TALKING THROUGH POEMS
In the spirit of William Stafford and Marvin Bell’s 1983 book Segues: A Correspondence in Poetry, we have written a book called Someone Falls Overboard: Talking through Poems. There were just two rules for the poetic exchange: 1) 16-line poems (an extra line is permissible) and 2) each poem must respond in some way to the one that precedes it. As Bell writes in Segues, “I pinch off/ a part of the story I know;/toss it to you.” A third, unstated rule: be funny! — Stephen Kuusisto & Ralph James Savarese
AGAIN (RJS)
I lost twenty pounds when I had
that hole in my colon. My sigmoid colon,
to be precise. For those who get lost
in the body, it’s the part closest
to the rectum. Think of it as the exit
at City Field: the crowds leaving
en masse, as red as a Cardinal
though their team is blue. Yes,
I was bleeding — profusely, I might add.
A gaunt man of the hospital,
in need of iron. The doctor, beefy
as a kielbasa, a frat bro (Alpha Sigma
Phi), a butcher of names, approached,
and before he got there said,
his voice thundering down the hall,
“Mr. Snarvarese, I need to look
at your anus again.”
Throat, Concluding with a Line from Livy (SK)
They put a string with meat on it
Right down the gullet, mine,
Hoping to find out
Why I was starving myself —
Surely no teen
Certainly no boy
Would hit 96 pounds
On purpose —
Surely some ravening juice
In the abdominal cave
Was bleaching the child
So they held me,
Pushed cooked veal
Into the hatch —
“We can endure neither
Our vices nor their cure.”
MORE TO ME (RJS)
I told him I would be landing planes
at O’Hare during the surgery —
I’m that hypervigilant — if he didn’t double
the recommended dose of anesthesia.
“Your eyes see a 155-pound man,” I said,
“but my nervous system is triple that.”
“We want you to wake up,” he replied.
“Yes, but not during the procedure.”
Doctors never listen. First thing I saw….
Blood was everywhere; he had just
cut an inch off my femur. And then
the lightning mice of pain…. Steve,
let’s invent a new kind of stethoscope.
Like Trump in his tower, my heart
is tired of being spied upon.
There’s more to me than my heart!
Monster (SK)
He is a man of perfect charm and fascination. A monster, in short.
— Gore Vidal on Aaron Burr
Look at the monster:
Lusus naturae
With shiny American teeth.
He says you’re alive.
Open your eyes —
He’s shabby, asymmetrical
Like a Roman Emperor
In drag, how does one
Say it in short
Big emotions signal value
So he brings little ones.
Reductive sexualization
Of the mind, baby envies,
Pseudoreligion
Of self-centeredness,
But what a smile…
DEFAULTED (RJS)
This is truffle season / Tom Ford tuxedos for no reason.
— Jay Z
We’ve gone a whole book
without epigraphs. You fucker!
And now this poem must dress up,
put on a tuxedo. A book,
I guess, is a ball. Once,
playing tennis, my opponent
hit me in the mouth with his racket.
I had kindly leaned over the net
to pick up the Dacron orb — the kid,
while a dick, seemed dejected —
and when I rose, a dove with pockets,
I had flown into wood.
“Greetings, Jack Kramer!”
My tooth turned black as the devil:
a little coffin in my mouth,
a minor key on a stunned piano.
Getting Away with It (SK)
Reading quotes about tennis is
A misericordia — no one’s worse
Than David Foster Wallace.
But I digress, the subject
Is the grandest of topics,
The Limitations of Kindness.
Van Eyck: “As I can
But not as I would.”
Parse empathy,
Think twice.
Can you be kind
Is the question?
Let your stomach
Be your guide,
It digests many
A spoiled thing.
Ralph James Savarese is the author of two books of prose, Reasonable People and See It Feelingly, and two books of poetry, Republican Fathers and When This Is Over. He teaches at Grinnell College.
Stephen Kuusisto is the author of three books of prose, Planet of the Blind, Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening, and Have Dog, Will Travel, and three books of poetry, Only Bread, Only Light, Letters to Borges, and Old Horse, What is to be Done? He teaches at Syracuse University.
