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Poetry: NewsHour with Jim Lehrer - PBS Podcast by Jim Lehrer

Poetry: NewsHour with Jim Lehrer - PBS Podcast

by Jim Lehrer

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A special NewsHour series that couples profiles of contempory poets with reports on news and trends in the world of poetry.


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Weekly Poem: Laura Kasischke points to the lingering past


Mon, Oct 20, 2014


The InfinitesimalsLingering connections and phantom remembrances are echoes within Laura Kasischke’s new collection, “The Infinitesimals.”

“I take the material from memory and things that have been lost and people who are gone and the past, but I’m trying to give it life again,” said Kasischke.

Kasischke bases many of her poems on real objects or experiences in her life, but says that writing is an outlet for her to untangle more elusive issues.

“The act of initially sitting down to write the poem is where I’m figuring out something about the world that isn’t tangible or rational or right in front of me.”

“I guess for me the origins of the poem [“The Common Cold”] was pretty sensory, just this idea being biological and viral and physical and the experience of having a bit of a fever and being in a crowd,” Said Kasischke. “In that moment, I felt connected to motherhood and athleticism and being with other parents and this sense of time passing.”


Listen to Laura Kasischke read “The Common Cold” from her new collection “The Infinitesimals.”

The Common Cold

To me she arrives this morning
dressed in some
man’s homely, soft, cast-off
lover’s shawl, and some
woman’s memory of a third-
grade teacher
who loved her students a little too much.
(Those warm hugs that went
on and on and on.)

She puts her hand to my head and says,
“Laura, you should go back to bed.”

But I have lunches to pack, socks
on the floor, while
the dust settles on
the I’ve got to clean this pigsty up.
(Rain at a bus stop.
Laundry in a closet.)

And tonight, I’m
the Athletic Booster mother
whether I feel like it or not, weakly

taking your dollar
from inside my concession stand:

I offer you your caramel corn. ( Birdsong
in a terrarium. Some wavering distant
planet reflected in a puddle.)

And, as your dollar
passes between us, perhaps
you will recall
how, years ago, we
flirted over some impossible
Cub Scout project.
Hammers

and saws, and seven
small boys tossing
humid marshmallows
at one another. And now

those sons, taller
and faster than we are, see
how they are poised on a line, ready
to run at the firing of a gun?

But here we are again, you and I, the
two of us tangled up
and biological: I’ve

forgotten your name, and
you never knew mine, but
in the morning
you’ll find

my damp kisses all over your pillows,
my clammy flowers
blooming in you cellar,
my spring grass
dewed with mucus-

and you’ll remember me
and how, tonight, wearing my
Go Dawgs T-shirt, I

stood at the center
of this sweet clinging heat
of a concession stand
with my flushed cheeks, and

how, before we touched, I
coughed into my hand.
Look:

here we are together
in bed all day again.


Her poem “The Invisible Passenger” came from an experience of boarding a plane. Looking for her place in row 12, she noticed there was no row 13 between her and row 14.

“Was it bad luck and no one wanted to sit there? Or was it because those flying us through the air are superstitious themselves? There’s something so irrational about moving through this world and trying every day, whether by using our seat belts or not sitting in unlucky rows, to defy death again.”


Listen to Laura Kasischke read “The Invisible Passenger” from her new collection “The Infinitesimals.”

The Invisible Passenger

Between row 12 and row 14, there
are, on this plane, no seats. This

engineering feat of
gravity and wings, which
flies on superstition, irrationality. The calm

has been printed on my ticket:

Doe and fawn
in a grove below us, her
soul crawling in an out of my clothes.

While, in a roofless theater, a magic act
is performed for children
by an invisible man.

Like the mess

of a cake that I once
baked for my father—

damp, awful, crumbling layers.
Soggy church bell on a plate.

And, my father’s dentures, lost
(all his teeth
pulled out
as a young man
by a military dentist im-
patient to send him
on his way), and

my father’s smile anyway.


The poetry in “The Infinitesimals” invites the reader to look into their own past and think for a bit on what it is to experience loss.

“I can’t see them, and they’re over, and people are gone, but they’re not zero, they’re too small to be measured or too lost and invisible to be found again, but they’re still there, because they were there.”

“The Common Cold” and “The Invisible Passenger” from The Infinitesimals by Laura Kasischke. Published in 2014 by Copper Canyon Press. Used by permission Copper Canyon Press.

The post Weekly Poem: Laura Kasischke points to the lingering past appeared first on PBS NewsHour.



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Weekly Poem: Saskia Hamilton wants you to ‘dream over’ her work


Mon, Oct 13, 2014


Photo by Meg Tyler

The recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship and a 2009 Guggenheim Fellowship, Saskia Hamilton is author of three books of poetry. Photo by Meg Tyler

Movement and transition resonate in Saskia Hamilton’s collection “Corridor.”

