Posts tagged ‘2018’

Friday, 30 September 2022

SONNET FOR SILVIA FEDERICI by Anne Boyer

HOW DO WE COLLECTIVIZE REPRODUCTIVE LABOR?
IS THE FAMILY ENOUGH FOR YOU?
IS THE COUPLE ENOUGH FOR YOU?
WHAT WILL YOU DO WHEN YOU ARE OLD OR INFIRM?

WHAT STANDS BETWEEN YOU AND THE COMMUNE?
WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE IF YOU HAD WHAT YOU NEEDED?
WHAT IS OURS?
HOW TO GET IT?

HOW TO LIVE LIKE ELEPHANTS WITH ARCHITECTURE?
HOW MANY CHILDREN WOULD YOU CARE FOR IF THEY DIDN’T
HAVE TO BE YOURS?
HOW MANY MOTHERS, SISTERS, BROTHERS, and LOVERS WOULD
YOU LOVE IF THEY DIDN’T HAVE TO BE YOURS?

HOW DO WE END THE TRAGEDY OF OUR ATOMIZATION?
HOW DO WE END THE TRAGEDY?

From: https://jacket2.org/poems/sonnet-silvia-federici

Date: 2018

By: Anne Boyer (1973- )

Tuesday, 20 September 2022

Healer, Healer, Witch by Sally Rosen Kindred

1.
Katharina Kepler
is mother of Johannes—
astrologer, alchemist, keeper of planets

and their laws—and mother
of Heinrich, Margaretha, Christoph, matron
of Sun Inn, of candles and locks.

Married a mercenary
out the door in four years to Flanders, Corfu.
Dragged him back once to Weil, but he left again.

Married tough greens and a broom full of rain.
Is a healer. Is a healer.
Not a witch.

Wakes in the dark to tend the cows and clear their stalls.
Makes spelt-cakes on Fridays, makes cabbages and bread,
makes hay and carries it by hand

from the outer barn on her
own, because the children are always
small, pox-weak or off at school—

is a healer sleepless
during fever weeks, her thumbs on the town’s damp
lids, the pestle, the poultice, until a boy at the market

eats roots from her winter hands
and gets sicker.
Is a place on no one’s map

of the moon. Wants to weep
for the planets now, dangling as they must
from her son’s hard mind. Wants

to know what’s in the letter
he’s sent from university, but when
she begs the schoolmaster to read it

he says No.
Later he’ll say her voice burned ice,
then her breasts melted red through his door.

Wants to be called Daughter again, hear her common name.
Does not care anymore how the planets move,
though once she showed her sons the evening star,

once she worked beneath it in summer winds
picking up speed with the scythe as the fields went dark,
bent and swinging,

the children already in their beds.
Out of love she moved in the scythe’s lit song, believed
none of them would wander.

2.
Katharina Kepler
dreams she does not dream.
Lies down on the prison stone in 1620,

chain at her wrist like snow. Lies
down at last and does not rise
for choleric cows or children. Tonight

she heals no one. Heinrich
has accused her to the court; Christoph gave
her up. Margaretha sweeps a far hearth, busy

with her family. Only Johannes
is awake somewhere, thinking of her, his mind
in the same stone dark. Let him think.

She has her hands on her own face,
can feel in sleep her skin buckle, harden, can feel
herself become the churchyard hill

she climbed once to see the comet—
dreams she wakes now cloud-furled,
dreams she flies

through space, finally a body burning ice.

Johannes stands far below on the hill, a boy again
lifting his hand to her, tender,
tipping his chin to her sky.

Does he hurt down there? She heals
no one—
she can only scorch and fly—

and now she is a girl, running through black grass
to a witch whose silk arms
stretch out to claim her:

in this ring of daisies flaring
under stars, she arrives into warm folds. They hold
each other and are held

in the cape of night, in a meadow made
from blooms and her own voice, from a cauldron of herbs and Mother air—
her song, her shroud, this nevertheless.

From: https://www.bearreview.com/sally-rosen-kindred-two-poems

Date: 2018

By: Sally Rosen Kindred (19??- )

Friday, 2 September 2022

Sentience as an Outing to the Zoo by Nomi Stone

Children throw pebbles
at the jeweled head
of the peacock and bark back
at the seals. Who

can say what happens
inside each bright life?

Scientists study the brain’s
ancient core in insects:
no, not dark inside, not simple
reflex—it feels like something

to be a bee. Livid with loss,
a hive rears a new queen. Bees,

groggy, hold each others’ legs
as they fall sleep. Bees! They cling
to a car all the way down I-95,
their queen inside.

From: https://athenaeumreview.org/poem/sentience-as-an-outing-to-the-zoo/

Date: 2018

By: Nomi Stone (19??- )

Saturday, 20 August 2022

Road Radio by Joseph Stanton

Hearing a song today, sudden on my car radio,
a song I heard often forty years ago,
when I drove
hour after hour, day after day, night after night
across the continent,

thinking, as I did then,
about love or what I thought love was
and not knowing, really,
who I was or might be,
but just driving, driving, driving,

and playing over and over again in my mind
that irritating, inescapable tune,
and wondering, as I did then, why I needed to get somewhere
and wondering if I even knew
where I would be.

From: https://boomerlitmag.com/joseph-stanton/

Date: 2018

By: Joseph Stanton (1949- )

Thursday, 18 August 2022

Born of Blood and Tears by Christina Sng

A sapling emerges
From rocky soil
Born of blood and tears.

Over autumn
It grows spindly and tall
And come winter

It hibernates
Till spring
When it is fortified with bone.

