May 6, 2024

Tony Gloeggler

ALL OF THEM

Down Syndrome Larry, my favorite
guy in the residence, the perfect
blend of Pillsbury Dough Boy
and Charlie Chaplin, all gap toothed
grins, warm cuddles and charm
bowing to kiss my aunt’s hand
when she gave him a silver dollar
the Christmas I brought him home,
pirouetting anytime a pretty girl
walked by on Smith Street. Making
faces, silly sounds for store owners,
the free zeppoles, black and white
cookies, Italian ices rolled in. Robert,
nicknamed Notre Dame after
the hunchback, bouncing along
like a string puppet and smiling
constantly, saying hello to everyone,
thank you, whenever someone
did anything, answering yes
to every question posed his way,
always got extra help, the most
attention from new workers. Others,
like Jimmy, never had a chance.
Hulking, plodding and drooling
like a fountain that never granted
anyone’s wishes, grabbing your arm,
only letting go after a tug of war,
his spit drying on you, stinking
the rest of the day. Still, Ethel,
Jose, Riviezzio loved him best
while I shook my head, baffled.
Be careful with James, the silent
type going about his business, big
and powerful, quietly creating
collages or scrolling on his iPad,
sweeping the floor, doing laundry,
emptying the garbage. Easy to forget
the times he exploded, overturning
his desk, the refrigerator, hurling
utensils at the ceiling lights, cracking
his teeth chewing on the area rug
in a rage. Still, he was the top
draft choice whenever anyone
wanted Dunkin’ Donuts, a soda
from the corner bodega, or took
a ride to fill up the van, pick up
prescriptions, the perfect guy
to sit shotgun, tap along to whoever’s
favorite station, carrying packages
and opening doors. Then there’s John.
Visitors, acquaintances love him.
He remembers everyone’s name,
smiles all the time, makes cocktail
conversation like he’s running
for office, never admits he had
a bad day, takes five minutes
to ask a question, twice as long
to make a decision. Sometimes,
I get so bored with him I need
to scream. I’m tempted to tell him
to shut the fuck up, never come
to my office except in an emergency
until I remember the time I stood
at the top of the staircase, heard him
grumble his way down about all
the fucking bullshit he puts up with
every damn day, that fucking Tony
breaking his balls. All of them. Like
me and you, like everyone we know.
 

from Rattle #83, Spring 2024

__________

Tony Gloeggler: “I started writing poetry because I was always pretty quiet and no one was really talking about things I was feeling and thinking. Trying to turn my thoughts into a poem helped me understand myself and how I fit and didn’t fit in the world. That’s still what I’m doing whenever I write. This one’s about the guys in the group home I managed (the place I fit best, where things made the most sense) and how so few people outside the residence viewed them like they viewed anyone else, how they’re mostly just like everybody else. A little nicer or nuttier, funnier, weirder, less guarded. How a couple of them are two of my favorite people ever, how they could sometimes annoy the crap out of me. And how I miss them (apologies to Lee and Florencio for not letting them in the poem but luckily they don’t read poetry just like nearly everybody else) and the staff. Especially Larry.” (web)

