August 27, 2023

Robin Turner

LITTLE BIRD

for Artie

The hottest month of the hottest year
on record. August in Texas. Unrelenting.
 
Mother had died just the month before.
My mother. The world kept burning.
 
And on the news, on our phones, all week the photos
of treasonous men, their arrogant mugshots
 
marring every screen, suffocating each sensible citizen.
How to breathe through the heat, through the spin
 
and the grief? How to rescue from harm what one loves?
When a red-feathered bird crashed into our window, it fell
 
like a stone and lay motionless. Little bird, you said
and stepped out to the porch, bent to stroke, to tap tap her still chest,
 
brought ice, brought tenderness, prayed mercy.
In the morning you spared me
 
from shoveling parched earth
and gave up the lost creature to ground.
 
You knew, knew I would not be able to bury her—
one more once beautiful thing.
 

from Poets Respond
August 27, 2023

__________

Robin Turner: “A poem of gratitude for my husband, his good heart in a time of great personal loss, of grief for our burning world and fear for the fragile future of American democracy.”

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October 4, 2020

Jill Kandel

FATIGUE

I’m on the Day with No
Groceries day of the two-week cycle
which means I’m off to buy veggies and
you’d think I’d be used to my long-mandated mask
which makes it hard for me to understand what others
are saying and also sticks to my face as my breath gradually
fogs up my glasses already smeared from putting on and taking off
this, my handsewn slightly crooked mask, all the while trying to retain some semblance
of put-together-ness which went out the window some time ago and belongs
in the land of long forgotten things like hugs and real-life visits
and shared smiles that can actually be seen, dimple
to dimple, but what’s a person supposed to do
except cry, cry for my sweet friend battling
brain cancer and I can’t go visit him, his
systems shrouded in compromise
and Covid
restricting visits even from his
wife—depending on the hospital the clinic
the treatment the day and the hour—from going inside
with him and sitting beside him in his pain and his confusion, his veiled
hope and pallid suffering, and my other friend who just happens to live in the same city,
who placed her mother into a nursing home for people with dementia
the day before the nursing home shut to outside visitors, daughters included,
even daughters of newly admitted mothers who will go on to catch
Covid and die in that brand-new shining facility blanketed
with so much hope just two months earlier,
so even though I want to harangue
and childishly rage
joining in
the chorus of people
on Facebook and Twitter who hate
this politician and that party, smugly promoting
one cover-up or another, the wearing of masks (#MaskUpMN #WearADamnMask)
or not wearing of masks (#IwillNOTComply #NoMaskSelfie) I can’t join
in because it’s not that I’m really angry or mad or feel rant-ish,
it’s that it just keeps going on and on and on and on
into a future that predicts more and longer and still
here tomorrow and into the fall
and even the winter, and
I’m tired,
tired of being heartsore,
tired of listening to my friend
a hospice nurse who can’t hold her dying
patients’ hands and is trying to Zoom into their lives
as if she’s real, as if she’s there when in reality she could be a thousand
miles away, a woman on a screen and some days a screen is just not enough
to wrap around our sorrow and that’s what screams out to me, the grief, the longing,
the loss of what I used to know, the loss of who I used to be, and more
than that, the disappearance of who we used to be, how we
used to walk so carefree, so bold and vibrant
through this our now curtained
and weary world.

from Poets Respond
October 4, 2020

__________

Jill Kandel: “CNN carried a story on September 27 that the US cases have surpassed 7 million, and we can still expect to see an explosion of Covid-19 this fall and winter. I wanted to write beneath the surface of the pandemic, the veneer of daily frustrations, and into the heart of our sorrows.” (web)

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March 30, 2020

Maya Tevet Dayan

FOREIGN-NESS

1.
“I’m not obsessed,”
Violette says, “just really passionate
about you trimming your side of the hedge.”
In translation from Canadian: she is about to report us to the city.
My husband responds immediately: “Gladly!”
The sorrow of the penalty starts sprouting in his throat.
He would gladly trim Violette’s head 
instead of standing on a ladder
with a rusty pruning hook in four degrees Celsius.

2.
From the top of the ladder, Violette’s yard unfolds
precise as a map. Two tanning chairs dripping
of April showers, rows of flowers saluting 
the grass. My husband waves the pruning hook 
to say hi, as Violette appears with the black dog,
screams “Cody!” and apologizes for the umpteenth time:
“The dog is deaf.”
At home, my husband whispers to me, “The dog can hear fine!
I’ve heard her speak to him in a regular tone.”
The thought sticks to my mind,
why pretend a dog is deaf?

3.
My husband is an avid believer in conspiracies; traffic jams
are an economic plot run by governments. Russian oligarchs 
keep the state of Israel from collapse. Clouds
are chemical trails that will bring humanity to destruction.
“Trust me,” he whispers,
“she’s out to get us.” Through the trimmed trees,
Violette can see us better now—
red poisonous mushrooms popped up after the rains.
The bushes grow wild, the girls’ toys
still scattered on the garden path since summer.

4.
I’m missing Sasson and Galila, my childhood neighbors 
who lived across a tangled fence that no one ever trimmed.
At lunch, I ate chicken and potatoes with their daughters
right out of the pan. I helped sort folded laundry into their closets,
I knew Galila’s lingerie drawer and her fights
with Sasson. They screamed like crows
and made up like rabbits—mouth, tongue,
all of it. “That’s what a happy marriage looks like,” Galila said.
“Not a single day goes by that you don’t want a divorce.”

5.
The day we moved here, Violette extended her hand to me
tall and wrinkled
and introduced herself: “I’m separated,
don’t feel bad about it.” I agreed.
“Good,” she said, “when you’ve had enough 
 you’ve had enough.”

6. 
She introduced the neighborhood: her three dogs,
the raccoon that tips the garbage pails, the rats,
the squirrels that nibble at the rooftops. She told me
what calms her: gardening and spreading traps for the squirrels.
She has to calm down. Her husband
still hasn’t removed his things from the house,
the neighbors won’t stop sighing 
about the separation,
and her daughter stopped eating.

7. 
My best friend in high school stopped eating. Retreated
quietly from meals
while we gossiped, studied, watched movies.
Her body shrunk
as though offended. Why did she hide it? 
Why from me?
Still, I nod in understanding
every time Violette tells me
about her daughter. In my mind, she is dark skinned
like my friend, black hair, thick lips. Violette’s daughter
lies on the carpet in her room in Raanana,
leaning over our history notebook,
always in those 501 Levi’s jeans from the ’90s.

8.
Galila said: “Those miserable girls 
whose jeans hang on them like on a scarecrow.
Be proud that you have something to grab!”
And when I slouched, she announced,
“It’s those with flat breasts that should be ashamed!”

9.
Violette and I talk about gardens, never about “territories.”
About animals, never about “terror.”
When she leaves a note on our front door
with the Baptist church logo,
I don’t tell her that I was born
where the Jordan River extends from the Sea of Galilee,
where John the Baptist cast water on the head of Christ,
and how, as children, we peeked at the pilgrims
coming out of those same waters, with their sheer gowns: bellies
bosoms, hips, thin bums
and big bums.

10.
The note said: “I have Build-a-Bear teddies for your daughters.”

11.
My daughters don’t play with Build-a-Bears.
I thank Violette for her good intention. 
She figures I’m excited about the teddies, hands me 
a heavy sack and apologizes:
“My daughter demanded all the accessories.
She never took no for an answer.”

12.
In a better world, Violette’s daughter 
would have taken no for an answer, felt shame
for being as thin as a scarecrow, eaten something right out of a pan 
and babysat my daughters. 
Instead, she is my dark-skinned friend from high school,
and I’m walking on eggshells speaking to her mom. Weary
but not sure of what.

13.
I allow my girls to go to Violette’s house
to pet the dogs. I stand behind the trimmed trees 
and listen. I pray she doesn’t ask them
about the teddies we gave to charity,
and that they’re not too loud, too Israeli.
She might tell them something that sounds nice
like, “Maybe you want to be 
more quiet.” In Canadian want means have to.
My daughters get that by now.

14.
What my girls really want is to play
every day with Violette’s dogs.
What Violette wants is for her husband
to get his things out of the house.
What my husband wants is to crack
her internet passwords.
“What for?” I ask. “We have our own wifi.”
“For fun,” my husband says. 
“It’s easy to guess dog-owners’ passwords.”
I ask him if he has nothing better to do.
“There you go!” he cheers. “Curby111, Gina222, Poppy333.”

