The Best American Poetry

Denise Duhamel Poem on "Breaking Bad" Season Finale

Great catch Ken Tucker!  On September 3, this @KenTucker tweet breezed by: "I fear betrayal in friendship and love that blindsides me": not Walt Whitman, but another poet, Denise Duhamel" and now lots of people want to know which poem it's from. 

"82 Reasons Not to Get Out of Bed" is too long to reproduce in its entirety but you can find  the poem in Saints of Hysteria A Half-Century of Collaborative American Poetry Edited by Denise Duhamel, Maureen Seaton & David Trinidad (Soft Skull, 2007).

Here are the first few lines:

82 Reasons Not to Get Out of Bed  (by Denise Duhamel et. al.)

I fear dented cans,
the ones with their labels torn like a pantyhose run.
I fear dented cans even though I know
bulging cans are the ones that cause botulism.
I fear small caskets, and I fear small pox.
I can’t be vaccinated because I’m allergic to the serum.
Check my arms—I don’t have any of those vaccination dents
like everyone else. I fear going to a new hairdresser
or gynecologist. I fear people with authority who look nervous.
I fear any box big enough to hold me.
I fear the number 4 for no reason.
I fear this bad habit will catch up to me.
I fear being awake in the middle of the night
when everyone else is asleep, even that yappy dog Peppy,
and the baby in him. I fear the dogs that do not recognize
my smell or care. I fear the whirr and rattle of the tail.
I fear the front door slamming when the bedroom window is locked.
I fear strangers who do not know my strength . . .

And this is what Denise Duhamel had to say about how the poem was written:

Process Note:

Lines for “82 Reasons Not to Get Out of Bed” were written on October 24, 2001 by the members of Special Topics: Trends in Contemporary Poetry—Literary Collaboration and Collage, a graduate seminar I taught at Florida International University. Mitch Alderman, Terri Carrion, Andreé Conrad, Kendra Dwelley Guimaraes, Wayne Loshusan, Abigail Martin, Rita Martinez, Estee Mazor, Astrid Parrish, Stacy Richardson, Sandy Rodriguez, Jay Snodgrass, Richard Toumey, George Tucker, Jennifer Welch, William Whitehurst, and I wrote indi- vidual lines. Rita Martinez took the lines and rearranged them into the final ver- sion of the poem. Stacy Richardson, the only undergraduate in our class, passed away in 2002. This poem is dedicated to her.

Fans of poetry and Breaking Bad know that Walt Whitman had a starring role.  Did anyone besides Ken pick up on Denise's cameo?

-- sdh

"Ode to the Other Woman's Ass" [by Denise Duhamel]

You have occupied my husband’s imagination
when he otherwise might have been bored.
You gave him pretty shapes to behold
at the mall, in the supermarket, when he peered
from behind his Newsweek at the airport.
Oh thong-wearer, the strings rising
from your crack like bird’s wings in flight.
Oh pencil skirt, snug jeans, short shorts,
bikini bottoms, capris and the circles
they contain.  Oh billboard buttocks,
magazine tushes, movie star derrières.
Oh porno fannies, soft core rumps,
the heinies of whores, the gluteus maximus
of the girl-next-door.
                              Oh Asses of Other Women,
our relationship, I know, has not been one of ease.
For years I feared you, feared that my husband
would follow your wiggle and leave me
for your high-branch peach, your airbrushed apple.
I also feared the eyes of your men, their animal glances,
their whistles when you were not with them.
I have put up with their flirting, as I hope you put up
with my husband’s.  If you are like me, I know you will not
always like it, but on a bad day it can almost be welcome,
remind you of what can sometimes be lost
in a long marriage.
                            Oh Asses of Other Women,
you are beautiful, with or without a stranger’s validation.
You know that, and your men know it too.
Yet, if you are feeling kind,
please ask the face attached to you
to humor my husband with a smile
should he look up to find eyes
and when your husband looks my way
I will try to do the same.

