P O E T RY
| F I C T I O N | E S S AY S | R E V I E W S
WINTER 2010 ISSUE | V
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CO M F O RTA B LY E C L E C T I C S I N C E 1 9 4 8
The Carolina Quarterly is published three times per year at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Subscription rates are $18 per year to individuals and $21 to institutions. Current single issues, back issues, and sample copies are $6 each. Remittance must be made by money order or check payable in U.S. funds. Numbers issued before Volume 21 (1969) can be ordered from Kraus *b ² ½ ¢V * ½b ÏÏV É YV 5 Ïps¹¢ O² o ²b ² YÂO½ n µ u b 8²½ O bµ 8 Y µµÂbµ O8 Fb F½8 bY n² - Èb²µ ½Ë O² o µ ½b² 8½ 8 V ¾ÏÏ ¢ 7bbF * 8YV РвF ²V sg Ϲ¢ The Carolina Quarterly Éb O bµ µÂF µµ µ n  ÂF µ}bY oO½ V b½²ËV oO½ V F ²bÈ bɵV 8 Y u²8 } O 8²½¢ 8 µO² ½µ 8 Y bY ½ ² 8 ² business correspondence should be addressed to the appropriate genre editor at The Carolina QuarterlyV ²bb 8É 8 ¾pÁÏV - Èb²µ ½Ë n ²½}
8² 8V }8 b V Á¸p ¾pÁÏ¢ 8 µO² ½ O8 Fb ²b½Â² bY ² query answered unless accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed envelope; no responsibility for loss or damage will be assumed. We are also now accepting submissions through our website. We do not review manuscripts during the months of May, June, July, and August; for manuscripts submitted during the rest of the year, please allow four to six months for response. The Carolina Quarterly µ YbÊbY ½}b *bÈ bÉ YbÊV ( b Yb²V YbÊ ½ (b² Y O8 O½ V  8 ½ bµ ½b² 8½ 8 b½bV 8 Y ½}b Ð Â8 Bibliography of English Language and Literature. Member Coordinating Council n ½b²8²Ë 8u8Î bµ¢ ++ ÏÏÏg ¹¸ ¸¢ F²8²Ë n u²bµµ O8½8 uÂb O8²Y  Fb² pÁÏ s¾p¢
ABOVE | Trick Candles COVER | What You Lookin At?
Photography by Corey Butler
O N L I N E AT
FICTION EDITORS Matthew Luter Ricky Werner FICTION READERS Kate Attkisson Ben Bolling Catalina Rivera Catherine Rierson Susan Thananopavarn Zackary Vernon FICTION INTERNS Sarah Smith Jordan Wingate
www.theca r o l i n a q u a r ter l y. co m
POETRY EDITOR Rachel Berry POETRY READERS Katie Bowler Henry Kearney 8² b b (² Ob 8½½ ( Ybʽb² MANAGING EDITOR Hannah Bonner ART EDITOR (} O bb
Evan Gurney | E D I TO R- I N - C H I E F
FOUNDED IN 1948 AT T H E U N I V E R S I T Y O F N O RT H C A R O L I N A – C H A P E L H I L L
CONTENTS WINTER 2010 | V
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P O E T RY 7
MELANIE McCABE | Imperatives
8
PATRICK PHILLIPS | The House Without You
To My Father, at 70
32
KATE DOUGHERTY | Tell me how you say it. Tell me how to tell it
33
RON McFARLAND | Rumspringa
37
ROCCO de GIACOMO | Comma
38
MICHAEL MARTIN | Three Seconds of Bright Light
39
STEPHEN COUGHLIN | Bodywork
42
THEODORE WOROZBYT | Whole
53
JOHN SAMUEL TIEMAN | Untitled Tanka
55
CHRISTOPHER SHIPMAN | Hernando’s Hideaway
64
MARTIN ARNOLD | Out West
65
JOAN SIEGEL | Bogeymen
67
MATTHEW LANY | The Great Me
68
K. A. HAYS | To Mindless Forces
FICTION 13
CLARENCE SMITH | Flatline
35
WILEY CASH | Bottle Rocket
43
DANIEL LIBMAN | This Is Something Intrinsic
56
JULIALICIA CASE | Predictions
INTERVIEW 71
STUART DYBEK | “I’m Most Comfortable with the Eclectic”
REVIEWS 84
RACHEL BERRY | Unmentionables
87
HENRY KEARNEY | The Border Kingdom
FË b½} Ð b b Ë by D. Nurkse
A RT 6
FRANCISCA ULLOA | Give Me 20
11
FRANCESCO COLAZINGARI | Model of the Year
12
STEVE GARRY | Sun Beds
31
ADRIAN CLARK | Stethoscope
34
JEFFREY SMITH | Schwinn
41
KATLIN LEWIS | Rosary
54
FLÓRA SOÓS | Untitled
63
MARK RAMSAY | Flat Hand
66
VIRGINIA ALEKSIEV | Jump!
69
JONNY WHITE | Birling Gap
83
CHICAGOATNIGHT | b ,²8 Ð ² 8O} u b8O µob Y
86
JOHN L AMBERT PE ARSON | Chairs and Tables
91
LARS P. | Super Rocker
92
Contributors
6
GIVE ME 20 | Francisca Ulloa THE CAROLINA QUARTERLY
M E L A NIE McC ABE
Imperatives *b ½ ½}b 8 ½ ½}b ½O}b µ ¢ ½ }8µ ½u² É the soil you gave it, and its roots hurt. Note how the longer runners have forgotten which way to go and strain now for the tap or the dishwater. Snap them out of their misery. Save what you can. Wipe the dust from surfaces. Unstack so you can move without topple or dodge. Scour what’s stale with wind that smells of juniper and snow. Open windows even to zero and claim its sting. Hang words out to see if they freeze or thaw.
Don’t wait for April, for it will have other plans-pipers in uncurling leaves, lilacs to ache you, wet earth to tease you from the house. Call a sweep to scrape the creosote from your chimney bricks and send ½}b µ½8² uµ µb8²O} n bÉ bµ½µ¢ u}½ 8 o²b¢ 8u b ½}b Y²b8 µ b b b µb µ }8È u¢ 3 Yb² É}Ë } µ Yµ F8²b Ë q O b² F½ } µ buµ q8 V 8 Y É}Ë in the morning, the blankets are on your side. Stop taking into your own lungs all of the moonlight that splits the dark. Leave some. See what he does with it.