15. 
Galila said: “Love is something 
you give a man anyways. 
So you may as well give it
to a rich man.”

16.
Violette gave her love to a rich man. She says
he didn’t do badly in business. 
She lives in an aubergine-coloured house
four stories high, with a wooden balcony and a waterfall
in the yard. She arranges pebbles
in the shape of a stream. Places a bench. Shoves gas
into holes in the garden, runs after a mole-rat
through the thick fumes ascending from the ground,
measures the heights of trees with a ribbon.
The two wrinkles between her eyebrows deepen
like dimples in the soil.
The three short dogs follow her
like a gaggle of goslings.

17. 
I read that goslings always follow
the first creature to move in front of them when they hatch.
It’s usually the goose. Her march imprints them,
like a secret password, like hypnosis. 
The goose never needs to look back.
Water imprints the salmon, who always return to their native stream
in order to spawn. 
Foxes, guinea pigs, chickens—all imprinted
to identify the one who brought them into this world
and to survive.

18.
In late spring, I see Violette’s daughter for the first time
stepping out of their gate, floating onto our street
tall and thin as a lone ghost. 
Her hair is long and ginger.
Her face fair and blurred like the afternoon moon. 
If she were to step out now 
from the Jordan River,
through her gown you’d see twigs and branches.

19. 
Sometimes an imprint goes wrong. 
A row of goslings follows a human. A kitten nurses 
from a female dog. I once had a lover
whose palms imitated my hand gestures
as he spoke. When we broke up he said, “How can you leave
when you are already imprinted in my body?”

20.
Galila said: “Don’t ever feel bad for men; 
they’ll never feel bad for you.”

21.
Violette doesn’t feel bad for her husband. She speaks of him
and the words whistle from her mouth in a whisper,
like a match before fire ignites. 
She does feel bad for the cyclamen flowers
and spreads ice around them when the air gets warm.
She shifts rocks in the garden from side to side,
and at the start of summer, she plants
right in the Canadian chill
a palm tree that arrives on a boat from Madagascar. 
“I’ve tried everything,” she says.
“The girl won’t eat.”

22.
I wonder if anyone ever researched 
what came of mothers 
whose offsprings were imprinted by others.

23.
My daughters return from Violette’s with a bouquet of purple flowers.
They tell me they’re called dahlias. They distinguish between the leaves
of silver maple, red maple, and sugar maple.
They tell me the raspberry bushes need lots of light,
and that’s why Violette asked us to trim the fence.
Their botanical knowledge expands
like an ocean between my childhood and theirs.
I ask my husband if we shouldn’t go back to Israel.
Risk the chemical clouds, the terror,
the high gas prices, the crumbling democracy
so that our girls will eat chicken at the neighbors’.
My husband reminds me that we don’t even eat chicken
and asks what it is I actually want.

24.
“You want your husband to come home with cheer,” Gallila said. 
Sasson always honked three times
when he slid into the parking lot of their home.
Gallila said, “That’s what a happy man sounds like.”

25.
One summer night, Tim is standing at my door.
Violette’s separated husband.
His head high, his hair white, like a cloud in an unconspiring sky. 
He has just removed his things from the house. He smiles softly. 
He nods and shakes the girls’ hands. 
He lingers on the family photos on the fridge.
Suddenly I feel bad for Violette. It’s too late.
He’s going back to his birthplace in the east. His car is packed. 
He’s standing at the entrance to the kitchen, looks at the onions
frying in the pan, and asks, “Maybe you have an idea for me 
to help my daughter?” 

26.
My friend’s parents hospitalized her.
I haven’t seen her since. Did she ever eat again?
Tim’s eyes hang on to me as if I was a last resort. 
I want to imprint my girls, if it’s not too late,
like goslings, like salmons, foxes. Like Galila imprinted me.
I want them to hear the inaudible sound 
of our blood, to identify the smell of my palms, to belong to me
in the endless foreign-ness of this country.

27.
Tim bends over the kitchen counter and writes his number on a note.
Then signs: “Tim, Amy Anorexia.”
He says, that way you’ll remember me. He’s right.
I remember him even when I forget
other things. I remember the note
and his floating walk towards the door
in tall steps, careful, as if in a moment he’ll trip
over a pulled rope in the hall, and how instead of extending
my hand to him, I held onto the wooden frying spoon.
I remember all of those, and his embrace,
all that height
folding above me like a stalk, and the question 
he asks before leaving
standing in front of me and waiting for an answer:
“What is with you women? Why do you all at once
stop being happy?”

from Rattle #66, Winter 2019
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Maya Tevet Dayan: “I wrote my first poem the night my mom died. She was 64. I picked up my phone to call her, to tell her the news, that she had just passed away. Instead I sent her a text which came in the form of a poem. After a year of texting poems to her mute phone I published my first poetry book, a one-sided dialogue with my dead mother. That year we left Israel and moved to Canada. Orphanhood made me feel like a stranger in my own home. I thought it will be easier to be a stranger in a place where I don’t even expect to belong. That I will feel less orphaned in a country my mom had never even visited. Being in Canada was supposed to make the distance from her more logical. It didn’t. Poetry is that ocean of fire I step into every time I’m desperate for some logic. It’s obviously hopeless. But for those moments when it seems to almost work, I keep on trying.” (web)

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February 14, 2020

Rattle is proud to announce the winner of the 2019 Rattle Poetry Prize Readers’ Choice Award:

James Davis May

James Davis May (web)
Macon, Georgia
for
“Red in Tooth and Claw”

 
The 2019 Readers’ Choice Award was selected from among the Rattle Poetry Prize finalists by subscriber vote. Only those with active subscriptions including issue #66 were eligible. “Red in Tooth and Claw” earned 21.4% of the votes and the $2,000 award. Here is what some of those readers had to say about their choice:

I read it as a poem about gentleness and hope in a brutal world. I was struck by how the poem brings together mundane images with the larger search for meaning and justice around life and death. The poem was also touching in its choices, such as the narrator’s refusal to use the word ‘battle’ for cancer.
—Pervin Saket

I loved the unusual layout of “Red in Tooth and Claw” and many of its lines resonated with me. I lost a friend last year to cancer, he’d beaten it twice and it came back. To my dismay, the world went on, seemingly oblivious to his disappearance. I wondered about the same things the poet did–if we matter, if anyone is listening. In our divided nation, at a time when civility seems all but dead, I soothe myself by committing random acts of kindness, like the milk he puts out for the feral cat. The abstract is skillfully interwoven with the concrete. The ending flickers with hope and makes me feel warm inside.
—Joan Harris

This poem speaks to me as someone who recently lost a friend to cancer. It’s a poem I might have written myself to process what I’m going through, “appalled by the world and its gross refusal / to stop being the world.” In the face of this indifference, we need to find our way forward, which might come in the form of leaving milk out for a feral cat who, as we are, is only trying to make it through this.
—David de Young

I’m voting for “Red Claw in Tooth” for its voice, a voice that is so intimate I can hear the breathing in it, between the words, it steams up from the page. Yes, there’s the technique, the echo of the Tennyson poem (which I looked up as the title sounded familiar and so this poem taught me, which I appreciate), the palpable sorrow, and the compassionate and inscrutable images, and the use of the page, and the needed call for our best selves these days, but even without them, for me, it’s that voice.
—Michael Mark

To read “Red in Tooth and Claw” and all of the other finalist poems, pick up a copy of Rattle #66, or wait until the April, when those poems start appearing online at Rattle.com.

