The Best American Poetry

Ace Boggess Interviews the Author of "Playlist"

Interview with David Lehman

by Ace Boggess

 

Q: You’ve been working on a new volume of daily poems like those collected in both The Daily Mirror and The Evening Sun. An interesting year to do that. Your daily poems have a powerful sense of movement, not just in the narratives but in the vision of daily life you describe. How have you adapted your writing to the pandemic and forced stillness of quarantines and shutdowns?

 

A: I start the same way: turn on the music, think of something to say, and go. My brush with my own mortality when I went through cancer is like a light wind that grazes my cheek every once in a while. The virus that is on everyone’s mind has made me nervous. For good reason; I am at high risk. There’s been no shortage of bad news, alarming news, distressing news. While I figure that some aspects of the current situation will sneak into my poems, I don’t plan on it. It just happens.

The reason I turn to poetry is not to confront Satan’s universe of death but to affirm the opposite – to take the side of life, freedom, and the imagination.   

 

Q: Your work often meditates on or refers to classic films and songs (Playlist). Could you talk a bit about how these things inspire you and the place of pop culture in modern poetry?

  

A: By writing about what you love well, you enliven your poems, and so you have a better chance of catching the reader’s attention and holding it. The movies and music I love need to be perpetuated. Posterity can always use a helping hand. So I want to do my part to spread the word about, say, To Be Or Not To Be with Jack Benny and Carole Lombard in 1943, or Thelonious Monk’s “Monk’s Mood.” With luck I may be able to recruit new fans.

 

Q: Is there a subject you’ve tried unsuccessfully to capture in poetry, or perhaps a better way to put it, what subjects do you struggle to get down on paper?

 

 

A: When I was a very young man the war in Vietnam was raging and, like all the other poets, I wrote anti-war poems. But the poems of that period that I prize the most – by Ammons, Ashbery, Schuyler, Koch, Merrill, Bishop – have little to do with the news of the day. I detest politics; Clausewitz’s famous dictum has it that war is the continuation of politics by other means, and that may remain true if you invert the terms.

 

Q: As series editor of Best American Poetry, you read much more poetry than most folks. What is the last poem you read that you wished you had written, and what was it that made that piece so powerful?

 

A: Mary Jo Salter is a poet I greatly admire. Two terrific poems from her book Nothing By Design, which I just read, are “No Second Try” and “Edna St. Vincent, M.F.A.” I love many poems in God Breaketh Not All Men’s Hearts Alike by Stanley Moss, a wonderful poet whose work is not nearly as well-known and celebrated as it ought to be.

 

Q: Finally, an issue young writers face is doubt, both in themselves and their work. You’ve had a long and successful career so far. In spite of that, what doubts stick with you, and how have you adapted to them over the years?

 

A: Doubt. I have a master’s degree in doubt. The reading list for my oral certification examination included three books by Kierkegaard, Freud’s “Psychopathology of Everyday Life,” Thomas Mann, Henry James, Kafka, Borges, Mark Twain, the Confessions of Augustine, and Emily Dickinson. (My thesis was on Dickinson’s conception of “despair.”) Financial doubt, which can be terrifying, can go away of its own accord, with no changes in your circumstances. On the other hand, doubt regarding the value of your work, whether as a poet or author or editor, endures, because there is no way to demolish it. You never overcome the fear that your work may be as mortal as your body. There are no guarantees. After a while, you don’t think about it. There are other risks you are running. Keats thought that to be a poet, you had to be comfortable with half-truths, contradictions, ambiguities, doubts. You never want to disagree with Keats on such matters.

 

from The Adirondack Review. For the seven recent daily poems accompanying Ace Boggess's interview-- all from late September, early October 2020 -- please click here.