MELANIE McCABE
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SUN BEDS | Steve Garry THE CAROLINA QUARTERLY
C L A RE N CE SMITH
Flatline Mrs. Hammond dyes her hair black. She wears rings on µbÈb n ½b o ub²µV Ybµ ½b É}8½ 8 b8²µ ½ Fb Y µou² u arthritis. She removes her designer sunglasses to let me look into her eyes. She has lost both breasts to cancer, and while µ½b u ½ }b² }b8²½V 8Ob Ë µ½b½} µO b Èb² b n ½}b scars. ¬ ½¯µ Ë F8O V µ}b µ8˵¢ ¬3}b²b Y bµ ½ }²½¨ µ8Ë 8µ ²Â Ë o ub²µ Y É ½}b curve of her spine. ¬* u}½ ½}b²bV µ}b µ8˵V É O u¢ q ½}² Âu} }b² O}8²½V 8 ½} O F Yb² n ² u²bµµ ½bµV discharge summaries, and lab values. A surgeon’s barely legible note consists almost entirely of abbreviations. The black letters, haphazard lines and curves, remind me of the snippets of suture ½}8½ n8 ½}b q ² n ½}b b²8½ u ² ¢ ½ É ½8 b }8 n 8 } ²V 8½ b8µ½V n ² }b² o µ ½ O b F8O V µ µ½² ½ ½}b  ub n ² 8 O n O nnbb¢ b u bÉ ½ ½}b ²8O½ Ob n ½b² 8 bY O bV }8Èb µ½²Âuu bY ½ 8½½²8O½ 8 µ½b8YË q É n 8½ b ½µ¢ É Â Y YbµO² Fb Ë ½Ë O8 É ² Y8Ë as a ten-hour period of inactivity punctuated by occasional b ½µ n Y O½ ² u¢ 8 } u b n ½}b Yb² ½b² µ½µV upon retiring, might shunt his invalid brood in my direction. ½}b  ub b O  ½b² ²½ bËV 8 F²Â b½½b Yb ËbY FË one of the pharmaceutical companies. ¬5 ¯²b 8 É8˵ µ½ µ½8 Y u 8²  YV µ}b µ8˵ ½ b¢ ¬ ½} Âu}½ Y O½ ²µ É ² bY }8²Y¢ ¬ ½¯µ Fbb 8 µ É Ëb8²V µ8Ë¢ ¬Ð µ É YbO8YbV É ½}8½ ½} 8F ½ ½¢ ¬ ²¢ ½b µ b Ë Â ÂµbY ½ Fb 8 o 8 b²V µ}b µ8˵¢ ¬ u8Èb ½ Ë Fbµ½ µ} ½¢ While she talks about her drug, an anti-depressant called +½8 no V Y ub 8 b²È µ }8F ½ n O} u ½}b ²ÂFFb² tubing of my stethoscope. C L A R E N C E S M I TH
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W IL E Y C A SH
Bottle Rocket É8µ µbÈb Ëb8²µ Y É}b n  Y Ë u²8 Y 8 µ ½½ u ½}b } ½}8½ Èb² bY } µ µ½ ²b¢ µ}bY Ë F b  ½}b path that ran behind the wooden building and up into the high u²8µµ¢ ² É}b²b }b µ8½V Ë Â O  Y µbb ½}b ½É 8 b } u}É8Ë that wound like an artery through the mountains on its way down to Greenville. The Blue Ridge loomed in the distance. My grandpa was sixty-seven. He wore a straw hat and a white shirt with buttons down the front. His jeans were rolled up, and his bright-white ankles shined like quartz rock before disappearing into his loafers. He leaned back on his hands and O² µµbY } µ buµ ½ n² ½ n } ¢ 8 Y Ë F b ½}b u²8µµ beside him and sat down. He didn’t look at me. ¬5  µbb ½}b µ b ² µ bF YË ½ Y Ë Â¨ ¬+ bF YË ½ Y bV µ8 Y¢ His store sat down the hill below us, and we watched as little flames leapt up from the bleached pine. A bottle rocket shot from the smoke and zoomed over our heads into the trees behind us. The sign out by the highway said “Stateline ²bÉ ² µ¢ (8 ½bY  Yb² ½}8½ Éb²b ½}b É ²Yµ ¬ 8µ½ }8 Ob ½ +½ ¢ ¬ Y ¯½ uÂbµµ }8Èb ½ ½b Ë Â } É ½} µ bµµ u ½ µ½8²½bYV }b µ8 Y¢ ¬ ²bO Ë Â É ½ É8µ b 8¯µ F Ë¢ b µ½ O  Y ¯½ bb } µ }8 Yµ nn ½}b u YY8 bY µ 8² b²µ¢ É8µ ¯½ ½ ½}b²b µµ u n ² ½É ½bµ 8 Y É}b O8 b F8O ½}8½ É} b Y µ 8Ë É8µ F² u¢ b¯Y Y b ²Â nn 8 Y bÉ ½ Éb²b ¯½ F½ 8 µbO Y Fbn ²b ½}b É} b ½} u¯Y u  ¢ Ë Y O  Y µbb * FFË É8½O} u Ë u²8 Yn8½}b² disappear around the side of the building before trying to light a few sparkler sticks. Sparklers were fascinating to him. He was a good bit older than me, but he had the mind of a little boy. He worked in my grandpa’s store sometimes. His momma, Della, was friends with my folks before her boyfriend shot her while he was drunk. WILEY CASH
35
¬3}b²b¯µ }b 8½ ɨ 8µ bY Ë u²8 Y 8¢ ¬ Y ¯½ É¢ 3}b O b F8O 8²  Y µbb } ²Â u 8O² µµ ½}b ² 8Y ½ ½ ½}b É Yµ¢ ¬5  É8 ½ b ½ u n ² } ¨ ¬ ¢ b¯ Fb 8 ² u}½¢ We sat and watched the flames die down, and then we watched the sun sink slowly through the clouds and hide behind the mountain. The fire hissed and popped below us. A low rumble of thunder echoed across the sky. ¬5  u u ½ O8 ½}b n ²b ½²ÂO ¨ 8µ bY¢ ¬ ¢ ,}b²b¯µ 8 µ½ ² O u¢ ²bO ½}8½¯ ½8 b O8²b n it. We better get on home before your momma hears about this and starts to worry. We’ll wait until tomorrow to start figuring ½ ½¢ ¬3}8½ 8F ½ * FF˨ “This rain’ll chase him out of the woods, and he’ll come Y²8uu u Èb² ½ ½}b } µb b ½} u }8 b bY¢ My grandfather stood and wiped the grass from the seat of his pants. His silhouette threw a shadow over me, and µ½b bY ½ ½}b ½} Yb² 8 Y É8½O}bY ½}b É Y Èb ½}² Âu} the treetops. We took the path down the hill to the spot where ½}b É Yb F Y u }8Y Fbb 8 } ² Fbn ²b¢ n ²u ½ Ë bike, and ran back up the hill to get it.
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T H EOD ORE WOROZBY T
Whole Ðn½b² µ u ½}b 8² 8Ë µ bb u n ² Y8˵ 8 Y ½}b Éb ½ Y É to the river. To wash my body seeing my dog run and the spittle u ½½b² } µ ÂÎÎ b¢ Ð ² É n ½} µ½8 bµ }8Y  bY n² ½}b grass and hidden well had been replaced with freshly numbered markers. The ribbons scarving trees were pink. X’s were painted on the fountains. There was no point in touching them. We crouched, } µ q8 É8² V Fb} Y 8 }Âub  8½bY u8ÎbF ² nbY É ½} crimson tin. Too many fags using the old one, a man with a heavy beard had said at a party. A yellow caterpillar shrieked and swal ÉbY F ÂbF ²Yµ É} b¢ ½ µO bY  ½Â²½ b ½²8O µ 8 Y Yµ½² µ colonies and then it started in on the bank. A small crowd of men stood silent, nomadic, sipping steam as it chewed at roots. When nb ½ ½}b É Y Fbb½ b O²8É ½ b bY Y É ½ µ½² b ½}b glossy back, to pick up wings by the sheaths and feel the tug of barbed legs as they clung. My dog sank his muzzle onto my thigh. My knee cracked, giving us away.
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FL AT H AN D | Mark Ramsay
JULIALICIA CASE
63
K . A . HAYS
To Mindless Forces
68
who tumble all the stones along the shore n 8 Fb µ 8 YV smacking glass with sand until the cutting edge µ n² µ½V ¯ ½b u you—for whom all wars and ages are a day’s grind— to go on grinding. + ½} 8 Y q u me now with what Ë Â q u Fbn ²b¢ This way the prayer is answered if not heard. The sea heaves Y F Ë F½ can speak. Sea, take this shore and the whole New Brunswick coast. O8 Ë Â² ½8 u o b¢
THE CAROLINA QUARTERLY
BIRLIN G GA P | Jonny White
K . A . H AYS
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INTERVIEW
“I’m Most Comfortable with the Eclectic” A CO N V E R S AT I O N W I T H ST U A RT DY B E K
+½Â8²½ ËFb j ½}b 8½} ² n ½}²bb F µ n oO½ } µ µ½ recent work, +8 bY 3 ½} 8ub 8 , was a New York Times Notable Book) and two collections of poetry, and the recipient of numerous awards – arrived in Chapel Hill in late October as a visiting lecturer in the UNC Living Writers curriculum. He is the Distinguished Writer in Residence at Northwestern University and a member of the permanent faculty for Western Michigan University’s Prague Summer Program. Ðn½b² ²bµ Y u Èb² 8 Y Y8Ë O 8µµ n  Yb²u²8YÂ8½b oO½ writers, and just before he was scheduled to read his work to a rapt audience in UNC’s Dialectic Hall, he sat down with CQ’s editor Evan Gurney and poetry editor Rachel Berry to discuss a variety of topics: favorite writers and favorite readings, the craft n ɲ ½ u b½²Ë 8 Y oO½ V ½}b 8²½ 8 Y b²8½ Èb n u Y ½b8O} uV bÈb µ b n ½}b o b² ½µ n n Y 8 Y O u¢
SD: }8Èb Ybb 8nnbO½ n ² Ë Â² 8u8Î bV FbO8µb ½ É8µ b n ½}b b8² bµ½ 8Obµ ÂF µ}bY 8 Y b n ½}b µ½ prestigious at the time. EAG [presenting Dybek with copy of the Spring 1971 issue in which his work appeared]: We were going to ask you 8F ½ ½} µb b µ¢ n8O½V Éb F² Âu}½ ½}8½ µµÂb ½ }b jog your memory. SD: ¬3 ½b²¢¢¢ } YV ½}8½ b ¢ ɲ ½b ½ ½}b É ½b² ÈbY ½ É8 8n½b² È u ½}b 2 ²u µ 8 Yµ n ² ½É Ëb8²µ¢ µ½ }8Èb ½} µ µµÂb¢ EAG: And here’s the newest incarnation. The design has changed a bit.
