Al Ortolani

January 26, 2024

“Leaf Removal” by Al OrtolaniPosted by

Al Ortolani

LEAF REMOVAL

I listen to my wife on the phone
explaining to Leaf Removal, Inc. 
how we just can’t 
pick up the leaves anymore.
It’s getting to that point she says
that we need someone, which really
isn’t true because we could slide
down the hill on our heels, rake
the leaves into piles, douse them
with charcoal lighter, and set
them ablaze. Then we’d just need
a metal tined rake to lean on,
a little luck to keep the house
from going up in flames, and with
the garden hose uncoiled, nozzle
dribbling like a mouth, watch
last year turn to smoke, 
a slip, an ass tumble. Instead, 
two rabbits leap out of the leaves,
zig zagging ahead of the dog
who forever believes he’s a hunter
with sharp white teeth and 
the speed to stay stride for stride
with the memory of himself.
 

—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023

__________

Al Ortolani: “Lately, whenever I invoke the Muse for inspiration, she gives me poems from the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s. Way back to childhood. Even if I don’t want to go in this direction, since the past is the past, old hat as they say, I know that rejecting the Muse can end up in something like poetic impotence. So I follow her lead, and dig around through images I should have sold at garage sales. Probably, there’s a lesson here about knowing thyself, remembering and learning, even when you’ve tried to forget.” (web)

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March 15, 2022

“Reading William Stafford After the Russians Shell the Nuclear Reactor …” by Al OrtolaniPosted by

Al Ortolani

READING WILLIAM STAFFORD AFTER THE RUSSIANS SHELL THE NUCLEAR REACTOR AT ZAPORIZHZHIA

There’s a place in the woods where we walk,
dog ahead, nosing out voles, the scent of rabbits,
whatever has left itself behind from the night.

I follow, slower than I once did, but still
able with my one good eye to see
that the trees are junipers, blue berries lit
with tomorrow, more vivid than the evergreen’s

fan of needles, the spray of stored sunlight.
In the deep branches an invisible bird
breaks into trills, songs to warn others of our passing.
We have our moment here today,

and tomorrow, well maybe, we are just a trail,
what we’ve left behind from our daylight,
boot prints in the mud, paw prints circling
back upon themselves, a good nose, an eye

on hope, following a trail through the woods
without war, without bombs, without fires
which tomorrow’s children must fight.

—from Poets Respond
March 15, 2022

__________

Al Ortolani: “I woke last week and found that Putin’s army had escalated its war by shelling the nuclear power plant near Zaporizhia, a place I’d never heard of until today. The danger is horrible. Consider Chernobyl, not so far away. Consider the future laid to waste. I picked up a copy of William Stafford’s poems and read.” (web)

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January 21, 2020

“The Senate Vows Impartial Justice” by Al OrtolaniPosted by

Al Ortolani

THE SENATE VOWS IMPARTIAL JUSTICE

Sheltered from the ice, a bird
has taken cover
in the Christmas wreath,
forgotten below the porchlight.
This evening I use the backdoor,
slipping across the lawn,
around the frozen forsythia,
and then down the driveway
like a skater. I don’t need
to move a muscle. Gravity
does the telling as I slide
to the mailbox.
It is shellacked with ice,
glazed in the gray dusk.
I smack the metal lid
with my fist, and a hundred webs
crack the glossy sheen.
I walk the lawn up to the house,
the weight of junk mail
in my hand. I plant each step.
Blades of grass shatter,
give way to my heel.
If I walk the front steps, the bird,
some midwestern species,
maybe a sparrow, a starling,
will fly into the cold, rather
than risk my approach.
No amount of coaxing
will keep him nested
against the siding. No promise
will keep him hidden
in pine needles. He has learned
nothing from my words,
my concern for falling mercury,
the frozen night.

—from Poets Respond
January 21, 2020

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Al Ortolani: “Washington’s partisan politics wearies me. Little which is said by either side of the aisle leaves much to believe in. It angers me enough that I avoid reading much more than the sport’s page. But that solves nothing in itself.” (web)

 

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December 12, 2019

“Yellow Bees” by Al OrtolaniPosted by

Al Ortolani

YELLOW BEES

I bring the second-grade baseball
team bubble gum, two bags of it.
I open the sacks and dump the pieces
into a single brown grocery sack.
I leave it on the dugout bench
and get out of the way, back to the
lawn chair under the single elm.
Moments later, when the first batter
comes up to the plate, I notice
his jaws, opening and closing
on the sweet pulp, chomping at the
plate before the whirring wheel
of the pitching machine. Each boy
is given five strikes before the coach
sets the T on the plate. Eventually,
when the bases are filled, Double
Bubble gum wrappers blow across
the infield with the dust and the
small yellow bees. No one loses
in second grade, not even Miller,
who, as a dyslexic, can’t read,
stammers through the week,
but never needs the T. He can
drive a long shot 50 feet
over the shortstop’s head.

