March 22, 2022

Susan Browne

YOU WONDER IF YOU CAN WRITE SOMETHING

that has hope in it.
Today, you read, there’s a big rush to buy
bomb shelters.
Normal people are buying them,
not just millionaires.
There is some hope in that:
thinking life will go on after.
If you go shopping today
it won’t be for a bomb shelter
but a beautiful anything
you can find: a soft pair of socks,
a necklace that catches the light
although nothing will get your mind off
of the mass grave in Ukraine,
the jaw-bones & eye sockets,
the pregnant women running
from the destroyed maternity hospital.
Your friend said she doesn’t read the news
because what can she do, what can any of us do
to stop the butchers
because we have to be butchers
to stop them, a hopeless logic.
You could put a pear in your pocket
& pretend you have a horse to slowly feed it to.
You could build a ramshackle hut
for the dandelions before the spring wind
blows through.

from Poets Respond
March 22, 2022

__________

Susan Browne: “I wrote this poem after reading the story in the New York Times about Europeans buying bomb shelters, iodine pills, and survival guides.” (web)

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March 9, 2022

Susan Browne

DO YOU HAVE CHILDREN?

she asks as we walk off the tennis court
& someone starts up a chainsaw behind the fence

in the parking lot so I have to shout no!
& I’m suddenly tired, never been this tired 

of this question that’s always asked if you’re a woman, 
chunks of air falling around us 

like wildfire monsoon oily ocean machine-gunned 
atomic mushroom babies on a shriveled planet 

& she yells that she has three & her first grandchild!
while we stand on the hot asphalt with that chainsaw tearing 

a log to pieces & just won’t quit. She opens her car door, 
shows me the quilt she’s made, little lambs on it 

& when I touch the softness I want to be born 
into a world where I say yes.

from Rattle #74, Winter 2021
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Susan Browne: “I’ve been in love with poetry since I was 12, when my next door neighbor gave me a book of poems, Archy and Mehitabel by Don Marquis. Archy is a cockroach and a free verse poet. Mehitabel is a cat in her ninth life with many stories to tell. Archy has to throw himself headfirst onto each typewriter key in order to write. I was inspired! Poetry is my way of being in the world. I don’t know any other way.” (web)

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September 3, 2021

Susan Browne

STRAWBERRY

When I got my period, there wasn’t any sweetness 
in sitting on the toilet waiting for my mother 

to return from the store with the white rowboat 
I’d have to wear between my legs once a month 

for the next 38 years. It was summer, the strawberries 
ripe in the backyard where my father was sweeping the patio, 

walking over to the bathroom window to say, “Okay in there?”
“Uh-huh,” I said, shuddering in embarrassment

& lying, but who told the raw sodden biological truth?
My mother, my father, my older sister, at least one of them

might have let me in on the devastation of menstruation.
I mean, I’d heard of it like I’d heard of death—

a vague rumor or something that happened  
to anyone other than me. I wasn’t even sure yet

if I wanted to be a girl. Being female was a truth
I couldn’t escape, but that didn’t keep me from trying. 

I left the baby dolls my aunts & grandmothers gave me 
in the dirt while I tore around the neighborhood

with Carl & Doug, riding bikes with our shirts off & throwing 
Swiss Army knives at each other’s feet, seeing how close we could get. 

I disliked curlers & cooking & sewing & women 
in movies looking stupid as drool, crying when some douche 

gave them a diamond ring in a glass of champagne with a strawberry in it.
I hated strawberries. Everybody making a big deal about how good 

they tasted when I thought they were way too sugary & sticky 
& the seeds got stuck in your teeth

& now they reminded me of my period, a word I couldn’t stand,
why the hell blood dripping out of a body  

was called a punctuation mark. Oh yeah, it was something about time 
& here I was at the beginning of this cycle that would ruin every season, 

including my favorite. How could I go swimming, wear a bathing suit
was all I could think about as my mother arrived & helped me strap on 

the contraption of doom. She, to my great relief, did not say anything 
as horrifying as you’re a woman now. I would have stabbed her 

with my Swiss Army knife. She tip-toed away as I sat in my bedroom,
my insides cramping like I’d swallowed a pitchfork, the sun blaring 

in the window & blowing strawberries at me. A few years later, I was allowed
to use a tampon, but no one told me how that worked, so I jammed it in 

with the cardboard still on & hobbled out of the bathroom, my legs bowed.
When I asked my sister & her friend why it didn’t fit, they laughed so hard,

rolling around on the floor. Another soggy kind of hell while I tried 
to get it out & they left for the beach.  

