November 30, 2024

Patrick Ryan Frank

THE GREAT AMERICAN SCREENPLAY

In corporate offices across the city,
in every company’s cubicle-chambered heart,
 
there are men alone all lunch hour: men
who watch the tendons shifting in their hands
 
as they type love over and over again—
ring finger, ring finger, index, middle—softly,
 
though, only barely touching the keys,
never hard enough to light up the screen.

from Rattle #42, Winter 2013

__________

Patrick Ryan Frank: “I spend a lot of time thinking about the education of emotion. Where do we learn how to feel? Movies, television shows, pop songs, novels and poems. More and more, we act like actors starring in our own life stories.” (web)

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November 29, 2024

James Ragan

THE ASTRONOMICAL CLOCK

Prague, Spring, 1968

First, sit near the Oriel Chapel
or at the statue feet of Jan Hus
where the heretics rise tall
as wax in flames of greening bronze.
There, you’ll listen to the Mozart menuetto
from the House of the Stone Bell
where thousands stood once, stiff as clock
stems in the Prague spring, cheering
to the symphony of Smetana’s My Country.
 
You’ll marvel at the medieval Orloj clock
as it chimes the hour’s song
across Old Town Square. There on its wall,
the skeleton of Death pulls a chain
up, then round, to shake the crowned
heads of Vanity and Greed. Beneath
its skeletal arm, a Turk wags a pouch of coins.
An hourglass turns sideways down.
 
Listen, as the tourists draw in breath,
like Danes to the stone of Tycho Brahe,
on cue, with hands above their eyes,
sycophants to the clock’s theater
of changing time, the astronomical
trust in earth’s inspired motion.
 
Now, don’t fail to heed the Walk
of the Apostles, posing like saintly saviors,
spiraling in procession past the windows
at the clock’s summit. Daily they parade
their disguise as dancing imps, all wood
and ruthlessly wise, to keep the sun and moon
together, like two warring nations
passionately clinging each to their lost history.
Above the dance, a cockerel flaps
its wings and caws for separation.
 

for Alan

 

from Rattle #85, Fall 2024

__________

James Ragan: “I was born one of 13 children from immigrant Slovak parents with English as a second language. As early as grade school, I was the object of derision and learned early that I could win fights with words rather than fists. Thus, language and poetry by extension became my source of inspiration. I write to break down borders. My sensibility has always been global, to find expression through my poetry, plays, and films to bring individuals and worlds, seemingly apart, closer in understanding. The cafes I write in are my libraries—from Paris to Prague to New York and Los Angeles. I write to live out loud, and through the expansive reach of art, hope to achieve community through a common language.”

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November 28, 2024

Zaubererturm by Jennifer S. Lange, abstract illustration of a dark gray tower in the woods

Image: “Zaubererturm” by Jennifer S. Lange. “The Scene Is Set” was written by Rose Lennard for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, October 2024, and selected as the Editor’s Choice.

__________

Rose Lennard

THE SCENE IS SET

Time slows like ancient windows flowing,
reflections warp, horizons bend their bounds
and history is waiting to get going.
The trembling ash sing all the root-found
songs of hope they know; sound a warning
in shades of myth, the mauve around a wound.
Towers that fell have risen again this morning
vine-wound, cloud-capped, tall ships marooned.
 
Ravens hang forever turning overhead,
their blessed eggs lie cool in distant nests;
they dream of naked chicks with noisy gapes
to stuff with dug-up grubs until they fledge.
The screen awakes, the scene is set.
You cast the spell, the world remakes.
 

from Ekphrastic Challenge
October 2024, Editor’s Choice

__________

Comment from the series editor, Megan O’Reilly: “‘The Scene is Set’ is masterfully composed in every way–the flawless rhymes, the fluid cadence, the depth of meaning. Lennard’s descriptions of Jennifer S. Lange’s piece are both visually and acoustically striking: ‘vine-wound, cloud-capped, tall ships marooned.’ The poet references ‘shades of myth,’ a fitting interpretation of ‘Zaubererturm’ and its soft, subtle invocation of fairytale and folklore. There’s an otherwordly quality to the image, interpreted by the poet as a different kind of reality (‘time slows … reflections warp…horizons bend …’). The poem’s ending, and its depiction of a temporal, illusory world, feels like a perfect homage to a gorgeously enigmatic work of art.”

