Poem of the Week: Refrigerator, 1957

by Thomas Lux

Video courtesy TheCreelyFoundation

More like a vault — you pull the handle out
and on the shelves: not a lot,
and what there is (a boiled potato
in a bag, a chicken carcass
under foil) looking dispirited,
drained, mugged. This is not
a place to go in hope or hunger.
But, just to the right of the middle
of the middle door shelf, on fire, a lit-from-within red,
heart red, sexual red, wet neon red,
shining red in their liquid, exotic,
aloof, slumming
in such company: a jar
of maraschino cherries. Three-quarters
full, fiery globes, like strippers
at a church social. Maraschino cherries, maraschino,
the only foreign word I knew. Not once
did I see these cherries employed: not
in a drink, nor on top
of a glob of ice cream,
or just pop one in your mouth. Not once.
The same jar there through an entire
childhood of dull dinners — bald meat,
pocked peas and, see above,
boiled potatoes. Maybe
they came over from the old country,
family heirlooms, or were status symbols
bought with a piece of the first paycheck
from a sweatshop,
which beat the pig farm in Bohemia,
handed down from my grandparents
to my parents
to be someday mine,
then my child’s?
They were beautiful
and, if I never ate one,
it was because I knew it might be missed
or because I knew it would not be replaced
and because you do not eat
that which rips your heart with joy.

Poem of the Week: “A Parisian Roof Garden in 1918″ by Natalie Clifford Barney

We’re excited to be back for the Fall semester! To kick things off, here’s our first Poem of the Week for the 2014-2015 school year.

A Parisian Roof Garden in 1918
Natalie Clifford Barney

As I must mount to feed those doves of ours,  
Perhaps you too will spend nocturnal hours   
      Upon your roof   
      So high aloof 
That from its terraced bowers   
We catch at clouds and draw a bath from showers.  
Before the moon has made all pale the night,  
Let’s meet with flute and viol, and supper light :  
A yew lamb, minted sauce, a raisined bun,  
A melon riper than the melting sun—  
A flask of Xeres, that we’ve scarce begun—  
We’ll try the « lunar waltz » while floats afar  
Upon the liquid night—night’s nenuphar.  
Or else, with senses tuned alike perchance,  
Reclining love will make the heavens dance;  
And if the enemy from aerial cars  
Drops death, we’ll share it vibrant with the stars!

Source: http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/parisian-roof-garden-1918

Virginia poet laureate visits RCAH

By Kelsey Block

“What I like most is following the words, following their sounds. A poem for me always starts as a phrase, a couple of words I hear together that just intrigue me,” Sofia Starnes, the poet laureate of Virginia, said. “Where will this word take me? It might open up a memory, something you’re concerned about, something you haven’t resolved inside your heart. And you start following that word through that emotion and through whatever it wants to include.”


Starnes said she started writing at a very young age, at the encouragement of her mother.

“My mother had four daughters. I’m the second one, and she named me for a great aunt she had who was a writer,” Starnes said. “So I think she decided that of her daughters, I was going to be the writer… I didn’t write poetry at that time, always short stories.”

Starnes said she turned to poetry when she and her family left the Philippines for Spain.

“It seemed like poetry became my best medium because it’s so concise. The same way I couldn’t take my country with me, I couldn’t take people with me, I couldn’t take a lot of words with me,” she said.

Starnes studied English Philology at the University of Madrid. As such, her poems are written in English, a language her mother could not easily read.

“She would say, ‘I am touching the poem, now you tell me what it’s about,’” Starnes said of reading her work to her mother over the phone. “She would understand more than anyone else the kind of world that I wanted to create.


“I love words so much,” Starnes said. “Words don’t just define – they suggest. And that is a big difference … English is particularly rich because so many of the words are made by connecting words: knapsack, kneecap, ribcage. So you have little poems in the making because you already have the relationship.”

Starnes said it felt like “coming home” when she was named the poet laureate of Virginia.

“My writing career really grew very much in Virginia, and my husband is from Virginia,” Starnes said. “This was the place where the community welcomed me enough to say, ‘You’re a Virginian.’”

The next thing Starnes decided to do was to get to work.

“I said, ‘Okay, I’ve got two years, what can I do?’” Starnes said. “They’re going to listen to me in these two years in ways they haven’t listened to me before… I decided immediately that I wanted to focus on the reader. If we don’t have a reader, it doesn’t make any sense. I wanted to tell [readers] there’s a poem for you – even if you don’t like poems. Everybody has a poem in this world that was written for them, they just have to find it.”

Starnes’ newest anthology, The Nearest Poem Anthology encompasses this idea.

“A poem is not finished until it finds a home in a reader, and I wanted to have a book that would show how valuable the reader was, how the reader gave a poem a new life,” Starnes said. “So the focuse of the book is not so much on the poets, but on the response of the reader.”

The collection of 112 poems was published in early March.

As far as her own work goes, Starnes she deals with things that are universal, rather concepts than specific to a certain time or place.

“You’re so used to reading things that are specific,” Starnes said. “But for me, it’s the opposite. It requires something of the reader the other poem may not require – it requires that you participate in the poem. I am putting some burden on the reader that other poems may not.”

Starnes’ work also focuses on spirituality. As a catholic, she places a lot of emphasis on ideas like the Holy Trinity and the Incarnation.

“Trinity for me is all about relationship,” she said. “It’s the God I know of, it’s a family, a father a son … You look everywhere and there’s a trinity. The moment the two connect, there’s a creation, that’s the third thing. There’s always a third. It’s the underlying thing that I’m writing that will influence the way the poem is going to unfold.”

