Posted in poem of the week

Poem of the Week: “Tunnel Music” by Mark Doty

doty subway

Times Square, the shuttle’s quick chrome
flies open and the whole car floods with– what is it? Infernal industry, the tunnels
under Manhattan broken into hell at last?

Guttural churr and whistle and grind
of the engines that spin the poles?
Enormous racket, ungodly. What it is
is percussion: nine black guys

with nine lovely, previously unimagined
constructions of metal ripped and mauled,
welded and oiled: scoured chemical drums,
torched rims, unnameable disks of chrome.

Artifacts of wreck? The end of industry?
A century’s failures reworked, bent,
hammered out, struck till their shimmying
tumbles and ricochets from tile walls:

anything dinged, busted or dumped
can be beaten till it sings.
A kind of ghostly joy in it,
though this music’s almost unrecognizable,

so utterly of the coming world it is.

 

copyright 1994, from Atlantis, HarperCollins, 1995

 

Posted in poem of the week

Poem of the Week: “HENRY CLAY, 1851” by Cindy Hunter Morgan

Cassat, knittingImage: Mary Cassat, “Old Woman Knitting”

 

Join us this week as we celebrate the release of Harborless, with a reading by Cindy Hunter Morgan. Wednesday, 7 p.m., RCAH Theater, Snyder Hall.

 

 

HENRY CLAY, 1951

Lake Erie

 

Baled wool washed ashore for weeks.

At first, the appearance of each bundle

was sobering and macabre,

but after a few days, one woman

began to look forward to the surprise

and the wealth

of what drifted her way.

She ripped the jute bags

and pulled out the stuffing—wet, still

scented with grease and mystery.

She dried the wool, carded it, spun it,

wound it into skeins,

and made scarves and sweaters.

Sixteen men died when the ship sunk.

At least something would come

of the cargo they carried—

mittens for the children of friends,

caps for five nephews.

Sometimes, she wondered why

bales floated and men didn’t,

and what buoyancy meant

for her own life,

dry as it was.

 

 

Cindy Hunter Morgan, from Harborless (2017), Wayne State University Press.

Posted in poem of the week

Poem of the Week: Not Forgotten, by Toi Derricotte

We hope you’ll join us this week for a workshop with Toi Derricotte at 3 p.m. Wednesday, April 12, and a reading at 7 p.m. the same day. Visit here for details.

 

antsBY TOI DERRICOTTE

 

I love the way the black ants use their dead.

They carry them off like warriors on their steel

backs. They spend hours struggling, lifting,

dragging (it is not grisly as it would be for us,

to carry them back to be eaten),

so that every part will be of service. I think of

my husband at his father’s grave—

the grass had closed

over the headstone, and the name had disappeared. He took out

his pocket knife and cut the grass away, he swept it

with his handkerchief to make it clear. “Is this the way

we’ll be forgotten?” And he bent down over the grave and wept.

 

 

Toi Derricotte, “Not Forgotten” from Tender. Copyright © 1997 by Toi Derricotte. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260, www.upress.pitt.edu. Used by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press.

 

 

Posted in poem of the week

Poem of the Week: The Future is an Animal, by Tina Chang

BW Spider Web

 

The Future is an Animal

 

In every kind of dream I am a black wolf

careening through a web. I am the spider

who eats the wolf and inhabits the wolf’s body.

In another dream I marry the wolf and then

am very lonely. I seek my name and they name me

Lucky Dragon. I would love to tell you that all

of this has a certain ending but the most frightening

stories are the ones with no ending at all.

The path goes on and on. The road keeps forking,

splitting like an endless atom, splitting

like a lip, and the globe is on fire. As many

times as the book is read, the pages continue

to grow, multiply. They said, In the beginning,

and that was the moral of the original and most

important story. The story of man. One story.

I laid my head down and my head was heavy.

Hair sprouted through the skin, hair black

and bending toward night grass. I was becoming

the wolf again, my own teeth breaking

into my mouth for the first time, a kind of beauty

to be swallowed in interior bite and fever.

