SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: MATT HART

Photo 44

DAILY CHORES
By Matt Hart

The important things
don’t just happen by accident
They don’t get said
if no one’s willing
to go out on a limb
and maybe fall into the waiting
arms of the meadow, the meadow so dark
we can’t see it, or so light-bright
I can’t see you drumming
right next to me yesterday—
perfectly clattery cacophony—
the latter a word that makes a shape
in one’s mouth      Say it,
Cacophony      Your body changes
Your mind moves over the water
And that’s really all there is
You are bigger than lightning
And the waves don’t dry up
for fear of crashing against me
If this all seems a little abstract
it’s because I’m becoming less
fond of the concrete particulars,
the polyp in my throat
won’t burst or go away
like a dandelion    I think
I should do more screaming
about the contented little houses
of this neighborhood
and the tensions well-hidden
inside them, a million secret swells
of violence and affection,
the motion of the jungle
right here in Cincinnati
And last night’s dishes
still stacked in the sink,
the laundry too dumb
to be surprising


(Today’s poem originally appeared in Diode and appears here today with permission from the poet.)

Matt Hart is the author of five books of poetry, most recently Sermons and Lectures Both Blank and Relentless (Typecast Publishing, 2012) and Debacle Debacle (H_NGM_N Books, 2013). His awards include a Pushcart Prize, a 2013 individual artist grant from The Shifting Foundation, and fellowships from both the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and the Warren Wilson College MFA Program for Writers. A co-founder and the editor-in-chief of Forklift, Ohio: A Journal of Poetry, Cooking & Light Industrial Safety, he lives in Cincinnati where he teaches at the Art Academy of Cincinnati and plays in the band TRAVEL.

Editor’s Note: Dean Young of The American Reader says of Matt Hart that he is “a poet of enormous vroom. Vast with Whitman’s cosmic warmth but reckless with his own outbursts of punk intensity.” This is a poetry alive with an energy and life force all its own. Today’s poem reads like the free association of an ADHD-riddled mind espousing the soft touch of the lyric. The subject under consideration constantly shifts, illuminated by flashes of electricity (“You are bigger than lightning”), moments of classic poetic beauty (“and maybe fall into the waiting / arms of the meadow”), and thoughtful insight into both the mind that houses this world and the world that houses this mind (“I think / I should do more screaming / about the contented little houses / of this neighborhood / and the tensions well-hidden / inside them, a million secret swells / of violence and affection”). This is a poem that warrants reading and re-reading; new discoveries unfold, both stunning and surprising, with each pass.

Want to read more by and about Matt Hart?
Buy Debacle Debacle from H_NGM_N Books
Buy Sermons and Lectures Both Blank and Relentless from Typecast Publishing
A video of Matt Hart reading a poem from Sermons and Lectures
New poems at The American Reader

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

Edna

SPRING
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.


(Today’s poem is in the public domain, belongs to the masses, and appears here today accordingly.)


Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), was an American lyrical poet, playwright, and feminist activist. She received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923 and the Frost Medal for her lifetime contribution to American poetry in 1943.

Editor’s Note: Edna St. Vincent Millay is one of the great poets of the 20th century. I am struck, when reading today’s poem, at its lack of antiquated language, at its freedom from rhyme and meter. St. Vincent Millay was a poet ahead of her time; she is revered among the American poetic tradition not because of the way we look back on her work, but for the way her work was ahead of its time, the way it wrought a new tradition. What Peter Gizzi has written of Barbara Guest and tradition is appropriate in this instance: “[Her] poetry, like all great art, makes us reconsider tradition—not as a fixed canonical body that exists behind us or bears us up but as something we move toward. We find it reading back through those very works that were ahead of their own time, their readers, and even their authors…”

I was inspired to share today’s poem not only because it is as alive today as it was a hundred years ago, but also because its subject matter is one we East Coasters know all too well. Spring here is bitter. We are teased with days of warmth followed by days of bitter cold. The sun is shining, the first blossoms are on the trees, but we are still in our winter coats, wondering, “To what purpose, April, do you return again?”

