(Originally appeared in December 2013)
Christina Davis’s Forth a Raven offers stark, textured, intelligent and lyrical pieces in a stripped-down yet ultimately complex, reflective language. Encompassing the tension of different realms – the spiritual and the secular, the extraordinary and the mundane, her work, quite simply, astounds. Read this book. Seek out her work. It’s sublime.
Scarecrow Pretends
How may I claim another’s earth for myself? My perpetual
stance invites occlusion of the senses and a certain disregard
for dignity; I flap in the breeze and bits of me scatter across
the fields. Sze asks if we know a bird’s name in ten
languages do we know any more about the bird. I say no,
but I am a species of stitched remnants and expectation,
a race of one. Genderless, my hollow name holds no secrets,
no history. If I called myself Hudson would anyone recognize
my stuffing for what it is not? What flows through my clothing
but rags, straw, the useless and unwanted. Insects and their feces.
The unearned, the unwarranted. The underclass. Folly. Design.
Gift by delusion. Does attracting more crows than I deter negate
my existence? And which am I? A river? A man? An effigy, one
perception, or another? I do not frighten, but welcome. Speak
louder, that we may ignore our insignificance, our true names.
“Scarecrow Pretends” was published in The Slag Review in January 2017, and a few months later was mentioned in an article in the Long River Review’s blog: “Scarecrow Pretends: Robert Okaji’s Metallurgy.”
Feeling Squeezed at the Grocery Store I Conclude that the Propensity to Ignore Pain is Not Necessarily Virtuous, but Continue Shopping and Gather the Ingredients for Ham Fried Rice because That’s What I Cook When My Wife is Out-of-Town and I’m Not in the Mood for Italian, and Dammit I’m Not Ill, Merely a Little Inconvenienced, and Hey, in the 70’s I Played Football in Texas, and When the Going Gets Tough…
I answer work email in the checkout line. Drive home, take two aspirin.
Place perishables in refrigerator. Consider collapsing in bed. Call wife.
Let in dog. Drive to ER, park. Provide phone numbers. Inhale. Exhale.
Repeat. Accept fate and morphine. Ask for lights and sirens, imagine the
seas parting. On the table, consider fissures and cold air, windows and
hagfish. Calculate arm-length, distance and time. Expect one insertion,
receive another. Dissonance in perception, in reality. Turn head when
asked. Try reciting Kinnell’s “The Bear.” Try again, silently this time.
Give up. Attempt “Ozymandias.” Think of dark highways. Wonder about
the femoral, when and how they’ll remove my jeans. Shiver uncontrollably.
The events in this poem took place nine years ago. A lifetime ago.
I Live in My Winter
Removed from the junipers’
fragrance, separated from
prickly pears gracing
the hill, limestone slabs
jutting from thin soil,
and smoke drifting from
a well laid fire on a cold
night. Old, today, I
call the clouds my
birthright, want only
to merge with them
and rain through
another black coffee
in this unfamiliar place,
this new home,
this welcome peace.
Robert L. Penick’s writing has been published in numerous literary journals. His poetry chapbook, Exit, Stage Left, won the 2018 Slipstream chapbook contest. The former editor of Chance Magazine, he has most recently been editing and publishing Ristau: A Journal of Being. He lives in Louisville, Kentucky.
Would you mind sharing a bit about your background? How and why did you come to writing? How has being a non-academic framed your work?
I grew up in a very blue-collar environment, was the first—and the last person in my family to go to college, and really took to writing around age 14. A number of different factors instilled a sense of “otherness” in me, a sense of not fitting in, or wanting to fit in, with the available demographics. I believe not being the product of an academic writing program has helped me mold my own peculiar voice, since I had no one indoctrinating me with what writers I should like. There are a lot of folks slogging their way through Michel Houellebecq, for example, because some professor told them that’s good writing. I disagree. The best are the ones that connect with you, plain and simple. I worked in the court system with the mentally ill and victims of domestic violence, and I believe that had a more valuable impact on what I do than 1,000 workshops.
Your chapbook, Exit Stage Left,won the 2018 Slipstream Annual Poetry Contest. Can you tell us something about its genesis?
