Painted Bride Quarterly’s Slush Pile

Episode 05: Fascinating and Terrifying

When we asked Maggie Queeney for permission to discuss her work in this podcast, her response was “this sounds fascinating and terrifying!” We’re considering that as our tag line (and a life philosophy). 

When we asked Maggie Queeney for permission to discuss her work in this podcast, her response was “this sounds fascinating and terrifying!” We’re considering that as our tag line (and a life philosophy).

We discussed Queeney’s pieces, "Last Case on the Murder Task Force,” and to be honest, we didn’t want to stop, even when all of the editors’ comments clearly illustrated how the vote would go! This poem’s craft is so beautiful to linger in, even though the images are heart wrenching and tragic.

"Nox” was a little less accessible for us, more difficult to simply understand, but that didn’t deter our enthusiasm for the piece—not with this many arresting images.

"Cry Wolf” takes the classic fable, expounds upon it, and changes it for you forever.

We meant to discuss three poems from Adam Day, but we had such a good time discussing Maggie’s poems that we didn’t feel we had enough time to really get into the discussion, so we thought we’d “reveal” another issue that comes up when culling through work for PBQ.

Adam Day’s work came in via Submittable and was assigned to our Abu Dhabi staff. Two editors there liked a few of his pieces, but alas, before the work could come to the editorial table for a vote, the pieces we had interest in were accepted elsewhere!

Listen to us discuss the “notes” in Submittable. Adam was about to get a straight up boiler plate rejection and she realized he would never know he had fans at PBQ. So, she took action…

Tell us what you think about simultaneous submissions (and anything else) on our Facebook page event, Episode 5.

Sign up for our email list if you’re in the area and even if you’re not!

Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly.

Read on!

-KVM

 

Present at the Editorial Table:

Kathleen Volk Miller

Marion Wrenn

Jason Schneiderman

Miriam Haier

Tim Fitts

 

Production Engineer:

Joe Zang

 

PBQ Box Score: 3=2

------------------------

 

Maggie Queeney

Last Case on the Murder Task Force

A telephone splices the night—lit nerve ending
or lightning strike—and the child rises all lung, all mouth

and howl. The man rises from inside the mother, rises
from the casts of his fingers clutched into the sheets

and separates the boy’s head from his chest.
He runs, knife in hand, body in arms, floor to floor,

beating on doors as the thin limbs jog at his sides.
He palms the boy’s head, guides the jaw back

to the neck, but blood leaks and blacks
his bared chest in the stills taken later that night.

The state assigns my father to the defense. He twists
the tinny, stripped facts into a cast outlining a life.

He tells the jury the man grew up a thing burnt
by his grandfather, his mother, that his thin body smoked

and scabbed taut. And then the foster homes and the beatings
and the drugs and the howl and the boy and the knife.

The state threads a new heart into the man’s chest.
He is kept living. He is sentenced to death. Nights on trial,

my father walks the floor with my infant brother, crouped up
and wailing the mucus out of his lungs, his mouth with a howl.

My mother sleeps, buried tight as a drawered knife,
gleaming through what beauty her children had left.

Nox

A child teethes. Through the door,
a loop of scream and whimper

traces the length of the porch.
Morning, I find the blood

left by the raw gums rubbed
like a hand along the rail,

the floor, the frame and lock
to the front door. At night,

I stay inside, listen to the tap
somnolent in the pipes, the house drafts,

the moon pushing to perfect circle.
The birds curl into their fists

of nest, their small breasts hot hulls
above the shriek of owl-torn mice.

Animals take a human voice
in dying. Their wet tunnels of throat,

slick and holy as the inside of a flute,
bottom into the black running under.

Cry Wolf

What difference between crying and calling,
cursing and summoning, the frantic limbs
of a lamb and the bared legs of a boy.

What difference between the desire to laugh
at the adults running, spades and rakes in hand,
and the need to know they would run at his call.

