Stephen Dunn

June 9, 2021

“The Contrarian’s Advice to Himself” by Stephen DunnPosted by

Stephen Dunn

THE CONTRARIAN’S ADVICE TO HIMSELF

Because he who laughs last
probably didn’t get the joke,
and he who laughs at himself
will not be laughed at by others,
try to think of the sadness
latent in laughter, and say
something consciously joyous
about it. Remember, you’re
a contrarian and as such
something deeply opposite
is expected of you. Precision
will always be more radical
than passion because it is harder
to come by. But precision
without passion will cause
a dry exactitude
when what’s called for
is a punch in the nose.
When in doubt choose the latter.
Just don’t allow yourself
the apparent ease of doing nothing.
Remember, many a false step
has been made by standing still.
And if you believe that genetics
has given you one face
but your job is to create
for yourself another, try not to worry
when you fail. So much that’s worthy
occurs by accident. The Bible
couldn’t have been written by people
who thought they were writing the Bible.

—from Rattle #71, Spring 2021

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Stephen Dunn: “The poetry that ends up mattering speaks to things we half-know but are inarticulate about. It gives us language and the music of language for what we didn’t know we knew. So a combination of insight and beauty. I also liken the writing of it to basketball—you discover that you can be better than yourself for a little while. If you’re writing a good poem, it means you’re discovering things that you didn’t know you knew. In basketball, if you’re hitting your shots, you feel in the realm of the magical.” (web)

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August 3, 2018

“Little Pretty Things” by Stephen DunnPosted by

Stephen Dunn

LITTLE PRETTY THINGS

As insects go, lacewings seem to have nothing to catapult
them into significance, most of the time just showing off
for the centipedes and sawflies. I imagine they envy
wasps their ability to make a house for themselves,
and boll-weevils their cottony usefulness. It seems
lacewings have nothing to do but be beautiful,
and so are dangerous. I’ve known a few
of their human counterparts, and have been fooled
by their slender bodies, the golden alertness
of their eyes, and for a while have forgiven a meanness,
even a cruelty, at their core.
Lacewings suck the bodily fluids
of aphids and other soft bodied creatures,
and devour their unhatched eggs. I suppose cruelty
has an evolutionary purpose, but whatever it is
I’ve learned to be wary of little pretty things
that exhibit it.
I can see some perverse nobility
in the Asian Tiger mosquito that needs nothing
more than a dab of blood from a few of us
before it lays itself down to die. And the behavior
of the Praying Mantis after sex has become part
of the inhuman comedy. I hear that in some cultures
lacewings are called stinkflies because of an odor
they emit to deter enemies. I don’t know who
or what these enemies are, but I hope enough exist
to save this world from creatures that stink and murder
and look graceful, gorgeous even, in the doing.

—from Rattle #60, Summer 2018
Tribute to Athlete Poets

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Stephen Dunn: “The poetry that ends up mattering speaks to things we half-know but are inarticulate about. It gives us language and the music of language for what we didn’t know we knew. So a combination of insight and beauty. I also liken the writing of it to basketball—you discover that you can be better than yourself for a little while. If you’re writing a good poem, it means you’re discovering things that you didn’t know you knew. In basketball, if you’re hitting your shots, you feel in the realm of the magical.” (web)

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February 4, 2016

“A Bowl of Fruit” by Stephen DunnPosted by

Stephen Dunn

A BOWL OF FRUIT

For me, the pleasure of poetry
is taking it apart.
—Jeanne-Andree Nelson

Jeanne, I have spent days arranging
this bowl of fruit, all for you,
knowing how much you love fruit
(not to eat, of course, but to examine),
and I’ve been careful to make sure
the bananas are the shape of bananas,
that the oranges rhyme with oranges,
and for your pleasure I’ve included
a lone pear, which may signify
something to you I haven’t intended,
which is my intention.
No doubt you’ve begun to question
why the quince and the apple
are so close together, and (knowing you)
if there might be a worm
in the apple, whether this gift
is a gift at all. And perhaps it’s true
that I’ve covered up the worm hole
with putty, painted over it perfectly,
though this would be a mystery
that only can be solved
by cutting open or biting into,
letting the juices run down the sides
of your mouth, or onto your hands.
It would be the kind of bold probing
I would love for you to love, the final
messiness of theory, still-life breaking open
into life, the discovery that the secret worm,
if real, will not permit you any distance.
But surely by now you’ve come to realize
there is no worm, only this bowl of fruit
made out of words, only these seductions.

—from Rattle #17, Summer 2002

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January 19, 2016

“The Crossing” by Stephen DunnPosted by

Stephen Dunn

THE CROSSING

You will soon be crossing the great waters,
the captain said, and there was a broken violin
behind him, and a harp that played by itself.
You will soon be crossing the great waters,
he repeated, and it will forever be too late
no matter what time it is.
This followed by a familiar hush of importance.
I was both the dreamer and director of a dream,
that much was clear, and I was the captain too.
I felt no fear. In the distance a stage-set sea.
When the captain said, Self-consciousness
is your life raft, you must leave it behind,
I suddenly wanted to protest but couldn’t
form the words, my mouth a cartoon
of a mouth agape, frozen in impotence,
a bubble of silence issuing from it.
Then we were setting out, the captain
and I, into the vast expanse on a windless day,
every scud in the sky a face from my past,
and all around sharks with their broad smiles.

—from Rattle #17, Summer 2002

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Stephen Dunn: “The poetry that ends up mattering speaks to things we half-know but are inarticulate about. It gives us language and the music of language for what we didn’t know we knew. So a combination of insight and beauty. I also liken the writing of it to basketball—you discover that you can be better than yourself for a little while. If you’re writing a good poem, it means you’re discovering things that you didn’t know you knew. In basketball, if you’re hitting your shots, you feel in the realm of the magical.” (web)

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