Black Lives Matter: Found Poem by Anna Bálint

Livestream

Please sir, don’t tell me he’s dead.
Please sir, don’t tell me he’s gone…just like that

Stay with me
Stay with me, baby

We got pulled over for a busted taillight.
That’s all baby.  A busted taillight.
Stay with me.

A traffic stop.  Nothing but a traffic stop, baby.
Stay with me.

Oh my God, don’t tell me he’s dead.
Please don’t tell me my boyfriend just went like that…
Please don’t tell me he’s gone.
Officer, please don’t tell me you did this to him.
You shot four bullets into him, sir.

Baby, baby, stay with me…

You told him to get his ID, sir
You told him to get his driver’s license.
Please officer, don’t tell me you just did this to him.
You shot four bullets into him, sir.
He was just getting his license and registration, sir.

Stay with me
Stay with me, baby

He’s a good man, sir.
He works in a school.
He’s never been to jail, anything…
He’s not a gang member, anything…
He worked with kids, sir, they loved him, sir…

Baby, baby, stay with me…

Exit the car!
Exit the car!
Keep your hands where they are!
Keep them up!
Move away!  Move away!  Keep moving!  Move away!
Now, get on your knees!
ON YOUR KNEES!

Mommy, Mommy, I’m right here with you, Mommy…

Stay with me.
Stay with me baby.

ON YOUR KNEES!!!

—Anna Bálint


This “found” poem is constructed from the words of Lavish, aka Diamond Reynolds, in the Livestream video she made right after police shot and killed her boyfriend, Philando Castile. Immediately after seeing her video, I tried to post it on Facebook, but at that point it was being blocked and wouldn’t post. This poem burst out of my frustration/anger/grief of wanting her words to be heard…and continue to be heard.


Anna Bálint is the author of Horse Thief, a collection of short fiction spanning cultures and continents that was a finalist for the Pacific Northwest Book Award. Two earlier books of poetry are Out of the Box and spread them crimson sleeves like wings. Her poems, stories, and essays have appeared in numerous journals and magazines, including recently in Riverbabble and Sparrow Trill,  Minerva Rising’s special issue on Race in America. Anna is an alumna of Hedgebrook Writers Retreat, the Jack Straw Writers Program, and has received awards/grants from the Seattle Arts Commission and 4Culture. In 2001, she received a Leading Voice Award in recognition of her creative work with urban youth at El Centro de la Raza. She has taught creative writing for many years and in many places, including in prisons, El Centro de la Raza, Antioch University, and Richard Hugo House. Currently, she is a teaching artist with Path With Art, and at Recovery Café in Seattle, where she founded and leads Safe Place, a weekly writing circle for people in recovery.

Editor’s Notes: Celebration, Vol. 22

When we chose Celebration as our theme for Vol. 22, we assumed that we would gets lots of submissions that were celebratory, high on life, verbal jumps for joy, even if tinged with what we called “an elegiac time for contemplation.” Surprisingly, we got a hell of a lot of death-funeral-dying, down in the dumps, submissions (at least in the poetry category). Maybe it is the times we live in. With the current U.S. political climate, there isn’t too much to celebrate.

We did celebrate the fact that Raven’s staff finally joined the digital world: instead of receiving submissions for this issue through the U.S. mail, we used Submittable.com. For me, it was Hallelujah! time. So much less work. So much more organized. We have always wanted to make sure we never charged anyone for submitting work to Raven, and that hasn’t changed by using Submittable. It just makes everything more efficient and less labor intensive, and more timely for both writers and staff.

We did end up publishing more prose work than usual. Matt Briggs and Dana Dickerson picked twelve examples of work celebrating such diverse events as Obama’s first election, lesbian high school students attending a prom after a successful protest, the building of a hummingbird’s nest in reaction to a jazz rehearsal, breaking through barriers to becoming an artist, the man in the bunny suit attending a birthday party, and warrior ants who eat other ants and then die of malnutrition, thus saving the sugarcane crops in the process.

And thanks to John Olson, and his very funny essay, “Sillybrations,” we get to be thankful for, or not, celebrating Fill Our Stapler Day, Face Your Fears Day, Zero Tasking Day, and, if there is one, Endless List Day. Make your own list.