“The spirit of the book is a lot about passing through or passing by different lives and landscapes … or in and out of moments,” Hamilton told Art Beat.

One of Hamilton’s interpretations of movement is made through her translation of an Anglo-Saxon riddle — one that has never been solved.

“It’s very hard to translate a riddle that you don’t really know what the answer is,” said Hamilton. “Translating something like that was a kind of passage — through an Anglo-Saxon world view that’s so different from our own.”

Another connection to the meaning of “corridor” is a symbol of death, “like the passage of one life to another.”

“On the Ground,” a poem that Hamilton calls a pillar of the collection, was written in memoriam to a young member of her family that died.

“It was a terrible time, so it comes out of that experience.”


Listen to Saskia Hamilton read “On the Ground” from her collection “Corridor.”

On the Ground

           i.m. Joshua Shackleton

When the collie saw the child
break from the crowd,

he gave chase, and since they both
were border-crossers,

they left this world.
We were then made of—

affronted by—silence.
The train passed Poste 5, Paris,

late arrival, no luck, no
enlarging commentary

magnified in any glass.
“The ineffable

is everywhere in language,”
the speaker had said

in the huge hall where
I sat amongst coughers,

students, in the late
February of that year,

at the end of a sinuous
inquiry on sense and sound—

“and very close to the ground,” he’s said.
Like mist risen

above the feet of animals
in a far field north of here.


Hamilton says that “On the Ground” is a mediation on falling silent, a theme that pops up in other poems in the book, like in “Zwigen,” an Old Dutch word that means “falling silent.”

She says both poems are “interested in silence … what is the power of withheld speech,” said Hamilton. “Both are very different mediations on falling silent. ‘On the Ground’ is about the death of a child, so that’s a very severe and terrible silence.”

Hamilton says she was influenced also by the storytelling style of another writer.

“I also thought of Bob Dylan’s way of giving you little glimpses of lives in passing in songs, like in ‘Blood on the Tracks,’ or ‘Tangled Up in Blue,’ or ‘Simple Twist of Fate,’ ‘Idiot Wind,’ any of those songs,” said Hamilton.

“One of my favorites is an outtake from that session, ‘Biograph,’ called ‘Out to Me,’ where you just get these little broken narratives. I think that there seem to me, after the fact when I was reading [my book] over, a similar kind of interest.”

After a number of years spent writing many of the poems that make up the collection — which came out in May — she sat down with a pile of her work and a friend, who “helped me see patterns in it that I would never have been able to discern in advance, shall we say. I needed to bring them all together to see their– in a way, their dream life, the things they were preoccupied with that I didn’t know they were preoccupied with.”

So how does Hamilton want people to experience the work in “Corridor?” In much the same way as the themes she is drawing out: The reader “should just dream over the poems.”

All poems copyright © 2014 by Saskia Hamilton, from Corridor. Used by permission of Graywolf Press. All rights reserved.

The post Weekly Poem: Saskia Hamilton wants you to ‘dream over’ her work appeared first on PBS NewsHour.



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Weekly Poem: Sam Taylor struggles to speak Chinese


Mon, Sep 29, 2014


Sam Taylor

The recipient of the 2014-2015 Amy Lowell Poetry Travelling Scholarship, Sam Taylor has published two books of poetry, “Body of the World” and “Nude Descending an Empire,” which went on sale in August.

Poet Sam Taylor thinks we’ve taken our environment for granted for centuries and now we’re at a point of “crisis.” That is the driving theme in “Nude Descending an Empire,” his recent collection published in August, that he was inspired to write during the presidency of George W. Bush.

Those years marked, “a time when we were initiating an insane war for deeply flawed and deceptive reasons, and also in a time when the urgency of our ecological situation was becoming quite clear and yet still being flouted and mocked,” Taylor told Art Beat.

“I wanted to develop a voice of a citizen poet that could speak poetically into our moment.”

Taylor started to compose the book while living as a caretaker in a remote wilderness refuge. At the time, he lacked any access to electricity, the internet or a phone line. According to Taylor, being secluded in the wild helped reinforce his belief that our natural heritage needs to be protected. Those years helped inform the title of the collection.

“There was a nakedness to that experience, being immersed in the natural world and stripped of all the dubious meanings our civilization has created, and it allowed me to see the possibility of a whole other way of being and thinking.”

Many of the poems in “Nude Descending an Empire” ask us to experience and contemplate the “crises” of our time through the focusing lens of poetry, but the book also touches on themes of interconnected-humanity and misunderstandings.

In his poem, “The Book of Poetry,” Taylor recalls his experiences travelling with a friend through Southeast Asia and how something as subtle as a mispronunciation led to the great confusion of their hosts.


Listen to Sam Taylor read “The Book of Poetry” from his new collection, “Nude Descending an Empire.”

Note: this poem contains strong language.

