April 24th, 2011

Link • Poems, Tributes Leave a Comment

Lisa Glatt

THE ATHEIST’S TUNNEL

A woman in a bright yellow coat wraps the cuff around my arm and asks me first about headaches, and then about cramps, and then about my mother, dead early from breast cancer, which makes me just a tad more interesting than the young women here whose mothers are still breathing. It’s my first visit since she died, and the woman wants to know how I feel, do I feel OK. She remembers I lived with my mother while I wrote and nursed at once. I didn’t nurse, I say, I was a miserable bitch in the next room, I was what my mother called a bummer, but she’s not listening anymore, this cheerful woman dressed up like a flower. She’s leading me into the examining room, where teddy bears and buttercups line the walls, where a three-foot picture of Santa hangs even though it’s April. I’m in that paper robe, leaning back into position, wondering about Santa’s perseverance when the doctor enters. He wants to know my mother’s age, which breast, and I’m surprised when I say left, not because I know it, but because it’s there on my tongue, and then I’m moving toward him, and I’m thinking that it’s a wonderful thing my love and I don’t have sex on a table like this, that he doesn’t see me in this light, that he doesn’t peer in with sticks and tools. Just then the doctor pipes up, saying my cervix looks great, and he says this with such enthusiasm that I suddenly see my cervix made up for the prom, lipstick and blush, a pink glow that speaks of health and wellbeing. He wants to talk about life and death, about heaven, and I’m wincing, not because the speculum is cold, but because I know how unpopular my beliefs are, even here among these scientists, so I say nothing as the doctor chatters on about his own dead mother. Oh I understand how you feel. I was just thirty when my mother died, but I believe in God, you must believe in God, you do believe in God? he says, his head popping up from between my knees, and I see him, a believer in latex gloves, a balding orphan in bright light. I force a smile and he returns to my crotch. You must believe in heaven, he continues, talking right at it. I’m certain that when mama went she went into a tunnel, a beautiful tunnel, he says, at the exact moment his finger is scooting into my ass.

from Rattle #25, Spring 2006
Tribute to the Best of Rattle

April 23rd, 2011

Link • Poems Leave a Comment

Mary Buchinger

SEE HOW FREE WE ARE!

from “On Seeing Larry Rivers’ Washington Crossing
the Delaware at the Museum of Modern Art”
            —Frank O’Hara

Reading War and Peace
led Larry Rivers to, as he put it,
“get into the ring with Tolstoy”

and paint “Washington
Crossing the Delaware”
which, in turn, led Frank O’Hara

who, incidentally,
wanted to sleep with Larry
but Larry didn’t love him that way,

to write the poem “On Seeing
Larry Rivers’ Washington Crossing
the Delaware
at the Museum of Modern Art,”

which I read
because one of my favorite poets
admires O’Hara’s work.

On the other hand,
one of my favorite professors
hated Larry Rivers, calling him a bloody fraud

which is more or less what
both Rivers and O’Hara
seem to be saying about Washington

“with his nose
trembling like
a flag under fire”

or maybe about
the notion of
heroes in general

perhaps, in the same way
that Tolstoy said Napoleon
was a “slave of history”

which might also account
for the liberty
Rivers took in painting

a portrait of Napoleon
and calling it “The
Greatest Homosexual.”

Rivers liked to joke
but also found it odd
and noteworthy

that Napoleon liked to
bathe naked in front
of his officers

which, perhaps, he did
because he was, after all,
already so exposed

not unlike Washington
and Larry
and Frank

giving new meaning
to both ex nihilo
and free will.

from Rattle #25, Spring 2006

April 22nd, 2011

Link • Poems, Tributes 1 Comment

Richard Beban

MY GRANDMOTHER TOLD US JOKES

like the one about the man who
walked down the street
& turned into
a drugstore.

There was some secret in the moment
of that turning—when he was one thing,
became another—
that I return to again & again.

The day she stopped being
grandma & turned into
that madwoman.

The day my sister stopped being
& never came back. Perhaps there
was an instant between her sweet sleep

& the moment the fever struck,
from which she could have been plucked.

Do not make that turn, I want to say to the man
who becomes the drugstore; to the woman
who dies insane; to my sister;

to the boy who became an adult
the moment the cell door slammed shut.
I want to freeze-frame each instant of turning,

unfold in slow motion the moment of callous
change. Perhaps the secret’s in the man’s
intention; in the list in his pocket of mundane
nostrums he was sent to fetch home.

Or perhaps I’ve got it wrong,
perhaps there’s a soda fountain where they all sit—
the man, my grandmother, my sister, the boy—

& drink nickel root beer floats, look back
on that fateful turn, and laugh among themselves
at the rest of us, who took it all so seriously.

from Rattle #25, Spring 2006
Tribute to the Best of Rattle

April 21st, 2011

Link • Poems Leave a Comment

Sarah Carey

NUTRITIONAL VALUE

Routinely, I order the reduced balsamic
vinaigrette, but what exactly is it?
Is it similar to extra-extra virgin
olive oil, consistency measured in degrees
of pure? All past regret redacted?

