It’s a banner day here on the pod, Slushies. We welcome a very special guest, American Poetry Review’s Elizabeth Scanlon to the table as we discuss three prose poems from Sara Burant.

Dagne sends out birthday wishes to Canada’s own Margaret Atwood while Lisa shows the team her Margaret Atwood-as-saint candle. We note the recent poetry trend towards raising the profile of female visual artists whose work has been overlooked during their lifetimes. Artists like Sonia Delaunay, mentioned in Burant’s poem “Fields,” and Hilma af Kilmt, whose art inspired Didi Jackson’s recent book “My Infinity.” 

The mention of a clay pipe in one poem sends Marion running for a treasure her husband found while mudlarking. Kathy cops to her blue-collar resistance to a precious ars poetica and we discuss what it takes to win her over in the end. Elizabeth relates how John Ashbery likens waiting for a poem to a cat’s finicky arrival. We note Frank O’Hara’s notion of “deep gossip,” name checking his own friends along with celebrities in his poems, a gesture Burant employs in her poem “Heat wave.” And we come full circle with a shout out to American Poetry Review’s own podcast where Elizabeth interviewed Margaret Atwood during the pandemic. As always, thanks for listening!

At the table:

Dagne Forrest, Samantha Neugebauer, Elizabeth Scanlon, Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Lisa Zerkle, and Lillie Volpe (sound engineer)

Bio: Sara Burant’s poems, reviews, and collaborative translations of Paul Éluard’s poems have appeared in journals such as OmniVerse, Pedestal, periodicities, Ruminate, and The Denver Quarterly. Her work has been honored with a fellowship from Oregon Literary Arts and a residency at Playa. At 55, she received an MFA in Poetry from Saint Mary’s College of California. She’s the author of a chapbook, Verge.

after Frank O’Hara

For the chickens I save tidbits, potato skins, and the outer cabbage leaves which make me think of hats. The red wobble of the hens’ combs and the smell of their fecal heat, unaccountably dear to me. Awaiting a match to warm me, I chew on a clay pipe’s stem, contemplating the waning moon of its bowl and my pink lipstick past. The silence behind words spoken or thought clucks softly in my inner ear. Sitting inside, I can’t help looking out, a lifting, carrying blue, the wind’s little pull on the earlobe of my heart. Lately I’ve been cutting paper into shapes that mean Feed me or Take me to your leader, wishing I’d been taught to name feelings as they arise. Tenderness for the apple still hanging from winter’s limb. Loneliness drunk down with morning’s darjeeling. There are conspirators for beauty. Like rabbits, they leave tracks in the snow. Like geese, they arrow through hallways of night. Without sentiment or self-pity they gaze at certain slants of light. They chip away the ice with a pick to get at the lock. Then they pick the lock. And oh, what a view. I want to walk in the dark to get there, not following anyone’s directions. To enter the fortune teller’s crystal ball with bread in my pocket and a botanist’s loupe. Though I don’t know your name, I move forward only beside you, your imaginary hand in mine. 

The woman at the table next to mine gives up loud-talking in favor of song, but it’s not looking for love, it’s looking for FUN—& feeling groovy. Maybe I should warn her—today’s theme isn’t love or fun, it’s submarine & skedaddle, it’s danger-danger, hold your breath & sound. This avalanche of heat, these record-shattering days. See the breakage piling up on sidewalks so hot the barefoot babies weep as they learn to toddle. Maybe, as you like to point out, I’m catastrophizing, when what I really want is to feel groovy again. To butter my skin with baby oil & sizzle, walking barefoot along the burning sand, Bradford Beach where I fell in love unrequited for the umpteenth time. Back then, who was counting? Back then summer lasted for years & still wasn’t long enough. 1978, despite Mother’s reservations, I saved my babysitting money for a ticket to Fleetwood Mac at County Stadium. Eilleen, Maggie, Liz, Jean, Mary, me—& Stevie Nicks & Christine McVie, the elm trees & long summer dusk of those women’s voices. A dusk so filled with the orange, violet & chartreuse silk of its immense flag flying above, beside & through you, you neglect to notice shadows splotching the periphery & forget your curfew. I didn’t notice much, so stoned I was, we were, melting into the moment’s spotlessness, our adolescent hips grooving, our tan arms waving, here, now, this, this, this—I mean there, then, that, that, that—no one yet suspended for drinking, no one yet strung out, dropping out, running off with boys to Oregon or Wyoming, limping home pregnant or in rags. The elms, gone. Mom, Vince, Rob & Christine McVie, too. I’ve had to swear off many things due to poor digestion—but oblivion, I’d still like to indulge in that sometimes, diving into it like a bee into a flower, a morning glory, its dumb, purple, one day only show.