—from Hansel and Gretel Get the Word on the Street
2019 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Al Ortolani: “These poems represent connections to others, sometimes dark, sometimes light, often quirky. A fellow teacher, and mentor to the poet, once said that one of the most difficult measures of the career public school teacher is their ability to stay positive and elevated by interest, if not always in the subject matter, then in the hand raised outside of the T zone.” (web)

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September 24, 2019

“Switch Plate” by Al OrtolaniPosted by

Al Ortolani

SWITCH PLATE

The day moves by me, and I’m still
at the same old desk that was two-wheeled
into my room by the custodian. The lights
run on some kind of motion detector.
If no one moves, let’s say, in ten minutes,
they blink out, and I have to raise my arms
and wave them like crazy. Possibly,
they click back on. Possibly, they don’t.
At this point, I have to get up and walk
the room in the dark until the shadow of me
is recognized in the recesses of the switch
plate. Once in a while I’ll have a class
of high school kids writing essays,
and the lights will suddenly black out,
and they will all look up astonished
like they’ve really done something cool.

—from Hansel and Gretel Get the Word on the Street
2019 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Al Ortolani: “These poems represent connections to others, sometimes dark, sometimes light, often quirky. A fellow teacher, and mentor to the poet, once said that one of the most difficult measures of the career public school teacher is their ability to stay positive and elevated by interest, if not always in the subject matter, then in the hand raised outside of the T zone.” (web)

 

Al Ortolani was the guest on episode 10 of the Rattlecast. Click the image to watch and be sure to subscribe to our YouTube channel!

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September 12, 2019

“Eighth Grade Industrial Arts” by Al OrtolaniPosted by

Al Ortolani

EIGHTH GRADE INDUSTRIAL ARTS

Shop Class frightened him,
the jigsaw, the planer, the lathe,
most of all the teacher
and his long, double-strapped paddle
that hung by the tool room door.
He was frightened by the raw oak
that he dreamed would become a bookshelf
where he’d rest his favorite copies
of Robin Hood and Tom Swift.
Unlike Eric or Wayne, he couldn’t see
how to turn lumber into the photograph, p. 87,
in the shop text. From here to there
was lost to him, not unlike Latin
or basketball or junior high girls.
He feared everything in Shop Class,
the noise of the jigsaw, the vibration
of the blade, the proximity of his fingers
to the cut. He feared his stupidity,
his awkwardness with tools, the towering
man with the paddle, who appeared
to frown at his very existence, who took
his misshapen boards out of his hands,
and, in saving the boy from an F,
screwed them together
with thick, round-headed wood screws,
then, tossing it like a towel
onto the shop table, wiped his hands
clean on his navy apron.

—from Hansel and Gretel Get the Word on the Street
2019 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Al Ortolani: “These poems represent connections to others, sometimes dark, sometimes light, often quirky. A fellow teacher, and mentor to the poet, once said that one of the most difficult measures of the career public school teacher is their ability to stay positive and elevated by interest, if not always in the subject matter, then in the hand raised outside of the T zone.” (web)

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March 15, 2019

“Butterfly Valve” by Al OrtolaniPosted by

Al Ortolani

BUTTERFLY VALVE

Wiring the exhaust pipe
to the frame of the truck
is a skill I learned from my father.
He could keep a piece of shit
Ford or Chevy or Plymouth
running without repairs
longer than anyone I knew.
It was kind of a gift to himself,
keeping cash from the mechanic
for as long as possible. He’d
make do with a leaking gas tank
by not topping it off, or avoid
a 60 mile per hour
front end shimmy by driving 55.
As his children moved away
into lives of their own, the money
ran more freely. He gave up
lying on the street with
his shoulders wedged under
the chassis. He scheduled
regular automobile check-ups
where he’d sit out in the shop
with the wrench turners
and tell stories about how
he used to keep his junkers
running with bailing wire, heated
with cardboard in front
of the radiator, ignited with ether,
a screwdriver wedged
in the throat of the carburetor.

—from Rattle #62, Winter 2018

__________

Al Ortolani: “Now that I’m retired, I have more time for writing. However, I’ve found myself digging through estate sales and auction boxes, looking for something for Antiques Roadshow or Pawn Stars or American Pickers. Mostly, I’ve come to the conclusion that writing poetry is much the same for me. I polish an old pocket watch or dust off a photograph of someone’s aunt. Sometimes I just laugh at the things we’ve saved.” (web)

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