We review two poems by Alana Folsom: “Anatomy of a Dream” and “Mirroring” and one poem by Sarah Stickney: “Guest.” Alana Folsom would genuinely like to thank The OC for giving her pre-teen self her first taste of poetry a la Death Cab for Cutie (which she will insist is poetry with anyone who wants to argue)…
Alana Folsom would genuinely like to thank The OC for giving her pre-teen self her first taste of poetry a la Death Cab for Cutie (which she will insist is poetry with anyone who wants to argue). If it wasn’t for Seth Cohen, she might be trying to hack it as an accountant. She is currently living in either Boston or rural Oregon, depending on when this podcast is published, and plans to name her next cat “Birthday.”
We start off this this week’s episode with reviewing Alana Folsom’s poem, “Anatomy of a Dream,” leading into a discussion of very uncommon imagery coupled with a dream-like structure and surreal ideas. To simply sum it up in Tim’s words: “There’s a lot of nipples in this poem!” But that’s partly what causes it to be unexpected and super fun to read.
Folsom’s “Mirroring” follows with a lovely premise of ancestry embodied, as it follows the sexual exploration of a girl while treasuring the connection she has to her father. Also really fun for us to discuss, this poem is both brilliant and truly organic. Many thanks to Issa Rae, creator and co-star of Insecure, for giving us the tools we needed to discuss this poem!
Next up is Sarah Stickney, who describes herself as a snail; she does everything you do slower than you. She grew up in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and spends a lot of time thinking about what the sky looks like. She likes fire, foreign languages, and food-shopping, but she agrees with Pindar that water is best.
We move on to review “Guest” by Sarah Stickney, yet another brilliant poem that makes us think (some of us affectionately, others not too much) about the sentimentality of friendship. While channeling the very human experience of love and passion between friends, “Guest” gorgeously gives us much to feel, leaving us to reflect on our own experiences with love so strong that it might even be embarrassing to feel.
What do you think about this episode? Share your thoughts on nipples, romance, and insecurity with us on Facebook and Twitter using #smashing!
Present at the Editorial Table:
Kathleen Volk Miller
Anatomy of a Dream
After I send you the picture of my naked body
I dream my nipples are bird beaks
They remain shut small pointed things
then they grow like lying noses
grow like hardening dicks In flight
hummingbirds look like matches
at the base of their long bill a throaty blaze
In flight hummingbirds sound like matches perpetually lighting
Perhaps my nipples are matches
Pink & flaming & waiting to spark
perhaps my nipples are hungry winging matches
I study myself and find him in the ridge of my nose
in the rungs of my ribcage. Boys who will never meet him
cup and bless my body tug my damp underwear
past the knots
of my knees; they don’t see
him, they don’t see anything else besides me.
And I am sorry for all this sex
so close to my father.
But he is within me
even as he withers away.
Same flat feet, same bone shapes.
As any good daughter would,
I hug my father
goodbye at his red front door, try to mean I love you and not
Don’t die before I learn what love is for.
Staying with friends I felt embarrassed by my love
for them, as if it were a wound that might bleed
onto their pale, hand-knotted carpets. Back home
I filled my kitchen with the first daffodils
that had been lured by the sky’s fetish-blue
into blooming, then nearly ruined by the late snow
that pressed into the windows as if asking
to be let inside. I need the sound of fire
as much as I need its warmth. I know
the loneliness of being among others, a scent
like a waltz at low volume. I suspect
only egomaniacs like this much solitude,
but like me fire never says enough.
Fire my good dog, my work-shirt. Everything living
holds heat, even the long, cool leaves of plants,
their gestures as subtle as hungry guests moving
tentatively in a kitchen. Wind blew in a poem,
and then outside all day as if it were starving flame.
Who knows how the wind feels about its job
of touching everything, how it lives
this omnivorous love and whether it speaks
a word to everything it touches.