So many good poets sent in work, Poetry Editor Rebecca Mabanglo-Mayor picked twenty-two poems that celebrate diverse events, places, and persons: a son, Einstein’s gravitational waves, a traditional Apache basket weaver, the making of tea, giving cats fresh water every morning, and the fact that on Jane’s table everything is “for sale except the hand-blown / shot glass with her mother’s / thumbprint pressed in a thin / petalled nasturtium” (Kevin Miller, pg. 63).

We are pleased to present a poem by Billie Swift (“I Question the Door Open,” pg. 62), the new owner-operator of Open Books: A Poem Emporium. Poets Christine Deavel and John W. Marshall are finally retiring and turning over the reins to Billie. They’ve served the poetry community since 1995; Open Books is one of only a handful poetry-only bookstores in the universe.

If you love the work in this magazine, and the work Raven has done since 1991: please go on our website, www.ravenchronicles.org, and donate, or buy a subscription, or buy an copy for a loved one. We appreciate all the support we get.

Announcement: the Vol. 23, Fall/Winter issue of Raven will not have an open reading/submission period. Vol. 23 will be a special issue, dedicated to twenty years of work of Jack Straw’s Writers Program. Late in 2016, we will post guidelines and themes for Vol. 24, Spring/Summer 2017 issue.

Later. . .

Phoebe Bosché,
Raven Managing Editor

Poets Against Hate-Lawrence Matsuda

Just a Short Note to Say Something You Already Know 

 — For Donald’s Daughter, Ivanka Trump

Ivanka, in a different time and place,
you and your children are squeezed into
cattle cars destined for Nazi death camps.
Stars pinned to your coats
and numbers tattooed on your arms.
Religion is your crime, something like
the 120,000 Japanese Americans whose race
incarcerates them during World War II.

If you dodge head shaving,
and starvation, maybe a country
would welcome you.

Angel of death is difficult to slip,
unfortunates are turned away,
chased by verbal brickbats and pitchforks.
You smell freedom’s scent
but only glimpse porthole view
of Lady Liberty’s tantalizing torch.

Doors slam and hands
of kindness withdraw.
You are not among privileged
huddled masses.

Today as a 1% American demographic,
you are safe by an accident of birth.
Others less fortunate, however,
stand on precipices knowing,
“History does not repeat
itself but it rhymes.”*

When Donald promises
a magnificent Great Wall
and spews religious
hatred to cheering crowds,
you must feel a guilty twinge
knowing if this were 1943 Germany,
a chorus of incendiary voices
would echo and push innocents
off slippery cliffs into eternal darkness.
Black hole so forbidding victims
never see their children again
as the self-serving politicians parade
on bandwagons swerving on and off
a broken highway of eight million bones.

—Lawrence Matsuda

*________________________________
Quote attributed to Mark Twain.


Lawrence Matsuda, January 2016—in memory of my parents who were incarcerated during WWII because of their race, and my Hiroshima relatives who were among the first to be incinerated by an atomic bomb.

Book Review: Watching the Perseids

Watching the Perseids
by Jed Myers
Sacramento Poetry Center Press
1719 25th Street, Sacramento CA 95816
http://www.sacramentopoetrycenter.com/
ISBN: 978-0-9831362-9-3
2014, paper, 83 pp., $15.00

Reviewed by Thomas Hubbard

My stepfather wept often during Mum’s last year. Fear and shock shone from way back in her eyes, behind the blank stare. Her knowledge of who and where she was had already left. Dementia had stolen her brain, and after a final year of total helplessness, she passed — Mom was gone and it was finished. Dementia took her away from us, then killed her, and her long dying deeply scarred both my stepfather and myself.

If only Jed Myers’ book, Watching the Perseids, could have come fifteen years ago, the pain could have been far more bearable.

A bit of a father figure among Seattle’s community of poets, Myers is a psychiatrist with a solidly established, well-respected practice. His beautifully-written, poetic observations show us how — with love, respect and dignity — he navigated the passing of his father, who died of a brain tumor.

In the showing, Myers has given to us a master’s collection of poems, all interconnected by themes, by rhythm, and by a son’s strong, quiet love and understanding of his father. He has given us a guidebook and an anthem.