James Davis May was the winner, but this year’s voting was as evenly divided as ever—each of the remaining poems received 7–13% of the vote, and all of the finalists had their own enthusiastic supporters. As always, it was an interesting and informative experience reading the commentary. To provide a taste of that, here is a small sample of what our subscribers said about the other finalists:
 

On Kathleen Balma’s “Punch Line”:

I vote for Kathleen Balma’s “Punch Line.” Her vivid dialogue between a stripper and a club owner engaged my imagination. I found it compelling and hung on every word, waiting for the punch line. She delivered. No matter how many times I read her poem, I always laugh at the end. We could use a little humor these days.
—Andre Le Mont Wilson

I vote for “Punch Line” by Kathleen Balma. She took me into a situation I couldn’t have imagined before, and made it real and believable—great dialogue, great punchline (with “Splinters” being a wonderful way to assuage the man’s ego, implying that she believes he can bust the broom, at the same time giving a very practical reason for not holding it), and I was delighted that the poet didn’t tell me how the story ended.
—Laszlo Slomovits

 

On Susan Browne’s “Bonanza”:

I like poetry with clear, straight forward language but whose meaning is much deeper and multi-layered than what meets the eye. I also like poetry that sheds light on the sterility of the medical industry—how it so often leaves us feeling like we are nothing more than machines with defective parts rather than holistic beings of mind/body/spirit/emotion. I was touched by how she depicted the loneliness and fear of being a patient waiting for a test result, of a being a human inside a body; how getting pulled into that singular experience can so easily jettison you from your connection to others and to the greater flow of life. The progression of the poem from examining room to elevator to crowded street shows how the poet reconnects with all that is beyond herself, and I love that. I felt equally moved by her depiction of the frailty of human life in a physical, medical sense juxtaposed with the desire to believe we are something more than an X-ray or mammogram—and that it is precisely this part of us that is “more than” that compels us to connect and share of ourselves. This deeper part of us is the driver inside the vehicle of our bodies; the true driving force of the “bonanza” of life. Thank you to Susan Browne for sharing this deeply touching and relatable insight. It really speaks to what it means to be human on a physical, spiritual, and emotional level and about how we come to terms with the inevitable mortality of our bodies. I feel honored to have had the chance to read and reflect on this beautifully written poem.
—Jacqueline Handman

I am drawn to the way this poem captures the experience of any woman. This translates the episode into a matter of fact narrative of the internal and the external. Her use of words and form is very simple, yet very focused in how she negotiates from the X-ray machine to the outside world.
—Kashiana Singh

 

On Barbara Lydecker Crane’s “Mother and Child”:

The poet captures so much of the artist’s story, as well as the fear women face and inadvertently pass on to their children. I appreciate the use of form to contain the tension and experiences of the speaker and subjects sitting for her. The poem stands alone without knowing the painting due to the powerful, unsettling description used.
There are multiple layers to this succinct poem.
—Kris Beaver

This sonnet draws the reader in with a curious element in the reading of the opening line, and with every image it twists. At the volta, the poem pulls the reader from the painting’s subject to inside the portrait painter’s head as she reveals her terrifying betrayal by her husband in stealing away her own child. Powerful. The rhymes are unexpected and build on tension and terror—the reader is in the poem, holding the baby, trembling.
—Paulette Turco

 

On Maya Tevet Dayan’s “Foreign-ness”:

I vote for Foreign-ness by Maya Tevet Dayan. She says she came to the writing of poetry late in life, after her mother’s death. Evidently, by that time, she had stored up a wealth of experience, wisdom and passion. Much of it explodes forth from this poem. Though ostensibly the story of getting along with a neighbor of different ethnicity, layered beneath that are brilliant observations about the transmission of culture and the nature of womanhood.
—Mary Ames

The poem travels back and forth between the backyard hedge of a Canadian family in the throes of a divorce, and dealing with a daughter who is suffering from anorexia, and a family from Israel trying to fit in to the Canadian culture that often employs euphemisms in place of threats. Right away, in part 1 of 27 parts, we are told the Canadian’s dog is deaf, so no use in yelling at him, however, the dog is not deaf. And that’s the problem, a conversation where each side doesn’t seem to listen. The poem is weighted with texture that is remarkably active, varying, and unpredictable, and one that compels close attention and minute adjustments of feeling. I found myself not wanting to take sides and hoping for some resolution. The last line and a half sums up the poem: “Why do you all at once / stop being happy?”
—Joseph Zaccardi

 

On Daniel Arias Gómez’s “Cathedrals: Ode to a Deported Uncle”:

My grandparents immigrated to New York from Italy and today I feel a palpable affinity for the Latino culture, because, even though I was young, I remember the discrimination my grandfather experienced because he spoke with an accent. What grabbed me in the poem came right at the introduction, “Tio, you learn there is always a border.” But the way that the poem introduces the reader to the multitude of borders (and cathedrals) is captivating, and I could relate to all of them. It left me recalling a line from the old Dragnet television series: “This story is true, only the names have been changed …”
—Dave Blaine

The poem allows an entrance into multiple lives, whether real or imagined, and takes multiple turns that are both surprising and seamless (the boat, the sex). While it paints a vivid picture, the weight of the poem rests on the uncle and the unknown: where is he, what is he doing? And yet, it imagines the best for him, because to not imagine the best would be to succumb to sorrow.
—Matthew Schmidt

 

On Red Hawk’s “The Never-Ending Serial”:

I don’t think I’ve seen those old films with women tied to the tracks except in TV clips or as remakes in Dudley Do-Right cartoons, but the principles of discrimination in how women and minorities were represented—or not represented at all—remained true for many generations. It would have been a pretty entertaining poem just from the girls’ perspective of looking for white men to save them or from looking at the boys’ feelings of inadequacy. Looking at it from both perspectives grabbed my vote. It brought back my own frustrations in the ’50s that women never did anything exciting on TV. I either pretended I was Roy Rogers or Superman or made up my own female roles: Gloria the Angel and Morning Cloud the Indian Princess. Gloria could fly like Superman. Morning Cloud could ride a horse better than Roy, and both could speak to animals in their own tongues.
—Alarie Tennille

The poem that resonates most deeply with me is Red Hawk’s “The Never Ending Serial,” for when I was a boy, our small town’s little movie theatre showed those never ending serials, just as Red tells it. So I am imprinted by them. The poem cashes along apace, revives my excited mind adventures as the train approaches. But more than that, the poet goes beyond the poem and feels empathy with the damsel in distress, her point of view, as a commentary on society and its cliché thinking. As well, he expresses his own, and some other males’ POV, showing the helpless side of malehood.
—Herb Bryce

 

On Sue Howell’s “Gender Studies”:

The poem is clear and concise in its imagery and insightful in its content without sacrificing pace or rhythm. It is exactly what poetry is meant to be.
—J.M. Greff

“Gender Studies” is one of the freshest poems I’ve read in months. Ms. Howell observes keenly, with rich, rich detail and humor. This is what can happen when poets don’t write in the first person, which John Ciardi called the lyric yelp, as from the newborn popping out of the womb, and which Toni Morrison considered anathema.
—Alberta Lee Orcutt

 

On Kimberly Kemler’s “From Oblivious Waters”:

I vote for “From Oblivious Waters” by Kimberly Kemler because of the poem’s made-to-look-effortless use of meter and rhyme, crafted with a light (but far from frivolous) touch. I especially liked the introduction of a second main character in the final third of the poem, a female photo developer imagined at work in the darkroom, who may or may not be another earlier version of the speaker herself. And because the world is water.
—Scott Lowery

As always I’m impressed with all the contest poems and love reading them a few times. Tonight I’m sure my heart votes for Kimberley Kemler for “From Oblivious Waters” after William Empson. Before I made my final choice I of course had to look up William Empson. So I am smarter than before and loved reading about his seven ambiguities of any given “piece of language.” I admired how free Kemler was to do what Empson advised in a piece of writing, using imagination “to go find yourself.” In addition to her fine craftsmanship I loved how she began the poem with brushing her teeth, spitting and setting about looking for a line of poetry and the whole thing goes on a journey of memory and discovery of an old lover, merging ambiguity after ambiguity into a lucid whole, the photograph of the woman in a wash of developer. Thanks for the ride, rhyme and all.
—Perie Longo

 

On Gabrielle Otero’s “Self-Portrait, Despite What They Say”:

I was captivated from beginning to end. Sometimes when I read work by poets whose backgrounds are vastly different than my own, I almost feel guilty because I don’t “get it.” Ms. Otero’s poem was so vivid and creatively direct, it would be hard for anyone to feel disconnected from it.
—Rose Layman

My vote gets cast for “Self-Portrait, Despite What They Say” by Gabrielle Otero. (Though it was hard to ignore, “From Oblivious Waters” with its wonderful cascading rhyme scheme.) There are some wonderful lines in the poem and a very effective use of the type of enjambment I like where a second meaning is invoked depending on whether one reads through syntactically or stops at the line break. Also, the last four tercets feel like one long exhale (It is not lost on me …), which makes a nice culmination to the breathless progression of the first 2/3 of the poem—kind of like a finale of a fireworks display. And finally, the last two lines echo a bit of history: The Balfour Declaration at the end of WWI, when the Allies were dividing up the spoils of war, gave the Palestinian territories to the Israeli diaspora for a new nation, and was introduced at a ceremony by declaring, A land without people for a people without a land—thereby ignoring the 700,000 Palestinians who were living there.
—D.M. Dutcher

 

February 2, 2019

Patricia Smith

BUILDING NICOLE’S MAMA

for the 6th grade class of Lillie C. Evans School, Liberty City, Miami

I am astonished at their mouthful names—
Lakinishia, Chevellanie, Delayo, Fumilayo—
their ragged rebellions and lip-glossed pouts,
and all those pants drooped as drapery.
I rejoice when they kiss my face, whisper wet
and urgent in my ear, make me their obsession
because I have brought them poetry.

