June 15th, 2009
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Review by Kristin Berkey-Abbott
A RANDOM CENSUS OF SOULS
by Samuel Western
Daniel & Daniel Publishers
P.O. Box 2790
McKinleyville, CA 95519
ISBN 978-156474-478-4
2009, 80 pp., $14.00
www.danielpublishing.com
When I first saw the title of Samuel Western’s book of poems, I couldn’t resist. A Random Census of Souls: I expected poems that had interesting images and references back to medieval times, perhaps. Or maybe modern ideas of random sampling fused with theological ideas about the soul. I wasn’t expecting to completely rethink the way I approached prose poems.
Right on the cover, the book declares itself as a collection of prose poems. I’m used to thinking of prose poems as short, paragraph-sized chunks of texts, but Western has divided his prose poems into stanzas. It’s a technique that works, but to be honest, some of these prose poems also seem to have deliberative line breaks. Are these poems all prose poems, as the declaration on the cover would suggest?
June 14th, 2009
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AFTER SIX
Cheek pressed against the cordless phone, I picture
my mother in her Savannah kitchen, leaning
both elbows on the glass breakfast table as she asks
if I can send her 50 newly minted 2007 pennies.
It’s 8:30 p.m. and she wants to give them out to mark
her one-year anniversary of being sober. I can hear
the emery board filing her nails in the background.For 20 years, I knew not to call after six. Questions asked,
stories shared before the slur of words, Merlot numbing
her senses. Now, she asks how my break-up is going.
I tell her I walked the Golden Gate Bridge. On the other
side, I threw out love letters, photographs, lingerie,
baseball caps and ticket stubs. A cool gust of air
blows the Chronicle off the table. I adjust the phone
and push down each cuticle until I can see the half moons.
My mother is silent and I know she is crying.I hear her shift as she tells me how she said goodbye
to my father when they divorced. Alone at Gooseberry Beach,
she made nine sand castles at low tide. Each one represented
a house they’d renovated together, from frames to foundations—
homes they’d dreamed of happily living in one day.
She sat for hours until high tide washed them all away.
Do you think you can find those pennies? she asks again.
I live behind the Mint, I tell her. We laugh.My mother’s mother taught her always to pick up a penny.
Bring luck inside. I agree with Grandma Shea. I will visit
every bank in the city to find those newly minted pennies.
I have waited a lifetime to talk with my mother after six,
like this, listening to each other through miles of cable
buried under the soil late into the evening.
–from Rattle #30, Winter 2008
Rattle Poetry Prize Honorable Mention
June 13th, 2009
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OVER THE HILL WHERE ROCK AND ROLL DIES
So again this strawberry roan
broke in two and scattered halves
and cowboy to the wind
that breath which like the colt
blows baby-sweet one day
and harsh as bitter age the nextMidnight at last weekend’s party
a drunk Floridian rode him
out of the corral and among cars
and music and lights
other drunks’ loud talk
down the road
without a blink of the colt’s eye
or a sidestep or a startle
or the turn of a red hairBut pushing cattle this early morning
two miles or more from home
heat already something
saddled to our backs
not once but twice he sent poor Johnny
good a young cowboy as I know
high into a windmilling sky
until gravity pulled him back
to earth face-firstNow cattle on fresh grass
the rest of the crew back at the corrals
I’m crawling this old Chevy
across a grazed-down pasture
in the rearview Johnny
on the tailgate leading the colt
stirrup leathers of the empty saddle hanging
a mournful procession
walking a ghost of hope for a good horse homeOnly later we find the rawhide bosal to blame
the hole it rubbed in the colt’s jaw
that set him offNothing mean about him
but the hurt that made him so
I suppose we’re all more
or less sweet in our natures
but terrors in our pain and fear*
The sun just down I drive the Chevy
on fumes the few miles to town
to fill the tank and with a thought of a beer
or two from an understanding bartender
on a night when the heat won’t drop offI pass on a radio recap of war-news
favor rock and roll from the speaker
until I cross over the ridge north of town
where solid earth blocks a clear signal
I drop down toward Main in neutral
gravity pulling me to the pumps
where I swipe a card and code a computerFrom where I stand
beneath the bugs and fluorescent lights
I can see all the way down this short street
past my NASCAR-loving neighbors’ big rigs
to a Western sky of colors they can’t name
The Chevy’s tank is huge
The pump pumps and pumps
gas as if on dry sandFor them it’s been a weekend of tractor-pulls
If modern pickups weren’t fuel-injected
and if I could find a rock in this dusty country
I’d smash every Republican carburetor on Main
march into the bar and tell them all to get a horse
But the party’s near enough its end
at that place where drunks get dangerous
at this point when people dieHell let’s burn it all
before we wake to a guaranteed headache
to roll the long way home the best we can
next foot dragging ahead of the last
dust devils laughing at our backs
–from Rattle #30, Winter 2008
Tribute to Cowboy and Western Poetry
June 12th, 2009
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Chris Anderson
REALITY HOMES
The falling of a leaf onto a pond is one movement
in a process composed of many movements.
