January 15, 2021

Vivian Shipley

POETRY WORKSHOP

for Nicole

I don’t have to ask how a town is doing 
when I walk past store after store 
with undressed mannequins in windows,

some missing an arm at the shoulder,
a leg at the hip. I don’t want to stifle
your creativity so I lead class discussion

as if your poem were fiction, even though
when you unzip the hoodie you hide in,
I see knobs in wrists and how collarbones 

protrude. What I can’t see is if gashes line 
your forearms, inner thighs. There is no way
I can transform your description of cutting 

into metaphor. Beginning with a Popsicle stick
sharpened like a pencil, you scratched wrists, 
trying to erase insecurities. Seeking emotion

you could control, you inflicted pain to bleed
out depression that numbed you. Watching
Pink’s music video, learning new places

on your body to hide scars, you found secret 
friends in tabloid interviews with Johnny Depp,
Princess Diana, and Angelina Jolie who 

talked about cutting. I did not understand
why you kept razor blades like sacred objects
in a black velvet box, but details about forcing

yourself to vomit, spitting out ounces were 
only too clear. Shedding blood did not stop
your obsession about pounds that might

be hiding in your tonsils. You heaved
and heaved as if you could escape your cage
of bone. I pictured a beached whale, ribs

jutting from sand, you on all fours, a dog
above a toilet. In our conference, neither
of us has anything to say. I want to ask you

to show me your arms, but don’t. To break
silence, I resist suggesting a skeleton
costume, but I do say eating food is not

like swallowing injustice. Slicing skin
to mine your body, were you digging 
for a fossil of yourself? To help you 

find a better way to soothe yourself, find
pleasure, I read William Carlos William’s
This Is Just to Say. I offer my yellow plum, 

a stone fruit, to show how flesh clings
to the seed no matter how hard it is pulled.
A child, you liked erasers more than pencils,

would cut your face out of photographs, 
probably stayed spread eagled in snow
until you were covered. What if you begin

to believe there are calories in the air you
breathe? I don’t know how to create a body
you won’t want to cut or try to shed, and I

realize there’s no point in writing, “Please 
see me if you want to talk.” Even though 
death dangles, I don’t know what else to do.

from Rattle #69, Fall 2020

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Vivian Shipley: “Many of my poetry students write poems about cutting themselves and eating disorders, which often go hand-in-hand. My concern for the student makes me want to ask if the work is based on actual experience. However, to teach creative writing, I believe I need to pretend all work is an act of creativity and not confessional. Otherwise, I may prevent students from sharing experiences that they don’t want to be seen as personal. In fiction class, this is not a problem. Everyone assumes fiction is, well, fiction, but that poetry is ‘true.’ In my poem, I try to express my conflict about not knowing how to help students who write about self-harm.” (web)

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October 22, 2020

Ekphrastic Challenge, September 2020: Artist’s Choice

 

Painting women lounging and swimming in a pool in the head of a bluish figure

Image: “Pool Head” by Pat Singer. “Visiting the Gardens at DePugh Nursing Center, Winter Park, Florida” was written by Vivian Shipley for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, September 2020, and selected as the Artist’s Choice.

[download: PDF / JPG]

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Vivian Shipley

VISITING THE GARDENS AT DEPUGH NURSING CENTER, WINTER PARK, FLORIDA

As if I am in a zoo, I peer through
bars of the black iron fence.
Restricted by the coronavirus
to outdoor visits, I’m unable
to touch my sister parked
in her wheelchair by the aide.
Under a trellis, vines seem
to yearn as I do to touch her hair.
Azure blue flowers, centered
in purple, rest near her face,
eyes closed, lips flatlining.
I whisper Mary Oliver’s lines,

I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.

Someone has smeared on fire engine
red lipstick as if my sister might flirt
again, arm on a jukebox, index finger
running down a man’s tie.

Like a live beetle savaged
by fire ants swarming its cranium,
a brain tumor eats from inside out
until Mary Alice, who cannot
escape her executioner, will die.

I know the tumor in her skull is like
an ember, burning until any memory
of me in her lobes has been turned
to white ash. But if I could remove
the top of her head like the surgeon
had done to debulk the tumor, I’d like
to believe I’d find our pool in Kentucky
with us, the three sisters in tank suits.
Mary is floating on her back in yellow.
I sit on the edge in blue daring only
to dangle my feet in the water.
My youngest sister, naturally in red,
dives from the high board.