They shout me raw, bruise my wrists with pulling,
and brashly claim me as mama as they
cradle my head in their little laps,
waiting for new words to grow in my mouth.

You.
You.
You.
Angry, jubilant, weeping poets—we are all
saviors, reluctant hosannas in the limelight,
but you knew that, didn’t you? So let us
bless this sixth grade class—40 nappy heads,
40 cracking voices, and all of them
raise their hands when I ask. They have all seen
the Reaper, grim in his heavy robe,
pushing the button for the dead project elevator,
begging for a break at the corner pawn shop,
cackling wildly in the back pew of the Baptist church.

I ask the death question and forty fists
punch the air, me! me! And O’Neal,
matchstick crack child, watched his mother’s
body become a claw, and 9-year-old Tiko Jefferson,
barely big enough to lift the gun, fired a bullet
into his own throat after Mama bended his back
with a lead pipe. Tamika cried into a sofa pillow
when Daddy blasted Mama into the north wall
of their cluttered one-room apartment,
Donya’s cousin gone in a drive-by. Dark window,
click, click, gone, says Donya, her tiny finger
a barrel, the thumb a hammer. I am shocked
by their losses—and yet when I read a poem
about my own hard-eyed teenager, Jeffrey asks
He is dead yet?

It cannot be comprehended,
my 18-year-old still pushing and pulling
his own breath. And those 40 faces pity me,
knowing that I will soon be as they are,
numb to our bloodied histories,
favoring the Reaper with a thumbs-up and a wink,
hearing the question and shouting me, me,
Miss Smith, I know somebody dead!

Can poetry hurt us? they ask me before
snuggling inside my words to sleep.
I love you, Nicole says, Nicole wearing my face,
pimples peppering her nose, and she is as black
as angels are. Nicole’s braids clipped, their ends
kissed with match flame to seal them,
and can you teach me to write a poem about my mother?
I mean, you write about your daddy and he dead,
can you teach me to remember my mama?

A teacher tells me this is the first time Nicole
has admitted that her mother is gone,
murdered by slim silver needles and a stranger
rifling through her blood, the virus pushing
her skeleton through for Nicole to see.
And now this child with rusty knees
and mismatched shoes sees poetry as her scream
and asks me for the words to build her mother again.
Replacing the voice.
Stitching on the lost flesh.

So poets,
as we pick up our pens,
as we flirt and sin and rejoice behind microphones—
remember Nicole.
She knows that we are here now,
and she is an empty vessel waiting to be filled.

And she is waiting.
And she
is
waiting.
And she waits.

from Rattle #27, Summer 2007
Tribute to Slam Poetry

__________

Patricia Smith: “I was living in Chicago and found out about a poetry festival in a blues club on a winter afternoon. It was just going to be continuous poetry, five hours. It was the first event in a series called Neutral Turf, which was supposed to bring street poets and academic poets together. And I thought, I’ll get some friends together and we’ll go laugh at the poets. We’ll sit in the back, we’ll heckle, it’ll be great. But when I got there, I was amazed to find this huge literary community in Chicago I knew nothing about. The poetry I heard that day was immediate and accessible. People were getting up and reading about things that everyone was talking about. Gwendolyn Brooks was there, just sitting and waiting her turn like everyone else. There were high school students. And every once in a while a name poet would get up. Gwen got up and did her poetry, then sat back down and stayed for a long time. And I just wanted to know—who are these people? Why is this so important to them? Why had they chosen to be here as opposed to the 8 million other places they could have been in Chicago?” (web)

Rattle Logo

June 2, 2012

Dick Allen

KNOCK ON THE SKY AND LISTEN TO THE SOUND:
ON ZEN BUDDHISM & POETRY

1

The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain
       To see what he could see

       To see what he could see,
       To see what he could see.

The other side of the mountain,
The other side of the mountain,
The other side of the mountain
       Was all that he could see.

       Was all that he could see,
       Was all that he could see,
The other side of the mountain,
       Was all that he could see!
             —Author Unknown

2

I’m fourteen, just having crossed a sunlit meadow in upstate New York. Now, I’m climbing down a gully to the shallow Kayaderosseras Creek below.

I pause.

Not my feet, but everything else shifts—as if I’d been watching a slide show and someone had inserted a totally different slide than the ones I’d seen.

And I lose myself. Rather, I lose my individualistic Self.

No separate meadow. No gully. No Kayaderosseras Creek. No me. No distinctions between me and everything that a moment before was Other …

The slides abruptly shift again and I’m back. Me. Fourteen. Descending a mundane gully to a mundane creek with a Budweiser can floating in it. White pines lining the gully. A crow’s caw. Slap at a black fly trying to bite my arm.

It’s an experience had by most humans at one time or another.

3

The Numinous, or the Mysterium tremendum et fascinans (“fearful and fascinating mystery”) is the term coined by Rudolph Otto in The Idea of the Holy.

4

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face
to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know
even as also I am known.
       —1 Corinthians 13:12

In Buddhism, unlike in monotheistic religions, it’s not a glimpse or gaze but an immersion. There’s no glass, no other side. As Buddhists experience it, they at least for the brief period realize both Wholeness and Holiness, Yin and Yang simultaneously.

It’s the basic Buddhist and Eastern belief in Non-Dualism.

5

Literally millions and millions of poems seek to capture the unholdable experience of Mysticism. Some will compare it to the experience of “the Other,” but it’s not that. Buberians might say it’s the “I-Thou” experience, but it’s not that. William James would call it the core religious experience, as would Evelyn Underhill. Even at its most mundane, it’s the “runner’s high” when the runner enters a trance of homeostasis. Aspects of Mysticism provide the commonality shared by all religions, both East and West.

6

A first and primary characteristic of Zen Buddhist poetry is an assumption that (this is how Gerard Manley Hopkins would put it) “The world is charged with the grandeur of God,” only in this case it’s not the Western Civilization monotheistic God but the Eastern and Buddhist way of using “God” to mean “All” or “holiness” or “Numinous” pervading everything, including what we blindly think of as our individual Selves as separate from other Selves or kinds of Selves.

7

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
       —William Blake from Auguries of Innocence

8

Whenever I think about the realization that it’s impossible, incredible, wondrous, unfathomable to be alive, and that no matter how hard I try I can’t hold this realization for very long, lines from T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” come into my head:

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count there are only you and I together.
But when I look up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you …

In his Notes to the poem, Eliot references a delusion experienced by exhausted Antarctic explorers. And most critics identify the presence of the third figure as Christ. For me, the lines evoke what Zen Buddhists would call the “True Self ” that’s always there but is also almost always unrecognized in our daily clouded lives.

9

Attempting to arrive at commonalities shared by Zen Buddhism and poetry influenced by Zen Buddhism, I’ve found these words: Wholeness or Holiness, Is-Ness, Mindfulness, Reasonlessness, Calmness, Presentness.

10

Buddhist or Buddhist-influenced or oriented poetry is the antithesis of Confessionalist Poetry, that I-stressing dominant poetic sensibility and form of the second half of the 20th Century which has continued into the first part of the 21st Century. At its best, Confessionalism illuminates the turmoils of the individual “I” as representative of other individual humans; at its worse it turns narcissistic and self-pitying, even into a kind of glorification of suffering and desire.

11

In our century, it’s important to note that the “I” used in Buddhist-oriented poems is not the Confessional “I,” but the “I” that’s more a persona, an “I” that stands for almost anyone.