from Ecotone

From the Archives (4/27/2009): Broke is the New Black by Denise Duhamel

A friend of a friend recently coined the term “the privileged poor,” for those who have learned to live well on less.  Our group includes teachers, free-lance writers, editors, temps, the underemployed artist underclass.  We are used to getting a bargain, shopping at thrift stores, and, in retrospect, had the traits of “recessionistas” before the recession hit.  Wiktionary (we’re not in the “real” dictionaries yet) defines the recessionista as “a person who is able to stick to a tight budget while still managing to dress stylishly.”  Recessionistas, I imagine, also like to have a good time—otherwise why bother dressing well?  On my recent trip to New York, to give a reading on Staten Island, I learned that even the members of the frugal artist class, the girl-gang with whom I run, have tightened their belts—the ones they’ve found at Salvation Army.  Any nervousness I had about over-spending in NY “to keep up with the Janes” was quickly erased.  I flew into NYC on a free frequent flier ticket, took the AirTrain from Newark ($15) and only spent $6 on a Metrocard my whole trip.

I stayed with a friend for the first two nights —a fellow recessionista who cooked amazing omelets rather than order takeout, as we did on my visits in the past. She found us a $42 (less than what it would cost me had I taken a cab from Newark) hour-long massage in the east village. Recessionistas still like to treat themselves, if possible. And our “massage” was really “body work” as the women who work in the storefront aren’t licensed. There was no face-cradle, just a paper towel over the sheet. There were no showers, no coat hangers or hooks for your clothes, no private rooms—just curtains between massage tables. But the women who worked there were strong and amazing and walked on our backs. It was the best “body work” I ever had.

Later that night we went to see another friend in Brooklyn who had just furnished her stylish apartment with furniture she’d bought on Craigslist. We supplied ice cream, wine, and flowers. She made us a salad with tuna and green beans and vinaigrette. It was delicious—and cost barely anything compared to a restaurant.

The Staten Island reading was hosted by a most glamorous recessionista who treated me to Starbucks, then bought us water (for the reading) at the gas station next door, avoiding the overpriced ethos water at Starbucks. The recessionistas I know do what they can to help the poor—and many a recessionista I know give to charities, donate their time and used items to various organizations. The recessionistas I know are aware of their “privilege” and know they are not truly “poor,” as so many in our country and in the world are. But they may not fully trust the impact they can make buying overpriced ethos water.

The next day I went to the movies—no matinee prices, I’m afraid, in Manhattan —with another friend. Pre-recession I might have splurged on a fountain drink—just for the ice. This time I smuggled in diet

Florence + The Machine, Piss Christ, War, Little Miss Sunshine, District 9 & Then Some [by Neil de la Flor]

This is what I taught this semester while wearing a fedora:

Florence + the Machine: I'm obsessed with Florence and her red hair. I'm obsessed with her cosmic voice. I'm obsessed with her lineage and her Celtic robes. I think she is an extraordinary terrestrial.

 

“Piss Christ” by Andres Serrano: When we studied this photograph, almost every student appreciated the image as a work of art until they discovered Serrano used his own blood and urine to create the golden background for the image. Once my students discover this fact, all hell breaks loose change. In the end, less than half of the students wanted the image censored. Art is dangerous, I told them. One student asked me to (politely) shut up. Why didn't he use orange juice, instead, the student asked. No idea, I answered. Maybe he is anti-orange juice.

“War” by Sinead O'Connor: I knew why Sinead O'Connor tore up the photograph of the Pope. I was 18 when I witnessed her act of defiance on national television.

 

This was just a few weeks after it was revealed in the local news that a substitute math teacher at my private, Catholic elementary school had sexually abused boys over the years. The Vatican's child sex abuse scandal, revealed years later, vindicated O'Connor actions, but no one wanted to listen to her then. Last year I had the opportunity to ask her a question on behalf of my students during an on-line forum at the Washingtonpost.com. She told my students to keep up the fight for justice for all victims of sexual abuse and to burn down the forest if that is what it takes to get our voices heard. Fortunately, we don't have any forests in South Florida anymore. We've cut them down already.

Ladytron: Students were like, what is Ladytron. I told them it's a combination of a Lady and a Tron. They didn't get it, so we moved on.

 

Little Miss Sunshine: I cry at least twice during the film even though I've seen it 8 times.

Alive Day Memories: I cry thinking about the human cost of war.

District 9: I hate violent, graphic films, but this films makes me see the beauty in the uglyfulness around us. My students preferred Little Miss Sunshine, so I made them write a Marxist Critique of District 9. I just felt like giving them a challenge.