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May 5, 2024

John Arthur

I REACHED OUT AND AM AWAITING A RESPONSE

I’m the Lebron James
of local bureaucrats.
Give me a project
and I’ll manage it
step by step like a PMP
using the waterfall method.
I’m shooting eighty-three
percent with these
crumpled up reports,
my desk as a backboard
for this waste paper basket.
I’ve got ninety-nine
passwords stored in
my head and I can
estimate the total
square footage of a building
with just one glance.
I rotate the same
two pairs of pants.
And once per year
when I go to France
I refuse to check
my email. Someone else
can pick up the refuse.
I’m just eating snails
and strolling Montmarte
buying street art
which I’ll hang
from the walls
of my cubicle in city hall
hoping someone will ask
where I found it
but no one ever does
and look, it’s not that
I’m trying to stall
it’s just for each decision
I’ve gotta call
a committee. This shit
is still a democracy
even when the ballots
are clouded with Meta’s
pixelated prop gun smoke
and I denote
I shall not poke
the sleeping commissioner
who right now is bumbling
through a speech
written by a Rutgers
college intern who uses AI
to craft policy briefs
in their briefs and listen,
everyone knows New Jersey
spends the most
per square mile
on repaving its roads.
Pot holes like pock marks
on my face. With legal pot
to fill any shortfalls
in our budgets
which barely budge
even when everyone’s
taxes go up
faster than a luxury
apartment complex.
And before nodding
out I hear your voice
again and again saying
Yes, please hold,
I’ll transfer you now.
 

from Poets Respond
May 5, 2024

__________

John Arthur: “The Lakers lost in the NBA playoffs and my news feeds have been inundated with debate over whether Lebron James is the greatest basketball player of all time or whether it’s Michael Jordan. That prompted the ‘I’m the Lebron James of local bureaucrats’ opening, and the rest of the poem just came out basically as is. By the way, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is the greatest of all time.”

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May 4, 2024

Lynne Thompson

PSALM FOR WORKING WOMEN

A microwave is my savior; I shall not starve.

It alloweth me to eat quickly. It leadeth me
to purchase Stouffers in bulk.

It restoreth dehydrated onions. It delivers me
from pre-heating for pre-heating’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley
of canned goods, I shall fear no tin containers
for plastics art with me and glass and ceramics,
they comfort me.

It preparest a roast turkey in thirty-six minutes;
four for carrots when they’re ’waved on HIGH.
My rumaki comes out crisp.

Surely, defrosting and warming shall follow me
all the days of my life and I shall dwell
in the land of a Hotpoint forever.

from Rattle #23, Summer 2009
Tribute to Lawyer Poets

__________

Lynne Thompson: “Although I was a civil litigator for more than fourteen years, the practice of law seldom, if ever, enters my poems. It’s as though that person has gone off for a long (and well-deserved) sleep and this poet—always bemused—has taken her place. I like her.” (web)

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May 1, 2024

Luigi Coppola

A STEP-BY-STEP GUIDE TO BUYING A HOME

1. Decide if buying a home is right for you
Tomorrow morning, wake at dawn and look up at the sky
consider if it might fall, crack open and/or turn
and whether you ever want to see it again.
 
2. Decide if you should sell first
In your head, price tag your belongings, weigh up
the weights in your life and wait to see if they add up
to a mass that has value, a total that others would want.
 
3. Decide on your budget
Is that total, the sum of your life’s worth anything
to anyone? Does it hold up to your self-worth
and is it worth more or less than your intangible parts?
 
4. Get your finances in place
Stack coins in order of cleanliness,
notes in order of softness
cheques in order of love.
 
5. Decide where you want to live
Compare the surface of the sun with the moon,
dredge up the pond and place the fish on the line,
breathe in the air from every continent before dying.
 
6. Choose a specific property
Make sure to lick each brick and twang the aerial,
consider the lives that have passed by and if they looked
in the window, imagined themselves living in the living room.
 
7. Make an offer – and get it accepted
Offer skin, offer tea cosies, offer light,
offer the tie around your neck, offer offal,
offer more than you have by one single petal.
 
8. Arrange a mortgage
Turn left at the hospital, go past the charity shop,
turn right at the pharmacist, round the back of the library,
opposite the primary school—there you’ll find the devil’s door.
 
9. Hire a solicitor or conveyancer
File down a lucky coin and drag it along your palm,
let the blood settle on tissue paper, the iron
and fibres embracing on their desk.
 
10. Decide if you want a survey
See! The cracks! Hear! The mice!
Smell! The damp! Taste! The dust!
Touch! The emptiness in every room!
 