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November 27, 2024

Donald Platt

PROSOPOPOEIA

Because my toilet’s
backed up and I don’t have a plunger, my nervous bladder has filled
one and a half clear, glass
 
flower vases with urine overnight and throughout the morning. They stand
by the bathroom sink,
one half-drunk and one full bottle of vintage Chablis. My bladder
 
has always been nervous.
When I was taking doctoral exams twenty-eight years ago, I knew
I would have to piss
 
every half hour. I didn’t want to waste any moment of the precious
four hours
allotted to each of my three written exams by going down the hall
 
to the bathroom.
So, when they sat me down in Professor Tatum’s office, I had
my flower vase
 
ready. It was green and had wavy flutes like sine curves
on its sides. I kept
peeing into it profusely. I liked the way my urine bubbled,
 
burbled, foamed golden
as Homer’s Aegean at sunrise in the green vase. The way that the vase
in my left hand
 
grew warm with urine while I held my cock in my right hand.
One of the exam
questions was to write an essay on how the trope
 
of prosopopoeia
is used in any three of the major epics from the Western
tradition.
 
Prosopopoeia. Dactyl followed by a trochee. That wonderfully weird
Greek word.
It meant the literary device of having the dead talk to the epic
 
hero when he
descends to the underworld and asks them for help in living
this tortuous life.
 
In the eleventh book of The Odyssey, Odysseus—as instructed
by Circe—
digs with his sword a trough as long as his forearm
 
and as deep.
He pours into it the blood of sheep he has slaughtered. The dead
gather round,
 
thirsty for the blood of what was once alive. After they kneel and drink
blood so dark
it’s almost black, the dead can speak again. They are eloquent.
 
Their words hiss
and coil like adders into the hero’s ears. He will never forget what the dead
say. What I wrote
 
was eminently forgettable. I passed my three exams like kidney stones.
The oral exam did not
go well. I was so very tired from having filled my head
 
with the spectral voices
of the dead. The chair of my doctoral committee asked me to explain
Roland Barthes’ concept
 
of tmesis, that way of reading we all practice when we skip the long
boring passages
of landscape description in florid Victorian novels to get
 
to the juicy parts.
I kept hearing his question, which I asked him to repeat,
as “Would you care
 
to comment on Barthes’ britches?” I politely declined, explained
that I thought Barthes’
britches—how he wore them, when and where he took them off,
 
and with whom—
were best left unexamined. I thought my answer rather witty.
Unbeknownst to me,
 
my green vase full to its brim had a slow leak. Professor Tatum’s
Persian carpet
bore an unmistakable circle, yellow as the sun rising, raging
 
outside the window.
It stank. I had to pay for Spiffy Jif Cleaners to come
three times.
 
Finally, they gave up. Professor Tatum was glad when I graduated.
His carpet still remembers
me vividly. Now, my one and a half vases of decanted urine gleam
 
topaz in the morning
sun. I’ll go out soon, buy a plunger, flush the urine down the toilet.
But before I do,
 
let Michael, my dead brother, come to me again. I would hug him.
Three times
my arms will pass through the air he is. I will offer him bitter, shining
 
urine to drink
so he may say, Hello. Here we are. Goodbye. Like all the dead, he is thirsty.
I will give him what I have.
 

from Rattle #85, Fall 2024

__________

Donald Platt: “I write to shape into some cogent form the random experiences that life has afforded me. The story of passing my written doctoral exams while being handicapped by a weak bladder, only slightly exaggerated for comic effect, has been waiting for reincarnation in a poem for almost three decades. The anecdote of being so tired that I thought I was being questioned about ‘Barthes’ britches’ in my oral exam is, unfortunately, true. But this humorous material needed to discover a serious counterpart to make a true poem. Of course, that ballast was ‘prosopopoeia,’ the universal urge to talk with our dead again and have them reply to us. The turn to my dead brother Michael at the end of the poem came as a genuine surprise, but also—in retrospect—as an inevitability. To be given such an ending is to receive a kind of grace from some source outside the self, perhaps from the dead themselves.”

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November 26, 2024

Nancy Miller Gomez

STAND OFF

There are 14 men in the lunchroom. Some are sitting in chairs, some standing,
some prowling around the edges of the room. They are men who have grown
used to being on a schedule, and this is snack time. They are waiting for a door
to open and a cart to come out. Sometimes it’s oranges, sometimes apples. But today
they have been here too long. Impatience builds like snow before an avalanche.
We want our fruit, they say. But the man watching from the protected enclosure
tells them, You’ve already had your fruit. Eyes narrow, arms cross. No, they say.
We’ve been waiting. And no one has brought the fruit. The man behind glass
repeats into the speaker, You’ve already had your fruit. It was there on the tray.
And now it’s gone. Where’s the tray? the men say. Where’s the fruit? Their hands
fly up in protest like a flock of startled birds. They have NOT had their fruit.
The man in the booth looks at me as if I am the witness who will save him.
Maybe I will say that I too saw the fruit. Only I’ve just arrived. I haven’t seen
anything. I stand there outside the guard station with my backpack filled
with poems watching the men watch me. Is it possible it’s still in the kitchen?
the instructor of the class before mine suggests. She wants these men
to come back to the room where she is teaching them life skills: how to balance
a checkbook, how to find a job, how to be honest in a world that isn’t.
She knows they won’t pay attention until they’ve had their fruit.
Can I just go to the kitchen and look? she asks, and everyone quiets to hear
what the man will say. Then he passes the key through the bulletproof portal.
It scrapes across the metal. She scoops it into her hand and heads to the kitchen.
Everyone waits. Minutes later she re-appears carrying a tray piled with 14 bananas.
The men form a circle around her, each in turn taking one, and then
they are eating and no one talks. Now they aren’t angry men.
They are hungry boys who have just been fed.