Remember most do not know the name
of what they want, even as they are wanting—
the body incandesces, numb and ecstatic,
as it is destroyed.

Remember the wolf, drawn only
by gut and jaws, insistent as divining rods—
heart stilling at its name called,
finally, between the trees.

Episode 04: The One With Friends

In this episode we read three poems from Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano’s poetry. Though they were originally submitted for an unthemed issue, they felt more suited to our Locals theme, one of two themes for Print 8. We expected reading submissions for Locals to expand our horizons, to help us to see different pockets of the world in a new way, but these poems helped us appreciate the every-day right in our backyard of Philadelphia.

 

Welcome to Episode 4 of the PBQ’s Slushpile. We take more time than other editorial boards, but we stand behind our methodology, so much so that we’re going to share our process with you through this podcast. Welcome to the editorial table. In this episode we read three poems from Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano’s poetry. Though they were originally submitted for an unthemed issue, they felt more suited to our Locals theme, one of two themes for Print 8. We expected reading submissions for Locals to expand our horizons, to help us to see different pockets of the world in a new way, but these poems helped us appreciate the every-day right in our backyard of Philadelphia.

Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano is a poet, professor, and co-editor of the American Review. She is the author of Slamming Open the Door (Alice James Books, 2009), which was the 2008 Beatrice Hawley Award winner, and also received a positive, full-page review in The New York Times, while Library Journal praised it as "A stunning first book."

We were honored to read “30th Street Station,” “The Pool,” and “Jerzee’s Bar.” Reveal: Many of our editorial staff know Kathy well, and in fact, love her. We did what we always do when reading work of those we know; simply tried to remain as objective as possible; and made sure there were people at the editorial table who do not have a personal connection. These poems made us laugh and made our hearts hurt a bit. They gracefully walk the line between the specific and the universal.

And now for one of our occasional segments: “Something random I saw in a literary magazine this week.”

• This week, I visited Carve magazine’s site. It’s run out of Texas, publishes only fiction, and derives its name and ideology from Raymond Carver. On the submit page, they make an offer—if you become a subscriber at the time of submission, they promise to get you a response on your work faster, within two weeks.

• This flipped me out a bit and I didn’t even have time to process and think about what that does to the editor/author relationship, what it means, and then, I looked at Cleaver magazine (I guess I was on a cutlery theme) and they have this super complicated process----their free submissions are currently closed, but if you pay them $5 you could still submit now. PLUS: In all genres, a voluntary $10.00 "tip-jar" fee will guarantee an expedited answer within two weeks.For fiction, flash, and nonfiction, a voluntary $25.00 "tip-jar" donation, which guarantees a two-week expedited answer plus a detailed personal response from one of our chief editors. We are not able to offer critiques for poetry at this time.

 

So---crazy genius or mercenary? This is a “thing?” Listen to what we had to say, but chime in on our Facebook page event, Episode 4.

Sign up for our email list if you’re in the area and even if you’re not!

Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly.

Read on!

-KVM

 

Present at the Editorial Table:

SPECIAL GUEST: Major Jackson

Kathleen Volk Miller

Marion Wrenn

Jason Schneiderman

Miriam Haier

Isabella Fidanza

 

Production Engineer:

Joe Zang

 

PBQ Box Score: 2=1

------------------------------

 

Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano

30th Street Station

Sweet old man in a tweed cap

soft shoes, soft brown skin,

says, Do you need a cab?

 

Yes I say and my heart is laughing;

this is how I get sometimes.

You look like my second grade teacher

Mrs. Richmond, I always loved

Mrs. Richmond, he says.

 

He ushers me to a silver Lexus.

This is not a cab. This is a bait and switch.

Behind the wheel, the driver,

300 pounds of muscle

arms like hams

 

a diamond ring on each pinky

a diamond in each earlobe

a red baseball cap backward.

I think a piece of his ear is missing.

I think he has a tattoo on his face.

Our eyes meet in the rear view mirror

 

Clang, clang, goes my danger meter

Don’t get in the car! says everyone.

