Journal

Dear Willawaw Readers,

It is my honor to introduce to you the paintings of Carol Crump Bryner. I have been a fan for decades and am especially smitten with her subject matter for the journal as it portrays a place I used to call home. Please visit the back page to read more about her.

The poetry in this Winter Issue strikes a couple of resonant notes for me: we are occupying a liminal space between administrations and in reference to the approaching yet protracted end of this pandemic. In a larger sense, this transitional/liminal state can also refer to our relationship with this planet we call home and the imbalances of climate change we are visiting upon it which have reached a tipping point. These are each and all weighty stressors, and out of this “season” the poets have drawn forth what might not be pretty, but which is nonetheless beautiful.

I am heartened to find so many tracings of wild life and in such variety—not just Frank Rossini’s dog or Trina Gaynon’s cat and dog and fellow beasts, but also Linda Bryant’s armadillo and brindled coyote; Doug Van Hooser’s tortoise, possum, and deer; Gary Lark’s chukhar; Ann Farley’s buzzard; and Bruce McRae’s multitude of wild things in “On the Brink.”

Within these pages you will also find an honest measure of the cost these stressors (and others) can extract, physically and mentally. Both Sarah Beddow and Abriana Jette write eloquently of headaches or migraines. DS Molalai and Sarah Lilius address the fragility of the mind, and of relationship.

Michael H. Brownstein and Penelope Hyde Levine bring rain to the page, a staple of our Northwest culture and environment, while John Stanizzi, Amy Miller, and Sarah Beddow draw inspiration from apples, another stock element of the Oregon pantry. May you find comfort in the familiar!

That’s only the half of it, of course. I leave you to discover the rest for yourselves. And a reminder: we are all fragile, and transitions can be damned awkward. So be kind to yourself and be patient. I hope this passel of poems will help to see you through to the light which is even now beginning to grow.

Happy Winter Solstice and all the blessing of the season to you and to those you love.

–Rachel Barton

Waiting for Thunder

I stopped my car once on a thin country road,
stepped out and looked west.
Standing near a field, post sunset
in the proximity of an old barn,
the gambrel roofline traced
by the light left on the horizon.
After shadows vanish, outlines linger.
Approaching the fence in silence
the eyes of several sheep close in
unshorn white wool on their backs
contrasted against dark grass.

A clean sky and rising moon make a canvas
for my thoughts, still not manifest.
At the bottom of a breath, a roll of thunder
jolts me from reverie, looking down
I see a ram shaking his fleece,
an unexpected greeting, more like drums.
Were we sharing more than space?
That was my first thought.

Moments like these carve deeply,
mark a place and time against the blur of years.
A shared moment with another creature
and a sound I won’t soon forget.
I ended up living at this farm
for several years when it came up for rent,
made good friends with the neighbors.
Not so with the ram, he was crotchety.
I often stood in that same spot evenings
looking just over the barn’s roofline
with my ears tuned, waiting for thunder.

 

Frank Babcock lives in Corvallis, Oregon and is a retired Albany middle school teacher and owner of a bamboo nursery. He writes poetry to share the strange thoughts that rattle around in his head and to get them off his mind. He started with an interest in the beatnik poets, Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg.  He has a long way to go and much to write before he sleeps. 

 

Dispatch

re: a Pause

There are two kinds of apple trees in / my neighborhood For years I would worry that
something / had killed the crabapple blossoms on my childhood trees But now I know
they / simply blossom later than the nursery-bought trees down the road The nursery-
bought trees bloom cotton ball white / and early On my trees a few weeks later and
after / the green leaves unfurl tight magenta buds give way to / soft pink petals and
sweet perfume This year it has / been cold and I have watched snow fall on the buds /
I have panicked at / frost warnings in late April But still every morning / the buds
draw their coats tighter against the cold / and they seem / fine The trees have pressed
/ pause I think this life in quarantine is what I’ve fantasized about / for a while now
A life of the mind I read I write I / shower while thinking deep thoughts But what is a
life of the mind without / the students to share it with It is a / pause a drawing close
of petal soft blankets a question about / how long the closed bud persists