Summer sustains it
With young fresh blood.
By autumn

It devours bracken and stone.
In winter
Its foliage quadruples.

Spring finds it all
Uprooted and gone
Leaving a wake of death

We follow.

From: https://mythicdelirium.com/featured-poem-%e2%80%a2-march-2018

Date: 2018

By: Christina Sng (19??- )

Wednesday, 17 August 2022

Thoughts While Playing Bach at Midnight by Carole Bugge

The rain beats a steady rhythm outside my window
a metronome of raindrops
as I sit at my piano and study manuscripts you left behind
tattered at the edges, brittle and browned as an old steak
a book of Bach preludes, a series of journeys into the unknowable
This one marked in your firm, clear hand
“Beautiful” written in the margin, underlined with a single strike of the pen
You diagramed the chord progressions in stern Roman numerals:
I, V, III, IV and back again to one
Always back again, leading as home—always a return to the One,
The tonic, the origin

Even Bach, that great adventurer, always returned home
I imagine your fingers on these keys—playing firmly, voraciously
(you always attacked Bach with a full-throated fury, as if he were Brahms or Mahler—
no tidy Baroque restraint for you)
and I can hear you between the notes, feel the strength of your passion, your
fury,
your disappointment with life

But always there was music to come back to
Music could not disappoint you, leave you, slight you, hurt you—
the notes awaited you on the page,
perfect round dots of divinity connected by the rising and falling line
an invitation to order and mathematical precision
melody, harmony—music of the spheres
yet to live inside the mystery, to be at home with the unknowing
The journey, always the journey

They are still there, those notes on the page, waiting for me to take the same
journey
It is the best way to know you
I, V, III, IV and back again
Beautiful.

From: http://quillandparchment.com/archives/Sept2018/thou.html

Date: 2018

By: Carole Brugge (19??- )

Wednesday, 18 May 2022

The Long Dead by Doug Ramspeck

Mostly we smoked with our backs
to the fence, watching our classmates
filing out from the school grounds,
or we exchanged pills for a handful
of dollars, or we made rude remarks
to the girls we liked. One was named Marlene,
and nine years later she took her own life
in a bathroom of an apartment house
where she was living with her boyfriend
and their son, though back in high school
she would give us the finger or pretend
she might flash us. Her brother ended up
doing time for check kiting—a term
I didn’t know until he went away for it—
and decades later I saw him at a YMCA
with his clothes off, as fat as a walrus,
and he reminded me of a time we’d almost
stolen a car then had chickened out,
reminded me of a time we drove
to Wisconsin where the drinking age
was eighteen. Apparently he struck a car
in the parking lot before we headed back,
though I had no memory of the accident.
Mostly I nodded while he stood with a towel
draped over his shoulder, and we talked
about the long dead, including his sister,
and I imagined my back against the fence
as she was walking by, and I remembered how
she would turn as we called out, her mouth
undecided whether it were angry or amused,
and the clouds above her seemed a reliquary,
the earth spinning out on its wheel.

From: https://www.rattle.com/the-long-dead-by-doug-ramspeck/

Date: 2018

By: Doug Ramspeck (1953- )

Friday, 25 March 2022

At the Lecture on Atmosphere and Special Effects by Susan Grimm

Outside the leaves frantic with wind like a man
working to get someplace else until the moment

he drops. Background footsteps fog. Slow dolly
forward with a squeaky wheel. The audience always

in the dark, unless they’re in the car’s backseat,
incandescent with hands. But what shuffles

forward. What scrapes the roof. The key on the ground
in an excess of leaf mould. Even though we’ve left

the city, even though this is our city now
with its tuneful radio and modest cup of change.

Our cabin in the woods with its architecture of limbs.
Is suspense an emotion. We change shape, breath,

scramble for edges and moistures. Plackets and clefts.
How is it that even unthinking we are still afraid.

From: https://superstitionreview.asu.edu/issue20/poetry/susangrimm

Date: 2018

By: Susan Grimm (19??- )

Thursday, 24 March 2022

Dendrochronology by Caleb Nelson

You can lacerate my pointed wing.
I can put my head inside a cloud. Poof.
It is 2002, I remember your last day on earth.

You had Ray-Bans parting your hazel hair.
Everything is cliché, eventually. I remember
your numbing shimmer, your half-life of love.

It was too easy for you. You poked my inactive
cells, this sting of rain, a longer season of growth.
There’s one black mark: the space you left behind.

Even now, I try to prophesy your return.
I offer sweet lies to the red-tailed hawks
and your memory devours me like forest fire.

From: Nelson, Caleb, “Dendrochronology” in Epigraph Magazine, Issue Seventeen, February 2018, p. 10.
(https://www.epigraphmagazine.com/uploads/1/5/6/7/15676572/epigraph_issue_017.pdf)

Date: 2018

By: Caleb Nelson (19??- )

Thursday, 10 March 2022

Aftermath by Lisa Baird

She saves spent light bulbs,
wraps blown bulbs tenderly
in tissue saved from birthday parties,
stows them in stacked boxes,
carefully labeled as close as she can get
to the exact time the tungsten fragmented.
She holds a service for each one,
wept over the first few dozen,
but there are hundreds now. She is old
and has done this for a long time.
Next spring she will empty the closets,
unpack every row in the basement,
take shovel to earth along the lane
and bury each bulb,
grow dark flowers
from dead light.

From: http://www.whatwonderfulthings.net/main/aftermath-by-lisa-baird/

Date: 2018

By: Lisa Baird (19??- )