So…I get in the car.

 

By 45th and Locust,

turns out his name is Steve.

Turns out he buried his younger sister this year

and his mom, the year before.

She was way too easy on his

brother with cerebral palsy—

51 years old and doesn’t like

to get out of bed!

 

I read him a poem

about my daughter, from my book.

And then he wants to remember my name,

and gets out a tiny pencil

to write it down.

 
The Pool

My fifteen-year old son,

adopted from Chile,

pedals his bike back from the pool,

says some boys just called him a Spic,

and my brain explodes—

Ping, ping, says my brain.

Wait! says Louey.

 

I get in the car,

gun the gas pedal,

stomp past two

teenage lifeguards at the gate,

on my way to the deep end.

 

Did you call my son a Name?

I call across the water

to two skinny white boys

no older than twelve,

their goose-pimpled arms

hugging their concave chests.

 

They nod. Any minute they

might cry and their

their mothers might come over.

Listen, you! Words hurt!

I am yelling,

Don’t ever say that word again, do you

understand? Or I'll come back here

and beat the shit out of you, do you understand?

Open-mouthed, they nod.

Maybe I didn't make that threat aloud.

But we all heard it.

 

At home,

Louey says he was holding their

heads underwater

for fun,

which is why they got mad

in the first place.

 

Jerzee’s Bar

I love my rum and coke;

I love everybody tonight,

even the young roofer who has

drunk himself shit-faced on Budweiser.

 

He stands very still,

tries not to wobble when he, whoa,

sees his reflection in the mirror

behind the bar.

 

Seems I’ve known this guy all my life.

Tomorrow morning he’ll show up

at his mom’s house

all scraped up with a chipped tooth

and a story about some

asshole in the bar.

 

Should I take his keys?

Should I save him from

himself?

Should I call somebody

who loves him?

 

I sip my drink.

I smile at the band.

Tap, tap tap goes my foot.

Episode 03: Still Thinking About Roger Camp's Hammock

We discussed three poems by Clara Changxin Fang and two poems by Roger Camp. While we walked away with an impressive box score, we were more than impressed by the quality of poems we’ve received for our Locals issue! Just like our Monsters, Locals was broadly interpreted by submitters and we were not left disappointed... 

In this episode of Painted Bride Quarterly’s Slush Pile, we discussed three poems by Clara Changxin Fang, and two poems by Roger Camp. While we walked away with an impressive box score, we were more than impressed by the quality of poems we’ve received for our Locals issue! Just like our Monsters, Locals was broadly interpreted by submitters and we were not left disappointed. Sigh. We love our job.

 

Clara Changxin Fang’s poems draw heavily on the theme of the foreigner in a strange land. The poems we discussed, “Lost Colony”, “Don’t Go Away,” and “The Other Side of Night,” though so different in format and execution, centered around the theme of getting lost (figuratively and literally) in a new reality, and conveyed a sense of longing and homesickness. One of our editors pulled this batch right to the top of the slush pile, and we are so grateful, When we realized we were just going to gush, we decided to go ahead and vote!

Clara channels her thoughtful observations of the world around her into her poetry, as well as her blog Residence on Earth, which delves into her thoughts on ecology, climate change, sustainable living, education, social justice, and love. Read more about her work on planet earth here: earthdeeds.org

 

Roger Camp is no stranger to Painted Bride Quarterly’s slush pile. In fact, we published his poem “Motion Assignnment, La Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas, Madrid” in Issue 90! While we ultimately decided to pass on the poems he sent us for Locals, “Riding Your Aura” and “Cape Cod”, one can’t deny that Roger Camp’s poetry evokes strong imagery of beautiful moments in ordinary surroundings. I have to admit I’m still thinking about that bank guard…

He lives in Seal Beach, CA where he tends several hundred plants, walks the streets of his beloved Paris yearly, is apprenticed to a master mason, naps in a hammock under an avocado tree, plays blues piano evenings and kayak fishes, weather permitting. He is an identical twin whose twin does none of these things. (I’m not sure what to believe…)

 

Thank you for your patience as we’re learning as we go here in the podcast world, we’d love to know what you think - let us know on our Facebook page!

