#251: Two Poems by Anita Sullivan

~These poems were selected by Clara Jane Hallar, Assistant Editor for Poetry.

~This poem was previously published in Nimrod International Journal (2011).

A Broken Abecedarius of How Things Might Be if the World Were Saved

Achoo! at the beginning of a tale.

Beasts wandering in daylight, unafraid of being shot, even

Centaurs, who would not be drunk any more if invited to your wedding.

A dragon or a dinosaur named

Ellen.

Flies who would go to the front screen door on command so you could

            let them out.

Galumphing as the normal gait of soldiers.

Hazelnuts that fall one by one into the mouth of the Salmon of Wisdom who swims

            beneath, until the time comes for her to be caught by a wizard’s

            apprentice and cooked over a slow fire until she has rendered up all the

            wisdom remaining in her unsung parts. But

I digress. . . .

Intoxication once a day by the scent from white

Jasmine flowers tumbling over a garden wall, except for the

Keepers of Butterflies, who would need to remain sober.

Loping as an alternate choice (see G above).

More respect for Dame Love, who has thoughtfully abolished Reason.

Nearly all the children reaching the house in the middle of the forest, where they will be

            temporarily changed into birds, and introduced to their hearts’ desire by a very

Old bear, who knows all the tales with caves in them.

Pearls of music rolling around between the warm, uneven bricks, under the chairs.           

                        Quiet

Regales of yellow leaves, and the musk of grapes.

Sisyphus released from duty but staying on as a volunteer on weekends when he has

Time off from being a taxi driver in New York, something he has always wanted to

            try.

An upset

Victory by

Whim, who has finally convinced Steven Hawking that she is indeed the final black hole

            into-which-and-from-which comes

Xanadu with its plazas and feasts, its gardens of endless endings for which we have all

            secretly

Yearned—and to which we have spent the last million years

Zigging and Zagging (see G above) and where we will arrive this very

            AFTERNOON.

           

                                               

 *****

#250: " Where the Highway Ends: Sketches of Denise Levertov & Mitchell Goodman" by Mark Pawlak

~This essay was previously published in Hanging Loose (2007).

“Life and memory of it so compressed they’ve turned into each other.

Which is which?”—Elizabeth Bishop

“We do not remember days, we remember moments.”—Cesare Pavese

Preface

I came to MIT in 1966, on a scholarship, from a Buffalo, New York, working class family, a family where books were suspect and my decision to go to MIT instead of a local college surprising. I was majoring in physics when, during my senior year, I took a poetry writing class with Denise Levertov. In Denise, and her husband, Mitch Goodman, I found the intellectual family, and the wider world, that I had been searching for. Over the years, I continued to live and work in the Boston area, mostly in Somerville and Cambridge. My relationship with Denise continued as she became my confidante, my poetry mentor, my guide to a life of the mind broader than just physics and mathematics. I was soon admitted into her large but intimate circle of friends, social activists, and writers. This included becoming an invited guest at her country house in western Maine. At some time in the early 60s, Denise and Mitch had bought a farmhouse in the township of Temple—literally where the highway ends. It served them for years as an escape from the summer heat of their Greenwich Village apartment. After they moved to Boston, as it was closer to the farmhouse, they took off to Temple more frequently and in all seasons, as indicated in the following sketches from memory. As you read them, imagine the effect on a young mind of this couple, poet and novelist, well-read intellectuals, and political activists.

Summer

I remember flying with Denise in a small prop plane from Boston to Farmington. The twin engines thrummed as we skimmed the green treetops of Maine’s endless woods. It was my first visit, August. Mitch was there to greet and drive us in his Volvo to their Temple farmhouse.

There was always at least one other Volvo parked on the front lawn. Over the years, with each visit, I would find the collection had grown. Mitch bought them for spare parts to keep one aging Volvo running. His answer to inquiries was always “You can imagine how common a Volvo dealer is in rural Maine.”

The kitchen window looked out on a lone apple tree beside a fieldstone fence a short distance behind the house; beyond the fence was a broad, grassy field. It sloped up from the farmhouse to a tree-lined ridge; to the right of the house the field descended sharply in the direction of Temple Stream. A granite slab served as the front-door step. Denise and I sat there one morning as she read me the poem she’d just written: “night lies down/in the field. . . .”

#249: Three Poems by Bruce Robinson

~Selected by Clara Jane Hallar, assistant editor, poetry

~This poem was previously published in Spoon River Quarterly (1991).

Dialing and Dolor

                                    la vida es sueño

            Selena’s on the telephone. Richard

is in conference. Philip’s on hold.

Rosalie is calling. Kevin

is dialing. Mark is listening.

            At the front desk Pat is decding

whether to be masculine or feminine.

Most of us have already made this decision,

some have lived to regret it.

            And where is Caroline?  Philip calls Selena,

there’s no answer. He calls Bob, but

Caroline’s not there.  He calls me,

I’m holding for an open line. “Mark, is Caroline there.”

            She is not. She is in the conference room,

speaking to herself, practicing eye contact,

practicing doing without cigarettes

for an hour and a half, studying inflections, weighing nuance.

            Through the skylight the sun lights

without connection or warmth; it’s working on a

concept, it’s on to something big. The sun is so much

like light it’s almost uncanny,

            As if masculine were feminine,

or dialing listening, sometimes there’s just

the warm contours of the telephone

when you’ve been on hold.

*****