Muddy Bank
Podcasts and Commentary from 2River, since 1996 a site of poery, art, and theory, quarterly publishing the 2River View and occasionally publishing individual authors in the 2River Chapbook Series.
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- Mon, 12 Mar 2007 15:43:37 -0500
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- Gailey's "Crane Wife" Mentioned as Sunday Poem
Jeannine Hall Gailey's, "Crane Wife," is mention as the Sunday Poem for March 4, 2007, at The Endicott Studio for Mythic Arts. The write-up disucsses the poem in the larger contest of folk tales in the animal bride tradition....
Mon, 12 Mar 2007 15:43:37 -0500 - Joellen Craft Reads Two Poems
Out Running Hot enough to taste the air, something rotten, and the swell of cut grass in my throat. By the log pile, my urine soaked into the gravel. Dust covers me, like the roadside detritus, the severed claw absurdly clenched, the tampon wrapped in plastic: dry, waiting. There's yelling. It's two girls bent over a porch rail. What? They yell again. What? Don't stop, keep running. OK. One holds a rounded little girl pot belly. One who turns away will soon be lovely. Their kiddie pool will take too long to fill, will, abandoned, brim and trickle: that all small bodies could be filled and filled—- when empty, flipped to cover bald dirt. Raccoon Decapitated Near Drainage Ditch The blue blood hammers in my ears, then bubbles thick into the dust. Stars poked in the broken shell horizon spray above my head as it rolls to rest, facing East. The red taillights blink away. There's silence for the first time, and no breath, just the twin suns of an oncoming truck breaking over the rounded hillock of my body. There, by the ditch, its honest browns light up, now bronze, now amber, gold. At once the full clean glory rushes past... These poems originally appeared in the 10.4 (Summer 2006) issue of The 2River View....
Thu, 08 Feb 2007 12:46:19 -0500 - Kevin Conder Reads Two Poems
crossfire the demons touch gently at first, sifting through who is who in the darkness, finding me wrapping their arms tightly about my chest so I can only breath in faint, rapid gasps their claws sink into the clefts between my ribs and I taste the iron under their nails, residue from working lucifer’s mercury mines they squeeze and squeeze but my ribs are too strong for them to break under a thundersky a man comes next to me his face blank with after-sex calm he offers to send my demons away I tip my hat to him at least they’re my demons, I don’t own much else I limp off toward Tombstone, demons in tow, to finish the task of burying my wife, to finish the task of throwing one last handful of dirt on her coffin, to finish the task and ride out past the preacher, always to the west, always westward ho, toward the rumor of a great raging sea, where a man can lose himself in the scattered San Francisco sun and never have to look at his shadow for too long a time leaving cut holes in wrists and feet so that the sun can shine through my limbs drive a pencil into my side between the second and third ribs so that the sun comes into my soul nights walking the sodden streets my winter jacket’s hood raised as a great venomless cobra I have no venom I have no blood nothing left to bleed I cross the seas at night my legs telescoping rods to the sea beds stirring clouds of the dead and powdered I cross the African plains and stop in the middle of the Nairobi where man was born, where herds of wildebeest stare at me where a great old silver lion pisses on my feet how far does a man need to wander from himself voice from an ancient lake burned away beneath the grass plains same voice of hope in the face of a disastrous life tomorrow I will be someone else tomorrow I will be someone else and forget you my love my love forget you These poems originally appeared in the 10.4 (Summer 2006) issue of The 2River View....
Wed, 31 Jan 2007 18:39:24 -0500 - 2River Interview at Ephemera
Every now and then someone contacts 2River wanting to know it's history and thought. Here's the transcript of an interview with Ephemera, a blog by a publication class at Hollins University....