Edna St. Vincent, M. F. A. [by Mary Jo Salter]

Chic and petite, blind to her destiny
of being hailed upon her death the worst
sometimes-excellent poet in history,
she ran the reading series, and ranked first
in her year despite some issues, namely those
pretentious, creaky sonnets emailed late
for workshop, densely wrought with “thee”s and “thou”s,
Apollo’s “dewy cart,” man’s “frosty fate”…
Her classmates listened, bored, without a clue.
Still, they liked her, partly because she friended
everybody who asked, and fucked them too,
lending them each some notoriety
by blogging through the night how things had ended.
Plus, she knew people at A.W.P. 

From Nothing by Design by Mary Jo Salter (Knopf, 2013).

"Dependable Epigraphs" [by Tony Towle]

                       

Dependable Epigraphs

My epigraphs will prepare you for the excursion
                         but not for the ruts in the road.

                                                                           — Virgil                                                                                       

Stay well ahead of your turnips in the garden of life. 

                                                            — Michel de Montaigne

Never parade your ignorance; a discreet amble down a side street will suffice.

                                                                 — Benjamin Disraeli

Don’t swat flies close to the ear of God.

                                                            — St. Francis of Assisi

Metaphors are the unstable companions of an already impractical fellow.

                                                                                                — Henry Ford

Those who are not willing to subvert the law do not have sufficient stake in the outcome of events.

                                                                        — Niccolò Machiavelli

 If patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel, religion is certainly the first.

                                                                                                          — Voltaire

Everywhere I go I find a poet has already been there neurotically before me.

                                                                                                 — Sigmund Freud

Socializing is networking to no purpose.

                                                                        — Oscar Wilde

Politics is the art of preventing people from taking part in affairs which properly concern them.

                       — Paul Valéry, as quoted in the original French at a press conference by George W. Bush

Farewell, O insatiable biographers of the future.

                                                            — William Shakespeare

Pimp my soporific and annoying orchestral arrangements, bitch.

                                                                                    — Lawrence Welk

The peasant’s place is in the hovel.

                                                 — Harry & Leona Helmsley

The woman’s place is in the novel.

                                                — Henry James

Never let Henry James have the last word.

                                                             — Edith Wharton

You’ve got to know when to stop.

                                                 — Leo Tolstoy

from Winter Journey (Hanging Loose Press, 2008)

Mr. Boyfriend [by Mary Jo Salter]

New lover, known and unknown,
you’ve risen before dawn
and, delicious in suit and tie,
you lean down to the bed
to kiss my rumpled head
the tenderest goodbye.

A military bearing
adheres to what you’re wearing.
Oh, how many years
who knows he is a man
and not a boy?—who steers
himself through the long day

and rides it, come what may,
in a waft of aftershave
and the bracing, scratchy starch
of his dress shirt?  As you march
off to the office, brave
and clear-eyed in your tortoise-

shell glasses, looking gorgeous,
I feel both safe and weak
slipping back to your kiss
in my sleep, and the light graze
of your cufflink on my cheek.

from The Surveyors by Mary Jo Salter (Knopf, 2017). Reprinted with permission

Charles Bernstein: Pick of the Week [ed. Terence Winch]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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On Election Day

 

I hear democracy weep, on election day.

The streets are filled with brokered promise, on election day.

The miscreant’s vote the same as saint’s, on election day.

The dead unleash their fury, on election day.

My brother crushed in sorrow, on election day.

The sister does her washing, on election day.

Slowly, I approach the voices dark, on election day.

The men prepare for dying, on election day.

The morning hush defends its brood, on election day.

So still, so kindly faltering, on election day.

On election day, the cats take tea with the marmoset.

On election day, the mother refuses her milk.

On election day, the frogs croak so fiercely you would think that Mars had fallen into Earth.

On election day, the iron man meets her frozen gasp.

The air is putrid, red, interpolating, quixotic, torpid, vulnerable, on election day.

Your eyes slide, on election day.

Still the mourners mourn, the weepers wept, the children sleep alone in bed, on election day.

No doubt a comet came to see me, fiery and irreconciled, torrid, strummed, on election day.

On election day, the trespass of the fatuous alarm and ignominious aspiration fells the

       golden leap to girdled crest. 

