Trethewey

Poem-A-Day April 17: Strange Type

Strange Type

I wrote “in the dark cavern of our birth.”
The printer had it tavern, which seems better.
But herein lies the subject of our mirth,
Since on the next page death appears as dearth.
So it may be that God’s word was distraction,
Which to our strange type appears destruction,
Which is bitter.

■

Hello Friends,

“Strange Type” appears in The Poems of Malcolm Lowry (1962).

Writers aren’t known for loving typos. But every once and awhile, a typo comes along that is accidentally poetic. Some of my other favorite poems about typos include “Letter” by Natasha Trethewey, “The Kiss” by Stephen Dunn, and “The Impotence of Proofreading” by Taylor Mali.

I hope you’re enjoying poetry month!

Cheers,
Ællen

nothing really happened



Incident
We tell the story every year—

how we peered from the windows, shades drawn—

though nothing really happened,

the charred grass now green again.
We peered from the windows, shades drawn,

at the cross trussed like a Christmas tree,

the charred grass still green. Then

we darkened our rooms, lit the hurricane lamps.
At the cross trussed like a Christmas tree,

a few men gathered, white as angels in their gowns.

We darkened our rooms and lit hurricane lamps,

the wicks trembling in their fonts of oil.
It seemed the angels had gathered, white men in their gowns.

When they were done, they left quietly. No one came.

The wicks trembled all night in their fonts of oil;

by morning the flames had all dimmed.
When they were done, the men left quietly. No one came.

Nothing really happened.

By morning all the flames had dimmed.

We tell the story every year.
■


Hello Friends,
The former U.S. poet laureate Natasha Trethewey is a master at picking the perfect poetic form for her subject matter. The form above, wherein the 2nd and 4th lines of the preceding stanza become the 1st and 3rd lines of the next stanza, is called a pantoum — and it is absolutely perfect for conveying a haunting incident that gets told over and over again.
Sometimes the incidents that haunt us the most are those where "nothing really happened" — If this has happened to you, consider trying to write a pantoum about it.
Enjoy.

Ellen

P.S. Natasha Trethewey has also been featured for Meet Me in 811's Poem-A-Day April 29, 2014, Poem-A-Day April 18, 2010, and Poem-A-Day April 16, 2009.

the amount of wonder

Hello Friends,


There is a special little group of poems that are about a slip between words, misreading or miswriting, and today's poem-a-day by Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello belongs to that group. See also Natasha Trethewey's "Letter" or Sherman Alexie's "Psalm Like It Hot."
Enjoy.

Ellen


Above the Thin Shell of the World
I fell in love with a North Korean
by falling asleep on his shoulder
in a South Korean subway.
Later, perhaps because of that,
I misread the Arabic word gurfa,
not as the amount of water
that can be held in one hand,
but the amount of wonder.
As if one's entire history could be
measured one handful at a time.
As if we knew another way.
■

Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello's "Above the Thin Shell of the World" can be found in The Quarry: A Social Justice Poetry Database, maintained by the DC-based poetry organization Split This Rock.

Poem-a-Day April 29: Flip-Flop

Flounder

Here, she said, put this on your head.
She handed me a hat.
You ’bout as white as your dad,
and you gone stay like that.

Aunt Sugar rolled her nylons down
around each bony ankle,
and I rolled down my white knee socks
letting my thin legs dangle,

circling them just above water
and silver backs of minnows
flitting here then there between
the sun spots and the shadows.

This is how you hold the pole
to cast the line out straight.
Now put that worm on your hook,
throw it out and wait.

She sat spitting tobacco juice
into a coffee cup.
Hunkered down when she felt the bite,
jerked the pole straight up

reeling and tugging hard at the fish
that wriggled and tried to fight back.
A flounder, she said, and you can tell
’cause one of its sides is black.

The other side is white, she said.
It landed with a thump.
I stood there watching that fish flip-flop,
switch sides with every jump.

Hello Friends —

Today’s rhyming quatrains are brought to you by the residing Poet Laureate of the United States Natasha Trethewey, from her 2000 collection Domestic Work. For more on the experience of growing up bi-racial in Gulfport, Mississippi, pick up a copy of Trethewey’s Native Guard — one of the best poetry collections I have ever read.

