June 2009
Molly Gaudry
commentary
Sean Patrick Hill
commentary
Sean Lovelace
commentary
Luca Penne
commentary
Meg Pokrass
commentary
Troy Urquhart
commentary
Rob Woodard
commentary
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Rob Woodard
PORT OF LONG BEACH BLUES
“This day has been so awesome,”
the last afternoon sunshine reminds me,
just before it turns into sunset—
“Why do you want to ask more of it than the moment?
Why do you want to ruin it with art?”
And as I ride my bike down the beach path looking out into
the cooling yellow sky, the green-brown ocean, and the gray
outer workings of the Port of Long Beach
I agree that art would definitely be a bad thing now
But I also know that that’s exactly what I’m going to do, go home
and fuck things up like this
It’s just who I am still
ORANGE CRUSH
For Gary Snyder
It’s hard to be an orange tree in Southern California
these days—
the community of groves all but gone
and so many of the remaining individuals locked
behind backyard cinderblocks,
alone, cut off
from friends, community,
encouragement, love …
But there are whispers amongst the survivors,
wild dreams moving throughout all
the Diaspora—
Notes and thoughts passed thru windblown leaf
and along the voices and wing beats
of grateful birds and insects;
propositions of alliance
with lemon cousins, cumquats,
and even pomegranate and avocado
joining in:
visions of cracked pavement
and houses tumbled down
row after row of brethren
sunshine and frost
good years and bad
but most importantly
space and freedom
freedom and space …
Plans of a long future like the brief past
when they were all brought here
to create a scented sky,
dream silhouettes in the
the marine dawn and
desert dusk,
and the propaganda
of abundance and health
that nearly destroyed
them all
“This day has been so awesome,”
the last afternoon sunshine reminds me,
just before it turns into sunset—
“Why do you want to ask more of it than the moment?
Why do you want to ruin it with art?”
And as I ride my bike down the beach path looking out into
the cooling yellow sky, the green-brown ocean, and the gray
outer workings of the Port of Long Beach
I agree that art would definitely be a bad thing now
But I also know that that’s exactly what I’m going to do, go home
and fuck things up like this
It’s just who I am still
ORANGE CRUSH
For Gary Snyder
It’s hard to be an orange tree in Southern California
these days—
the community of groves all but gone
and so many of the remaining individuals locked
behind backyard cinderblocks,
alone, cut off
from friends, community,
encouragement, love …
But there are whispers amongst the survivors,
wild dreams moving throughout all
the Diaspora—
Notes and thoughts passed thru windblown leaf
and along the voices and wing beats
of grateful birds and insects;
propositions of alliance
with lemon cousins, cumquats,
and even pomegranate and avocado
joining in:
visions of cracked pavement
and houses tumbled down
row after row of brethren
sunshine and frost
good years and bad
but most importantly
space and freedom
freedom and space …
Plans of a long future like the brief past
when they were all brought here
to create a scented sky,
dream silhouettes in the
the marine dawn and
desert dusk,
and the propaganda
of abundance and health
that nearly destroyed
them all
Rob Woodard Commentary
"Port of Long Beach" came out of my day-to-day life. When I find that I've been sitting too long at the computer, or that I just can't stand teaching anthropology and biology for one second longer, I get on my bike and head for the wilds of Long Beach, which usually means a jaunt along the coast. The stupid stinking gray-veined harbor looms like a polluting Goliath over this town. Any Long Beach poet who doesn't incorporate it at least occasionally into his or her work, as the saying goes, is probably a liar or a fool or both.
On "Orange Crush:" Southern California has been founded on lies: invasive plant and animal species, Hollywood films, and the belief that all the water we've stolen from the Owens Valley, Arizona, and Northern California is native to this place and therefore we deserve its bounty. The citrus trees of this region lie at the heart of this scam. This is partially their story, but mostly a fantasy: one lie triumphing over the others, mainly because it's more attractive than its competition. Oh yeah, I sent this poem to Gary Snyder and he said he liked it. This vindicates me as a poet and a man.
Rob Woodard was born in Anaheim, California, back when giants walked the earth and was raised mostly in the nearby Long Beach area, where he still lives today. He is the author of the novel Heaping Stones (2005 Burning Shore Press). His novels What Love Is and Backwaters of Beauty and his poetry book King of Long Beach are trapped in different stages of the endless publication process. His poems and other scribblings can be found all over the web. In a recent interview, Rob said he'd rather be his generation's Brian Wilson than its Charles Bukowski. Though no one really understood what he meant by this, soon after, Bukowski fans burned down his house and raped his girlfriend, just to be on the safe side.
