November 30, 2022

Max Sessner

ONE DAY

Everything comes back to haunt us
one day the boy you beat
up a long time ago
stands before you in the street car
he is like you now around
 
sixty his hair thin like
yours generally he looks 
like you moves like 
you as he approaches you
walks past gets off
 
at the next stop
that was it you turn
after him and note 
the stop and tomorrow
you will forget it
 
 
Translated from the German by Francesca Bell
 

from Rattle #77, Fall 2022
Tribute to Translation

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Max Sessner was born in 1959 in Fürth, Germany. He has long lived with his wife in Augsburg and has held a wide variety of jobs, working as a bookseller for the Augsburg public library, and currently for the department of public health. Sessner is the author of eight books of poetry including, most recently, Das Wasser von Gestern (The Water of Yesterday). | Francesca Bell: “I first came upon the poems of Max Sessner in the pages of the Austrian literary journal manuskripte. I was reading German-language journals with an eye toward finding a poet in whose work I could immerse myself, and those first eleven Sessner poems caught my attention and held it fast. I wrote immediately to ask permission to translate them. In Max Sessner’s work, I found a poetry that is simultaneously melancholy and funny, deeply tender and yet eviscerating. His voice is entirely, profoundly his own, and his poems, deceptively accessible, contain complex, often uncanny, ideas and sentiments. I remain fascinated and humbled by how deftly he uses surrealism, not to obscure reality, but to illuminate it.” (web)

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November 29, 2022

Take Heart by 
René Bohnen, abstract watercolor painting of two figures above pine trees

Image: “Ballet Above the Bay” by René Bohnen. “Wingspan” was written by Christopher Shipman for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, October 2022, and selected as the Editor’s Choice. (PDF / JPG)

__________

Christopher Shipman

WINGSPAN

We decided it was time.
After three years in North Carolina
we booked an Airbnb
dubbed “The Bird’s Nest”
in a little mountain town outside Asheville.
We’d gone to the Biltmore.
A brewery with a Putt-Putt course.
Strolled downtown shops.
Had dinner at a local pizza haunt.
Then on the last night, our daughter, sprawled
in the Bird’s Nest’s
only bed, plate of leftover pizza
balanced on her lap, asked the number of days
she’s been alive. Like a good
21st century father, I used Google
to calculate the days
from birth to Bird’s Nest.
And there nested in the newsfeed, where, let’s
face it, tragedy lives
beyond itself, I read a headline
that celebrated a father’s use of Google
to save his child’s life
when a heart attack nearly killed him.
When his heart broke
the article says, before it spills into confessing
the subsequent promise of love
whispered nightly
that provided the child the chance to tell
his parents who he really is—
a gay West African teen
marching unseen to the pulpit decades of days.
Driving home to Greensboro
mist is a religion spanning
the mountains—an obfuscation of angels
holding hands wing to wing.
There’s a heart inside it.
A kind of breaking. A kind of aching
to be seen. Like the moment
a child asks how long
they’ve been alive. Our daughter
has been alive 2818 days—one more
than this time yesterday.
 

from Ekphrastic Challenge
October 2022, Editor’s Choice

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Comment from the editor, Megan O’Reilly: “There are some wonderful turns of phrase in Christopher Shipman’s ‘Wingspan’ that caught my attention—‘from birth to Bird’s Nest / and there nested in the newsfeed …’—but what struck me most was the way the emotion of the poem captured the feelings René Bohnen’s painting ‘Ballet Above the Bay’ evokes. I sense a tension between past and future in both pieces, and a complex but unbreakable human connection, like the one between parent and child. ‘Theres a heart inside it,’ Shipman writes, and I can say the same about this poem.”

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November 28, 2022

Lance Larsen

THE GIRL

The girl has been missing five days. 
Also her boyfriend. She’s fifteen, 
red blonde hair, friend of my daughter. 
We’re taping a flyer to every door—
who wouldn’t? The girl’s pink backpack 
with skulls has entered my house, 
her two hands and a pencil ready to cram 
 
for Chemistry. We are covering a part 
of town too good for us—Yale Way, 
Harvard Circle, Stanford Lane …  
My daughter tapes the south side 
of the street while I tape the north, 
for speed she says, then she wanders 
to my side, speed not a god she wants 
 
to worship all alone. Our four 
taping hands much happier. The girl 
has been missing five days. Her tennis 
shoes scribbled with anime faces 
have entered my house. There are ants 
that know where she is and lint between 
her toes, maybe tampons and old 
 
taco wrappers and a green water bottle. 
And with each flyer, we are helping 
to drag the reservoir and comb 
the woods and wander a mystery street 
in Mexico, stuffing $20 in her right 
pocket, $40 in her left. We cross a river 
and my daughter throws in a stick. 
 