Sign up for our email list if you’re in the area and even if you’re not!

Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly.

Read on!

-KVM

 

Present at the Editorial Table:

Kathleen Volk Miller

Marion Wrenn

Jason Schneiderman

Miriam Haier

Tim Fitts

Lauren Patterson

 

Production Engineer:

Joe Zang

 

PBQ Box Score: 3=2

 ------------------------

Clara Changxin Fang

Lost Colony

Settled in the Spring of 1584, Roanoke was the first English colony in North America.
We built two story houses

with stone walls on dry mud,

the island a crumbling sandbar

pummeled by wind and waves.

We erected fences and fence posts,

laid claim to a patch of wilderness

like Ptolemy mapping the heavens,

giving titles to congregations of stars.

 

We found a bay with oysters

more numerous than pebbles

and a seashore bright with starfish

and sand dollars. What we didn't find

was gold to fill our ships

or rain to coax our harvest.

 

For three years no sails appeared

on the horizon. (The way I waited for you,

love, absent on the horizon.)

 

Only the blinding clarity of a cloudless sky

ushering us towards winter.

 

Disaster is the absence of events.

 

The sun wheeled the heavens like a flour mill,

everlasting waves lashed at the shore;

no boats in sight, the sea

rolled back our memories of home—

The reek of urine in the streets of London,

the towers of Parliament spearing the sky

like a row of bayonets above a river of blood. The hulls

of abandoned vessels lurking beyond sight.

 

2.

 

CRO – Letters carved into a tree stump at Roanoke before the colony’s disappearance in 1590.

 

Nothing remained of what we owned.

No pottery, no tools, not even our own bones.

 

What we brought with us was filched

by the fingers of the ocean and the shadow of the moon.

 

Not even a dream in which you appear,

a shadow behind a wall of water.

 

Beloved, did I imagine us walking hand in hand

in the city of cathedrals, your hands

 

smelling of baked bread, the afternoon sun

glazing rooftops and sidewalks with gold.

 

I hold on to evidence—

a pebble plucked from the Rue Monge,

a sprig of lavender from the apothecary,

the dress I wore the last night.

 

On the island, the letters CRO,

a bird with a golden beak and black wings,

all that’s left to tell of our departure.

 

No violence had been done.

We simply gave up waiting for salvation to appear

 

like a chalice falling out of the heavens

or the waters parting to reveal a road.

 

I gave birth to a child.

Even without news of you, we are happy.

 

How bright the moon shines without city lights!

I remain ever your loving,

 

Eleanor

 

3.

 

500—The number of mountains destroyed by mountaintop removal coal mining in Appalachia, including Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee.

 

We named her Virginia—

land of blue ridged mountains,

fish chocked rivers and timber stands

vast enough to build all the battleships of Europe.

 

After centuries we are still after

what brought us here:

timber, fur, coal, the exhumed remains

of ancient forests we burn to light our homes.

 

Today asphalt cuts through

this valley like a ribbon of steel

and explosions shave the scalp

off of tree covered mountains.

Rocks shatter like fragments of a skull.

 

Men excavate hillsides, blast

through rock, bringing down avalanches

of boulders, mud, and branches, bodies

tumble down like logs, the women

buried them in their coal stained clothes

with the children they miscarried.

 

Some abandoned this place,

let mud and rain pull their houses

back into the earth. Most stayed,

subsisting from the mountains

they helped to destroy.

 

This gutted Appalachia

is a war zone, but one

we still call home.

 

4.

