Christopher Kempf

If, then, a country could be saved, may we
all be its pulse & schematics. May our flags
kneel for us. May nothing reign. May one day
mean Tuesday, & may our planes on alert
over Khost & Riyadh whisper love songs
to the canyons beneath them. May weddings
go on for months. May guns gather bullets
back into themselves like fishing line. If
a country could be saved, could wave lagoons
too be a part of it? Could slot machines?
Could a country be lifted like a god?
If Modesto comes back, could Saturday night
we drive T-Birds to the Wolfman? May
dawn's early light lacquer our faces. May
Huck & Jim — May group text — Let every
coal seam spit back its dead. Let the many
of us be one, the one be numerous
& mongrel. Imagine spangled — & may
each of our stadiums smolder. May marching
bands dazzle & thrall us, their drums like war
no one will remark, their winds and brasses
forming the tightest of scripts. The seamstress,
we know—age 13—who dyed the cotton
& cut the starlight in the flag Francis Scott
hailed was a servant girl, Grace Wisher. May
we, in the poem of our country, be such
exquisite stitchwork. May synecdoche
mean "fruited plain." "Beautiful river." In
that country, nuke silos swallow missiles
down like hot dogs. In that country, cop cars
flip Snapples to day laborers. May stars
blaze. May landfills flower & hum. May one
by one we gather, then, in the swollen fields
of our republic, above us the rockets'
red glare glowing faint, some praise-song
swept upon us utterly, like a wind. May we
we will say—which will, one day, become us.
from the book WHAT THOUGH THE FIELD BE LOST / LSU Press
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"National Anthem" is the first poem in my book "What Though the Field Be Lost" (LSU, 2021), and it's trying to introduce some of the book's over-arching ideas. I'm particularly concerned here to examine, in form and subject matter, the idea of synecdoche, the notion that the part stands for the whole. This is a rhetorical technique, a poetic technique, but it's also a technique at the heart of American democracy, as we see in a phrase like "E pluribus unum." 

Christopher Kempf on "National Anthem"
"The Lyric Decision: How Poets Figure Out What Comes Next"

"I've started thinking of this moment, this chess move where the poet breaks a line and almost resets the game, as the lyric decision. How do poets decide what comes next? How do they make us want to read another line, and another? There has to be a system of coherence to the poem—even a list of random horses has coherence, via theme—but it can't be unsurprising either. A series of lyric decisions is how we write something between order and chaos."

via THE NEW YORK TIMES
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What Sparks Poetry: 
Danielle Badra on Diane Seuss' "Still Life with Turkey"


"All of these cumulative experiences of death and all the ones yet to come and all the deaths that aren't even in my view, they are my beached whale. They are beautiful yet difficult to see up close. The only way I've ever been able to explore is from a safe distance. However, the exploration of death in all of Diane Seuss' poetry collections inspires me to zoom in a little closer, to love 'its saggy neck folds, the rippling, variegated / feathers, the crook of its unbound foot.'"
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