Someone is laid to rest today,
the body incapable of holding out
against so many abuses. You make your bed,
you lie in it, my father always said.
The heart reacts. My own contracts.

Someone has a feeding tube
removed while I’m eating my Cobb
at Friday’s, thinking green is good this time
of year, since last evening’s leftover pot roast
will send me over my quota of red

meat, the vitamins of carrots and potatoes
diminished after hours of simmer.
But oh, please don’t forget the bleeding
of flavors, the tenderness
of shoulder falling from bone.

from Rattle #25, Spring 2006

April 20th, 2011

Link • E-Reviews Leave a Comment

Review by Yu-Han ChaoType O Negative by Joel Barraquiel Tan

TYPE O NEGATIVE
by Joël Barraquiel Tan

Red Hen Press
P.O. Box 40820
Pasadena, CA 91114
ISBN 1597090182
2009, 109 pp., $19.95

http://redhen.org

The overall impression one is left with after reading Joël Tan’s Type O Negative is that of something beautiful being dashed to bits, broken into a dozen lyrical pieces. An elephant named Karama, the poet’s parents, the poet himself, the people of Manila, and dying friends are all eviscerated in terrifying detail into vivid, exotic images.

As a young child, the poet enjoyed elephant sheets and begged for elephant toys. But against this backdrop of childhood innocence, he has already heard rumors of human parts mixed in the animal feed at the Manila Zoo. In “manila zoo / gajendralila,” an elephant at the zoo, Karama, charges into the elephant pit’s rock wall while the young poet watches:

The 3rd blow  cracks the hoary stone
surface   the 4th  snaps her right tusk
zoogoers             motionless         stunned
the frightened cries of children

The elephant is broken, bloodied, tusk shattered, and this image introduces blood and violence early on in the collection as well as in Tan’s life.

Tan’s visceral images of his parents frequently recall body parts and bodily functions. He describes his father’s body with graphic detail in “flash”:

hip bone & belly hair
black triangular flash
tight cherry sac
the graceful swing of papa’s sex

In a moment that Freud would have enjoyed greatly, the poet, seeing his father’s sex through his thin briefs, wants to scream “give that to me! / that belongs to me!” The theme of Oedipal desire or penis envy continues when the father brags to the child that his wife was a virgin.

she took
it like a natural   never cried mama
never does   & the blood
thick & dark

(“sinanglay”)

In a later poem, “elements,” thinking of his mother, her pregnancy and his birth, the poet repeats “shit blood piss cum,” a metaphor for sex and birth all at once while contemplating the image of his mother as a decaying shell. In similar explicit detail, Tan describes his young self from the eyes of a lustful uncle:

flash fry    pudgy little thighs
butter baby
sweet tender hocks   fatty folds

(“sweetmeats”)

Butter and hocks reduce his body to cuts of meat and food, symbolizing a relationship shaped by sexual desire.

In “sweetmeats,” Tan’s Manila Chinatown is also deconstructed into disparate parts: “parasols & pencil skirts / blouses cut low push squeeze plump / powdered cleaves” and the colors are “jackfruit yellow green mango / ube violet starfruit crimson.” In describing his early life, family and Manila, the poet uses foreign words which upon initial reading may leave some readers confused, but the poet provides a note on terms at the end of the book, where the reader will see that gajendralila is a man playing the elephant, tuli means circumcised, and probinsiyana is a hick.

The above poems take place in the Philippines, with its lush scenery, exotic flavors and smells, and the lines often convey a poignant mix of nostalgia and guilt. The poems in the second half of the collection, set in America, seem more focused on stark realism, sexuality, and the poet’s friends, some living with HIV or a “brain tumor, heart-shaped” (“minutes”).

In “gift giver,” a nameless figure who could represent either a person, personified disease or death, “offers the faceless a virus, a destiny a proper name” which involves “the bloom of lesions & the feast of sores.” Another patient who laments “never learning tango or French or the drum” Tan depicts in visceral fragments: “poison blood lung lesions virus rotting the brain” (“knowing nothing”). But even in these gruesome scenarios, the language remains vivid and beautiful, contrasting the bloom of what might have been flowers with lesions and juxtaposing a delicious feast with repulsive sores.

In Type O Negative, Tan contemplates childhood, sexuality, disease and death in lyrical fragments so gorgeous and vivid that readers from any background certainly will appreciate their beauty, especially with the aid of appended notes.

____________

Yu-Han Chao was born and grew up in Taipei, Taiwan. She received her BA from National Taiwan University and her MFA from Penn State. The Backwaters Press published her poetry book, We Grow Old, in 2008, and she is a poetry editor for The Rose and Thorn Journal. For more writing and artwork, visit www.yuhanchao.com.

Where Am I?

You are currently viewing the archives for April, 2011 at Rattle: Poetry for the 21st Century.