When they returned, eating strawberry Frosty cones, I was reading a novel 
& recovering from PTSD. I’m lying about the cones, but let’s say 

I took a taste anyway. I’d met a boy at a dance that summer.
It was like a line drawn in blood on the grass & I slid into another world.

from Rattle #72, Summer 2021

__________

Susan Browne: “I’ve been in love with poetry since I was twelve when my next door neighbor gave me a book of poems, Archy and Mehitabel by Don Marquis. Archy is a cockroach and a free verse poet. Mehitabel is a cat in her ninth life with many stories to tell. Archy has to throw himself headfirst onto each typewriter key in order to write. I was inspired! Poetry is my way of being in the world. I don’t know any other way.” (web)

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April 22, 2020

Susan Browne

DUCT TAPE, SLEEP, PRETZELS

At 35,000 feet, I look out the airplane window
& see duct tape on the propeller.
It reminds me of the human condition
& so does the curly head of the girl next to me 
resting against my shoulder.
At first, it’s uncomfortable
being used as a pillow
& her head is heavy, but I never sleep
on planes anyway & can still read
my book through the corkscrews of her hair. 
Out the window, past the duct tape, the sky 
goes on a journey of freedom
& fearlessness. That’s the human condition, too,
or else no one would ever get on a plane
or have children. The girl shifts in her seat, 
her head snuggles closer to my chest. 
She could be my daughter
although her mother is on her other side
fast asleep. Like being fastened into sleep? 
As if sleep holds you, secure.
My philosophy professor in college told the class
there was no such thing as security.
He leaned out of his chair 
toward us, his face all sharp angles,
his eyes holding the softness
of frayed silk. He killed himself
before he could grade our finals. 
The mother wakes up, looks at me, startled.
Oh, sorry, she says & tries to wake her daughter
with little shoves. It’s okay, I say.
She sighs back into sleep.
I open the pack of pretzels that’s been squashed
in my pocket & eat the broken pieces,
trying not to get crumbs in the girl’s hair.

from Rattle #67, Spring 2020
Students of Kim Addonizio

__________

Susan Browne: “In 1996, I took a workshop with Kim Addonizio in Petaluma, California. I then took workshops with her for the next twenty years. I had found my teacher. She taught me how to revise. She taught me surprise and tension, the music of the line, the power of humor and risk, leaps and how to wait. How to put away the poem and wait a week, a month, a year. She was endlessly encouraging and inspiring, but never easy. I can still hear her saying, ‘That’s not the most compelling language.’ She taught me duende. She is my Queen of Duende.” (web)

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March 25, 2020

Susan Browne

BONANZA

Amanda shows me my bones,
A picture of my spine, ghost-like,
Snake-like, like it could rattle.
I say, Amanda, it looks crooked, why
Is that? She shrugs, You’re not the only one.
Your bone density’s fine. You can go now.
My plebeian spine walks me toward
The mammogram room where I flop my boob
Onto the plastic tray. Flop is not exactly accurate
Concerning these tater tots.
Darlene tussles with them, trying to yank
What’s barely there & squish it under
The plate. Wait! I say, trying not to yell.
Darlene waits, complimenting me on my earrings.
I explain where I bought them in case she’d like a pair
& she asks if I’m ready & before I answer
My flesh is smashed & splayed into place,
I’m told not to breathe, the machine whirs,
My spine curves even more weirdly.
I am bones hung with a hunk
Of tissue muscle blood, I am not the only one
Who rattles & spins on the wheel of living’s roulette
& finally Darlene says you can go now as she stares
At a computer screen. Is her expression alarmed
Or maybe her mouth’s just slightly crooked? I stand
Straight & naked from the waist up except for my earrings,
The room cold slabs of concrete where the body is a dumb
Animal searching for a way out. Bloused, I elevator
From the basement & walk outside into a bonanza
Of sunshine, the crowded street, the amazing meat
Of us, the jostling bones of us, the creaking, the sloshing,
The man carrying his baby against his chest in a sash
As if he’s holding eggs while riding a unicycle,
The old lady pushing an older lady in a wheelchair
So slowly the universe could be redesigned
Before they cross the street to the storefront brimming
With apricots & artichokes. Doesn’t take X-ray eyes
To see something inside us all, like a secret
I wish we’d tell without fear, leaning close,
Nearly kissing the other’s ear.