The Book of Poetry (Wo Shi Shiren)

A friend, in Thailand, helping to build straw bale homes
was riding with four Buddhist monks on the back of a truck
piled high with musky bales. “I love water buffaloes,” she burst out
in broken Thai. The monks laughed. I guess that is
a strange thing to say
, she thought, but insisted.
“No, really, I really love them,” trying to unfurl herself
clearly, practicing the Zen Garden of making conversation
with only a few words. “They are so beautiful, so strong.
Don’t you love them?” But the monks just kept laughing.

Every traveler in Southeast Asia has her own story
of tonal confusion: the same syllable spoken different ways
becomes four, six, seven words. In China, Ma
means mother, but also hemp, horse, scold—depending if
it is flat, rising, dipping, or falling. Sometimes context helps,
as when ordering food: No one is likely to confuse
“I want to eat” with “I demand an ugly woman,”
unless one is dining in a brothel, and even then “I want eggplant”
though mistoned “whirlpool shake concubine twins”
is likely to produce only strips of sauce-smeared nightshade.

Everyone in China wants to know what you do.
It’s not easy, even in English, for a poet to say that.
When they asked, I said first, “I write,” wo xie,
or sometimes, after I had learned the word, “I am a poet.”
Wo shi shi ren. Often, I was met by puzzlement,
strained foreheads, awkward laughter, Chinese people
glancing at each other for cues, uncertain how to react.
Not so different really from the response in America.
“A poet” I’d repeat. Wo shi shiren. Then,
“I write poetry,” trying to make the most
of my minuscule vocabulary. “I write books of poetry.”

Wo shi shi ren: literally, I am a poetry person.
Wo means I; ren means person, or man.
Near the end of my travels, someone told me
shi—which is pronounced “sure” and means poetry
in the high flat tone, as well as the verb “to be”
in the falling tone—also means shit
in yet another tone. So, all along I must have been saying
I am a shit man. I write shit. And repeating it.
A shit person. I write books of shit. Understand?

To be—poetry—shit. Something fitting in how these words
were assigned the same syllable, the same address.
Later, looking the word up, I discovered for each tone, shi
was ten or twenty words, a whole apartment complex
sharing one mailbox. Corpse, loss, world, history, time, stone,
life, to begin, to be, to die, to fail, to be addicted to,
rough silk, persimmons, raincoats, swine, long-tailed marmot,
clear water—all crowded into the same syllable—sure,
sure, sure. It was also coincidentally the word for yes.
So, perhaps I had said something else entirely
I thought of all the combinations I might have said.

I am a shit person. I write life.
I am a death person. I write being. I shit history man.

I history being person. I write time. I write books of failure,
books of corpses, books of loss, books of yes.

I am a being person. I write to be.
I am addicted to being a man.

I write books of shit, books of clear water.
I am a poet.

It seemed all the world could, even should, have one word
for everything—table scales, taxis, bicycles, stones, cities,
time and history and death and life. It was all shit.
It was all poetry. As for my friend, she found out later
water buffalo was a variation of the word for penis.
So, “I love penises” she had confided to the Buddhist monks,
the truck jostling, the potholes throwing her knees
against theirs. “I really love penises,” she had insisted,
looking into their celibate eyes. “Penises are
so beautiful, so strong. Don’t you love them?”

Since the syllable for monk is also the syllable
of my name on fire in a world of loss, I will answer. Sure,
I love penises and water buffalo and the smell
of wet hay, and vaginas and sautéed eggplant and concubine twins,
and I want to tell the Buddhist monks, and the Chinese bureaucrats,
and the official from Homeland Security
who stopped me in customs to search my computer, and my mother
the Szechwan horse: I am a shit man writing books of stone
and the clear water has failed, but I am addicted
writing yes in a city of corpses and swine and persimmons,
here at the end of history, now at the beginning of time.


Taylor said his poems normally aren’t something he comes up with out of nowhere. Instead he pulls his ideas from raw “sparks and rhythms” he finds in his travels. The anecdotal “The Book of Poetry” typifies that sentiment.

“That piece was, I felt, almost given to me just by the things that happened, the coincidental meanings that I encountered or was told about. All the pieces were just there and it clearly was a poem, it just had to be mined, or harvested or built in some way.”

The poem provides humor through the misunderstanding created by a slight shift in vowels, and that the word for poetry in Chinese so closely resembles the word for a bowel movement. Taylor says that as a writer, the quirks of a language and his own comical mispronunciation made it a piece he wanted to write even more.

“It does particularly relate to a love and fascination with language that most poets and readers probably share, but beyond that it’s a fascination with the particular set of meanings that happened to be in these words, of course one of them being poetry, in the sense that poetry not only overlaps with [expletive] but every word imaginable.”

“The Book of Poetry” as it appears in “Nude Descending an Empire” required several drafts, after he left his notebook in a taxicab in China.

Taylor is in the final stages of his next work, which he says will be more experimental in form and style.