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SD: Yes, Evan was telling me that the Quarterly does indeed still publish writers at the starts of the careers. RB: Absolutely. SD: Most every magazine claims to, but not a lot actually do so consistently. RB: 5 ¯²b u È u 8 ²b8Y u 8½b² ½ u}½¢ µ ½}8½ µ b½} u ½}8½ you look forward to or more something that just comes with the territory? SD: Ob²½8 Ë n ²É8²Y ½ ½} µ b¢ ¯Èb }8Y 8 u²b8½ ½ b Chapel Hill. The Carolina Quarterly µ }b²b¢ (8 ²F8 µ }b²b¢ +}b 8 Y u F8O ½ Five Points¢ ½} Âu}½ µ}b É8µ a brilliant editor. RB: 5 ¯Èb Fbb µÂOObµµn ÂF µ} u F ½} oO½ 8 Y b½²ËV which is pretty rare. As a short story writer and a poet, do Ë Â b Ë ²b8Y u b ²b ½}8 ½}b ½}b²¨ µ b ²b n 8 performance — the dialogue of story, the rhythm of a poem? SD: 3b V ½ Yb b Yµ b8O} Y È YÂ8 bOb¢ ½} oO½ µV for bV b8µ b² ½ ²b8Y¢ 3}b O8 V ½b Y ½ bb b µ µ} ²½V 8 Y that very shortness requires more attention to the arrangement of the reading, how much you say in between poems. Reading 8 µ½ ²ËV É}8½ É ²²Ë 8F ½ µ n8½ u u ½}b 8ÂY b Ob¢ RB: Any readings you’ve seen that stand out above the others? SD: Many, many years ago, Seamus Heaney, before he had really come to the prominence he deserved — this was F8O ½}b ®¸Ïµ i µ} ÉbY  O} u8 É ½} 8 Èb²Ë o b folk singer and they gave an evening’s reading of Heaney’s b µ n ÉbY FË ½}b n µ ub²¯µ ² µ} µ uµ¢ ½ É8µ b n ½}b µ½ Fb8½ n ²b8Y uµ ¯Èb bÈb² Fbb ½ V 8 Y F YË wanted it to stop. And then a reading that Milosz did in Michigan, in fact his entire visit, was just unforgettable. He’s a great reader of poems, not just of his poems, but of poetry. He had a wonderful way of reading from the inside ½¢ É8µ 8½ 8 ²b8Y u +½8 bË u8Èb 8 ËV 8 Ë Ëb8²µ 8u V 8 Y }b  bY nn µ b½} u ½} Èb²Ë nbÉ b b would be able to — he read a novella. RB: Wow. 72
THE CAROLINA QUARTERLY
SD: He probably read for two hours, and it was spellbinding. Those three come jumping out. RB: As they should. As a writer of poetry and prose, you have not only to decide between the paragraph and the stanza, F½ 8 µ Fb½Ébb ½}b 8 Ë n ² µ É ½} b8O} ub ²b¢ µ the decision of form ever an issue for you when writing about certain subjects? Do you think the subject chooses ½}b n ² V ² ½}b n ² ½}b µÂF bO½¨ É8µ ½b²bµ½bY ½ µbb 8 ½}b ² µb b½²Ë i ½}b b ¬ ² b 8 Y ( µ} b ½V for instance, did that begin as a prose poem? SD: ½} ½ Y Y¢ ½¯µ ½  µÂ8 n ² b ½ µ½8²½ b ub ²b 8 Y }8Èb ½ b Y  8 ½}b²¢ ½} }8Èb 8 ½b Yb OË ½ ½8 b ½}b o²µ½ µ½b Èb²Ë n½b Èb²µbV FbO8µb ½}b ½bµ keep are usually in lines for whatever reason. So it’s natural to start a piece in lines based on these little snippets in my notebooks. RB: Y Ë Â Fbu ɲ ½ u b ² ½}b ½}b² o²µ½¨ SD: V 8 É8˵ Y Y ½}b µ  ½8 b µ Ë¢ RB: So you generally begin a piece in verse, but what about endings, what do you look for in an ending — surprise, summation? Do you more often cut an ending from a draft or add on? SD: Y ¯½ É8 ½ ½ µb ½}b É ²Y ¬È µ V FbO8µb ½¯µ ½ ² 8 ½ O É ½} 8 O8 ½8 ¬*V F½ É}b 8 bOb µ µ½ Ë É ² uV ub½ µ b Y n u n } É ½¯µ u u ½ end. And when that happens, that’s usually the ending that sticks. When that doesn’t happen, then writing the story ub½µ Y n µO8²ËV FbO8µb ÂO} ²bnb² ½ }8Èb ½}8½ ½8²ub½ 8 b8² 8n½b² ¯ Ybb ½ ½¢ ²8²b OO8µ µ }8Èb ½}b ½8²ub½ 8½ ½}b µ½8²½¢ Ð Y 8 ½ n ½ bµ o Y ½ ¯ ɲ u 8F ½ ½¢ ¯ u Èb Ë Â b ¬n ² µ½8 Ob¢ 3}b ¬(b½ started with a guy drinking coffee and watching the snow, µ½V É ½} ½ O µ Yb² u ½ Èb²Ë ÂO}V 8µµÂ bY ½}8½ ½ would be one of these circular stories, what’s sometimes called a frame story, and would return, at the end, to the guy watching the snow. But something happened in the
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telling of the story that made me realize that wasn’t the best µ½²8½buË¢ ½¯µ ²b8 Ë Y n }8²Y ½ ub b²8 ÎbV FbO8µb ½}b b Y u µ nb ½ 8 È µOb²8 bÈb ¢ µÂ8 Ë ½²Ë ½ ½ ½} the ending out too early in the piece. EAG: You were talking earlier in the Living Writers class you visited about the notion of surrender and giving yourself up to the process of writing and letting something happen, so it’s interesting to hear about also having a target in mind and having some sense of control once you’re already in. ½¯µ 8 F ½ n F8 8 O u 8O½¢ SD: 3b V ½¯µ 8 ½8²ub½ ½}8½ ½}b µ½ ²Ë }8µ u Èb b¢ ½}b² É ²YµV ¯ ½ µ u ½}b b Y u ½}b µ½ ²Ë· 8F ½ two-thirds of the way in, the story’s talking back to me and µ8Ë u ¬}b²b¢ ½ ½}8½ µ8 YV É µ8Ë ½}8½ nn ½}b 8ubV É} b ¯ ²b8Y u ² ½8 u ² ½} uV Y n bb ½²8O n Y nnb²b ½ Yµ n b Y uµ¢ n½b ½b Ë µ½ÂYb ½µ ½}8½ it’s not a bad idea to pay attention to all the different ways ½}bË ½ Ob µ½ ² bµ b Y u¢ b ½} u ½}8½ n ² 8 b Y u i Y ¯½ ½²Ë ½ 8 Ân8O½Â²b ½V F½ ¯ 8É8²b n ½ when it happens — is that frequently there’s some signal to the reader that the story is going to end, and it’s like a shift in gears. And when you feel that shift in gears, then you know you probably have an ending that’s going to work. ¯Èb µ8 Y ½} µ ½}b² ½b²È bɵV F½ ½}b O 8µµ O b µ ½}b epiphanic ending — usually this is a story that has been in the narrative mode and switches to the lyrical mode. And ½}b ²b8Yb² O8 nbb ½}8½¢ ² ½}8½ ½ É ² 8 ub  b way, something has had to happen in the narrative that’s generated that shift. EAG: Authenticity comes from something beyond mere mechanics, then? SD: ²b b Fb² ,bµµ 8 8u}b² µ8Ë u b ½ bV 8 8 b 8½ Syracuse, that she was distrustful of the epiphanic ending, because as a poet it was so easy for her (and she used this Èb²F ½ ¬ ˲ O }b² É8Ë Â½ n µ b½} u¢ Ð Y ½} µ}b had a good point.
