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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December 29, 2023

“Waiting and Watching” by C. Wade BentleyPosted by

C. Wade Bentley

WAITING AND WATCHING

what we are to do, however,
with our hearts
waiting and watching—truly
I do not know.
—Mary Oliver

We are allowed some tasks at the edges
of the estate: puttering in the potting
sheds; deadheading hollyhocks, petunias,
delphiniums; gathering windfall apples
for the horses and goats. In return,
there are sandwiches and tea, soft seats
near a warm fire. We are not barred
from the ballroom or the fine dining
rooms, of course—“wander where you
will, father”—but perhaps there is
a subtle herding, an unseen dog working
us, under orders to “walk on.” Meanwhile,
our language is no longer taught
in the schools, so we only smile and blink
in the bright noise of children on the pitch,
wave as they hurry past. They will not
have noticed the owl stirring in the dark
line of trees, waking for the night, but
lord love them, look at them run.
 

—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023

__________

C. Wade Bentley: “A few years ago, for a number of good reasons, I stepped away from the poetry biz and social media. It’s been a healthy break, for me, but my poems have become increasingly unhappy with their lot, languishing away in my Poems folder, occasionally foisted upon a few family members. They wanted to see the world, however much I warned them about life outside. But I’m very happy that this one, which (don’t tell the others) has always been a favorite of mine, has found a good home among good friends.”

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December 28, 2023

“(Sub)Division” by Christine CrockettPosted by

Aerial by Scott Wiggerman, a collage of colorful shapes possibly representing an aerial view of a suburban subdivision

Image: “Aerial II” by Scott Wiggerman. “(Sub)Division” was written by Christine Crockett for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, November 2023, and selected as the Editor’s Choice. (PDF / JPG)

__________

Christine Crockett

(SUB)DIVISION

On a blueprint stark
as a lunar footprint,
 
my father signed up
for its perfect math:
 
plots of earth wedged
into open arcs,
 
arenas unmarred
yet by tragedy.
 
Even then, I moved
in exponentials. Things
 
blurred or bent in me,
wrecked the lines,
 
found romance in spandrels
where misfits played,
 
the spillover edges
of trapped space.
 
Broken is better,
inevitable as cells
 
that spilt, subdivide,
thin until frayed
 
tissues collapse
and seepage sets in,
 
the way children leave
on well-lit roads
 
out of the still dance
of perfect math,
 
those centers that
will not hold.
 

—from Ekphrastic Challenge
November 2023, Editor’s Choice

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Comment from the series editor, Megan O’Reilly: “Scott Wiggerman’s image is so thoughtfully abstract, it sparks a lot of imagination, and I appreciated how poet Christine Crockett took that imaginativeness in multiple directions. The image invokes ‘a lunar footprint,’ ‘cells / That split, subdivide,’ and, most profound, ‘the way children leave/on well-lit roads.’ Even when not directly describing it, Crockett’s sharp writing reflects the subversively geometric tone of Wiggerman’s piece: ‘I moved in exponentials,’ she writes, ‘Things / Blurred or bent in me.’ Exquisitely epitomized in the last couplet is what I interpret as a main theme of both poem and image: the dance between chaos and order.”

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December 27, 2023

“All That I Have” by Chris AndersonPosted by

Chris Anderson

ALL THAT I HAVE

We’re in a busy shopping mall, very crowded—
this was before the virus—and an ordinary-looking man 
walks out of the crowd into the center of the atrium. 
He’s middle-aged, wearing a leather jacket, hands in his pockets. 
And he starts to sing. He opens his mouth and starts to sing, 
loudly and clearly. At first you think he’s crazy, 
he’s some kind of crank, but then you realize, wait a minute, 
his voice is beautiful, it’s powerful—he’s singing 
a famous aria—he’s singing Nessun Dorma, from Puccini.
This guy’s a tenor, this ordinary man who has emerged 
from the crowd is a tenor, and he’s a great tenor, and his voice 
is building and rising, and people are stopping and looking, 
the expressions on their faces are changing, people who 
would never be caught dead at an opera, who don’t have any idea 
what opera is, they’re stopped in their tracks. One little girl 
turns around and looks up at her mother, amazement 
in her eyes. O look at the stars, the tenor sings, that tremble of love
and hope, and his voice builds and builds, it rises to its climax, 
and he hits that final, high note, and he holds it, holds it 
until it’s ringing in the air of that crowded mall, and something 
transcendent has happened, something wonderful has risen up 
out of that ordinary gray day, something excellent and pure, 
and everyone knows it, they feel it, and they burst into applause, 
burst into tears. They clap and clap. And the tenor smiles, 
and looks around, then puts his hands in his pockets and walks 
back into the crowd. He disappears. O that I might hold
my one note and walk away! O that I might disappear!
 

