May 25, 2023

All of Us by Lou Storey, a complex pastoral landscape of simplified images of towns and fields with a quilt-like quality

Image: “All of Us” by Lou Storey. “The World Beneath” was written by Devon Balwit for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, April 2023, and selected as the Editor’s Choice. (PDF / JPG)

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Devon Balwit

THE WORLD BENEATH

Peel the disappointed world
back to its precursor—a child’s
 
town of bright primaries, streets
where the sun finds no impediment
 
and the wind none richer,
none poorer. No one suffers
 
or dies there—not even one
invisible dog sniffing the blue
 
salt air. The boats in the harbor,
the phone poles, the hills
 
and the houses all speak
a language before language,
 
that tuneful hum above
the shapes in a board-book.
 
There even shadows hesitate
to fall, mother nowhere
 
in sight, the afternoon lazy
and long.
 

from Ekphrastic Challenge
April 2023, Editor’s Choice

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Comment from the editor, Megan O’Reilly: “As the title indicates, the poet imagines Lou Storey’s colorful and complex piece as depicting a ‘precursor’ to our current world (‘the disappointed world’), a more pure and essential civilization, and after viewing it through that lens, I can’t see it any other way. I found the language here to be irresistibly interesting, effortless lines that so aptly describe a place that doesn’t quite exist but is simultaneously more real than reality. I was particularly struck by ‘the houses all speak / a language before language, / that tuneful hum above / the shapes in a board-book,’ which I interpret as an incredible expression of the primitive way we experience the world as pre-verbal children, and a passage that will stick in my mind for a long time.”

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June 28, 2023

Luisa Caycedo-Kimura

QUERIDAS TÍAS,

Snow falls like fists. Mamá sends Cesar, Tita, and me out to play, build snowmen, like the kids on TV, but Cesar puts it down my coat, makes me scream. The neighborhood boys pack it into ice balls. Yesterday Chickie threw one, hit my back, left me without air. My friend Luz says it’s because he likes me. I don’t want that. Ms. Barratta says the word “Arctic” comes from the Greek word for bear. “Antarctic” means the opposite of bear. I don’t know what that is. Maybe penguins or toucans. En Los Estados Unidos kids have teddy bears. Ms. Barratta says they were named after some president who decided not to shoot one. But he was a hunter. I don’t understand why we left Colombia. Nothing makes sense here. The apartment is crowded and loud with nine of us. Cesar, Tita, and I walk four blocks with a huge heavy bag to do everyone’s laundry. There are no guava trees to climb, no backyard, no swinging around the world from the highest branch.
 

from Rattle #80, Summer 2023

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Luisa Caycedo-Kimura: “My mother taught me to love Spanish-language poetry, reciting it to me from the time I was in utero. However, in the United States, I didn’t think it was possible for a Colombian-born woman to become an English-language writer. So, I pursued a ‘respectable’ career and studied law. It wasn’t until I read the prelude to Sandra Cisneros’s My Wicked Wicked Ways that I finally ‘took up with poetry,’ giving in to my ‘absurd vice’ to live ‘this wicked wanton writer’s life.’” (web)

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August 21, 2022

Jen Gayda Gupta

I WAS LOOKING FOR A JOB AND ALL I GOT WAS A NEW HAIRCUT

after Torrin A. Greathouse after Danez Smith

Hair keeps you warm in the winter and gives you something to do with your fingers
when you are bored. When I was young my mother’s hair fell
below her butt and when she cut it off,
I hid in the bathroom and refused to speak with her,
which was the same reaction I had
when my father removed his beard
and when my friend suggested it was time
for me to shave my legs.
 
I was looking for a job because I left mine–
in real life at least. The dream me hasn’t noticed.
She just keeps showing up to school without a lesson plan
or clothes. Real me only gets out of bed
when the real dog’s cries are louder than the dream children’s screams.
Real me wears sweatpants till noon. Real me hasn’t packed a lunch in a year
and has gotten real good at convincing herself
that this is not her fault
 
but I got the haircut because my mother says
I look older with shorter hair, older meaning more experienced
more experienced meaning more qualified
and I kept getting carded at Trader Joe’s so there went a solid
twelve or thirteen inches that keep making their way back.
Maybe that is the reason
I’ve always had long hair, because it doesn’t stay short
and haircuts are expensive and I don’t
have a job. Maybe that’s the reason
I have stopped shaving my legs because I need a new razor
but I don’t want to buy one.
 