"Mr. Zebra" by Tori Amos: I love Zebras. I love Mrs. Crocodile. That's my explanation.

 

"Kinky" by Denise Duhamel: This poem is a good way to subvert my students preconceived notion of what poetry can be about, especially when many of my students have had little to no contact with the art of poetry. I ask the girls to bring their Barbie Dolls to class. The guys bring their GI Joes. Given enough time, at least one student will suggest that the two dolls have sex.It's our stupid human nature, I tell them, to try to recreate the world in their image.

 

--Neil de la Flor

 

The Tropical Roundup: Highlights from O, Miami [by Emma Trelles]

 
 
1. In February, I met with P. Scott Cunningham and Pete Borrebach for lunch at a noodle house. I couldn't find the place at first because it was lodged in the lobby of a motel on Biscayne Boulevard that, in years past, was known more for hookers and guns and rock (and I don't mean 'and roll'). But this neighborhood has now reinvented itself --as is also the city of Miami's custom-- into a hamlet of galleries, eateries, and indie mom and pop shops. There are things to do here besides driving by with locked car doors. Scott and Pete were working on their own newborn - O, Miami, the city's first poetry festival.

I ate basil and tofu and listened to their schemes: they were going to try to place if only one poem into the  hands of my hometown's 2.5 million citizens, regardless of whether they liked poetry or not. Scott and Pete were most interested in the latter, the possible converts, and they knew how to set the trap. They'd woo the city with a relentless courtship.  O, Miami would wrap buses with couplets, fly in W.S. Merwin, the sitting U.S. poet laureate, invite Chilean poet Raúl Zurita, hip hop legend Kool Moe Dee, actor-now-writer James Franco, and many more to speak and read, host collaborative art shows and a literary death match, surreptitously sew poetry tags into shirts at thrift stores, drop poems from the sky, rent a Ferrari. They had a lot of wild ideas. Had they locked it all down yet? No. When would the festival launch? In about 6 weeks and running the whole month of April.  I smiled and slurped my dripping and delicious noodles. I thought a) These guys are crazy. b) God, I hope they do it. All of it.

OCHO: The Travel Issue [Emma Trelles]

These poems trip through Afghanistan, Tokyo, and Mozambique. These poems journey with turtledoves, trout, the pages of a book and a soldier on leave. Poems that shop, bush walk, slumber in utero, visit with Jesus, King William, Andrew Jackson, and hawks. These poems ride on the spine of a pit bull, on torpedoes and a black river, on trains and the subway. Here's a sweet bite:

The Girl Fighting Back Tears on The Subway During Morning Rush Hour  by Stacey Harwood

She is lovely in her despair.

If I were a poet, she would become my poem.

If I were Billy Collins, she would inspire me to describe

the way she looks, sitting there in her new outfit from H & M

using every ounce of will to keep the tears from spilling

out of her eyes and ruining her makeup. She is thinking

about the fight she had with her boyfriend, and praying

that he is not, at this very moment, packing his belongins

and moving out of their studio apartment, which she cannot

afford without him. Yes, she's had her doubts,

but she doesn't want to be alone in this city, working

at the crummy job she took just to be near him

when she could have gone to grad school or roomed

for a year with her best friend, in Madrid.

Billy Collins would observe her pink-rimmed eyes

and inflamed nostrils, how she presses her fingertips with their

ragged fingernails to her forehead as if to banish thoughts

that will bring on more tears. He knows more than she

does about why she is crying: Her tears are not just over

her boyfriend, who she is certain will leave her, but

about everything she has lost in her twenty-two years,

and her uncertain future. Billy Collins would write this

poem in a way that is sympathetic and funny, too, so that 

when she reads it many years hence, she recognizes

something of herself and remembers how foolish she once was

though she can no longer recall his name, the boy who

made her so miserable on the long ago morning.

If I were another poet, I might be inspired to write about

the metaphorical distance between us, she at the beginning

of life, full of hope and possibility, and I only with the past,

and all of its inevitable disappointments...

 

 

*To read the rest of the poem, click on the cover image above and flip to page 23. OCHO: The Travel Issue features work by Steve Almond, Ed Ayres, Grace Cavalieri, Denise Duhamel, Susan Elbe, Michael Hettich, Stacey Harwood, Jen Karetnick, Alexandra Lytton Regalado, Jesse Millner, Nikki Moustaki, Geoffrey Philp, and Jacob Saenz. Cover art by Didi Menendez. A GOSS183 publication.

