Last week I wrote about a three-way interview published by “The Review Review” about the future of poetry. The three-way was composed of Rob MacDonald of Sixth Finch Journal, Matt Hart of Forklift Ohio Journal and Gale Marie Thompson of Jellyfish Magazine.
I recommend at least perusing the article to get a sense of what people in the poetry world (and these are very relevant people within that cloaked realm) have to say about the general future of the genre. But what is truly special about the article are the poets that the participants mention.
My plan is to go through most of these writers in the upcoming weeks. Today, I am featuring Emily Kendal Frey from Portland, Oregon. Her newest book, “Sorrow Arrow” was just released by Octopus Books. For those looking to learn more, here is her blog.
The poem below was recently the “Poem of the Day” at Poets.Org.
A Tyrant Seeks Conclusion in the Known Self
In California we went to the dive bar and I lost my wallet
I remember falling into it
And maybe kissing against someone’s garage
I fell on city sidewalks
In California and other places
The trees looked at me tenderly
I’m guessing
You do not love me because your mom did not love you
I understand the equation
Meanwhile, I make a butter fire in the kitchen
Two times I heat the butter for the eggs
Both times I burn it
Just observe, I tell
My students, describe what is
The woman next to me on the airplane
Moves pictures from her wallet to her pocket
In case we die
I cry with my eyes closed and the Sprite goes by
The unconscious drives us to master
The childhood situation
I wonder if there are spiders
Here, in the carpet or between the seats
A place with bugs is so
Much more friendly
The book I am reading tells me
Ours is an earthbound crisis
That until we cease to dominate
With doing, we will fail
At being
My fingernails
Are the color of rotten peaches
On Orcas Island there’s a stone tower on top of Mt. Constitution
Some days you can see for miles, the many
Mountain ranges and pine-crusted bodies
In my mind
I practice dying
I throw myself over the edge
The plane is making its way into the streaking
Sun of this country
In Mexico I slept in a clay structure facing the ocean
I could hear the wind constantly
I bought you a tin heart with a hole in it
I brought it back in my backpack
In bed you said Don’t make fun of me
When I’m old, okay?
When I think of your face
I have to think of me
You are holding my knee
And now I look into you
Now I look up and face
The abject fear
I am an animal
The bedroom is trees
Go limp a voice tells me
When a person passes me on their way to the restroom
I pretend they are the kindly face
Of god
Look deep into the eyes
Of the divine
It’s so beautiful isn’t it
To believe you are looking
At the future
ZETEO 