Brevity is overrated. I love a fine tweet as much as the next gal, but occasionally, I wish more poets would dare to be oceanic, to swarm and envelop me with their words instead of throwing a small polished stone in my general direction.
John Paul Davis is a great poet to read in moments like these. There's a Whitmanesque quality to his poems, effusive and generous – and characterized by endless fascination. Like Whitman, Davis is enraptured by the people he encounters, and inspired by them. I first met Davis a few years ago in Chicago: he was my neighbor, and we also worked creatively together. During those times, what always came through for me first was his curiosity about other human beings, how he sparkled and leaned in when he had a question or a quip, and how much he cared about representing the people he knew well. His poems have the same emotive engine: they expand, and thrum.
Davis is a fascinating, underrated poet. Please enjoy this small example of what he can do.
In Praise Of Loud Women
Starting with the ones at the poetry
open mic shows but not just those under
the spotlight, also the bartender
with the lightning-sharp laughter who hushes
the chattering men camped on barstools
when the next reader taps the microphone
& unfolds the looseleaf from her pocket
& there's the ones with glitter eyeliner
& skin-tight mini skirts on the subway
filling the car with with the nasal music
of their hopes & gossip while we tunnel
beneath the East River toward Brooklyn
& thank you for all of them, they have made
my favorite days like that Saturday
moving from bar to bar with Lynne & Tish
& Syreeta giving me the side eye
& Lizz met us & the stories only got
louder, & I consider myself lucky
to have so often heard Marty's hard-earned
wisdom & prosody reverberate
through an entire room & Rebecca's warm
contralto speaking fragments of Chekhov,
Elizabeth in arms about some new
political injustice on tv
& Chelsy, who bit my wrist to let me
know she liked me & even Alecia
rattling my mobile phone with her anger, her
name will never stop meaning light & could
I have listened to her with more of myself
& Paige, famous for starting arguments
on the internet called me delightful
& Rae's Ohio drawl ricocheting
up & down the river assuring me
I was home & Mahogany's redbone
Oakland syllabics making everything
into song & Emily Rose trying
to talk some sense into my thick head late
on one of those bitterly cold Chicago
nights driving & smoking with the windows
down & Adri coaching me through the grief
when I tell her what the doctors have said
is happening to my stepmother who
could make my short name multisyllabic
when I was not my best self & who taught
me to want to make the good kind of trouble
& she is dying & no one knows how
long she has & this unjust world will lose
her unrepeatable voice, so many
rooms will no long resound when her Southern
vowels crest brightly as she tells some story,
how will the world get by without her faith
& her willingness to take on the small
difficult work that brings about real change
& I don't think I could have become a man
without her, she required grace & patience
& compassion & honesty from me
& what will I do without her to trouble
me & tell me, what trouble can I make
to make & maintain space for such blessed
loudness as hers, promise me that more loud
talking big laughing bold troublemaking
women are stepping in to fill the empty places,
what kind of light can I shine when one such
woman breathes to speak & what kind of ear
should a stubborn know-it-all thick man grow
what kind of silence should I be learning
what kind of silence what kind of silence?
John Paul Davis is a curator of Page Meets Stage. He was a founding member of Real Talk Avenue, and is the former editor of Bestiary Magazine and Em Literary. He currently lives in Brooklyn. His website is www.johnpauldavis.org
As a poet often obsessed with structure, allowing a poem to have its own way with me can sometimes be a challenge. It can be hard to relinquish control of an idea – although an idea, by its nature, is intangible.
But Kenyatta Rogers is a poet with a wonderful sense of flow. My favorites among his poems tend to be associative, with connective tissue that's more intuitive than logical. To write a poem of this sort requires a highly attuned awareness of balance, and an acceptance of the fact that sometimes the poem wants to become something greater than even the creator might anticipate.
Rogers has these qualities in full. The work I've chosen to include is one of my favorite list poems - versatile, funny, challenging and saddening by turns. With Rogers, you never quite know what you're going to get – but the surprise is always welcome. I'm looking forward to great things from Rogers in the next few years, and so should you.
The poem below was previously published in Court Green.
I had a dream about Thelonious Monk
and in that dream I told him I missed him
I told him I miss him . . .
