Poet’s Introduction

I have been thinking more lately about how a poem is not made to teach others what the poet knows, but for the poem to teach the poet what is unsayable. I have found myself revising these two poems dozens of times, and it was only in the last few revisions that I discovered the question that was really driving me in both is what is the role of the poet, particularly now in America? 

“Musophobia” highlights the tension between the poet and the making of empire. I am interested in the role of mice in poetry—from the “wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie” of Robert Burns to Emily Dickinson’s “Grief is a mouse—” to the “Mice” of Eileen Myles. Why do mice appear so often in poetry? I think it’s because like mice, poets are inconvenient, and they can tell us a lot about ourselves if we disrupt the automatic meanings attached to them.

“The Remains of the Wolfman” is a eulogy of sorts. When my sister’s ex-husband died, I discovered that bodies with no one to claim them has become a pervasive problem in the United States (and, to be fair, in other countries too), particularly since the Covid pandemic. I thought of how her ex-husband had loved his body, and also how dying so alone is a horror that most of us can’t bear to contemplate. Of course, I thought of “The American Way of Death” and how our customs around this have changed and are still changing, but how utterly capitalism in particular can turn any one of us into pure objects.  

As I think about the absurd role of the poet, the death of poet Renee Good at the hands of our own government, and what seems like our increasing powerlessness, I think about the words of Nikolay Nekrasov: “You may not be a poet, but you obliged to be a citizen.” I recognize that I am obliged to be a citizen, but of what country? Whose citizen are you when borders shift, as they did for Nekrasov, who was born in Ukraine but is considered a Russian poet? Or when your country attacks itself? Or if your country, the only one you have, has never acknowledged you as one of its own?  

And as for being a poet, I only feel like one when I’m immersed in writing, which happens less and less often. Still, I find comfort and truth in the words of Wisława Szymborska’s poem “Possibilities”: “I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.” 

What is the poem you are working on now trying to teach you? Your job in revision is to clear away the noise and debris until you can hear that lesson. Then you use that to start working on the next poems. If the lesson is too easy, don’t let the poem off so lightly—go back, dig in, keep listening to it.  Bask in the absurdity.

Musophobia

My mother has a mouse problem
and no patience for my elaborate,
humane solutions. At our next visit,
she hands us a jar with the lid on tight
and a young mouse trying to clamber
to the top. My wife cries as we take it
to the community garden and dump it out
among the kale and zinnias. That night
over dinner we marvel that the mouse survived
in the sealed jar, that she escaped
good intentions and bad ideas this long
only to end up sticky with peanut butter
in a strange garden, predators able to smell her
a mile away. It’s hard not to see her as a hero
of sorts—the clever ancient enemy
of stored grain which was literally
the seed of empires—a hero always happy
to find an easy meal only to find her troubles
multiplied. Or if not a hero, perhaps a poet,
because isn’t this the muse in the mouse
—the nagging hunger, the blind hope,
the mad dash far from all you know?

The Remains of the Wolfman

My sister says she got a call from the state:
her second husband Tommy is dead.

I have this one memory of him: he’s
in his twenties, sitting on their couch,
happy in only his red briefs
his flat abdomen and ready thighs,
a rubber wolfman mask
(which neither of us mention)
hiding pockmarks but not his dark eyes
that never lingered like flies on me.
In his velvet drawl he confided
I like scary movies—

On the small TV, the opening scene:
a woman listening to a man on the phone
wanting her—or anyone—to claim
a man’s body. She has no money,
she says, and besides she hasn’t
seen the man in thirty years
she explains until her words
are transformed into a howl.

Poet’s Introduction

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about dehumanization (cheerful, I know). But the longer I live, the more I think this is the real basis of all – not just most, but all – of the evils we see in the world. And so, when people talk about poetry of witness or documentation, that means to me a poetry of rehumanization. What is important is not that people agree about things, especially in a democracy; what is important is that people are always deeply aware of the humanity of others, whether they agree with them or not.

Authority

is a nineteen-year-old boy
with short-cropped hair
and stubby fingers
and a uniform and a gun

he is watching a woman
his eyes wide
she is younger than she looks
squatting by the metal fence

what is the worst that can happen
if he ignores her
what is the worst that can happen
if he acts

he shifts his weight
like a nervous student
one with an important test
the teacher forgot to attend

and what is she doing
neither laughing nor crying
her whispering is too soft
to be called singing

For Peace

There is the peace of the moment
..before the pull of the trigger,
....and the peace after.

There is the blank white peace
..of the silent snowfield,
....motionless and cold,

the small red peace
..of the rabbit not crawling
....away from the fox.

There is the peace of the tree
..lying shattered after the storm,
....damp wood slowly rotting,

the peace before the footsteps
..and the opening
....of the door.

There is no peace for the winner—
..the victorious wolf, licking
....its red paws—

Peace belongs to us, lying
..frozen in the snow, hands
....still bound behind our backs—

The peace of the small hole,
..the ragged-edged cut—
....the peace of silence

settling upon us,
..flake
....by flake.