Congratulations Denise Duhamel - Academy of American Poets Spotlight Poet

We heart Denise Duhamel, our recessionista poet, so we were delighted to learn that she's in the spotlight over at poets.org.  Head over there to read about her.  And check out this video of her recent reading at Books and Books in Coral Gables, FL.  Go Denise!

Denise Duhamel at Books and Books from Andrew Hevia on Vimeo.

Dolled Up At Denny's [by Denise Duhamel, Recessionista Poet]

My friend’s husband has just lost his job.I have another friend going bankrupt. In his 70s, he says he’s tired of being a good boy scout. A third friend, in his 40’s, just had his home go into foreclosure. It is tough here in Florida where real estate has plummeted and the many people able to pay their mortgages are “under water,” a particularly scary way to put it because we in Florida live where hurricanes are fierce.

 My friend’s husband has just lost his job. She teaches part time, but soon they may not have health insurance.She and I once shopped together at J. Jill in a mall in Boca Raton, where she didn’t have to worry so much about what she purchased.If I remember correctly, she bought full price while I spent my time at the sales’ rack. I had never been in a J. Jill before, but she swore by this store. And she was right. I still have the two shirts I bought that day and they’ve held up.

 My friend’s husband has just lost his job. I keep repeating it because it is so hard to believe. He worked in finance, and I am sure he will work again. He helped me with my home equity loan, my stubborn window that wouldn’t shut, my author’s photo. In fact, my friend’s husband is an amazing photographer but hasn’t made his living that way. He’s the kind of man who says let me help you with that and volunteers. He’s the kind of man who cleans the inside of his car when he knows you are allergic to the dog hair that may be lurking in the upholstery.

 My friend’s husband has just lost his job. Still, she is trying to be upbeat as we drive to Miami International Airport to pick up a poet coming into town. The terminal seems eerily deserted. His plane is delayed or rerouted. We don’t know what happened, but we wait until every last piece of luggage has been picked up and the belt stops. We are worried about our friend—Did his cell phone die? Why isn’t he calling?—but some small part of me is relieved. That’s because I was thinking that this dinner on South Beach  was sure going to be expensive.

On our drive home, my friend and I spot a Denny’s. Let’s do it, we say. We are all dolled up with long  earrings and good hair. The man who greets us says, Thank you for coming! I say, Table for two, please, though the place is almost empty. Even Denny’s has fallen on hard times. My friend and I write a list poem about what might have happened to our poet friend, one line after the other. It seems lately everything is going wrong and writing helps relieve our anxiety:

DENISE DUHAMEL AND DENISE LANIER ARE DISMAYED WHEN MAJOR JACKSON IS MIA AT MIA

Maybe Jennifer Lopez forced him into her limo at the airport parking garage
            in Vermont and whisked him away to be her lover and twin wrangler.
Maybe he was abducted by tech-challenged aliens who can’t figure out how
            to text message for ransom. The aliens think Major is a high-ranking
            military official because of his name.
Maybe he was quarantined when a potbellied pig escaped the Prada bag it
            was being transported in, causing swine flu panic on the flight.
Maybe, distracted and listing end words for his double sestina, Major got on
            the wrong plane and is in Pflugerville, TX where he’s eating fried
            Spam sandwiches.
Maybe he stopped to be a good Samaritan and realized he had no idea how to
            change a flat tire.
Maybe he dropped his cell into the plane’s toilet and it was sucked away with
            the force of a White House intern in a blue dress.
Maybe he slipped sideways into an alternate universe in which each pinprick
            of light contained the dreams of all the sleeping poets in this world.

Broke is the New Black [by Denise Duhamel]

A friend of a friend recently coined the term “the privileged poor,” for those who have learned to live well on less.  Our group includes teachers, free-lance writers, editors, temps, the underemployed artist underclass.  We are used to getting a bargain, shopping at thrift stores, and, in retrospect, had the traits of “recessionistas” before the recession hit.  Wiktionary (we’re not in the “real” dictionaries yet) defines the recessionista as “a person who is able to stick to a tight budget while still managing to dress stylishly.”  Recessionistas, I imagine, also like to have a good time—otherwise why bother dressing well?  On my recent trip to New York, to give a reading on Staten Island, I learned that even the members of the frugal artist class, the girl-gang with whom I run, have tightened their belts—the ones they’ve found at Salvation Army.  Any nervousness I had about over-spending in NY “to keep up with the Janes” was quickly erased.  I flew into NYC on a free frequent flier ticket, took the AirTrain from Newark ($15) and only spent $6 on a Metrocard my whole trip.

