What Rough Beast | Poem for March 26, 2018

David Dixon
Revolution (You Say You Want)

In the night my dream
is of an unfamiliar feeling.

For which I had no word.

So I kept it in a vase.

Curious flower,
arranged for show,
then pressed
deep
within the pages
of my holy book.

Withered testament.

For I would not learn
its water,

could not seek its sun.

David Dixon is a physician, poet, and musician who lives and practices in the foothills of North Carolina. His poetry has appeared in LIGHT JournalThe Examined Life, Rock & Sling, The Northern Virginia Review, and elsewhere.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for March 25, 2018

Devon Balwit
Our Vaginas

“The Dinner Party” reiterates its theme—the celebration of women, both real and mythological, throughout the ages—with an insistence and vulgarity more appropriate, perhaps, to an advertising campaign than to a work of art.
—Hilton Kramer reviewing “The Dinner Party” by Judy Chicago in The New York Times in 1980

As for Ms. Chicago, she said that despite the art media’s early disparagement of her work, her way of overcoming the disappointment was to go into her studio and continue making art.
—Kasia Pilat reviewing the exhibit “Roots of ‘The Dinner Party’: History in the Making” in The New York Times in 2018

On we go, trailing behind our vaginas,
standard bearers, chained to them
like performance artists. Our vaginas
take us up on podia, behind Bunsen burners.
We follow them into combat, into
our studios, up to whiteboards. Our vaginas
drive mini-vans and fill shopping carts.
We teach them to clench, to vibrate
like struck tuning forks. We bleed and push
children from their split lips. Our vaginas
get us locked up, fabric-shrouded, monitored,
kidnapped. We hurry them home at night,
quick as quick, from subway platforms.
Our vaginas are forever fending off intruders.
At work, we trail them into smaller offices.
We cohabit on our smaller paychecks.
There’s something fishy about them, some
insidious funk that frightens. We tamp them
down, ramp them up, spinning their dial
with the precision of safe-crackers.
Our vaginas were the first unearthed totems
and will be the last things humans bow to
as we outlive our tenancy on this mothership.

 

Devon Balwit is a writer/teacher from Portland, Oregon. Her poems of protest have appeared previously in What Rough Beast as well as in The New Verse News, Poets Reading the News, RattleRedbird Weekly Reads, Rise-Up Review, Rat’s Ass Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, Mobius, and more.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for March 24, 2018

Ed Madden
Semi

I. accessories

On CNN, NRA spokesmodel Dana Loesch tells Alisyn Camerota that the AR-15—used by the shooter at Stoneman Douglas High School to kill 17 people just days before—is the most popular home defense weapon for women in the United States. An AR-15 is just a rifle, she says. What makes it different is the color of it and what makes it different is the accessories that it has on it.

On the toy assault rifles you can buy for kids, there is a fake safety switch to teach kids how to toggle between safe, semi, and fully automatic. The safety switch is integrated into the mode switch, safety being not a condition or a lock, just another mode of use.

Each gun has a red tip, so that any cop seeing the gun raised—even, presumably, from a great distance—will know that it is a fake.

II. safety

When asked, during her Senate confirmation hearings, whether guns should be allowed in schools, Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos referred to a school in rural Wyoming: I would imagine that there’s probably a gun in the school to protect from potential grizzlies.

My friend Tony says when he was a kid his uncle was showing his sister how to hold a gun and it accidentally went off, singeing his ear. Everyone just laughed, he says.

Twitter exploded with laughter about potential grizzlies, but DeVos’s answer was actually quite savvy. She framed the gun as a tool of the American frontier, guns in the hands of hunters and ranchers, saving our kids from critters and Injuns.

When Alisyn Camerota suggested to Dana Loesch that, yes, hunters are legitimate users of guns, but no hunter needs an assault rifle, Loesch smiled, We could have that discussion all day long.

On toy assault rifles on which the safety switch is molded onto the gun rather than being an operative switch, the lever is forever on semi, stuck between auto and safe.

It’s a permanent mode: semi-safe.

III. only

After the 2012 Newton massacre in which 20 children and 6 teachers were killed, Wayne LaPierre spoke up, he said, for the safety of our nation’s children. LaPierre said, The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun.

The only thing.

Wayne doesn’t talk about potential grizzlies. After Newtown, he cut off the conversation about reasonable gun control by describing a world filled with genuine monsters—people so deranged, so evil, so possessed by voices and driven by demons, he said. They walk among us every day, he said.

