In this episode we discussed three very different poems by Oregon poet Lorna Rose, all three resulting in juicy conversation and resulting in three tie-breakers (none of them involving the same voting configurations amongst our team!). This was a big first for us. The episode was kicked off by a larger discussion (prompted by the first poem) around aspects of cultural appropriation and touched on facets of trauma and language. This wide-ranging discussion and the split in our voting pointed to the power and ambiguity of various elements in these poems.  In the end, a tie-breaking editor helped deliver two of these poems into PBQ’s pages! Have a listen! 


Note: This episode was recorded in December 2021, so there will be a bit of time travel involved. 


This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show.  


 


At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Jason Schneiderman, Alex Tunney 


Absentee voter for the tie-breakers: Samanatha Neugebauer 


 


Links to things we discuss you might like to check out: 


 


"Declaration" by Tracy K. Smith, an erasure poem of the Declaration of Independence 


https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/147468/declaration-5b5a286052461 


 


"Native Son" by Richard Wright 


https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1992/07/20/the-hammer-and-the-nail 


 


"Appropriate: A Provocation" by Paisley Rekdal 


https://wwnorton.com/books/9781324003588 


 


"How-To" by Anders Carlson Wee and retraction by The Nation 


https://www.thenation.com/article/archive/how-to/ 


 


"Inside Kate Winlset's Mare of Easttown" Pennsylvania Accent, Vanity Fair 


https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2021/04/kate-winslet-mare-of-easttown-accent 


 


 


Lorna is a Pacific Northwest writer and speaker. Her narrative nonfiction and poetry have been recognized by Pacific Northwest Writers Association and the Oregon Poetry Association, and have appeared or are forthcoming in Scary Mommy, Jellyfish Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Writers Resist, and elsewhere. She's also a speaker and workshop leader. When not wrangling her two small children, she fantasizes about being interviewed on NPR’s Fresh Air.  


 


Author website 


 



 


 


 


 


 


 


 


Leaving Libya 


 


I flood my lungs  


with the wet stench of fish and bodies and fuel.  


Dinghy motor whines against the night.  


  


Salt air grinds my skin ‘til it’s threadbare and  


there’s no sitting since leaving Sabratha.  


Body clenches tight to its bones  


  


and shrill muscles shriek and weep and lock up.  


Damp t-shirt clings to goosebumped flesh under a  


tattered orange life jacket. But what life?  


  


Next to me a shaking woman holds her boney baby  


and cries. She has shit herself.  


Behind me a man mumbles and mumbles for water.  


  


His eyes roll hollow,  


mouth slacks open.  


From his breath  


  


I smell the thick stink of rot,  


the gray smell of  


forgotten humanity.  


  


Lights of the Italian coastline appear and  


my heart races,  


vision blurs. 


From somewhere behind there’s a jolt.  


Yelling.  


Floor tilts.  


  


And the lights of Lampedusa go black. 


 


 


 


Surviving the Rush 


 


No music plays in  


the general store in Circle, Alaska,  


which is full of mukluks and  


  


Wonder Bread.  


  


Villagers fish the Yukon,  


memorize river rise,  


bet on  


  


breakup.  


  


Long ago miners arrived from Outside 


to sift, chip  


rip fortunes 


  


from earth.  


  


Stilts were drilled into permafrost and  


structures were imposed and  


all bustle and  


  


rage.  


  


Then claims fell dry and  


no patience and Circle started to 


  


wither. 


  


The locals  


picked up pieces of buildings, tried to  


heal the  


  


pock-marked ground.  


  


Today a tourist’s crisp dollar might  


mean something,  


except the locals would have to tolerate  


  


the perfumey tourist.  


  


Villagers fish the Yukon,  


memorize river rise,  


bet on breakup. The soil smells of  


  


fool’s gold and blood.