Jean L. Kreiling
Young Reader
For Tommy
At first the letters make no sense,
and so he looks ahead and back
and gathers up the evidence.
He’s mastered this. He can unpack
the phonics and the context—clues
to mysteries that he will crack.
By now, not many words confuse
this kid, who knows exactly how
to use this passport he can’t lose,
to lose himself in stories. Now
and then, he lets a grownup read,
but when he does, his furrowed brow
bends close to every page, his greed
for this brand-new enchantment clear.
He grows, as they say, like a weed,
but there’s unseen expansion here
as well: his world has widened, brain
grown mightier. One day Shakespeare
may thrill him; Poe may entertain
this avid fan of fantasy.
For now, he’s happy to explain
Dogman and Wimpy Kid to me.
I’m happy, too; it’s bliss to see
a kid who’s reading, blissfully.
Lessons in the Form of Nonets
1. Driving Lessons
A wrong turn is sometimes the right choice.
Insistence on one’s right-of-way
may just prove to be dead wrong.
Braking prevents breakage,
unless one follows
too closely, fast,
and is forced
to stop
short.
2. Drinking Lessons
Vodka can slake thirst, or deepen it.
Bourbon, neat, can make you sloppy.
Go green: add a twist of lime.
Champagne would be pointless
without bubbles and
a graceful glass.
Danger lurks
on the
rocks.
3. Downsizing Lessons
You do not need three sets of china.
You do in fact need all those books.
To pack is to reminisce.
To discard is to shed
extraneous weight.
Find your rhythm:
sort, donate,
cherish,
toss.
Winter Greetings on the Walking Trail
Plymouth, Massachusetts
We seldom say more than a word or two,
but seasons color our brief courtesy:
our winter words are meaningful, though few.
Cold-weather greetings often hint at who
and where we are: pride and tenacity
emerge from no more than a word or two.
Someone says Brisk! or Crisp!—a terse review,
not a complaint, and called out cheerfully—
a boast about our sturdiness. A few
will mutter Stay warm!—in a pithy clue
to our New England solidarity:
we care, if brusquely. In a word or two
we might affirm that fashion and hairdo
mean little: Nice hat! (In reality,
my earflaps look absurd.) I’ve heard a few
laments—once Hurry, spring!—and yes, it’s true
that sometimes we just nod, so cold that we
can’t sacrifice an extra breath or two.
Our winter words are meaningful, but few.
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
 |
| Maureen Alsop:I often create visual art as a memorialization to the closure of a written work. However, many of these visual pieces arrived as a trajectory while writing a larger 'work-in-progress.' The text within the visual poems do not speak to the content of the larger work but are autonomous, acting as bridge between the written and visual bodies. The original text draws upon ghosts in the hall of battles. It is a glittering solar analemma, an unattested revolution, an infinity reflected in ellipses, omissions, and disintegration. A full collection representing many of these images came to fruition recently in Tender to Empress (Wet Cement Press). Yet the act of creating from text continues, as the digital collages here also include newer works based on miscellaneous notes, old emails, and most recently a short story, "The Unnamed Woman of Mary River" (forthcoming at South Dakota Review). The title to these are based on cargo ships which I pass on my daily commute from island to mainland. These small cities of people, afloat for weeks on end out at sea, are a looming story that embarks and disembarks in my imagination.
The visual poems are crafted under the mechanics of "Écriture Féminine," literally "women's writing." These principals advance a feminine perspective. I write from parallels, cyclical slips through stream of conscious and fragmentary processes. The writing exists as rough erotic. As talisman. Interpersonal in their ruptures and syntax, soft in their discomforts; a splintered narrative. Through writing, I can go anywhere and never be found.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