It floats for a while, crisply. Then softens and sinks.
It’s funny what comes to mind. All day you think
about a woman you haven’t seen in many years.
Her soft, brown hair. The way the corners of her eyes
pulled down. It’s not that you are filled with longing
or regret. But you are filled with something.
In a dream you climb a hill on the other side of town.
It is an arduous climb. At the end you are afraid
of falling. But then you look down and realize
all the houses are exactly like the house you live in.
In the distance, the same kind of highway.
Everything is the same. It’s just on the other side.
–from Rattle #30, Winter 2008
June 11th, 2009
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Phyllis Aboaf
THE NEIGHBOR’S TALE
We live in the same building,
A six-story apartment house in Queens.
She’s just three doors down, has been there
For the last twenty years. I’m more recent.
Two years ago I moved in with my husband,
Now, my Ex.
Things change.
She’s thirty years my senior. Twice divorced.
From time to time she talks about her life
With weary, wry bemusement. I’ve not noticed
Any bitterness, just quiet resignation in her voice.She calls me “Hon,” I join her in the basement
Where we do our wash together every Sunday.
We pool our quarters, share detergents, fabric softener,
And compare notes: About the doorman, we decide he’s sleazy.
About the radiators, too much heat on her side of the hall
(Hot flashes make it worse), not enough on mine.
But that’s ok.
I like the aching chill.
It keeps me edgy and unsettled.
Also, I am forced to put on layers which protect me
And help me to feel larger than I am.
I tell her that on my side of the building,
Construction’s taking place across the street.
And that the dust and soot which seep
Through the cracks of my apartment window,
I find curiously reassuring—coating everything
With a soft, grey fuzz.
I’m pleased to see how fast it accumulates.
It’s something I can have—it seems uniquely mine.
I can keep it if I want to. It’s my choice.I meet her in the elevator. She’s all dressed up—
Hair blow-dried, blue Hermes scarf tied just so,
Coach bag, expensive leather belt, earrings, diamond watch,
Manicured and pedicured. “How’s my make-up?” she asks.
“You look great,” I say, sincere and also envious
Of her courage. Her back is straight, her high-heeled sandals click
Along the dark, marbled entrance to the lobby.
The stylish cut of her Armani suit conceals her thickened waist.
Beneath the low-cut jacket, powdered flesh reveals
Considerable cleavage.But it’s the perfume that’s a dead giveaway.
(I catch a fragrant whiff as she walks by.)
Expensive. Sultry.
Of course! It’s Friday night. She has a date!
No, just heading to a fancy singles bar, whereas I
Will spend the evening sleeping on my futon
With my cat.
One day she catches me off guard. My eyes are puffy,
Hair a mess. I know I look like shit—baggy sweatpants, dirty tee—
I see a new expression in her eyes—pained, perhaps maternal,
Full of pity. Or is it empathy? But then it passes.
No girlish hugs allowed.
She knows better than to make a move—For ours is a strange alliance—fragile, delicate—
Equal parts intimacy and reticence; we have
An unspoken agreement to talk about everything,
Hold nothing back—except the truth about our lives
And how our hearts are shrinking, drying up like prunes.She says, “I can’t give up, I know
I’m really ‘over the hill,’ but I keep trying.
You shouldn’t give up either, you’re too young.”
But I have.Later on, I muse on that expression, ‘over the hill,’
And consider how my own internal, personal geography
Is somewhat different.
No hills to speak of
And no valleys either.
Just a dull, flat, horizon-less expanse
With nothing to see in any direction.At night the city’s summer sounds soon take over
Sirens, rap music from passing cars, people’s voices…
We say goodnight, she calls out, “You take care now.”Each of us walks into
A dark apartment
That the other’s never seen
And never will.We prefer it that way, my neighbor and I—
We do not wish to know each other better.
There’s comfort in not naming what we are.
–from Rattle #30, Winter 2008
Rattle Poetry Prize Honorable Mention