Inter-generational continuity flows through both of this collection’s two parts, “Until” and “Since,” serving as an overall theme. Myers’ subtle but ever insistent reminder that we are all made of the stuff of stars — atoms of our composition being without beginning or end — sparkles here and there throughout the book, and as suggested by the title, defines it.

“Cruising Home,” this collection’s opening poem, has Myers and his already bedridden father reminiscing on a winter day about “…evenings playing catch before dinner, / the night his father died….”

And farther down in the same poem,

….He couldn’t say
if it’s October or March—it’s neither.
But this his last February is

itself a river of what
we, together, happen
to remember. He clears his throat,

windpipe boggy already
since he’s reclined—he tells me,
in that gravelly stutter,

his feelings have gotten too strong.
Oh, he knows they’ve been there,
inside his chest all along…

since he was the young man he was,
cruising home from work in the Buick,
becoming and becoming my father—

now it’s harder….

Myers admits, in “Selfish Wishes,” that the limitations his father’s work made on their times together leave him short of complete satisfaction with their shared life. “…What about dinner? / I’d ask. He wouldn’t answer….”

…I wanted more. I’m ashamed
to come clean. Take the train to Rome,

perhaps find the oldest synagogue
together. Just look at it still standing—

we might not even enter.
But work. It came first….

The mention of train in this poem is first of several scattered through this collection. Trains were an important mode of travel in his father’s eastern city life, working in Philadelphia and New York. Also Myers mentions his father having played clarinet. Music becomes one of several minor themes that run throughout, as does water, also mentioned here.

Further along in “Selfish Wishes,” we see,

…I have to add how I wanted

to hear him play that old clarinet—
he led a swing band with it in high school!

I had the thing fixed, but he wouldn’t
pick it up for a minute, even

when he was well. I didn’t get it.
But he sings the old hits more and more

as his brain’s taken over by the tumor.
He laughs and weeps more easily now.

I’ll have to let his bed and my chair
beside it be where we meet on the shore

of that distant water….

These themes, these words, repeat and repeat without being intrusive or their repetition even being too obvious. And they give both of the book’s parts almost a feeling of being one continuous poem. Myers seems to have designed and assembled this collection so that every detail supports other details, creating beauty, interest, and a sense of human proportion and, most interestingly, a pronounced structural integrity. Reading through it brings a whispered subliminal pleasure, like the physical comfort one might experience while spending the afternoon in an architect’s house.

A sense of quiet grace glows within the family’s agreement regarding hospice care. The poem, “No IVs in Hospice,” shows us how his father’s comfort in that certainty of his last few days becomes the priority, displacing the family’s wish for more time, more goodbyes.

If we get more water into him
he could liven up, enough
perhaps to enjoy our visit.

No IVs in Hospice. He sips
the diet coke he loves from a straw
we place between parched lips.

But his thirst is almost lost.
Hunger’s gone. He hurries,
lying there in his pale blue gown,

off to a meeting. He’s got to
get on that train….

Additionally, this and several later mentions of trains underlines it metaphorically as vehicle for one of the collection’s tenors — Myers’ father’s constant striving, his work ethic.

A sense of his father’s presence lingers even after the funeral, an experience familiar to anyone old enough to have lost someone close, and emerges in this book’s second part, Since, where we find the title poem, “Watching the Perseids.”

The broadcast’s breaking up in static—
solar flares, snow, ozone
fluctuations, I don’t know.

Should I care? I can still play the message
my phone captured one year back—
“No Time for Love” he sings

the refrain in that same boyish tone
I’d heard come from him over a steak,
or climbing the bleachers to our seats

my hand in his, before
a night game at Connie Mack. Even
on his way out in the cold in the dawn

to catch the train, singing whatever
he said—his brisk See ya lat-er!
down the steps. See ya to-night!

 Singing the tireless dance of his life—
he left no time in it for the quiet
closeness of watching the Perseids

or the river from its banks….

And so the memories shared at his father’s bedside, the observations of the man’s dwindling and final passing, the gradual acceptance of his absence, the going forward — all sprinkled with the themes of his and his father’s life and times, run through Myers’ book even to the very end, where in the last few poems he brings all the parts together, the water, the trains, the music, the stars, the living, immortal atoms, and his tender love for the father who raised him. In this telling of his father’s story, Myers marks the continuity from his grandfather’s father through to the three children Myers himself has fathered and reared, and in the doing he renders more bearable the pain and sorrow of losing a loved one.