11. Arrange a deposit
Gather your friends and family, sit them
around a fire, build that fire to the tallest tree
and ask them to collect every ash flake.
 
12. Exchange contracts
Eyes – Fish Tank – Rollerblades – Steak
– Cape – Hatred – Job – Subordinates – Balaklava –
Cocktails – Horses (contracts exchanged)
 
13. Final arrangements and negotiations
I was engaged at four to my mother’s hairdresser’s
daughter. I can still feel her tiny hand in my mine
but I can’t remember her name.
 
14. Complete the sale
Shake hands across the threshold, make eye
contact for a second too long, make this uncomfortability
part of the process, remember their joyful regret.
 
15. Take possession of your new home
Lock the door, lie on the floor, stare at the ceiling,
the new plaster sky that is yours to paint anew
and a future you will make from someone else’s past.
 

from Rattle #83, Spring 2024

__________

Luigi Coppola: “While unpacking some (decade old?) boxes since our last house move (the scene from The Incredibles springs to mind), I was inspired by the title and headings used for an article from the HomeOwners Alliance website to write about the process, the headaches, the joy of a new house and then home. Various memories came flooding back, from childhood to adulthood, all compartmentalised but through various literal/metaphoric/symbolic lens, recalling Marianne Moore’s ars poetica within the longer version of her poem ‘Poetry’: ‘imaginary gardens with real toads.’” (web)

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April 29, 2024

Amy Chan

MY MOTHER SAYS

My mother says I sing like a bird
on a winter’s day,
my mother, whose grace catches,
light on water,
on her changing face.
 
But if I am the bird and she the sea, 
I sing because she flows through me.
 

from Rattle #83, Spring 2024

__________

Amy Chan: “Adrienne Rich writes that poetry (art, really) ‘ask[s] of us a grace in what we bear.’ That sums it up quite nicely for me—I write poems to find ‘grace in what we bear.’”

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April 28, 2024

Dmitry Blizniuk

* * *

translate me render me into the martian tongue
across the black night
where the gun stock reaches the star.
beheaded houses hum in the gloom.
the neck vertebra of the torn staircases are exposed.
moonlight is bitter like the sap of killwort.
Lord translate my words.
we have not been born yet, but died already.
the evil sorcerer in his bunker gave the order
to annihilate all Ukrainians.
to burn all forms of memory. of life.
he poured a bucketful of flash drives into a bonfire.
our days are melting in the flames.
masses of memories of the universe.
 
I was young and once in a village I went diving
into the river after a running start.
rebar rods stood hidden underwater.
sharp rusted spikes.
the wooden fishing dock rotted away long ago.
for hours I chucked myself into the black river.
in the morning girl look here—you are covered with scratches.
on the legs, stomach, arms.
I was insanely lucky back then.
will I be lucky this day?
 
readers-refugees.
we pick the books off the shelves and knock
at every book’s cover. the classics.
let us into your paper worlds.
ray bradbury, sholokhov, leo tolstoy.
but no matter where I poke, it’s all For Thee the Bell Tolls.
I end up in War and insane Peace.
in Slaughterhouse-Number.
now the reality of our life is
Valley of the Red Data Book.
now every city is served
the cocktail Bloody Vlad.
crimson yolks float in dense murk
over the booze of events.
bombs gnaw at houses, schools, kindergartens, hospitals,
churches.
we are being freed of freedom and of lives.
the howling of sirens glides foreboding
air raid alarm—here comes flying
a purple swan with his head ripped away.
 
