Speculative Poetry

August 28, 2013

“Rooms, Atoms” by Claire WahmanholmPosted by

Claire Wahmanholm

ROOMS, ATOMS

It hurts to go through walls, it makes you
sick but it’s necessary.
—Tomas Tranströmer

You used to vomit afterward, but now
you only need to lean against the bricks
and breathe in through your nose and out
through your mouth, imagining the scent
of marigolds. You hardly even dry heave
anymore. You’ve gotten better.
                                                The sun augments
the mild smell of mold and drywall in your hair.
You swipe the brick dust from the corners
of your eyes and, turning, stare at the wall
you busted through just now. You hardly left
a dent, but through the unobtrusive crack
your eyes construct the room
                                              you left behind,
its fussy demarcations—all its shutters, doors,
and curtain walls, its knobs and locks.
You’d gotten sick of rooms and their implicit
separateness, and leaning against a wall
one afternoon, you’d toppled through a foot
or two of brick and fell into the outside air,
crumbs of lime lining your eyelashes.
You were sick on the sidewalk.
                                                But today,
realization rings in your ears. You might,
at any moment, melt into the center of the earth
and settle into slag at its core. Or other things
might melt into you.
                                  Breathing is difficult with all
the leaves in your lungs. Do your best to ignore
the dust turning to mud in your mouth, the rocks
tumbling into gems inside your bladder, the grass
sprouting from your kidneys, the sun exploding,
painlessly, into the chambers of your heart.

—from Rattle #38, Winter 2012
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August 23, 2013

“Elise as Android at the Japan! Culture + Hyperculture Festival” by Rebecca HazeltonPosted by

Rebecca Hazelton

ELISE AS ANDROID AT THE JAPAN! CULTURE + HYPERCULTURE FESTIVAL

It takes three men to hoist me
         to the platform, a fourth to hide the cables
                                    juicing this endeavor,
and during sound check my engineer
                           cradles my head, smoothes my hair,
rearranges the folded cloth of my peach kimono,
                  tightens the obi with screen-printed
                                    forest scene—
and when he whispers, You’re perfect, I blush
                                    as best I’m able,
                           and he presses my check, kisses the springy
                                    cush of my false skin.

At first, the audience is shy, only asks me basic questions—
                           no compound clauses,
                  and I’m witty, I’m a lovely
                           hostess, I even tell a joke
                                    about robots and chickens!
I move in stylized increments, tiny steps that mimic
         the audience’s idea of a geisha,
as does my white lacquer skin,
                  siliconed to a velvet cream sheen,
It is all very careful, the awkward
                           presented as beauty,
                                    and I am beautiful, awkward
                           that is.

They grow bolder, the questions more complex,

                           Where do you see yourself in five years?
                           Why does the mother spider eat all her babies?
                           What’s prettier—a girl with a fresh bruise or a bucket
                           of water?
I stutter,
         Can you repeat the question?
And they smile, not wide like mine, but tight, satisfied,
                           I’m afraid I don’t understand, I say, again,
                                    apologetic,
and the spectators point
                           out my hairline as a giveaway,
                                    the sway when I talk,
shudder at the horror show, her poreless skin, perfect
                           like a pig’s.

—from Rattle #38, Winter 2012
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August 22, 2013

“Eye in the Sky” by Laurence SnydalPosted by

Laurence Snydal

EYE IN THE SKY

The eye appeared in the sky one early
Afternoon. At first many people blamed
Atmospherics, roiled air in the surly
September heat. Later weathermen claimed
The arched lid, serene blue iris were quirks
Not of nature but of the mind while late-
Night evangelists saw the ends of works
And days and told us how much to donate.

But still the eye gazed down upon our globe.
Telescopes were focused. The pope implored
God for forgiveness. NASA sent a probe.
George Harrison re-released “My Sweet Lord.”

Then the Oscar Awards aired on NBC
And everyone went inside to watch TV.

—from Rattle #38, Winter 2012
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__________

Laurence Snydal: “I spent my youth addicted to science fiction and somewhere there was a story called ‘Eye in the Sky.’ In those pre-Sputnik years, it must have referred to an artificial satellite. But the idea …”

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August 21, 2013

“Self-Portrait as a Raccoon” by Noel SlobodaPosted by

Noel Sloboda

SELF-PORTRAIT AS A RACCOON

It would be the same
without this mask:
nobody would be glad

to see me naked, slicing open
bulging bags of garbage,
shoving my snout into rotten tree trunks

after sweet vermin within.
It would be the same—
my icy eyes piercing

the gloaming, only to be
melted away by the fires
of dawn. Every time

I look ahead, I see myself
splashed across some roadside
or starved while I remain

caught in a steel trap,
always dying too young
to go completely grey.

