February 17th, 2011
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Mike White
THE FRESHMAN ESSAY
(IN A NEW VERSE TRANSLATION)
The question one will argue in this essay is what is a cannibal.
You are so wrong if you said “a kind of animal.”
Fact: they are not like a dark stranger.
Fact: they are much endanger.
Maybe you think just because you are you
you would not do what they do.
Well think again civilized man and/or woman.
Plane crash must eat frozen dead co-pilot proves ordinary people can.
Let us now consider the state of nature,
a spot of time when toil-free work and whore-mongering made life richer.
Another point is what is so gross anyway about people meat.
One went to Chinatown one time and saw chicken feet.
In conclusion we are too full of ourselves here in the West.
(Can you let me know if the last day to drop this class has passed?)
–from Rattle #33, Summer 2010
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February 16th, 2011
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Jeff Vande Zande
IN EARLY DRAFTS, ROBERT FROST
RELIED HEAVILY ON THE THESAURUS
Discontinuing By Timberland
on a Fleecy Eventide
—Robert Frost
Whose copse this is I speculate I get.
His domicile is in the township, yet;
He won’t monitor me refraining here
To observe his pines congesting with wet.
My petite steed must reckon it bizarre
To knock off with the next shanty so far
Flanked by boscage and glaciated loch
The blackest eve of Earth’s loop around star.
He gives his tackle’s carillon a flap
As though he’s inquiring, “What the crap?”
The single other racket is the zoom
Of cozy zephyr and pubescent scrap.
The thicket is cute, sooty and abstruse.
But I’ve contracts that I don’t want to lose,
And 5,280 feet more until I snooze,
And 5,280 feet more until I snooze.
–from Rattle #33, Summer 2010
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February 14th, 2011
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Carol A. Taylor
A FADING MEMORY
Two elderly farmers rocked on the front porch,
talking and scratching an old hound dog’s head.
“I swanny, I’m getting so gol-derned forgetful
I can’t remember your dog’s name,” said Red.
Sam pondered a moment, then turned to his friend
and grinned, “What’s the name of that flower that grows
on the fence by the mailbox, with thorns on its stem?”
His visitor answered, “Oh, you mean a rose.”
“That’s it,” Sam exclaimed. “That’s the flower I mean!”
He threw down the Burpee’s spring seed catalog,
reached over his shoulder, and opened the screen.
“Rose!” he yelled in. “What’s the name of our dog?”
–from Rattle #33, Summer 2010
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February 13th, 2011
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Matthew J. Spireng
WATER-BASED LUBRICANT
It was only after I’d left the chain pharmacy
and was walking across the parking lot
that I sensed something was wrong. County
highway department workmen in an orange dump truck
looked at me strangely, and I realized, as
a cool wind of an early October day
whipped past me, that it felt airier than usual
where the zipper of my jeans should be closed.
I waited until I sat in the car and checked and,
sure enough, my fly had been open. My fly
had been open the whole time I had wandered
up and down the aisles of the pharmacy
unsuccessfully searching for water-based lubricant
the instructions for use of the rectal thermometer
I’d bought to check my sick dog’s temperature said
I should apply before each use. It had been open
at her eye level when I stopped to ask the young woman
kneeling on the floor stacking shelves where to find
water-based lubricant, and it had been open when,
minutes later, still unsuccessful, I had mumbled
as I passed a woman customer standing waiting
to speak to the pharmacist something about how it seemed
I could spend my life there looking for what I
needed, and it had been open when, finally breaking off
my search, I approached the woman clerk in the pharmacy
to ask where I could find water-based lubricant, and it had been
open when the woman pharmacist came out
from behind the counter to help, wandering with me
from aisle to aisle until finally she decided the only place
water-based lubricant might be is near the condoms, which was
where it was. And it had been open when the woman cashier
checked me out, perhaps in more ways than I realized,
which might be why she stammered when she asked if I’d found
everything I was looking for, a stammer I thought was
a speech impediment, but which might have been my fault,
exposed as I was, buying water-based lubricant for the dog.
–from Rattle #33, Summer 2010
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February 11th, 2011
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Martha Silano
WHAT THE GRAD STUDENTS SAID
This is a terrific title, all your titles
should be this good—like a playground
with twirly and tunnel slides,
and a bathroom nearby to boot!
And all your poems should be as good
as this first one, which not only stood out
like a tilt-a-whirl on a flat bed broken down
along I-5, but reminded us of the words
we hate, like any compound adjective
and scrunch. We liked very much the one
with the Brain Gelatin Mold. Also the one
where Bly loses his luggage along with his smiling-
Buddha shtick at the Dodge. However, we didn’t
get interested till gingivitis and, overall, we stopped
reading when we realized—by the third line—
you weren’t even trying to reach us at all but instead
were yammering on to a nephew, son, sister, blah, blah, blah.
In other words, you weren’t a finalist, runner-up, semi-finalist,
22nd or even 55th in line, but you were definitely
one of the 67 entrants! That, a little ketchup,
marmalade, vinegar, a few shakes of salt,
and a pinch of dried mustard will sure make a good
marinade for baby backs, but you thoroughly, definitely,
unredeemingly, did not in any way, shape,
or razzle dazzle popsicle, come within
dozens of Mr. Natural paces from winning
our coveted prize.
–from Rattle #33, Summer 2010
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