Dragstripping
Jan Beatty
I met a stripper on my first visit to the big West,
sitting on a hill in Marin—I was wearing a black red yellow plaid shirt,
she wore something more open, loose,
sleeveless.
                   Her knees to her chest,
she was pulling at the brown California
grass, throwing it back down.
I loved looking at her plain brown hair falling over the side of her face.
I was still wearing women's clothes and shoes,
but I made myself a believer that day.
Her thick belt, heavy boots—brown eyes.

The way she looked at me until I had to look away.
She was a boy and I hadn't met anyone like her yet,
look at her blue shirt, she opened me, the way
she tore at the grass: hard then threw it.
We walked the hills in Marin, I wanted
to be like her, I wanted to be her.
I couldn't even say what she had,
but I wanted it.
Our time lasted only weeks, but her face
still comes to me.

I made myself a queen those days,
inside I felt the turning diamonds
of a life not lived/someone's else's life,
now mine: holding the vision, heavy as mud,
I thought: Just a push?

Into my own bleeding heart—
I could feel the brass screws of the rail's underside/
a train running without me/
I could feel the spikes and the crosscuts
and I came alive in the fading light and the skyful of birds.
And I did, I did—and it was
fierce and wild, and back-to-the-wall scary,
it was off/on, whenever she was there, I was a blank slate
with a hard body, it was everything I wanted,
someone to kiss me nice and slow,
then slam me onto the ground's body.

It would be years until I knew her, knew that part of me
as I searched second-hand stores for men's clothing/
men's size 7 shoes, looking for the boy/man in me.
I don't believe in salvation, but
look at her body stripping:

jerking to one side, head bent,
hair covers her face, breasts large and moving,
her thickness:
Wet with boysweat between her legs,
a stripshot across a pitchblack stage,
flash of a woman running her show.
However she wants you/she can have you/half of a whole
body/stripping for you,
the body divided/
                        against itself

in beauty:
I made myself a man watching her:
the stripshot breaks apart
into millions of shotback stars
cutting the night apart
in her crosscut body,
hard and lovely.

Some people say half isn't anything/
but it will drive an ocean back
to the center.
She'll take your money and you'll thank her
in the cage of your body,
drowning in the stripping/
loving the shotback body.

                Dear ghost of everything you wanted:

                Jerking you into pleasure, jerking you
                into your own story with a stripshot
                of ammo to the vulva, triangle of light,
                triangle of her: the wrapper, 3 sides of lust,
                the fuckfield, the 4th eye.

I saw the future in her body but I didn't know my questions:
all that came out of my mouth
were birds.
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Strangely, I worked on "Dragstripping" for over twenty years. I felt it in my body, but I needed to grow as a writer, as a human to access the complexity that I knew the poem needed. I finished it at Storyknife, the amazing writer’s residency in Alaska, where I collided stanzas from an older poem about violence—I had to find a way to create abrasion in the poem, to create a drop, an elation in the midst of desire.

Jan Beatty on "Dragstripping"
Cover image of Emily Wilson's translation of Homer's Odyssey
Paul Reitter on "Why (Re)translation Matters"

"Part of what draws me to retranslation, for example, is its conversational dynamic. I enjoy the process of engaging with and adding to other takes on a primary text. Since I come to retranslating from literary scholarship, it’s the writing dynamic I know. However, retranslation is also thrillingly unlike literary scholarship—when I retranslate, I join a conversation not by producing a scholarly text about a primary text but rather by producing a new version of the primary text itself."

via LOS ANGELES REVIEW OF BOOKS
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Cover image of Mathias Svalina's book, Thank You Terror
What Sparks Poetry: Mathias Svalina on "Thank You Terror”

"The best description I know of the creative process can be found in Remedios Varo’s 1957 painting The Creation of Birds. In the painting, a figure—either half-owl or a person in an owl-costume—refracts distant starlight through a triangular magnifying glass. The refracted starlight dries birds drawn with a pen emerging from a violin worn around the owl-person’s neck. The birds, as their ink dries, lift off the page & into life."
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