Prescriptions for Self-Help

For despair: wailing and weeping
until your voice blends in the cacophony
and your tears mingle in the dirt

For suffering: dancing out of yourself,
spinning, stomping, passing partner
to partner until they are infinite

For anger—the kind of powerless anger
that leaves you bone-weary and frail:
singing and never stopping

Not even after you die, whether they
fill your mouth with dirt
as they bury you, or whether

they wrap their hands, a noose,
around your throat, until
there’s no air left in this world—

They shake the dust off their hands
after a job well-done; one wipes a drip of sweat
from their forehead—walking home,

they pass under fragrant pines, birds
singing—something familiar tickles their minds,
although they haven’t realized it yet—

years later, your skull safely away,
your vocal cords rotted into dust,
they pass a group of children playing—

their jumprope song becomes an itch
in the brain, impossible to scratch,
impossible to ignore. No one would say

you are the winner here, if
they even knew your name. But
each day, sleep eludes them a little longer.

For guilt—the kind of inescapable guilt
that leaves you bone-weary and frail:
nothing

nothing but listening and never stopping,
listening forever in case the song becomes forgiveness,
forgiveness, forever, nothing

Notes

“Authority” first appeared in the 2024 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar.

J.F. Merifield, a poet living in northwest Montana with a Poetry M.F.A. from George Mason University, has poems published by Wild Roof Journal, High Shelf Press, Sheepshead Review, Cathexis Northwest Press, La Picciolette Barca, Neuro Logical, Verse, and Rust & Moth, among others.

Khakis Creased at the Altar

Pinches of a rosary, black breath muttering, and you’re not here.
Red knees to the floor, clammy palms clasped, and you’re not here.

Republics, homelands, houses and ceilings all fall.
I live in a tear habit looking for you, here but not quite here.

When looking for saviors, I turn to you last. You know this.
I speak first the name of my brother, but he’s not here.

I threaten you with temples, “pull me out and I will sing.”
It’s not a real promise; I know you are not here.

The woman in red tells me I am wrong to denounce what I have
not seen. I have seen trace in the trees, but certainly not here.

Nowhere I know resembles a church. No one I know resembles
a churchgoer or a god. I search for you alone, and you’re not here.

From the open window, the whistling wind has nothing to say
of my heretic vices. I blow out my candles. You’re still not here.

Cracking

When imagining your face, all I see
is the furrowed brow of a brother
tossing years and years into half a suitcase
I think about your bruised ankles hitting
the bottom stair, you’re the rusty nail I remember

Oh, God, sitting on the windowsill, watching you wait for the train
You’re going home and that isn’t where
the burn marks are from, you’re thinking about covering
your scars
We share the same ones, you’re thinking about covering

Me,
I’m thinking about the streetlights you avoided, the black night shrouding
the set of your jaw
Glancing back, missing my vantage
point, our leather jackets

hung beside each other
Think about flailing, think about how it felt; a cliff and three feet of water
I want to sit on the roof, I wanna smoke again
I want to talk about death hanging between us; I never wanna talk again
This is the mercy of the Now, the horror of the Cycle.

Turn around, turn around, turn around
I wanna hear your footsteps, I want to feel the lack of sound from the creaky floorboards,
I miss dancing around them, hot pokers pressed to feet, I’m thinking about maman and her eyes
her prayers – Fear is divinity; God is a Poetic Device –
I’m thinking about those glittering balls

The family tree in the family jewels, we talk nonsense, we speak French
We drink champagne, we sip truth serum, we trip
on the back garden stair
and rupture our lips
and don’t speak for days

Kanooska

1.
My little brother was born with a sea in his head,
haunting him at night, waves lapping the shore, a
steady drumbeat, white foam.

Come and find out.

I’d find him perched on the sailboat bed, sheets
clinging to him like hands, choking on the stuff,
and bring him down, clicking my tongue
“oh malen’kiy, where have you gone?”

He says, “I am half my maker’s shape,” and I see
that he’s been drowning in the dream. He spits up
water and hope. I nurse him to health with pills
and potions, doctor’s orders.

We cannot have a dreamer in these walls.

2.
My little brother was born in a snowdrift December,
flurries of snow howling through his hair, a
blue child with eyes set on the nearing horizon.

What is it you’re looking for?

“The sun,” he says, and I see that he watches the sky
like a Catholic, expectant. When night falls, he climbs
the mast of the sailboat bed and sets off for distant
lands. I hardly recognize him come morning time.

He says, “It exists, you know,” and what I know is
he’s been spending time in someone else’s
kitchen, tasting stone houses with cluttered
mantelpieces. He has found a Home, found it foreign.

We cannot have him in these walls.

3.
My little brother was born in the place the horror movie
happens. A werewolf howling from distant hills.
The blackening of her eyes, the curve of their lips.

Come and find out.

I find him perched on the sailboat bed, hand
wrapped in white gauze. He has been drowning.
He spits up seafoam and ale. The wallpaper peels.
“Oh malen’kiy, what did you say?”

He says, “I am half my maker’s shape,” and I see
two summers ago, his palms carving through waves.
He has seen the Catholic’s sun. There is no nursing
him to health. There is no need.

