Episode 124: Pinpricks of Process

Dear Slushies, we have a confession. The first draft of these show notes included references to Wawa, Jason's sweet tooth, the relative repulsiveness of hot milk shakes, and professional wrestling. But then we realized that approach eclipsed what this episode illuminates: the poetic trend of self-reflexive gestures like the one we just made, confessing that this isn't the first draft! Listen in as we discuss Krysten Hill's poem "Are We Still Good?" The poem challenges us to think about analogy, metaphor, and narrativity. How poets can stage the occasion for a speaker's confessional reflection via the spark of a story plucked from our information dense mediascape -- revealing what it means to feel terror when that terror might otherwise be dismissed. How does she do this? Manatees and memes, silence, and a meta-textual turn. Enjoy!

 

PS Samantha also references this great essay by John Shoptaw on eco poetry. Dig in!

 

At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Dagne Forrest, Jason Schneiderman, Samanatha Neugebauer

 

Krysten Hill is the author of How Her Spirit Got Out (Aforementioned Productions, 2016), which received the 2017 Jean Pedrick Chapbook Prize. Her work has recently appeared in or is forthcoming from The Academy of American Poets' Poem-a-Day Series, Poetry Magazine, PANK, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Winter Tangerine Review,Rust + Moth and elsewhere. She is a recipient of the 2020 Mass Cultural Council Poetry Fellowship, 2023 Vermont Studio Center Residency, and 2024 SWWIM Residency.

Author website

 

Are We Still Good?

 

According to officials, the animal does not appear to be seriously injured.

Someone adds in the comments that, Obviously, it was just a joke. 

Calm down, Liberals. Highlights the part in the article where 

the man’s name was scraped onto algae growing on its skin.

From what they could see, nothing was truly threatened. 

The sea cow was probably too dumb and fat to feel anything. 

I think of all the ways cruelty begins as a joke until 

it chooses to finish what it started. The friend I’d known for years

didn’t stop when I asked and asked again. I thought maybe he didn’t hear me.

Later, he told our mutual friend that, Things just got out of hand.

I thought she knew I was just playing. I remember when I was sure he heard me, 

I recognized  it was my fear that made him smile so loud. Still, I attempt 

to explain the surprise. At least I didn’t die there, I tell myself. Even here, 

I wrote that as the first line of this poem and buried it. Anyways,

he had work in the morning, offered to drive me home.

I didn’t have to walk back to my dorm in the snow. I laughed 

at everything he said on the way and tried not to let him see 

my hands shake when I took the gum he offered me. He asked, 

Are we still good? I chewed my tongue, relieved that I could

do something else with my mouth until he parked, unlocked 

the door to let me out. I thanked him. I was so scared that I didn’t run.