from Punishment
Rattle Chapbook Series Selection

__________

Nancy Miller Gomez: “Poetry helps me to make emotional sense of my life. Each poem is a struggle to clarify something I don’t yet understand.” (web)

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November 25, 2024

Garnet Juniper Nelson

WHEN YOU MEET A TERF

… thank her for her service, like a veteran
(tho you don’t believe in the war). She will have borne
the burden of her body sincerely, despite her insistence
that concession is the bastard child of resistance,
that somehow in insisting she is imprisoned
within a definition she frees herself from the same.
Don’t think about the money concealed
behind her megaphone, her blue check. This girl’s gone
just a bit further than her mother: full circle, in fact.
To her, equality is a bust. Better to enforce
old roles, she thinks, refence the corrals, increase
the collars’ volts to keep the new colts from bolting.
They grow up thinking they have the run
of the desert, whole stretches of sage-ridden
sands upon which to pound out
in broadest strokes the tale of a species
entrusted by nature to exist outside with their elders.
It is of no consequence; they are corralled and tagged,
government vets treat mustangs and cull their hordes
when they grow too numerous. I am to be culled
if or when a definition is enforced
that estimates a woman amounts only
to this or that flower petal, this or that syllable
or zygote. In the end, we will all be confronted
with consequences of our complicity or defiance—
but she will have long since ceased listening
to this or asserted How does womanhood
live in you? to which we all know the answer is obvious:
it was instilled in me by my mother & is imbued
with her spirit & that of her mother, for once
we both were nested within her, larval,
waiting to join our sisters—including the disbelievers,
who will not be convinced. Do not try. This is intrinsic:
I was entrusted by my mother to exist
as she did: with kindness. All other origin stories are duplicitous.
So thank her, leave, & persist, for we will not be corralled
like horses; nor can we ever grow too numerous.
 

from Rattle #85, Fall 2024

__________

Garnet Juniper Nelson: “A century after publication, an image of the poem ‘When You Meet a Member of the Ku Klux Klan’ made waves on the internet. It was written by Robert L. Poston, one of the leaders of the Black nationalist Universal Negro Improvement Association alongside Marcus Garvey, and was originally published in the association’s weekly newspaper. The poem directly advocates for violence against KKK members. I have no qualms with the piece, but it made me curious how a contemporary poem might address issues of liberation involving my own community. So remember, if a man with a suspiciously manicured beard—or anyone else who purports to know it all—asks ‘What is a woman?’ the answer is simple: there are diverse paths to womanhood. I would also note that TERF is itself a contradiction in terms; there is no such thing as uninclusive feminism.” (web)

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November 24, 2024

Alicia Rebecca Myers

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WORD

To me the most beautiful word in the dictionary is tariff.
—Donald Trump

Terrible and terrific come from the same root:
terror. Most days I assume difference
means divergence. Most nights my horizontal
body lies down next to my son’s to ensure
he grows up to be a tender-hearted vertical
citizen. Last night, it snowed up the hill
from here, over a foot, but only rain
where we are. It is a failure of empathy
to not recognize how another person’s weather
might turn before yours. For years, graupel
was my favorite word, the term for soft
hail that forms on falling snow and makes
a rimed crystal. I love the idea of gently adding
to something already moving. Bishop
wrote that Florida is the state with the prettiest name
but the ugliest politics. We collaborated
on that last part. I think madre lactante might be
the most beautiful word, although technically it’s two.
I can’t understand why so many elected officials
want to impose a high price on love. The root
of the issue, as I see it, is a fear of stepping outside
of themselves for fear of seeing themselves more
clearly. Do not be afraid is the most repeated
command in the Bible, which, to be honest,
is protesting a bit too much. On the same page
as tariff in my childhood dictionary is tarboosh.
The stressed whoosh of that melodic second syllable
gets me every time. This morning, I buried
a mouse that had crawled inside a toy farmhouse
and died, one tiny paw on a cloth window, no way
of seeing the other side.
 

from Poets Respond

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Alicia Rebecca Myers: “Reading about Trump’s proposed high tariffs made me reflect on the high stakes of this election. It still astounds me that what one person finds beautiful is at the root of another person’s fear.” (web)

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