Mon, 29 Jan 2007 13:09:52 -0500 - Maureen Alsop Reads Two Poems
Apparition Wren The trill, quivering as the sun crosses over the half-stretched sound, comes to quiet now. It’s what you’ve always been: a little bird shifting past. The felled fruit lies ripe & wasted in the cherry orchard marking the place where a very old woman sensed your nimble rise. She would not know the careless stint of tilted wing. She kept loving you as simply as you loved the expectant air. Darkness gathers in the grass—she rests on her knees pronouncing your imprint as prayer, and discovers late your voice of stone. She sees it is better now, your dappled song grown shameless & empty inside the mouth. Dovecote Ephemera Along the gold hem of her dress, edges where the silk frayed, a flock of birds swung— It was a distance she long carried out of gladness, a nothingness—the illimitable horizon. Soon the buzz on the radio boomed with a smattering of tiny voices. A flap of wing lifted in her throat. A spasm emptied her name into the forecast, and memory assigned speechlessness to grief. Threadbare birds fell away into the hills—as untouchable as grace. She swayed on the stoop like the delicate tracing of eyes over paper scraps. Stepping forth, she heard a flurry of calm and, at last, a spill of birds—no longer trapped by the borrowed vacancy of her body. These poems originally appeared in the 10.4 (Summer 2006) issue of The 2River View....
Sat, 27 Jan 2007 18:40:05 -0500 - Lauren K. Alleyne Reads Three Poems
Ash Wednesday This is where the journey begins: at the end of a thumb blackened: imprinted: set apart: sacrificial: hairshirted: mea culpa & I'm sorry, Lord, so sorry: surrender: reconciliation: a pact: the body reviled: the body denied: the body transformed to holy hunger: the temple sealed for a necessary restoration: gutted: these the stripes: this the desert: the constant question/confession: despair: this is where the journey begins: on the knees: supplicant: eyes desperately shut: give me a sign: & is this even prayer: I mourn a simpler faith: the mustard seed: the certainty of ashes: mass the sun piercing the window: its stained glass Fear and Trembling After Kierkegaard And there are many ways to come undone —some more exquisite than others. Ask Eve, she will tell you apple-lust unwrapped her left her cold and with a word for shiver. Lot's wife is witness that a backward glance is enough—nostalgia pillared her. But, I imagine the somewhat greater deeds: picture the Red Sea unstitched like a braid; the lion's den, its many hungry mouths; Isaac's bewildered screams: why, daddy, why? And what terrible choice to peel back doubt like a bandage, without question or lack to say Here am I, to renounce relief: step in, seize the knife, and to know belief. Veneration It is the simple, the small, kindly acts that show us: Veronica's thoughtful cloth, its imprint of sweat, blood & silent thanks; Simon of Cyrene's grudging aid, his wrath resigned to the need of a criminal; A common thief's dying, ready defense; John's empathic hand, slipped into the small of Mary's back as she stands stoic, tense before the hoisted body of her son. We did not recognize you for our God —our first fault. But even worse was the one which with ease nailed an innocent to wood. I kneel in surrender to your mystery; I kiss your pain, your bleeding, human knee. These poems originally appeared in the 10.4 (Summer 2006) issue of The 2River View....
Wed, 10 Jan 2007 21:10:48 -0500 - Mike Young Read's Two Poems
Because It Was Drizzling Because it was drizzling while I waited for a bald man to finish with the ATM, I sang The Boxer into my fist— My winter clothes and wishing I was gone, going home. At the end, his back to me and his shoulders sopping, the bald man said You've got a great voice for that song, it's a hard song and well—it's a great song isn't it? Sure, I said, shy, uncertain, a boy. Then, as hard as I could, Thank you. Thanks. Because it was still drizzling after he left, as I checked my face for pimples in the ATM safety mirror wired to the alarm. Why Is Nothing On Our Stove? You like the way I burst in? I thought you might. I did it for you. If I'm hardy har har and you're a squelched hum, what will they say about our kids? Shall we have them in motels, stapling our gods to vacant signs? Shall I buy the laundry soap and liquor, while you beg your mother (red and plump) for a loan? You like the way I taste your fingers in ten easy slurps? What's with the tissues? What's with the smell of fish from the next apartment and why is nothing on the stove in our tiny kitchen? These poems originally appeared in the 10.3 (Spring 2006) issue of The 2River View...
