November 12, 2023

Devon Balwit

WAR SONNET WITH A SIMILE BORROWED FROM KYLE OKOKE’S “MATTHEW 6:28”

Chest like a trapdoor and me a medic,
parachuting in, leaning over the body shattered
on the rubbled road, I listen to the heart ticking
like unexploded ordnance, hoping to delay the surd
that is death, to deny its nothingness purchase,
me a robber with my pressure bandages, codeine,
and comfort, my eight-week training scarcely
enough to differentiate me from the gawkers who lean
in to get a better view of someone else’s
tragedy. What can I do other than crudely
splint the broken bones, halt the pulse
of blood until the surgeon can do her work? Only
a stopgap, still I throw myself there,
where the line of being and not-being wavers.
 

from Poets Respond
November 12, 2023

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Devon Balwit: “The first simile comes from Kyle Okoke’s poem ‘Matthew 6:28’ in this month’s Poetry magazine. It is for all those called to be first responders.” (web)

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July 2, 2023

Devon Balwit

ART = BEAUTY + SHIT

I.
 
Art that avoids shit is kitsch, said
Kundera. Think proletarian posters, red
and black, the size of building facades,
muscular farmers, hoes and pitchforks lifted,
Stalin kissing babies, no sign of dead
dissidents anywhere, Putin, chest bared
atop a tank, Rockwell’s wholesomeness on steroids,
Saturday cartoons where the good win and the bad
apologize after being appropriately punished,
romance novels where desire finds its reward,
no error made as to the character of one’s beloved,
passion to continue unabated decade after decade.
We scrutinize such glossy surfaces, betrayed:
our holes for shit and jouissance are side by side.
 
 
II.
 
It’s a shocker, the two holes side by side,
new life emerging along with everything else,
the new mother, from day one, prepared
by the rubber sheet. Thank you, good nurses,
for normalizing this. The doctors, of course, just
swoop in for the final catch, the push and stitch,
like old-timey husbands, who get a baby dusted
with powder, no poopy nappy to put a twitch
in their nostrils. At the other end, we have Napoleon,
who wrote in his famous letter—Home in three
days. Don’t bathe—wanting Josephine to ripen.
How bawdy. Was she as sanguine about his body?
From this first shame, some claim, comes culture—
liturgy and law hiding a fundament of ordure.
 
 
III.
 
Liturgy and law obscure a fundament of ordure,
white marble for both cathedral and court.
So much gilt, you’re terrified to fart.
They might boot you out, priest and barrister.
Those who insisted drapes cover the muscular
nudes on the chapel ceiling, who’d have boxed
the ears of children who asked unorthodox
questions: Jesus drew in the dirt. Did he poop there?
And we know well the stink in the halls of power—
if not shit, then bullshit, despite the suits
and ties. Even if the camera never shows
our leaders entering or exiting such doors,
swiping still-wet hands on their thighs, we intuit
they, like us, are animals with fluxes and flows.
 
 
IV.
 
Animals with fluxes and flows, how dare we be
so high-handed with one another? Remember
the advice for overcoming performance anxiety?
Imagine everyone on the pot and your fear
will dissipate. That man sermonizing grunts
away at dawn as does your most dedicated
enemy. The beautiful sylph who disdains you isn’t
exempt (although s/he would rather deny it).
And as we age, the urge becomes more frequent
until, perhaps, we’re as diapered as when we began.
Best to say it plain, to abandon pretense.
We include but aren’t just this being on the can.
I’ve made too much and yet not enough of it:
To capture life, art = beauty + shit.
 

from Poets Respond
July 2, 2023

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Devon Balwit: “A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of rereading Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being, which the news article quotes and from which this poem grows. In it, he writes that kitsch is ‘the absolute denial of shit, in both the literal and the figurative senses of the word; kitsch excludes everything from its purview which is essentially unacceptable in human existence.’ (web)

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May 25, 2023

All of Us by Lou Storey, a complex pastoral landscape of simplified images of towns and fields with a quilt-like quality

Image: “All of Us” by Lou Storey. “The World Beneath” was written by Devon Balwit for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, April 2023, and selected as the Editor’s Choice. (PDF / JPG)

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Devon Balwit

THE WORLD BENEATH

Peel the disappointed world
back to its precursor—a child’s
 
town of bright primaries, streets
where the sun finds no impediment
 
and the wind none richer,
none poorer. No one suffers
 
or dies there—not even one
invisible dog sniffing the blue
 
salt air. The boats in the harbor,
the phone poles, the hills
 
and the houses all speak
a language before language,
 
that tuneful hum above
the shapes in a board-book.
 
There even shadows hesitate
to fall, mother nowhere
 
in sight, the afternoon lazy
and long.
 

from Ekphrastic Challenge
April 2023, Editor’s Choice

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Comment from the editor, Megan O’Reilly: “As the title indicates, the poet imagines Lou Storey’s colorful and complex piece as depicting a ‘precursor’ to our current world (‘the disappointed world’), a more pure and essential civilization, and after viewing it through that lens, I can’t see it any other way. I found the language here to be irresistibly interesting, effortless lines that so aptly describe a place that doesn’t quite exist but is simultaneously more real than reality. I was particularly struck by ‘the houses all speak / a language before language, / that tuneful hum above / the shapes in a board-book,’ which I interpret as an incredible expression of the primitive way we experience the world as pre-verbal children, and a passage that will stick in my mind for a long time.”