Want to see more by and about Edna St. Vincent Millay?
Millay Society
Poets.org
The Poetry Foundation

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: PRAYERS LIKE SHOES

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FROM PRAYERS LIKE SHOES
By Ruth Forman


STAND

why so afraid to stand up?
someone will tell you
sit down?

but here is the truth
someone will always tell you
sit down

the ones we remember
kept standing



PRAYERS LIKE SHOES

I wear prayers like shoes

pull em on quiet each morning
take me through the uncertain day

don’t know
what might knock me off course

sit up in bed
pull on the right
then the left
before shower before teeth

my mama’s gift
to walk me through this life

she wore strong ones
the kind steady your ankles
i know
cause when her man left/ her children
gone/ her eldest son without goodbye
they the only ones keep her
standing

i saw her
still standing

mama passed on
some things to me
ma smile   sense a discipline
ma
subtle behind

but best she passed on
girl you go to God
and get you some good shoes
cause this life ain’t steady ground

now i don’t wear hers
you take em with you you know
but i suspect they made by the same company
pull em on each morning
first the right    then the left

best piece a dress
i got



THESE HIPS

these hips ripe plums
don’t believe
come
taste

these midnight moons
made a sugar’s juice
know how to curve a line
make a knife shiver
in anticipation

these hips ripe plums
don’t believe
run yr hand long this

n tell me

God did not know what She was doing
when She
gentled her hand
in a half moon
two times
smoothed
the most perfect
fruit
on earth



THE AIR ABOVE OUR TONGUES

We do not speak. afraid
of what might happen to us

the air above our tongues
prays for us to speak. afraid
of what might happen
if we don’t



Today’s poems are from Prayers Like Shoes (Whit Press, © 2009 Ruth Forman), and appear here today with permission from the poet.


Prayers Like Shoes: Whit Press, in partnership with Hedgebrook, presents this magnificent collection of poetry from highly acclaimed writer and poet Ruth Forman. “Ruth Forman’s Prayers Like Shoes is a book you will carry with you for life, give to people you love, and turn to in times of joy and sadness. Her words are as natural as grass and air, and the stories they tell will travel from the page to your heart.” — Gloria Steinem


Ruth Forman is the author of three award-winning books: poetry collections We Are the Young Magicians (Beacon, 1993) and Renaissance, (Beacon, 1997) and children’s book, Young Cornrows Callin Out the Moon (Children’s Book Press, 2007). She is the recipient of the Barnard New Women Poets Prize, The Pen Oakland Josephine Miles Literary Award, The Durfee Artist Fellowship, the National Council of Teachers of English Notable Book Award, and recognition by The American Library Association. She provides writing workshops at schools and universities across the country and abroad, and has presented in forums such as the United Nations, the PBS series The United States of Poetry and National Public Radio. Ruth is a former teacher of creative writing with the University of Southern California and June Jordan’s Poetry for the People program at UC Berkeley and an eleven-year faculty member with the VONA-Voices writing program. Also an MFA graduate of the University of Southern California School of Cinema-Television, she frequently collaborates on film, music, dance, theatre, art and media projects. Her latest collection is Prayers Like Shoes (2009) on Whit Press. When not writing and teaching, she practices a passion for martial arts: classical Yang family style tai chi chuan, tai chi sword, bo staff and karate. Ms. Forman currently lives in Washington, DC.


Editor’s Note: Today’s feature is more than a book of poetry, it is a gift. When my father passed away I found myself more determined to go on, to function, than to break down and mourn his loss. It was a book of poems that enabled me to weep, to grieve. It is a rare book that allows you to access the real human being who dwells within you, beneath the surface of what you imagine to be your ‘real life.’ This is such a book.

On the strong recommendation of a friend I bought Prayers Like Shoes. Because time is a luxury in my life, I began reading it while waiting for the bus. By the time the bus arrived—by the time I reached the bottom of the first page—I was in tears.