from Rattle #66, Winter 2019
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Susan Browne: “I’ve been in love with poetry since I was twelve when my next door neighbor gave me a book of poems, Archy and Mehitabel by Don Marquis. Archy is a cockroach and a free-verse poet. Mehitabel is a cat in her ninth life with many stories to tell. Archy has to throw himself headfirst onto each typewriter key in order to write. I was inspired! Poetry is my way of being in the world. I don’t know any other way.” (web)

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August 28, 2019

Susan Browne

STRANGE ODE

I wanted love so badly
I flew to Cedar Rapids
to stay with a man I barely knew,

and when I arrived at his house,
we chatted for a bit, and he poured
us each a glass of wine and after

a few sips asked if I’d pee
on his head. He was a psychologist,
so I hoped he was joking.

We’d met in a bar in San Francisco—
I was often in a bar in those days,
as if love lived there.

My father was an alcoholic,
and my mother had just died,
and looking back at who I was then,

I realize I was crazy from grief.
But at the time I didn’t know what
I was doing, and a stranger had asked

a strange question. “In the kitchen?”
I asked, because that’s where we were,
my small suitcase next to the chair.

“No,” the man said. “In the shower.”
I glanced into the living room: dark wood floor,
dark furniture, drapes closed in midafternoon.

Fear zithered my ribcage. I hadn’t told anyone
where I was. This man could kill me and bury me
in his backyard, and no one would ever find out.

“I think you’d enjoy it,” he said.
“And if you’d like me to, I can also pee
on your head.” “No, thanks.”

I tried to chuckle, but it sounded
like a chicken bone
was stabbing my larynx.

We went for a drive through a beautiful forest
by a river to his parents’ house. The father
wore a blue seersucker suit, and the mother’s dress

was patterned with peonies. His parents
were so kind I felt like I was their daughter.
When they asked about my family,

I said my mother had died in a car accident,
and while I cried, no one said anything
until I was able to stop. The mother held

my hand the whole time. After dinner,
her son and I sat in the backyard
eating ice cream.

I’d never seen fireflies before.
They made a gold constellation
like a sky of stars beneath the stars.

When we got back to his place, we put on
our pajamas and went to bed. He held me
close and told stories from his childhood.

“Shower?” he asked.
I said the fireflies were good enough.
In the morning, I decided to go home,

so he changed the ticket. At the airport,
he gave me a wrapped present, saying it
was something for my journey. As the plane

lifted off, I opened the package, a book:
You Can Be Happy No Matter What,
and I couldn’t put it down.

from Rattle #64, Summer 2019

__________

Susan Browne: “I’ve been in love with poetry since I was twelve when my next door neighbor gave me a book of poems, Archy and Mehitabel by Don Marquis. Archy is a cockroach and a free verse poet. Mehitabel is a cat in her ninth life with many stories to tell. Archy has to throw himself headfirst onto each typewriter key in order to write. I was inspired! Poetry is my way of being in the world. I don’t know any other way.” (web)

 

Susan Browne is this week’s guest on the Rattlecast. Click here to watch live or archived.

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October 25, 2010

Review by Michael MeyerhoferZephyr by Susan Browne

ZEPHYR
by Susan Browne

Steel Toe Books
Western Kentucky University
1906 College Heights Blvd. #11086
Bowling Green, KY 42101-1086
ISBN 978-0-9824169-4-5
2010, 92 pp, $12.00
www.steeltoebooks.com

The poems in Zephyr, winner of the 2009 Steel Toe Books Prize in Poetry (Editor’s Choice), by Susan Browne, reminded me right away of Bob Hicok’s work—and I mean that as the highest of compliments. Browne, like Hicok, is willing to take big risks in her poems. Unlike other established poets who begin to play it safe after awhile, Browne continuously pushes the envelope, betting the success of each poem on its next line. That makes these poems daring, authentic, and fun.

As the one-word title implies, there’s a certain directness to these poems, but it’s not the directness of Zen-like brevity; rather, it’s the directness of the snappy punch line; the elegant, quick turn of phrase; the wholly unexpected image that renders you unable to imagine a thing being described any other way. Take, for example, the everyday malaise described in “Mountain”: “Maybe a map is a good thing / On those days I feel / Like I’m riding a rhino up a mountain…”

Another fine example can be found in “Tuesday,” wherein Browne perfectly captures the combination of panic and numbness felt by someone who returns home to find her house has been broken into: “The front door’s smashed open, wood busted, / Hinges broken, a dusty space / Where the TV had been, / And what you feel is Oh. / ….Then the police arrive, their radios blaring. / Sorry, they say, but this happens every day. / Oh, you say. Just Oh, nodding, wearing all / your best jewelry at once.”

