I've always loved ruins – old Irish castles, dinosaur ribs, tunnels and tiles hidden beneath cities and farms... I'm drawn to the way ruins seem eternal but always entail fragility. I love the mystery, the uncovering, the discovery. The open-ended what-ifs. I don't like watching things die or decay, though, at least not as much. I walk by a closed-down, boarded-up theater every day, its dulling gold masks beaming and weeping in front of black-plastic-coated windows. The most action it sees is the occasional smoker huddled under its awning. The whole thing seems tragic, like it got shut down in media res – but it still seems like someone might resurrect it, phoenix it back into a vibrant arts center. Its potential gives me hope. As I was walking by it today, I realized that many of the same things I love about ruins are what I admire in poetry: the eternality, the fragility, the potential, the life, the memorializing. Poetry changes through time in form and media, but we'll always need stories and a way to communicate what's deep inside us. We are fragile, but even the fragile can make a lasting mark.
Associate Editor Mia Avramut brings us stunning poetry and an interview this month. Mia writes:
An erudite poet among scholars, and a playful scholar among poets, Rachel Trousdale never ceases to amaze. She pens cosmopolitan, quirky, fluid poems, laced with visions and humor. She dares you to seek a poetic order of the Universe and to take that leap into a new identity, or a changed love.
John Grey graces the column with three poems and an interview conducted by Associate Editor Nicelle Davis. Many lines of Mr. Grey's poems feel like brush strokes in a painting, each one adding a smell, a sight, a history, a feeling, and more. These brush strokes give the poems a wonderful, colorful depth.
This month we also have poems by Howard Faerstein to share with you. I've said it before and it's just as true now: I love it when a poet's voice makes it feel like we're sitting on a porch and he's talking to me, telling me the most wonderful stories. Of course, wonderful stories are not all peaches and cream; they're gritty and painful and beautiful. And sometimes they're musings and memories, full of flowers and people dealing with death – and flirting with death. Howard's poems are all of these things. I am grateful for the time we have spent together on the porch...on the page.
Associate Editor JP Reese brings us work from two poets this month. JP writes:
Okay, so Brook Sadler's poem "Grits" made me laugh out loud. Sadler's irreverent take on breakfast done right is high camp. Sometimes we simply need to examine a subject in a new way in order to truly appreciate it. "Grits" is a good example of how to make that first morning meal into a true religious experience. Cheers!
Bernadette Geyer has a facility for form. A sestina is one of the most difficult poetic forms to pull off, and Geyer's "Corpse Pose" does it brilliantly. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the form, Ron Padgett's book Handbook of Poetic Forms is a great resource for understanding all poetic forms. As knowledge is power, knowing a bit about the sestina makes the brilliance of Geyer's choices clear. Padgett says, "...this form is based on sixes...six unrhymed stanzas of six lines each in which the words at the ends of the first stanza's lines recur in a rolling pattern at the ends of all other lines...[the poem then] concludes with a tercet (three line stanza) that also uses all six end-words, two to a line." Confused? Don't be, just read the poem and enjoy its quiet intelligence and humanity and then appreciate the almost mathematical quality demanded of the poet by the form. Geyer's second poem "My Life's Purpose" is a paean to unrequited love. The poet's deft use of line breaks and language choices give the poem a gentle voice with depth and purpose. I hope you like these gems as much as I do—enjoy.
A.J. Huffman joins the column this month with two poems dripping with duplicity and deception...in an honest way. I love the way these poems cling to every sense, especially smell – a sexy but encumbered, possibly guilty smell. Huffman's poems, though not lengthy, are torn and complex.
Associate Editor Doug Van Gundy brings us poetry from one wonderful poet this month. Doug writes:
Dede Cummings' poems are born of physical activity, gratitude, and attention to the small wonders that are possible within the quotidian world of rural Vermont. The seminal New England poets Robert Frost and Hayden Carruth are present in her poems as well, not only in name, but in an ethos of attention and a stubbornness of heart. Dede Cummings poems may orbit those great men, but don't succumb to their terrific gravity. Nor are these poems purely reflective – they shine with their own clear light.
To the fragile eternal. Cheers.