My mind a miraculous ember until I am the beast.

I run from the story that is faster than me,

the words shatter and pant to outchase me.

The story catches my heels when I turn

to love its hungry face, when I am willing

to be eaten to understand my fate.

 

Join us this week as we welcome Tina Chang to MSU. See event page for details.

Posted in poem of the week

Poem of the Week: “Woman,” by Nikki Giovanni

wet-spider-web-in-the-grass-11746

 

Woman

she wanted to be a blade

of grass amid the fields

but he wouldn’t agree

to be a dandelion

she wanted to be a robin singing

through the leaves

but he refused to be

her tree

she spun herself into a web

and looking for a place to rest

turned to him

but he stood straight

declining to be her corner

she tried to be a book

but he wouldn’t read

she turned herself into a bulb

but he wouldn’t let her grow

she decided to become

a woman

and though he still refused

to be a man

she decided it was all

right

Posted in poem of the week

Poem of the Week: “Joey” by Neil Hilborn

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To watch Neil Hilborn perform this poem, click the image.

 

Joey

 

Joey always told me, laughing, as though it were actually a joke

That he wanted to kill himself but it was never the right time,

There were always groceries to be bought

And little brothers to be tucked in at night.

Don’t worry, Joey isn’t gonna kill himself 20 more seconds into this poem,

It’s not that kind of story I’m telling here.

 

Joey got a promotion and now he can afford anti-depressants.

Joey is Joe now.

Joe is a cold engine in which none of the parts complain

Joe is a brick someone made out of fossils

If you removed money from the equation,

Joey would have been painting elk on cave walls

People would have fed him and kept him away from high places

Because goddamn look at those elk.

I think the genes for being an artist and mentally ill aren’t just related,

They’re the same gene

But try telling that to a bill-collector

.

We were seventeen

And I drove us all to punk shows in a station wagon that was older than any of us,

We were seventeen

And I bought lunch for Joey more often than I didn’t,

We were seventeen

And the one time Joey tried to talk to me about being depressed when someone else was around

I told him to shut the hell up and asked if he needed to change his tampon

You know that moment when the cartoon realizes he’s taken three steps off the cliff

And he takes a long look at the audience

Like we’re holding the last moving box in a half empty house?

Joey looked like that without the puff of smoke.

He just played video games for a half hour and then went home

 

I once caught Joey in my dad’s office,

Staring at the safe where he knew we kept the guns

Once Joey molded his car into the shape of a tree trunk and refused to give a reason why

I once caught Joey in biology class

Staring at a scalpel like he wanted to be the frog

Splayed out, wide open

So honest

 

There is one difference between me and Joey:

When we got arrested, bail money was waiting for me at the station

When I was hungry, I ate

When I wanted to open myself up and see if there really were bees rattling around in there,

My parents got me a therapist.

I can pinpoint the session that brought me back to the world,

That session cost seventy-five dollars.

Seventy-five dollars is two weeks of groceries

It’s a month of bus fare

It’s not even a school-year’s worth of new shoes,

It took weeks of seventy-five dollars to get to the one that saved my life.

We both had parents that believed us when we said that we weren’t okay

But mine could afford to do something about it

 

I wonder how many kids like Joey wanted to die,

And were unlucky enough to actually pull it off,

How many kids had people who cared about them but also had to pay rent?

I’m so lucky that right now I’m not describing Joey’s funeral

I’m so lucky we all lived through who we were

To become who we are

I’m so lucky-

I’m so

Lucky

Posted in poem of the week

Poem of the Week: “To Red,” by Shara McCallum

 

red

To Red

I’ve been wrong about you so long.

You’re not the colour of war

on Kingston streets. When you stain

you become rust. You cheat

even the flame tree, more orange

in truth than you in your crimson,

your scarlet robes. Not even

the poppy contains you.

Not even one hundred huddled

in the field. Maybe

like you I am a liar. Or memory

is a story I keep telling myself.

But I understand, being as you are

from a long line of women

who regard facts as suggestion,

who know what it is to burn

inside the closet of night.

