Three Uplifting Poets: Denise Duhamel, Virginia Konchan, and Peter Krumbach [by Nin Andrews]

I doubt I’m the only one who has been under the weather, under a cloud or a looming feeling of dread and doubt and disbelief. I’ve had a lingering cold for weeks that’s made my head feel twenty pounds heavier. This morning the doctor prescribed various medications for me, but I fear the cure is not in a medicine bottle.

In my logy state of mind, I’ve been dipping in and out of books and poems and podcasts, and I have come across a few uplifting discoveries.

First, Denise Duhamel's wonderful poem,"How It Will End," was featured on my favorite poetry podcast, Poetry Unbound last week. Everyone should listen to it. It's fabulous. 

Second, I came across this wonderful gem of a poem from The New Yorker by the brilliant Virginia Konchan. She beautifully captures my hotel experience--meaning the ick of hotels-- while playing off of Hopkins "Pied Beauty." I am a huge fan of Konchan's poetry.

Gloria Patri

By Virginia Konchan

Glory be to god for septic tanks, drainage pipes:
for conversions thermodynamic and of the soul.
Glory be to god for this quiet, cheap hotel room:
only music the mini-fridge’s vibratory drone,
creaky plumbing groaning through the walls.
We underestimate the perfect peace of objects.
Before me was another traveller: after I leave,
hundreds of others will arrive, anonymously,
drink sink water from disposable plastic cups,
recline on bleached sheets, stare into the void
of a generic landscape painting across the bed
while contemplating the disaster of their lives.
And, when the alarm wails hours before dawn,
human cusses of angry protest join the chorus
of budget appliances failing before their time.
Why even look at a clock? It’s never good news.
It takes the time it takes, my estimated deadline,
which is likely why no employer would trust me.
I’m at an age where everyone around me is dying.
I’m at an age when the recited script isn’t enough.
Glory be to god for logjams, the antediluvian dark,
for being a supply of goodness outpacing demand
because so many prefer their egos’ endless ranting
to the suggestion of a different narrator or narrative.
Me, I am so clearly incapable of leading a brigade.
I’m glad to accept help in whatever form it comes:
hour of privacy within these semen-sprayed walls,
deadbolt securing my safety from the chaos outside
and the strivings of the people which are everywhere.
I can’t point to you on a map: don’t know your name
or from whence you came. But flames lick the canvas
and I acknowledge my poverty of being and my need.
Glory be to god for this unforgiving mirror, this soap,
this Gideon Bible tucked away in the bedside drawer:
whoever dwells in the secret place of the most High
will abide under the shadow of the Almighty, I read.
A freely given gift whose only precondition is belief,
it was put there for safekeeping, for salesmen like me.

And finally, I recently discovered a new and wonderful prose poet, Peter Krumbach, who makes me laugh. Like this poem from New World Writing:

 

First-Grade Substitute

Good morning, children. Don’t raise your hands yet. That’s right, I’m filling in for Mrs. Davis. Can I share a little secret with you? Yes? Well — I stayed up late last night. That’s right, very, very late. Why do you think I did? Take a guess. No… No… No… You give up? Okay. I was smoking, watching my wife bake a cake. And we both had a taste of what’s called a single molt Scotch. You know, my little hearts, there’s a thing Mrs. Davis probably hasn’t brought up to you yet. It’s called affection. Remember the word. It’s what the moon’s gravity does to the goo in our hearts. Like a tummy ache, but higher in the chest. Just ask your parents when you get home. And while you’re at it, ask them about disappointment, unease, addiction and the happiness of the dead. Now, if you promise not to tell anyone, we’re not going to read anything today. And we’re not going to write anything either. Can I hear you say Yeah? I can’t HEAR you! Say YEAH like you mean it! There you go! Okay, who’s hungry? Guess what’s in that box on my desk? It’s called Medusa’s head — my wife’s work of art. The eyes are maraschinos. The snake-hair is marzipan. Pass along those paper plates. And feel free to eat with your hands.

Comments

[Cindy Hochman]

Feel better, Nan. And you're not alone. World events have given me an existential dread. Plus, the "real stuff." I have cataract surgery scheduled on Monday and now I think I'm coming down with a cold. Not good! Thanks for posting these poems. Denise is a friend of mine and one of my favorite poets—I published her a few times recently in my one journal, FIRST LITERARY REVIEW-EAST.

Rest up, drink tea, meditate, and read poetry this weekend.

And, by the way, I'm a big fan of your poetry.

Best,
Cindy

[Nin Andrews]

Thank you so much Cindy! And good luck with your cataract surgery! I hope you stay well enough to get that out of the way. I will check out your journal!