After the student walkouts, a local commentator asked on the newspaper website: “OK, kids, here is one question for you. Actually, it’s the ONLY question. If you are barricaded in your classroom with your teacher and an armed madman is breaking into YOUR classroom, would you want your teacher to be armed? Yes or No.”

The only question?

Do you still beat your wife? Yes or no? There is no good answer.

The toy assault rifle shoots 6mm BB bullets. It comes with the following warnings: Do not shoot at human or animal. Only for use by persons 18 years or older.

 

Editor’s Note: This poem originally appeared as part of a multimedia window installation at Tapp’s Art Center on Main Street in Columbia, SC, by Madden and his husband Bert Easter. You can learn more about the installation, called In Guns We Trust, in this post from the Jasper Project blog.

 

Ed Madden is the author of four books of poetry, most recently Ark (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2016), a memoir in verse about caring for his father in his last months of living with cancer; and the chapbook, So they can sing, winner of the 2016 Robin Becker Poetry Prize from Seven Kitchens Press. Madden is the director of Women’s and Gender Studies at the University of South Carolina in Columbia, SC.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for March 22, 2018

Virginia Barrett
Interior with Hyacinth and Wasteland

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing
—T.S. Eliot

How I picked you from a shelf among dwarf daffodils
How you were forced out of season in a small cerulean pot
How each day this week you’ve opened one purple
flower shaped like a long star

How I first heard your name at sixteen, stumbling through the poem
How you offer perfume but guard the root of grief
How—your blooms spent—I will bury your bulb, clenched like a fist
How we might greet each other again next year: you reborn, I
having trudged the lyrical battle

How I will remember you on the white table in January’s stormy stillness
How I spoke to you like a friend because I needed one
How we were both so brilliant and eager, both of us fated and bound
How once I ached to be the hyacinth girl—
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

 

Virginia Barrett is the author of the poetry collection I Just Wear My Wings (Jambu Press, 2013) and the travel memoir Mbira Maker Blues: A Healing Journey to Zimbabwe (Studio Saraswati, 2010). She is the editor of the anthologies Feather Floating on the Water: Poems for Our Children (Jambu Press, 2014) and OCCUPY SF: Poems from the Movement (Jambu Press, 2012), co-edited with Bobby Coleman. Her work has appeared in The Writer’s Chronicle, Narrative, and Roar, among other journals, and in the anthology Weaving the Terrain: 100-word Southwestern Poems (Dos Gatos Press, 2017).

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What Rough Beast | Poem for March 21, 2018

Christina Lee
My body

ace-bandaged, my body drained, my body
my weapon. My body under
fluorescent lights, my body mollified, my body malicious, my body
on fire the first time I sneak out of the house in
spaghetti straps and the light hits my shoulder just right.
My body floating, my body the Virgin Mary.
My body as possible vessel, my body
as an open soda can, passed around, getting warmer,
Full of backsplash, useless once used.
My body the object lesson, better keep it on ice, closed tight.
My body better size-up, my body padded,
my body underwired, my body stitched up, my body falling
asleep beside him, my body bruised, my body a
billboard, my body invisible, my body in a forward fold,
my body magic, my body measured, my body spilling over,
my body taking another lap, my body wet,
my body bleeding, my body white as a sheet, my body hungry,
hungry, hungry. My body sanguine, my body a liability,
my body waxing, waning, my body hostile, my body burning,
my body water, my body wind, my body
a liar, my body asking for it.

 

Christina Lee’s essays and poetry have appeared in Tin House Online, The Toast, The Seattle Times, Hoot Review, Apeiron Review, Whale Road Review, Ruminate Journal, Relief Journal, and The Porch, among other journals, as well as in the anthologies Adam, Eve and the Riders of the Apocalypse: 39 Contemporary Poets on the Characters of the Bible (Cascade Books, 2017), edited by D.S. Martin; and Waves: A Confluence of Women’s Voices, forthcoming from A Room of Her Own Foundation. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Seattle Pacific University. She lives in Seattle with her husband.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for March 20, 2018

Sungyoun Jee
What I Want to See

The elephant
which romps
around the plains
roaming the savanna

with its companions
that are just as noble.
Their tusks striking the air
as the herd advances.

The elephant
which is larger than all
which is never hunted,
but also never hunts

those who are weak—
the one
who drinks from the pond
without causing war,

the one who swings
its trunk merrily
as if it were a
metronome instructing

the group to move quicker,
saying that there is much more
to see in the endless plains.
This is what I want to see.