This is a book for parents, their children, and those they love. It is a shrine built of profound truths.


Another version of this review appears in The Cartier Street Review, august 2015, an online magazine.


Thomas Hubbard, a retired writing instructor and spoken word performer, authored Nail and other hardworking poems, Year of the Dragon Press, 1994; Junkyard Dogz (also available on audio CD); and Injunz, a chapbook. He designed and published Children Remember Their Fathers (an anthology) and books by seven other authors. His book reviews have appeared in Square Lake, Raven Chronicles, New Pages and The Cartier Street Review. Recent publication credits include poems in Yellow Medicine Review, spring 2010;  I Was Indian, ed. Susan Deer Cloud, Foothills Publishing, 2010 and Florida Review, and short stories in Red Ink and Yellow Medicine Review. He serves editorially with Raven Chronicles and The Cartier Street Review and he blogs about writing techniques for WordCraft Circle of Native American Writers and Poets.

CELEBRATION: Vol. 22, on Sale, July 1, 2016

by Pat Kristofferson
by Pat Kristofferson

Inside the magazine:

Cover Artwork: Untitled, watercolor by Pat Kristoferson, from The Artist Within, The Art of Alzheimer’s. Pat’s artwork was created at Elderwise, a Seattle-based 501 (c)3 organization, that serves those with memory loss and their families. (http://www.elderwise.org)

Reviews of books authored by:
Michael Daley, John Morgan, Christopher Jarmick, Jeanetta Calhoun Mish, Ed. Sherman Alexie, Rajaa Gharbi, Gloria Anzaldua, Eds. Ann Fisher-Wirth & Laura-Gray Street.

The work of Artists:
Pat Kristoferson, Jenny Hover, Steve Cartwright, Sue Clancy, Allen Forrest, Mare Hake, Constance Mears, Marilyn Stablein, Theodore Van Alst, Jr., Sheri Wright.

Poetry, Fiction, Essays, Nonfiction, Reviews by:
Richard Linker, Peter Ludwin, Andrew McBride, Frank Rossini, Rafael Jesus Gonzalez, Jesse Minkert, Karen Lee White, Donald Butler, Mary-Jo El-Wattar, Taumstar, Angel Ybarra, Robert Francis Flor, Elizabeth Alexander, John Enright, Jim Bodeen, Susan J. Erickson, Thomas Hubbard, Paul Hunter, Michael Hureaux, Susan Platt, Bill Yake, Larry Crist, Krikor Der Hohannesian, Michael Konik, Constance Mears, John Olson, Adam Phillips, Barbara Ruth, Mary Waters, Paula Marie Coomer, Levi Fuller, Aria Riding, Luther Allen, Crisosto Apache, Linda Beeman, Letitia Cain, Catalina Cantu, Nancy Canyon, Christine Clarke, Chris Dahl, Nancy Flynn, Cate Gable, Rob Jacques, Dawn Karima, Catherine McGuire, Terry Martin, Kevin Miller, Vivian Faith Prescott, Barbara Jane Reyes, David Stallings, Billie Swift, Armin Tolentino, Diana Woodcock.

Celebration: July 1, 2016

by Pat Kristoferson
by Pat Kristoferson

Raven Chronicles presents

A Reading & Reception, for our new publication,  Celebration, Vol. 22, of  Raven ChroniclesA Seattle-based Journal of Art, Literature & The Spoken Word.

July 1, 2016, Friday, 7:00 p.m., Free Jack Straw Cultural Center, 4261 Roosevelt Way N.E. University District, Seattle

Readings by: MC Anna Bálint

Cultural Geography: Jesse Minkert

Food & Culture: Karen Lee White (from Vancouver Island, BC)

Words from The Cafe: Introduced by Anna Bálint

Mary-Jo El-Wattar and Angel Ybarra

Nature Writing: Robert Francis Flor

Spoken Word: Larry Crist

Rants, Raves & Reviews: Rajaa Gharbi, from her book …From Songs of a Grasshopper

Theme: Celebration Catalina Cantu, Christine Clarke, Kevin Miller, Terry Martin, and Billie Swift (welcome to new owner of Open Books: A Poem Emporium!)