Thu, 04 Jan 2007 13:16:46 -0500 - Heather Rounds Reads Two Poems
Absurd Gesture Outside, the morning seems as alive as it deserves to be. I lean over the sink and watch the children of 4th street out the window, earthworms sticking to the soles of their feet, trying to catch sparse raindrops in their hands. I seek out the tiny and quick turning of their fingers, the swallows in the wobbling oak’s limbs, the squirrels at the roots un-holing the earth, and the cricket’s song arched like a strong grin above it all. Everything alive, everything moving in its own direction. And then there is you and I in the kitchen, and the heaviness of eggs in the air, the basset asleep at your feet. There is me glancing at your dozing face, and the sound of me trying to shake the stillness from your eyes. There is the sight of me acting the way an absurd woman might, if she was to chat with a mannequin. This Is a Picture of two sets of legs, in the coppery thickets at the edge of a lake. A floral dress is trying to escape the frame. There is only the illusion of the glare and bolt of sun as it is seen in the shine of four legs. There is only the sense of lower forces, such as those that ground the feet to the floor of a lake. There is no suggestion of blood colored mountain stones, no traipsing bodies, no birds east or west, no sign that bones are being steadied by the crooked finned trout circling the muddy roots at the toes. No sign of the melancholy that finds its way into late afternoons, even on the happiest days— splitting itself at the knees, the sun burnt tops of feet, and onward. These poems originally appeared in the 10.3 (Spring 2006) issue of The 2River View...
Mon, 18 Dec 2006 18:47:41 -0500 - Evelyn Posamentier Reads Toska
Toska Toska i went out again the other day looking for grandmother on the internet & found toska feuchtbaum instead, a 7-year-old girl, whose shy smile was captured in the photo her father clutched all those nights of not knowing, on the run. the smile of surprise, perhaps a birthday party later that day, not quite yet the end of vienna. went out again the other day looking for grandmother on the internet & saw toska & her mother at the bahnhof being shipped east to poland, held out till now. same train as grandmother & grandfather: the startled testimony of the photos of children whispering shoah. went out again, grandmother, looking for you on the internet, & waited patiently for the images to load on the browser. this time it is the transit camp itself, typhus & all. & still there is no word from you. Toska, Again this time, toska, i printed your picture off the internet finding you, as i do, every time i go out looking for grandmother. toska feuchtbaum, born april 8, 1935 in vienna, austria. that shy smile, fulfilling the testimony of children’s destinies. when i dare, i insert your image beside one in my head of grandmother, & both of you nod to the future. Toska at the Banhof peek at sobibor on infoseek (knock, knock, is grandmother there?) & find the cybrary at remember.org all calling, all silent. the water ripples, the sky shudders in response. toska at the bahnhof, toska on the page of children’s testimony (click on next ten, always to the next citation) knock, knock, is grandmother there? peek at sobibor on infoseek, deportation statistics & the staccato list of operation reinhard aktion dates. toska at the collection point, grandmother between the pages of a prayerbook (daughter already escaped with photo) peek at sobibor on infoseek (toska & grandmother on the same load) both last seen at the bahnhof: vienna, may 12, 1942. These poems originally appeared in the 10.3 (Spring 2006) issue of The 2River View...
Sun, 17 Dec 2006 21:46:48 -0500 - Sam Pereira Reads Two Poems
Blue Flames & Anger He walked into the living room Like he owned it, which He did back then, along with Her and their son, James, Named after him; a gift From his wife, on a day In November. 1997. A burner now flared in the kitchen-- One of those medium Blue flames gas companies Like to show when flaunting How dependable they can be. He had been dependable, Draping a chocolate cloth coat Over her shoulders and taking her Out for chili and beer. Somewhere In the evening, the beer Always went to his head, And he’d hit her just Enough to draw certain Handfuls of tears, leaving her Skin pink in the morning air. He was always sorry. Always. If she’d walk through the door This minute, he’d want her To know how sorry and That the coat still looked Like mink on his beautiful girl. What Happens When You Leave It had been her Midwestern recklessness As a girl, that sent The mysterious shivers Up her spine tonight. Once, in Cincinnati, Overcoming sizeable odds, She jumped into a truck And simply pointed north, Which brought her, Falling drunk, to this Dakota bar and grill, Where two Dakota men Played pinball, waiting, Just waiting, for someone Like her to come Into their lives. She Smiled her Cincinnati Smile, which brought them To their knees, bells ringing In the hard Fargo night. What followed smelled Of a stale, drug store perfume And day-old Pabst, pooled Next to the bed, and two Dwindling sighs at sunrise, Wondering what happened, And if the third sigh Made it home okay. These poems originally appeared in the 10.3 (Spring 2006) issue of The 2River View...