And if there’s another poetry book you’ve been meaning to pick up, take advantage of Powell’s Books 15% off all poetry — that’s any selection from the five centuries and five continents we’ve touched on in poem-a-days this month, but only during National Poetry Month. Or find Trethewey and all sorts of other treasures in the American Poetry (811!) section of your local library.

I’ll meet you there,
Ellen

Poems by Natasha Trethewey were also featured for Poem-a-Day April 18, 2010 and Poem-a-Day April 16, 2009.

Poem-a-Day, April 16: beautiful accident

The Kiss

She pressed her lips to mind.
⎯a typo

How many years I must have yearned
for someone’s lips against mind.
Pheromones, newly born, were floating
between us. There was hardly any air.

She kissed me again, reaching that place
that sends messages to toes and fingertips,
then all the way to something like home.
Some music was playing on its own.

Nothing like a woman who knows
to kiss the right thing at the right time,
then kisses the things she’s missed.
How had I ever settled for less?

I was thinking this is intelligence,
this is the wisest tongue
since the Oracle got into a Greek’s ear,
speaking sense. It’s the Good,

defining itself. I was out of my mind.
She was in. We married as soon as we could.

Hello Friends —

Some people I like a lot got married today. They are similarly touched in mind, and I think they’ll be happy together for a long time — which makes me happy.

For the most part, I’d say writers despise typos. But there are also very few things that delight a poetically inclined mind as much as a real-life accidental metaphor or word play — and every once and awhile, a typo comes along that belongs in that category. For a couple of my other favorite typo poems, see “Letter” by Natasha Trethewey and the spoken word piece “The Impotence of Proofreading” by Taylor Mali. You can find “This Kiss” in Stephen Dunn‘s 2007 collection Everything Else in the World.

Cheers,
Ellen

Poem-a-Yesterday, April 18: a slip between letters

Hi Friends,
My apologies to those of you who spent all day yesterday eagerly awaiting an arrival in your inbox. Here is a “Letter” from Natasha Trethewey to me to you.
Best,
Ellen

LETTER

At the post office, I dash a note to a friend,
tell her I’ve just moved in, gotten settled, that

I’m now rushing off on an errand — except
that I write errant, a slip between letters,

each with an upright backbone anchoring it
to the page. One has with it the fullness

of possibility, a shape almost like the O
my friend’s mouth will make when she sees

my letter in her box; the other, a mark that crosses
like the flatline of your death, the symbol

over the church house door, the ashes on your forehead
some Wednesday I barely remember.

What was I saying? I had to cross the word out,
start again, explain what I know best

because of the way you left me: how suddenly
a simple errand, a letter — everything — can go wrong.

Poet Natasha Trethewey was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 16, 2009.

Poem-a-Day, April 16: Some rift between

MYTH

I was asleep while you were dying.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow
I make between my slumber and my waking,

the Erebus I keep you in, still trying
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow,
but in dreams you live. So I try taking

you back into morning. Sleep-heavy, turning,
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
Again and again, this constant forsaking.

Again and again, this constant forsaking:
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
You back into morning, sleep-heavy, turning.

But in dreams you live. So I try taking,
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow.
The Erebus I keep you in — still, trying —

I make between my slumber and my waking.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow.
I was asleep while you were dying.

Hello Friends,

Much like Elizabeth Bishop’s villanelle “One Art,” Natasha Trethewey’s “Myth” conveys the impossible enormity of loss through the tightness of the form employed to contain it — as strict or stricter than any villanelle or pantoum. The structure of “Myth” evokes ancient myths of reflection — Narcissus, Echo — and also gestures toward the perfect symmetry and circularity of 11th-14th century courtly love epics (wherein moral outcomes are determined by simple formulas, codes… the good guy always wins, and nobody dies in his sleep).

I had a hard time choosing which poem from Natasha Trethewey‘s 2006 collection Native Guard to send to you; if you like this one, you won’t be disappointed by checking out the whole book.

To learn more about National Poetry Month, or to subscribe to a more official-like Poem-a-Day list, visit www.poets.org.

Best,
Ellen

Poet Natasha Trethewey was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 18, 2010.