12

I’m often tempted to say Mindfulness is Poetry and Poetry is Mindfulness. Still, that’s not quite true. Mindfulness—that quality of acute attention to the Now, to precisely and specifically to what one is seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, tasting, thinking, feeling right Now—is at once a technique, a purpose and a result of Poetry. It is contained within but not the main stress of types of poems such as narrative, dramatic and epic. It is, however, the main stress of lyric and meditative poetry, our century’s hugely dominant types.

13

The primary stress on Mindfulness in modern and contemporary poetry comes from Imagism, particularly as used by Ezra Pound and exemplified by his famous haiku-inspired poem, “In the Station of the Metro”:

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet black bough.

14

No ideas but in things.
       —William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow” has become equally important for modern and contemporary poetry. This tiny poem is actually a fragment from a longer poem and was given its title by others. The fragment states that “so much depends” upon a rain-water glazed wheelbarrow beside white chickens. When the conundrum the poem poses is answered or understood—that is, what is this “so much”?—the student’s face may break into a look of dawning revelation. Not a breakthrough into Satori, but close.

15

Satori. Sudden enlightenment and a state of consciousness attained by intuitive illumination representing the spiritual goal of Zen Buddhism. Rhymes with Satori: backstory, centaury, clerestory, fish story, ghost story, John Dory, Noyori, Old Glory, outlawry, self-glory, short story, sob story, vainglory, war story.
       —Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary

16

Everything depends on one’s ability to realize a thing for what it is, not to think about the red wheelbarrow, not to read the poem as symbolic, but just to see the thing itself. Ideally, if one can do this, she or he will be mindfully in the Present, desireless, at least momentarily free from suffering.

17

The main admonition given by almost all poets and poetry writing teachers in the last one hundred years: “Show, don’t tell.”

18

The entirety of Buddha’s Flower Sermon was Buddha simply holding up a flower and smiling at the assembled audience.

19

Poetry is a way of revealing the strangeness in the ordinary and the ordinary in the strange. For this, Mindfulness or acute attention is necessary.

20

From “Sandpiper” by Elizabeth Bishop:

The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.

Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.

21

From “Hamlen Brook,” by Richard Wilbur, in which a trout swims …

Beneath a sliding glass
Crazed by the skimming of a brush
Of burnished dragon-flies across its face
In which deep cloudlets pass
And a white precipice
Of mirrored birch trees plunges down.

22

From “Spiderweb,” by Kay Ryan:

From other
angles the
fibers look
fragile, but
not from the
spider’s always
hauling coarse
rope, hitching
lines to the
best posts
possible.

23

Acute seeing and describing is transformational. A poem, one might say, can be a locking device, catching and holding something in a certain way for all time, so that one can never look at a familiar thing the same way again.

24

Buddhism calls for this way of experiencing, also, with such famous admonitions as (before enlightenment), “Chop wood, carry water” (after enlightenment), “Chop wood, carry water.”

25

Always the specific. To do things with great attention to the smallest detail, to the sacredness of things, which is also the mark of true craft in Zen Buddhism, in poetry, and in living.

26

As for finding the Familiar in the Strange, over and over poems seek to illuminate. Marianne Moore’s “Poetry” asked for “imaginary gardens with real toads in them.” In Emily Dickinson, it’s the fly “with blue, unstumbling buzz” in the deathbed room. And what is more strange than Death.

27

In a poem we might identify as Zen Buddhist there’s forever an element of actual calm or stillness or silence. The entire poem may create such a sense, as do many haikus, and many of Arthur Waley’s great translations.

28

IN THE MOUNTAINS ON A SUMMER DAY

Gently I stir a white feather fan,
With open shirt sitting in a green wood.
I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone;
A wind from the pine-trees trickles on my bare head.
       —Li Po, translated by Arthur Waley

29

In Arthur Waley’s translations, which could be called versions and are sometimes regarded as poems by Waley as much as by the poet he’s translating, a part of the stillness and calm is created by the use of end\ stops, many lines being complete sentences. Enjambment is used infrequently. Such handling of lines creates a quiet painting effect, as if after each line is painted (here we are close to Asian languages’ use of calligraphy) the artist steps back, considering, before he or she adds another brushstroke line.

30

James Wright used a similar technique in “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota” (note how the poem’s title echoes titles of Chinese and Japanese poems and paintings). This is from that poem’s closure:

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

31

Slow down, you move too fast.
Got to make the morning last.
       —from “59th Street Bridge Song,” by Simon and Garfunkle

32

When I find myself in times of troubles, mother Mary comes to me,
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.
       —from “Let It Be,” by The Beatles

33

The famous way of jarring a Zen Buddhist disciple, or anyone for that matter, into Satori is with a koan. The most famous one:

Two hands clap and there is a sound.
What is the sound of one hand?
       —Hakuin Ekaku

34

The “key” to “answering” a koan is to discard reason, discard all attempts to find a rational answer to the question and simply let the answer happen. For some, the answer to the koan of the one hand clap might be “Libby’s Peaches!” or “The man fell off the cliff ” or “You forgot to feed the cat.” Whatever it is, the one posing the question will immediately know if the answer is “right,” as will the person who provides the answer.

35

I am doing the impossible, trying to explain the irrational.

Which can’t be explained. But of course it can be.

36

Here is a basic assumption: As in the Book of Job and to some extent in Ecclesiastes, the Nature of the Universe is unknowable except by God (as narrowly or widely defined). There are no Absolutes, but since the saying of this is itself an Absolute, it has to be phrased differently: There both are and are not Absolutes. Yet even that can be construed as an Absolute statement, so maybe the closest we can come is There are and are not Absolutes and this statement seems to be both true and untrue.

37

The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle (italics below are mine):

uncertainty principle, physical principle, enunciated by Werner Heisenberg in 1927, that places an absolute, theoretical limit on the combined accuracy of certain pairs of simultaneous, related measurements. The accuracy of a measurement is given by the uncertainty in the result; if the measurement is exact, the uncertainty is zero. According to the uncertainty principle, the mathematical product of the combined uncertainties of simultaneous measurements of position and momentum in a given direction cannot be less than Planck’s constant h divided by 4π. The principle also limits the accuracies of simultaneous measurements of energy and of the time required to make the energy measurement. The value of Planck’s constant is extremely small, so that the effect of the limitations imposed by the uncertainty principle are not noticeable on the large scale of ordinary measurements; however, on the scale of atoms and elementary particles the effect of the uncertainty principle is very important. Because of the uncertainties existing at this level, a picture of the submicroscopic world emerges as one of statistical probabilities rather than measurable certainties. On the large scale it is still possible to speak of causality in a framework described in terms of space and time; on the atomic scale this is not possible. Such a description would require exact measurements of such quantities as position, speed, energy, and time, and these quantities cannot be measured exactly because of the uncertainty principle. It does not limit the accuracy of single measurements, of nonsimultaneous measurements, or of simultaneous measurements of pairs of quantities other than those specifically restricted by the principle. Even so, its restrictions are sufficient to prevent scientists from being able to make absolute predictions about future states of the system being studied. The uncertainty principle has been elevated by some thinkers to the status of a philosophical principle, called the principle of indeterminacy, which has been taken by some to limit causality in general.
       —Columbia Encyclopedia

38

The medium is the message.
       —Marshall McLuhan

39

Popularized understandings of contemporary physics and quantum mechanics theories are in effect Memes which point to Non-Dualism rather than Dualism as being the basic nature of the universe. The basic tenets of the West’s three major monotheistic religions, Christianity,
Judaism and Islam, are dualistic, whereas the basic tenets of Buddhism are not.

However, the core mysticism elements in Western religions are non-dualistic.

40

The double-slit experiment, sometimes called Young’s experiment, is a demonstration that matter and energy can display characteristics of both waves and particles. In the basic version of the experiment, a coherent light source such as a laser beam illuminates a thin plate pierced by two parallel slits, and the light passing through the slits is observed on a screen behind the plate. The wave nature of light causes the light waves passing through the two slits to interfere, producing bright and dark bands on the screen—a result that would not be expected if light consisted strictly of particles. However, at the screen, the light is always found to be absorbed as though it were composed of discrete particles or photons. This establishes the principle known as wave–particle duality.
       —Wikipedia

A quote I may have somewhat disremembered from the original Hawaii Five-O, as said by Jack Lord: “That’s the Yin and Yang of it, Dann-0.