The tyrant becomes prince, on election day.

Neither friend nor foe, fear nor fate, on election day.

The liar lies with the lamb, on election day.

The last shall be the first and first sent to the back of the line, on election day.

The beggar made a king, on election day.

“Let him who is without my poems be assassinated!” on election day.

Let he who has not sinned, let him sin, on election day.

The ghosts wear suits, on election day.

On election day, sulfur smells like beer.

On election day, the minister quakes in fear.

On election day, the Pole and the Jew dance the foxtrot.

On election day, the shoe does not fit the foot, the bullet misfires in its pistol, the

        hungry waiter reels before steadying himself on facts.

The grid does not gird the fiddler, on election day.

Galoshes and tears, on election day.

The sperm cannot find the egg, on election day.

The drum beat becomes bird song, on election day.

I feel like a nightmare is ending but can’t wake up, on election day.

 

(November 4, 2008)

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Charles Bernstein is the author of Near/Miss and Pitch of Poetry. ROOF recently published The Course, a collaboration with Ted Greenwald. University of New Mexico Press has published a facsimile reprint L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E magazine, a volume of related letters, as well as the late 1970s collaboration Legend. He lives in Brooklyn.  [For more information on, and poems by, Charles Bernstein, see the Poetry Foundation.]

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“November Graveyard” [by Sylvia Plath]

The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees
Hoard last year’s leaves, won’t mourn, wear sackcloth, or turn
To elegiac dryads, and dour grass
Guards the hard-hearted emerald of its grassiness
However the grandiloquent mind may scorn
Such poverty. No dead men’s cries

Flower forget-me-nots between the stones
Paving this grave ground. Here’s honest rot
To unpick the heart, pare bone
Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton
Bulks real, all saints’ tongues fall quiet:
Flies watch no resurrections in the sun.

At the essential landscape stare, stare
Till your eyes foist a vision dazzling on the wind:
Whatever lost ghosts flare,
Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor
Rave on the leash of the starving mind
Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air.

With thanks to Grace Schulman who suggested "'November Graveyard,' by Sylvia Plath, of wintering trees that look dead to the poet but that come alive in her art. It appeared first in Mademoiselle, chosen by Cyrilly Abels, who published her for the first time nationally." 

What Really Happened: November 22, 1963 [by David Lehman]

Every year on this day I think unfailingly of three things:

-- that today is Hoagy Carmichael's birthday, which I imagine him celebrating quietly with a glass of bourbon as he tickles the ivories (and out of Lauren Bacall's sexy throat comes the Johnny Mercer lyric for How Little We Know, which is playing in my mind even now),

-- that if time were elastic I would write a series of popular history novels under the collective title: What Really Happened. Charlie Orr would design the covers. Hell, he already has designed the covers for the first three books in the series. What Really Happened at Waterloo. What Really Happened in Yalta. And, What Really Happened on November 22, 1963. Charlie's hypothetical library is a fabulous construction.

-- that paranoid conspiracy theories, and the narrative genres to which they have given rise, are based on our fundamental inability to understand events. What happened in Dallas on November 22, 1963, accounted for the penultimate section of a poem I wrote in my freshman year at Columbia, "The Presidential Years." Here is that section of the poem:

From The Presidential Years by David Lehman 

. The day that Kennedy was killed
    Was the day before the Stuyvesant-Clinton football game.
    There was a rally in the auditorium
    And our coach who was from Texas or Oklahoma said slowly, carefully,
    “There isn’t a horse that can’t be bucked.”

     Meanwhile half the school was marching along
            Fifteenth Street to Union Square and then up to
            Forty Second Street and Fifth Avenue and some got up to
            Fifty Ninth, and they were parading,
            Yelling, “De Witt eats shit” until they were stopped by policemen.
                  I didn’t go.  I stayed in school.
                  That day I almost got into a fight
                  With a fellow twice my size on the stairway
                  And he laughed at me.  A friend of mine broke it up. 