 

Arlington, Virginia

June 1992

 

Dear Chen Ying,

 

Virginia is a beautiful. I walk to the Potomac River with mother every evening, and we watch the sun go down over the mountains, orange slices on the water, geese gliding over the surface like the airplanes landing at Reagan airport. Everything here is bigger and faster, we ride in dragons shaped like cars. Here we play with Barbie dolls instead of silk worms, and in the autumn the leaves turn red like the lanterns during the Spring Festival, and we light candles inside pumpkins carved with hideous faces; unlike our friendly family ghosts, they have no names and confer no blessings. I am learning new words: crow, cloud, kite. You must speak here in order to survive. In social studies, we learned about a group of English people who sailed here in a tiny ship, built a settlement on an island, and disappeared a few years later. Eleanor’s father came back to look for them, but he never found his daughter or his grandchild. I am thinking of her today, the family she abandoned, or who abandoned her, the beach extinguished of stars, the country’s interior so vast and full of terrors, the night rustling with strange sounds. Sometimes you don’t know enough to be afraid. You only know: the air is clean here, it smells like daffodils. The children have yellow hair like the tassels of corn, and like scarecrows, it’s hard to tell if they are real, but when they fall they cry like we do. While I still remember how to form these characters, tell your mother thank you for taking care of me before I came. Maybe I’ll send you the flowers I’m growing, heliotrope and nasturtiums, pressed into dictionaries we should study but use as weights. Until then I subsist on the memory of your smiles, the sticky buns we ate together on festival days.

 

I miss you,

Chang Xin

Don’t Go Away
The night shakes its wings and the sky

hasn't folded its whitewashed lawn chairs.

 

Hyacinths in the garden gleam like pale fire,

the forests are crammed with shadowy fish.

 

I heard you say: I don’t know

when I’m coming back.

 

Once, I lost my car in a strange city

while we circled the streets searching

 

for a way home. All was dark except

where we glimpsed ballroom dancers

 

flickering like moths through a window.

At dinner, we spoke to each other

 

one or two words only. Yet here we are,

alone in your car while I cast my net

 

for something to say.

Stay. Take me with you.

 

If you go, I will see your eyes

looking back in every corner.

 

I won’t have to listen

to hear you call my name.

 

If you go, you must come back quickly.

Or else clouds will sweep the rooms with rain.

 

The Other Side of Night

The Buddhist monk instructs us to pay attention to our breathing but all I can think of is the way you touched me before I left for Utah, like oil splattered on the wrist, like snow falling on bare shoulders. For the next two years the great bowl of the Salt Lake valley was cleft by a chasm I could not close. The mountains are taller than I imagined. The Great Plains is vast like the Pacific Ocean. The distance between one who loves and one who doesn't. Not able to turn back, the people who lost everything built a city praising God on the snow white shores of that inland sea, and all who came to it admired its ship like tabernacle, its broad avenues, and its temples without windows. At the bottom of my suffering there is a door. The latch opened and I sank. I breathed in water and breathed out love. So much of it that it filled the oceans and the air, the fish grew wings and the birds grew gills, the eyes of the people were opened and no one killed or hurt one another because they saw the wound they carried in themselves in each other.

 

Roger Camp

Riding Your Aura

In front of the Bank of America,

a bank protection officer

lays hands on the newspaper stand

like a man who knows his way

around an altar.

There’s no mistaking him

for the bank guard

of my youth, the greying,

pot-bellied, retired cop

well laundered in blue

dozing inside the doorway.
A New Age version,

this man is outside,

swathed in black like SWAT,

protective vest and automatic in hand.

Shooting your way out of a bank

is one thing, but shooting your way in?

Seeing Isaac, patriarch

of the sidewalk,

would turn my tail

if I were a robber of banks.
Friendly, he has earned

Main Street’s affection,

every pedestrian watching

his back.

When I wear a lid he likes

I get a fist bump.

Hidden in his casual demeanor

is no slouch. Behind those shades,

a warrior, Iraq

or maybe Afghanistan.

At peace with himself

he is adept at reading others.

Greeting him after returning

from six sunny days in Alaska

he said to me

that was you, riding your aura.

  

Cape Cod

The Cape itself is like a snake at its serpentine end.

