Brenda Jones Poem

Rick Telsrow
Brenda Jones Poem
I can offer no comfort
as those who embrace me tightly
kneel in the dirt. They feed
the earth with their tears,
as their soft skin touches
a rough, red world.

I choke with the bareness
of vibrant colors. The disguise
has worn off and there is
a rocky dusting on life
in the sun.

The computation stands before me
with no gap in its thickness. I wish
I had a tool, something made
of iron or steel,
that would help me carve
through the rock
and grab the rotting carcass
and throw it in the salt.

らせん階段

A spiral staircase,
it will lead me in circles
as I climb upward.

-Matt Hurley

Brenda Jones's Rome

I saw some things in a makeshift
Gypsy village in Rome.

Doubtless, there were plenty of others
Just like it, other pockets in other pool tables,
Other holes where things go when they’re
Poked and bumped and beaten down,
But I saw this one.

There were stained barrels used
As pillars and cornerstones for dirty tents.
The canvas probably breathed
Like a lung when the wind went through.

There were four women
All different in age, all sad about something
Different, yet all somehow the same.

There was Anguish, aged and slouching, her face
Crumpled in on itself like old paper.

There was Despair, in mismatched shoes,
Staring with eyes like caves as she made
Tattered fabric into tattered clothes.

There was Fright, her face young
And flat, her body wrapped in blankets, shielding
Herself from something I couldn’t see.

There was a fourth, turned away
From me, turned away from everything.
Somehow I knew she was the most pained of all.

And over their shoulders, just past a wall
And a few busy streets, the Vatican
Winked blades of yellow sunlight at them.

If they turned, they could see its spotless dome.
If it grew eyes and ears and a brain and
A heart, the dome could not see them.

Leaving the place quickly, like glancing
Away from a painting on a wall,
I couldn’t help but hope
That we’d turn out something different
Than our parents.

-Nate Pillman

Spring Cleaning

A mother robin gathered grass
And stuffed it into the vent
Of the newer bathroom.
She must have found it cozy
So laid her eggs there.
We taped the fan switch to “off”
So none of us could
Accidentally
Flip it on and find ourselves
Covered in bloody baby robin down.
But they couldn’t stay there.

We climbed a ladder
And with a gloved hand
Reached in and pulled out
The squawking babies
One by one
And flung them
To the sidewalk below.
If the mother was there
She made no sign of protest.
Not one of the four died
On impact.

We took a shovel,
Tried to clunk one on the head,
Tried to slit another’s throat,
As they chirped
And flapped weak wings
And wriggled.
So we scraped them up
On the metal arm
And plopped them in the cornfield
To die or be eaten.


© Hannah Walleser

What She Would Say

There was a place I used to know
Or a thought I used to keep
Locked inside my chest and I had the only key

I thought it was safe
Chained in a small box next to my lungs
Where you couldn’t see it

I didn’t lose my key
Or give it away
But you found it anyway

Now I can’t see
This place I used to be
Where I hid my thoughts

My wants, my needs
They’re all gone
Lost in a dirty shovel of snow

And rocks
The shovel dripping with grime
And splatters marring the soft white

I didn’t lose it
You took it from me
And ground it in the dirt with your heel

Like an old cigarette
Burnt out and useless
You sucked in too deep

It’s gone, so gone, I can’t even feel it
Like the yellow light you stole
From my back porch

“And where do we keep the bodies,”
You asked me once
And I blushed

Like a silken thread braided and knotted
Against the pale flesh
Of your throat

There was a place I used to know
Where I was safe
And so were you

Where the lightening didn’t stride
Across your eyes
And the thunder didn’t cramp in your jaw

I’m afraid to use my key
That you’ll be inside waiting for me
And escape isn’t in my cards this time

You’ll light me and smoke me
Like some cheap cigar
From the bottom of drawer of your file cabinet

And I’ll be stuck
Stuck like a laminated post-it note
Between the leaves of a folder

You’ll thumb through your files
And find the folder of me
And think fondly of the way we used to be

While what’s me is gone

~ Jessica Slavik

Hey, Young Republican by Eric Fackrell

I wonder
Were you there for Brown v. Board
With your picket signs
Or at the ratification of the 15th Amendment
Foretelling of a socialist demise
Did you stand at Gettysburg
And tell the government to keep its hands off your slaves

Social conservatism preaches:
“Let’s turn the clock back to 1950”
To a time when
Women were subordinate
Gays were forced into the closet
Blacks were beaten in the streets
And stripped naked by fire hoses
I wonder
Were you there holding the hose?
Are you proud?

“Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”
But is life only for the rich
The white
The righteous?
A blind and wounded elephant
Stampedes
On the cusp of legislation
That may literally save your life
You protest on Capitol Hill
Screaming, “Nigger” at a civil rights hero
Crying, “Faggot” at a gay rights champion
Spit in their faces
That is your legacy
Are you proud?

I was nine years old
When my young Republican friends
Decried Clinton and his dialobical plot of year-round school
I spent months explaining
That year-round school did not mean
School on weekends
Or no summer break
Fourteen years later
It’s the same argument
Fact versus fiction
Reality versus fantasy

Tried to give your enemy his Waterloo
At any cost
What do you gain, young Republican
From trampling on the sick and poor
With your heavy hoof
Don't you see
There's nothing radical about this
Don't you see
That single-payer care was your idea
Forty years ago
That insurance mandates were your idea
Just fifteen years ago
What's so different now?
I see one difference and it's as clear as
Black
And
White

So pardon my bluntness when I say
You don’t know shit
From death panels to deficit lies
You’ve flooded the population
With fear and misinformation
You never read the health care bill
Just strained it through a sieve of bumper stickers
And talking points
What comes out is nothingness

Take a look around
Sixty-seven countries with universal care or single-payer
Have they descended into socialist hell?
Or are their life expectancies better than ours?
I wonder
How you'll tell the 20 year old cancer patient
That his insurance policy has been rescinded
Or that his lifetime cap has been reached
And they'll be no more care

Welcome to Waterloo, my friends

Are you proud?

This Mortal Coil or Of the Flesh

The tattooed man would tell you that flesh is a canvas.
The scientist, that flesh is encasement for organs and bones.
The preacher, that it covers the soul and houses sin.
The boy tells me that my flesh is soft and inviting
By painting my body with his eyes
Delineating what is perceived
With an artistic suggestion.
I tell him not many people
Can say “screw art”
And literally mean it.

~Rachel Pratt

POETRY WORKSHOPS

Thursday, April 1 –
For Laurel – Cory A, Eric S
For Cory – Erica A, Maria S
For Eric – Maria A, Sarah S
For Maria – Sarah A, Matt, S
For Sarah – Matt A, Leah A. S
For Matt – Leah A. A, Laurel S.
For Leah A. – Laurel A, Cory S

Tuesday, April 6
For Jase – Kevin A, Megan S
For Kevin – Megan A, James S
For Megan – James A, Jessica S
For James – Jessica A, Nate S
For Jessica – Nate A, Jill S
For Nate – Jill A, Tommy S
For Jill – Tommy A, Jase S
For Tommy – Jase A, Kevin S

Thursday, April 8
For Alan – Rachel A, Hannah S
For Rachel – Hannah A, Rick S
For Hannah – Rick A, Leah B. S
For Rick – Leah B. A, Sean S
For Leah B. – Sean A, Alissa S
For Sean – Alissa A, Sam S
Alissa – Sam A, Alan S
For Sam – Alan A, Rachel S


Advocates and Suggestors will write at least 100 on their assigned poems, and make two copies, one for the author and one for Steve.

Advocates and Suggestors will include at least a sentence about how the poem being discussed could be part of a chapbook.

Advocates will discuss what the poem is about and cite one important strength.

Suggestors will make one specific sug

Syllabus Change 3/23

r – 3/24 – Meet at Brunnier Gallery

WEEK ELEVEN
T – 3/30
• Readings: Laurel Scott, Thomas Sloan, Jill Thomasson, and Alan Ferden
• Discuss Cisneros
• Write: One-page analysis of one Cisneros poem [CR]
• Write: One Brenda Jones’ poem. Bring: Seven copies of poem for discussion.
r – 4/1
• No class – group meeting.


WEEK TWELVE
T – 4/6
• No class – group meeting.
r – 4/8
• No class – group meeting.