I read from cover to cover, on bus and train, first on my way into the world, then on my way home again. At times I felt the Woman inside me awaken, celebrate. At times I felt inspired to speak up in the name of peace. I wondered at love, at the nature of man. Throughout—within the delicate, vibrant, intricate fabric of Forman’s weaving—my heart was so close to the surface that the tears fell when they would.

I wondered what the people on the bus thought of me with my book of poems and my well of tears, but, mostly I was inspired. I was reminded of what I love in poetry. Experience. Connectivity. Reading someone else’s words and feeling that I am not alone, that I am part of a community, of a human world. That life is beautiful and painful and hard and that it is poetry—honest, vocal, unapologetic, lived, felt, lyric poetry—that makes the living more bearable, that gives us permission to experience emotion while offering us an outlet for the same.

I chose the quote above by Gloria Steinem because, first of all, what poet is touted by Gloria Steinem?!, but also because it speaks the truth about this book. I want to give a copy to my mother, to my Sisters, to the people I love and admire who engage with poetry as I do. I will turn to this book when I want to feel, and also when I want to remember why I write poetry. I cannot imagine a greater gift than that.


Want to see more by Ruth Forman?
Ruth Forman’s Official Website
Buy Ruth Forman’s books

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The Pope is Coming! The Pope is Coming!

White smoke emerges from the chimney on the roof of the Sistine Chapel, in St. Peter's Square at the Vatican, Wednesday, March 13, 2013. indicating that the new pope has been elected. (AP Photo/Gregorio Borgia)

White smoke emerges from the chimney on the roof of the Sistine Chapel, in St. Peter’s Square at the Vatican, Wednesday, March 13, 2013, indicating that the new pope has been elected. (AP Photo/Gregorio Borgia)

The Pope is Coming! The Pope is Coming!
By Mark S. Unger

This is CNN, and I’m a talking head on what used to be the nation’s top 24-hour news channel. As you know from watching TV news, reading the paper, listening to radio, Twitter, TMZ, or just about any other media outlet, the Pope announced several weeks ago that he would be resigning. The papal duties proved too much for someone whose job it was to pray all the time. Now he’ll be able to do all those things he couldn’t do as Pope, like pray all the time.

The Vatican told us he was resigning to spend more time with God, and we believed them. After all, it’s not our job to look deeper. Oh wait, it is. Instead, the Italian media uncovered the real reason behind the pontiff’s sudden departure—a brewing scandal involving gay priests, and more cover-up of the ongoing child sexual predator priests. Unlike us, the Pope foresaw the coming avalanche of investigations, arrests, public humiliation, and scrutiny that was about to be heaped upon the highest office of the Catholic Church.

Call it “Papacy Death Storm 2013.” A great headline, but, like most weather-related superstorms, it turned out to be nothing. Nothing for us to cover, that is. Why should we sully the biggest story to hit the Church in nearly six centuries with a bunch of that nasty investigative journalism? Instead, how about a countdown to the new Pope? That sounds like so much more fun. So what if that makes us just as culpable for ignoring the abuse and scandal as the Church itself? The Church may have a reason for trying to cover up the whole ugly mess, but so do we. I think. So let’s not get all caught up in whether or not it’s CNN’s job to report, investigate, dig for information, and expose issues. Let’s run Headlines instead.

Headlines are how this news organization gets respect. “Conclave to choose a new Pope expected to begin in five days,” then four, three , two, one, and finally, “The conclave has begun!” Wow. Heckuva job, Brownie (substitute name of whichever on-scene talking head has been in front of the Vatican for the last five days). Way to go, Scoop!

Not that there weren’t some important facts unearthed during those five days. The Pope will not be wearing his red Prada slippers anymore, but he will be staying in the Vatican. And this just in: Pope Benedict XVI mugs are selling out in the gift shops to make room for the new Pope memorabilia. Nothing like reporting on Kennedy’s assassination by noting Jackie’s outfit, or Paul Revere’s famous ride to warn Americans that the British drink tea. CNN Alert! The ratings are coming! The ratings are coming!