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CQ SP RIN G 197 1 | Dybek’s poem “Winter” ST U A RT DY B E K
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RB: ,}b Yb8 n OÂbµ µ 8 ½b²bµ½ u b¢ ½}b µ½ ²Ë ¬+ uV ½}b O}8²8O½b² - O b bn½Ë Èbµ Âb µ 8 Y ÐÈb Âb¢ 3}Ë did you choose a real street? Do you think that you’re in some way cuing the reader that if the places are real, the stories may be more real than we think? SD: ¯Èb n²b§Âb ½ Ë O} µb ²b8 µ½²bb½µ¢ ½}b ½}b² }8 Y wouldn’t hesitate to include a made-up street in a story with ²b8 µ½²bb½µ n ½}b²b Éb²b 8 ²b8µ ½ Y µ ¢ 3}Ë Y Y O Âb µ 8 Y¨ ½ É8µ K 8Âu} uL É}b²b }b ÈbY¢ ½ ½}b²b 8²b ½}b² ²b8µ µ¢ ¯Èb u ÈbY ½}b 8 b n ½}8½ µ½²bb½ i 8µ 8 O} Y ÈbY ½}b 8 b n ½V 8 Y 8µ µ 8µ O  Y b8Èb ½}b O ½Ë 8 Y ½²8Èb V ½}b o²µ½ 8Ob ½²8Èb bY ½ Éb²b µ 8 Yµ¢ ¯Èb µ½ u ½ 8 ½} u n ² µ 8 Yµ 8 Y ½} ½ µ½8²½bY É ½} the beautiful name of that street that seemed to promise so much, but when you actually look at it, it’s not blue and it’s not an island. RB: É8µ ²b8Y u 8F ½ ½}b O ½Ë¯µ } µ½ ²Ë 8 Y ½ µ8 Y ½}8½ É}b µb½½ b²µ 8²² ÈbY ½}bË n  Y F Âb q Éb²µ ½}b²b¢ SD: There are a million different stories about it … some people ²bµO² Fb ½ ½ ½}b Âb µ 8 Y Y 8 µ¢ ½} F YË Éµ¢ RB: ½}b b ¬ 8²O µµ µ½ Éb µbb 8 ½}b²  O b¢ ,} µ b ²b 8½}b½ O¢ µ ½ b8µ b² ½ ɲ ½b 8 ½²Âb²V b²}8 µ }8²µ}b² version of someone in verse? Do you ever feel protected by the fact that fewer people are going to read a book of poems versus a book of short stories? SD: ,}b 8½½b² Ybo ½b Ë¢ Ob²½8 Ë É µ} ½}8½ É8µ ¯½ ½}b O8µb¢ µ ½ b8µ b²¨ ½}  O bµ 8²b µ u}½ O µ ½bµ 8 Y 8²b ²b8 ËV in a sense, the same imaginative guy: the childless uncle who presents an alternative reality to the order of the household and who is at once a lesson in how easy it is to become a loser and at the same time a lesson as to why one might want to break the rules. There’s always that attraction 8 Y 8 8 F È8 b Ob ½ ½¢ Y ¯½ É ½}8½ ½¯µ b8µ b² ½ ɲ ½b 8 ²½²8 ½ Èb²µb ½}8 oO½ V F½ Ë Â }8Èb µ b Y nnb²b ½ ½ µ 8È8 8F b ½ Ë Â¢ O½ µÂ8 Ë 8nn ²Yµ you more length, and characterization often thrives given
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a broader canvas, so that something like a novel is one of the ultimate vehicles for complex, in-depth, span-of-a-life O}8²8O½b² Î8½ ¢ ½¯µ ÂO} }8²Yb² n ² 8 b ½ Y ½}8½V F½ µµ F b¢ n FË 8 ²½²8 ½ Ë Â b8 µ b½} u µb n contained, economical, and sharp, then certainly a poem is ²b O8 8F b n Y u ½}8½¢ ¯ ½ µ µÂ²b } É n8µ} 8F b it is in American poetry right now to do something like a O}8²8O½b² b ¢ n b µ 8 Ë É8Ë O Ob² bY É ½} n8µ} V which might extend to how publishable a piece is, then that É Â Y Fb 8 ½b²8²Ë F½ 8 ²b8 É ² Y O µ Yb²8½ ¢ ¯ guessing since you asked the question, that so far as The Carolina Quarterly you’re just looking for a poem you like and could care less how fashionable it is. EAG: n ½¯µ 8 u Y b V ½¯µ 8 u Y b ¢ SD: There certainly are plenty of publications that want something that is a little more elliptical and less direct than sometimes a character portrait wants to be. RB: Streets in Their Own Ink, in the second poem in the book, 8 ub²V µbO½ 8 b O8 bY ¬Ð½ F u²8 }ËV b8O} n ½}b b µbO½ µ µ 8F ½ b ½ b bÈb bµ 8 Y ½}b o 8 section is fourteen. What does the American sonnet do best and are you interested in that? SD: 5bµV Èb n ² V 8 Y ½}b²b 8²b 8O½Â8 Ë µbÈb²8 n ²½bb b²µ } YYb ½}8½ F ¢ ² bV ½ u bµ F8O ½ ½}8½ ½ n O µÂ²bV ½}b o 8 µ b½ µ u 8 µ O µÂ²b ½}8½ particular poem. RB: Do you try out more form than actually appears in your books of poems? Any general thoughts on formalism and authenticity? SD: ½¯µ 3 8 8² µ 3 8 µV n O ²µbV É} ²b 8 µ µ½ Yb ½ obY É ½} ½}b Yb8 n ɲ ½ u 8 Ð b² O8 b American, a notion that goes back at least to Whitman and Emerson, and that allows for Beatnik poetry, the New 5 ² +O} V (² bO½ Èb 2b²µbV b½Ob½b²8¢ Ð Ð b² O8 b is associated with an open poem. That idea remains more ½}8 b²b Ë } µ½ ² O8 Ë ²½8 ½V F½ µ½ O nbµµ that to me, this seems a controversy and a conversation
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½}8½ Éb ½ Fbn ²b Ë ½ b¢ bÈb² nb ½ ½}b ²bµµÂ²b ½ µÂFµO² Fb b É8Ë ² ½}b ½}b²¢ ½} É}8½¯µ }8 b bY to American poetry is that there were so many –isms and divided camps that writers had the choice of joining one or ½}b ½}b²V ² n Fb u b Fb²µV n Fb u bO bO½ O¢ ¯ µ½ O n ²½8F b É ½} ½}b bO bO½ O¢ ,}b²b¯µ n ² 8 b½²Ë ½} µ u²b8½V 8 Y b b½²Ë 8µ Éb ¢ 3}b µ ½ Y É ½ ɲ ½bV ¯ ½b²bµ½bY ½}b Y È YÂ8 bOb ²8½}b² ½}8 8µO² F u ½ µ b Èb b ½ ² ½}b²¢ ½} Ë Â O8 have a personal vision, an independent voice that kind of overarches divisions such as formal and open. RB: µbO½ ½É n Brass Knuckles, you write about a svengali, one who makes people do what they truly desire. What, as 8 ɲ ½b²V É Â Y 8 µÈb u8 Y ½ Ë Â¨ µ ½}b²b 8 ˽} u Ë Â would never write about? SD: É Â Y } b ½V F½ 8 µ ²Âµ} ½ 8YY ½}8½ É}b 8 ɲ ½b² is put in a position where he really wants to write about something, but for whatever reason — legal, moral, fear, shame, friendship, loyalty — feels he can’t write about it, that’s what coding is for. What coding brings from you is a level of invention. One of the grandest examples of coding in the twentieth century is in the work of Eugene Montale. ½8 bV Fb u 8 }b² b½ O b½V É8µ 8 8½Â²8 O Yb²¢ ½¯µ generally agreed that much of his major poetry concerns two women, and Montale himself has been quoted as saying that his entire body of work is an autobiographical novel and that he is at heart, essentially, a love poet. And yet if you pick up Montale and try to put together some kind of gossipy take on him, you’d have to be a scholar detective and you still could never be sure. So long as you have the ability to invent and the desire to use it, you can write about anything. EAG: Along those lines, censorship can necessitate imaginative artistry. SD: ½ }8µ Èb² 8 Y Èb²¢ ,8 b ½}b u²b8½ ( µ} ² 8 µ½ É} wrote the phenomenal book about Ethiopia, one of the most 8Y ²bY oO½ ɲ ½b²µ n ½}b ½Éb ½ b½} Ob ½Â²Ë i *˵Î8²Y Kapuscinski. He went to all these different faraway places, but 78