     In English the head of the Physics Department walked
     Into the room.  He said, “I think you are old enough
    To understand this.  The President was shot today in Texas.”
            I stand up.  I do not understand.  I say, “What”
            And I think, the President was shocked today in Texas.
            He leaves the room.  I am sorry. 

    I leave early. The Clinton game is called off,
            And the series has since been discontinued.
    My French teacher is waiting for me.  Smiling shuffling his legs
            Touching his teeth with his tongue looking at me
            He says, “There is a rumor that Kennedy was shot.
            Do you know anything about that?”

    March 1967 [published in The Paris Review, #43, Summer 1968]

Here are the jackets Charlie has designed for the other books in the series, which have been endorsed by Donald Kessinger: "Lehman has a strategic mind."

From the archives: previously posted November 22, 2015.

"In 1976, When She Was Born" [a sonnet by Molly Arden]

Life was dull in 1976.
Dad had to read "Ivanhoe" and write a report.
Sex was not yet Mom’s favorite sport.
The only rhyme that came to mind was "dicks."

Mom was somewhere north
of the Mass / NH border.
She was just following an order,
not calculating its moral worth.

She was on vacation
feeling unclever
and not happily after ever.

He promised to wait
for her return to the state
of eternal temptation.

See also http://www.coconutpoetry.org/arden1.html

"Oak Hill, West Virginia" [by Mary Jo Salter)

OAK HILL, WEST VIRGINIA

1. Robert Cooke, 1929-2017

“Great louts are necessary
at funerals,” Julian Barnes 
wrote in Flaubert’s Parrot,
a book I had just read—
in fact, it was in the car
I’d parked at the cemetery—

and so I thought of that,
some witty argument
to shore up against grief.
My friend had lost her father,
and although he wasn’t mine
to mourn for, I’d revered him.

I stood there as his grown
children traded jokes
about their Gregory Peck
look-alike, coal-country
barber’s son who’d risen
to glory as a doctor.

Remember how Mom said
(they said again) that Da
had been elected second-
handsomest man in college?
(A pause, for full effect.)
Who was the other guy?

At last came two great louts,
two bruisers in T-shirts
(one of which read PROUD
TO BE AN AMERICAN)
hired to sink the weight
of the old man’s coffin

into his native soil.
No, a small box of ashes.
The louts respectfully
lowered it, then their heads.
Why, really, were they here,
or the last-minute preacher?

A skinny boy aswim
in a man’s threadbare suit
and just a little lame,
he walked up with his cane
like a bishop’s scepter.
Everything off-kilter,

beginning with the hint
of atheists among
the party that had hired him,
and then there was that key ring,
gigantic, dangling from
the belt that barely held

his baggy trousers up.
At last his volume too
went up.  His voice was clear.
It’s been a year... I’ve kept
wanting to say something,
anything, so true.

He said he saw his father
in his own shaving mirror.
Just that; made the claim
our images don’t vanish
wholly, or at once.
And when he had to end

by calling on Our Father
in his Kingdom, I even thought
(not laughing, not entirely)
He’s got Saint Peter’s keys.
Then we all shook his hand
and the hands of both the louts.

I walked back to my car,
lump in my throat, not quite
able to tolerate
my loutishness, and prayed
for the hidden, vivid face
that smiled at me in childhood.

 

"November" [by Robert Frost]

We saw leaves go to glory,
Then almost migratory
Go part way down the lane,
And then to end the story
Get beaten down and pasted
In one wild day of rain.
We heard " 'Tis Over" roaring.
A year of leaves was wasted.....
By denying and ignoring
The waste of nations warring.

- Robert Frost

"No Second Try" [by Mary Jo Salter]

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery…

W. B. Yeats, “No Second Troy”

Why should I blame him that he filled his days
With mistresses, or that he came home late
To meet most ignorant trust with smiling ways,
Such thoughtful gifts, and claims that I looked great—
Whatever that meant, though clearly not desire?
What help if I’d been wiser, with a mind
Simply to hurl his laundry in the fire,
Rather than buy his tall tales with a kind
Solicitude and a deluded kiss,
Having cleaned his house from stem to stern?
Why, who else could he use, a guy like this?
Was there another wife for him to spurn?