Artwork: Untitled, watercolor by Pat Kristoferson, from The Artist Within, The Art of Alzheimer’s. Pat’s artwork was created at Elderwise, a Seattle-based 501 (c)3 organization, that serves those with memory loss and their families. (http://www.elderwise.org)


This event is co-sponsored by the JACK STRAW CULTURAL CENTER. Thanks to the Seattle Office of Arts & Culture, 4Culture, & ArtsWA, The Washington State Arts Commission (with NEA funding), for partial funding of our 2015-16 programs. 

Contact Information: www.ravenchronicles.org 206.941.2955, <editors@ravenchronicles.org>, 15528 12th Ave. NE, Shoreline, WA 98155

Poets In The Park, 2016

poppies doveRaven Chronicles and It’s About Time Writers Reading Series present: “Poets Against Hate Reading,” June 25th, 2016, 3:30 pm, at “Poets in the Park 2016,” Anderson Park, 7802 168th Ave NE, Redmond, Washington.

Readers, in order of appearance:

Jacqueline Ware (5 minutes)

Angelica Guillen (Spanish/English) (5 minutes)

Zalia Cook & Bridget Yule (5 minutes together)

Mitra Lofi Shemirani (Farsi/English) (5 minutes)

Larry Crist (5 minutes)

Bios:

Zalia Cook is seventeen years old and a junior at Roosevelt High School. Her past works include an essay called “My Favorite Things” in Adventures In Reading, a book compiling works from students of the non-profit organization 826 Seattle. Currently she volunteers with non-profits including Mary’s Place and Friendship Adventures, plays softball, and enjoys jazz dance in her free time.

Larry Crist lives in Seattle and is originally from California, specifically Humboldt County. He has also lived in Chicago, Houston, London, and Philadelphia, where he attended Temple University, receiving an MFA in Theatre. He’s been widely published. Undertow Overtures is Larry’s first poetry collection, published by ATOM Press, in 2014.

Angelica Guillen (Spanish/English), Xicana, born in Mexico; retired Maestra of Composition and Literature, Skagit Valley College; mother of two intelligent, independent women, Candelaria and Rocio, and the grandmother of Baron.

Mitra Lotfi Shemirani (Farsi/English) is an Iranian-American poet, writer and journalist. She was born in 1969 in Tehran, the capital city of Iran. She received her bachelor degree in German language and literature from Tehran University and later her Master degree in Art history from TMU in Tehran. She started her career as a journalist in Iran in 1999, and worked for various independent newspapers and magazines. She also translated various literary works and poems from German to Farsi and English, including works of Ingeburg Bachmann and Ilse Aishinger, Imre Kertesz and Guenter Grass . She has also been working on translation of works of different Farsi modern poets into English. In 2009, she and her family emigrated to US and became permanent residents in Seattle. She is currently an art educator in the Bellevue School District and a professional editor.

Jacqueline Ware is a member of the African American Writers’ Alliance. A former stage performance artist, she recently begin writing poetry and participating in Spoken Word at the urging of a dear friend. Her material reflects experiences in her life and the changing world around her. She strives to breathe into her works the breath of life. The listener is drawn into the material, in a way that is moving and meaningful. Short List of Venues she reads at: El Centro De La Raza, Garfield H.S. MLK program, Elliott Bay Bookstore, African American Museum, Columbia City Library, Columbia City Art Gallery, and Lake Union Art Walk.

Bridget Yule is seventeen years old and a junior at Roosevelt High School in Seattle. She enjoys traveling the world, and exploring Cambodia, Vietnam, China, and Cuba, have been some of her favorite trips. She volunteers with various non-profits, for example: Mary’s Place, Friendship Adventures, and The Ronald McDonald House. She plays softball, loves to try new foods, and spends a lot of time with family, friends, and her golden retriever Daisy.

Big Dane

 

Story goes he drove New Hampshire
in a hand-torqued Saab, the old kind,
sewing machine-size engine, and when it fried,
lugged an extra from his back seat,
bolted it in in the big freeze,
snow half up his ankles.