 

Dispatch

re: Shadows

These students do   not   leave my room   There are no  prep periods  I have / no time
without kids talking  writing  talking  talking  talking  talk/ ing / ing / ing  My job is
to / control the room keep everyone on task / proofread this paper  / provide
followable advice on how to completely restructure that  paper  / sit   hold space  for
this student at my elbow while she types her paper and types types  types  / The sky-
light points sun at my eyes at a 45 degree / angle and I’m wearing this cowgirl hat
from my days as a cook at the Buddhist retreat center  to stop the daily headache
from bleeding into / tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow / At home I take the hat
off but still / hide my eyes   I can’t look at my kids  I can’t make eye contact with /
anyone   My husband says it’s OK I’m / always like this   after work  / I’m always like
this / I think I could fall asleep / on this hard plastic chair here  / in the sunshine of
the back yard   My kids climb the swingset and slide slide / The shadows grow long
like shadows do in late Spring  / I move my chair back and back  / to keep my body
warm in the sun / shine farther away  and farther / away  from my kids until there is
nothing left but shadows

Sarah Beddow is a poet, mother, and teacher. She has written a lot of poems and essays about her body, rape culture, and abortion. Her chapbook What’s pink & shiny/what’s dark & hard was published by Porkbelly Press, and she is the founding editor of the Pittsburgh Poetry Houses, a public art project. Find her online at impolitelines.com.

retch

take the moon into your mouth. scoop it out of the sky
like honey from a glass jar. roll it around, a cold marble
behind your lips. stars stick to your tongue like glitter.
our blue planet rests in your palm, a hard pill to swallow.
you make a new world by eating the old one.
you want a new world so badly? make it. every hallowed
malaise, every follicle. what about horse joints? the bug
sounds? every waking bird beak? will the syrup stick?
the kettle scream? how many branches will the willow weep?
name the color of the sky. and how many skies
are there? who will top the mountains? how will you drink
the ocean? what will the songs smell like? will foxglove
still drip like that? and what about mornings?
will they still feel like this? will your grandmother
still laugh like that? will she teach you to dig up
daffodils right after they’ve died, split the bulbs,
and plant them again, root side down, in the fall?
will you be generous in waiting for winter to pass?
will you step delicate, like your grandmother, knowing
what’s beneath your feet? will you imagine
another yellow year, another patch of snow drops?
and when you’ve pictured it all, painted it in your mind
like a chapel, i want you to collect it in the hollow
of your throat, then retch it, like a mother bird does
for her babies.

 

skincare routine

a factory of snails/their underbellies all tickled
and stroked/you/and all the other women line up/walk
like scared fish/skin dull as spoons/you have one fear

in common: your mothers’ wrinkles/that’s right/you crave
an aura of girlhood/cheeks as full as a juicebox/eyes
like tight jars/you do what you can to keep a fed face/

the cosmetic chemist assures you/no snails were killed
in the process/you read a pamphlet on the ethics
of snail mucin/you wonder/briefly/how they unearth

the goo from those fat/writhing/bodies/and funnel it
into little clinky bottles/all so nondescript/the first
imbuement/snail stuck to your face/like a leech/your skin/

for the first time/a real organ/now/you wear your freckles
like jewelry/milk snails by the hour/fill up the bathtub
and sprawl in the stuff/you want it everywhere/silky youth

serum/under your skin now too/that’s right/you drink
it/feel it gurgle to your brain/now/years come loose
like teeth/tomorrow/a woman forgets her name

 

Mara Beneway is a poet, illustrator, and educator from New York. Her work has appeared in the Bread Loaf Journal and Gandy Dancer. She is currently an MFA candidate at the University of South Florida.