As a child, Mary Alice was the good girl,
Pointed her toes in ballet class, strung
glass beads on elastic bracelets in Methodist
church camp to help others find salvation:
white, the purity of Mary, red, the blood
Jesus shed, even for me. To give me faith,
she explained good and evil are like sun
and rain. God sends rainbows to make
sense of them together. I’d shoot back,
I didn’t need the world to have meaning,
had no ache to be saved or have afterlife.
Now, to be with her again, I do.

from Ekphrastic Challenge
September 2020, Artist’s Choice

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Comment from the artist, Pat Singer: “The way this poem unfolds feels very real and unexpected. I enjoy the surprising and unpredictable way that the sister’s tumor introduces the visual of the pool inside the mind. The writer captured the grim, desolate reality of visiting someone who is unable to care for themselves anymore. Visiting someone who’s a husk of what they once were is difficult, sobering, and emotional. The words the writer uses conveys these feelings with raw power and an authentic voice. The visual cues tie in well with the art literally, but also manages to expand the meaningfulness into something much more robust and with more depth than what is on the surf.”

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March 5, 2011

Review by Stellasue LeeAll of Your Messages Have Been Erased by Vivian Shipley

ALL OF YOUR MESSAGES HAVE BEEN ERASED
by Vivian Shipley

Louisiana Literature Press,
SLU Box 10792
Hammond, Louisiana, 70402
ISBN: 978-0-945083-27-6 (cloth)
978-0-945083-28-3 (paper)
2010, 128 pp. $14.95
louisianaliterature.org

Vivian Shipley’s voice is compelling as she speaks for the women in her book. She gives word to their loss and loneliness, their passion, as well as her own. These poems fill the reader with a sense of wonder at the existence of such ordinary people, their extraordinary struggle and alienation, their grief and rebellious attitudes in the face of life’s tragedy.

Shipley’s allegiance to the forgotten honors them by giving voice to those who can no longer speak for themselves. From Mary Shelley’s long wait for her neglectful, philandering husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was never to return from the sea; to The Radium Girls hired by Timex and told only that the paint was harmless as they ingested deadly amounts of radium by licking their paintbrushes to sharpen the points. What did they know; they were young, and beautiful and paid 8 cents a dial. “Work faster,” said their boss, even though the radium made them gag.

Frances Splettstocher, 21 became the first dial painter to die in Waterbury.

I had lip painted for 4 years, did think it strange that my handkerchief
glowed in the dark when I blew my nose, but church members,
makers of Waterbury’s Dollar Watches, wouldn’t let young girls
like us do anything harmful.

Frances describes her work area:

Next to me racks of altimeters and clock dials waited
like upturned faces of children I would never have.

Eventually, Frances had to have a tooth removed.

The hole in my cheek would not heal; my uncle would pay
me a dime to go away so he did not have to look at it.

The language Shipley uses is extraordinary. At times, a line may leap off the page and become a banner the minds-eye sees and can’t quiet move past. Often, her description is painfully stark, ridged, as if it were happening in the present. The reader can’t help but take it personally, the sudden desire to remove yourself from your chair of comfort and demand justice.

Other places, it’s as if Shipley is talking to you over the back fence about a relative. She leans into her words, gossip-like, while the wind ruffles leaves from the branches of trees overhead. At other times, lines come at you like bits of flying embers from the bonfire that has become her passion, the voices of women who have returned to earth.

There is a quality of music throughout, as an operatic base, a basso profundo like Paul Gerimon singing Ol’ Man River. It sends shivers up your spine, a refrain that carries you along an endless river into the center of your being as these women become as real as your own family.

Interspersed, there are very personal poems, family dynamics, grief, loss, a history of a working family doing the best they know how. Vivian’s father,

…valued silence, never was one to talk much
and it’s no surprise that in blueprints for his house,
there are specifications for pegs to cover the screws
in the hardwood for floors and stairs that do not creak.

And, Vivian’s mother, the image of her “…lifting a hand, mothlike, to tell the stooped man (from the hospital) who sidles in for the trash that today’s her 88th birthday.” Shipley’s family is all of our families. “Orphan,” near the end of this marvelous book, Vivian writes, “Not a word one would apply to a sixty-two-year old,…” yet I experienced this same feeling when the last of my parents died. She touches my heart with her accessibility.

I would be negligent if I didn’t wonder why Shipley has chosen to champion the women she writes about in this book. I am led to believe that deep within her space, she has suffered, felt silenced. Well, we are listening now.

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Stellasue Lee was an entrant for the 2000 Pulitzer Prize, and is again under consideration in 2011. She received The Poet and the Poem Special Recognition for Excellence from the Library of Congress in 2003. Dr. Lee is the author of five books in print: firecracker RED, Crossing the Double Yellow Line, 13 Los Angeles Poets, After I Fall, and Over To You. Her newly released book, firecracker RED, deals with issues of loss, recovery and redemption. Her poetry has been published in numerous anthologies and literary journals including the Connecticut Review, Cortland Review, Margie, Paterson Literary Review, and Quercus Review. Now Editor Emeritus of RATTLE, a literary journal, she teaches privately. (www.stellasuelee.com)

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