From Nothing by Design by Mary Jo Salter (Knopf, 2013)

Mary Jo Salter's work has appeared in seven volumes in the Best American Poetry series. (The selectors were Richard Howard, Paul Muldoon, Billy Collins, Kevin Young, Mark Doty, and Dana Gioia.) She writes with a respect for form and meter, for the shape of a poem  and its music, that is most unusual these days, and most precious when the poet has as good an ear as Mary Jo Salter.  She sees or hears the poetry in a misprint or mishearing; and when the insight sparks a poem, the writing sparkles. "We'll Always Have Parents," is the title of her poem in the 2018 Best American Poetry.

As befits a student of Elizabeth Bishop, Mary Jo balances the exigencies of sincerity and wit, candor and tact. In her recent poems she has written wonderfully about the condition of growing old -- something that none of us thought he or she was doing to do. She is also a skillful parodist and satirist, as "No Second Try" and "Edna St. Vincent, M.F.A.", two of the poems we are highlighting this week, demonstrate. (Compare "No Second Try" to William Butler Yeats's "No Second Troy.") Thank you, Mary Jo, for giving us this opportunity to showcase your poetry. -- DL

Remembering Richard Wilbur [by A. E. Stallings]

Eric M. Crawford

I am lucky to have a number of memories of Richard Wilbur, who died on October 14. The first time I heard him read was in the mid-90s. I was working then as a secretary for a professor at Georgia State University in Atlanta, hoping, I suppose, to keep some connection to academia and a library while working on my own writing. An obvious advantage was attending events in the English department when celebrated writers swanned through town. Only dimly aware of Richard Wilbur at this time, I probably first encountered his poem “Juggler” from an English department flier Scotch-taped onto the library’s glass door.  No doubt I did not fully appreciate the elegance and sprezzatura of this poem-performance—its stanzas of patterned line lengths and pure and off rhymes, the philosophical conceit, its mix of elaborate syntax and everyday statement, its precise etymological use of “resilience”—literally to bounce back—jostling with one-syllable exclamations like “whee” and even “damn.” Possibly, I thought, with the innocent bravado that is somewhat necessary in a young poet, I can do that too. Wilbur had a way of keeping all the balls in the air, winking at difficulty while making the performance seem effortless. Yet nothing is glib—even clapping becomes strange, clumsy in view of the juggler’s (and the poet’s) legerdemain—a battering of hands.

Continue reading over at the American Scholar. 

from the archive; first posted October 25, 2017

Tommy Lasorda, Dodger fan no. 1, on his pal Frank

<<<
Today [December 12] is Frank Sinatra's birthday.  We should all celebrate because he was a tremendous man who touched many, many lives.

He did something for me that I never ever thought possible, and that I will always be thankful for.

Frank called my mother and my sister-in-law answered.  He asked for Ma Lasorda and said it was Frank Sinatra calling.

My sister-in-law hung up in him.

I called back and said, "Hey, that was really Frank.  Put Mom on the phone."

Frank told my mother that he was coming to Philadelphia for a concert and wanted to invite her to be his guest.  He also told her that he wanted her to cook my favorite meal, scarole and beans, and hot peppers and sausage.

Well, to ask an Italian lady to cook is very high honor.

So Frank comes to Philadelphia and pulls onto our block. Jilly, his right-hand man, gets out of the car and knocks on our neighbor's door.  He asks is Ma Lasorda is there, and of course she tells him that she lived next door.

That lady saw Frank and within 20 minutes there was a swarm of cars and the police had to be called in.

The next night at the concert, Frank sent a limo to pick up my mother.  There was a doctor and nurse in the limo who Frank wanted there just to make sure she was okay.

They got to the show, and her seats were in the front row. As Frank started the show, which was at the Valley Forge Theater, he introduced her to the crowd, came down from the stage to give her a kiss and flowers, and dedicated the entire show to her.