“The Book of Poetry” from “Nude Descending an Empire,” by Sam Taylor, ©2014. Used by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press.”

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Weekly Poem: Carl Adamshick writes for the ‘mysterious other’


Mon, Sep 22, 2014


The co-founder of Tavern Books,  Carl Adamshick is the recipient of the 2010 Walt Whitman Award and Literary Art's Oregon Literary Fellowship. Photo by Liz Mehl

The co-founder of Tavern Books, Carl Adamshick is the recipient of the 2010 Walt Whitman Award and Literary Art’s Oregon Literary Fellowship. Photo by Liz Mehl

Carl Adamshick has been writing poetry seriously for 20 years, and most of his poems have been short. That’s largely what you’ll find if you pick up his first collection, “Curses and Wishes,” which won the Walt Whitman Award in 2010.

As a challenge, the Oregon-based poet focused on composing longer pieces for his second book, “Saint Friend,” which hit shelves this August.

“I spent a lot of time writing and being very concerned with economy and what not to say and alluding to things. I learned that it’s okay just to write something and to say it flatly,” Adamshick told Art Beat. “I found that, in a long poem, it’s open to that, it’s open to a more conversational tone that I learned to have faith in.”

With that “conversational tone,” the poet was able to be upfront about what he wanted to convey.

“With the smaller, slighter poems, there’s more of a puzzle aspect… there’s a lot of word-play and there’s a lot of mystery involved. When you decide to say how it is, emotions are more on the sleeve, and things aren’t hidden. It’s really been fascinating to me to be open to that, to be open to the words spilling out instead of constructing them in some sort of way and moving them around and being really cautious and thoughtful about all the placement and the exact wording. It’s been a little looser and a little more exciting.”

Twenty years ago, Adamshick’s friends were his primary audience, reading his compositions at a bar, critiquing each other’s work over a beer — sort of an informal Master of Fine Arts.


Listen to Carl Adamshick read “Everything that Happens Can Be Called Aging” from his new collection, “Saint Friend.”

Everything that Happens Can Be Called Aging

I have more love than ever.
Our kids have kids soon to have kids.
I need them. I need everyone
to come over to the house,
sleep on the floor, on the couches
in the front room. I need noise,
too many people in too small a place,
I need dancing, the spilling of drinks,
the loud pronouncements
over music, the verbal sparring,
the broken dishes, the wealth.
I need it all flying apart.
My friends to slam against me,
to home me, to say they love me.
I need mornings to ask for favors
and forgiveness. I need to give,
have all my emotions rattled,
my family to be greedy,
to keep coming, to keep asking
and taking. I need no resolution,
just the constant turmoil of living.
Give me the bottom of the river,
all the unadorned, unfinished,
unpraised moments, one good turn
on the luxuriant wheel.


Unlike many other contemporary American poets, Adamshick is not the product of an MFA program, a fact that many point out to identify him as a different kind of voice. But regardless of his educational decisions, he was intent on a creating a life filled with poetry.

“I [was] left to my own devices and picking out my own books and reading my own things for my own purposes…I had a part-time job that I liked, and I had friends that liked poems, and I spent my free time just reading and writing,” Adamshick said. “I was just living this so-called poetic lifestyle that I really enjoyed…but I think I’ve just taken the long road.”

The long road or not, the poet has found a way to send his poems out into the world, which he believes is imperative to the power of verse.

“Poems are meant to be shared. I know that’s very general, but it’s also very true in a profound sense to me. I’m not writing poems for myself. I feel very strongly that a poem is finished when other people hear it or read it, and I keep that in mind when I’m writing.”

Adamshick himself has been profoundly affected by the poetry that he has read and, now focusing on the unknown reader that might pick up his work, he hopes to be similarly influential.

“I write for this mysterious other that is going to stumble upon a book, whether in a library or a bookstore or on a website somewhere. I really want some mysterious other that I don’t know, some stranger, to read it and see it as a real piece of art,” Adamshick said. “Reading poems has been very enriching and very life altering to me. I feel like whenever I write a poem I assume or I guess that somebody else is going to have that reaction.”

“Everything that Happens Can Be Called Aging” was excerpted from the book “Saint Friend” by Carl Adamshick. Copyright © 2014 by Carl Adamshick. Reprinted courtesy of McSweeney’s Poetry Series.

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Weekly Poem: Charlotte Boulay reads ‘Oracular’


Mon, Sep 08, 2014



Listen to Charlotte Boulay read “Oracular” from her debut collection, “Foxes on the Trampoline.”

Oracular

The road is too hot to move. I’m stuck in the median,
I slept too fast & then too slow.