Exit, Stage Leftwas a selection of poems from a full-length book project I have called The Art of Mercy that I haven’t been able to get published. Mercyis 70 pages, with each of the 70 poems having been published in one journal or another. I flipped through it and chose 25 pieces that I thought hung together well and sent it off. Some of those pieces go back fifteen years, and I didn’t realize that the overriding theme was one of aging and mortality until I actually had the finished book in my hands. A fine Kentucky poet, James Still, said in effect that young poets write of death and older poets write of life. I see life/death, happy/sad, and love/hate as being sides of the same coin.
(Note from RO: To read three poems from this collection, or to order the book, click here. It’s a bargain at $10, with superbly crafted pieces of loss, hope and humanity.)
Would you offer up some of your artistic influences. What draws you to that work?
The writer having the biggest impact on me was John Steinbeck. Many people dismiss him as sentimental, but you know what? People are sentimental, just naturally so. I remember finishing the last page of The Grapes of Wrath, putting the book down and just walking around the house wringing my hands. I love getting that connection to basic humanity. Ray Bradbury is the only science fiction author I’ve enjoyed, because those aren’t sci-fi stories, they’re stories about real people with real hearts and hopes and dreams. Except for the robots, I guess. Currently I’m on a Nabokov kick, reading his short stories. That the man could write that well in his third language is astounding. Recently, I found Richard Wright’s story, “The Man Who Lived Underground,” and was moved by its drama and precision.
If you were a poetic form, which would you be?
I would be…an accident report. “Subject took the off ramp at too great a speed and went through the guardrail into the lake. After being checked by EMS, subject was transported to Metro Corrections, charged with having a lack of common sense.”
You’ve edited and published literary journals. Could you explain what crosses your mind when reviewing poems for possible inclusion in one?
Why am I doing this? There is a danger in putting out a literary journal, in that you get bludgeoned by bad writing, and that can damage your own craft. I’ve always said that writing a poem is like playing the harmonica; anyone can do it, but not many can do it well. But a lot of folks buy their harmonica, then go straight to the Wednesday night open mic at the corner bar without putting the time in to learn. With writing, it’s a matter of finding your natural voice, being able to spot what doesn’t work, avoiding cliches and such.
What themes or traits will readers find in your work?
I go for humanity more than anything, working often with characters who are socially isolated in some way, finding meaning in the day-to-day. You have to be entertaining—for goodness sake, don’t bore people—but if you can slip some kindness in there, it’s a win.
And your creative process? Could you offer us a glimpse into how your poems develop from first glimmer to fully realized piece? Do you follow a regular writing routine? Write in public or in solitude?
I pick up a lot of ideas when I’m out. I haven’t been able to write at home lately, so I scribble in coffee houses and fast food joints. I’m that odd guy in the corner. Last month, I’m at Burger King, and there’s maybe three other guys there, each eating alone. I thought, “We should all squeeze into one booth together; we wouldn’t look so pathetic.” That became a poem called “BK,” about how every solitary person still has their childhood train set running through their past. Habit-wise, I wish I could be one of those folks that did their two or three hours a day, but that flow state is getting harder the older I get. I get a cup of coffee and, if I get 200 words down on a story, that’s a good day. It’s like pulling teeth, but I’m a fairly conscientious dentist.
What advice would you offer to a writer just starting out?
Realize that the product is separate from you and don’t be stung by constructive criticism. If a person is restoring a car and you point out the brake line is leaking, he or she will likely thank you. But many writers are threatened by good criticism. At the same time, be selective about what advice you take. Many people will have no idea what you’re trying to do, and many writers (I’ve done this) will unconsciously try to make your writing more like their own. You’re at a good point when you can hand a piece to someone you respect and say, “what’s the weak link in this?”
Do you have any projects in process?
Three big things on my dance card right now: The Art of Mercy that I mentioned, Redemption, a gritty novel that may be too dirty for today’s market, and a collection of flash fiction I’m putting together. Flash gets a bad rap, mainly because much of it are merely fragments, but I think I’ve done some impressive work with the 300 word story. I’ve had perhaps 25 of them published (many are linked from my website, theartofmercy.net) and I’d like to get a book of them. It’s funny, I’ve had work in 150 different literary journals, but it’s difficult finding a house that will do a full-length book for me. Alas. We can always find something to cry about, if we choose.