But I digress. Back to more Headlines. “Cardinals take oath of secrecy!” Isn’t that what got them into this mess in the first place?

“Happening now: Doors to Sistine Chapel about to close,” followed shortly by, “Cardinals locked away in Sistine Chapel.” If only we could do this with Congress.

Then there was this, “Breaking News: Black smoke appears at Vatican—Means no new Pope chosen today.” Now that’s how you turn no news into breaking news. But there was more. “No Pope chosen on Day 1 of conclave.” Genius, pure genius.

No headline, however, captured the essence of TV news like the following sequence: “The world waits for new Pope—115 cardinals take oath of secrecy,” followed immediately by “From pro soccer to priesthood—former player gives up the game for seminary.” And no one knows more about giving up the game than CNN.

Ultimately, the smoke changed color, meaning a new Pope had been chosen. We were all over it (the color change). We had no clue who would be chosen. A man of the people, we were told, known more for eschewing the trappings of his predecessors, and for his work with the poor. And a little bit about that thing in Argentina for not standing up for some women who were about to be killed by the Pinochet regime. Yada, yada, yada. Blah, blah, blah. We did our job.

OK, what’s next? Really? OK. Quick! Everyone! To Tel Aviv! The President is coming! The President is coming!

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: ANDREA COHEN

Andrea Cohen, MACD-09, 088,#002

THE COMMITTEE WEIGHS IN
By Andrea Cohen

I tell my mother
I’ve won the Nobel Prize.

Again? she says. Which
discipline this time?

It’s a little game
we play: I pretend

I’m somebody, she
pretends she isn’t dead.



(Today’s poem originally appeared in The Threepenny Review and appears here today with permission from the poet.)

Andrea Cohen writes and swims in Watertown, MA. Her heroes have swum Venetian canals, the Chattahoochee, and The English Channel. Her poems and stories have appeared in Poetry, The Atlantic Monthly, The Threepenny Review, Glimmer Train, The Hudson Review, Memorious and elsewhere. Her fourth poetry collection, Furs Not Mine, will be published by Four Way Books.

Other collections include Kentucky Derby (Salmon Poetry 2011), Long Division (Salmon Poetry 2009), and The Cartographer’s Vacation (Owl Creek Press 1999). She has received a PEN Discovery Award, Glimmer Train‘s Short Fiction Award, the Owl Creek Poetry Prize and several fellowships at The MacDowell Colony. She directs the Blacksmith House Poetry Series in Cambridge, MA.

Editor’s Note: It seems so simple. Eight lines. Four stanzas. Setup, volta, powerful ending. But how to entrap the reader so deftly in a few quick strokes? How to convey the depth of loss in such a space? What deception, what brutal truth, what devastation. It takes a master of her craft to wright such a poem; Cohen makes it appear effortless.

Want to read more by and about Andrea Cohen?
Andrea Cohen’s Official Website
Buy Andrea Cohen’s books
Read more of Andrea Cohen’s poems

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EVA HESSE

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Eva Hesse, paper collage, 9 1/2 x 6 1/8 inches (1959). Private collection.

EVA HESSE AND THE COLOR COLLAGE FROM 1959

by Matt Gonzalez

“Eva was a very good collagist, a great arranger; she could take anything and arrange it.” Ellen Leelike Becker, artist who was Hesse’s first-year roommate at Yale Univ. and a classmate at Cooper Union.

This multi-colored paper collage by Eva Hesse was made while she was an art student at Yale University. Hesse inscribed it, the month she graduated in June of 1959, as a gift to the infant daughter of fellow artist Elliot Offner who was also in the art program. It marks a critical moment when Hesse is exploring texture and color and still under the influence of Josef Albers (1888-1976) the well-known Bauhaus professor who was her professor at Yale and who had also previously taught at the experimental Black Mountain College.