In Massachusetts I found a green Saab shell
missing its own midget engine.
So he wheezed a donor car in place,
twang of it rattled
like a preacher stirring congregants from sleep-walk,
dust and mold kicked up lungs
in the back-pews aching for a smoke,
but the motor sang like a cherub with a hymnal.

Under half an hour he swapped out the two beater engines,
left me sockets to tighten so I could crawl across the continent,
promising one day a fifty or a hundred in the mail.
You’ll be surprised, but I’ll send it.
That cracked him up.

After all, he smuggled that crapper across two state lines
without headlight, license plate or much of a way
to stop but a rusted handbrake, lashed to the ass end
of his own impeccable road warrior,
he dragged the good engine, me, and that dead car
by the dark of the moon,
to my green SAAB shell somebody
abandoned like a bad check.

When I waved so-long, he yelled it was a hoot.
I’ll send you some money! —
maybe a hundred, fifty for sure,
but I never got to it and he, he’s gone now,
under his own power,
never asked for anything
not from me, helpless as a kitten,
nor old friends who wished he’d sewn
together the distance, and, in stitches,
chugged over the mountains.

—Michael Daley

michaelfdaley@gmail.com


Michael Daley’s poems have appeared in APR, New England Review, Hudson Review, Ploughshares, Rhino, North American Review, Gargoyle, Writer’s Almanac, and elsewhere. Awarded by the Seattle Arts Commission, National Endowment of Humanities, Artist Trust, and Fulbright, his fourth collection of poetry, Of A Feather, was recently published by Empty Bowl Press. (Raven Chronicles’s Summer 2016 magazine, Vol 22. Celebration, has a review of Daley’s book by Jim Bodeen, out July 1, 2016. Bodeen’s review was also published in the Pacific Rim Review of Books, Issue Twenty, 2016.) Michael lives in Anacortes, Washington.

Book Review: What I Learned at the War

Mish Cover2What I Learned at the War,
by Jeanetta Calhoun Mish
West End Press, Albuquerque, New Mexico
West End Press
ISBN 978-0-9910742-9-7
2016, paperback, 80 pp, $15.95

Reviewed by Thomas Hubbard

As a child who spent countless days in company of a river — swimming, catching crawdads, fishing, trapping muskrats, hunting rabbits — I learned how to cut small, tinder-dry grapevine twigs and smoke them like cigarettes, exhaling the mild smoke to drive away clouds of river gnats. And so when I opened Jeanetta Calhoun Mish’s What I Learned at the War for the first time and read the lede stanza of her “Pastoral for My Brother,” I was immediately hooked. She wrote,

Today, I remember
prowling the woods with you
smashing wild grapes
into our haunted mouths,
smoking the vines.

Reading on, I discovered a writer whose work evokes the America that birthed “new” southerners, urban mixed-blood NDNs, midwest greasers, and the legions of lost travelers who, like Kerouac in the fifties, cross the continent endlessly, searching for their lives. This collection of poems displays a distinctive attitude, established most succinctly in the poem, “Sometimes there was an armistice.” Mish recalls attending her first formal dinner, and toward the last lines she tells us,

…I went to the ball, and as I remember it,
managed to always use the right fork
and to not say fuck out loud, not even once.

She tramps through America’s garden of violence, inequity and hurt, making poems of evidence she sees and remarks she remembers, then kicks them along her path like a child who kicks an unwashed tin can along railroad tracks, ignoring the oncoming freight train.

Mish’s prologue, “For the American Dead,” even though not written in an elegiac form, elegizes America and even American elegies, establishing a distant background of disconsolate introspection as she tells stories of the unfortunate among friends and family. But she peoples these stories with palpable characters who — despite bearing deep scars and bruises inside and out — smile, laugh, and shout at indomitable life.

The first poem in this collection’s body proper is “The Mice.” Mish carefully establishes the setting and personnel with subtle brushstrokes that would make Michelangelo proud.

It was late July, late afternoon,
one of those thick southern days
when shimmering heat draws a veil
over everything. A day that farmers,
eyes shaded by calloused palms or
John Deere caps, raise faces to the
stony sun and dream of rain. We tilled
the garden in March. Now, scarlet runners
weave red and green Pendletons around
their bamboo tripods, apparitions of old
Cheyenne women singing by the drum.

