A graphic novel by Fanny Britt and Isabelle Arsenault, and four poems

~
My dad cries.
I don't mean right now as we speak,
even though that's probably the case.
I don't mean that my dad (noun) cries (verb) watching the sun set (adverb phrase), either.
What I mean is, my dad cries.
A dog barks.  A cat meows.  My dad cries.
Truffle thinks it's because he loves us too much.
There's some truth to that. 
But between you, me and the bus driver, 
you don't need to be a rocket scientist to know that if my dad cries, 
it's first and foremost because of the wine. 
--From Louis Undercover, a graphic novel by Fanny Britt and Isabelle Arsenault, translated from the French by Christelle Morelli and Susan Ouriou (Groundwood Books/House of Anansi Press, Toronto, Ontario/Berkeley, California, 2017).  First published in French as Louis parmi les spectres (Les Éditions de la Pastèque, Montreal, Quebec, 2016). 

I was on the porch pinching back the lobelia
like trimming a great blue head of hair. 

We'd just planted the near field, the far one 
the day before.  I'd never seen it so clear,

so gusty, so overcast, so clear, so calm.
They say pearls must be worn or they lose their luster, . . .  
--From "Another Story with a Burning Barn in It," a poem by Lisa Olstein, on the website of the Poetry Foundation.  This is an excerpt from her collection Radio Crackling, Radio Gone (Copper Canyon Press, 2006). 


I'm six months along 
and I wonder why nobody 
told me.  I've got red wine 
in my right hand, a cigarette
in my left.  There's
a noisy party all 
around me.  I put down 
the glass and lift my shirt.
The baby's there, visible 
under my transparent
skin, a little girl, wearing
bluebird barrettes.
--From "Expecting," a poem by Meghan O'Rourke, from her collection Sun in Days (W. W. Norton & Company, 2017), pp. 39-40.  This poem was first published, as "Nightdream," in Issue 58 of Tin House.

You can only miss someone when they are still present to you.
--From "Mistaken Self-Portrait as Demeter in Paris," a poem by Meghan O'Rourke, from her collection Sun in Days (W. W. Norton & Company, 2017), pp. 84-85.  This poem was first published, as "Demeter in Paris," by the Academy of American Poets.

What you did wasn't so bad.
You stood in a small room, waiting for the sun.
At least you told yourself that.
I know it was small, 
but there was something, a kind of pulped lemon, 
at the low edge of the sky.
--From "Poem of Regret for an Old Friend," a poem by Meghan O'Rourke, from her collection Sun in Days (W. W. Norton & Company, 2017), pp. 86-87.  "Poem of Regret for an Old Friend" was first published in The New Yorker.

A Red Cherry on a White-tiled Floor by Maram al-Massri and poetry from RHINO

~
I am the thief
of sweetmeats displayed in your shop.
My fingers became sticky
but I failed
to drop one
into my mouth.
--From A Red Cherry on a White-tiled Floor [Karazah hamra' 'alá balat abyad], a collection of poetry by Maram al-Massri, published in Arabic with an English translation by Khaled Mattawa (Bloodaxe Books, 2004; Copper Canyon Press, 2007).

As I wander alone on the river path of cinders and cigarettes I am afraid, as I am always afraid, when I spot a man on a bench up ahead, drinking.  
--From "Girls in a Skiff," a prose poem by Maureen O'Brien, RHINO (2015).

Mother is gone.  Only her things remain: 
heart locket in 10K gold engraved
w/cursive J; medium-sized Austrian 
crystal brooch—
--From "Inventory," a poem by Joe Eldridge, RHINO (2015).

When I met LL Cool J I had just quit Fatburger it was a Saturday morning  & not knowing how I would afford to pay for it I drove my new-used powder blue Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with my sister to the Sam Goody's off Washington Blvd in South Central adjacent & we met our friend/ex-coworker Squeak who was 17 with glasses & 6 feet tall & nicknamed by the same ex-coworker who nicknamed me Twin 1 & my younger sister Twin 2 . . . 
--From "When I met LL Cool J I had just quit Fatburger," a poem by Khadijah Queen, RHINO (2015).

i'm bent over / the sidewalk weeping / outside the public theatre / you stand above me / horse built from a father's beer cans / you still have that other man's mouth on you / i can taste it / with the back of my hands / it's my fault / always is / i say do what you will / + your will is done / so what i was born drunk + mean with my teeth knocked out . . . 
--From "essay on crying in public," a piece by sam sax, RHINO (2015).

Four poems from Like a Beggar and The Human Line

~

Bad things are going to happen. 

Your tomatoes will grow a fungus

and your cat will get run over.

Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream

melting in the car . . .
 --From "Relax," a poem by Ellen Bass, first published in The American Poetry Review and reprinted in Like a Beggar (Copper Canyon Press, 2014), pp. 3-4. 

  

"I'm fat and I'm old and I'm going to die," Dorianne says

as we're taking our after-dinner walk on the grounds of Esalen . . .

--From "Women Walking," a poem by Ellen Bass, first published in The American Poetry Review, Volume 38, Number 1, and reprinted in Like a Beggar (Copper Canyon Press, 2014), pp. 21-22.

 

...She's a dead ringer for my mother,

sipping black coffee, scrambling eggs,

a cigarette burning in a cut-glass ashtray.

She opens the store.  Amber whiskeys

and clear vodkas shine on wooden shelves,

bruise-dark wine rising in the slender necks. . . . 

--From "The Muse of Work," a poem by Ellen Bass, first published in New Ohio Review, Issue 11, and reprinted in Like a Beggar (Copper Canyon Press, 2014), pp. 60-61.

 

And yet, wouldn't it be welcome

at the end of an ordinary day?

The audience could be small,

the theater modest.  Folding chairs

in a church basement would do.

Just a short earnest burst of applause

that you got up that morning

and, one way or another,

made it through the day. . . . 

--From "Don't Expect Applause," a poem by Ellen Bass, The Human Line (Copper Canyon Press, 2007), pp. 87-88.