Search Results for: HEARD

October 14, 2023

“The Bellbird” by Isabella Slattery-ShannonPosted by

Isabella Slattery-Shannon (age 11)

THE BELLBIRD

The full moon, glowing at dusk,
and the audacious bellbird is calling out from his tree,
so small yet so loud.
He calls, repeats, waits, and calls again.
It makes me wonder how loud our songs are heard,
and how far they spread beyond our knowing.
 

—from 2023 Rattle Young Poets Anthology

__________

Why do you like to write poetry?

Isabella Slattery-Shannon: “I enjoy poetry because it opens a whole new world for my brain.”

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August 18, 2023

“Farthing” by David OatesPosted by

David Oates

FARTHING

In Victorian London, a farthing could buy you three oysters, with bread and 
butter, from an oyster-seller walking the streets. Or in the East End, a sparrow 
that God has forgotten to look out for.
 
Farthing is also, I think, what happens when an outing goes bad.
Lostness, danger, no one to help, farthing
well past any address you’ve ever heard of.
 
Nearing is nicer. Closeness. Maybe the shore in sight, lights flaring
and concerned people looking for you, with blankets
and biscuits or maybe burly men to haul you, at last, in.
 
Someone to tousle your wet head, laughing because
it all came out right in the end. Meanwhile the surf crashing
and cries still heard from far out, farther, farther, farthing.
 
Everyone listens. Is that it? No, it’s not. Or it is. Wind in your ears,
salt on the rims of your eyes, your skin glowing now, but when
you look back … well you’d better not. And you don’t.
 
Someone brings you bread and butter and you think, oddly,
of sparrows.
 

—from Rattle #80, Summer 2023

__________

David Oates: “All the good luck in the world can’t quite erase the knowledge of what else might have happened. Almost did happen, maybe. Only the ones who survive are able to have such thoughts. We smile at the retro-inevitability of everything that has come to pass. But poetry can tell stories in both directions simultaneously, so fear and a sense of the uncanny infuse everything. All this messing about with language is a way to feel the grain of existence, so random and so beautiful.” (web)

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December 30, 2023

“Among Peacocks” by Miracle ThorntonPosted by

Miracle Thornton

AMONG PEACOCKS

my father squeezes past, an old scarf jerked and drawn
about his neck. smell drags throughout the house
as they collect loose change from the cushion cheeks.
 
the baby and i watch from our living room floor
as they brush hips and give each other big manly pats
on the ass. we heard them last night, gurgling
 
courage. an irritated hand held my father’s head
underwater and stroked his spine until he calmed.
from the sliver beneath the door, their feet wrinkled
 
and softened, my father’s knees chimed. i’ve heard too many
stories about the accident, traced scars and felt pins
jutting against his suede legs. the bird heading the window:
 
my father’s body against asphalt, sheaths of them
forcibly molted as a consequence for their delight.
my father still quivers like a boy at the sight of glass,
 
fawns at truck tires, fanning his cheeks. they met
before the fall—before their bodies bore the impact
—thinning the breast of a heifer. drunk and puffing
 
or with a balled mouth, they leave to find something
better than love for a boy: the pastoral south, a man baring
his bloodless face to the wind, a corona sweating
 
beside wings, the laughter of other limitless brothers.
i pity them. i correct the bunching of the scarf
and he kisses the baby’s tall forehead. it grabs
 
at the keys jangling from his hips.
 

—from Plucked
2023 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Miracle Thornton: “When I encountered the Aesop fable, the moral of the story—an individual caught between pride and loyalty—immediately resonated with me. Growing up, I always felt pulled between the environment of my home and my hometown. It was difficult to understand who I was when it changed depending on the room, depending on whomever else occupied the space. The bird was a powerful conduit and spoke to the illusive aspects of my ever-evolving sense of self.”

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June 7, 2023

“Poem in Which the Word Is Not Spoken” by Tanvi RobertsPosted by

Tanvi Roberts

POEM IN WHICH THE WORD IS NOT SPOKEN

There was never any evidence of it, between 
them: my parents slept with their door wide open, in case 
we should call, my father’s breath so close 
I could hear the scrape of his snoring, which he would deny 
in the morning. I heard how my mother woke early and turned 
her body again and again, like a dog 
trying to rest. When things were given—at birthdays and 
Christmas—they would stumble, tilt forwards 
and clasp their arms around each other, 
like putting on a necklace. The only time the word was spoken, 
beneath a winter skylight, the stars hid their faces, and my father 
said I’m sorry, it was a joke. Sweat prickled thistles 
into my armpits, which were growing hair before 
everyone else, and I was at the worst stage of puberty, 
all hair and no breasts, which meant girls at birthday parties 
called me monkey. The only time I heard of it, 
from my mother, was when I was grown, and had 
a boyfriend—I knew she had seen, 
sometimes, like a child who does not know yet, 
me sitting on his lap, on the far-off sofa, the shag 
tartan blanket thrown over us—she had heard, through the paneled 
glass window, small moans, and asked why 
cuttings of pubic hair wrapped in tissue—as if 
they might grow into flowers—appeared 
in the foot-closed bins before I left 
home. So she sat me down in my bedroom and asked 
how far I would go with this boy, as if there was an answer 
apart from no. Well obviously I wouldn’t—I said—she stopped me 
before the word was spoken—I was 
glad—she had protected us both. In her life, 
there had been no one to guide her before that first night, 
and even the loss of blood each month was a trauma. When it happened, 
I wanted to go to her with jasmine in my hair 
and in my hands pulihora, the roar of curryleaf in oil. I wanted to go 
after headbath, shoes left at the door, and tell her 
how soft my skin was, afterwards, how little 
could not be washed away. I wanted to take her and hold 
her, not flinching, but I knew 
that was not the way in our house, where we dealt in everything 
except. So I stitched my mouth shut and found 
I was hers—I had made myself her daughter 
by my denial of it.
 

