One of the most fascinating things about stories is how they write us. That seems to be a bit of a theme in the column this month : myths and fairytales enter our lives, helping determine what we expect, how we interact, and how we understand our lives within a greater scheme of stories. But that’s not all: these poems also show that our lives influence our understanding of the myths and fairytales themselves – the complexity of our lives gives greater depth to the preexisting stories. So much of who we are is built around stories and the structure of stories; stories help form our foundations and roofs, our decisions and our memories. We will always want and need stories, for better and for worse. Happy new year. Here’s to another chapter, or a continuing chapter, or maybe a whole new book. What will your story be?
This month, we have poems by and an interview with Michelle Bitting. Ms Bitting’s poetry is beautiful and thoughtful, navigating the imaginative landscape of the body, the mind, and their effects, relationships, and mysteries. I love the use of myth in Michelle’s poetry – in these poems, myths are referred to in a way that transforms them and deepens their meaning while they deepen the meaning of the poems themselves. Her poem “Portrait of Café With Young Schizophrenic Couple” floors me – the imagery, the reactions, but mostly the love of two damaged people determined to make it and protect each other. Beautiful. Michelle also indulged me by answering some interview questions about her poems, poem-films, mythology, and many other subjects.
Associate Editor Doug Van Gundy brings us two wonderful poets and an interview this month. Doug writes:
I had the privilege of talking to Mary Moore about her poems in this month’s issue. These lyrical beauties are part portrait, part elegy and entirely wonderful. I love her sly humor and solemn tone, and her fine ear for the music of language (“ellipses of lips” for but one example). Do yourself a favor: read these poems, then read the interview, then read the poems again and see how they continue to unfold…
Donelle Dreese writes poems that aren’t afraid to say I don’t know. Whether wondering at the physical mechanism that makes being barefoot in the grass so rejuvenating, or questioning what doctors in a sleep clinic might learn from her nocturnal tossings and turnings (and what they might miss), these poems shine a flashlight and point a finger and say, There. Look! They aren’t easy, first glance poems, but they reward the careful reader with equal parts whimsy and wisdom.
Associate Editor Mia Avramut brings us stunning work from one poet this month. Mia writes:
CL Bledsoe's poetry is like a good red wine: macho, earnest, with just the right amount of bitter. It commands (commandeers even) the reader's attention, as it permeates the most obscure and vulnerable recesses of his mind. It demands: "Go ahead, revolt against lousy husbands, botched family lives, panic herds, suffering brains. But do it with style, and mind your poetic language, make it sing with verve and vitriol."
Associate Editor Nicelle Davis brings us poetry by and an interview with Alec Hershman. As Nicelle writes, Hershman’s poems, although not short, manage to “maintain a lovely sense of compression.” The poems are packed with wonderful sounds and imagery, quick turns, and suddenly slow rhythms. I love the interview, too – it’s full of great stories about craft and the happenings behind the poems.
Associate Editor JP Reese brings us lovely work from one poet this month. She writes:
Marissa Ayala offers readers two poems this month: "The Bureau of Naval Personnel," and "THE FRAY." Each poem is unique in its perspective and voice. Both are concerned with relationships, with the management of grief, the need to make sense of a seemingly senseless world. They are also strong reminders that no matter what happens, it is our nature, and duty, to go on. THE FRAY also strikes me as a sort of reverse ekphrastic piece, words that compose a painting. As I conjured the images the writer so deftly constructs, I also sensed an underlying theme that is universal: the loneliness of the artist that always lingers just below the surface of a creative life.
Come rest your pen on these lines, come watch your story interpret each image, each turn, each feeling. Our stories are all parts of a larger narrative, and we all have a part that matters.