Sufi says, I’m not only bones & bones—

who loves the saints in the streets? We don’t need

your love, only your briefest notice sustains us.
Dogs crouch in the ancient of their shade,

tooth-brushers spit into their crevices, piss in the gutters
they create.
Bedtime—stars like mustard seeds pop

through the smog. There’s a wail & an anguish of horns;

everlastingness reaches up & turns out the light—

Photo by Roger Boulay

Photo by Roger Boulay

Charlotte Boulay earned her MFA from the University of Michigan. She taught creative writing at the university for five years and won both the Meijer Award and an Academy of American Poets Award. Her poetry has appeared in many journals, including The New Yorker, Slate, the Boston Review and Crazyhorse. Boulay currently works as a grant writer at The Franklin Institute Science Museum in Philadelphia, where she lives with her husband. “Foxes on the Trampoline” is her first book of poetry.

“Oracular” was excerpted from the book “Foxes on the Trampoline” by Charlotte Boulay. Copyright © 2014 by Charlotte Boulay. Reprinted courtesy of Ecco, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

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Weekly Poem: Mark Ford reads ‘In Loco Parentis’


Mon, Sep 01, 2014


Mark Ford reads “In Loco Parentis” from his collection “Selected Poems.”

In Loco Parentis

were some quite creepy men—one
used to lie down
on the dayroom floor, then get us all
to pile on top of him—and a basilisk-
eyed matron in a blue unifrom with a watch
dangling
beneath her right
collarbone. Thump thump
thump
went her footsteps, making
the asbestos ceiling tiles shiver, and me
want to hide, or run like a rabbit
in a fire…
                     What we lost, we lost
forever. A minor
devil played at chess
with us, forcing
the pieces to levitate
and hover, flourishing swords, in midair. I’d grasp
them now, the orotund bishop, the stealthy
knight, the all-
knowing queen,
but they dissolve
in my fingers, refuse
to return to the board, to their squares.

Photo by Mark Hinkley courtesy Coffee House Press.

Photo by Mark Hinkley courtesy Coffee House Press.

Born in Nairobi, Kenya, Mark Ford is the author of four collections of poetry, including “Soft Sift” and “Six Children.” “Selected Poems” is his most recent work. Ford is also the author of the biography “Raymond Roussel and the Republic of Dreams,” and a translation of Roussel’s last poem, “Nouvelles Impressions d’Afrique.” That translation was the runner up for a PEN Award for Poetry in Translation. Ford has also written criticism. He published two collections, “A Driftwood Altar” and “Mr and Mrs Stevens and Other Essays” and has had his work published in journals such as the New York Review of Books and the London Review of Books. Ford earned his BA and Ph.D. from the University of Oxford and he received a Kennedy Scholarship from Harvard University. He currently teaches at University College, London.

Excerpts from Selected Poems by Mark Ford courtesy of Coffee House Press.

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Weekly Poem: Ellen Bass wants you to eat that strawberry


Mon, Aug 25, 2014


"Like a Beggar" is the most recent book of poetry from Ellen Bass. Photo by Irene Young

“Like a Beggar” is the most recent book of poetry from Ellen Bass. Photo by Irene Young

In the first poem of her new collection, “Like a Beggar,” Ellen Bass tries to accept what she has spent her whole life avoiding: misfortune.

From the “trivial to the tragic,” including scenes of melting ice cream in your car and your son hawking your refrigerator for drug money, Bass stops fighting what she calls the unavoidable.

“This is a kind of a watershed poem for me,” Bass told Art Beat. “Of course you don’t surrender just once so the poem has become a kind of teaching poem for me. Even though I wrote it, it talks to me and reminds me what I have to keep doing over and over.”

She closes the poem with a Buddhist story about a woman trapped on the side of a cliff. The woman arrived in that precarious position because she climbed down a vine to avoid a tiger that was chasing her, only to find another tiger below. To make matters worse, the woman looks up to find two mice gnawing at the vine that got her there.

The woman is stuck in a predicament, but she notices a wild strawberry growing near her. “She looks up, down, at the mice./Then she eats the strawberry.”

During the seven years that Bass worked on “Like a Beggar,” she was going through a challenging time. As a narrative poet, her first inclination was to write the stories of her difficult experiences, but this time she couldn’t do that. The events concerned other people and she wasn’t able to write about them directly.

“At first that really threw me for a loop — what will I do? How will I be a poet?” said Bass.

“I soon realized that I had to take this as an aesthetic challenge and that it would be good for me, that it would push me to write in ways that weren’t as familiar to me, that it would push me into new poetic territory.”

What Bass found surprised her. She ended up with a lot of odes and realized “the harder the times the more important to praise.” That discovery can be seen in an epigraph from Rilke, which she uses to open the collection:

“But those dark, deadly, devastating ways, /how do you bear them, suffer them?/ –I praise.”

One such poem of praise is for repetition, a daily phenomenon that Bass uniquely sees as a privilege.

“I don’t think I’m completely alone in loving repetition, but I’m certainly in the minority in our culture. There’s a great premium places on new, adventure, variety, all of that and again, in my family i get teased a lot about my kind of mule-like inclination for repetition.”