What a man!

So today I wish Frank's family all of my love, and I will always treasure the memories we made during our friendship.

-- Tommy Lasorda 

Sandra Beasley: Pick of the Week [ed. Terence Winch]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Vocation

 

For six months I dealt Baccarat in a casino.

For six months I played Brahms in a mall.

For six months I arranged museum dioramas;

my hands were too small for the Paleolithic

and when they reassigned me to lichens, I quit.

I type ninety-one words per minute, all of them

Help. Yes, I speak Dewey Decimal.

I speak Russian, Latin, a smattering of Tlingit.

I can balance seven dinner plates on my arm.

All I want to do is sit on a veranda while

a hard rain falls around me. I'll file your 1099s.

I'll make love to strangers of your choice.

I'll do whatever you want, as long as I can do it

on that veranda. If it calls you, it's your calling,

right? Once I asked a broker what he loved

about his job, and he said Making a killing.

Once I asked a serial killer what made him

get up in the morning, and he said The people.

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Sandra Beasley is the author of Made to Explode (forthcoming February 2021); Count the Waves; I Was the Jukebox, winner of the Barnard Women Poets Prize; Theories of Falling, winner of the New Issues Poetry Prize; and Don’t Kill the Birthday Girl: Tales from an Allergic Life, a disability memoir. She also edited Vinegar and Char: Verse from the Southern Foodways Alliance. She lives in Washington, D.C. ["Vocation" is from I Was the Jukebox: Poems. Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Beasley.]

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"Poem about Math" [by Loren Goodman and Pirooz Kalayeh]

Most of my friends are numbers
43, 38, 26, 73, 19
Boom—you won the lottery

So I have a lot of friends now
Most of whom, as I said, are numbers
What I really like about numbers

Is what I really like about friends
You can put them together
Subtract them, multiply, divide

They can be rational
Or irrational, variables
Or become infinite

Even imaginary!
My first imaginary number
Came in darkness

I was practicing word problems
For four hours a day
At a secondhand desk

On the second floor
Of our apartment in
Lawrenceville, New Jersey

When I suddenly realized:
This is not math
This is love

Moreover, I have come
To understand that 1+1
Equals inequality

That numbers are often
At odds with one another
For the sake of their own

Perseveration: this
This is how words can suddenly
Help us fill up a loss

Orwell said 2 plus 2 is 5
Dostoevsky said 2 times 2 is good
Nietzsche said 1 divided by 1 does not exist

And yet despite all the odds
Or, rather, along with them
I find such pleasant evens

And it is the combination of these
The ways in which they gather
And associate, as if at a party

With Steven, that renews
My faith in, if nothing else
Myself = fraternity

from Shitting on Elves & Other Poems 

"Hat Day" [by Mary Jo Salter]

Early 70’s.
Beautiful day.  On the dorm
lawn, some guy happy

to watch his hat fly
off his head every time he
leaps for the Frisbee

fears nevertheless
getting bored.  “How about if
we all put on hats?”

he calls to the group.
“How about if I go get
my camera, and

you all search your rooms
and come back with whatever
headgear you round up,

and I’ll take a shot
of everyone wearing them?”
“I don’t have a hat,”

says one girl, knowing
where one hangs in her closet;
she looks bad in hats.

She can’t be the sole
unfun person, however,
nor can the others

who in no time find
their hats too, and assemble
beneath the oak tree,

two rows.  In the back
stand tall cowboys and rabbis,
one wide-brimmed female

like a lead singer.
It’s as if they’re all posing
for a new album

and she’s the Mary
to the Peters, the Pauls, and
the kneelers like me,

short at best, shorter
at the base of the photo,
floppy bonnet tied

underneath my chin
like Bo Peep, but I warned them—
I look bad in hats.

It’s me.  I was there.
I recognize David, and
the other David,

there’s Sue; I even
have a sense of who’s missing.
Elliott, Hattie—

Hattie, my roommate!
With a name like that, she should
be in the picture.