So I leave my face
swathed in darkness
that is not sleep.

—from Rattle #38, Winter 2012
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August 8, 2013

“Unprepared for the Afterlife” by Howard RosenbergPosted by

Howard Rosenberg

UNPREPARED FOR THE AFTERLIFE

He pulls the knife out of my corpse, rinses
off blood, skin, bone, shock—they clog
the sink’s strainer. I can’t empty it. Anger
erupts, Vesuvius; my translucent form
inflates. I still hover in the same place.
Why can’t I move? I can see but can’t
close my eyes: I don’t have any. He turns
toward me. “No!” I shout without a mouth.
He hurries through me. For an instant,
I swallow him. He peeks at the street,
grabs my wrists, drags my body to the door.
“Stop! It’s mine.” He opens the door, glances
left, right, pulls my carcass into the corridor.
The door shuts. Grief wraps me in its mist,
my shroud, now a straitjacket. Someone
bangs on the door. “Who is it?” I scream
in my silent voice. “It’s me,” I whisper.

—from Rattle #38, Winter 2012
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August 7, 2013

“One Possibility” by Marilee RichardsPosted by

Marilee Richards

ONE POSSIBILITY

God sets his recliner throne on warp speed and zooms
to the celestial spot where the best view of Memorial Stadium

is to be had. The Jayhawks and Bears are playing tonight,
mostly Christian lads, both sides requesting from Him

the strength to win, their pre-game prayers blasting
the bats from the eves of the heavens,

temporarily drowning out the tepid murmurings
of all His other children. God gets comfortable.

He is gratified by the incurious minds of ball players
who generally remain devout and aren’t inclined

to become confused by all those fossils He planted
at the last minute of the third day, just for fun. So cleverly done

they would almost fool Him. Now, which side, which side?
Any action He takes must operate within the tricky intersection

of free will and determinism, as well as reconcile Chaos Theory (His creation)
with His infallible knowledge of all future events. Odds strongly favor

the Jayhawks, who have practiced their hearts out and are deserving,
but it was the Bears who sent up the more reverent prayer.

God lets the game play out, enjoying half-time entertainment
while multi-tasking by attending to His plans for every other human

being on Earth. Then, with five seconds remaining, He decides. Down
on the field the Jayhawks’ wide-receiver stumbles over an invisible

object on the AstroTurf, dropping the ball. The usual pandemonium
breaks out. My Will Be Done, says God, and sees that it is good.

—from Rattle #38, Winter 2012
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August 3, 2013

“The Robotics Problem” by Ken PoynerPosted by

Ken Poyner

THE ROBOTICS PROBLEM

How many robots does it take
To change a light bulb?
This is your central question.
Is it a matter
Of sufficient programming
So that the robot will know what it is to do;
Or a task of putting the necessary elements in order
Starting with a random beginning?
Is it the ability,
Both hardware and software,
To recognize varying sockets,
To fumble through the case
Of available light bulbs and not be tempted
To try one that will not fit only because
One that will fit is not present?
It could be the idea of pressure
Both holding the bulb and twisting
It into the socket. Or it could be
Cooperation: more than one robot,
Each robot understanding its own part
In the larger operation, each with its specialties:
With each enlightened robot understanding
No one robot has the entire picture.
It takes each robot doing its part,
With the working collective of robots
All fully understanding this.
There is the pure mechanical dexterity
Of one robot holding the light bulb
With no more, no less than the proper
Tension; mounting the wooden extension structure with
Each foot methodically secure; at the top
The bulb aligned with mathematical precision to the socket threads
And the robot itself tethered by three
Appendages to the ladder. At the last
The four mates, one on each wooden leg—
The fifth robot still impeccably balanced—
Lifting and ever so slowly marching
In a mutually calculated
And wirelessly communicated circle,
The aerial robot spinning with them, but
Fixed at the center of the spin.
The light bulb’s grooves will take hold.
The care between all of them will seem
More miracle than machinery,
A symphony of software and supplied structure,
A process adequately spaced into any execution register.
And then there will be light.

—from Rattle #38, Winter 2012
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__________

Ken Poyner: “In 1972, while trying to impress a young lady who was infatuated with the poetry of the day, I checked out of the library, at random, Randall Jarrell’s The Lost Day. By one poem in, I had largely forgotten the young lady, and had started to move through the inner-city high school library’s small collection of modern poetry. Jarrell was a smack in the face with a 30-pound salmon. I had read poetry in English class before, but had entirely missed the degree to which poetry communicates a range of understanding, a conspiracy between the writer and the reader, and how it creates a substantive new knowledge that, while individually held, is socially ravenous. I have been trying to duplicate that myself for 40 years. Jarrell, along with Tate and Simic, remains today amongst my favorites.” (website)

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