Listen to Ellen Bass read “Ode to Repetition’” from her new collection “Like a Beggar.”

Ode to Repetition

I like to take the same walk
down the wide expanse of Woodrow to the ocean,
and most days I turn left toward the lighthouse.
The sea is always different. Some days dreamy,
waves hardly waves, just a broad undulation
in no hurry to arrive. Other days the surf’s drunk,
crashing into the cliffs like a car wreck.
And when I get home I like
the same dishes stacked in the same cupboards
and then unstacked and then stacked again.
And the rhododendron, spring after spring,
blossoming its pink ceremony.
I could dwell in the kingdom of Coltrane,
the friction of air through his horn,
as he forms each syllable of “Lush Life”
over and over until I die. Once I was afraid
of this, opening the curtains every morning,
only to close them again each night.
You could despair in the fixed town of your own life.
But when I wake up to pee, I’m grateful
the toilet’s in its usual place, the sink with its gift of water.
I look out at the street, the halos of lampposts
in the fog or the moon rinsing the parked cars.
When I get back in bed I find
the woman who’s been sleeping there
each night for thirty years. Only she’s not
the same, her body more naked
in its aging, its disorder. Though I still
come to her like a beggar. One morning
one of us will rise bewildered
without the other and open the curtains.
There will be the same shaggy redwood
in the neighbor’s yard and the faultless stars
going out one by one into the day.


The poem ends in a much darker space than where it starts, an evolution that Bass wasn’t expecting.

“Even people who don’t like repetition, we all want the kind of repetition that allows the people that we love to stay in our lives and not die and we don’t want to die. We want to wake up every morning. It surprised me that this poem that started out somewhat playful about my quirks and idiosyncrasies,” said Bass.

“I was validated in my love of repetition. You may think you don’t want repetition, but you really want it, too, because you don’t want to wake up and find your beloved one gone either. “

The title of the collection comes from one line towards the end of “Ode to Repetition,” where Bass references going to bed with her wife of thirty years, “her body more naked/in its aging, its disorder. Though I still/come to her like a beggar.”

“We are all in some way beggars in this lifetime. We are at the mercy of others and at the mercy of what will happen to us. Of course, we can chose how we respond to it, but we are always praying for something to happen or not happen in one way or another. We come with these empty bowls and there’s a great deal that is given to us … We are all vulnerable to whatever might befall us.”

It’s those vulnerabilities that Bass focuses on in “Relax,” that first poem about misfortune.

“In the poem, I was able to commit myself more to not trying to escape and instead trying to remember in any moment to eat that strawberry.”

“Ode to Repetition” from “Like a Beggar” by Ellen Bass. Published in 2014 by Copper Canyon Press. Used by permission Copper Canyon Press.

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Weekly Poem: Dan Chiasson reads ‘The Flume’


Mon, Aug 18, 2014


Listen to Dan Chiasson read “The Flume” from his new collection “Bicentennial.”

The Flume

Here we go up again, up again, the mountain
The men who have assembled it for years
Assembled yesterday, so that you and I

Headed who knows where together, but
Headed there together, will see
From the top the bottom, from the bottom the top,

Then feel the inside-outside-all-over-nowhere
My God I Am Going to Die, Not Someday, Now
Sensation that, once we plateau, feels silly,

Since when were we safer than when we sought
The danger that when it subsided returned
Us to the dangers it had blotted out?

There are no fears, here at the start:
This is when, the book just opened,
Knowing you will one day know the story

You don’t know yet changes the story
You are getting to know, the way we know
Before you know what anything means it means

Something: a fireworks display, the birthday
Of the Country; that’s me; my uncle and I
Are racing through the past on the Python,

Which men assembled absentmindedly that day
And, so you could visit it with me,
I assembled here again inside my memory;

Now, when you remember how things were
Today, you will also remember yourself
Looking forward to yourself looking back

A looking back that, here in your past,
You do already, you already say
About what happened yesterday, remember when…?

–The future doing its usual loop-de-loop,
The sons all turning into fathers
Until the absentminded men take the ride down.

Photo of Dan Chaisson by Nicholas Chaisson

Photo of Dan Chiasson by Nicholas Chiasson

Dan Chiasson has published four books of poetry, including “Where’s the Moon, There’s the Moon” and “Natural History.” “Bicentennial” is his most recent collection. Chiasson is also a critic. He reviews poetry for the New Yorker and the New York Times Book Review and has published one book of criticism, “One Kind of Everything: Poem and Person in Contemporary America.” A recipient of the Whiting Writers’ Award, a Pushcart Prize and a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship, Chiasson teaches at Wellesly College.

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Weekly Poem: Alison Powell dissects myths to uncover human complexity


Mon, Aug 11, 2014


Alison Powell

Alison Powell has always been a fan of the underdog. In her debut collection of poetry, “On the Desire to Levitate,” the writer takes that attraction as inspiration for her work.