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8 µb µb }b É8µ 8 É8˵ ɲ ½ u 8F ½ ( 8 Y¢ b¯µ b n many, many examples of writers who’ve had to do that. EAG: É Ë Â¯²b 8µ bY 8 ½ 8F ½ µ O Ë Â² ɲ ½ uV F½ É8µ µ½²ÂO 8µ½ u}½ 8½ Y b²V ½8 u 8F ½ ²8V and also in reading through your work, you seem to attach an importance to food. Your story about brisket made my ½} É8½b²¢ ¬,}b (8 8½µ 8 ¢ ,}b ²bµ½8²8 ½ µOb b ¬(b½ ¢ É Yb²bY n Ë Â O  Y ½8 8 ½½ b 8F ½ n Y and writing. SD: 3b V ɲ ½ u 8µ Yb n ² 8 b ½V n8µ} ˵b n 8 F ½ n 8 O ¢ u²bÉ Â 8 n8 Ë ½}8½ µbb bY ½ Fb FµbµµbY FË ½}b µÂF bO½¢ n ¯ ½ ½8 u É ½} Ë F² ½}b²µ 8 Y O µb n² b Yµ 8F ½ µ OV ½}b ½}b µÂF bO½ µ ² F8F Ë oµ} u ² O uV 8 Y ¯ ½ µÂ²b É}b²b b µ½ µ 8 Y ½}b ½}b² µ½8²½µ¢ EAG: The two often go hand in hand. SD: As in any number of households and many immigrant cultures, food is a measure, a conveyor of culture, and it’s also a nonverbal way that affection is communicated, which is really important in immigrant households where the grandparents are speaking a language different from ½}b u²8 Y Yµ¢ Ë n8 Ë É}b²b Ë n8½}b² É8µ 8 8½ Èb ( µ} µ b8 b² 8 Y Ë u²8 Y ½}b² µ b ½½ b u µ}V we could always communicate via food. The words for n Y Éb²b n½b ( µ}V 8 Y n8O½ ½}b É ²Yµ É almost any language are the words for ordering off a menu. ½ ½}b ½}b² ½} u µ ½}8½ n Y }8µ ½} µ µb µÂ8 §Â8 ½Ë¢ always think the medium of language is the least sensual medium because it’s abstract in a way none of the others are. And my desire is always to swim against the current; }Âub Ë 8Y ²b ɲ ½b²µ b bO b½½ É} YbÈ µbY ub µ ways to use the abstraction, but my heart is really with Nabokov and Calvino who defy abstration. Hemingway’s a great food writer — a phenomenal food writer. + ½} ½}8½ µ b½ bµ É}b Ë Â }8Èb 8 8bµ½}b½ O desire it expresses itself in the subject matter, so that if you want to make something sensual it’s not surprising if music, sex, and food are going to be reappearing subjects, ST U A RT DY B E K
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because all three are highly sensual experiences. To express that kind of sensuality you’re after in language, the subject matter itself becomes a part of the form, so to speak. É µ} }8Y F² Âu}½ ½ ²b8Y ½ Y8Ë 8 µ½ ²Ë µ½ o µ}bYV É} O} µ O8 bY ¬2 u V F½ ½¯µ ²b8 Ë 8F ½ 8 }² µ½ 8µ carp — it’s entirely about food. And there’s this wonderful bOb FË µ88O 8Fb V b n Ë n8È ² ½b ɲ ½b²µ¢ н ½}b b Y n b n } µ µ½ ² bµ ¬*bY 8 È8²ËV 8n½b² u²Âbµ b ou}½ uV ½}b Y µu²8ObY 8²²8½ ² }8µ Fbb 8µµ u bY ½ É ² with the cook, who hands him the treasure of a shriveled 8 b 8 Y µ8˵V ¬ 8½V O ²8YbV b8½¢ b8 uU 5  O8 Èb to eat, but you must eat to live. EAG: You mentioned earlier that you decided early on to be 8 bYÂO8½ ²· É8µ É Yb² u } É Ë Â o Y Ë Â² nb 8µ 8 educator and writer overlap and whether you’re aiming for an educative moment for your readers. SD: ½} ½}b ²bÈ8 b Ob n µ½ ² bµ 8F ½ O} Y²b O bµ ½ n ½}8½  µb i ɲ ½b 8 ²Y 8½b 8  ½ 8F ½ O} Y²b ¢ ¬,}b u ,} Âu}½µV É} O} µ F8µbY µ b½} u ½}8½ happened, one theme keeps reasserting itself: how these kids seem to have been abandoned or let down by a dumb education. And how different school is from education, how 8 ½ ½}b½ O8 ½ O8 Fb ½ bYÂO8½ ¢ ¯Èb ½8Âu}½ Ë É} b nbV ²b8 ËV 8 Y O b n² ½}8½ b² ub b²8½ V É} ¯Èb had a different attitude towards the profession of teaching. ½ É8µ Ob n8µ} 8F b ½ Y µY8 ½}b ² b n 8 ½b8O}b²V Ë Â ÉU ¬,} µb É} O8 ɲ ½bV 8 Y ½} µb É} O8 ¯½ ½b8O}¢ The men and women who have been my peer group by and large have not taken that attitude; they’ve taken a pretty caring attitude — they’ve taken it seriously, cared about their students, and felt it’s been a privilege to do it. EAG: ² b ½}b ² b bÊ8 b n u²b8½ ɲ ½ u 8 Y u²b8½ teaching has always been Donald Justice. SD: 8 Y É8µ Ë ½b8O}b²¢ 3}b uÂbµ½ bY ½bY ½}b TriQuarterly, µ} ²½ Ë 8n½b² Y bYV ½² bY ½ 8 b ½ 8 ½½ b ½² F½b¢ ÈbY } µ ½b8O} u¢ ÈbY } µ É ² ¢ b É8µ µ½ 8 É Yb²n 8 ¢ ²b8Y } 8 ½}b ½ b¢ b ÈbY µ O 8 Y Fbu8 ½ 80
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compose again toward the end of his life. The cover of the TriQuarterly uÂbµ½ bY ½bY É8µ µ}bb½ µ O ½}8½ }8Y ɲ ½½b ¢ Ybb Ë 8Y ²bY } É }b O² µµbY F ²Yb²µU }b É8µ qÂb ½ 8 uÂ8ubµV qÂb ½ Y nnb²b ½ bY  µ 8 Y ub ²bµV and did everything with such grace — he was modest, too. With all his engagement with poetry in different languages, the text that he used in the beautiful musical piece he wrote was from Winesburg, Ohio. He saw the poetry in the prose: he thought Winesburg was a masterpiece and loved Sherwood Anderson. And he set Sherwood Anderson to music. Don could write in open forms, he was beautiful in forms, he could make hybrid forms. He was just interested in all the different shapes language could assume on the page. RB: É8 ½bY ½ 8µ Ë Â 8F ½ Ë Â² bÊ b² b Ob ½b8O} u 8 Y interacting with young writers. Do you think their writing or their attitude towards writing has changed over time, or is it pretty much the same? SD: ¯ ½ Ob ½}b Y nnb²b ½ n8Yµ ½}8½ 8²b 8µµ u ½}² Âu} ½}b O 8µµ² · 8½ µ b ½V §Â ½ µbb u Èb²µ µ n Èb²¯µ ¬,}b 8F˵ ½½b² ² 8²Èb²¯µ ¬ 8½}bY²8 ¢ ,}b 8 bÉ thing comes, but you know that there’s always going to Fb 8 ½}b² É8Èb¢ ½ Y bµ ¯½ 8½½b² n ½¯µ 8 µ ² formalism, there will always be another –ism coming along. É ½}8½ Éb¯Èb u ½ 8µ} O½ u uV É Yb² } É u that will last. But other than that, people still have to learn ½}b ½bO} §ÂbµV ou²b ½ } É ½ 8Y8 ½ ½}b ² µ½ ² bµ ½ É}8½ ½}b O²8n½ 8nn ²Yµ ½}b ¢ µÂ µb Éb¯²b 8 u ½ µbb n ½}b È ²½Â8 É ² Y É µ½8²½ 8µµb²½ u ½µb n ½}b 8ubV 8 Y know that there are people who feel it’s already happening, F½ O8 ¯½ µ8Ë ½}8½ ¯Èb ½ ObY ½ µ½ÂYb ½ É ² ¢ EAG: Ð o 8 §Âbµ½ Fbn ²b Ë Â b8Èb n ² Ë Â² ²b8Y uU wanted to ask you about trains. So many of your stories incorporate trains or train tracks. SD: u²bÉ Â 8 b u}F ²} Y ½}8½ }8Y ½²8 µ bÈb²Ë F O i Ë Â Éb ½  Yb² È 8YÂO½µV O² µµbY Èb² ½²8O µV 8 Y ÈbY ½}b ¢ ÈbY ½}b µ  Yµ ½}bË 8Yb· ½}bË Éb²b µ½ O}Âuu u É}b É8µ 8 Y¢ Ð Y Éb ² Yb ½}b · ½}bË Éb²b ST U A RT DY B E K