41

       E=mc2

42

From the t-shirt advertisement, “Does Schrödinger’s Cat Live?”:

Every student of physics knows that Schrödinger’s 1935 paper regarding a hypothetical paradox involving a cat has perplexed and annoyed physics geeks for years. The basic idea; If the outcome of a circumstance is presently unknown and by observing the circumstance you will disrupt it, then it exists in all possible states simultaneously … Don’t get it? We propose the following thought experiment: Give your friend enough money to purchase the “Schrödinger’s Cat” shirt (don’t forget the shipping). Tell your friend to take the money and lock himself in a room with a cigarette lighter. Let your friend know that once in the room he is to randomly choose either to burn the money, or return in five minutes with the money intact. We emphasize that this must be completely random (aka, impossible for a human to determine, but bear with us). Your friend must then stay in this box for eternity. Hey, that’s how thought experiments work. Hopefully he/she is OK with that. Since you have no idea whether your friend will destroy the money, you will simultaneously either lose or recover that money. So in a quantum sense, if you extend that logic, you will simultaneously either be able to purchase or not purchase this very t-shirt which enabled you to make the choice in the first place. Isn’t physics fun? 100% cotton heavyweight t-shirt in black with “Schrödinger’s Cat is Dead” on the front and “Schrödinger’s Cat is Not Dead” on the back …
       —ThinkGeek, Online

43

The Observer in the act of observing affects that which is being observed.

O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance
       —from “Among School Children” by W.B. Yeats

44

Even though the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, the Double-Split Experiment and the Schrödinger’s Cat Experiment apply to microcosms and not really to macrocosms, the metaphors they provide significantly affect human consciousness concerning the Truth of Existence.

45

The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, the Double-Slit Experiment, and the Schrödinger’s Cat Experiment, as popularly somewhat understood, lead to the 21st Century’s increasing assumption that the basic nature of the universe is unknowable, absurd, chaotic, random, governed by chance and whim.

Or Zen.

46

Add Chaos and Complexity Theory: Edward Lorenz, Chaos Theory’s first experimenter, discovered and proved that small changes in initial conditions, such as a butterfly flapping its wings in southern Iowa, produce large changes in long term outcomes. Whether or not the butterfly flaps its wings causes, ten days later, a lightning and thunderstorm in Connecticut on a previously balmy day. Or not.

47

Chaos theory may also apply to cause and effect, or karma.

48

Chaos theory, some say, may explain the occurrences of wars.

49

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one’s own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn’t, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn’t have to; but if he didn’t want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

“That’s some catch, that Catch-22,” he observed.

“It’s the best there is,” Doc Daneeka agreed.
       —Catch-22, Joseph Heller

50

Reasonlessness is important in Buddhism. We’re not to waste our time on the unknowable and unfathomable and must just accept it. If we can get out of the way the futile struggle to rationally explain the irrational, if we can accept that the Nature of the Universe is Absurd, we might be able to deal with more manageable matters, such as how to “eliminate” suffering through the application of the Eightfold Path.

Modern and contemporary poetry written with a Buddhist-like sensibility is greatly distanced from the likes of rational satires of Alexander Pope.

51

The use of Surrealism or New Surrealism in contemporary poetry, consciously or subconsciously on the part of the poet, reflects a basic assumption about unknowability. A surrealistic effect in a poem, albeit in a minor way, leads to a dissonance in the senses, a derangement that can cause the poem’s reader to suddenly see things in a new and different way.

52

Since in New Surrealism, the assumption is that the basic Nature of the Universe is absurd, satire is directed at those who don’t believe things have changed, at those who irrationally believe the world can be explained by rational means.

53

“There is a concatenation of all events in the best of possible worlds; for, in short, had you not been kicked out of a fine castle for the love of Miss Cunegund; had you not been put into the Inquisition; had you not traveled over America on foot; had you not run the Baron through the body; and had you not lost all your sheep, which you brought from the good country of El Dorado, you would not have been here to eat preserved citrons and pistachio nuts.”

“Excellently observed,” answered Candide; “but let us cultivate our garden.”
       —Candide, by Voltaire

54

And you know something is happening
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
       —from “Ballad of a Thin Man,” Bob Dylan

55

For Western readers, something as simple as the inclusion of an exotic word or phrase from China or Japan has the effect of deranging the senses, the use of the exotic suddenly plunging the poem’s reader into an alternate reality.

T.S. Eliot ends “The Wasteland” with “Shantih shantih shantih” or, as translated, “The Peace that passeth understanding.”

56

Version 1:

       Let us gaze off into the mountains
       Where mist is rising.

Version 2:

       Let us gaze off into the Quinling Mountains
       Where mist is rising.

Version 3:

       Let us gaze off into the Adirondack Mountains
       Where mist is rising.

Why is “Version 2” so much more moving than “Version 3”?

How can the feeling of “Version 2” be rendered in a contemporary American poem?

57

Seldom remarked upon but often present is how inexpensive and convenient poetry is. You can hear it for nothing. You can carry it around in your head—or on a small piece of paper if you wish—from place to place, state to state, country to country. You can memorize it and keep it forever. At the drop of a hat, you can say it out loud for its content, for its feeling, for how the words roll around upon and drop off your tongue.

58

Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
      —Alfred, Lord Tennison

THE RHODORA
On being asked, whence is the flower

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.
       —Ralph Waldo Emerson

59

Orientalism and mysticism. Emerson owned an extensive library of Oriental literature in translation and was well versed in the texts and sacred writings of Hinduism (the Vedas and Upanishads), Buddhism, Confusianism, and Islam. Thoreau was introduced to Oriental religion and literature at Harvard and maintained an avid interest in Eastern spiritual lore throughout his life. Whitman’s interest in the Orient, though less formal and disciplined, was just as keen as that of Emerson and Thoreau, as is evident from even a cursory reading of Leaves of Grass. In addition to their belief in cosmic unity, in the ultimate interconnection and harmony of all things, these authors also absorbed from their Oriental sources the view that the phenomenal world—Nature—is a sort of Mayan veil which partly reveals, partly conceals, an ultimate Oneness.
       —David L. Simpson, “Transcendentalism,” Online

60

Over and over, poetry calls attention to eternal things that don’t have to be purchased, particularly things in Nature such as Wordsworthian daffodils, the Frostian deer in Frost’s “Two Look at Two,” the trout in Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Fish.”

61

Easily recognizable is how Buddhism stresses desirelessness as it seeks to mitigate Dukkha (suffering) by its Seven Noble Truths. Buddhism identifies the cause for Dukkha as desire, craving, wanting things to be different from what they are, letting ourselves be attached to things.

Buddhism is often called a philosophy of non-Attachment.

62

I got plenty of nothin’
And nothin’ plenty for me
I got no car, got no mule,
And I got no misery

Seems with plenty,
That you sure got to worry
How to keep the devil away …
       —from Porgy & Bess, by Ira Gershwin and DuBose Heyward

63

The recognitions and acceptances of Wholeness, Reasonlessness, Mindfulness, Calmness as fundamental recognitions and acceptances of things for what they are rather than what can be read into them may lead to the further recognition and acceptance of Desirelessness.

64

A reason why meditation is so stressed in Buddhism, especially in zazen, is because it encourages the practitioner to become enraptured with only the Present. In meditation, thoughts—especially thoughts of the Past and the Future—are brushed away. The more they fade the more tranquility is achieved.

65

Many aspects common to Buddhism and poetry encourage the practitioner or reader (who may be the same) to live in the Present. True Mindfulness is only possible if all one’s attention is focused on the Present, for no one can fully and truly have the experience of plum tasting, for instance, without being all-at-once here.

66

From “This Is Just to Say” by William Carlos Williams:

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

67

The word “Present” contains within itself both itself as a state of time and itself as a gift.

68

To stay in the Present is in some ways like letting a Lifesaver or small hard candy dissolve in your mouth. Initially, most can do this, sucking on the sweetness. Soon, however, as the lozenge is further dissolved and diminished, the impulse to use the teeth to crunch and chew it is almost irresistible. It requires either a major effort of will to allow the lozenge to become nothing or it requires an utter Calmness, acceptance of what is, a Desirelessness.

69

When I was just out of graduate school, my wife and I bought an inexpensive limited edition of a Giacometti print. It is an utterly simple line drawing of a tall, thin figure.

