For the first time this year, The White Review Poet’s Prize was open to poets based anywhere in the world. Last month we announced a shortlist of eight poets. ...
On some level, I’m sure, every poem is a failure. A lot of theory says as much, and I...
1 Modotti, Adrienne Rich I am struck by the line If this is where I must look for you, then this is where I’ll find you I read it several times, scrawl it on a note and stick it to the wall In the seminar that week I mention the poem but no one else has read it, so the burden falls upon me to describe it, explain (unpack, as the tutor creatively says) why it is emotionally striking, and why in particular it was so significant to me Certainly I do not mention that we are, in fact,
A It is the week of epitaphs and as the dead rise I am trying to put you to rest To call you a ghost is ungenerous, it is not your fault I am haunted I have been told I can trace your face through mine and so I have sought and found you, every now and again, in the fold of my eyelids, the curl of my lip and the bump of my nose December is the cruellest month, I whisper to my room, gazing at the mirror, fingertip on nose curve I have told no one that we are
rapidly approaching the fifth anniversary of your death, or that this week is hell for
anyone who has experienced grief Instead I posit (tutor’s word, not mine) that reading it-self is an act of resurrection Should we abide by the notion that the text is the vi-brant and living space between reader and writer, then of course to read an epitaph, to engage in memorial, is to summon the ghost subject and renew its life Quick note in the corner of my sheet: Write about her We progress through assigned reading, onto Walter Benjamin: The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction We take it at face value initially, discuss our thoughts on art, then eventually begin to apply it to our epitaphs The word aura gains a spectral
before, we were all girls. then it changed. then there was Eve. then there was Madonna. heaven help...
After Carrie Mae Weems ‘The Kitchen Table Series’
Hands placed just so, I instructed the mirror to document transformation – becoming my mother with nothing more than a gesture and the sheen of bright red gloss Who knew ten years later, I’d avoid mirrors that threw her in my face Did I say all mirrors? Except I was crashing them against concrete Finding the most triangular edge Digging the earth of my body for a reflection I could believe Hospital windows wouldn’t break I’d know That was a long time ago Different time Today my mother’s hands are a constant shiver I stand behind her Frame her hands in mine and pull the lipstick across The mirror looks at us I don’t break it I don’t avoid her eyes staring from my face and hers at the same time How could I? I’ve now lived long enough to know what it took to be her