Eva Hesse (1936-70) earned her BFA from the School of Art & Architecture at Yale University in 1959 after studying at New York’s School of Industrial Design, Pratt Institute, Art Students League, and Cooper Union. Her studies at Yale had begun in 1957. Like Hesse, Elliot Offner (1931-2010) also was a protege of Josef Albers, earning both his BFA and MFA at Yale. He received his MFA in 1959 and joined the faculty at Smith College in 1960, remaining there until his retirement in 2004.

Hesse and Offner both studied color theory and advanced painting with Albers who retired from teaching in 1958, the year before both students graduated. Thereafter Albers remained active as a painter and lecturer. In 1963 Yale University Press published Interaction of Color, his seminal exploration on color relatedness, which presented ideas he had been formulating for decades and which were prominent in his Yale lectures. Revised and expanded editions were published in 1975 and 2006.

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Detail of inscription: “for helen offner, Love eva hesse, june 1959″.

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Josef Albers and Eva Hesse at Yale, c. 1958. Photographer unknown.

Although it is generally accepted that Hesse found Albers’ teaching rigid, his influence on her work has been the subject of much critical discussion. Art historian Jeffrey Saletnik has written Josef Albers, Eva Hesse, and the Imperative of Teaching (Tate Papers, Spring 2007). He notes: ”When one reflects upon the pedagogic practice of Josef Albers, it is his colour instruction that likely first comes to mind. The former Bauhaus master’s 1963 publication Interaction of Color and its subsequent paperback editions have long been standard texts and the significance of his perception-based model of ‘color action’ in which visual relationships are developed rather than taken as given cannot be understated in terms of its importance both to art making and art instruction. Yet several of Albers’ students are known for their innovative use of material (like fibreglass and polyester resin in the case of Eva Hesse) despite having been brilliant colourists in their own right.”

“This seeming anomaly” wrote Saletnik, “can be addressed, in part, by looking more deeply at the principles that underscored Albers’ teaching.” Saletnik observed: “For Albers, colour was in constant flux. In his instruction he emphasised its relativity as material and its role in creating visual relationships, especially those causing optical estrangement. But in doing so Albers taught his students more than the interaction of colour; he instilled in them a general approach to all material and means of engaging it in design. In his teaching Albers put practice before theory and prioritised experience; ‘what counts,’ he claimed ‘is not so-called knowledge of so-called facts, but vision – seeing.’  His focus was process.”

Despite Albers’ well-known inflexibility, his Bauhaus training afforded Hesse the elbow room she needed for her own explorations, whether over color or form. Wrote Saletnik: “The Bauhaus-indebted pedagogic tenets that underlay Albers’ teaching were flexible enough so that Eva Hesse (among other of his students) could draw upon his approach to material and design in the making of vastly different work. Indeed, aside from pieces in which Hesse utilised a rectilinear format strikingly similar to Albers’ own iconic use of squares, there are few immediate visual similarities between student and teacher. Hesse’s polymorphous, tactile forms that seem to confront viewers with their materiality and the process of their crafting bear little in common with Albers’ rigid compositions. Rather, affinities between the two are expressed in terms of the process-oriented, material-based mode of instruction that constituted a major aspect of the Bauhaus Preliminary Course, dominated Albers’ teaching in the United States, and was key to Hesse’s experimentation with unconventional material. How incongruous that teaching methods often tethered (albeit superficially and in some instances erroneously) to the harsh, machined aesthetic of so-called Bauhaus Modernism might have contributed to making objects so different in appearance. The significance of Albers’ teaching to this end has been largely underestimated.”

The color collage from 1959 is a playful experiment in color and texture. Hesse created a visually appealing collage for the child of a close friend, composed of matte-colored paper strips, in tones of yellow, pink, orange, and turquoise resembling a vertical candy cane. Yet from a mature artistic vantage point, Hesse builds up the texture of the paper into a tactile three-dimensional experience, that promotes precisely the optical estrangement Albers appreciated. The composition is less controlled and direct than Albers’ own work, but Hesse’s use of colors and their interplay evokes a calmness and invitation. Albers’ influence is evident.