Still, Starnes said she does not believe in writing to preach. Rather, she believes spirituality is just something from the inside that comes out in her work.

“It’s just in you. It imbues the way you look at things, it colors the way you look at things,” she said.

“Watchers: A Journey To Alberta” by Jenny Crakes wins the 2014 Balocating Prize for Poetry

Congratulations to Jenny Crakes, a Junior in the Residential College in the Arts and Humanities and Professional Writing at Michigan State University. Crakes won the Center for Poetry’s 2014 Annie Balocating Prize for Poetry for her poem, “Watchers: A Journey To Alberta.” The judge for the 2014 Balocating Prize was Virginia Poet Laureate Sofia M. Starnes, who visited the Center for Poetry on April 16, 2014, to do a poetry reading and announce the winner. Starnes said the following about the winning poem: “The writing is uncluttered, yet rich in metaphor. The scenes are clean and fluid, the language flows seamlessly, the emotion — like centering prayer — gathers the scene around itself, yet is remarkably open. There is mystery, too, which I always value, a layered quality that leaves the reader wondering about the solitary traveler, the ‘what for’ and ‘why’ of the journey, even as the landscape becomes central to the experience.”

Watchers: A Journey To Alberta
by Jenny Crakes

Like elderly neighbors, they listen
as I tell them I am going east.
They send me on my way,
their icefields clinging to peaks
against fierce July heat,
cavern walls so high I can see only blue,
streams etched in chalk.
From the Rockies to the prairie, I cross a line
a sudden exit, a blink
from still granite folds
to yellow fields, the road tapering
straight and swift for miles.

Over my shoulder, the watchers hunch and draw together,
knuckles propping up the chin of sky.
They remain, formidable and brooding,
slowly growing pale, slippery. Ghostlike
they breathe themselves back into the horizon
and disappear.

Descending into boomtown,
I arrive at the
Great Canadian Dinosaur Rush.
Oil patches and fossilized bones,
help wanted in every window,
and men in steel-toed boots eating ice cream
on their way to rescue houses full of flood.

On the way back, thick wind pushes hair
into my eyes.
The road curls like smoke.
The watchers fade in like a crown, an echo
on the edges an hour before I reach them.
I am drawn forward like a magnet
in the white glare of afternoon.

Mountain photo

Photo of British Columbia, by Jenny Crakes

Center for Poetry intern wins poetry prize

By Kelsey Block

Visiting writer Sofia Starnes, the poet laureate of Virginia, announced at her reading last night that RCAH Center for Poetry intern Jenny Crakes won this year’s Annie Balocating Poetry Prize.

Crakes said she was both surprised and excited to have won the $500 award.

“The poem was about a road trip that I took with my family last summer in July and we were going to see The Royal Tyrrell Museum,” Crakes said. “It just made me think of watching the mountains as you drive away from them and drive back. They’re sort of just perched there watching you. And when you’re driving back they just appear really shadily on the horizon and you get close and closer. It was just so beautiful.”

Crakes, 21, started as an intern at the center in September. Her work focuses largely on community engagement, and entails conducting workshops with elementary school students and senior citizens at Edgewood Village.

“I think I try to focus on things that will make poetry seem accessible to people, like activities or really specific writing prompts,” Crakes said. “What I really like is seeing how everyone is willing and able to express themselves. Often, I’m surprised by the ideas people come up with so quickly.”

The RCAH and Professional Writing junior said she has been writing since childhood – her first piece was a series based on her twin cousins.

Now, Crakes’ favorite genres are poetry, short stories and plays.

“I love writing purely for the imagination of it, but I’m also really curious about how I can use it in bigger ways,” she said. “I’m really interested in the different ways that creative writing can be used for good in the world – to bring awareness of political issues or how people are feeling in different situations, or whether it’s used to interest people in life again.”

Currently, in honor of National Poetry Month, Crakes is working on a blog. “The April Project” is a collection of previously published poetry juxtaposed with Crakes’ own work. She said she decided to take on the project to inspire herself.

“As I’m going with it, it makes me look at things in the day differently because I’m looking for details or things that might be interesting later,” she said.

Sofia Starnes and Anita Skeen on WKAR 90.5’s Current State

Sofia Starnes and Anita Skeen on WKAR 90.5’s Current State

Each year, in honor of National Poetry Month in April, the RCAH Center for Poetry brings a series of poets to campus to conduct readings and workshops with the public. Current State spoke with Center for Poetry Director Anita Skeen and Virginia Poet Laureate Sofia M. Starnes about this year’s festival, and both read from their works. Click on the title to listen to their radio interview!


Poem of the Week: “Nightlife” by Sofia M. Starnes

The moon dissolves in mist
and flower; the window balances the outside dark

against a single lamp—
and underneath, a rose. Some nights, I know

three things: the being rush,
bone sequence, hide and blood, bliss of these rudiments,

from them to make a life.
And then, some slower

things: the being wait, a portal, mouthful, ache;
the knob that clicks comes loose; the hinge that stalls

holds hard.                    Pause, pause.
The evening brings the undisguise of things:

the bow tie stars, the myrtle crook still blooming,
humped beside the drive;

the moonlight satisfies the alcove glow of what I know.
The being pluck,

the toughest being of all, out of the garden lush,
ten thousand reds, ten thousand fickle golds, toadstools

on grass. At last, the unequal rose
climbs on the bow-blade clip, a summer-seize.

I do not fear the many from which I come.
I do not fear the many to which I go. 

Some nights, a single look for everything I lose,
a single hope

by which I’ll candle back.
A nipple dribs its moon, the moonbeam dries, lipborne

into a child.
Between the moon and rose, the hourglass.

(via Blackbird)