In her hospital room we were desperate
not to speak of death. Defying silence,
distracting her from pain, I confessed….

Here, the speaker inserts into the conversation an anecdote from when she was “running the cultivator” and accidentally disturbed a nest of field mice, which fills the eleven-line stanza. And then she finishes the poem with three lines:

We spoke of squash and mice and mothers
and of rain and scarlet runners. I tell you,
we were desperate not to speak of death.

Mish proceeds with three poems under the title, Occupational Hazards. The first, “#1 Child Labor,” recounts her childhood chores, which lead up to her ironing jeans for the family, and it ends with four rollicking sentences,

…Graduated to jeans at fifty cents a load at age eleven and developed a fetish for perfect ironed-and-starched creases. Later fell for a series of cowboys based on the perfection of their starched-and-creased pearl-button shirts and Levis. Gave up starch-and-crease when I gave up cowboys. Never ironed again.

Next comes seven somewhat whimsical pieces under the heading, Literacy Autobiography 1961-1992. The first, “#1 Body Language,” begins with birth, “My first language, mothersmell, rhythm of womb…,” and ends with,

…The hand reaching for a belt or a long-neck bottle, the fist swinging, the leg drawn back the perfect distance to kick with accuracy. This language I have tried to forget, so as not to confuse an arm reaching out in comfort with one poised to choke; so as not to confuse a body hovering over me in ecstasy with one preparing to suffocate.

The final piece in this grouping of seven is “#7 What I Learned at the War.” It ends with darkly humorous advice,

Try not to think about whether there is somewhere no war is going on. It’s like sending happy postcards to your former pimp in prison—it just makes the situation more unbearable.

Mish’s two poems, “What Sarah Venable Little Told the Sheriff” and “What Sarah Venable Little Wrote in Her Diary,” recount the vengeful and violent aftermath of America’s war between the states, first from a “family history” viewpoint, and then from a dying grandmother’s viewpoint of personal repenting and sorrow. On her deathbed, Sarah Venable Little mourns fathers of two generations, slain, “…because we turned away from / our grandmothers’ simple faith / / forgot the commandment / to never take up arms against another.”

Like many American families, especially in the South, this family still carries forward (and holds dear) their old, festered wounds of the Civil War. And like so many southern families, this family’s hearts pump blood of the conquered tribes which roamed here not so long ago. Conflicts….

In the poem Pia Toya, Mish writes two stanzas that may bring rain to the eyes for Coast Saliish tribes and, indeed, for all tribes.

Inside your heart
is a mountain written over
with a story not its own.

Let us remember its
ancient name, tell its true
story in the old way

made new.

And we all know the names given our west coast volcanoes on mainstream maps are not those mountains’ real names.

Jeanetta Calhoun Mish ends this collection with a long poem, “The Quah Effect,” named after Talequah, Oklahoma — capitol of the Cherokees’ “new” home at the end of the Trail of Tears. Among her closing lines are these:

It comes down to this:
head out for The Territories
east of the 97th parallel
south of the cultural Mason-Dixon

where there are two kinds of
survivors: the crackers and the
others—the music makers, the poets,
the artists, the medicine people.
I come from both kinds.

This book provides, among its considerable gifts, a view of what it is that makes otherwise sane adults write about the life “new” southerners, urban mixed-blood NDNs, midwest greasers, and the legions of lost travelers forever search for, and sometimes regret finding.


Thomas Hubbard, a retired writing instructor and spoken word performer, authored Nail and other hardworking poems, Year of the Dragon Press, 1994; Junkyard Dogz (also available on audio CD); and Injunz, a chapbook. He designed and published Children Remember Their Fathers (an anthology) and books by seven other authors. His book reviews have appeared in Square Lake, Raven Chronicles, New Pages and The Cartier Street Review. Recent publication credits include poems in Yellow Medicine Review, spring 2010;  I Was Indian, ed. Susan Deer Cloud, Foothills Publishing, 2010 and Florida Review, and short stories in Red Ink and Yellow Medicine Review. He serves editorially with Raven Chronicles and The Cartier Street Review and he blogs about writing techniques for WordCraft Circle of Native American Writers and Poets.