March 18, 2023

Wendy Videlock

MERCHANT CULTURE

What’s the going rate for a poem these days?
—JM

I’ll trade you a drop of snow

for a lyrical poem,
a parking lot
for a river stone,
a soldier’s heart
for a kettle of gold,
the justice card
for the nine of swords,
a Persian word
for an off-chord;

a thousand tears,
a thousand tomes
and a drop of snow
for a lyrical poem.

from Rattle #40, Summer 2013

__________

Wendy Videlock: “A friend recently scolded me for never having written a manifesto. ‘Here’s my manifesto,’ I said: ‘Everybody’s got their own egg to hatch.’” (web)

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January 8, 2019

Francesca Bell

I LONG TO HOLD THE POETRY EDITOR’S PENIS IN MY HAND

and tell him personally,
I’m sorry, but I’m going
to have to pass on this.
Though your piece
held my attention through
the first few screenings,
I don’t feel it is a good fit
for me at this time.
Please know it received
my careful consideration.
I thank you for allowing
me to have a look,
and I wish you
the very best of luck
placing it elsewhere.

from Rattle #40, Summer 2013

__________

Francesca Bell: “I write poetry in an attempt to draw as close as possible to the world around me and to the people in it. For me, poetry should be intimate, bare, wild, and a little ragged. If you can’t go for your own jugular, you shouldn’t write.” (web)

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January 1, 2014

Michael Meyerhofer

VIRGINITY

Poetry refers to something you have not done—
in this case, a kind of primal square dance

for which at least one partner is required.
Poetry is just something you’re born with,

the loss of which is a big deal in most cultures
predating the Suffragettes, when girls

were prodded before their wedding nights
to make sure they were still full of poetry,

whole anthologies clamoring to get out.
The word for poetry derives from the Latin

for maiden, meaning someone with their hymen
intact, the implication being that the loss

of poetry will leave you forever broken,
though obviously for our species to continue

many of us will have to sacrifice our verse.
Long ago, poets were closer to the gods

and wore fine robes and drank wine all day.
There are also stories of poets being sacrificed

to spare their village from dragons or drought,
like they could perform a kind of miracle

just by existing—then, not. When I was a kid,
nuns assured me that the Poet Mary never once

became prose though in statues she’s smiling,
always, like she knows something we don’t.

from Rattle #40, Summer 2013

__________

Michael Meyerhofer: “The first time I read the poems in What the Living Do by Marie Howe, I was so blown away that I said something like ‘Holy shit’ after pretty much every poem. This was followed, naturally, by a desire to share those poems with everyone—and to try and pull off the same miracle, if humanly possible. There’s a lot to be said for making somebody so stunned (hopefully in a good way) by something as seemingly innocuous as writing that all they can do is raise their eyebrows and swear like a sailor.” (web)

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