We cannot have a dreamer in these walls.

About Victoria Gransee

The Devils Come to Town

Often the Kru or Gola dancing devils visited the city:
us, city folks, would hear the drums and abandon markets
or food on coal pots and run like goats to go witness;
we, the school kids, would leave our day’s lessons,
leaping through windows in our green, school jumpers,
and arguing couples would quit to run together, holding hands;
everyone wanted to watch the country dancing devils,
even the frighten children hiding in their mama’s lappah;
we would follow the dusty cloud of their paths,
the village people in Kente suits singing old songs,
and young boys beating leather drums with sweaty hands;
the trailing crowd would circle around like morning chickens
as the country devils dance stories with their bodies;
some wore outfits of dried palm leaves and wooden masks
with old clothes holding long stalks for arms and legs,
others wore huge rice bags filled with banana leaves,
making them look round as lumpy, giant balls,
but none of them showed skin or signs of a man inside;
they ran through backyards and streets in hurry,
and we would watch the spectacle as they flipped or romped
as if they drifted and weaved by like walking mango trees,
zapping in and out of crowds, leaving stings of happiness;
the old people loved them for reminding us of our heritage,
and they loved us for our generous handouts;
some of us would give them money from knotted lappahs,
others would hand over cold water or sugarcanes,
and when they departed, we would stand around for days,
comparing records about the wonders of the devils’ visit.

Growing Hands

By the age of four,
…………I’d already made up
…………my mind to grow my hands
like my mother’s. I wanted
…………to keep my nails long
…………and strong like hers.
Polish of some obscene color,
…………bemused in ego,
…………wasn’t her fashion.
Her nails’ styling sat clean
…………like blessed communions,
…………which felt soothing
on my scalp as she braided my hair.

Over the years, her hands endured
…………hours of typing and longhand writings
…………as a secretary at the U.S. Embassy
and still carried patience
…………like Mother Mary’s tears when she
…………returned home to her children;
with grace and peanut oil,
…………she rubbed our bared backs
…………as we fell asleep to her touch.
Her hands remained holy
…………when her husband roamed
…………to other women’s abodes,
and with dignity, she wielded
…………them again to pack us
…………away from a house of contrition.

Far across the Atlantic in America,
…………she ascended her hands
…………in soapy waters, cleaning
dance studio’s mirrors as tuition,
…………and with those same hands,
…………she clapped for my passions,
mended theater costumes and dresses;
…………even my lavish, velvety prom dress,
…………with embroidery and sequins,
kept her aching hands up all night,
…………stitching and tagging beads
…………days before I walked in
as the prettiest Liberian girl
…………dancing the Moonwalk
…………at my American prom.

When her mom became sick
…………with failed kidneys,
…………she rolled up her sleeves;
like Sunday’s ushers, she
…………roamed back and forth
…………in the aisles of our home,
employed her warm hands
…………to bathe, change, and care for
…………her mom in a dying bed,
and when that Sunday morning awoke,
…………a little flower knelt on a bedtable
…………as her mom’s last breath surged.
My mom kissed her mother’s hand as if a relic,
…………then she offered her hands as freely
…………as a martyr to seal her mother’s silent eyes.

Now, in her own age of discernment,
…………as dementia and time kneel at her bedside,
…………I render my hands into hers,
which feel as cold as last rites
…………but anointed in beatification
…………with parables left untold.
I pass on some of the warmth
…………she loans me,
…………and as our hands unify,
I can’t help but dwell on
…………how lovely the wear
…………might look on my hands someday.

Devil Makers

She was always told
Red was Devil color
The brighter the shade
The further she strayed
Covered in Eve’s sin
In the eyes of God
Tradition shamed her
As if her lineage wasn’t kin
Church wives cursed her
As if she summoned wraths
But who taught her
That crimson shade?
Who caused her to bleed
As an innocent child
In her bed at night
Just to feed into lust?
Who craved her more
When she flushed out
The life inside of her?
Who glorified her curves
In skimpy red dresses
Or kissed her like holy feet
when she plastered
that brassy red lipstick
Like stains from Holy wine?
Who came soliciting
With lacy red lingerie
And ordered her to spread
Like a good little girl?
Who called her sexy
In those red Gucci heels
Only to spank her to pout
During the heat of infidelity?
Who showed her a woman
Flashy in red is a pure vixen?
Who’s the true Devil?

About Sandi K. Johnson

A Liberian, West African born. Holds a BA and MA in English: Creative Writing from Mount Mary University. An English professor of 13 years in Houston, Texas. Published works include: “Little Kate’s Shoe” (poem) in Sounds of this House with National Book Foundation, “Smoke Break” & “The Invisible Woman” (poems) with Solstice Literary Magazine, and “Waiting” (short story) & “A Good-bye after a Hello” (poem) with Swirl Literary Arts Journal. Awards include: The Solstice Institute for Diverse Voices Prize in 2009, and winner of the Stephen Dunn Poetry Prize in Solstice: A Magazine of Diverse Voices in 2021.