October 19: Literacy Night, Lynn Emanuel, "From a Train"

I have a busy evening ahead of me.  I'm volunteering at the Children's Museum in Marquette as part of its Literacy Night.  I'm supposed to help kids write "letters home" from camp.  I'm not quite sure what that means, but I will find out soon.

This afternoon, I have a Halloween poem from one of my favorite poets.  It's about a haunted train encounter.  Sort of.  I certainly won't be sharing this poem with the kids at the Children's Museum.

Saint Marty will never be invited back if he does.

From a Train

by:  Lynn Emanuel

After night’s black abandoned truck—
morning is locked down tight,

and the sky’s brewing up
some trouble.

So far at the bottom of this
moment, she could fall off.

Coat hem. A pair
of sultry shoes. She is five.

Small for her age.
Meeting her father for the first

time. Union Station. Denver.
Behind the harsh horizon

beyond the tracks, a dark
wildness over the swing set,

brick yard, development.

Little nowhere, where
Did you come from?

The train roams through
the gone and vanquished,

some pale, soft voice talking.
Spooks. Phantoms.

He is the unclosed
cut of her.

Find the missing
dark scythe. Find

the jawbone of an ass.
Dead wood, cemetery, oil vat

shooed away—harried—
by the train’s advance.

First this, then that, then
a thrush’s three notes happen

all at once at once at once

and a figure
in a red hat.

January 20: Lynn Emanuel, Philip Dacey, "Juilliard Cento Sonnet"

Tonight, I'm a happy poet.

I an the new Poetry Editor of the university's literary magazine.  Every year, the magazine sponsors a poetry contest.  It's a pretty big deal.  Well, I have been trying to nail down a distinguished poet to judge the contest for the last few weeks.  So, last night, I blind e-mailed the poet Lynn Emanuel, thinking I stood about a snowball's chance in the Gobi of getting her to be the judge.

This morning, I received a lovely response from Ms. Emanuel, accepting the responsibility.  That response restored my faith in the poetic world.

And the poem I have for tonight also restores my faith in the poetic world.  A wonderful sonnet from The Best American Poetry 2014.


Marty is a happy saint tonight.

Juilliard Cento Sonnet

by:  Philip Dacey

Use every centimeter of the air.
That phrase needs elasticity, breathing room.
We need to hear the decoration more.
Her part has so many notes, it's almost a crime.

Tread lightly here--he's on his weakest string. 
You can be perkier in the lower half of the bow.
Don't be so punctual; you're right but you're wrong.
Trios are three soloists.  Soft doesn't mean slow.

Adjust your arm instead of the violin.
Attack, back off, and then attack again.
Let the sound of the chord decay before you go on.
When you have a rest, take it.  You want your touch
to make the piano say, "Ah," not "Ouch."
Keep your hand rounded, as if it held a peach.

Thank you, Ms. Emanuel

December 29: Lynn Emanuel, "Whites," Frodo

I didn’t get a chance to post a poem for P.O.E.T.S. Day last night.  I had a friend from New Zealand come over for a visit.  Let’s call him Frodo.  Well, Frodo, my wife, and I spent the evening visiting and playing the game Life.  I don’t like Life.  However, I couldn’t talk Frodo and my wife into a movie.  I even suggested Annie Hall and Stranger Than Fiction, two of my favorite films.

Anyway, I thought I’d give you a poem today.  It’s not quite Christmas-themed, but it is by a poet named Lynn Emanuel (“Emanuel” is Christmassy), and it does mention the Savior.  And it is a great poem.

Saint Marty dedicates this poem to Frodo, his atheist friend from Down Under.

Whites

The scar, the moon, the blind man’s cane, the gluey soup of barley,

the bread, the milk, the chalked concoctions that coat the ulcer,

the blind man’s eye, the banker’s long, pale, trembling fingers

poking at the family ledgers until even the neighbors come by

to get a look at folks so relentlessly unsuccessful.  The tubers,

the roots, long and damp and weeping, the nurses’ noses stuck

into our business.  Weevils in sacks of spoiled flour,

grandmother’s feet pared with a paring knife, Dulles, Eisenhower.

Glaciers’ paunches, slow and heavy, the body of the Savior

on the altar wall, in the tub upstairs, Pierre, the naked sailor.

My friend's feet aren't quite this big