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.

Two poems and a memoir by Tarn Wilson

~
Late summer 1971, my father quit his job in Washington, D.C. as the Brookings Institution's first computer programmer, bought an old school bus with "Suck Nixon" painted on the side, and packed us off for British Columbia. 
        . . . Set loose in the primeval Canadian wilderness, my sister and I were to be educated by the land, released from shame, fear, insecurities, sexual hangups, and shallow social conventions imposed by a corrupt and repressive culture.  In our natural, unspoiled state, we'd be happy and free.

--From The Slow Farm, a memoir by Tarn Wilson (Ovenbird Books Nonfiction Series, 2014). 

 

 

Betsy's boyfriend dumped her this morning

and when she comes to the door

I am in my underpants, unable to console her. 

...

--From "Living Alone with Small Dogs," a poem by Matthew Siegel, Cimarron Review (Issue 181, Fall 2012), p. 14.   

 

 

She used the stadium. I would have
chosen the bridge. We’re not even

 

Division One. Our tailgate crowds
are mostly enthusiastic about beer. 

. . .

--From "Ready Regret," a poem by Lisa Olstein, Linebreak (July 22, 2014).