It’s almost too good,
too funny to think about.
I must write and thank

the guy who posted
the snapshot on Flickr for
old friends to click on…

Old friends, I’m sorry,
it’s lovely to see you, but
can I be honest?

Surely it happened,
but the truth is I can’t call
up Hat Day at all—

I’ve had to invent
the whole memory, half a
century later.

Ed. note: The photo on top is what inspired this new poem by Mary Jo Salter, one of our most accomplished poets, whose work has appeared in multiple editions of The Best American Poetry.  We will be posting a selection of new poems and published work as a special feature to go up on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of the next two weeks (MWF, 10 AM in course catalogue language). Our thanks to Mary Jo and to Alfred A. Knopf, her publisher, for permission to post these poems. In particular we will be showcasing poems from Nothing by Design (2013) and The Surveyors (2017), two highly recommended books.

Johnny grinning on an afternoon in August

On Looking Up By Chance at the Constellations [by Robert Frost]

You'll wait a long, long time for anything much
To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud
And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves.
The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch,
Nor strike out fire from each other nor crash out loud.
The planets seem to interfere in their curves
But nothing ever happens, no harm is done.
We may as well go patiently on with our life,
And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun
For the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane.
It is true the longest drought will end in rain,
The longest peace in China will end in strife.
Still it wouldn't reward the watcher to stay awake
In hopes of seeing the calm of heaven break
On his particular time and personal sight.
That calm seems certainly safe to last to-night.

My Love Is a Mirror Neuron [by Elizabeth Willis]

Come in, you say
while I’m alive, you say
my hankering love
my hunkered down love
in the headlights of the future
my love of the garbled soliloquy
in the wary fever of my love
with all its modernist ardor
offering to drive
the leaf from the pedicel
the pedicel from the smallest branch
the branch from the trunk
the trunk from the ground
my love growling
like a machine in the yard
my love a yard
of fabric on the line
accepting the clumsiness
of a pulley, my love touching
everything as water
suspected in the summer air
my love coming and going
through the same door
my love killing it in the kitchen
then losing it at the mall
my love diagnosing the room
the very tip of my love
arguing with itself for hours
my love refusing to hide
its suspicious past, my love
staking out the street for days
my love in fear of the doctor
which is really the fear of death
my love relentlessly in the third case
my phatic love in a Canadian bar
my irreligious, abstemious love
mishearing the song of my failed love
my love losing its wallet
and refusing to answer the phone
my love voting its heart out
for this disaster of a country
my unfenceable Augustinian love
my passerine love
heavy in my rough hand
my love with no room in its mailbox
my love loving the texture
of a rented thing
my love refusing the symbolism
of a corporate heart
my love’s malingering dislike
of a stranger’s Impala
my love undone by my heartless
actuarial, my derelict love
dropped like a suitcase at the door
like a needle, like a bridge
my love eclipsed
by the smallest cloud
or lovingly distracted by a bird
the starving love of my unarmored
heart, my love bound with grass
my uniformed carrier
of love on the traceable arc
of its retrograde planet
my hovering love
my local vegetable love
my imitative genius of love
my handwritten, rotting
compostable love, my dying
everyday love, my un
punctuated love, my love sentenced
to this one imperfection
that it forgets my love
my love tapped out on the roof
my unforgiveable
inhospitably leatherette love
my incomprehensibly
woolen love, my densest
cabinet of a many-shelved love
my odiferous cartoon love
out on a limb with a chainsaw
my love thrown from a horse
my love sweeping the floor
of my love and refusing
to go home, my most
indicative, untimely
irreparable love

From the excellent new issue of Bennington Review (# 8), which also has poems by Troy Jollimore, David Kirby, David Lehman, Erika Meitner, Emily Petitt, many others. 

Idea for a Short Documentary Film [by Lydia Davis]

Representatives of different food products manufacturers try to open their own packaging.

                    from The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis (FSG 2009)

from the archive; posted March  12, 2013