I missed him
the beautiful ones you always lose
the gargoyle ate them all
all of them . . .
he ate them
I threw anything
I could find
rocks, I threw rocks
I threw shoes
I threw lamps
I threw a table
I threw my mom
I threw my mom
I threw chairs
big blocks of wood
small pills of aspirin
I pulled up turnips
And I threw turnips
like Princess Toadstool
I threw turnips
I jumped in the Atlantic
and picked up the Amistad
and I threw the whole fuckin Amistad
and I threw bubblegum
Gabriel helped me throw Metatron
and then I threw Gabriel
I threw purple
I took small tufts of clouds
and I threw clouds
and 33 and a thirds
and jewel cases
chunks of cement
Abraham Lincoln’s right eye
the bullet that shot Franz Ferdinand
the one that started the revolution
which will be televised
along with the TV.
I threw 1080p
and standard definition
and bubble gum
did I say I threw the
it was 1989
and I threw
I once threw a Bible through a plate glass window
and it went all the way to Tehran
and this guy caught it
and pissed on it
and he burned it
and he ate it
and he shit it out
all in about 15 minutes
it goes through the system fast . . .
Kenyatta Rogers was the 2012-2013 Visiting Poet in English, at Columbia College Chicago where he also earned his MFA in Creative Writing Poetry. He is a Cave Canem fellow and was also a Poet-in-Residence for the Hands on Stanzas program through the Poetry Center of Chicago. His work has been previously published in or is forthcoming from Jubilat, Court Green, Reverie, Vinyl, Black Tongue Review, Cave Canem Anthology XIII, among others. He works as a teaching artist and still lives in Chicago.
Over the past ten years, Jamaal May has grown from an antsy, hungry young MC and producer, to a slam poetry champion, to a widely published and celebrated poet in literary circles. May is a genuine polymath: perhaps for that reason, he is also one of the most driven people I've met.
He puts that drive to excellent use in his range of work. May understands how to write received forms better than most, using them to channel and contain emotion without allowing them to become static or overwrought. He's not a pure formalist either – May displays the same bright intelligence when inventing his own forms as well, a deep respect and care for all craft elements enhancing the power of his immense feeling. His work is very smart, and truly passionate. Look for his first book, Hum, to be published later this year, and his video previews of him reading poems from the work.
The poem below was previously published in Gulf Coast.
Jamaal May is a poet, editor, and educator from Detroit, MI where he taught poetry in public schools and worked as a freelance audio engineer and touring performer. His first collection of poems, Hum (Alice James Books, 2013), won the Beatrice Hawley Award. Winner of the 2013 Indiana Review Poetry Prize, his work also appears in journals such as Poetry, Ploughshares, the Believer, New England Review, and Kenyon Review. Jamaal has earned an MFA from Warren Wilson College as well as fellowships from Cave Canem and the Stadler Center for Poetry. He is founding editor, graphic designer, and filmmaker for the Organic Weapon Arts Chapbook and Video Series (www.organicweaponarts.com) and teaches in the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA program.
Aimee Nezhukumatathil is another poet I've never had the pleasure of meeting. A friend suggested I read her a few years ago, and it's taken me far too long to explore her poems, but I can say now that his recommendation was correct: Nezhukumatathil's work is fantastic.
Nezhukumatathil has an obvious command of imagery and diction, but one of the aspects I most appreciate about the poems I've read is her intelligent pacing. In recent years, I've come to respect, more and more, poets who take their time - and I think that can still be an unusual quality in poets in their 30s. So I say this as a serious poetry nerd: Nezhukumatathil's understanding of pacing moves me. Her line breaks are fantastic. Her syntax, gorgeous. It's a real pleasure to read the work of someone who lovingly builds the trellis on which her climbing vines might thrive. I'm happy to visit Nezhukumatathil's morning glory palace, and I'm so glad she continues to grow.
The time it takes for a three-toed sloth
to climb down from her cecropia tree
is faster than the time it took me
to take a deep breath and write this.
And when a snail—the very symbol
of slow-time and sloth—shreds his food
to bits with his radula, even that is quicker
than the time I spent thinking how I could
acknowledge: I need us to not end.
I need you to stay with me. It’s ridiculous,
outrageous—this desire to smell
the button channels of your shirt, to bite
your lip, fingers, even the tiny stones
in your ear. Sometimes soap is the only
lovely thing in a hotel room. I can do nothing
with this want. The lay of dumb thin veins
across my heart—like golden growing mats
of sargassum in the sea—won’t budge.
Instead, I stare at the profile of your
beautiful nose and your top lip that I want
to bite so badly and will tonight--
I assure you—before this evening ends.
But if you must leave, I have to thank you,
Mister End-of-Summer: for these months,
for the softness of each bite into stone fruit.
For pluots and peaches rinsed bright
in the sun. Thank you for the grey doves
that erupt from my hands. Thank you also
for the quiet whimper of the blood parrotfish,
bred purposely to have the smallest of mouths.
