Search Results for: HEARD

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

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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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July 16, 2023

“Cluster Bombs Have a Quirk” by Jayanthi RanganPosted by

Jayanthi Rangan

CLUSTER BOMBS HAVE A QUIRK

The collection doesn’t explode
All at once: some bomblets
Lurk and layer
Cyanide on grief
 
First     my 1996 Hyundai was snagged
Then my routine tension set in—
Of stretching the dollar like a snake’s jaw
Till the next pay check
My six-year-old hiccupped his snotty life
Through his heaving T-shirt
His best friend had found a new best friend
 
At Lexington Center I waited for the walk sign
When the sign blinked     I did too
Rooted     I heard the traffic roar
And the water table of my eyes
Vaguely saw a stranger
Who walked past and then came back—
“May I give you a hug?”
I nodded and he gave—
 
A tourniquet for my disturbed mind
An eye for the walk-sign
 

—from Poets Respond
July 16 2023

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Jayanthi Rangan: “The news of cluster bombs is an international concern. There is worldwide criticism of their donation from USA to Ukraine. Mainly, their lurking presence, long after the drop date, is worrisome. I feel it’s a metaphor for our daily lives where the innocent daily doses of grief turns into a storm.” (web)

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January 13, 2024

“On My First Day of Kindergarten” by Miracle ThorntonPosted by

Miracle Thornton

ON MY FIRST DAY OF KINDERGARTEN

i picked a rose for my bus driver
from the bushes outside of my older
brother’s window. it was pink and red
like the deer split beside me
at the end of the driveway,
reeking of fresh cut
grass. i put my nose to the flower
but gagged. it smelled
like the green of panties
caught under the door.
my lunch rattled
in my new blue backpack
as i leaned over the deer,
my scalp thrumming hot
from the braids my mother
gave me the night before.
i was careful not to let
my denim dress touch
the liver pumping wet
and useless between us.
before i could place the rose
i heard a scream behind me
and the bus let out
a horrible sigh as it came
to a stop. the bus shook
with dozens of little pale
mouths pressed at the windows,
the driver’s mouth fullest
with teeth.
 

—from Plucked
2023 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

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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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February 17, 2024

“Love to But” by Julie BruckPosted by

Julie Bruck

LOVE TO BUT

Our very important neighbor’s
fused to his new Cingular headset:
Now he can talk and walk.
Blah-blah-blah goes Mr. de Broff.
This makes it hard to hear
even the packs of feral dogs
howling all night, or the cats
doing what they do in our dark
fog-bound city gardens.
The world needs its chemistry
checked, that’s for sure.
The poisoned river is high,
fast at this time of year.
Fences between houses are down,
and we all like our boundaries.
Pharmacies? Closed.
All essential services, shut.
Time to fetch my daughter
from a birthday party which
ended in 1963, but she runs late.
Sometimes, I have to pry her
from the door-jamb, carry
her to the car like a small,
warm totem pole with sneakers.
A yellow Hummer slipped
through a crack in our street
on Tuesday: not seen nor
heard from since, despite
the crowd of looky-lu’s,
still milling around out there.
Love to. But these are
strange times. I could
expire before I meet
you at the gate. Yessir.
Love to. Toothache.
Can’t.

—from Rattle #35, Summer 2011
Tribute to Canadian Poets

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Julie Bruck: “To decline, to refuse, dig in one’s heels, to resist like a small dog its leash—I find that gesture so alluring, such a sweet, guilty pleasure. Writing ‘Love to But’ also furnished an opportunity to complain (another underrated pastime) about a neighbor who considers mobile phone use a public harangue even as the world ends. Doh! I guess Mr. de B. and the speaker of this poem aren’t so different.”

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June 12, 2023

“Ohio Dove” by Mark RubinPosted by

Mark Rubin

OHIO DOVE

She lay at our feet with a metal arrow
through her chest, the arrow angled in
the ground not far from the lilac  
nest where she’d been sitting.  
 
