October 22, 2023

Susan Dambroff

WHO

who
more inhumane
than
who
 
more brutal
than
who
 
who
pounded
bloodied
broken
 
who
with more
weapons
than
who
 
who
hiding
dying
mourning
 
who
lifeless
pummeled
kidnapped
starved
stranded
 
who
in a hospital
who
at a festival
who
waking up
who
going to sleep
 
who
without water
 
who
without home
without hope
 
whose land
whose history
whose mosque
whose temple
whose anger
whose fear
 
who
with a baby
in her arms
running
 

from Poets Respond
October 22, 2023

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Susan Dambroff: “‘Wh0’ is my attempt to speak to the complexity and context of the Israeli-Hamas war, with all of its absolute heartbreak.”

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October 21, 2023

Divya Venkat Sridhar (age 15)

THAATHAA

My papa’s papa used to run after the wooden cart of prasadam each dawn for food
Young feet bleeding over the rough road. I like to imagine his eyes:
bright like a brown beetle, fresh like monsoon soil,
his chest burning like metal on metal as he gulps dusty air.
He’s wearing sandbag shorts, mottled with flecks of dirt.
He’s hurdling red rock and plastic bottles, blooming like a wild indigo,
Stomach roaring in his lame body.
His small hands are cupped and trembling, so empty they could hold
a Ganges of riches, a Yamuna of flooding wealth—
only a thin paper cup of rice lands in his fingers.
 
I like to imagine the summer when we go to Hyderabad now:
he holds my hair, and I feel the lines in his palms
like parted sediment along a freshwater river.
He likes to laugh until his beetle eyes fly off into the clouds
and his face goes wrinkly like pottery on an unmanned wheel.
And when he cooks, he lays out food and food and colours
rushing around the big table to fill our hearts
with cardamom and cinnamon and cloves—his love language,
grown from a tongue once parched in poverty.
I like to imagine he’s waited for this his whole life, and this pride
takes root in me like the eternal warmth of a sunlit sky.
His feet carry me over rough road, rock and rubble,
until river, liquid gold breaks out from under his toes
like a lullaby.
 

from 2023 Rattle Young Poets Anthology

__________

Why do you like to write poetry?

Divya Venkat Sridhar: “Poetry helps me believe in myself. It is the best feeling in the world—to know that I can create something honest, using words in a way that nobody has done before, and speak my truth.”

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October 20, 2023

Kai Jensen

BESTIARY

for Liz Tapp

All my life I’ve wanted to knit an aardvark
not this endless succession of zebras—
black and white wool seems sterile
and the stripes never come out lifelike.
 
What is it about being human
that we start at the other end of things
look yearningly over self-erected fences?
All my life I’ve wanted to knit an aardvark.
 
God who is the alpha and omega
made animals that start with every letter
all my life I’ve wanted to knit an aardvark
not an x-ray fish or yabby.
 
How I yearn for rich brown yarn
clicking through my needles
smelling of the sunbaked veldt:
all my life I’ve wanted to knit an aardvark.
 
 
 

Prompt: “My neighbour Liz said, ‘All my life I’ve wanted to knit an aardvark,’ and I said, ‘That would be a great first line for a poem.’”

from Rattle #81, Fall 2023
Tribute to Prompt Poems

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Kai Jensen: “I like to (paradoxically) liberate my writing by placing constraints on it (a form, a process). A prompt line narrows and focuses, a bit like a starting block for a sprinter. From this fixed point, how far/wide can I range?”

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October 19, 2023

Yellow Flowers by Carla Paton, drawing of a robot holding a bouquet of yellow flowers

Image: “Yellow Flowers” by Carla Paton. “For a Robot” was written by Alison Bailey for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, September 2023, and selected as the Artist’s Choice. (PDF / JPG)

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Alison Bailey

FOR A ROBOT

to write a poem
first
it must survive a kindergarten schoolyard trauma, a sunburn on an overcast day,
bury, in a small paper box that once held a bar of soap,
the thumbnail-sized frog that was once a polliwog it caught at Mrs. Anderson’s
pond whose tail fell off and hind legs emerged like quotation marks & had
been kept in the rinsed Best Foods mayonnaise jar
 
must worry a tobacco-stained grandfather’s hand
run over a jackrabbit on I-40 in the Arizona desert
get divorced
burn dinner
confess its sins
suffer food poisoning
refuse to eat blue M&M’s
hang, on a sweet-breezy July, laundry in Fishtail, Montana—eye the distant Sawtooth
Mountains & hum “Waltzing Matilda” which it learned from Miss Vineyard
in second grade
 
must fear thunder
rush to focus its binoculars on the wintering Lazuli Bunting
tell white lies to be kind
shout “Heavens to Betsy!”
be part of a standing ovation
endure recurring nightmares
question the crossing guard about the origin of “fingers crossed”
develop calluses as it learns to play the twelve-string banjo
have its hair smell of campfire smoke
swat, during a humid-summer dusk, at mosquitoes on a dock full of splintered
cypress wood at Half Moon Lake in Eau Claire, Wisconsin
 
forever dislike Brussels sprouts because it overcooked them and they smelled like
rotten eggs
must watch wind
weep at a funeral
lose anything
imagine infinity
doubt God’s existence
die a little every day
then, perhaps—
 