Aimee Nezhukumatathil is the author of three books of poetry, most recently, Lucky Fish. Honors for her writing include the Pushcart Prize and a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. She is professor of English at SUNY-Fredonia (www.aimeenez.net).
The first thing you need to know about Matthew Olzmann is that his deadpan is impeccable. The first time I met him, I was awkward as hell, because I was already a fan of his work – and the fact that he didn't crack a smile through the whole conversation didn't help. It wasn't until later that I realized he'd been slipping dry jokes into our talk all along.
I truly appreciate being surprised, which is part of why I adore Olzmann's writing so much. I'd almost describe his writing as disingenuous, it's so quietly subversive. Olzmann writes some of the best contemporary love poetry I've read, taking what many assume to be the most basic genre of our art form and transforming it into moments that can be funny, devastating, yet absolutely devotional – in other words, Olzmann's poems pay fitting tribute to the real thing. He makes it look so easy, too: one of my favorite aspects of his technique is his brilliant use of anaphora and repetition - again, elements that might seem simple, but which are exceedingly difficult to master. These are a few small examples of a marvelous body of work that only continues to grow: buy his book and find out for yourself.
The poem printed below first appeared in The Southern Review.
Art of the Mime: An Educational Camp for Children
This seems like such a bad idea, it can’t
possibly be real, but there it is--
with a flyer promising Intensive craft workshops
by today’s top practitioners.
Imagine: rows of sad
little children, all locked in sad
little boxes of silence, all pressing their sad
little hands against glass that does not exist.
I mean, there must have been other options
for these parents who obviously hate their kids.
Perhaps catapults? An opening in the circus?
Or just old-fashioned chores until they
pass out from exhaustion? Nothing
like sleep to silence a howling kid.
And believe me, as a boy I howled until
my own parents longed for ways to shut
me the hell up. Why don’t you go practice
your mime routine? they could’ve said.
I filled the world with so much noise,
they needed earplugs to pray.
I threw tantrums like canisters of tear gas,
put my complaints in a cannon and shot
out the roof of our house. Even now,
I am a sound that does not stop.
I say I can’t, I need, I want, and Is there a God
and yes there is and It’s Me Me Me,
until, like the mine, I too am trapped
in a box that can’t be seen.
I too have a hand that pushes
against a wall, that searches for a seam.
Matthew Olzmann's collection of poems, Mezzanines, received the 2011 Kundiman Prize and was published by Alice James Books. He has been awarded fellowships and scholarships from The Kresge Arts Foundation, Kundiman, and the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. His poems and stories have appeared or are forthcmoing Kenyon Review, New England Review, Hobart, Necessary Fiction, The Southern Review, Gulf Coast, Hyphen Magazine and elsewhere. He is a Visiting Professor of Creative Writing in the undergraduate writing program at Warren Wilson College, and the Co-Editor of The Collagist.
I first met L. Lamar Wilson a few years back, and he quickly won my affection. Among the first qualities I noticed was Wilson's admirable humility – at that point, he was returning to poetry after years spent as a journalist, so he had a rare combination of experience as a writer, but also a gratitude to be doing this particular work that many of us easily lose sight of. Wilson is a spiritual man, and a passionate one: he's often soft-spoken, painstaking in his speech, but has the kind of laugh that sets him and anyone nearby alight.
Wilson's poems clearly reflects his character. I love Wilson's sincerity, his flexibility with narrative and lyric alike, his faith, and the resonance of his desire. One of my favorite aspects of his writing is Wilson's capacity to help me feel: these are poems born of a love that runs very deep indeed - and a love, I suspect, that greatly benefits all his readers.
The poem below was first published in Cream City Review, and also in Wilson's first book, Sacrelegion, published last year on Carolina Wren Press. The photograph was taken by Rachel Eliza Griffiths.
Outside looking in, I cannot place you,
though your breath tickles the hairs
in my nose each night. They will not go away
no matter how often or how closely I clip them,
& you will not let me penetrate you no matter
how many times you let me penetrate you.
You smile in your sleep more than you smile
when you are awake, & I like to watch you
from this distance. This must be how mercury feels
deep inside the heart of this red & brown clay
beneath us: deadly when we taste its ruddy gray, slick-
hot as that planet closest to the sun, hidden
from Earthly view by that star that burns
all flesh it touches & eludes us all.
You are soil, like me. Roiled
& sullen, like me. Together,
we cannot bear fruit. O lover,
in this full moon light, teach me how
to hide inside the embrace
of three-quarter you,
you, full of me.
