June 19, 2023

Lana Hechtman Ayers

WHEN YOU SAY YOU’RE FROM NEW YORK CITY,

the entire borough of Queens doesn’t count, 
especially our sinkhole spot in the borough, 
no yellow cab traffic honks, or women 
striding through streets in high-heeled pumps,
only roaring from Idlewild airfield 
practically at our backdoor. 
 
Rows of identical boxes built over swamps,
low-slung shops with parking lots
the size of half a Manhattan block, 
and the oxymoronic elevated subway
hurdling by, screeching brakes. 
 
Mother was the stay-at-home kind 
who’d rather be anywhere else—
especially singing on the radio 
or starring in some potboiler
like the black & white movie-star-
autographed photos framed on the walls,
like relations we’d be the black sheep for.
 
5 AM every weekday Daddy disappeared  
wearing army green coveralls, his nickname 
Mac machine-stitched into the bib center pocket.
He returned home twelve hours later, knuckles
calloused, smile askew, his eyes puddles
reflecting overcast sky.
 
I had a big brother with hands like those giant
junkyard claws—took, crushed, didn’t matter
whose or what. 
 
My tennis shoes too tight, big toe poking out
like an earthworm rain-smothered 
out of his dirt home. 
 
Daddy’s paycheck had as much stretch 
as a number two pencil, so we accepted food
from the church pantry, shame of walking 
ten blocks home with charity sacks
filed with unnatural orange cheese the size
of a car battery, cans of green beans slimy
as the slugs that infested the shrubbery 
outside our brick-front asbestos-sided
ranch house always a mortgage payment behind. 
 
Saturdays, Daddy mowed the three grass blades
jutting out from the rowdy dandelions that stood in 
for lawn while Mother escaped to some beauty 
shop for half the day,
came back with a teased high dome of hair
no robin would ever make his home.
 
Once in a while on a generous Sunday, 
there was Micky Dees
for supper, one large order of fries split
between the four of us. 
 
Rainy weekend nights drove us each to our own
shadowy, spiderwebbed corners of the house. 
Mine, sitting atop moldering mismatched shoes
in the damp hall closet, the scent of moth balls
a kind of anesthetic.
 
But if the weather held, we torched marshmallows,
no matter the season,
in a rusted-out charcoal grill out behind the house
in its gravel pit of a backyard,
swatting flies or mosquitoes or whatever
was biting at us, as something always was,
such was our glamorous New York City life.
 

from Rattle #80, Summer 2023

__________

Lana Hechtman Ayers: “Poetry reached out to me at a young age, across time, distance, culture, gender, and religion, and showed me I wasn’t alone in my despair, that even the darkest moments could be survived. Poetry made meaning of the light of metaphor.” (web)

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December 31, 2020

Lana Hechtman Ayers

TWENTY TWENTY

This was the year breath became death.
The year the grandparents and great grandparents left us by the thousands, taking their wisdom with them into the great oxygen mask of the heavens. This was the year we covered our mouths and smiled with our eyes if we were able to smile at all.
This year handshakes became passé and hugs a mass hallucination we once had.
This was the year we transformed into a tribe of screens.
The year we finally acknowledged how crucial delivery drivers and supermarket stock clerks are. First responders heroes now more than ever.
This was the year we remembered how to bake bread, learned how to garden.
The year we discovered different species of trees possess distinctive aromas.
This was the year we binge watched and wore out pajamas.
The year we took our pens up and our notebooks seriously.
The year we were speechless.
This was the year we discovered the Zen of handwashing, observed all the delicate shadows the moon tats across night lawns.
This was the year we cancelled weddings, Christmas, died without anyone familiar by our sides.
But this was also the year we took unscheduled strolls in the forest alone, attended the sea’s susurrus lectures, hiked higher than ever before.
The year we feared air and loved air and drove less, thus clearing the air. This was the year we did more fretting, more regretting.
We vowed to vote and kept our promises to ourselves and others.
This was the year we stood up to racial injustice in the myriad ways we could—in the streets, on Facebook, writing to our senators, calling for action against the police, donating to causes, celebrating artists of color, holding our white tongues so the underrepresented could be heard, acknowledged, admired.
This was the year we used our phones to make actual calls, voice to voice, not just for texts and emojis.
The year we cried and shook our heads and wrung our hands at the headlines.
This was the year we lost sleep, lost heart, found hope is action.
This is the year we said I love you over and over.
Sometimes to the person on the other side of the glass.
Sometimes to songbirds.
Sometimes to ourselves.
The year we said I love you to our fragile Earth.
Said I love you, I love you to the universe, and I love my humble place in it, no matter what.

from Poets Respond
December 31, 2020

__________

Lana Hechtman Ayers: “I’m not the sort of person who conducts an end of the year assessment, but somehow 2020 implored me to do just that.” (web)

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August 5, 2011

Review by Sherry Chandler

A NEW RED: A FAIRY TALE FOR GROWN-UPS
by Lana Hechtman Ayers

Pecan Grove Press
Box AL
1 Camino Santa Maria
San Antonio, Texas 78228-8608
ISBN 978-1-931247-82-5
2010, 130 pp., $15.00
http://library.stmarytx.edu/pgpress/index.html

In her best-selling book from 1992, Women Who Run With the Wolves, Clarissa Pinkola Estés identified women with wolves, both in their natures and in their history of misunderstanding and abuse. In A New Red, Lana Hechtman Ayers gives us a Red Riding Hood who first learns to embrace her Big Bad Wolf, then moves beyond him to embrace her own wolf spirit. In short, it is a fairy tale for grown-ups in which a woman grows up.