from Ekphrastic Challenge
September 2023, Artist’s Choice

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Comment from the artist, Carla Paton: “‘For a Robot’ is intriguing and evocative, melding together the realm of human experience with the concept of machine cognition. What makes it so captivating is its detailing of poignant, sometimes mundane moments that cumulatively shape a human life. The poem ponders on the prerequisites for authentic creation, suggesting that a robot must undergo a multitude of sensory and emotional experiences before it can truly create something as intimate as poetry. The assortment of events, from the whimsical refusal to eat blue M&M’s to the somber note of watching the wind weep at a funeral, emphasizes the vast spectrum of human emotions and experiences. It also subtly hints at the idea that even with sophisticated technology, certain depths of feeling and understanding will likely remain exclusive to humans. The poem’s fragmented structure, jumping from one scene to the next, mirrors the fragmented nature of memory and experience, offering a powerful meditation on what it means to be sentient, to live, and to create.”

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October 18, 2023

Bija Gutoff

TO THE WOMAN WHO SHOPLIFTED MY BLACK DANSK CLOGS

To the woman who shoplifted my black Dansk clogs 
from the consignment store where I sometimes browse—
because maybe there’s a sweater
that belonged to someone who
changed their style or size, divorced, moved, or took a new job, 
and so those stripes no longer suited her,
and sometimes bring a few items to sell,
like my black Dansk clogs,
because I imagine they will step into new stories 
in the lives of other women who, choosing them, 
will feel that little shiver of delight 
the way I did when I first found them—
 
When I returned to collect my portion of the sale price
for the three things I had consigned:
that grey jacket (airport, impulse, last trip to see my father)
that turquoise scarf (gift shop, Santa Fe art museum, desert colors)
and those black Dansk clogs (neighborhood shoe store, a day needing armor)
the clerk, finding no record of a transaction,
and no actual clogs left on the shelf,
concluded that someone had stolen them.
 
I felt surprised for a moment—strangely light—
but not violated.
And instantly began to imagine 
my clogs on the feet of their new owner,
and to wonder why she took them.
 
I would have given them to you if I had known you needed them.
And if it wasn’t desperation but the thrill of transgression
that drove you, or even if it was just a prank, 
that’s ok too.
 
I hope, with their blocky weight,
they shield your arches from fatigue and your toes from harm.
I hope they look sharp with your jeans and thick socks.
I hope you relish the power of that clumpy sound their wooden soles make
when you stride into a room.
 
As my mother and grandmother used to say,
wear them in good health. 
It’s a fair trade—
you got the clogs and I got the story.
 

from Rattle #81, Fall 2023

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Bija Gutoff: “It’s not as if I think right away, ‘This experience needs to be a poem.’ But when it shakes me, and keeps echoing, and won’t let me go, the words begin to fall, ripe, ready to be sliced like apples into a pie. Then I have to work it, bake it, share it. Reader, can you picture this? Can you taste it? Have you felt it? Moments of grief, wonder, compassion, the realizations of aging and loss, bring me to my knees, and then to my pen.” (web)

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October 17, 2023

John O’Reilly

THE BITTERN AT ABBOTT’S LAGOON

the walk to the sea belongs to the sea
we are drawn on as waves are
the late light is sidelong
a glance at a party
passed from one guest to the next

few have binoculars out for the bittern
on the other side of the lagoon
the walk pauses where those
who’ve been shown it show it to others
like a face in a tortilla

for some time we forget about the ocean
all of us eyeing this cryptic bird
which deems itself invisible
as we deem ourselves while exposed

soon darkness will sidle down
brought to the hem of the Pacific
that the bittern might recede
into invisibility amid the reeds
there upon its hunting ground
a shy and terrible god like ours

from Rattle #36, Winter 2011

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John O’Reilly: “Lorca said he wrote poetry because he wanted people to like him. For a long time, I was charmed by his candor. I’ve come to think of it as poetic candor, with a riddle inside. I write in part to solve that riddle, while I paper the door of my refrigerator.”

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October 16, 2023

D. Dina Friedman

IN MY HEART

after E.E. Cummings

Here’s the secret: nobody knows
what the moon is made of. Nobody 
understands our bodies’ common cheese, 
or how vocal cords vibrating in a hot wind 
can reach a harmony that pleases, even in dissonance.
Nobody knows why that tomato chose to birth itself
out of the compost pile, wrapping its vines
around the lone milkweed. Or how the praying
mantis managed its miraculous escape 
just before I heaved the weed it perched on
and accidentally uprooted the volunteer tomato, 
which I dug a hole for in the garden 
and watered, though I don’t have much hope
for its survival. Yet, some of us persevere 
like plants, sprouting where we don’t belong, 
dragging our faltering bodies, foggy minds
all to look at the moon, to say: This matters. 
This is why I’m still alive. 
 
 
 

Prompt: “Write a poem after E.E. Cummings’ ‘[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in].’”

from Rattle #81, Fall 2023
Tribute to Prompt Poems

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D. Dina Friedman: “Prompts open a pathway to new perspectives, whether it’s a shortcut to my own subconscious, or simply an alternate way of seeing.” (web)

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