It’s not that the last one paid well
but they were really good at convincing us that the pay wasn’t the point,
that it was for the children and I did believe that
for a very long time until my friend started making three times as much for half
the work and it gave me an itch of an idea that maybe the point of a job
is to get paid after all.
 
I don’t think I was the only one who figured this out
because I keep hearing about a national teacher shortage
meanwhile my own hair shortage has still not produced a new job.
I haven’t figured out what I am trying to tell you or what I’m trying to do
with my life because teacher school teaches you that 50 percent of teachers
leave teaching in the first five years but they don’t teach you
what to do when you are done teaching.
They don’t teach you what to do
when you’ve spent enough weekends grading enough papers
to drive you to the cardboard, to pack up a whole apartment, get a few too many
tattoos, chop off your hair and start living
in a box attached to a car. What then?
What now?
 
It’s become a chicken and an egg situation,
the hair and the job
I mean I can’t cut my hair because I don’t have a job
and I don’t have a job because I can’t cut my hair
and yes I know that isn’t true
and yes I did stop shaving my legs because it makes me feel more like a werewolf
by which I mean more like myself,
and yes I do have a small job by which I mean part time
and yes it is teaching but this time rich kids because it pays better
but makes me hate myself so I didn’t want to tell you about it
but there. There’s the truth.
Does anyone know anyone
who is hiring?
 

from Poets Respond
August 21, 2022

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Jen Gayda Gupta: “I miss my job. I worry for the students and the schools. But I won’t be going back this year.” (web)

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October 25, 2022

Richelle Buccilli

SPARROW

I was nine, maybe ten, when I fired my first rifle.
My father took my sister and me to the shooting
ranges, long buildings containing echoes, 
practice outlined in pierced sound like coins 
clapping inside a tin can—only the silver 
is the grass here, ashy tips from dry hands
and fresh smoke, wood pillars pressed in the dirt. Here, 
where every sense was multiplied: sight, sound, 
smell, touch—even the taste of our empty mouths. 
The only thing missing from this was my father’s 
good dog, his German shepherd named Bullet. 
Despite never knowing his childhood companion—
simply a memory I lived through—I loved 
and thought I knew this dog, thought that I missed 
his protection, his loyal teeth. Weekends spent 
at my father’s apartment were like this, sepia 
photographs spread on the glossy table once 
belonging to my great-grandmother—all of his 
furniture used, antique, whatever he could salvage 
after the divorce—but I held mountain images
in my small girl-hand, my father’s younger arms 
draped around Bullet, and here I was clutching
something that could kill me, too: its hollow
body underneath my curled fingers, parallel 
to my feet planted in stone, and I aimed 
toward the target that’s never been alive, 
an imagined desire behind my doe eyes, what 
could I have pretended it to be? I was nine, 
maybe ten, what man could have hurt me already? 
But I learned to pull the trigger, shake sparrows 
from their trees. My father making a woman out of me, 
or the son he didn’t have, I learned to be the daughter
with a weapon meant to make me feel strong. 
Call it instinct, protection, his own needs—
but there’s something about a father teaching 
his daughters to use a gun. I don’t remember how, 
or when we walked out, what was said. I suppose 
I left with some new knowledge, or no idea of 
what I just did. Mostly I think I remember the grey sky, 
the broken fence. Each shivering leaf. I remember 
the groundhog eating clover again, not afraid of the cars. 
Memory wants to keep me like this. On the verge 
of understanding things. When I was ember. 
The daughter just small enough to be saved. 
 

from Rattle #77, Fall 2022

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Richelle Buccilli: “I was inspired to write ‘Sparrow’ as a way to help myself heal after a hurtful, I’ll say even cruel, experience. As with many of my poems, I’m not always sure where they are going when I begin, and with this one, I ended up digging deep into an early childhood memory. I think that’s part of the power of poetry: finding connections that are both startling and beautiful.” (web)

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November 28, 2019

Ekphrastic Challenge, October 2019: Editor’s Choice

 

portrait of figure drawn in a mess of colorful lines

Image: “Brainyo” by Dana St. Mary. “After the Extinction” was written by Susan Carroll Jewell for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, October 2019, and selected as the Editor’s Choice.

