10.2.14

It can feel very lonely in web-space sometimes, especially when you are not connecting via social media. I thought I would try and explore other writers who do what I am trying to, or other platforms that bring writers together.

The first I found was the Valparaiso Poetry Review, from the University with the same name in Indiana. Sometimes I miss being in a University atmosphere from a writing perspective, since there is always something new and interesting going on, and enough turnover in atmosphere to keep things fresh. Just in my scanning I found several pieces that I liked. Here's The First Law of Thermodynamics by Michael Meyerhofer:



Dig too far and you’ll find the shards
of something ancient, stacked like Rome
and San Francisco on the crust
of ancestors: streets capping ruins,
ziggurat plus bazaar equals taco stand.
Sooner or later, all the cloisters
in your abbey become eligible
for an upgrade. All you have to do
is peel back your bedroom wallpaper
and you’ll find a whole tiramisu
of lost history. Remember, 
atoms are just bags of cowbells—
electrons, leptons, quarks,
the sparkler lifespan of the mayfly.
How many cowbells in a tulip,
a woolly rhino, a taxidermist, cowbells 
sloughing through the pastures 
of Tel Aviv, tin song that used to be
my mother now recycling that anthem
of hay and flies and runaway sun.


I have to admit, I was drawn to this one at first because it sounds like something I would write. I am fascinated by archaeology, and the idea that just by looking below, or beyond, or just inside, you could find a piece of another time. I often have dreams of finding hoards of coins, or a priceless old photo, or something exciting in a thrift store purchase. I also find a smile in comparing Rome and Tel Aviv to San Francisco and bedroom wallpaper. 

Can I just say, I am totally surprised by the number of "formalist" poems in this issue? So far I have found a ghazal, formalist rhythm, some terza rima, and other rhyming forms. Obviously there is a ton of variety, but it makes me excited to see all these forms in one place! A few were amateurish, but that's kind of the idea of a University Review, right? You gotta start somewhere. This next one is called Winter Solstice by Catherine Champion:


In early winter, the waves of Lake Michigan
clap against the mouth of the Black River

and surge up past the height of the lighthouse.
The surf freezes in reefing ice along the shore.

South Haven is dead long before this time;
the dark storefronts of the ice cream parlors

are locked in seasonal slumber. Two warm lights
remain in the newsstand and the town bar

where televisions flash a more present world.
This is my father’s favorite time of year—

once, he gathered us and announced a drive
to the lake, to celebrate the year’s shortest day.

We were never sure why the briefness of light
gave him such cause, but we knew its rareness;

a midday silken twilight shawled the horizon
and he took the car to a highpoint overlooking

Lake Michigan’s icy shore, silenced the ignition.
We could feel something solidify inside him

as he sat there, fixed in the mauve of evening,
the stir of lake-effect moving the sky closer,

the waves frozen in such an impossible moment
of freezing; rising over the beach, never breaking.


I really liked "midday silken twilight shawled", but that could just be the knitter in me. I also liked how we began with waves moving, and ended with them ceasing/freezing. I imagine our human ancestors may have felt this way about the solstice, and thus its (and its counterpoint's) celebration. Just one more that I liked the feel/color of; Rubies in her Ears by Chantel Acevedo:


Four weeks old, the needle, rum-dipped,
           held fast between the pads of her
           father’s fingers—
her mother could not keep her hands
           still enough, palsied by her animal
           need to shield—
his paw heavy on her tiny forehead, fingers
           so long they spanned her whole face—
           hand filling the universe, hand holding
the needle, threaded with red string, also rum-
           soaked. Thin aguja, thin as a fish bone,
           thrust through the baby’s
delicate earlobe, piercing a tender morsel of flesh.
           She cried. Twice for each jab—twice more
           when the thread was pulled through days
later—the abscinded flesh ready for the next 
           violation—a pair of rubies—little pinprick 
           gems, such brilliant wounds.


I usually can't abide run-ons, but this one made having 3 sentences work. Also, "Rum and Rubies" sounds like the title of a mystery novel. That's all for today.