Mon, 20 Nov 2006 19:56:16 -0500 - Brent Pallas Reads Two Poems
Finding His Way for T. Burch Following his footprints afterwards they saw the long trail of a stain where he began upstairs. And looking back they almost smiled thinking how he must have sat there holding the gun just so. And still it went off leaving him only blind but still breathing. And he must have known then how he had not done what he needed to do. His mind a mess making its way back down those steps where the extra shells were kept. Knowing this was just another mistake he had made. The Stone Age There are Stone Age people living now, In the Space Age.... Survivors of the Stone Age—R. Marcus They don’t know what they’re missing raincoats, spiral notebooks, hockey on Saturday afternoons. Living deep in the woods, picking up whatever falls. Shy as children, distrustful of strangers. Without the glint of choice they marry young, carrying whatever’s needed, snaring whatever comes. Old at thirty. No seeds of possibility bloating pockets, things to bring in from the rain. Dividing the least stem of existence with a dull edge, waking, eating, sleeping, leaning close for warmth. These poems originally appeared in the 10.3 (Spring 2006) issue of The 2River View...
Fri, 17 Nov 2006 11:14:43 -0500 - Kris Saknussemm Reads "Why I Love Demolition Derby"
First of all, girls with big tits. Secondly, the sound of dog box thunder cars getting push-started by station wagons in the gladiatorial twilight on the edge of abattoirs and railyards—- then the satisfyingly orgiastic cracking of compacted bumpers and accordioned metal, crunch of collapsed door panels my old Chevy lurking between the stalled wrecks, waiting to gun it again and strike—- an evil black El Camino winning the crowd over, finally limping off to die in cloud of smoke on the perimeter all the brightly colored carcasses suddenly springing to life then grinding to a death halt in a whoosh of fire extinguisher foam. Climax red lights in a hot brown haze of adrenalin and gasoline, the stinging dust stinking of exploded radiators and burnt rubber and girls with big tits spilling beer with their applause. This poem originally appeared in the 10.3 (Spring 2006) issue of The 2River View...
Sat, 28 Oct 2006 15:22:23 -0500 - Professor Roy and the Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal
Everyone needs to check out Professor Roy and the Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal. Professor Roy takes poems he finds, many of them at Poems.com, and explains, often with great humor, why they're examples of very bad poetry. I'm teaching two sections of creative writing this semester, and I'm tempted to make this Live Journal required reading....
Sun, 20 Aug 2006 22:30:23 -0500 - Ali Baba Reading by Matt Hobson
Ali Baba Reading by Matt Hobson: "Matt Hobson reads 'Bigfoot Stole My Wife' and 'I am Bigfoot' by Ron Carlson." (Via Poetry, Fiction and Non-fiction in Tallahassee.)...
Sun, 13 Aug 2006 15:35:40 -0500 - Michael Largo and Final Exits
Long before Michael Largo appeared in an early issue of 2RV, he was collecting statistics and information on the American way of dying. In October 2006, HarperCollins will release Final Exists: The Illustrated Encyclopaedia of How We Die, Largo's illustrated sourcebook on the various ways of dying. Visit Final Exists to learn about (and order) Largo's eye-opening and irreverent look at the truth behind kicking the bucket....
Sun, 06 Aug 2006 13:08:29 -0500