Although she was critical of the education she received at Yale and even of Albers, we should be careful not to give too much weight to sentiments that may not have persisted had Hesse had the opportunity to advance in age (she died in her early 30s). It is not uncommon for students who are already imagining more for themselves to find teaching stifling, yet in later years applaud it. For his part Albers considered Hesse his favorite pupil at the time, although his disdain for Hesse’s abstract expressionist painting was not disguised. Hesse is quoted, speaking of this relationship, in Catherine de Zegher’s Eva Hesse Drawing (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006)“I was Albers’s little color studyist — everybody always called me that — and every time he walked in the classroom he would ask, ‘What did Eva do?’ I loved these problems but I didn’t do them out of need or necessity. But Albers couldn’t stand my painting and, of course, I was much more serious about the painting. I had the abstract expressionist student approach and that was not Albers’s”.

Hesse spent over two full years at Yale engaging with other emerging artists and experienced teachers in aesthetic inquiries culminating in her ability to articulate and defend her own artistic preferences. She left Yale confident that she could be an artist. Lucy Lippard writes of those years in her 1976 biography Eva Hesse saying: “Although Yale was not an easy time for Hesse, though at the end of two years there she said they had been the most eventful of her life, “most traumatic–with the greatest changes inside myself.””

While the color collage from 1959 doesn’t employ Hesse’s use of polyester resin, latex, fiberglass, and other industrial materials for which she ultimately become best-known, the sculptural effect hints at her future interest. She also utilizes the glue residue as a separate material to create an opaque effect on the paper itself, again suggesting her future preoccupation with materials and a reliance on various substances in her work. The color collage is a perfect bookend to her formal art education. She concludes her academic career at Yale, and with Albers, with a collage gift that is made to a child who is likewise at the beginning of a new path.

The color collage from 1959 dates from a moment Hesse was in transition.  After leaving Yale, Hesse went to New York City and obtained work as a textile designer in 1960. In 1961 her first show, a three-person show Drawings: 3 Young Americans, featuring Hesse, Donald Berry, and Harold Jacobs opened at the John Heller Gallery.  In 1963 she had her first solo exhibition comprised of drawings at the Allan Stone Gallery. In 1965 she had her first sculpture exhibition, in Düsseldorf, Germany, at the Kunstverein für die Rheinlande und Westfalen.

Four years later, after reaching critical acclaim, her artistic production was cut short when she was diagnosed with a brain tumor.  She died the following year on May 29, 1970 at the age of 34.

At her core Eva Hesse was a process-oriented artist who understood deeply the importance of materiality in a work of art; an idea evident in this early collage from 1959.

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Helen Offner, c. 1959. Photographer unknown.

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: IT BROKE ANYWAY

IBA cover


FROM IT BROKE ANYWAY
By April Michelle Bratten


THE SEE-THROUGH GIRL

The first time Kyle punched me,
he did it on the thigh.

He said he imagined
bashing my head in
with a hammer
on a quiet evening
in the summer.

I asked him then,
what is the point
of banging through a
ghost?

He kept trying
to kill me anyway,
usually on
Saturday nights,
after the booze ran
lukewarm and thin,
the music sputtered
and dulled out,
and his boiling eyes
caught me red-cunted,
turned me translucent.

He did it because his socks weren’t sparkling white.
He did it because I had the mean face of a fish.
He did it because he simply ran out of things to say.
He did it because he felt like it.
He did it again and again until his hands unscrewed
and returned to feathers.

The last time Kyle punched me,
the ghost left the house.

I followed her,
that see-through girl,
all over town
until she stopped
by the woods
and held out a hand
full of leaves.

She was blue,
or maybe it was just the sky
behind her,
but she was there
and she was grinning
like a goon.


