June 30th, 2010

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Review by Laryssa WirstiukSomething Must Happen by Ned Balbo

SOMETHING MUST HAPPEN
by Ned Balbo

Finishing Line Press
P.O. Box 1626
Georgetown, KY 40324
ISBN-10 1599244985
2009, 28 pp., $14.00
www.finishinglinepress.com

In a collection that champions nostalgia as a vivid reality, award-winning poet Ned Balbo ignites conversations with the past. Balbo writes, “…everything we hear /is only noise, faint shadows closing in /that fade in fast retreat, as shadows do, /the treasured past more visible, more true.”

Something Must Happen is notable for Balbo’s specificity of language, well-paced lines, grace, and patience for erecting tiny statues in honor of personal and collective memory. The poems in this collection interact with pop culture, reportage, artifact, childhood, friendship, and family.

The poem “Ouija for Beginners” seems to serve as a guide for a reader picking up this collection. How is the reader to interact with the past? Balbo writes: “The Ouija Board requires two believers /seeking favors /of the spirits.” Both the poet and the reader seek some truth, and they must trust that language will help them uncover it in unique ways.

Most of the poems in this collection interact with artifact and memorabilia: newspaper clippings, postcards, and very specific moments in history. “Snow in Baghdad”, which captures a brief snowfall in 2008, was a finalist for the 2008 William Faulkner/William Wisdom Poetry Award. The falling snow is so rare that the city dwellers call it “rain.” Balbo’s sparse yet vivid imagery captures so much more than the weather; it speaks to the political and social climate, surveys the cityscape, and represents a violent clash of cultures.

Characters from past lives inspire questions about morality. “For the Next-to-Last Survivor” is dedicated to Barbara West Dainton, who, at the time of her death, was believed to have been only one of two Titanic survivors still living. Balbo seems to be reminding us that, in the end, each one of us will be the last known survivor of something. The poems in Something Must Happen personalize the survival experience and capture the struggle to survive, even thrive, in both suburban and urban environments.

New York City is a lively and multifaceted character in the series “Times Square Post Cards”, which juxtaposes historical New York City scenes with Balbo’s observations about today’s Manhattan. He reinforces the strong presence and role of language throughout the city’s history. The second poem in the series, “New Times Building, 1900s” asks the reader to consider the energy surrounding the New York Times building when it first opened in a location now known more for its glittering advertisements and New Year’s Eve celebration than brilliant journalism. Almost all Balbo’s subjects are equally influenced by and influencing their environments.

Balbo prioritizes narrative, and his commitment to telling a good story is apparent in “The Woods,” the longest poem in this collection. In this second person poem, the speaker addresses a friend, someone with whom the speaker shared a vivid past. The intimate voice draws the reader into the poem; we consider our own lives, our own childhoods, and the fantasy of growing up in a suburban neighborhood.

Borrowing techniques from fiction and developing a host of characters, “The Woods” brushes against small-town familial conflicts and sex as a mysterious ritual. Balbo writes, “One day, I met your brother’s hippie girlfriend, /midriff bared, disheveled honey-hair /swaying across her shoulders, hips in jeans /as, giggling, she stepped from the used Corvette /who engine Johnny gunned at night for laughs. /We stood together, you and I, bewildered /by this creature: I admired her body, /you, her clothes, your father speaking curtly /on the driveway dirt, mother aghast /at this new adversary.”

My favorite poem in this collection is “A Nonsense Name,” a poem like the others only because it recalls family and home. The way Balbo plays with language and imagery in this poem is unique and extremely memorable. In it, the speaker finds a near-drowned crow with deep blue eyes and names it “Satire,” an homage to both the day (Saturday) and the bird’s sapphire-like eye color.

The bird’s appearance and startling presence in this jewel-like narrative takes flight at the end, jarring the reader. Balbo writes: “Eyes expressionless, /Satire, black feathers slicked down, shook off flecks /of water, glanced up toward the sky, toward us, /head tilted slightly – as if, shocked awake, /he now remembered where he’s meant to go…”. As readers, we can only hope for poetry to awaken us in this way. And remembering the past, as we do while reading Something Must Happen, is the best way to reconnect with the present.

____________

Laryssa Wirstiuk holds an MFA from the University of Maryland, College Park. She is a creative writer and digital marketer obsessed with social networking. In 2008, Laryssa founded Too Shy to Stop (tooshytostop.com), an online arts and culture magazine. She also blogs daily at commansentence.com. Currently, Laryssa is working on a collection of linked short stories called The Prescribed Burn. She can be contacted at: laryssa@laryssawirstiuk.com.