“I think that poetry, especially in the Western world, has such a tradition of celebrating beauty and celebrating passion and love. I’ve always been particularly drawn to and interested in poetry that sort of digs its way into the crevices of life that may be less attractive, less traditionally attractive,” Powell told Art Beat.

“Many of my poems are preoccupied with trying to find sympathetic perspectives on characters that may not be so sympathetic.”

The poet, a winner of Ohio University’s Hollis Summer Poetry Prize, explored a variety of subjects, from the protagonists of iconic Greek myths to different versions of herself from her own childhood. She harkened it to “approaching these topics in reverse.”

“It’s normally the mythic character from great Western literature that we read about and expect to be heroic and exalted. Instead I’m trying to bring them down to earth and have Hercules lamenting what his wife does to him; Eurydice’s snarky with Orpheus,” said Powell.

One such poem is “After Paradise Lost,” where Powell seeks to understand Satan.

“As many people have said, the character of Satan, despite Milton’s best intention, comes off as infinitely more interesting than the character of God. It’s a wonderful accident, but he’s also tremendously sympathetic. He’s a fallen angel, he’s jealous, but he loved God and that’s how he became who he became.”

Powell used poetry to think through Satan’s shift “from love to jealousy to destruction.”



Listen to Alison Powell reads her poem “After Paradise Lost” from her debut collection “On the Desire to Levitate.”

After Paradise Lost

When the evil army comes it is accompanied
by a deceptively novel trumpet, as a woman

wears white and believes in it. An angel
is not spiteful without cause, having been flung

from the hand of God, whose engine, reportedly,
is love itself. How badly the crippled angel

wanted to be first in everything, God’s
man Friday! He is not without scruple;

he envies the earth. The earth is just
beyond chaos, and rests against chaos,

yet everything that comes from the earth’s Garden
can be tended, pulled, made orderly—

blanches and laid before a guest—
the earth has something called an offering.

The story of the Garden is allegorical
An allegory is like a forked tongue;

an allegory is an infant bastard who is fitful.
The Garden becomes linked with a feeling

of sickness and trepidation: a dream
of taking an air balloon ride over a river

because the bridge is burning.


Powell grew up in rural Indiana, a past she draws on to create new mythic characters.

“The way I grew up was such that girls had a certain place and were supposed to be relatively nurturing and docile creatures. And I’m trying to make them into rebellious characters, not unlike what I am trying to do with Eurydice and Satan and Hercules.”

In each instance, Powell, who will teach poetry at Oakland University in Michigan in the fall, is attracted to the nuances of the human experience, “acknowledging the things about us that are not pious or generous or exalted.”

“What it means to be a human being is to be profoundly complex and conflicted. I would definitely not say it’s out of any urge to be cathartic — that if we face these things, we can better deal with it. It’s more that we should look at them and even celebrate them, celebrate our passions, even the ones that lead us astray,” said Powell.

“When we turn to poetry it’s because we want to be reminded how to slow it down and pay attention. I think that’s especially true now. And part of that paying attention means looking at things that we might not want to look at — or that we’ve trained ourselves not to look at — and appreciating what those things are as well.”

“After Paradise Lost” was excerpted from the book “On the Desire to Levitate” by Alison Powell. Copyright © 2014 by Alison Powell. Reprinted courtesy Ohio University Press.

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Weekly Poem: W.S. Di Piero reads ‘The Smell of Spearmint’


Mon, Aug 04, 2014


W.S. Di Piero reads “The Smell of Spearmint” from his collection “Tombo.”

The Smell of Spearmint

He told, he didn’t suggest or ask.
So when the unfinished father
told the son to do it, the son obeyed
and laid out razor and Barbasol
next to the bed-tray’s plastic cups,
ashtray, straws, and mucilage
of scrambled eggs. Forty-three,
he demanded to look clean and spare.
We die with habits of self-regard.
The son, seventeen, can’t know
that when he’s his father’s age,
a life’s love would soap his face,
run the blade, nick a nostril
hold still, you nervous you
then pass into time’s menthol airs.
He trowels, plumps, pats the lather,
he turns the head, he drags the trucky
brutish double-blade down
jaw and hallowed cheeks:
it planes the meaty manly whiskers,
it resists its task, yet life feels lighter
in his hand, most of all when it lies
lightly on the cabled throat.
One big bone, the father’s head,
in custody of the speechless son,
the untrained hand that never knew
the contents of that bone, does what
it’s told to do and can’t know
what love will bring back in time.

Photo by Beth Weber

Photo by Beth Weber

W. S. Di Piero is a poet, essayist, art critic and translator. He is the author of 10 books of poetry including “The First Hour,” “Skirts and Slacks” and “Nitro Nights.” “Tombo” is his most recent collection of poems. The winner of the 2012 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, Di Piero has published poems in “Poetry” and “Threepenny Review.” He writes a monthly column on visual arts for the San Diego Reader, an independent newsweekly and has published five collections of his essays, including “When Can I See you Again?” Di Piero is the winner of a Guggenheim Foundation fellowship, an Ingram Merrill Foundation fellowship and a Lila Wallace-Reader’s Digest Fund fellowship.

