I must have looked at Nimmo's poem a dozen times or more by now—I keep returning to the grey and frozen landscape into which the poet drives, which undoubtedly represents his own mortality. Each time, I am struck by how he holds up Berryman's life as a mirror to his own. Perhaps Nimmo wonders how he will choose to let go when he finally finds himself staring down death's barrel—will it be with notoriety, winning himself post-mortem fame, or will it be into obscurity, with a long, slow decline? (One wonders, why is it the jump into the unknown, and not the work itself, which seems to help achieve true notoriety?)
The essence of this poem's beauty is in its evocation of illness, suicide, and a frozen, isolated landscape with just a few penstrokes. But I most admire the simplicity in the way he frames the subject matter at the outset ("another trip to the doctor"); the image of the "turgid, green" Tallahatchie with the contrasting frozen Colorado, as pictured in his mind's eye; and the visual aspect of the final two lines. Simply by distancing the last line from the body of the poem, one hears the thud of the body falling onto solid ice. It is an end to the line and to Berryman's life, and an elegant and shattering way to end the poem.
This afternoon,
We watched a woman push a small, silent child on a swing.
She seemed sad, pushing him,
ever so gently,
over and over again.
Each time he fell off,
She rearranged him back on his seat.
His head drooped, though, no matter what she did.
It seemed strange that a blond-haired, curvy woman,
dressed in a green silk blouse, and
flowing black pants, and
polka-dotted black flats,
more appropriate for a work day than a
playground,
was pushing such a quiet child repeatedly on a swing.
We heard about it in the news later,
answering our question as to what we saw,
but never as to why.
All we know is what we saw that afternoon:
a sad, blond-haired woman
dressed for work—
pushing her dead child
on a swing.
Elizabeth confesses:"I've spent many a warm summer evening sitting on a swing set (even as an adult!), and so I was interested in this weird little news story about a woman found pushing her dead son on a swing. Without many details about what had happened, I was left to ponder - how did she end up there? And why?"
ELIZABETH LASH is a NYC-based attorney who has written on a variety of subjects—from art law and ex-KGB agents to women engineers and corruption in Azerbaijan. Her poetry has appeared twice before at The Five-Two, and her non-fiction articles have been published by the Center for Art Law, the Holy Cross Journal of Law and Public Policy, Transparency International, the Engineering News-Record, and GetCrafty.com, among others.
I got a postcard from the Academy of American Poets a few weeks ago about two readings at the New York Public Library's Margaret Liebman Berger Forum this summer. The first was Tuesday, July 14, with January Gill O'Neil, Ross Gay, and Meena Alexander, and I invited my friend Five-Two alum Elizabeth Lash.
I became interested in attending after reading Ross Gay's "For Some Slight I Can't Quite Recall", which struck me as similar in sensibility to what I publish here. I also read January Gill O'Neil's "How to Love".
O'Neil read from her 2014 book Misery Islands, dedicated to her children, Alex and Ella, who were in the audience briefly before setting off to explore the library. I particularly enjoyed some poems into which January snuck her name, and another with a reference to David Ortiz (though I am a Yankee fan).
Ross Gay invited South Indian-Filipina poet Aimee Nezhukumatathil for a surprise tandem read of poems based on correspondence about their gardens. He also read the moving "Spoon", about his murdered friend, Don Belton.
Unfortunately, Elizabeth's work meeting ran late, and she only caught the end of Meena Alexander's final poem, but after the reading I recommended Misery Islands to her. We bought copies and met January, who signed them. Yesterday, Elizabeth wrote to say I'd made a good recommendation, calling January "a fantastic writer".
The nitty-gritty of writing is sitting alone in thought, scribbling or typing up what insists it can coherently be expressed to someone else. Readings both reassure writers they are communicating well and suggest how they might communicate better. I look forward to the next one, August 11.
I've submitted six Five-Two poems for Sundress Publications' 2015 Best of the Net anthology consideration. Because I believe every poem I accept is the best, I had Twitter users pick three of the six:
Five-Two fans, choose 3 of the poems we send to @SundressPub's Best of the Net. Favorite tweets w/ hashtag #BestPoemsOnCrime to vote.
Poet of the Week Elizabeth Lash will be among the readers at the New York City Bar Association's Talent Night, Friday, May 15, 7:00–9:00 P.M., 42 West 44th Street, New York, NY 10036. Members and guests welcome.
The only correct answer to the question of "Star Wars or Star Trek," geeks,
is that both are different, but Star Wars is better.
To you naysayers, only the criminally insane would factor in the Prequel.
The infamous Trilogy.
I mean, Jar Jar Binks is a Jabberwocky,
And the menace of the film isn't phantom-like, only bad.
We weren't meant to see Yoda fight, or R2D2 fly through the air.
I bided my time, hoping one day such madness would die,
and we would forget about new franchises.
But instead, darkness was re-awakened. The 7th episode was filmed.
A disturbance in the Force, I sensed.
As a daughter of this galaxy, I realized,
balance had to be re-established.
The dark force had to be conquered, yet again.
