~ Donald Justice, Departures (Atheneum 1978)
For me, this book was a beautiful discovery. This poem in particular just crept up into the fray this morning—because I’m a hopeless r[R]omantic—because Wednesday is Genie’s and my three year anniversary—because the best love poems haven’t been written yet—because I haven’t written them yet.
~TM
~August Kleinzahler, Green Sees Things in Waves (Farrar Straus Giroux, 1999)
Even though I’ve read that this guy can be a real hot head, he still writes some damn fine poetry.
~TM
Mark Jay Brewin, Jr.
Mark Jay Brewin, Jr. is a graduate student at Southern Illinois University-Carbondale, finishing his first year of studies in poetry. He has presented papers and read original works at the Sigma Tau Delta National English Convention, been finalist in the North Carolina State Poetry Contest, and was awarded the Fredrick A. Hartmann Award in creative writing. During his undergraduate studies at Elon University, in North Carolina, he was awarded several grants and fellowships for poetry and photography, which culminated in a Senior Thesis Project that won Best of Show. His poetry has recently been accepted for publication in New Delta Review and Packingtown Review; his artwork has recently been accepted as cover work for Pennsylvania English, the literary journal out of Pennsylvania State University.
What Marie Curie Discovered After Her First Nobel Prize
1903, Journal Entry titled, Substance M’s Presence:
Two weeks after exhausting the prize money,
after mounting the new tub basin, sink taps
and flush toilet—one morning, using the washroom,
feeling the cold tile on my bare feet—I looked around
to admire the clean cast iron, and noticed
a grimy patch lingering between the porcelain bowl
and floor. I pulled the cistern chain, washed my hands
before taking a lukewarm wet rag to the mold sprout,
and promptly forgot it. Two weeks more, I found
three weedy mold blossoms in the mildew’s place.
It looked like a gray, seeding dandelion
the length of my little toe. I harvested the buds
in an envelope, employed a baking soda paste to tidy
the surrounding area. Yet, their fuzzy blooms recurred.
The following months I applied vinegar, lemon juice,
rubbing alcohol, borax and salt, but no reward.
How stubborn. Then, abruptly, it was gone.
I studied each day for some trace of scum, for naught.
One evening, with this taken to Pierre, he surprised me
by news he sealed the gap around the toilet mount
with heavy wax. It is queer to see my flowers absent—
I never did figure out what solvent would rid them.
Dogcatcher’s Science Lesson
Dogcatcher starts at signposts, looking
for stapled flyers about lost border collies
and schnauzers answering to Fritz,
but he doesn’t like the lost mongrels
nearly as much as the ones with no past
or collar or housetraining. At the pound,
he has nests of kennels heaped
like logs on a woodpile. He moseys along
the pen rows sipping ginger brandy
from a bean can, scribbles numbers
and days and dates in a drugstore notebook,
trying to plot the shelf life of caged dogs.
Dogcatcher has figured that a natural
“runner” mutt—cooped up—doesn’t last
more than a year, but note taking is still ongoing.
~Mary Jo Bang, Elegy (Graywolf, 2007)
It’s clear I’m a sucker for “an eighteen-rib mule.” I don’t know what the hell it actually means (the larger implication of such a mule), but she has me sold. That’s it. I’m easy to please.
~TM
~James Wright, Shall We Gather at the River (Wesleyan, 1968)
Rodney Jones and I were talking about this poem the other day, and I told him how I’d lifted the image of “the red spider who is God” for my own purposes. And so it goes in my poem: “Such was your grace. I was nothing more than a tiny red spider tending to my own needs.” It then occurred to me that if I were to draw a parallel between Wright’s spider and my own, my speaker has unwittingly become God (a tiny God filled with self-importance, but God nonetheless). My speaker and I feel honored to be in positions of such eminent power.
~TM