Which is why, when I reach for you

and you careen the nearer you come

to my yellow, my alabaster skin,

I still croon your name.

I still insist on you, my lovely,

my death, my life.

 

 

Copyright 2017 by Shara McCallum

Posted in news

AWP 2017: It Takes a Village

In February 2017, the RCAH Center for Poetry staff made the trek to Washington, D.C. for AWP. We thought the trip was worthy of some reflection, and will be sharing attendees’ thoughts over the next week or so.

awp17-bookfair

Day one: Director Anita Skeen leads the way into the vastness that is the AWP Bookfair. See more snapshots of the adventure on Instagram.

 

Anita Skeen, Director, RCAH Center for Poetry at MSU

This February was the RCAH Center for Poetry at MSU’s first excursion to the Associated Writing Programs Conference (AWP) in Washington, D.C. I have gone many, many times in all my years of teaching but this was the first time I went with five of the six interns from the Poetry Center: Grace Carras, Erin Lammers, Sydney Meadowcroft, Sarah Teppen, and Arzelia Williams. The original plan was for all 8 of us to go, but Laurie Hollinger, the assistant director, was laid low by the flu a few days before we were to leave and Alexis Stark had a commitment with her honor fraternity the weekend of the conference. But they were with us in spirit. Without all the logistical arrangements Laurie had made for us—hotel rooms, registration, rental car, etc.—and Alexis’ box of goodies she packed for us on the trip—fruit snacks, applesauce, cereal, granola bars—things wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun. We had financial help for the interns from Lizzy King, the assistant director in the Office of Undergraduate Research, and Dean Steve Esquith who paid our transportation costs. Lori Lancour in the RCAH office was wonderful in suggesting avenues for additional funding and when February 8, 2017 rolled around, we had everything we needed to set out on our 10-hour drive to the nation’s capitol. Spirits were high as we sang and ate our way through four states. I was a little worried about driving into D.C. at rush hour and not knowing exactly where our hotel was, but then I realized I had five people in the car under the age of 22 all of whom had navigational devices in their pockets. We would be just fine.

It’s hard to explain to someone who has never attended AWP what it’s like for three days. With 30-35 sessions in every time slot beginning at 9:00 in the morning and ending at 6:00 at night (and then there are the evening events which run from 8:30 until midnight), there’s a real danger for intellectual, emotional, and physical overload. Several weeks before AWP, individuals who have attended the conference before post on their blogs and websites “How to do AWP.” The advice includes everything from “DO NOT try to do everything,” to where the nearby Starbucks are, from what tables at the Bookfair are “musts” to stop at, to what restaurants are where and, this year, where and when the protests would be held. I’ve been attending AWP since 1974 when, I believe, the conference was held in Kansas City and had 300 people in attendance and I still have never learned how not to be overwhelmed. Sessions I attended this year that were particularly meaningful were ones that focused on social justice and activism in the literary community; writing about place; recovering neglected poets; the poem as invocation, the poem as persona; crafting the feminist historical lyric; rural America in contemporary literature; and the importance and power of the work of Adrienne Rich. That last one left me in tears. The keynote address on Thursday night by Azar Nafisi, author of Reading Lolita in Teheran, was powerful, political and personal in extraordinary ways. Readings by Sonia Sanchez, Ocean Vuong, Terrence Hayes, Rita Dove, and Eileen Myles reminded me why I do what I do, why I write what I write, why we need so many writers to remind us, in the words of Audre Lorde, that poetry is not a luxury, it is a necessity.

Finally, I have to reflect on what it was like to be with these five young, bright, energetic, funny, highly-motivated women who were wide-eyed and breathless about what they were experiencing. They attended such a cross-section of sessions from those focusing on social justice and activism, translation, minority writers, publishing, community engagement, literary history, spoken word art and just about every other content area offered. They wandered the Bookfair finding treasures (let me say there were over 900 tables at the Bookfair), getting writers to sign books they had purchased, and spreading the word about the RCAH Center for Poetry at MSU and our new Wheelbarrow Books Poetry Series. I asked them to compile a list of writers whom they heard or met that they thought might be possibilities for visiting writers to the Poetry Center or for Wednesday Night Live. Their lists were epic, and I am sure will result in having some writers come to the Poetry Center whom we might not have known about had the interns not attended the conference. Above all, I watched their excitement about literature and its power, about ways of taking poetry out of the academy and into the community, about what it was like to be in the middle of 12,000 people all of whom cared about language, about diversity, about the necessity for free speech and for everyone’s voice to be heard and valued.