Beyond a place the charts call Long Point is an echo

of the Cape, a final coil within a coil.

Walking in Beech Forest, I saw two snakes

their chocolate colored bellies and tri-lateral yellow

stripes entwined, age and youth combined.

The older, larger one sensing me, held still

while his younger, slimmer companion slid its body

along side, contour unfolding contour.

In my effort to follow I lost focus, lost the snakes,

unable to define a coil within a coil,

unable to tell beginning from end,

lost my way as well, wending tail to tail.

Episode 02: It's Alive!

In our second episode, we stuck with a theme: monsters! One of two themes for Print 8, reading the submissions for Monsters has been anything but a nightmare, and the four poems we discussed on this podcast are examples of how broadly the theme was interpreted, just like we hoped...

  

"Cloisters" by Kristin Bock

In our second episode, we stuck with a theme: monsters! One of two themes for Print 8, reading the submissions for Monsters has been anything but a nightmare, and the four poems we discussed on this podcast are examples of how broadly the theme was interpreted, just like we hoped.

 

Kristin Bock’s “Compound” and “Matchmakers” alone are great examples of diverse submissions. We had a hard time unpacking “Compound,” its densely mysterious and complicated, but we really enjoy work that doesn’t feel like work. And “Matchmakers” is simply--a blast. Her first book was winner of the Tupelo Press First Book Award; we’ll be watching to see what she does next.

 

Cristina Baptista's “Monster” has imagery that called us in and called us back. Listen to us read and talk about it, but then—trust us--listen to Cristina read it—you’re going to want to experience this poem at least twice. And then, trust us, you’ll want to follow her on Twitter @Herds_of_Words

But wait until you hear this: Cristina recently created a collection of poetry about her experience as a 38th Voyager—one of 85 people in the world selected to travel (in Summer 2014) on the 38th Voyage of the Charles W. Morgan, an 1841 wooden whaleship that is the last remaining one in the world. She also served as a documenter of the Portuguese immigrant experience aboard whaleships, during this Voyage. See, told you you’d want to follow her!

 

Jennie Malboeuf’s “The Part of My Father Will be Played by Jack Nicholson” calls up the always-fun classic, “The Shining.” With brothers, bear suits, and blood, how could we say, No. We’re betting you won’t either, and that you’ll want more. Jennie’s poems can be found all over the web, but here’s two pick’s for you: the very cool anthology that is the Montreal International Poetry Prize (warning: you’ll stay on their site for awhile), and these two (plus audio!) at The Cortland Review.

 

We’d love to know what you think - let us know on our Facebook page!

Sign up for our email list if you’re in the area and even if you’re not!

Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly.

Read on!

-KVM

 

Present at the Editorial Table:

Kathleen Volk Miller

Marion Wrenn

Jason Schneiderman

Miriam Haier

Michelle Johnson

 

Production Engineer:

Joe Zang

 

PBQ Box Score: 4=0

 -------------------------

 

Kristin Bock

Compound

Come stand in the garden. Let the soft rain rinse you. Line up with the others. Hold
hands. Now, kiss. Imagine your mind is a blue rose, a blue rose rinsed clean. Hide in the bushes. Wait for the little black stars to squeak by. Step on them. Stamp on them. Some will feel like urchins and under your feet. They will whisper terrible things. Step on them harder. They will cry out. They will have your mother’s voice. Run. Catch the stars and squeeze until they burst. They will be slippery. Their black oil will leak into the earth. Now your hands are dirty. They’re filthy. Go back to your spot in the garden and stand like a flower. Do not move until your skin becomes blue and clean and cold. Take off your dress. You are dirty inside. Open your legs to the rain. Your mind unfolds like a blue rose. Hold hands. Now you’ve been bad. Very bad. Today you will not eat. Today you will stamp on the little black stars until your feet are raw. The stars will squirt and whimper. They will sound like your father crying in the shed. Step on him. Make him cry harder. He is dirty. Your mother is dirty. Come to me. Come to us. Open your legs. Let us rinse you. My brain is as big as a car. My brain is as big as mountain range. I will bend my fat red brain over you like a blood-soaked rose. I will sing to you and wash you and starve you and love you like no other. Now go back to the garden and plant yourself where you belong.