Sacrilegion, L. Lamar Wilson's first book, is the 2012 winner of the Carolina Wren Press Poetry Series. Wilson has earned fellowships from the Cave Canem Foundation, the Callaloo Workshops, the Alfred E. Knobler Scholarship Fund, and the Arts and Sciences Foundation at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where he is completing a doctorate in African American and multiethnic American poetics.
We're excited to announce our nominations for the annual Best of the Net Anthology from Sundress Publications.
"Taking It" by Vievee Francis
"Elegy with a Blue Wing" by Brynn Saito
"untitled" by Rachel McKibbens
"Passing" by Cynthia Manick
"Sunday Morning: Ars Poetica" by Christina Olivares
"The Snail Scene" by Scott Beal
Tarfia is one of my favorite poets on this list. I've had the good fortune to meet this incredible woman twice, once at a feature I did in Berkeley, and once at a reading we did together. So I can assure you she's human and whatever, but I initially assumed robotics came into play when such an unfathomable heart and such talent on the page worked in concert.
Why is she so good? She's obviously very well-read, and she uses that reading to further her work. Of the batch of poems she sent me, one referenced Valléjo, another Tranströmer – two very different but important poets – and she did both of them justice, without losing touch with her own style. And Faizullah has elegant style. She knows line, pacing, and imagery. She understands beauty in the best way: as a means of perceiving the world as something much more grand than our tiny concerns. I'm so glad to share a little bit of her work with all of you. Her first book is coming out next year. You should read it and discover the gorgeous patterns she makes.
The poem below was previously published in The Missouri Review.
Tarfia Faizullah is the author of Seam (Southern Illinois University Press, 2014), winner of the 2012 Crab Orchard Series in Poetry First Book Award. Her poems appear in Ploughshares, The Missouri Review, The Southern Review, Massachusetts Review, Ninth Letter, New England Review, Washington Square, and elsewhere. A Kundiman fellow, she received her MFA from Virginia Commonwealth University and is the recipient of an AWP Intro Journals Project Award, a Ploughshares Cohen Award, a Fulbright Fellowship, a Copper Nickel Poetry Prize, a Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Prize, scholarships from Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and Sewanee Writers’ Conference, fellowships from the Kenyon Review Writers’ Workshop and Vermont Studio Center, and other honors.
Sandra Beasley is another new poet for me. I mentioned to a colleague I was looking for new names for this project, and Beasley was among the folks he recommended whose work moved me right away. That wasn't the case for every suggestion; it's easy to forget how subjective poetry can be. Those of us who are ride-or-die Elizabeth Bishop fans may have vastly different opinions about Jean Toomer, for example. I think this is a beautiful thing, overall – but when we're dealing with living poets, people with whom we may be actively associated, the argument stops being abstract, and can start being very personal. I hope I'll never stop soliciting recommendations, but they can make me a little nervous.
My colleague and I do agree in this case, though, and I'm grateful Beasley is finally on my radar. This poem in particular moves me because it's so ornate. The poet is musically deft: her manipulation of assonance, consonance, rhyme and meter are staggering. It's not often that a poet can be sonically baroque in a way that lends pleasure without distracting from the narrative, but Beasley refuses to compromise either lyric or story. This is a poem that begs to be read aloud, and read again and again to savor every little joke, jab, and revelation. Sandra Beasley had me at this valentine, and I hope you feel the same way.
The poem below was previously published in Tin House.
The Sword Swallower’s Valentine
You had me at that martini. I saw
you thread the olive’s red pimento throat
with your plastic swizzle stick, a deft act
at once delicate and greedy. A man
paid to taste the blade knows his match.
The pleasure. The brine. I wish we had time,
I said—you stopped me--There’s always time.
That’s when they called me to the stage. I saw
your mouth’s angle change as you made a match
of my name and Noted Gullet! Steel Throat!
Ramo Swami, the Sword-Swallowing Man.
I want to assure you it’s just an act,
but since age seven it’s the only act
I know. My mother recalls that first time
she caught my butter-knife trick: a real man
might not cry, but the real boy wept. She saw
my resolve to build a tunnel from throat
to feet. A dark that deep could go unmatched,
she warned. Your smile is the strike of a match,
the hope of an inner spelunking act.
Facing the crowd, the sight of your pale throat
tightens mine at the worst possible time--
that fickle tic of desire. Yeah, I saw
his last show, you’ll say. Lost focus, poor man.
Funny how women make and break their men,
how martinis both break and make a match.
The best magician will hang up his saw,
release his doves, if the right woman acts
to un-straightjacket his body in time.
If lips meet, the hint of gin in your throat
will mingle with camellia in my throat,
same oil used by any samurai man.