—from Rattle #79, Spring 2023

__________

Tanvi Roberts: “Once I was at a reading by the English poet Lavinia Greenlaw. An audience member asked her why she wrote poetry, and she answered elliptically, ‘Poets are often people who have difficulty with words.’ Several years later, I can’t find any better reason than this: Poetry allows us to struggle and play with words, to devote our attention to trying to capture the ones that cause us less difficulty, and to create an alternate world populated by those words.” (web)

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March 12, 2024

“Considering Metal Man (as a Template for World Peace)” by Erik CampbellPosted by

Erik Campbell

CONSIDERING METAL MAN (AS A TEMPLATE FOR WORLD PEACE)

The sum of evil would be greatly diminished if men
could only learn to sit quietly in their rooms.
—Pascal

He sits in Union Station so that you don’t have to,
Covered in metallic paint, not moving, like applied

Pascal taken one step publicly further. The tourists
Patronize him; put money in his gold painted fedora,

And encourage him not to explain. The homeless wish
They had his strangeness, his calculation, his economy

Of gesture. The writers know he is a fleshed out
Character worthy of 200 pages or more, a catatonic

Knight-errant appearing everywhere in full armor.
The philosophers see him as a meta-symbol,

A shimmering sage who sits better than the Buddha.
Look how he sits and stares, they say. Observe how

Nobody dies because of this.

—from Rattle #22, Winter 2004
Tribute to Poets Writing Abroad

__________

Erik Campbell: “One afternoon in the summer of 1994 I was driving to work and I heard Garrison Keillor read Stephen Dunn’s poem ‘Tenderness’ on The Writer’s Almanac. After he finished the poem I pulled my car over and sat for some time. I had to. That is why I write poems. I want to make somebody else late for work.” (web)

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February 7, 2024

“A Lesson in Metaphor” by River AdamsPosted by

River Adams

A LESSON IN METAPHOR

Another name for a penis is a microphone.
No one told me this. The radio had to pull me aside.
 
It’s a metaphor, of course. Anything a woman loves
can be made sexual. In this instance, singing
 
refers to giving pleasure. The voice is not involved.
Even in the safety of a simile, our voices are not our own.
 
A famous poet, a man, said for a metaphor
to be successful, the object has to bear
 
some resemblance to the new image.
For example, I am wearing a sweater the color
 
of wind chimes. A shade of reddish-brown
named by the designer. This metaphor fails.
 
My body, if cut down to be shaped
into a thing that makes music for someone else,
 
would not make a sound when it falls.
It does not make a sound as it leaves the room.
 

—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

River Adams: “I started thinking more deeply about the crafting of metaphors after Ocean Vuong shared a lesson on his Instagram story. In the time since, I’ve heard three songs use this particular euphemism. Do I like the songs? Yes, but maybe we can put this phrase into retirement, or at least come up with an equivalent metaphor for vaginas.” (web)

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January 8, 2024

“They Ask if I’ve Seen the News” by Rami FarawiPosted by

Rami Farawi

THEY ASK IF I’VE SEEN THE NEWS

like it’s a lost dog, but really it’s impossible
to miss, it’s big the news, yet everyday they
insist on making more stories—floor after
floor, the news is tall, the news towers, it’s
hard to imagine stairs that only go up, but
what do you want me to say, mayday the ne
ws is breaking? we already know this, laugh,
                  drink white wine          play Jenga
on a night in—      pull from the bottom and
      put on top                  build another story
make the news taller by breaking it
          pull, make another story              ask if
we’ve seen it                  if we’ve heard it
            take the stairs                    never short
on materials        just breath      always extra
today to pull from            just pull
the news will never break        we’re sure
        of it                      just breaking’s all just
one more flight       to the top story      wow
                    would you look at
                            the view
 

—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023

__________

Rami Farawi: “This poem started from me trying to add a shape to the news, a density, like something you could mine for every day, like it’s a natural resource. I guess, when I thought about it like that, I was amazed by how much energy we put into reporting on what’s happening, and by how we watch the news like we have no idea what is.”

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