 

Sungyoun Jee is a freshman at the International School Manila. He has won awards in the Bow Seat Ocean Awareness Writing Contest for his poetry as well as in the Scholastics Art & Writing Awards for his short story and poetry. He enjoys taking naps and eating pasta.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for March 19, 2018

Vivian Wagner
How to Survive a Nuclear War

I have no idea, but I think
it might have something to do
with Netflix and popcorn.
Shutters on the windows?
Probably a good idea.
Also, wipe radioactive
dust from your dog’s paws
and throw the towel in
the wash right away.
Go to sleep early, because
that’s always best, anyway.
Something about masks and
fallout shelters and special
glasses, I assume, though I
don’t know where to get them.
Everything will be fine.
Just take a deep breath.
Or, maybe, don’t.

 

Vivian Wagner is the author of the poetry collection The Village (Kelsay Books, 2017) and the memoir Fiddle: One Woman, Four Strings, and 8,000 Miles of Music (Citadel-Kensington, 2010). Her work has appeared in Muse /A Journal, Forage Poetry JournalPittsburgh Poetry ReviewMcSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Creative Nonfiction, The Atlantic, The Ilanot Review, Silk Road Review, Zone 3, Eyedrum Periodically, 3QR, and other publications. Wagner is an associate professor of English at Muskingum University in New Concord, Ohio.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for March 18, 2018

Devon Balwit
He says,

I would have run in even without a gun,
would have interposed my body like that coach,
like that student with his five bullets as he held
the door. Hodor. Hodor. That would have been me,
White Walkers clamoring all around, me firm
of purpose even as their blows shattered it. I
would have set myself as a seal upon the heart
for my love is strong as death, and self-love
so much more than holding up an umbrella, rain
pummeling my son’s alabaster. That sere circle
was only saving me for the next time, the way
a boxer is massaged and oiled, a stallion groomed
to glowing before the big race, every face
in the stands pendant, every damn face.

 

Devon Balwit is a writer/teacher from Portland, Oregon. Her poems of protest have appeared previously in What Rough Beast as well as in The New Verse News, Poets Reading the News, RattleRedbird Weekly Reads, Rise-Up Review, Rat’s Ass Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, Mobius, and more.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for March 13, 2018

Korbin Jones
fallen.

in this, our only sanctuary,
where our blood won’t stain
the sidewalks or a freshly washed
t-shirt, i can hold his hand.
leave my eyes to rest.
let the air between us
become shoulders.

fables of a modern world.
re-making it like desperate gods
only wanting to praise each other,
to have a temple no greater
than a birdhouse. but so what if we do?
one day his wings will grow
wider than a robin’s, and i
will build him such a house,
a proper place for worship.
self-serving as any god. and armed.

this has precedence. not the first time
an iconoclast with a rifle aimed
at heaven, at self-made gods
of a world that’d rather see vacant skies.
vacant shrines. tombs of waiting.
gods converted to myth despite
the thunder, the screaming of our bodies
falling like hailstones,
like lightning with the rain.

then make this our last testament to living,
as a vengeful pantheon.
a flood contested and all-too-soon
forgotten, to wipe clean the sin
of visibility, of sound.
we’ll bury ourselves on impact,
covered in dirt and stardust,
burial shrouds. veils
for the weddings we’ll never have.

 

Korbin Jones’s work has appeared in Noctua Review, Polaris, Blue Route, and other journals, as well as in the anthology Missouri’s Best Emerging Poets (Z Publishing, 2018). Jones is a senior at Northwest Missouri State University, where he is pursuing a double BA in writing and Spanish. In the fall he will enter the MFA program in creative writing at the University of Kansas.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for March 12, 2018

Vivian Wagner
Apologia

Earth,
I’m sorry.
We don’t know
what we’re doing, what
we’ve done, what we’re going
to do. We only know our
names, and yours, and the particular gray
of the clouds this morning, as they shroud
the moon watching over us all, a witness to
the ways we walk dogs, kiss daughters, and keep trying.

 

Vivian Wagner is the author of the poetry collection The Village (Kelsay Books, 2017) and the memoir Fiddle: One Woman, Four Strings, and 8,000 Miles of Music (Citadel-Kensington, 2010). Her work has appeared in Muse /A Journal, Forage Poetry JournalPittsburgh Poetry ReviewMcSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Creative Nonfiction, The Atlantic, The Ilanot Review, Silk Road Review, Zone 3, Eyedrum Periodically, 3QR, and other publications. Wagner is an associate professor of English at Muskingum University in New Concord, Ohio.

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