Poetry |

“When Someone Says A Poem Is Masterful” and “Isabel”

When Someone Says a Poem is Masterful

 

It is arrow after arrow in the still-pumping heart

 

who is the master of art? no one

who wants to master the body of a poem? no one should

 

I have a master in my family tree

Jack Allums: he will always be there

 

the male head of a household

a person licensed to command

 

teacher and enslaver: Jack

the original from which copies were made

 

his word was writ on bodies

 

Even in Amherst, Dickinson’s imagination

runs to mastery, to master

 

in her third “Master letter,” she crosses out the line

 

but I knew you had altered me.

 

when Emily crosses a line

she revises, she helms herself

 

she circumnavigates

 

 

The mythos of mastery is this — a canvas sail

is said to master the wind

 

and a wooden rudder the sea

 

but the wind can shred the sail, and the ocean

dissolve a human tongue

 

so that it cannot say a single word

 

to make will always be better

than to master

 

better than salt and sugar, fields

of someone else’s labor

 

[Note: John “Jack” Allums (1810-1870) is my matrilineal third great-grandfather. A third lieutenant in the Confederate Army, he submitted a Confederate Application for Pardon to President Andrew Johnson after the Civil War — which is how, against the narratives of poverty and white innocence, there is documentation of enslavement in my Southern family tree.]

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Isabel

 

When Isabel blew the oaks around

us sideways — no light. No water

pumped from our well. We carried

five-gallon buckets from the pond

to the house, filled the toilet bowls.

I wore overalls. My hair in braids.

For nine days, home was a dark

dream and hurricane lamps.

Silence around a kitchen table.

Reading in a distempered light.

Those dark, Dantean days were

my first in community college.

I bought a hardback of The Divine

Comedy. Didn’t understand

the title’s joke. What was comedy.

Once that week, I washed myself

in a neighbor’s shower. The water

was sweet, like something

you touch in secret. Didn’t know

the tale of Paolo and Francesca.

What words could do to a person

as the winds picked up and the dead

oaks dropped their arms around us.

Contributor
Hannah VanderHart

Hannah VanderHart lives in Durham, North Carolina, under the pines. Her poetry and reviews are published and forthcoming in Kenyon Review, The American Poetry Review, The Adroit Journal, RHINO Poetry and elsewhere. Her book, What Pecan Light, is forthcoming from Bull City Press in 2020, and she is the reviews editor at EcoTheo Review. More at: hannahvanderhart.com

 

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