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like an amusement park ride. At recess we would run for the tracks and jump slow-moving freights that came by. By ½}b ½ b É8µ µ ʽ} u²8Yb bÉ } É ½ ² nn 8 ½²8 V } É ½ } ½ ½}b u²  Y 8 Y ² ¢ 5  b8² n8µ½ 8n½b² ½}b o²µ½ ½ b Ë Â Y ½ ɲ u¢ ÈbY ½}b ½²8 µ F½ 8 µ ÈbY ½}b ½²8O µ FbO8µb ½}bË Éb²b 8 Y n É Yb² bµµ¢ Ð Y didn’t know it at the time, but they were real wilderness. The railroad would buy or lease land, and while they might cut the foliage back from the tracks, there still was wildness on both sides, and they were exciting places and a little dangerous. There were a lot of hobos, some of them people who would have been better in outpatient care, but instead, b 8 ½ n b b É ½} b ½8 ² F b µV Éb²b o Y u ½}b ² way on the fringe of society. Trains were a great adventure that mostly seemed to be ignored by the adult world, except for those who worked on the railroad, but to children they were a constant, wondrous presence. EAG: ,}bË 8 µ 8nn ²Y 8 Ob²½8 µO b n È µ ¢ ,}8½ o 8 µOb b ¬(b½ É}b²b 8 Ë } ² Î µ 8²b q8µ}bYV 8 Y q8µ}bY §Â O Ë i É Yb² n ½}8½ µb½½ u bObµµ ½8½bµ 8 Ob²½8 Y of aesthetic or vision. SD: The train affords you the opportunity to try to mimic it rhythmically. And the image itself is an image of motion — whether it’s a train or a car moving down the road, as with a river, it’s time moving.
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D LINE TR A IN A PP ROAC H I N G B E ACO NS FI EL D STO P | } O8u н u}½ Kq O ²L
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R ACHE L B ERRY
The Whole Woman U N M E NT IO N A B L E S by Beth Ann Fennelly W. W. Norton & Company Â˜Ă g Â?8ub¾¡ _Â˜ÂžÂ˘ÂŽp Â?8Â?b²
b½} Ă?Â?Â? bÂ?Â?b‡‡Ë F8²†¾ ‡€†b 8 Y‘u¢ +b²€‘¾‡Ë¢ Â? }b² ‡8½b¾½ collection, UnmentionablesV bÂ?Â?b‡‡Ë ɲ€½bÂľV ÂŹ3}8½¯¾ 8 ‡€½½‡b Š‘²b sweat from his hand on your ass, / why not stop, drop, and roll, why not climb up on top, / what a view of the moon, what a nice little Â?‘Â?V Âş 8²n 8²n j Âş 8²n 8²n j Âş 8²²‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘ Â&#x;ÂŹ,}b Ă‚YĂŽĂ‚
}²‘Â?€O‡b¾ V 8Â?Y ½}‘Âu} €½¯¾ ɀ‡YV Â?‡8Ă‹n‡V Y²€Â?Â?€Â?u ɀ½} ÂľbĂŠV }b² poetry articulates, in its howl, much more than the primal scream of animal passion. Through autobiography, through mimicry, and ½}²‘Âu} …¾½ 8 ‡€½½‡b b²‘½€O8V bÂ?Â?b‡‡Ë bĂŠÂ?‘¾bÂľ ½}b Ă‚Â?Yb²Fb‡‡Ë ‘n ½}b modern woman, what is often left unsaid. Â? ²b8Y€Â?u Unmentionables, you may be tempted to align each of the book’s seven sections with a different female role. Resist ½}€¾ ²ub¢ Â? ½}b o²¾½ ÂľbO½€‘Â?V n‘² €Â?¾½8Â?ObV €½ ɑ‡Y Fb b8¾Ë ½‘ Âľ8Ă‹ the poet is presenting herself as the everyday woman, who lusts after her students while fretting over the growing gap in her age and theirs, who is a wife traveling by train with her husband in the dark Â?€u}½ 8Â?Y oÂ?YÂľ 8Â?˽}€Â?u F½ ½ËÂ?€O8‡ ²‘Š8Â?Ob¢ ½ €½ ɑ‡Y Fb 8 mistake to dissect the book like this, to separate and distinguish the female characters with which we are presented. Such an approach would diminish the range and complexity of each individual piece. Â? ÂŹ ‘É ,€Â?Â?€Â?uV n‘² bĂŠ8ŠÂ?‡bV bÂ?Â?b‡‡Ë Fbu€Â?Âľ ɀ½} ½bbÂ?8ub }€…€Â?†¾ and, somehow, ends with terrorism: “What would they make of ŠbV ½}b ½b²²‘²€¾½¾V Âş 8Â?Y ½b²²€obY¨ 3‘‡YÂ?¯½ ½}bĂ‹ 8u²bb ÂŻĂˆb u‘½ €½ O‘Š€Â?u¨ Ă?YY²b¾¾€Â?u ½}b Ă‚Â?ÂľÂ?ԠbÂ? nb8² ‘n ½}b Â?‘¾½ +bÂ?½bŠFb² Â˜Â˜Â˝} ɑ²‡YV bÂ?Â?b‡‡Ë ɲ€½bÂľV ÂŹh€½¯¾ ¾½€‡‡ ¾‘ }8²Y Âş ½‘ 8OObÂ?½ ½}8½ Â?b‘Â?‡b É}Â‘ÂŻĂˆb Â?bĂˆb² ÂľbbÂ? Šb ɑ‡Y ‡€†b ½‘ Âľbb Šb Âş Yb8Y¢ €Â?8‡‡ËV 8 Â?‘b½ says it and gets it right. +†€‡‡n‡ €Â? }b² 8Â?Â?²‘Â?²€8½€‘Â? ‘n Â?b²¾‘Â?8b j n²‘Š ŠÂ?²b¾¾€‘Â?€¾½ 84
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painter Berthe Morisot to an impassioned mother with a dirty mind – bÂ?Â?b‡‡Ë Â?Â˛Â‘ĂˆbÂľ …¾½ 8Âľ 8YbÂ?½ 8½ bĂŠÂ?‡‘²€Â?u Â?‡8Ob¢ Â? Â?8²½€O‡8² Éb 8²b presented with the poet’s relationship to Oxford, Mississippi, where she, like kudzu, the subject of a long, sectional poem, is not native F½ ½}Â˛Â€ĂˆÂ€Â?u¢ Â? ÂľbO½€‘Â? g ‘n ÂŹ,}b Ă‚YĂŽĂ‚ }²‘Â?€O‡b¾ 8 }b€u}½bÂ?bY awareness keeps the speaker from truly inhabiting this comparison; Âľ}b bÂ?YÂľ Â?8²8Y‘Ê€O8‡‡Ë FĂ‹ ɲ€½€Â?uV ÂŹ ۠b ½}b †ÂYĂŽĂ‚ ÂŻY ¾½²‘‡‡ 8É8Ă‹ whistling, / hands behind my back, / like on a day when nothing, Â?‘½}€Â?u O8Â? u‘ ɲ‘Â?u¢ ,}€¾ €Yb8 ‘n 8 Â?b²nbO½ Y8Ă‹ ÂľbbŠ¾ Â?‡8¾€F‡b 8½ ½}b Fbu€Â?Â?€Â?u ‘n ½}b Â?‘bŠV Ă‹b½ FĂ‹ ½}b bÂ?YV 8n½b² Fb€Â?u ¾½ÂÂ?Â?bY ½‘ oÂ?Y that the pleasant scenes of a county fair are being held where bodies of civil rights activists were dumped, one shudders at her skillful use ‘n ½}b ²bn²8€Â? ÂŹÂ?‘½}€Â?u O8Â? u‘ ɲ‘Â?u¢ ‡¾bÉ}b²b €Â? ½}€¾ Â?‘bŠV ɀ½} 8Â?8Â?}‘²8 €Â? ½‘ÉV bÂ?Â?b‡‡Ë Â?²bÂľbÂ?½¾V ¾€Yb FĂ‹ ¾€YbV }b² Yb¾€²b ½‘ Fb 8½ once a southern writer and an outsider. She compares her path with 8‡†Â?b²¯¾V Â?Ă‚Âľ}€Â?u ½}b O‘ŠÂ?8²€¾‘Â? n‘²É8²Y ɀ½} ½}b ²bÂ?b½€½€‘Â? ‘n ½}b ²}b½‘²€O8‡‡Ë 8ŠFÂ€Ăˆ8‡bÂ?½ Â?}²8Âľb ÂŹ 8Ăˆb Â?‘½h bÂ?Â?b‡‡Ë Âľ}‘ɾ ‘nn bÂ?ĂˆÂ€8F‡b Â?‘b½€O ²8Â?ub ½}²‘Âu}‘½ Unmentionables, writing sestinas, tercets, sprawling free verse, a fourteen-section homage to and revamping of Berryman’s Dream Songs, yet she is not brassy, not showy, though it’s clear you’re reading 8 Â?bÉ Š8¾½b²¢ Â? ½}b F‘‘†¯¾ oÂ?8‡ Â?‘bŠV ÂŹ,}b 3b‡O‘Š€Â?uV bÂ?Â?b‡‡Ë writes:
Éb‡O‘ŠbY ˑ n²‘Š 8 }‘¾b ‘n �bbY‡b¾¢ Éb‡O‘ŠbY ˑ n²‘Š ½}b o¾½¾ ‘n F8F€b¾¢ Standing on the doormat of my black shadow, with a beginner’s brow, with a hoop of angels, with the ache of unlit candles, Éb‡O‘ŠbY ˑ¢
With these simple and unadorned lines, the speaker addresses you, the reader, whom she welcomed into her complex world: mysterious, exposed, and unquestionably recognizable.
RACHEL BERRY
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C H A I R S A N D TA BL ES | John Lambert Pearson