So papparazzi were paid - and
Paths were figured for waylaying.
And on the appointed, anointed day,
I casually waited behind the old Jedi in Starbucks.
(I wasn't afraid - fear is the path to the dark side.)
"George," I said, by way of introduction, "I'm such a fan."
As he turned away with his coffee, wearing mask-like sunglasses,
I saw, at light speed, my opportunity evaporating.
"Lucas, you are the father of these films!” I yelled,
"Stop heeding the need for cash and destroy them!"
He threw his coffee at me and turned to run.
So I slashed him with my light saber to stop him.
Suddenly, he lay sprawled across the floor, unmoving.
“Oh, no. You're no good to me dead,” I said, and
Poked his shoulder with the sword—
But still he lay there.
As they took me away, I thought,
Oh shit--there goes the planet.
Now they’ll never stop making these damn films.
Elizabeth reads "Star Wars: Dark Forces Re-Awaken (For a 7th Time):
Elizabeth confesses:"Thinking about Star Wars took me straight back to my childhood days of lying on the floor, chin in hands, watching a forest chase scene with rapt attention. But as much as I loved the original series, the later series seemed like a parody of itself. Thus, in light of yet another film in this franchise, I was inspired by the thought of creating a noble (if crazy) heroine who attempts to rescue us from the world’s terrible sequels and prequels."
ELIZABETH LASH is an attorney who, although she primarily drafts legal documents, equally enjoys writing on a broad variety of topics. Her articles have been published by the Center for Art Law, the Holy Cross Journal of Law and Public Policy, Transparency International, the Engineering News-Record, and GetCrafty.com, among others.
I met Five-Two contributor Elizabeth Lash earlier this month at Noir at the Bar NYC. Finding her feedback on the readings insightful, I invited her to comment on this year's 30 Days of The Five-Two. She sent in the following about the tour-ending poem. —Gerald So
The nerve endings in my body tingled, and my hair stood on end by the time I finished reading "The End of Fun and Games". It was an experience only heightened by the emotional distance the poet took from her subject—that of her younger self experiencing the death of a classmate.
What I loved about this poem is that Smith uses certain details both to strip away artificial sweetness and to recall the reader's youth—a factory behind which she and her classmates smoke smells not only of candy, but also of pollution; the color of her dead classmate's eyes are the color of "peppermint schnapps." Smith references The Sound of Music ("Sixteen Going on Seventeen") while reminding us that life there is no "Taylor Swift" song—what should be adolescent joy at that age is instead only anguish. Even the metaphor of the "exploded copper stars" reflects a violent destruction of innocence, seemingly representing not only his dried, spattered blood but also his achievements--no more stars ever to be awarded.
One knows definitively, by the end of the poem, that all goodness and innocence have been destroyed in this town, leaving no avenue except to escape. The description of hallucinogens as stamps seems particularly poignant: some choose to send their souls away temporarily, while others have chosen it as a final solution.
Five-Two alum Thomas Pluck invited me to read for a second time at Shade, 241 Sullivan Street, NYC. I was glad to punctuate an evening of short stories and novel excerpts by my fellow readers Julia Dahl, Dan Krokos, Pluck, Alex Segura, S.A. Solomon, Jeff Soloway, Joe Samuel Starnes, Voice of The Five-Two Clare Toohey, Al Tucher, and Rich Zahradnik.
IN MEMORIAM: EX-KGB AGENT COMPLAINS OF MYSTERIOUS TOXIN IN HIS VEINS
I, Sasha,
Am in the bar finding traces of love in my veins,
and I am warm, falling...
recalling shot after shot—sounds of Russian drinking songs ring in my head.
Waking, I found nurses in squeaky soled shoes who surrounded me,
injecting shot after shot to keep the poison at bay.
It was not traces of love I found in my veins...
but traces of death in my soul.
They say you'll know when they come,
but they came silently, in the guise of brotherhood.
I thought a few drinks at a bar would harm no one.
I was no longer a traitor—let bygones be bygones.
Drink and forget what could poison the evening.
Well, this was how the Bureau always said its good-byes. I'm not surprised in the end.
Good-bye wife. Good-bye, comrades.
Farewell my love—
my jealous mother Russia.
And with a sigh,
I give up the fight.
Gerald So reads "In Memoriam: Ex-KGB Agent Complains...":
Elizabeth confesses:"Having come back from Russia a year before, I'd seen the machinations of its allegedly democratic party at work and was shocked, but in some way not surprised by news of Alexander Litvinenko's untimely demise. If you are part of the political elite, and you abide by their rules, you remain safe; conversely, if you choose to speak out, you have only yourself to blame. While Russians like to think that they are in a brave new world, they are still operating in some fashion in their old one. So for a former KGB agent to be poisoned by his colleagues for leaving the country with its secrets? It made perfect sense, at least to me. "
ELIZABETH LASH is an attorney who, although she primarily drafts legal documents, equally enjoys writing on a broad range of topics. Her articles have been published in a variety of media: the Holy Cross Journal of Law and Public Policy, Transparency International, the Engineering News-Record, and Get Crafty.com, among others.