Scarecrow Believes
What is a ghost if not misplaced energy,
an apprehension or the sum of invisible integers
and the properties they possess? I preside over
this sea of maize, tracking clouds, noting patterns
up high and among the flowing stalks, absorbing
minutiae, assigning connections, piecing together bits,
moment to thought, soil to trickle, flutter to gain.
Energy. Inertia. Waves, converted. If I had a bed
I would not neglect to look under it. The closet door
would remain open, a nightlight positioned nearby
with perhaps a mirror or two angled to offer clarity,
and the radio tuned always to jazz, providing little
purchase to any ill-intentioned spirit. The power of
beauty transfixes, even as it carries me far from my
station, from hilltop to plains to glowering moon.
If neither place nor reason, what consumes
our spiritual remnants, what directs our currents
to the next, and each successive, landing? Crows
have long been considered conduits to the afterlife,
but they exist here, in the now. I do not perspire but
fix my gaze on numbers and their tales, on zero and
the history of nothing, on unseen fingers walking up
my spine, shedding a residue of snow, of mercury
and latent images and dormant seeds in the world
underfoot, acknowledging the wonders of what
can’t be proven, what won’t be held or seen. Still, I
add and subtract, unclench my fingers and accept the
quiet, caught forever within the limits of the boundless,
under the sky, in space, within the improbable.
“Scarecrow Believes” was first published in May 2017 in GFT Presents: One in Four, a semiannual, print literary journal, and was subsequently published by Vox Populi.
Few essays on writing poetry grab me by the collar, slam me against the wall, and say “Listen, dammit!” But this one did.
Camille Dungy’s words sear through the fog. She tells it slant. She tells it true. She explains how some masters have done it. If you’ve not read her poetry, seek it out. You’re in for a treat. If you have the good fortune to attend a lecture or reading by her, do so. She’s energetic, wise and kind. She knows.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/247926
FIrst posted here in 2014..
Truchas (Elevation 8,000 Feet)
Climbing
these stairs,
I resemble
a trout
flopping
in dry air,
another gasp
and a ratcheting
heart rate, up,
out, and through
that opening,
into the pale glow.
Maybe we’ll get back there someday…
Patience
How time collapses
even the longest
held dream – that
trip to Italy
or the stilted
studio to the
barn’s rear, or
even the first
book and its
publication to early
acclaim by age
forty, fifty, sixty…
“Patience” first appeared here in October 2018.
Dear Stephanie: No one connects here, and no matter
how resolutely we trudge forward, ignoring spinal fusions
and attacking hearts, the line skips lightly ahead, mocking us,
I think, in that way only the ineffable may claim. Looking
out, I see a lone wren, clouds filtering the stars, and strands
of barbed wire looped like question marks around cedar
stumps, punctuating the day’s greeting. No answers there,
only more inquiries blanching under the sun. But this
is my febrile landscape, not your lush green headed by
gray. Nothing matters, or, everything’s imperative.
In this gnarled season I can’t tell which, although
the vulture ripping into a squirrel carcass on my
suburban front lawn tells me something ain’t quite
right. Full or empty, the glass is still a glass, despite
my propensity for seeking more, whether cava or beer
or yes, enlightenment. I fear this reveals too much
about me, and wonder if I should draw the shade or
keep tugging it higher, admitting more light. Have you
ever noticed that half often amounts to less the closer
you get to it, each portion diminishing, divided by two,
and again, until only a thin shadow vaguely resembling
the original shape remains? Perhaps this is how we’re
meant to exit as failures on this field. The horizon’s
still there, red stroking green, clouds feathering in,
and maybe if we keep walking we’ll reach it in a sunburst
of doves and glittering red dahlias. Yeah, right. In the
meantime, let’s multiply our losses and sculpt another
morning truer than its source, stronger than its media. Our
optimism has already blown this joint. What else have we
got to lose? I remain, as ever, yours in insolence, Bob.
Originally penned in January 2017, “Letter to Harper from Halfway to the Horizon” was published in MockingHeart Review in May 2018.
O at the Edges 