September 30th, 2008
Marvin Glasser
ON THE PAST
It wasn’t a bad day as days go.
I awoke in the morning.
I was still around at the end.
Another gauntlet run.The problem was all the other days
that washed up against it
bringing the wrack of memory,
neutered hope, mute regret.They certainly cast a pall.
What the day might have brought
on its own, who can tell?
One of those long reaches into lightthat perk you up with a bliss or two?
A dive into the pith
where terrors assume their forms?
An idling in pointless being?But I take what I can get and piece
together a life. Being human
means dragging the heavy weight
of what you almost were behind you.
–from Rattle #22, Winter 2004
September 29th, 2008
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EVEN THE NAILS IN THE SHEET ROCK MISSED HER
When she entered a room, the room paid attention.
When she entered his house,
the leather couches plumped up and shone,
the hardwood floors were giddy with tapping
against the soles of her small black shoes,
the books on the shelves jostled each other
for a better view of the waves of her hair.
When she didn’t come, the walls held their breath,
straining to hear her voice, her laugh.When she still didn’t come, that crying noise wasn’t him.
The white gauze curtains hung keening,
as they remembered the stroke of her fingers.
And at night, when he turned and turned,
it was only because the bed prodded him continually,
as the pillows pleaded in his ear, “Bring her back.”
And when he sat up, his hand on his chest,
how could he breathe,
when all the air had gone out into the street
calling her name?
–from Rattle #22, Winter 2004
September 28th, 2008
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Review by Linda Benninghoff
LICKING THE SPOON
by Joanie DiMartino
Finishing Line Press
PO Box 1626
Georgetown, KY 40324
ISBN 978-1-59924-160-9
2007, 30 pp., $12.00
www.finishinglinepress.com
The poems in Licking the Spoon are about women—women having children, women involved with men, and women–in some cases, generations of women–cooking. The motif of cooking runs through most of the book and is introduced with the quote: “’Not yet Americanized. Still eating Italian food,”’ preparing the reader for the vivid descriptions of food, and in some cases ethnic food, that will follow.
In the opening poem, the poet prepares onion soup and cornbread in a 1778 hearth: “The heavy iron/ peel scrapes across the brick hearth/ to its own rhythm/ a beat laden with forgotten melodies of stern/ women’s voices, ill children, and dread/ of the coming winter.” The act of cooking ties the poet to past generations of women. Whenever possible, the poet uses metaphors of food to describe people and objects. Yet there is also a focus on relations between the sexes, as in “Domestic,” where the poet, after having been attacked by her husband, wonders about “Restraining order[s]. Court order[s]. Custody order[s.”
September 27th, 2008
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Mark Gibbons
DEATH, AGAIN
for Howard “Bud” Meyers (1932-2003)
And why not?
Isn’t it what we know best
and least, that fear,
the bottom of it all,
where each year we seem to burn
more bones than we bury?Why does it really matter to us
how others dispose of our remains, the stiff
lifeless clay God “all mighty” won’t claim?
I guess it’s just our need
to grasp for the last of ourselves,
finish the job, hold onto our image
of being in control—reaching beyond
the grave to close the door.We wind up being stuffed inside
of those who knew us, those left behind:
shelved and cataloged, new local myths
drug out to entertain the crowd—and remind
that our stories sustain us like fire,
like water and air. When the body dies
we talk about spirit and wonder
what happens after the lights go out.All we know exists under the sky
walking the Earth. Here
things die, blossom, grow, attach,
reproduce (as often as they can!) and die
again and again. How many times,
how many cycles, how many stories
have we breathed?I know your spirit is real.
It lives inside of me,
and that’s enough, for now.
Death is filling me up, and I’ll be damned
if I don’t like it. Generous to a fault,
he feeds us continually,
and I want to be loaded . . .
when the sneaky bastard comes for me.
–from Rattle #22, Winter 2004
September 26th, 2008
Francesca Bell
NARROW OPENINGS
A constant dripping on a day of steady rain
and a contentious woman are alike.
—Proverbs 27:15It’s hot. The clouds’ soft faces
are closed, a billowing refusal,
and I want to quarrel
with my lover who just sits
risen dull from a bed we left
damp as horses that have run
for a long time. Hair hangs,
humid and tangled, on my neck,
but he won’t unlatch
the window. Doesn’t like
the noise, he says. I don’t
like him very much. I want
to argue until anger splits me
like flowers that burst across
my short dress. I choose
lipstick to startle him,
Ultra Violent, an assault
of color. He just watches,
his hair still holding
the shape of my hands. Raising
my legs, I let the mirror catch
me, throw him bare skin tingling
sweat. Going for a walk,
I say, slipping into the narrow openings
of sandals, smiling as anger rises
in his dim face. Down each block
I think of him pacing
the closed rooms, stupid and lovely.
Face glowing, I am an August peach.
And my feet slapping
the sidewalk are a dance
as good, as constant, as rain.
–from Rattle #22, Winter 2004