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October 3, 2022

Devon Balwit

OFF TO COLLEGE ABECEDARIAN

Arguably, we fit his whole life in a hand-
basket, hauling it through the quad into the dorm, past bowls of
condoms (way more than any two strangers should need!).
Diffidently, he one-last-hugged us before slipping away,
eager to find his place in the sea of 
faces (masked and unmasked) 
glimpsed through half-open doorways. His father and I thought of our own college
hellos—hello sexual identity, hello spiritual quests, hello
identification with global independence movements. Our
journey home was longer than the one coming. We
knew the house would echo, that the chickens would
lament their lost protector. I wanted not to be that
mother who over-texts, broadcasting loneliness and
need. Still, my finger hovered 
over the keys before I took myself for a walk. 
Perhaps I also will discover a new me in these newly
quiet days, but I doubt it. Old 
ruts run deep. Not like my son, trying a real
shabbat for the first time, learning 
the words to prayers I recite only phonetically. It’s
up to him now to save the world and keep us from
veering even more off course. When I see him next,
we’ll have to establish a new balance, the
x of our family mobile subtly shifted. Just 
yesterday, I lamented the demands of motherhood. Now, reset to
zero, I mourn the very freedom I’ve regained.
 

from Rattle #77, Fall 2022

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Devon Balwit: “Many days, I’ll have prepared the greatest lesson I can—bells and whistles, profundity and music—and my students won’t look up from their phones. Writing poetry helps me overcome that soul-crushing frustration. Through poetry, I look past the clock, the institutional drywall, and my thwarted ego. It lets me put my stamp on my experience and stand awhile outside of time.” (web)

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August 23, 2022

Devon Balwit

YOU ARE BEING TRACKED

as you read this poem. At the end
you will be given a productivity score,
the measure of how deeply you engaged
with the content. Did your gaze rest
on the clever line breaks? Did you
notice the assonance, the consonance?
Did you have more than one tab
open at a time? Did you skim?
The camera [please uncover it]
will take pictures of your face at intervals
so the program can evaluate
your emotive response—is there more
disdain than appreciation? Is there
jealousy? You will see how your score compares
with that of other readers. Upon finishing, you
will be directed to the poet’s homepage,
where the best readers know
how to show love. Be aware
that any complaints or evidence
of non-compliance will prohibit you
from future involvement with this site.
 

from Poets Respond
August 23, 2022

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Devon Balwit: “Both this week’s New York Review of Books and today’s New York Times contained scary stories of how workers are being surveilled at work—not just Amazon or UBER workers, but office workers and so-called professionals. This goes way beyond what websites they are visiting or how quickly they are keyboarding—eye motion, taking photos of their faces and posting them to the team, paying them based on some opaque productivity algorithm rather than a set salary. I read the NYRB article through, but abandoned the Times article when it told me that as I was reading, this type of software would be running, and I would receive my own productivity score at the end. This made me think of what it would be like to read poetry under such conditions.” (web)

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May 24, 2022

Devon Balwit

DONKEY AT THE MET

It’s quite a coup to be a donkey at the Met:
you, showily costumed for your brief part,
arias in front and behind as close as you get
 
to fame, to sending a bray to the upper deck.
You drink in the lights as you pull your smart cart.
It’s quite a coup to be a donkey at the Met.
 
When the wings approach, you feel regret—
who wouldn’t, scratching just the surface of art,
arias in front and behind as close as you get.
 
As you add to the atmosphere, you try not to fret—
All life belongs to the same beating heart.
It’s quite a coup to be a donkey at the Met:
 
Most only labor—no museums or ballet—
their hides ignorant of melodies that pierce like darts,
arias lifting and swelling the closer they get,
 
the ensemble on the balcony, the lover’s duet,
the crowd joined in passion before coming apart—
It’s quite a coup to be a donkey at the Met,
to witness the arias from as close as one gets.
 

from Poets Respond
May 24, 2022

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Devon Balwit: “Amidst the continuing war, the threat to reproductive rights, ugly elections, and racially motivated shootings, perhaps a poem like this seems trivial—still—this story spoke to me and made me think of my own walk-on part on life’s great stage.” (web)

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December 23, 2021

Ekphrastic Challenge, November 2021: Artist’s Choice

 

Easy Like Sunday Morning Shannon Jackson, photograph of light coming into a bedroom through sheer curtains

Image: “Easy Like Sunday Morning” by Shannon Jackson. “This Room” was written by Devon Balwit for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, November 2021, and selected as the Artist’s Choice. (PDF / JPG)

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Devon Balwit

THIS ROOM

He asks to make love, and because he asks, I do,
though my aging desire has turned instead to

the bedside table, to the London Review
of Books, to the now sexier pursuit

of end rhymes and long walks through
leaf-blaze. I’d never thought it true

that the fathomless lust of thirty-two
could silt and still. Now, I must brew

it up if I want it. It’s not you,
I hasten to tell him, unclewing

his anxiety and letting the breeze undo
it. How much earnest whispering this room

has witnessed—plans to make new
life, plans to help failing parents move

to their last dependency, rue
at lost chances, the shy wooing

of new ones—this, too,
what lovers do between the sheets. The view

from the window doesn’t get old, the moon,
and morning peeking in, the bed imbued

with both solemnity and mirth, the glue
that binds us, like two ancient, tangled yews.

from Ekphrastic Challenge
November 2021, Artist’s Choice

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Comment from the artist, Shannon Jackson: “It was both thrilling and fascinating, and felt a great privilege indeed, to read through the poems inspired by my photograph. Each one impacted me for different reasons, but I chose ‘This Room’ for its personal resonance. Photography is most often a strictly felt experience for me—and usually what moves me to click the shutter is seeing, or feeling, something extraordinary in a seemingly ordinary moment. I felt this poem did much the same for me. Using the simple imagery and moments of a life, as well as the narrator’s personal confessions and musings, the poet speaks to the kind of love that is perhaps only possible at a certain age and stage of life, but which, given such duration, contains a multitude of layers and complexities. It left me pondering the extraordinariness in what might seem an otherwise ordinary love and life together.”

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