Easy, I scoffed, and sat about trying to draw an equivalent on the sketchpad I’d bought for that purpose.

Hundreds of attempts later, I gave up.

I could copy, I could approximate, but I couldn’t imbue my sketches with the feeling Giacometti had bought to his.

Anyone trying to draw an ensō will likely feel the same frustration.

69

Ensō is a Japanese word meaning “circle” and a concept strongly associated with Zen. Ensō is one of the most common subjects of Japanese calligraphy even though it is a symbol and not a character. It symbolizes the Absolute, enlightenment, strength, elegance, the Universe, and the void; it can also symbolize the Japanese aesthetic itself. As an “expression of the moment” it is often considered a form of minimalist expressionist art.

In Zen Buddhist painting, ensō symbolizes a moment when the mind is free to simply let the body/spirit create. The brushed ink of the circle is usually done on silk or rice paper in one movement (but the great Bankei used two strokes sometimes) and there is no possibility of modification: it shows the expressive movement of the spirit at that time. Zen Buddhists “believe that the character of the artist is fully exposed in how she or he draws an ensō. Only a person who is mentally and spiritually complete can draw a true ensō. Some artists will practice drawing an ensō daily, as a kind of spiritual exercise.”1 Some artists paint ensō with an opening in the circle, while others complete the circle. For the former, the opening may express various ideas, for example that the ensō is not separate, but is part of something greater, or that imperfection is an essential and inherent aspect of existence (see also the idea of broken symmetry). The principle of controlling the balance of composition through asymmetry and irregularity is an important aspect of the Japanese aesthetic: Fukinsei, the denial of perfection. The ensō is also a sacred symbol in the Zen school of Buddhism, and is often used by Zen masters as a form of signature in their religious artwork.
       —Wikipedia

1 Seo, Audrey Yoshiko; Loori, John Daido (2009). Ensō: Zen Circles of Enlightenment. Weatherhill. ISBN 1-59030-608-2.

71

Those who have tried writing English language haiku, with the commonly prescribed 5-7-5 structure, will know what I’m going to say: It is quite easy to write a haiku. Follow the syllable structure. Put in a season. Use specific imagery. Include something that looks like it will be or is a sudden realization and Shazam, you’ve got it.

Haiku writing, in Japan, is a favorite exercise and even party game for many, including members of garden clubs.

In America, it’s a favorite poem writing exercise for kindergarten children.

Millions and millions and millions of haiku!

Yet almost none are the real thing.

It is this proliferation, this spawn of haikus, that I suspect is the main cause for American Zen Buddhist poetry not being taken very seriously—a case of the okay drowning out the best.

72

American haiku, tanka, and forms derived from them and similar to them have, with a few notable exceptions, always seemed to me to be faux poetry, suffering particularly from being pseudo-profound. There are too many little gasps of wonder I associate with New Agers. It is oh so meaningful. There’s an air of reverence about it which smacks of arrogant self-approval. It feels worked. It feels thought. Or if it’s felt, what’s felt, sadly, is a cliché or an easy clichéd phrase. There’s nothing really held back as there is in all genuine poetry. It’s a stab, rather than a caress. Or, alternately, there’s no zaniness to it, no crazy wisdom.

73

As I get older, the less and less interested I am in writing poems the Past, and in writing nostalgic or elegiac poems. This may be a of my Buddhism, my continual attempts to live in the Present.

74

At a poetry conference, during a workshop I’m conducting, we’re discussing what makes a poem “contemporary” and “universal.” For the former, it may be that an awareness of technology and some acknowledgement or inclusion of technology and its impact on society is necessary. For the latter, perhaps the English language poem should use rhyme/meter? But the really interesting part of the discussion comes when someone says that “universal poetry is pastoral poetry.”

Is Buddhist or Zen Buddhist poetry a kind of pastoral poetry?

75

If you take away the shepherds and the cows, is traditional Buddhist poetry, with its misty mountains, steep mountain paths, monks’ huts, single leaves floating on the river, calmness, tranquility, lack of deep desire for other than the Present (so long as there is wine and visiting friends), heavily or primarily pastoral?

76

In the end is my beginning.
       —from “The Four Quartets” by T.S. Eliot

77

IN RESPONSE TO A REQUEST TO
“EXPLAIN THE SECRET OF TEACHING”

If I explained aloud, then it wouldn’t be a true explanation,
And if I transmitted it on paper, then where would be the secret?
At a western window on a rainy autumn night
White hair in the guttering lamplight, asleep facing the bed.
       —Gido Shushin, translated by David Pollack

78

The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain,
The bear went over the mountain
       To see what he could see

       To see what he could see,
       To see what he could see.

The other side of the mountain,
The other side of the mountain,
The other side of the mountain
       Was all that he could see.

       Was all that he could see,
       Was all that he could see,
The other side of the mountain,
       Was all that he could see!
             —Author Unknown

from Rattle #36, Winter 2011
Tribute to Buddhist Poets

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March 2, 2010

FIRST BOOK INTERVIEW WITH MICHELLE BITTINGGood Friday Kiss by Michelle Bitting
by
Timothy Green


Note: The following interview was conducted by
email through January and February of 2009.

GREEN: Let’s start with you. Was there a moment you realized that poetry was something you’d pursue seriously? That you’d actually be a poet with a book? My own first book just kind of gradually materialized, but there was a specific poem I wrote in an undergraduate workshop where something clicked—for the first time I really accessed that inner creativity, and I graduated from writing lines to really chasing poetry. Not that it was good, but something was different. Did you ever have an experience like that, or is poetry something you always knew would be a part of you?

BITTING: You know I’ve always felt like I was supposed to do something in the arts, but it wasn’t so clear which medium was mine for the long run, which one I’d like to take to the grave, until a few years ago. I sang in church in elementary school and in junior high and, just to embarrass and freak myself out, asked if I could sing “What I Did For Love” from A Chorus Line at the all school assembly. I acted in college and had a career as a dancer in my twenties. Yes, I wrote poetry, I had the poetic haunting when I was younger, but it really hit me, and I mean in the old cliché “by lightning” way, just after I had my first kid. Everything I’ve done in the arts and even my time as a chef led me to taking up the pen for real. The big epiphany in terms of believing I might have a book someday came as I passed the twenty-poem “keeper pile” benchmark, and began to see the stirrings of a bona fide compilation. Of course, most of those poems were eventually thrown out by the time I got to Good Friday Kiss. Getting acceptance letters from Stellasue (Rattle) and Hilda Raz (Prairie Schooner) in the beginning stoked my fires, big time, and I certainly won’t forget the day I was dropping my son off at his therapeutic preschool and got a call from the folks at Glimmer Train saying my poem “Trees” had won first place in their contest. Publishing isn’t everything, but it does incite a desire to carry on.

GREEN: That’s something a lot of people try to deny, I think—that there are rewards beyond the writing itself that matter. Looking at the back of the book, several poems have won individual awards; I believe your chapbook, Blue Laws, won a contest by Finishing Line Press. And Good Friday Kiss, itself, of course, was published as winner of C&R Press’s first annual De Novo Award. Obviously you must be happy with the contest experience, having had so much success, but would you recommend that route for other young poets? Were there times that you doubted whether or not it was worth the investment? And now that you have a book under your belt, are you going to continue entering them with new work?

BITTING: Sure, I’ll keep submitting to contests—why not join in the fun? I don’t send as much as I used to, mainly because I wait for prizes offered by journals where I’d really like to see my work published, places that like to print some or all of their finalists. The entry fees really add up, yes, this is another factor, so I’m pickier about when and where I throw my money and words into the big spin. I think it’s great that Rattle is able to offer such a hefty purse for its annual prize. I mean, you could actually live off that money for a couple months and write! How dreamy is that? And I’ll bet you receive a ton of spectacular poems, people saving their best stuff to submit in hopes of winning five grand. The poem that took first place this year, Joseph Fasano’s “Mahler in New York,” was breathtaking.

GREEN: Ha, I asked that question and completely forgot that we have our own contest! Let me ask one more thing before we dive inside the book itself—had the manuscript Good Friday Kiss that won C&R’s prize changed significantly from the first time you submitted it to a press? In other words, do you feel like the original manuscript was different from the book you have now? And if so, does that mean the contest process itself was constructive, in forcing you to self-edit?