[download: PDF / JPG]

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Susan Carroll Jewell

AFTER THE EXTINCTION

And when you pass,
an unfamiliar drip and splash
globule in space, know

that we are your arrogant
twin, newly cosmic and drifting
through the galaxies, vibrating

strings of collective energy blown
into the heavens from Earth,
remnant strands of humanness

formed from the streams of birthday
leftovers and nests of ribbons
unboxed. A face on a backdrop

of starlight declares who we were,
closed lips and a pointless nose,
a hollow ear and open eyes startled

not at the speed of light but of extinction.
Our brain still circles with inescapable
science, our art left behind, the Gothic

glass and Pollack paint of a wasted
culture. And if you see these colored
cords wiggling like conceited wires

through the universe, know that they
hold badges of mistakes, a neck
that connects to nothing but a lanyard

with a label—Hello, My Name Is
like a poet grasping for a last line,
a saving grace.

from Ekphrastic Challenge
October 2019, Editor’s Choice

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Comment from the editor, Timothy Green: “As you might imagine, the entries this month ranged from dark to disturbing, as poets wrestled with what must be described as a portrait of cosmic madness. Susan Carroll Jewell took that task the farthest, imagining a feature in which we only exist as the echo of our emptiness. It’s a poem rich with images, each strong line more haunting than the last.”

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March 22, 2022

Susan Browne

YOU WONDER IF YOU CAN WRITE SOMETHING

that has hope in it.
Today, you read, there’s a big rush to buy
bomb shelters.
Normal people are buying them,
not just millionaires.
There is some hope in that:
thinking life will go on after.
If you go shopping today
it won’t be for a bomb shelter
but a beautiful anything
you can find: a soft pair of socks,
a necklace that catches the light
although nothing will get your mind off
of the mass grave in Ukraine,
the jaw-bones & eye sockets,
the pregnant women running
from the destroyed maternity hospital.
Your friend said she doesn’t read the news
because what can she do, what can any of us do
to stop the butchers
because we have to be butchers
to stop them, a hopeless logic.
You could put a pear in your pocket
& pretend you have a horse to slowly feed it to.
You could build a ramshackle hut
for the dandelions before the spring wind
blows through.

from Poets Respond
March 22, 2022

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Susan Browne: “I wrote this poem after reading the story in the New York Times about Europeans buying bomb shelters, iodine pills, and survival guides.” (web)

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January 24, 2024

Michael Mark

NICEST

Mindy didn’t like me like me, I knew. 
Even when she put her hand on my thigh, 
slid it close to my dick, squeezed it in 
front of Brian—I forget his last name 
but not his face, some beard straggling 
his chin, sideburns already, diseased 
leather jacket, garbage truck voice, 
his 6 inches on me, his shoving me, 
and all his—then everyone’s—names 
for me. She liked him that way. I knew 
they’d been to second and were heading 
to third, his dirty fingers sliding under 
her jeans, her panties, her writhing, moaning, 
digging her nails into not me—she rubbed,
slung her arm around my shoulders when 
he called me that, like my father did, 
and my mother, though she’d say it worried, 
her voice like cried-in tissues, Are you …? 
You’re not? Mindy leaned her head to mine, 
her hair on my cheek, pushed them into me—
her woman breasts—voted best in 8th grade, 
including the teachers, according to me 
and my friends. We voted on everything 
from the cheap seats—smartest, dumbest, 
worst, most hated, nicest—pushed them 
into my side, chest, by my chin. They 
were strong and soft and it made Brian 
pull back from us like he’d been punched 
in his face. I knew she gave him a look: leave 
him alone or you aren’t touching kissing 
sucking on these, which made him want to 
kill me more, made him scream animal 
in the yard. I saw him push her against 
the fence. I did nothing—biggest pussy-
coward in the world award—watched her 
shove him back, flip her finger and pull 
her shirt up then down fast and laugh 
and they hugged and kissed long, hard 
and soft like in the movies and I thought 
he’s such a stupid loser who’ll wind up dead 
in the gutter after high school. I knew 
she liked him liked him. She couldn’t help it. 
 

from Rattle #82, Winter 2023

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Michael Mark: “I get lost all the time. Poems are my compass. That’s not a metaphor, okay, but only half.” (web)

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