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H ENRY K E A RNEY
Balancing Act THE BORDER KINGDOM by D. Nurkse Alfred A. Knopf 112 pages; $26.00 hardcover
½ ½8 bµ 8 b½ n bb Fµb²È8½ 8 Y µÂF½ b O²8n½ to properly illuminate the shifting inner states of human consciousness. D. Nurkse, with one foot in New York and the other in Europe, a writer celebrated for both his poems and his human rights work, is supremely aware of the ways in É} O} Éb Èb Y È YbY Èbµ¢ The Border Kingdom, Nurkse, with a tone and eye both resigned and searching, expertly and unflinchingly examines the borders, both internal and external, that we all straddle. He moves through large philosophical themes, familial concerns, and current events. The poems are wise and direct but never heavy-handed, organized so fluidly and with such clear-headed purpose that you finish the book feeling you have been taught a lesson without having to endure a lecture. The book begins in parable, with the first and shortest n ½}b n ² µbO½ µV ¬,}b Ðub n ²b8½ ²Âµ8Ybµ¢ Èb²½ Ë philosophical, these poems introduce the underlying themes that hold the book together. The first of the four pieces, ¬ b² O} V Fbu µ É ½} 8 8ub ½}8½ µÂF½ Ë } ½µ 8½ ½}b structure of the collection itself: Sometimes in a high window a white curtain knotted against itself gives a glimpse of the lovers as they were before the war
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The window here is a transparent barrier, allowing us to observe but not participate. This window into the past offers a chance to observe a formative experience with the perspective of knowing what those in the window’s world are not aware of Ă‹b½V ½}b Â‡Â‘Ăˆb²¾ Âş 8Âľ ½}bĂ‹ Éb²b Fbn‘²b ½}b É8²¢ 3}€‡b Éb 8²b allowed to observe this past, we are not allowed to touch it. The lovers remain removed from us, anonymous, and we are Â?‘½ bĂˆbÂ? ½‘‡Y É}‘ ½}bĂ‹ 8²b¢ Â? ½}€¾ ÂľbÂ?ÂľbV Éb †Â?‘É F‘½} Š‘²b (the war) and less (their identities) than the lovers do. This precarious balancing act between knowing and not knowing, experiencing and observing, creates a palpable tension and drama. Throughout the book Nurske employs this technique of looking backwards through several layers of past to try to understand the elusive present, and the tension between what can be known and what cannot be known in both times is part of what makes these poems so effective. Moving from parable to stark reality in the “The Limbo ‘n ½}b 8½}b²¾V Éb 8²b Â?²bÂľbÂ?½bY ɀ½} 8 ÂľÂ?b8†b² É}‘ €Â?}8F€½¾ most of the second and third sections of The Border Kingdom, giving the book a core of intimacy, even as the first and final ÂľbO½€‘Â?Âľ ĂˆbÂ?½Â²b ‘nn €Â?½‘ Š‘²b ¾Â²²b8‡ ½b²²€½‘²Ë¢ ½ €¾ ½}²‘Âu} ½}€¾ ÂľÂ?b8†b² ½}8½ ½}b ÂŹ ‘²Yb² €Â?uY‘Š ‘n n8Š€‡Ë bÂ?½b²¾¢ Â? ÂŹ Â? ½}b ‘‡YV ½}b ÂľÂ?b8†b²¯¾ €ŠŠ€u²8Â?½ n8½}b² Â&#x;¾½€‡‡ 8 O}€‡Y in the poem) journeys to an unnamed country right as “the ɑ²‡Y É8² ½}8½ }8Y FbbÂ? bĂŠÂ?bO½bY €¾ Fbu€Â?Â?€Â?u¢ ,}b Â?}˾€O8‡ experience of the poem is at once real and metaphysical. The hold is both the hold of the ship coming to port and the internal ‡€ŠF‘ ‘n ½}b €ŠŠ€u²8Â?½ O}€‡Y 8Â˛Â˛Â€ĂˆÂ€Â?u €Â? 8 Â?bÉ ɑ²‡Y 8‡‘Â?b¢ ½ is “the dark cubbyhole / that might be endless, or just a hair / ‡8²ub² ½}8Â? }€¾ Ă‚Â?u²‘ÉÂ? F‘YË¢ ,}b ²b¾€uÂ?bYV Ă‚Â?Yb²¾½8½bY ½‘Â?b with which Nurkse treats the lonely tragedies of life is on full display when the boy/father “takes his pulse, then having / no Š‘²b ²b8‡ ½}€Â?uÂľV }b O‘ÂÂ?½¾ Âş ½}b ŠbŠFb²¾ ‘n }€¾ n8Š€‡Ë¢ After this ominous introduction, the section explores the father’s struggles to come to terms with his own beginnings. Of particular interest is how the father attempts to impart to his children truths learned through that struggle without passing 88
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on the constant internal conflict he feels in himself. “The
8Èb b} Y ½}b , ²²b ½ O8 ½Â²bµ ½}b bObµµ ½Ë 8 Y n½ ½Ë n being the child and being the parent in this situation: Y Y ¯½ b Y8˵ so when he cleared his throat µ8 Y ¬ ½ b Y É V when he stumbled µ8 Y ¬O8²²Ë bi he was defenseless against my boredom n ² ÈbY Ë } /…/ ÈbY } µ b bµµ ½b ½}b 8 8 } ² O ¬ u Èb µ 8Ob ½ F²b8½}b É} b µ½ u È u structure, the alliteration followed by the modulation of the ¬ È Éb ¬ ÈbY } µ b bµµV ½}b ½b u nn ²}Ë b n ¬F ²bY 8 Y ¬} ¢ ,} µ µ ½}b 8½Â²b n ² µb¯µ O²8n½U well-patterned subtlety that is at once visceral and cerebral. One of the more intriguing and refreshing aspects of this speaker is that he is not afraid of the first person pronoun, and yet these poems never become self-indulgent. The speaker remains objective in relating personal tales of universal feelings, and does so with such honesty and sage-like perception that the reader feels as though the poem is speaking of the reader’s own life. The first person here functions almost as a camouflaged second person, and we as readers are invited into the worlds of these poems. ¬,}b F n ½}b } Y²b V ½}b µ b8 b² }8µ u² É up and fallen in love, so Nurske appropriately moves from ¬ ½ ¬Éb¢ ,}b Y Y µO bO½ µ }b²bV F½ ½}b²b µ É 8 intimate connection with a lover. Describing a night spent on the road and in love, he states:
