leaky spout.
Which was then and is now more beauty
than I could hold or ever hope to deserve.
When I left, streets were still walled with snow
that city plows had mashed to the curb. I hitched
out I-94 toward El Paso. She kept my books and
a few LPs because I was going to come back.
It wasn’t much, that palimony of freezing sheets.

from Rattle #57, Summer 2017
Tribute to Rust Belt Poets

[download audio]


Ed Ruzicka: “When, where I grew up, factories and foundries stood as the inveterate core of American industry, behemoth maws consuming hours, lives. Men, women did work by the back, muscle, hand. No one relied on anybody but themselves. I learned that by dad’s absence, by how mom darned socks. At twenty I went to work to find America, write America. I left. Leaving was part of it. I go back. Especially in the poems I go back. I hope like hell I’ve got sweat in these poems. And loss. Lust and bewilderment. An honest day, an honest word.” (website)

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December 7, 2017

Taylor Mali


Tonight I found out that I am divorced.
My second try at marriage, and it’s through.
Relief is what I feel most, mixed with pain, of course,
remorse, and just plain grief, which makes me think of you,
you who knew such sorrow in your life
and all the ways that love can come undone,
who was the first to call yourself my wife
and battled demons daily until they won.
And though I miss you hard tonight, old friend,
that’s not the only reason that I cry.
Rather, I know a marriage now can end
and there’s no need for anyone to die.
Lover, at last, please leave me, after all these years.
You have cried enough. Leave me to these tears.

from The Whetting Stone
2017 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

[download audio]


Taylor Mali: “In both of the books of poetry I published after Rebecca’s death I tried to include a few poems about her. But they were always so unlike the rest of the manuscript that they couldn’t stay in. I’ve known for a decade that all my poems about Rebecca would need to be published in a collection by themselves. The Whetting Stone is that collection.” (website)

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