Black Forest
Laura Newbern
Sometimes my mind goes back to certain things.
Like everyone's.
Like to the woman who asked me
What keeps you awake at night?
She wanted a writerly, magical answer.
A black forest, a shining maid walking through it.
The woman—she was a guest, a visiting artist.
I was a guest to her visitingness: polite guest
at an affable table.
My neck, I said, meaning pain
of the basest physical kind. Meaning also
sadness, and worry—
though I didn't say so.
I'd done enough, I'd said the neck thing
as if I were snapping a chicken for supper.
The woman smiled through it, a pro.
Oh, I'm sorry, she said, pushing the shining maid
into a closet and shutting the door in a hushed
and magical way.
I wanted to bind her with rope.
I wanted to watch her struggle, if just for a minute.
The mind goes back, the heart goes with it, the forest
whirls all around. Instead
I was kind to her husband, whose life
had had something to do with flight.
He was quiet, the husband. Like someone
whose part in the world was done.
He seemed to expect
no one.
He was the husband.
He was like light on the leaves of night.
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Pale blue, grey and aquamarine illustration of a figure standing in water against a blue sky
Jacob Brogan on Memorizing Poetry

"In other words, poetry perpetuates itself by becoming a part of those who read it. It can do so only because it is so specific, so entirely different from us, that taking it in expands our own sense of what we are. As you repeat a line or a stanza again and again, signification temporarily gives way to the felt texture of language: its rhythms, pressures, temperatures. These are gestures that say nothing but speak to every part of you."

viaTHE WASHINGTON POST
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What Sparks Poetry:
Lloyd Wallace on Language as Form


"As the poet attempts to bring their past into the present, into the poetic medium, attempting to make it a keepable artifact, we can see it being buried by the world, by outer artifice, just as the past is buried by the present. The key pathos—the beauty—of this poem is that as we see the poet speaking, we also see them disappear. So, to amend a previous statement: yes, the poem is full of evidence that the poet has lived. But it’s also evidence that she is disappearing, too."
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