 

Kristin Bock

Matchmakers

Where does your monster sleep?

In a cage too small for him.

What does your monster's heart look like?

Like a child's teacup, small and full of blood.

What color is he?

Green, of course.

What does he eat?

Basically, nose to tail.

Cataracts?

Installed.

Fins?

Cauterized.

Fangs?

Restored.

Good. He's healthy then?

Yes, he takes ratfish liver oil—from a 300 million year old chimeric fish, half-skate half-shark. It lives at the very bottom of the sea and has a face like a rat. Legend has it Norwegian Vikings would hang a ratfish up by the head and the liver oil would drip from its long tail. They named the elixir “Gold of the Ocean” and considered it to be a very rare and precious gift. There are many other fish oils on the market, but he prefers this one.

Excellent! He should make some fine little monsters. One last question—does he have any issues?

Well, only if you count his fear of snow globes.

Oh c’mon, snow globes?

Yes. They remind him of his childhood. His father was a snowman and his mother was an icicle. It snowed each and every day. His father cried tears of fire for they begat a daughter named Wendy, who, after fifteen years of unforgivable acts of kindness, was sent to live among the moose.

Forget it. My monster's not like that at all.

 

Cristina Baptista

Monster

Where the cut has dried over,

you find red crystals in your hair;

like colored sugar from a child’s cupcake,

lost Valentine glitter, crushed

stained glass beneath your heel

in the monastery.  I first saw

you outlined against that window, triptych,

you blotting out San Sebastian’s image

all mass and shadow, an absorbent dark sponge,

stealing his wings for your own.

 

Jennie Malboeuf

The Part of my Father Will Be Played by Jack Nicholson

Big white teeth. My brother

reminds me he isn’t Irish.

But the brows are the same.

Horned and intense, he’ll do

a plum job.

 

In this scene, something isn’t

right. The lighting is strange;

the furniture that was there

is now here. Or gone entirely.

Someone is standing in

 

the background that wasn’t

just before. And that yawn sounds

like a door closing (or opening).

Everything looks normal but

one thing has blood on it.

 

I didn’t mention the scariest

part     jumpcut!

a man in a bear suit.

You can’t help but like him,

he commands attention

 

with broad arms or bright eyes

when seated. His face looks

crooked in the wrong direction

when you glance together in the mirror.

Episode 01: PBQ--WTF?

In our inaugural episode, we discussed four poems from Emily Corwin, and three poems from Leah Falk. I don’t think it was just our happy-to-launch mood that caused such an impressive box score...

 

 

 

In our inaugural episode, we discussed four poems from Emily Corwin, and three poems from Leah Falk. I don’t think it was just our happy-to-launch mood that caused such an impressive box score.

Emily’s poems were all submitted for the Monsters issue, and with their very Grimm/grim fairy-tale qualities juxtaposed against their embrace of fun with language, we were smitten. Poems up for discussion were “pink girl takes a tumble,” “thwack,” “out like a lamb,” and “pink girl kicks the bucket.” Thank goodness some of us are at the editorial table remotely--we might have come to fisticuffs over who got to read these poems. (Listen to Emily read a poem at Split Rock Review!)

  

Leah Falk’s “Visiting,” “Commonest in Nature,” and “Islands,” can’t really be categorized as of a particular “type.” Each of these had us wanting to linger and didn’t disappoint when we did. Haunting (listen--you’ll get it) and redolent with history, unpacking these poems was nothing but pleasure.

Read Leah’s ideas on “Why…some poets perform as though they had just come to in a bad dream?” at The Millions. Watch a video of a performance of her song cycles. You gotta Google this gal for more and more and more.

 

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-KVM

 

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