the dawn—a gray-blue
bigheaded infant resembling a shrimp.
labored breathing. pneumonia.
because of nights in a basement
a baby bird of mucus made its nest in the lungs.
yet another artillery barrage.
a rocket blasted an apartment in a skyscraper. a conflagration.
devil’s retrospective.
mom and the elder sister in the kitchen
are killed instantly by the explosion.
black thick smoke pours out of the corridor. billows.
burns a child’s eyes.
it’s not smoke-like, but black cotton candy.
the cat named Buttercup
is the first to tumble down to the asphalt
from the seventh-story window ledge.
thirteen-year old Misha follows him, leaps like a kitten
onto the enormous spire poplar—
planted three meters away from the balcony.
dry, slender branches break beneath the small body.
crackle.
it’s as if he is falling into an empty well,
inside it
sprouts a stinging biting tree.
the boy Misha finds a way
to snag his elbow on a thick branch
at the third-story level.
his ribs and left wrist are broken, but he’s alive.
he faints. translated, rendered safe.
 
people in the apartments.
butterflies under broken glass panes—
apollo, sailor. swallowtail, morpho menelaus—
with shrapnel-pins in their velvety backs
slowly, slowly
they lift off from the earth.
they rise together with the cement boxes.
but that’s impossible.
the butterfly collector is surprised.
how many more people will perish,
how many more worlds will vanish unexplored,
unnoticed. just like that.
by the sorcerous wish of the kremlin maniac.
 
Kharkiv 451.
two fire engines are already on the way.
carving corners an ambulance arrives at the entrance.
imperturbable medical angels.
dark-red scrubs. kevlars.
next to the car the cat
drags his back paws. crawls
towards the poplar. lifts his snout. screams horribly.
and the ambulance driver notices stuck in the crown
a child.
no stranger will save the people
the close ones and the distant ones
except us ourselves.
that’s why the boy Misha absolutely must survive.
that’s why we will win.
 
Translated from Russian by Yana Kane, edited by Bruce Esrig
 

from Poets Respond
April 28, 2024

__________

Note from the translator Yana Kane: “Week after week, month after month, year after year I hear about Russia’s relentless attacks on Ukraine. Kharkiv is the city that has been subjected to especially vicious bombings. Yet each time the citizens of Ukraine, the citizens of Kharkiv respond with resilience and courage; each time they push back the darkness with their love of life. One of the ways I express my solidarity with them is by translating contemporary poetry written by Ukrainian authors. Dmitry Blizniuk is a Kharkiv poet who chronicles his city’s suffering and the indomitable spirit. Note that ‘we are being freed of freedom and our lives’ is a reference to Putin’s claim that he started the war in order to defend the Russian-speaking population of Ukraine against the discrimination by the Ukrainian government.”

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April 27, 2024

Hayden Saunier

THE ONE AND THE OTHER

The child hums as he carries, too late,
his grandmother’s sugar-dusted lemon-glazed cake

down the street to the neighbor who needs to be cheered,
too late for the neighbor

who’s stepped into the air
of her silent front hall from a ladder-backed chair

her church dress just pressed, her head in a loop she tied
into the clothesline, too late

he unlatches the gate,
walks up the brick walk on his tiptoes, avoiding the cracks

toward the door she unlocked, left ajar, who knows why
or for whom, if on purpose

or not, but because he’s too late
she’s gone still when he reaches the door and because

he’s too late, as he calls out and looks, brilliant sun
burns through haze

pours through sidelights and bevels
through chandelier prisms, strikes white sparks and purples

on ceiling and walls, on the overturned chair, on her stockings
her brown and white

spectator shoes on the floor
and because he’s too late he remembers both terror and beauty

but not which came first. But enough of the one
that he ran

and enough of the other
to carefully lay down the cake at her feet.

from Rattle #36, Winter 2011
Rattle Poetry Prize Winner

__________

Hayden Saunier: “I love the way objects and people and ideas find their way together in a poem. An old friend sent me an outrageous pound cake at Christmas and when I described it as sugar-dusted, lemon-glazed, the story of the boy in this poem, told to me years ago, came straight to my mind and stayed there. It was all in the cake: that sunny yellow circle with its center missing, dense, empty, bitter, sweet, the gestures we make too late, the child’s ability to take in everything at the same moment, at once and complete: It was all in the cake.” (web)

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