Gone in a swirl. The girl has been 
missing five days. We are helping 
her escape a man made of barbed 
wire and the beds he wet as a child 
and the cats he burned with cigarettes. 
We are with her cold body, patting 
her hand, helping her toes study 
 
the temperature of dirt. Meanwhile, 
I’m studying shades of fear, light yellow 
masquerading as daffodils, the shaggy 
browns of a dog barking us off 
a porch. The girl, missing five days, 
is not thinking of pi or personification 
or E=mc2 or resilient Rosa Park. 
 
The girl’s freckles have entered 
my house, the part in her hair. 
And just last week her arms balancing 
two pizzas—her chewing mouth, 
my daughter’s chewing mouth. It feels wrong 
for the girl to go missing so close 
to Easter. My daughter asks if I am ready 
 
for a break. We cross the street 
to sit in little-kid swings in the park. 
We want this to last, the saving 
of the missing girl, her collarbone 
and ankles, her henna tattoo, birthmark 
over her left eye, on a morning, blue 
with waiting, we may never see again. 
 

from Rattle #77, Fall 2022

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Lance Larsen: “When my daughter’s high school friend went missing, I found myself in deep denial: how could she be gone, she was just in my house? I wrote this poem to explore the magical thinking that filled those days of waiting. If I rehearsed certain details (street names, colors, freckles, etc.), maybe she would come back. Of course, I was also trying to cast a spell on my own daughter and keep her safe forever. I consider this a poem of prayer, a poem of preparatory mourning, even if Deity is never invoked directly.”

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November 27, 2022

Gina Tranisi

LUNCH BREAK IN AMERICA

I’ll have a burrito bowl. White rice. Black
beans. Fajita veggies. Double protein. Double
back. Half-scoop of pico. No, I want a bowl of
broccoli cheddar. Not an apple, a baguette on
the side. I said a bowl of hot sad. I said a
Mediterranean bowl. Quinoa. Chickpeas.
Cucumber salad. A bowl of overturned
stars. Not stars, salmon. I want a poke bowl
with upstream fish. White rice. Wasabi mayo.
A bowl of fixed-blade knives. A bowl of billboards
for missing women who are becoming dead
as we send words back-and-forth inside
this speaker box. This metal order machine.
This Tupperware container of my voice.
Might be the last thing anyone hears
from me. So, an order of asada. I said a bowl
of bullets. Not a cup of guns. A bowl. A howl.
A howl of nightclub neon. A tourniquet. A bowl
of grandfathers who salute shots fired against
tyranny. A tyranny of Jell-O shots. A blue raspberry
rifle. A stiletto glitter shoe, stomping teeth
on beat. No beets. A beating. A bruise. I want to eat
a bowl of unbearable. I’ll need utensils, too.
Did you hear me? I said I want the corner
of an American flag to wipe my hungry
bloody queer star spangled mouth.
 

from Poets Respond
November 27, 2022

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Gina Tranisi: “Another heavy news week in America, and I find myself wishing I lived in a country that loved me back. I want a soft life. I want to dance. I want to sing. I want to buy my groceries. I do not want to fear being swallowed by the mouth of a gun. Because of my girlhood. Because of my sexuality. America loves putting our lunches in bowls. I wish we could order bowls of gun reform and LGTBQ+ rights, have them delivered to the doorsteps of Congress. Since that’s not possible, I collected all of these wishes of mine and put them in a bowl, I mean, a poem.”

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November 26, 2022

Mike White

HAPPINESS

fills
half a room

no one around
to lift the thing

all those parts

after a while
you give up

even dusting

from Rattle #26, Winter 2006

___________

Mike White: “For me, the writing of poems requires an equal measure of trust and luck. I write to see what will happen. Some days are better than others. It’s like fishing. The first line is the reluctant worm. I have a cooler full of worms. A head full of fish.”