It took the work of a village to get us to AWP. We saw the critical and necessary work of a village as we participated in AWP. Now it is our job to help our village grow and thrive.

 

Posted in poem of the week

Poem of the Week: Los Perdidos Del Bosque, by Pablo Neruda

big-trees-forestThe Lost Ones of the Forest / Los Perdidos Del Bosque

by Pablo Neruda (English translation by William O’Daly)

 

The Lost Ones of the Forest

 

I am someone who never made it to the forest,

one of those turned back by earth’s winter,

headed off by lively scarabs ready to bite

or by tremendous rivers that opposed my destiny.

This is the forest, the thicket is comfortable, the trees

are the grandest furniture, the leaves vain zithers,

the trails, fenced pastures, estates were erased,

the air is patriarchal and smells of sadness.

 

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden

of childhood: apples sit beside the river

descended from black snow hidden in the Andes:

apples whose sour blush hasn’t know the teeth

of men, only the pecking of ravenous birds,

apples that invented a natural symmetry

and move slowly toward sweetness.

 

Everything is new and old in the surrounding luster,

those who came here are the diminished ones,

and those who were left behind in the distance

are the shipwrecked who may or may not survive:

only then will they know the laws of the forest.

 

Los Perdidos Del Bosque

 

Yo soy uno de aquellos que no alcanzó a llegar al bosque,

de los retrocedidos por el invierno en la tierra,

atajados por escarabajos de irisación y picadura

o por tremendos ríos que se oponían al destino.

Éste es el bosque, el follaje es cómodo, son altísimos muebles

los árboles, ensimismadas cítaras las hojas,

se borraron senderos, cercados, patrimonios,

el aire es patriarcal y tiene olor a tristeza.

 

Todo es ceremonioso en el jardín salvaje

de infancia: hay manzanas cerca del agua

que llega de la nieve negra escondida en los Andes:

manzanas cuyo áspero rubor no conoce los dientes

del hombre, sino el picoteo de pájaros voraces,

manzanas que inventaron la simetría silvestre

y que caminan con lentísimo paso hacia el azúcar.

 

Todo es nuevo y antiguo en el esplendor circundante,

los que hasta aquí vinieron son los menoscabados,

y los que se quedaron atrás en la distancia

son los náufragos que pueden o no sobrevivir:

sólo entonces conocerán las leyes del bosque.

 

Copyright 1986 by Pablo Neruda and Heirs of Pablo Neruda
Translation Copyright 1986, 2002 by William O’Daly

 

Posted in poem of the week

Poem of the Week: “Snow Theory” by Neil Hilborn

screen-shot-2017-01-31-at-10-14-44-am

“Snow Theory”

Neil Hilborn

When you hear the phrase Winter Weather Advisory
you imagine a guidance counselor and snow
that is unsure what it wants to do with its life,
don’t you? Don’t you see skills tests
about its life before it rebecomes
water? The name plate on the counselor’s
desk reads Felipe Rios. Señor Rivers,
as Snow calls him, has a constant supply
of green highlighters. No one knows
how he gets them, because rivers can’t walk
to the store or be guidance counselors,
duh. If snow can drift, so can leaves
and dust and responsibilities. You can have
a light dusting of feathers. Snow is a sentient being
that hates when people drive in straight lines. Snow is
migratory. Snow is a dog that wants
all the sidewalks to be covered
in salt. Snow therefore is a happy dog.
Imagine if fire extinguishers were full
of snow. Imagine the fun we could have.

Copyright © 2015 by Neil Hilborn. Image by Philip Schwarz.