BITTING: Yes! That’s one of the huge benefits of entering book contests, the hardcore editing eye it encourages. Every time you submit you ask the questions all over again, and anything that doesn’t fly can eventually no longer be ignored. The baby lived through two different titles before finding its name, Good Friday Kiss, and shed half the poems along the way. It took a few years to get it right, and frankly, I could have waited longer than I did to start sending the manuscript around, but them’s the hazards of being new and over eager. On the other hand, the earlier versions did place in several contests, so I was encouraged to keep at it and improve the material.

GREEN: This is a nice segue into what I’m most interested in—the evolution of the book, how it went from, as you said, a twenty-poem “keeper-pile” to a full-fledged and strongly themed book. As it’s published, there are five sections, each dealing with a different one of your relationships: brother, son, daughter, lovers, and finally yourself. When and how did that organizational structure emerge?

BITTING: Most of my early poems were about motherhood and dealing with my brother’s death. The psychological compression of suddenly being “confined” with a baby, and in the wake of a sibling’s suicide, triggered a survival-instinct need to write, I mean, it really was a lightening to the skull kind of phenomenon. The release and freedom and wisdom that I gleaned through the journey inside made life bearable, and miraculously, my little world of triumphs and trials became relevant to more than just me. So my subjects presented themselves like saints on burning stakes, their hair of smoke and flame—you know, I couldn’t ignore them! And then over time it became clear which one of these poems belonged with the other. For a while I wasn’t sure about putting the heavy brother and childhood poems in the front and then moving away from that to the domestic and sexual poems, or about placing all the poems about my son in one section. I tried mixing them all up, but it felt weird and disjointed, and I liked the idea of moving from the darker, intensely personal, childhood-related stuff to sections that contain more poems of awareness and connection with the world beyond my sticky cocoon.

GREEN: Well, if I might say, I think the arrangement really works. The darker content at the beginning haunts and informs the brighter world you’re walking into. How long after your brother’s death did you begin writing about it? Did you show those poems to anyone at first, or were they just for you?

BITTING: I’m glad you think so! The breakthrough poem on the subject of my brother was my poem “Trees” and I wrote that in 2001, about six years after his suicide. That one brewed for a good long time and then was triggered, released from its dormancy, when we were having some tree-trimming work done at my house, when our kids were babies. It came down with the overgrown limbs, you could say. I’ve written other poems about my brother, some shared, some not, but that was the ringer and I could never have written it immediately after his death. Some people can do that, maybe as you become more of a master, but I know I need eye- and heart- adjustment time when the really big shit hits the fan.

GREEN: Tell me more about that wisdom you gleaned from writing. Is there a specific a poem that was particularly revelatory for you? Particularly cathartic?

BITTING: You know, again, I have to name “Trees” as a pivotal poem as far as acknowledging the redemptive and cathartic power of writing poetry. There are numerous poems, well, the whole book Good Friday Kiss, really, is a huge purge and hopefully artfully executed enough to be meaningful to others, beyond my personal experience. But that poem, which won the Glimmer Train Poetry Open (the last year the contest existed) made something lovely and transcendent out of a truly ugly, terrifying and bleak occurrence. At that moment, I understood what could happen, and the more I write, the better I become at writing through the storms, to gain insight and connect with a greater self when the immediate nail-biting, cigarette-lusting one is overwhelmed by life. When I fall to pieces and need art to re-assemble my scattered self. I love how Palestinian poet Ibrahim Nasrallah puts it: “Writing is our best opportunity to understand ourselves clearly. Therefore, the secret of writing resides in the fact that we become whole in the act of writing, unlike any other moment in life.” I think that’s so right on! And he should know, writing such soaring, beautiful verse under the worst of circumstances.

GREEN: One of my favorite books on writing is actually a children’s book, Salman Rushdie’s Haroun and the Sea of Stories. The metaphor is that the mind is a sea—your consciousness is all you can know from the surface; you can read the currents, feel the waves knocking your boat around, glimpse the occasional fin of a shark… But writers are fisherman, throwing out lines and pulling up all the mysteries of the deep. Maybe even slaying some of the beasts that stalk us. I can’t help but think of how that metaphor works in another way, with poems like “The Sacrifice,” which we originally published in Rattle #27. When you sent us the poem, about a mother staying up late to sew her daughter’s Isadora Duncan costume for a school play, it was a powerful and emotionally charged piece, but without knowing the context, it seemed the subject was simply domesticity. The parent’s affect muzzled out of necessity. Obviously the mother was struggling through something, but we didn’t know what. Given the context of your brother’s death, the reference to Duncan’s drowned children is suddenly no longer figurative—and that final line, which we always loved, becomes brutal: The mother watching the daughter on stage doing “the hard, privileged work of feeling for both us.” Here you are, pulling this beautiful beast out of the inky sea, and we didn’t even know what we were really looking at. Which again demonstrates that this is a book, rather than just a collection of poems. This is a long build-up to what might be a very short question: How did your mother respond to “The Sacrifice,” which in the end is really a heartfelt “thank you”? And how has the rest of your family reacted to the subject matter of book?

BITTING: I’m glad you see it as a thank you—how great! I’m reminded of that signature poem by Sharon Olds: “Station” where she says: “We spent a long moment/ in the truth of our situation, the poems/ heavy as poached game hanging from my hands.” I certainly had that moment of recognition when I was writing “The Sacrifice.” I was looking at, and discovering, in retrospect, what my job or function or duty as a family member was, even from an early age and via a number of mediums, as a channel for what others could not express. There’s your beast, your shark fin, your “mysteries of the deep” or what Olds refers to as “poached game,” I guess. When it’s accurate it’s always deadly beautiful, a little dangerous—isn’t it? In a family of extreme and often wildly fluctuating emotional energy, you choose your armor: a costume, a box of paints, a guitar, etc… For my family still living, I hope they can accept this bringing forth of the darkness as a good, positive, redemptive thing. A rough song strung with barbed-wire notes, but one of grace, nonetheless. That may be too much to ask. I believe my mother is proud and, understandably, a little freaked out. I hope to write more poems of blatant praise, in time.

GREEN: Megan pointed out that the broadest theme of the book might be the inability to escape one’s physical body, for better or worse. All of the characters, yourself included, seem to be dealing in various ways with the biological cards they’ve been given, some trying to escape, others trying to accept. Were you conscious of that theme as the book was coming together, or was it something that only emerged later? And what do you think draws you to that subject?

BITTING: Yes, to escape the body by diving deeply into it, right? In this country, we do not love, I mean, truly love, the body enough. Hopefully, it’s going to turn around, this un-Whitmanesque loathing slash obsession and profound irreverence for and inability to accept the flesh. I know a progressive Episcopalian priest who acknowledges what spiritual damage is being done and the need for a more joyful, embraced sexuality among his congregants. The extreme exploitation and demonization of the body, the projection of what’s taboo and sacred in the most backward, repressed ways, is the source of some pretty twisted behavior and legislation in this country. I suppose I’m writing through the body to become one with it, and at the end of that is freedom, release. Ultimately, there’s no denying the terrors and beauty of the body.

GREEN: Last question—what’s next? That might be harder to answer than it seems; I’ve talked with a lot of poets about the sophomore slump—birthing your first baby is such a momentous process, that you’re left with a kind of post-partum depression. Or maybe just a sense of being lost, overwhelmed by all the possible directions you could go. Are you feeling that, or is the path ahead already clear for you?

BITTING: No, it’s not so clear at all, though I’m not feeling the debilitating post-partum effect so severely because I had a semester of an MFA to finish up when the book came out, so my energy was focused there. Now that I’ve completed it I’m a bit at sea, yes, but not exclusively due to the after book-birth let-down. I’m so caught up at the moment with sheer survival and figuring out how to take care of my family, I guess you could say I’ve got some hardcore distractions. It is becoming arrestingly clear that I have more than enough material for a new book, so I will have to spend some time puzzling together a manuscript in the not too distant future, and I look forward to doing that. My head and heart are so full at the moment, and I’m really looking at other artist’s work, trying to figure out ways to write that are true for me but not necessarily in the same, comfortable vein I’m accustomed to. Right now, it’s crucial I just find time to write and that the lines surprise and move me in ways I didn’t expect.

GREEN: Thanks, Michelle, this has been a pleasure.

BITTING: The pleasure is mine. All good things to you and Rattle!

from Rattle e.6, Spring 2009 (PDF)

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