On "Orange Crush:" Southern California has been founded on lies: invasive plant and animal species, Hollywood films, and the belief that all the water we've stolen from the Owens Valley, Arizona, and Northern California is native to this place and therefore we deserve its bounty. The citrus trees of this region lie at the heart of this scam. This is partially their story, but mostly a fantasy: one lie triumphing over the others, mainly because it's more attractive than its competition. Oh yeah, I sent this poem to Gary Snyder and he said he liked it. This vindicates me as a poet and a man.
Rob Woodard was born in Anaheim, California, back when giants walked the earth and was raised mostly in the nearby Long Beach area, where he still lives today. He is the author of the novel Heaping Stones (2005 Burning Shore Press). His novels What Love Is and Backwaters of Beauty and his poetry book King of Long Beach are trapped in different stages of the endless publication process. His poems and other scribblings can be found all over the web. In a recent interview, Rob said he'd rather be his generation's Brian Wilson than its Charles Bukowski. Though no one really understood what he meant by this, soon after, Bukowski fans burned down his house and raped his girlfriend, just to be on the safe side.
Troy Urquhart
Where We Might Be Welcome
And I start to think of doors as boundaries, as membranes,
as the places in the walls of cells where there is a keeping out or
letting in,
places where a man would stand sturdy and helmeted
demanding with a weapon in his hand: who goes there?
And we are made to answer in this ritual of self-identification
the threat now veiled behind the collusion of neighborhood watches,
behind the benign garb of genteel doormen who stand sentry with
jacket, clipboard, phone instead of armor, sign, and spear.
I start to think of doors as keeping in or letting out, each of them
a border where a dog would whimper, scratch, and whine,
tail tucked and then suddenly freed when at last you start for the door,
free the latch, and swing this wall of wood and glass and lock away.
As a line of leaving and arriving, a keeping of this space from that
that marks the moment of change between with you and without.
Or as a place of naming, where all must be identified to peepholes,
windows, intercoms that ask of every man approaching from the street:
who are you, sir? And there we stand, waiting at or in this margin,
made to speak, to name ourselves, to give our given names
before the threshold, the brink of a place
where we might be welcome.
I think of doors as a space of fitting in
keys, turning tumblers: the friction of bolt sliding toward free,
the release of home and welcome, the irony of dead bolts
demanding of their living lords: who goes there?
Or as a space of signs, of demands and declarations:
open or closed, no soliciting, no admittance, employees only,
men, women, please call again, ladies, gentlemen, not an exit,
or, sometimes, welcome.
Or as the keeping of a secret, a hand cupped around an ear,
containing voice within the walls of lobe and drum,
an enclosure that shuts all others out
and leaves us to the privacy of night and morning
when we wake before the world, the world outside of us
and us outside of time's demands, a moment when there is only this:
the curve of your hand, the curve of my ear,
your voice leaning in, saying I love you,
but I know that what you really mean is
you are welcome here.
And I start to think of doors as boundaries, as membranes,
as the places in the walls of cells where there is a keeping out or
letting in,
places where a man would stand sturdy and helmeted
demanding with a weapon in his hand: who goes there?
And we are made to answer in this ritual of self-identification
the threat now veiled behind the collusion of neighborhood watches,
behind the benign garb of genteel doormen who stand sentry with
jacket, clipboard, phone instead of armor, sign, and spear.
I start to think of doors as keeping in or letting out, each of them
a border where a dog would whimper, scratch, and whine,
tail tucked and then suddenly freed when at last you start for the door,
free the latch, and swing this wall of wood and glass and lock away.
As a line of leaving and arriving, a keeping of this space from that
that marks the moment of change between with you and without.
Or as a place of naming, where all must be identified to peepholes,
windows, intercoms that ask of every man approaching from the street:
who are you, sir? And there we stand, waiting at or in this margin,
made to speak, to name ourselves, to give our given names
before the threshold, the brink of a place
where we might be welcome.
I think of doors as a space of fitting in
keys, turning tumblers: the friction of bolt sliding toward free,
the release of home and welcome, the irony of dead bolts
demanding of their living lords: who goes there?
Or as a space of signs, of demands and declarations:
open or closed, no soliciting, no admittance, employees only,
men, women, please call again, ladies, gentlemen, not an exit,
or, sometimes, welcome.
Or as the keeping of a secret, a hand cupped around an ear,
containing voice within the walls of lobe and drum,
an enclosure that shuts all others out
and leaves us to the privacy of night and morning
when we wake before the world, the world outside of us
and us outside of time's demands, a moment when there is only this:
the curve of your hand, the curve of my ear,
your voice leaning in, saying I love you,
but I know that what you really mean is
you are welcome here.
Troy Urquhart Commentary
In 2007, I took part in a panel investigating the issue of tolerance. I was writing about the prisoners held by the United States at Guántanamo Bay, Cuba, and after the panel had ended, I found myself reading Jacques Derrida's Of Hospitality.