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Weekly Poem: Jennifer Michael Hecht riffs off iconic poems


Mon, Jul 21, 2014


Jennifer Michael Hecht. Photo by Maxwell Hecht-Chaneski

Jennifer Michael Hecht. Photo by Maxwell Hecht-Chaneski


In her new collection, “Who Said,” Jennifer Michael Hecht “comments on,” “ventriloquizes,” or “meaningfully transliterates” iconic poems throughout history. She has many terms for her work based off some of her favorite verse.

“The poems that I chose were guided by poems that I love, but also poems that work, that I was able to get a poem out of that was moving and memorable,” Hecht told Art Beat. “I could open them up as a way of looking around myself and seeing what came out of myself by engaging with these poems that mean so much to me.”

In her book, Hecht is in conversation with a wide variety of poems, from Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken,” to the beginning of Dante’s “Inferno” and John Keats’ “Ode to Autumn.” In one poem, Hecht creates a mash-up of the Declaration of Independence and Shakespeare’s Sonnet 29 (“When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes…”). In another, she responds to a Nirvana song.

“[Emily] Dickinson makes two appearances. I couldn’t keep her out — she just kept singing songs in my head.”

Her “Lady Look-Alike Lazarized” is based on Edgar Allan Poe’s “Annabel Lee.”

“We translate poems from other languages every couple of generations just to keep the language fresh, but of course we don’t do that in our own language,” said Hecht. “It’s fun … to liven these things up again.”



Listen to Jennifer Michael Hecht read “Lady Look-Alike Lazarized” from her new collection, “Who Said.”

“Lady Look-Alike Lazarized”

It was any of many years ago
in this half townhouse, with this tree,
that a woman who lived whom I don’t know,
in a photo you can see. She baked bread,
ate with two fat men,
and her picture looks like me.

I was a child and she was a child
then neither again would be
she in nineteen thirteen
me in two-zero one-three.
And we loved with a love that was more
than a love, at the heads of our centuries.
Let me see less than she’ll see
because I know more than she
and, even from here, it near blinded me.

And with virtue and reason, long ago,
in this picture that looks like me,
a bug blew out of a cough one night,
chilling the woman who looks like me;
so her muscled kinsman came
and took her away from our tree
to bake no more bread for fat men
and escape brutality.
Yes, a wind blew out of a cloud
one night chilling and killing
who looks like me.

Microbes, heartache, and wars
give little way to reason nor pause
at the soaring wrought-iron gate
of Brooklyn, nor at the doors of state.
She was here and in time died,
well before I arrived here or anywhere.

But our love, she for her men, I for my
small and tall friends, is stronger by far
than the love of those younger or richer
than we, and who would be wiser than we?
And neither the redbreasts in heaven above
nor the flounder down under the sea
can ever quite sever my sight from the sight
of the woman who looks like me.

For the moon rarely beams without bringing
dark dreams of the woman who looks like me;
and the stars never rise but I feel my tight eyes
on a dark dream who looks like me. And so,
all nighttime, I lie down by the side of my
searching self and my self that hides. With a
photo from nineteen hundred one-three,
of a woman who looks a lot like me.


Even though the Hecht knew by heart the poems she chose, she still had room to grow her relationship to the works.

“Writing into a poem that you’ve always had certain feelings about, you’re going to get to know it better and in a new way as you are trying to speak to it and really test where it makes its arguments and where it’s going to take you,” Hecht said. “In some poems, what i really learned more is the rhythm of them and the way that rhyme worked and the way that it’s pleasurable when you put it in the vernacular.”

At the back of the book, the poet included a series of cryptograms. Each cryptogram, when solved, reveals the original verse that Hect is “speaking to” in her poetry. While most people who know poetry will recognize the origins, Hecht wanted to invite people to interact with the text.

“There’s a way in which poetry is this decipherable system, but it’s always going to be so fantastic. Juxtaposing something that is solvable and that you can unravel and that your knowledge goes in to it — the more you know about these poems, the more you’re going to be expecting poems to show up in the cryptogram answers.”

Hecht’s variations on iconic poems, which in the end make up about half of “Who Said,” are not meant to offend long-time lovers of the original works. The first poem of the collection, not even listed in the table of contents, is aptly called “Key,” and functions as just that for her readers.

“‘For people who’ve been around before/I’m offering humbly a little bit more’ — I’m saying I’m not trying to take this over, but I am inviting us to play with it in this way,” said Hecht. “I tell my secrets in the book as I always do with my poetry. There is narrative and there is biography and there is my own particular, personal experiences.”

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