She is also a poet who knows how to use line breaks (to flush out double-meanings, to create tension, to set up a joke) in an era when many other poets struggle with basic punctuation. Take, for example, the first and last lines of “At Bloomingdale’s Grand Opening in San Francisco.” Here, the laugh-out-loud humor belies what seems to be a genuine, human struggle for identity in a postmodern world:

I can’t find my way out
of the new shopping center
which was added on to the old shopping center
and now covers two million square feet of earth.
….
I can never go outside again,
these doors only open onto other doors,
down into the funnel of more and more,
until I’m buried in denim, ten thousand different kinds of jeans,
a cross made of diamonds driven into my heart.

Further, the unexpected turn at the end is especially striking because it combines religious, commercial, and romantic imagery all at once (plus a nod to figurative vampirism); these lines simultaneously invoke a sense of tenderness and violence, humor and sadness, that could be seen as a microcosm of the entire poem (plus the entire book as a whole).

Another thing I admire about these poems is their sense of perspective. You get from Zephyr a sense that Browne is a poet who never pulls her punches; nor, though, is she a poet of glamorous self-indulgence and melodrama. Rather, she is able to strike right to the heart of an event, its deepest essence, by maintaining a multi-dimensional perspective—which is a fancy way of saying she takes poetry seriously but knows not to take herself too seriously. Take, for instance, these lines from “Sadness”: “You wanted to be happy / but got hooked on sadness. / ….Your one hope was to be the saddest person alive / and win an award,” or this opening from “To the Moment”: “Thank God you’re here, / eternal warrior who wrestles against the joyless / onslaught of mortal ugh.” We could use a lot more poems that poke fun at the need some (many?) artists have to outdo each other’s lamentations, to view their work as more pivotal than it actually is.

“Fairy Tale Elegy” (a poem reminiscent of Jeannine Hall Gailey) is another fine example: “Once upon a time in the Land of Sad, / a girl went on a journey. / She was not a princess, except to her mother… / Her father had vanished some tipsy moons ago, / kidnapped by the pirate Captain Smirnoff.” The girl goes on to find love, but reject it because “she had to return to the Land of Sad,” perhaps a roundabout acknowledgment of just how addictive depression and sadness are in the first place (especially for those of us who find themselves in this rather odd business of words).

Browne’s poems contain plenty of vulnerability, too, as in “Hard to Believe”: “We stood by our mother’s grave / in black silk sheathes…./ My younger sister couldn’t afford a dress / so had bought one at Nordstrom, / a store known to take everything back.” Here the humor, taken in contrast with the sadness of the opening, actually makes us feel a little guilty for laughing—which could itself serve as a metaphor for funerals, since everyone knows that it’s exactly when you’re supposed to be solemn that your lip starts twitching.

What I continuously return to in Browne’s poems, though, is her taut imagery, her imaginative leaps, as in her description of a dog’s fur “rippling in sunlight like black fire,”, or this ghoulishly awkward scene described in “On Our First Date”:

He ordered oxtail, heap of dark meat
he scooped with his hands off the white plate,
saying, The marrow has the best flavor

It’s not just the imagery but the fantastic use of assonance (especially the ominous long-O sound) plus the close attention to stressed syllables that makes these opening lines especially vivid.

Equally worthy of note are Browne’s wry observations—such as in “The Nose on Your Face,” which points out that: “In all your life, you will never see your actual face. / If you close one eye, you can gaze / at the side of your nose, but that’s it.” I think we all secretly crave a good dose of wisdom from the poems we read; wisdom starts with observations, and the wryer the better. The trick, though, is finding a poet who won’t turn you off with their own sense of self-importance, their haughty overuse of language. No such concern with Browne; here, we have a smart poet who seems to genuinely care about her readers, who hopes (rather than insists) that we leave her book just a little better off than how we arrived.

____________

Michael Meyerhofer’s second book, Blue Collar Eulogies, was published by Steel Toe Books. His first, Leaving Iowa, won the Liam Rector First Book Award. He has also won the Marjorie J. Wilson Best Poem Contest, the James Wright Poetry Award, the Laureate Prize, the Annie Finch Prize for Poetry, and four chapbook prizes. His work has appeared in Ploughshares, North American Review, Arts & Letters, River Styx, Quick Fiction and other journals, and can be read online at www.troublewithhammers.com.

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