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November 25, 2022

Amira Antoun Salameh

MY BODY IS MINE

In that dark, the light
 
strike startled my mirror.
 
I saw nudity—by accident—
 
& did not understand myself
 
without fabric.
 
Thunder boomed & rain released 
 
bright streaks—again, again. &,
 
I froze. Stared
 
openly—exhausted 
 
by dark devouring 
 
lightning, my mirror,
 
me.
 
 
Translated from the Arabic by Jennifer Jean and Yafa al-Shayeb
 

from Rattle #77, Fall 2022
Tribute to Translation

__________

Amira Antoun Salameh, from Damascus in Syria, has published and won awards for her poetry, children’s stories, and puppet theater; as well, she writes theatrical scripts and directs plays for the Cultural Center in Latakia. | Jennifer Jean & Yafa al-Shayeb: “Jordanian writer Yafa al-Shayab and I have co-translated Amira Salameh’s poem for a bilingual anthology that I am co-editing along with poet Kirun Kapur—which is tentatively titled: Other Paths for Shahrazad: Contemporary Poems by Arab Women. This is a project of the Her Story Is collective. HSI is led by independent women writers and artists from primarily Iraq and the United States; it promotes projects aimed at expanding linguistic, artistic, and cultural boundaries in response to global conflict, with a focus on centralizing the experience of women. We believe our process transforms established power structures, creates new grounds for learning, and builds a community of equals across borders.”

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November 24, 2022

Take Heart by 
Bonnie Riedinger, abstract watercolor painting of two figures above pine trees

Image: “Ballet Above the Bay” by René Bohnen. “Fault Lines” was written by Margaret Malochleb for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, October 2022, and selected as the Artist’s Choice. (PDF / JPG)

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Margaret Malochleb

FAULT LINES

To negotiate the terrain
of devotion’s darker
questions, we set out
in search of knowledge
buried inside the mountain.
Together we climbed
the treacherous path
littered with thistle,
bindweed, cheatgrass.
Held out our hands
to pull each other up
to the next outcropping.
And as we tended
our hunger, our thirst,
our need for rest,
the mountain watched,
held its breath
and waited for us
to look down and see
that the unwritten history
inside every living thing
is a borderless boundary
that can never be breached.
 

from Ekphrastic Challenge
October 2022, Artist’s Choice

__________

Comment from the artist, René Bohnen: “I had quite a job selecting a shortlist from the shortlist and eventually my favourite. In many of the poems I found beautiful imagery, as well as poignant moments and situations. I let the spirit and definitions of ekphrastic verse guide me in my final decision. I chose ‘Fault Lines’ as the poem which in my opinion amplifies and expands a core idea. The poet has cleverly used the different meanings of a geological concept to develop parallel perceptions in the reader’s mind. The poem becomes much more than mere description of the picture provided. Oxford Dictionaries offers this definition of fault lines: 1) a place where there is a long break in the rock that forms the surface of the earth and where earthquakes are more likely to happen, and 2) an issue that people disagree about and may, as a result, lead to conflict. Already in the first stanza we find the darker questions of devotion linked to the quest of going inside a mountain. Geology and emotional danger in association or perhaps juxtaposition, the reader has to read to find out. Judging technically, I enjoyed the sound effects in the poem. Without becoming clumsy or heavy, the little echoes, assonance and alliteration drive the action along. A line such as ‘littered with thistle’ tickles the mind’s eye and the poetic ear. In the last stanza, the b-alliteration (‘borderless boundary that can never be breached’) emphasises the profound wisdom that is presented as the poem’s closing viewpoint. Details and specifics anchor the narrative (‘bindweed, cheatgrass’) while also alluding to unpleasant situations or events between two people. The couple is hungry and thirsty, they pull each other up. They negotiate out croppings. This is no vague journey. The last stanza returns to the ‘mountain’ that appeared in stanza 1. The arching that is thus created echoes the shape of the arms in the artwork. The emotion of dismay, surprise, horror or despair that may be implied by the artwork, is subtly prompted by the openendedness of the last stanza, when the mountain waits for realization to dawn on the two tired people. I can write much more on this poem, but will leave the other readers the opportunity to analyse and enjoy an intricate poem that reads so effortlessly, one is initially mislead to think that it is simple.”

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