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A cock crowed in Windfall but our room was still dark. ½} ½}b²b É8µ F8²² b² between us then: no world, no other world, just nakedness ½}bµb bµ ½}b ½µ Yb É ² Y µ µ½ Y µ½8 ½V F½ ½}b Èb²µ¯ intimacy allows them to share that distance, creating a state at once apart and together. As ecstatic as this union may be, however, there is no passion in the tone. Throughout this section, the speaker remains resigned, as if he knows these moments of connection are fleeting. The personal isolation will return, and the speaker takes this as a matter of fact, not to be lamented or celebrated, only accepted. ,}b n ²½} µbO½ V ¬,}b YµV µ n n O b8² }b8YbY poems centered around current events that do not, as is often the case, dominate the poems. No tirades or self-righteous pomp here, just perceptive observations spoken plainly and powerfully, with true poetic force. That force is sustained throughout The Border Kingdom as Nurkse explores the human experience of isolation felt even in the intimate relationships between family, lovers, and one’s own self. These poems bring to light how that mutual isolation connects us. This is an intriguing paradox worthy of Nurkse’s skills, and his writing does not disappoint. The µ b8 b²¯µ ½ b µ ²bµ u bY ½} µ F V 8 Y }8Èb µÂuubµ½bY ½}8½ }b µ ¬Yb½8O}bYV F½ ½} ¬8½ b8Ob µ 8 ²b n ½½ u phrase. As the internal and external conflicts rage, isolating a speaker that is highly individualized but somehow feels as if he could be you or me or anyone, there is still a sense that everything is alright. The speaker seems to feel that the world is in disarray, and yet this is as it should be, a beautiful thing. These poems traverse the human world, aware at all times of both their love for the humanity and their desire to disconnect from it. Nurkse engages and expresses these universal tensions with intelligence and beauty.
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SU PER RO C KE R | Lars P.
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CONTRIBUTORS WINTER 2010 | V
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MARTIN ARNOLD teaches at Guilford College, and he is the Associate
Editor of storySouth. His poetry has been published in Denver Quarterly, Crazyhorse, Poetry East, and elsewhere. JULIALICIA CASE lives in Sacramento, California where she teaches at Sacramento City College and leads writing workshops for the homeless. Currently she is working on a collection of short stories based on her experiences growing up on a military base in Germany during the Cold War. WILEY CASH µ 8 8½ Èb n Ébµ½b² ²½} 8² 8¢ µ oO½
has appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Roanoke Review, and ½}b² ÂF O8½ µ¢ µ Èb V ¬,}b *8 8²²b V µ O²²b ½ Ë being shopped for publication. He currently lives in West Virginia 8 Y ½b8O}bµ Ð b² O8 ½b²8½Â²b 8 Y O½ 3² ½ u 8½ b½}8 Ë College. STEPHEN COUGHLIN teaches at Ohio State University. His recent
publications include the Michigan Quarterly, Green Mountains Review, New York Quarterly, and Slate. KATE DOUGHERTY lives in Chicago.
Her work has appeared in Court Green, Action, Yes, Columbia Poetry Review, and If Poetry Journal. STUART DYBEK has written numerous award-winning books of
oO½ 8 Y b½²Ë¢ b µ ½}b µ½ u µ}bY 3² ½b² *bµ Yb Ob 8½ Northwestern University and a member of the permanent faculty for 3bµ½b² O} u8 - Èb²µ ½Ë¯µ (²8uÂb + b² (² u²8 ¢
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ROCCO de GIACOMO’S work has most recently appeared or is forthcoming in The Prairie Journal, The Antigonish Review, and Tower Poetry¢ µ o²µ½ n b u½} b½²Ë O bO½ V Ten Thousand Miles Between Us, was launched through Quattro Books in 2009. K . A. HAYS is the author of Dear Apocalypse (Carnegie Mellon 2009),
poems from which appear or are forthcoming in Best American Poetry 2009, The Yale Anthology of Younger American Poetry, Southern Review, and elsewhere. She currently holds the Emerging 3² ½b² b ɵ} 8½ ÂO b - Èb²µ ½Ë¢ MATT LANY Èbµ 8O µ È bV ² Y8 É ½} } µ É nb 8 OË
8 Y Y8Âu}½b² µb¢ b ½b8O}bµ ɲ ½ u 8½ ² Y8  ½Ë College. DANIEL LIBMAN’S stories and essays have appeared in The Pushcart
Prize, The Paris Review, Santa Monica Review, Other Voices, and ½}b² ² 8 µ 8 Y 8u8Î bµ¢ b Èbµ 8 n8² ²½}b² µ with his wife, two kids, a dog, and several dozen chickens. MICHAEL MARTIN is a freelance writer and editor currently living in the
b½}b² 8 Yµ¢ µ oO½ 8 Y b½²Ë }8Èb 8 b8²bY Chattahoochee Review, Wisconsin Review, and Cottonwood, among others. He was co-founding editor of the literary magazine Hogtown Creek Review. He just completed co-editing the anthology, Just a Game: The Best Sports Writing from Harper’s Magazine, due out in spring 2010. MELANIE McCABE teaches high school in Arlington, Virginia. Her
work has appeared in Nimrod, Crab Orchard Review, Barrow Street, Harpur Palate, the Evansville Review, and other journals.
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RON McFARLAND teaches literature and creative writing at the
- Èb²µ ½Ë n Y8} µO É ¢ µ 8²b ½µ Èb 8²½ n ½}b Ëb8² 8 converted one-room schoolhouse (built 1884) near Amish country in eastern Ohio. His most recent collection is a chapbook of baseball poems, At the Ballpark (2005). PATRICK PHILLIPS’S o²µ½ F V Chattahoochee, received the 2005
Kingsley Tufts Discovery Award, and his second, Boy, was published FË ½}b - Èb²µ ½Ë n b ²u 8 (²bµµ ÁÏÏg¢ b ½b8O}bµ 8½ ²bÉ University. CHRISTOPHER SHIPMAN’S poems have appeared in journals such as
Exquisite Corpse, Red Actions, and Salt Hill, among others. His b V ¬ ² Ð ½}b (² b bb²V É8µ nb8½Â²bY Verse Daily. JOAN SIEGEL’S most recent book is Hyacinth for the Soul (Deerbrook
Editions, 2009). Recipient of the 1998 Anna Davidson Rosenberg ÐÉ8²Y 8 Y ½}b bÉ b½½b²µ (² ÎbV µ}b }8µ ÂF µ}bY The Atlantic Monthly, The American Scholar, The Gettysburg Review, Prairie Schooner, and other journals. CLARENCE SMITH’S oO½ }8µ 8 b8²bY The Bellevue Literary
Review, Rosebud, and The Best of the Bellevue Literary Review. He lives with his wife in Nashville, Tennessee, where he works as a physician. JOHN SAMUEL TIEMAN’S chapbook, A Concise Biography of
Original SinV µ ÂF µ}bY FË (²bµµ¢ µ b½²Ë }8µ 8 b8²bY in The American Review, The Iowa Review, and River Styx. THEODORE WOROZBYT’S work has recently appeared or is
forthcoming in Poetry, New England Review, Shenandoah, The Southern Review, and Quarterly West. He has published two books of poetry, The Dauber Wings, and I, which won the 2007  b² (² Îb ,}b - Èb²µ ½Ë n 8µµ8O}µb½½µ (²bµµV ÁÏÏg ¢ b µ еµ µ½8 ½ (² nbµµ ² n u µ} 8½ b ²u 8 (b² b½b² bub¢
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