*Featured image courtesy of Ulrike Mai on Pixabay*
This week features some wonderful poems by Allison Whittenberg. We always appreciate uniqueness at FC, and Allison’s gritty style certainly appealed to us. Take a look for yourself and tell us what you think!
Proximity
going out for breakfast
and never coming back
my husband left me
in my wheelchair
green from the insurance, gone
so is the time I could have insisted more
the driver was my friend,
can you deep sue a friend?
the accident, foreseeable to anyone who wasn’t
seeking fun and 18
7 of us piling in 4 seats
handsome man from influential family turbo style driving
on the wrong side of the road
jeep flips
we catapult
I land in a tree
I can’t feel my legs
7 hours of surgery
I still can’t feel my legs
more surgery, over the years
I will never feel my legs
silence speaks for me
obviousness enshrouds me
the girl in me seeks defense
the globe rotates
myth marches on
Thoughts on Worth
If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
I’ll try harder at my craft
If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
you don’t understand poetry
If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
thank you for sharing your astute and valued opinion
If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
maybe, you’re a racist!
If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
I have few more, that actually rhyme
If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
why don’t you go and write something brilliant yourself?
If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
I will shred my book and recycle its pulp
If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
you were probably expecting to hear some derivative of Longfellow or some other emotive romantic — sorry for not being male and writing about the importance of daffodils.
If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
I will revise each poem, each line, each word, every syllable.
If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
you’re hypercritical. You’re the type that is neither pleased by Poe, Plath, nor Pessoa
If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
I’ll change. Just for you.
therefore, If you think my poetry isn’t any good,
so what.
I like the way I write, and my poetry makes me happy.
Harlow
born blonde, but not blonde enough
ash steered to Hollywood platinum maneuvered into something unforgettable
a brassy, silver blonde identity
a star at 18
dead by 26
ugly rumors accused syphilis before getting uglier
blaming chronic peroxide poisoning
we can’t remember a role, but
that hair was fascinating
in the name of beauty,
a root ritual emerged:
peroxide spun with sodium hypochlorite bleach
add Lux flakes
let it burn in, as you, on screen,
sizzled
Hands On
practical
one step at a time
one foot in front of the other
one thing at a time
pragmatic
in a revolving door
all weapons formed against (me) shall prosper
sorry, Isaiah
displacement
turn
from yourself
escape
from escaping
immobilizes
your imagination
how
are you doing
breathing
barely breathing
Bio: Born in Pennsylvania and educated in New York and Wisconsin, Allison Whittenberg is an award winning novelist and playwright. Her poetry has appeared in Berlin Lit, Columbia Review, Feminist Studies, J Journal, and New Orleans Review. Whittenberg is a six-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Driving with a Poetic License and They Were Horrible Cooks are her collections of poetry.