June 29th, 2010

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Caitlin Doyle

BACKWARD SONNET FOR A FORWARD THINKER

“If only I knew now what I’ll know soon,”
he likes to say. His office is immune
to order, his lab the opposite. His team
built a molecular machine that walks
on strands of DNA. His childhood dream
was to become a poet. He gives talks
on nanosystems every fall – the hall
is packed. “Old ends demand new means,” he starts
(his intro doesn’t change). “The past’s a wall
between the present and the future.” Charts
and tables, fluctuating year to year,
support his points. He’s photographed for Time.
He whispers to machines that can’t (yet) hear:
turn right, turn left, step back, walk sideways, climb.

from Rattle #32, Winter 2009
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June 28th, 2010

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Ed Galing

DANCING

         it was a marathon,
and we did it right off
Broadway in New York, back
when apples were sold on
street corners by haggard
looking men who never shaved
anymore, standing on street
corners, the lines were long
back then, waitin for a free
turkey from the salvation army
for thanksgiving,
         people were
flyin upside down from airplanes,
and there was a guy called Shipwreck
Kelley sittin on a flagpole, way
up, for weeks, rain or shine,
just to see how long he could
stay up there, hopin to make a
buck that way,
         my girl and I got into the
dance marathon…
         picture a rickety hall, with
fifty young people like us,
dancing day and night, holdin on to
each other till we dropped, hell,
this went on day and night, and
the winner would get a few hundred
bucks, while the sister promoters
made the most of it, and the
loud music comin from a jukebox,
day and night, around and around we
went, and pathe news showed us on
the screen, and walter winchell
wrote us up, and nobody really
gave a shit about any of this,
seeing how everybody was crazy in
them days anyway,
         on the fifth day of dancing
most of the contestants had dropped
out, the meat wagon took em away,
imagin women hangin on to their
boyfriends, around the neck, while
the boyfriend dragged his partner
around and around like a bunch of
damn zombies.
   there was a fifteen minute break
so we could do what we had to do,
goin around the room, foxtrot,
waltz, mostly, and we all had
these big damn numbers on our
backs,
         near the end, before my girl
and I dropped out, my feet were
swollen the size of an elephant’s,
and my partner looked like she
was gonna faint any minute,
         like she was gonna die right
then and there, hell, i was draggin
her around like a dust mop,
         at the end of this dance
marathon the cops finally came
around and closed the whole damn
thing up…the mayor said it was
inhuman for people to dance like
this, just to see who could last
longer,
         we got nuthin for our dancing
and it wasn’t very pretty,
   we broke up after that,
and I joined the navy, figurin
let the government take care of
me, and I would look good in a
sailor suit,
         and last I heard, my partner
was workin in a night club somewhere,
tryin to make out as a singer
         and the place where we danced
was sold at an auction and it’s bare
and quiet now there, and the world
keeps on goin around and around.
         and this is where I get off.

from Rattle #32, Winter 2009

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June 27th, 2010

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Carol Frith

BLACK TIGHTS, A HALTER TOP

She’s waiting near the corner of Monroe
and Pierce: spike heels, black tights, a halter top,
her image coding sunlight. Who will stop,
eclipse this smolder that is burning slow
as incense on the walk? Is she a pro?
Perhaps, although a slowly cruising cop
on Pierce ignores her. Her cigarette’s a prop.
She never takes a drag—a cameo
against the sun, her small face smiling at
whatever thing it is might fill her needs.
Two sparrows? The donut shop across the street?
At her back, an oak. The light is flat.
Pinned to the tree, a ragged sign that reads:
For sale. Persimmons, firm to the touch, and sweet.

from Rattle #32, Winter 2009
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June 26th, 2010

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Glenn J. Freeman

THE TRANSPARENCIES

In the Encyclopedia Britannica I used as a kid,
the body was built in layers of transparency,
a skeletal foundation you could overlap
with, one by one, the circulatory system,
the muscles, the organs, the flesh—
or, likewise, you could peel away from the whole
and leave only bone, two full spreads, of course,
one for each sex. Hours I spent
with the glossy images, lifting up or laying down
as if there in the shiny representations of bone & flesh
I might find where it starts.
A simple Google search for anatomy or human
body and a million images now appear, labels
and diagrams and 3-D graphics and moving parts—
and then there’s the plastinated bodies, corpses
frozen in their simple routines without flesh,
muscles and veins engaging with the everyday.
Sure, it’s easy to proclaim the miracle of the human
body, or even the faith or belief
that emerges from somewhere deep within it,
but something different altogether to imagine
the layers of history folded like those transparencies
into each self—but that’s too forceful
a metaphor I didn’t even intend, one I didn’t own
even as I set out to remember
what haunted me as a child, that fragment
of a memory now a keepsake, a phantom
somewhere beyond the peeling away, some empty
space beneath the final page, beneath the hollow
of bones where I’d gladly return for one touch
of that initial mystery, even if it meant pulling away
that sheet so that nothing remained, all gone down
like history into the dust and loam.

from Rattle #32, Winter 2009

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