—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023

__________

Chris Anderson: “During the pandemic, I happened to watch a video about a flashmob in a shopping mall in Leeds, and it moved me so much I sat down and wrote the poem more or less in one fell swoop. Later, as I was polishing it, I realized that it was about poetry, too, as I guess every poem is underneath. We are all singing our arias in the mall, and we all want them to matter somehow, to make a difference, however briefly, even though we soon disappear, back into the crowd.” (web)

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December 26, 2023

“Carpenter” by Rodney Waschka IIPosted by

Rodney Waschka II

CARPENTER

We waited. We always
 
waited
 
for him to finish jobs.
 
No one was allowed to tell
specifically
what they wanted.
No measurements. No descriptions.
 
Just name it
desk chair shelves cabinet and
show the room. Then
 
wait.
 
But when it finally came
desk to write the perfect letter
chair to rest a lover
shelves to hold a life of books
cabinet to secrete the finest brandy
how we touched and touched. Fingers
gliding along surfaces. Palms cradling
corners. Forearms measuring strength.
Lumber brought back to life.
 
A month before he died
we said beds.
They appeared without wait. Amazed,
we asked.
We thought it a little joke
when he said:
I haven’t much time.
 
Now sleep:
 
at desks
on chairs
against shelves
 
our children in his new beds
and he in cabinet smooth arms of wood.
 

—from Rattle #9, Summer 1998

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Rodney Waschka II: “I work hard enough at my regular job of composing contemporary concert music that it’s not clear why I write—I certainly don’t need more art trouble. Maybe it’s because I was briefly a student of the fine poet and teacher Richard Sale.”

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December 25, 2023

“Living the Chemical Life” by Chris AndersonPosted by

Chris Anderson

LIVING THE CHEMICAL LIFE

I have to admit that I don’t care about the historical Jesus.
One way or the other.
I’ve always thought there were larger forces at work.
The sun and the wind. The sadness that comes in the afternoon.
Did you know that our bones are only 10 years old?
No matter how old we are, it’s always the same.
Something to do with cells, I guess. With regeneration.
There are miracles like this all over the place,
in everybody’s bloodstream, and that’s alright with me.
Doris Day was once marooned on an island with another man.
Years went by and her husband, James Garner,
was about to marry another woman. Polly Bergen.
But then Doris came back and sang a lullaby to her kids,
then tucked them into bed. And they didn’t even know who she was.
I think that life is just like this.
Sometimes we are the stone and the Spirit is the river.
Sometimes we are the mountain and the Spirit is the rain.

—from Rattle #28, Winter 2007
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Chris Anderson: “I am an English Professor at Oregon State University, but I am also a Catholic deacon, and my poetry is one result of the free association and spontaneity of lectio divina, the kind of prayer I practice every morning. In lectio you leap, and in leaping poetry, of course, you leap, and what I love about that is how there’s this mystery, this other story you don’t really understand, bigger than your own, that somehow gets implied in the gaps and jumps. Maybe a poem like ‘Living the Chemical Life’ would seem irreverent to a believer, but for me it’s not at all. It’s joyous. It’s one way of letting the Spirit move.” (web)

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December 24, 2023

“The Truth Is a Nimble Little Creature” by Wendy VidelockPosted by

Wendy Videlock

THE TRUTH IS A NIMBLE LITTLE CREATURE

Gratitude, too.
The only flippin’ truth
is everything moves
 
says the moon, hovering
over every mantra,
every sparrow,
 
every dollar, every
Congo, every nation,
every little good intention.
 
The more difficult the world
the greater the imperative
toward blame,
 
toward distraction,
toward impossible heights
and humble strings
 
of twinkle lights.
My love, let us vow
that through the winter
 
we shall pause by the river
where below the frozen surface
surely tiny fish are feeding.
 
Let us make a practice
of coming to bear
the weather,
 
of gathering by the fire,
of reading to one another
as the sparrow wears
 
her feather, as the moon
resolves to move,
as the body knows
 
surrender, as the leaves
believe September,
as rhyme succumbs
 
to reason, as the pause
to remember
descends upon the season.
 

—from Poets Respond
December 24, 2023

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Wendy Videlock: “I guess I’ve come to believe the more wars that pile up, the more destructive things appear, the greater the imperative toward service, wisdom and the creative impulse.” (web)

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