Because he owned the bow, or that
he went by his last name, 
or that his peach fuzz had darkened, 
Cunningham said he was taking my turn.
 
He could not wait to show me
how it’s done, the killing.  
 
If only quick, like turning off a lamp.  
The dove lay gasping in the too sudden
present tense. Cunningham pressed 
his shoe down hard, 
 
then took the arrow out from her. Because 
I’d not had my heart broken this close up
before, I held the bird extra, said good aim
then placed her back in the lilac bush
 
so no one could see. I heard my mother’s
dinner bell in the distance wringing 
the dry air in my throat. I walked home and ate all
her steamed kale, because it was good for me.
 

—from Rattle #79, Spring 2023

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Mark Rubin: “I write because it’s a way of rendering the heartaches that come from being alive. As a certified curmudgeon, I have an edgy, ongoing sense of wonder, if not reverence, for small things in the natural world, and big things that move through me as a result. I am most happy when I can get out of my own way.”

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April 11, 2023

“Rhode Island” by Amy MillerPosted by

Amy Miller

RHODE ISLAND

for my mother

That summer in Misquamicut, when boys
as ripe as roadside corn shot pool in darkened
eighteen-over bars, I found the joy
they buried deep in denim straight-front pockets—

pipe screens, joints, and all the damp and salty
wounded want my navigating hands
could plunder. Home and sunburned, bedroom walls
my gulag—no diary, no dolls—digging sand

and ashes from the trenches of my shoes,
I heard her laughing—late, in bed with Dad,
no malice in her voice, in love—a girl whose
moody boy came home for her with mad

martinis, seven jokes to sleep on, sleep
itself a garland he laid at her feet.

—from Rattle #27, Summer 2007

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Amy Miller: “When I was twelve, I wrote a story for an English class, and got an A. I wasn’t a good student, so my parents were thrilled, and made me read it in front of some dinner guests one night. My parents hadn’t read the story, and didn’t know the dialogue contained the word ‘bastard.’ When I blurted that word out, the adults were horrified, aghast—I might as well have thrown a cherry bomb in the toilet. That was my first inkling that creating something out of language could actually have an effect.” (web)

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September 28, 2023

“To the Child Watching His Grandmother Sew” by Bradford KimballPosted by

Seamstress by Lily Prigioniero, oil painting of an elderly woman sewing by a window

Image: “Seamstress” by Lily Prigioniero. “To the Child Watching His Grandmother Sew” was written by Bradford Kimball for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, August 2023, and selected as the Editor’s Choice. (PDF / JPG)

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Bradford Kimball

TO THE CHILD WATCHING HIS GRANDMOTHER SEW

The whir of the sewing machine fades
Like a faltering metronome.
 
If you can imagine each stitch
As a note,
You can hear a lone melody.
 
But you don’t know that yet.
You are too young, and it is too dark.
 
She’ll wait until the lights burn out,
And when she thinks you are asleep,
She’ll play that tune again.
 
One day, you’ll hear
Some love song on the radio
And understand.
The music crescendos—
 
The lights burn out, one by one,
And you remember
The needle’s steady hum:
The first love song you ever heard.
 

—from Ekphrastic Challenge
August 2023, Editor’s Choice

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Comment from the series editor, Megan O’Reilly: “There is a profound sense of warmth, both emotionally and visually, in this beautiful image, which is reflected in ‘To the Child Watching his Grandmother Sew.’ The simple yet extraordinary idea of a grandmother’s sewing as a child’s first music is elegantly executed, never overdone or heavy-handed. I also love the way the poet uses light: The grandmother waits until ‘the lights burn out’ to run the sewing machine so she doesn’t wake the child, which for me conjures a picture of the child listening to this ‘music’ while in a dreamlike state in another room—a deeply resonant image. There is a great deal of love in this poem—it makes me miss the ‘steady hum’ of my own grandmother.”

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