I stayed with a friend for the first two nights —a fellow recessionista who cooked amazing omelets rather than order takeout, as we did on my visits in the past. She found us a $42 (less than what it would cost me had I taken a cab from Newark) hour-long massage in the east village. Recessionistas still like to treat themselves, if possible. And our “massage” was really “body work” as the women who work in the storefront aren’t licensed. There was no face-cradle, just a paper towel over the sheet. There were no showers, no coat hangers or hooks for your clothes, no private rooms—just curtains between massage tables. But the women who worked there were strong and amazing and walked on our backs. It was the best “body work” I ever had.

Later that night we went to see another friend in Brooklyn who had just furnished her stylish apartment with furniture she’d bought on Craigslist. We supplied ice cream, wine, and flowers. She made us a salad with tuna and green beans and vinaigrette. It was delicious—and cost barely anything compared to a restaurant.

The Staten Island reading was hosted by a most glamorous recessionista who treated me to Starbucks, then bought us water (for the reading) at the gas station next door, avoiding the overpriced ethos water at Starbucks. The recessionistas I know do what they can to help the poor—and many a recessionista I know give to charities, donate their time and used items to various organizations. The recessionistas I know are aware of their “privilege” and know they are not truly “poor,” as so many in our country and in the world are. But they may not fully trust the impact they can make buying overpriced ethos water.

The next day I went to the movies—no matinee prices, I’m afraid, in Manhattan —with another friend. Pre-recession I might have splurged on a fountain drink—just for the ice. This time I smuggled in diet

Ka-Ching! [by Emma Trelles]

It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.

from "Asphodel,That Greeny Flower," by William Carlos Williams

I can't imagine Williams could have forseen our current economic clime when he published this poem in the mid-fifties. He, along with everyone else, had their own concerns ("The bomb speaks." Enough said). 

But this week I've been thinking about these lines while obsessively channel-flipping through the cable news networks. Each time I see a group of suits huddled behind a mic, telling me what I do and don't need, I think - these guys should pick up a book of poems. Specifically, these guys should read Denise Duhamel's crisp new collection, Ka-Ching!

I own all of Duhamel's books, and I've typically read them like I do a fine novella: from start to finish in one sitting. Her poems are hard to put down. I'm always wondering, "What's next? What now?"

I think it's because, like a skilled novelist, she's got a masterful sense of pace. Duhamel knows how to open in media res, with just the right portions of verve and speed, as she does with "play money," a sequence of ten prose poems she literally wrote on the back of the bills found in a board game ($100k through $1 million, to be exact). The suite reads as a memoir about growing up and family and the objects we value while we stumble through to adulthood: a set of custom pencils or chocolate coins wrapped in foil. When money is tight, or non-existent, the small stuff matters. 

There's wit and games here, but also more. Duhamel uses her bright mind to address painful subjects -the anxiety of unemployment, a parent's failing health, the specter of weapons and war. It's all flashing across our televisions and newspapers every day, yet somehow she manages to wrap these fears in a sprightly language that offers hope. I'm always ready for some of that.

Here's a poem from Ka-ching! 

Healing Pies

 

After my parents' accident, the pies kept coming: chicken pot pies (sized for one person), blueberry pies, ice cream pies, peach cobblers, lemon meringues, pecan pies, pies that were still warm in their tins, apple pies, another chicken pot pie (a big square one), pies with chocolate pudding inside, rhubarb pies, cherry pies, pies with crisscross slats of crust on top. Pies from the church, pies from my mother's quilting group, pies from the neighbors, pies from the aunts. Pies lined the kitchen counter, pies packed the freezer. Holy pies, pies with painkiller filling, herbal pies, prayer pies, pies that kept vigil, pies brimming with novenas, pies full of secrets that even doctors don't know, magic spell pies, smooth soothing pies overflowing with the music of rainforests, pies made from circles of light, pies with halos.