This novel in verse, which comprises nine chapters and 130 pages, is, first of all, a rollicking good read. Ayers’ cast of characters has attitude and that is what drew me to the book in the first place. (I’ve also found that I enjoy books published by Pecan Grove Press.) The dramatis personae

include Gretel, who has become anorexic, and Rapunzel, who has shorn her locks and her name. Calling herself Zel now, she is partnered with Cinderella (Cindy), who has divorced the Prince, taking him for half his worth. Baba Yaga advises Red

Never say yes
when you mean no,
and mean no
all of the time.

(“Baba Yaga Advises Red Riding Hood”)

Sounds like good advice to me.

The Woodsman is the brainless hunk Red married in her youth and the Wolf is an artist she meets by chance. Their ensuing affair is torrid but also gentle. It is about discovering sexual passion, which Red has not known with Hunter, but which the Wolf awakens in her. “My body was lyric and lyre / I loved the fire,” Red tells us in “The Moment Red Knew.” But this affair is also about discovering art. Wolf is always as much mentor as lover. In the end his pupil sets him aside:

“Yes, that often happens,” the Wolf declaims a bit wistfully,
“the students supersede the master and no longer need him.”

(“Red Riding Hood and the Wolf View Chagall’s ‘La Lecon de Philetas’”)

The Wolf makes this statement early in his relationship with Red. It proves portentous.

Ayers’ verse rhymes and chimes, internally and end-stopped, with a whimsical irregularity that delights the ear. Her lines are informed by a strong metric, though they vary in length. Nevertheless, these narrative poems read as free-and-easy as good prose. This is not formal verse, and most of these poems are not metaphysical or contemplative. They are set in the world of concrete objects. But lines like the ones below remind us that this work, like all good poetry, is about language:

Above the double-breasted, worsted
wool was a woman calm and rested,
neither young nor old,

neither conservative nor bold.

. . .

the old cape draped more rakishly.

(“Red Riding Hood Goes Coat Shopping”)

I don’t wish to imply that A New Red is a light work. It is serious art. In fact, it is a collection about the redemptive power of art, and the language reminds us that the essence of art is playfulness. Ayers’ play tends to engage the intellect more than the heart but I don’t find that to be a flaw. After all, we’re dealing with fairy tale figures here, characters who are less than three-dimensional. Ayers goes a long way toward re-inventing and humanizing these characters, but to move too far in that direction might be to lose some of their iconic power.

Red’s sexual awakening, her recognition of her own beauty, are a part of the redemption she finds. More importantly, as I have said, she discovers art. In the novel’s last chapter, she explains:

It turned out self-knowledge wasn’t an apple
I had to pluck from a forbidden tree–
it was a seed in me . . .
that had begun to sprout the day
I ventured out to the art museum.

(“Red Riding Hood Admits Her Own Complacency”)

And later in the same poem, she contemplates her reaction to the painting “Salome of the Seven Veils”:

Near fainting before the dancing painting of Salome,
I witnessed seven souls—wise old Baba Yaga,
beauteous Briar Rose, whirling dervish Kali,
Eden’s naïve Eve, sin-eating Tlazolteotl,
nourisher Aust, and compassionate Arya Tara,

. . .

seven powerful feminine identities
midwifing into . . . the new Red
I am becoming

“Becoming” is where we leave Red. The climax of the novel comes in the poem that opens the final chapter, “Red Riding Hood Goes Deep Into the Woods.” In the woods she has a vision:

Across the clearing I see a figure—
a timber wolf with silvery fur.
A pair of gleaming eyes meet mine,

. . .

The moon slides out from cover. I see it’s not
a wolf at all but an old woman with glowing skin
and flowing silver hair. . . .

With this vision, Red embraces her wolf nature and moves from passivity to creativity. She becomes an artist in her own right.

With A New Red, Ayers has achieved a work that is both novel and poetry. It’s a collection that can be read both for the overarching story and for the individual poem. Each new poem, each new voice is a delight and a revelation. It’s a playful work, a bit of a tour de force. Then again, Red did find her salvation when she learned to play. If I were to find any fault with A New Red, it would be for a certain didacticism, but after all, it is a fairy tale.

____________

Sherry Chandler’s first full-length poetry collection, Weaving a New Eden, was released in March by Wind Publications. She has had professional development support from the Kentucky Arts Council and the Kentucky Foundation for Women and one of her poems has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her work is most recently published in Verse Wisconsin, Soundzine, and The Louisville Review. She can be contacted at: sherry@sherrychandler.com

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