I trained against touch once upon a time,
not knowing a rigid pharynx would match
a rigid heart. I’m ready to react,
to bleed. As any alchemist can see,
to fill a throat with raw steel is no match
for love. Don’t clap for these inhuman acts.
Cut me in two. Time, time: the oldest saw.
Sandra Beasley won the Barnard Women Poets Prize for I Was the Jukebox, selected by Joy Harjo. Her first collection, Theories of Falling, won the New Issues Poetry Prize judged by Marie Howe. Her poetry has appeared in Poetry, AGNI, Tin House, and Virginia Quarterly Review and was chosen for The Best American Poetry 2010. Beasley served as the 2013 Writer in Residence at Lenoir-Rhyne University in Hickory, N.C. Other honors include the 2013 Center for Book Arts Chapbook Prize, a University of Mississippi Summer Poet in Residence position, a DCCAH Individual Artist Fellowship, the Friends of Literature Prize from the Poetry Foundation, and the Maureen Egen Exchange Award from Poets & Writers. She has received fellowships to the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, the Millay Colony, VCCA, and Vermont Studio Center. Her nonfiction has been featured in The New York Times, Washington Post Magazine, and The Oxford American. In 2011 Crown published Don’t Kill the Birthday Girl: Tales From an Allergic Life, her memoir and a cultural history of food allergies. She lives in Washington, D.C.
I know Jessica Helen Lopez mostly through peripheral contact at national slam events, and I've seen her perform several times. We've never had more than a brief conversation here and there, but she's a woman I've always admired from afar. And Lopez is definitely a woman, with all the power and maturity inherent in that word.
That kind of power resonates in Lopez's poems as well. Her work has a clarity of purpose, an elemental intensity that hits upon the most important aspects of being human. Lopez's metaphors, though, are innovative and playful, tempering her sense of truth with mischievous vision. I also love that Lopez is unafraid of politics, personal and social; her work has real backbone. I think these are two of the major reasons that make Lopez worth watching: her immense compassion and social conscience coupled with play and tenderness towards the beautiful and the small. Look for her book, and her work.
The evening that I notice my girl is changing, sprouting
with hair into womanhood, I see crisp lines like
small black lightning erupt from the inverted
spoon of her left armpit.
The heat presses against the window a boiling
summer monsoon and she is a sweat tangle
fast asleep on my side of the bed.
The butter pallor of reading lamp permeates
every corner of my bedroom illuminating the
salt beads that congregate at her temples.
I sit awhile and watch her.
One arm is thrown above her head as if
she aims to catch a pop fly in her unconsciousness.
The other arm pressed to the small bell of her rib cage.
The arm is a small branch a bird might perch upon.
The chest rises and falls like a doughy bread.
This is my life’s purpose,
monitor the breath, the hair
that takes to her legs like
a brush fire across California
summer hills. To move the
lithe body from one bed to another.
To notice the faint shadow like a dusty
charcoal above the lip.
I know her body like I know my own.
I am prepared to be prepared for this shift,
this inevitable change of
the cosmological order of her being.
I am her ordained keeper of body.
And it is when I know,
that I must let go
that the real dying will begin
That mother and daughter diploid cells
will have truly separated into their
own acts of insular creation.
That I must step away and watch
from the light house where all old
Now, I hold the golden meiosis
of her body close, this sweaty sleeping girl who almost
slips through my arms, and walk out of the buttery light
of into that greatness of the long dark hallway.
Author Bio - Jessica Helen Lopez is a nationally recognized award-winning poetry slam champion, and holds the title of 2012 Women of the World (WOW) City of ABQ Champion. She’s also a member of the Macondo Foundation. Founded by Sandra Cisneros, it is an association of socially engaged writers united to advance creativity, foster generosity, and honor community. Her first collection of poetry, Always Messing With Them Boys (West End Press, 2011) made the Southwest Book of the Year reading list and was also awarded the Zia Book Award presented by NM Women Press. She is the founder of La Palabra – The Word is a Woman collective created for and by women and gender-identified women. Lopez is Ted Talk speaker alumni and her talk is entitled, Spoken Word Poetry that Tells HERstory. You may find some of Lopez’s work at these sites –LaPalabra.abqnorthwest.com, thebakerypoetry.com, and asusjournal.org. Her work has also been anthologized in A Bigger Boat: The Unlikely Success of the Albuquerque Slam Scene (UNM Press), Earth Ships: A New Mecca Poetry Collection (NM Book Award Finalist), Tandem Lit Slam (San Francisco), Adobe Walls, Malpais, and the upcoming Courage Anthology: Daring Poems for Gutsy Girls (Write Bloody Press).