About the threshold, Derrida writes: "Desire measures time since its abolition in the stranger's entering movement: the stranger, here the awaited guest, is not only someone to whom you say 'come,' but 'enter,' enter without waiting, make a pause in our home without waiting, hurry up and come in, 'come inside,' 'come within me,' not only toward me, but within me: occupy me, take place in me, which means, by the same token, also take my place, don't content yourself with coming to me or 'into my home.' Crossing the threshold is entering and not only approaching or coming."
Beside the desk in my study, there is a door, framed in wood but mostly glass. Some nights, I leave it open.
Troy Urquhart lives in central Florida and works at Montverde Academy, an independent boarding school where he teaches writing and American literature, mostly to students who aren't American. His work is forthcoming or has recently appeared in places like Tulip, Hobble Creek Review, The Corduroy Mtn., and Willows Wept Review. His chapbook Springtime Sea Bathing is scheduled to appear later this year from Carl Annarummo's small press, The Greying Ghost. He sometimes keeps a blog at http://notesfromthewonderground.blogspot.com/.
About the threshold, Derrida writes: "Desire measures time since its abolition in the stranger's entering movement: the stranger, here the awaited guest, is not only someone to whom you say 'come,' but 'enter,' enter without waiting, make a pause in our home without waiting, hurry up and come in, 'come inside,' 'come within me,' not only toward me, but within me: occupy me, take place in me, which means, by the same token, also take my place, don't content yourself with coming to me or 'into my home.' Crossing the threshold is entering and not only approaching or coming."
Beside the desk in my study, there is a door, framed in wood but mostly glass. Some nights, I leave it open.
Troy Urquhart lives in central Florida and works at Montverde Academy, an independent boarding school where he teaches writing and American literature, mostly to students who aren't American. His work is forthcoming or has recently appeared in places like Tulip, Hobble Creek Review, The Corduroy Mtn., and Willows Wept Review. His chapbook Springtime Sea Bathing is scheduled to appear later this year from Carl Annarummo's small press, The Greying Ghost. He sometimes keeps a blog at http://notesfromthewonderground.blogspot.com/.
Meg Pokrass
Taco
The guy called Taco,
his T-shirt
said Hazardous Roosters
loved skinny dipping,
bagged tangerines from his tree
that night we made for
Lake Cachuma,
his eyes tipping up,
long tadpoles-
a scar glowing a moon
around his belly.
How'd you do that? I asked
"now,"(he said laughing)
ladling water,
with my high pink heels.
Dr. V.
My foot is darker than the ocean.
It's turned blue - He promises
to stop the pain and I picture
him in a world
of shark's egg sacs,
he rolls them toward me-
unbreakable promises,
and there is nothing
to do but keep them warm.
When he calls
he sounds tired, blue gauze
covers his telephone voice.
I want to soothe him,
but that's not my role.
Bones and blue cartilage,
I can't help shivering,
picturing his office-
the sterile needle
between my toes
like a gift.
The guy called Taco,
his T-shirt
said Hazardous Roosters
loved skinny dipping,
bagged tangerines from his tree
that night we made for
Lake Cachuma,
his eyes tipping up,
long tadpoles-
a scar glowing a moon
around his belly.
How'd you do that? I asked
"now,"(he said laughing)
ladling water,
with my high pink heels.
Dr. V.
My foot is darker than the ocean.
It's turned blue - He promises
to stop the pain and I picture
him in a world
of shark's egg sacs,
he rolls them toward me-
unbreakable promises,
and there is nothing
to do but keep them warm.
When he calls
he sounds tired, blue gauze
covers his telephone voice.
I want to soothe him,
but that's not my role.
Bones and blue cartilage,
I can't help shivering,
picturing his office-
the sterile needle
between my toes
like a gift.
Meg Pokrass Commentary
For me poetry is best written in dreams, finding that language. Or when I'm just waking up or exhausted at night - and less aware of making sense or being logical.
Meg Pokrass 's story "Leaving Hope Ranch" in 971 Menu was chosen for Wigleaf 's Top 50, 2009. "Lost and Found," in elimae, was chosen in May 2009 by Storyglossia for Short Story Month showcase. Her many stories and poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Gigantic, 3AM, The Pedestal, Toronto Quarterly, Mud Luscious, Juked, and many others. Meg serves as a staff editor for SmokeLong Quarterly, and is currently mentoring with Dzanc's Creative Writing Sessions. Her blog, with prompts and writing exercises can be found here.
Meg Pokrass 's story "Leaving Hope Ranch" in 971 Menu was chosen for Wigleaf 's Top 50, 2009. "Lost and Found," in elimae, was chosen in May 2009 by Storyglossia for Short Story Month showcase. Her many stories and poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Gigantic, 3AM, The Pedestal, Toronto Quarterly, Mud Luscious, Juked, and many others. Meg serves as a staff editor for SmokeLong Quarterly, and is currently mentoring with Dzanc's Creative Writing Sessions. Her blog, with prompts and writing exercises can be found here.
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