MY MOUTH HAS TURNED GRAVEYARD

My mouth has turned graveyard,
as if death could carry me,
as if I could carry death,
as if I could crawl bare kneed
to save the sparrow.

I am not woman enough
to fall asleep near the wild onion root,
to carry a boy
inside my mother-parts,
to guide an attentive heart
around the sad curve
of flown pale eyes,
or to love the hand that finds my own.

I have found no solace for this
in lost languages,
and I do not wish to speak
of the ghost I know
who clings my legs,
or the warm tickle of little fingers
that pool the elbow.

Instead I heap beds of dirt
inside my womb
(good enough for no-thing
to rest a tired head)

to keep the worms hungry,
to keep the hair grown wild,
to keep the glass broken,
to keep the egg as my own,

to stomach the makers with
their loud beating wings.


LID ON TIGHT

I have never seen frangipani, ghost orchids,
or the milk that slides from the root.

I have wasted too much time sniffing in gardens,
pissing in jars.

I want to hear the sun tip-toe down my stairs,
a soft bladder in its teeth.

It will creep. It will slow its big shining feet. It will bite.

The rain will dribble on the stairs until morning.



Today’s poems are from It Broke Anyway (NeoPoiesis Press, © 2012 by April Michelle Bratten), and appear here today with permission from the poet.


It Broke Anyway, which pays homage to the trials and tribulations of women, reminds me of the Bob Dylan Song, “Just Like a Woman,” except that Bratten’s characters never break just like little girls. Instead she creates multidimensional characters who will remind you of your sister, mother, grandmothers, aunts, girl friends and most notably yourself. Bratten’s cunning parallels, chilling narratives, and haunting endings remind us what breaks is often more epochal than what remains intact.”
- Rebecca Schumejda, author of Cadillac Men


April Michelle Bratten was born in Marrero, Louisiana. She received her Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Minot State University in Minot, North Dakota. April was a finalist for the Best of the Net award in 2009 and was nominated again in 2010. She was also nominated for the 2010 Pushcart Prize. Her work has been widely published in both print and online, including the journals Istanbul Literary Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, San Pedro River Review, Southeast Review, Gutter Eloquence, Kill Poet, The Orange Room Review, and Dark Sky Magazine among others. She co-edits and writes book reviews for the online literary journal Up the Staircase Quarterly, which can be found at www.upthestaircase.org.


Editor’s Note: April Michelle Bratten’s It Broke Anyway is a book in the shape of a girl. A girl who dredged herself up from the mud, the blood, the broken. It is a voice in the shape of a dry scratch, a moan, a haunting. It is vengeance and clarity freed from shattered glass. Here lies a world carved out of American Gothic, hauled up from the Deep South, the world Kate Durbin spoke of when she warned, “Not a world for little girls.”

Bratten’s tales take the shape of folkloric vignettes that speak for a thousand female voices, while her personal confessions are clear, raw, and brutally honest. This is a book wrenched from the darkness of lived experience, of survival. This is a book that “was born / next to a trolley car / in the deep south,” written by a poet who is “only a wish, / blown from the seeds of the dying dandelion,” where poems “have scribbled secrets / across their white backs.”

At times the persona of the poet takes the shape of the grotesque or the fantastical in an effort to honestly convey the inner life on the page: “I have antlers, / antlers that bow over my table, obscene protrusions, / dark and magnificent;” “I will not become picturesque / or tame, / because in this moment, / I remain, / wanting;” “I want to squeeze the reasons from her throat, / make her explain why, at 25, / I dug my fingers inside my own chest, and began to eat;” “I stand on a pile of soot with a devil. / He tells me I am the damned.” This voluminous text is at once a healing and a purging because “When a book goes unread it turns into a body, / a woman, / a dry poison.”


Want to see more by April Michelle Bratten?
Buy It Broke Anyway on Amazon
Author Page @ NeoPoiesis Press
Up the Staircase Quarterly

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