Antillia: The Backwaters Prize in Poetry Honorable Mention
Autor Henrietta Goodmanen Limba Engleză Paperback – mar 2024
The title poem of this collection refers to the phantom island of Antillia, included on maps in the fifteenth century but later found not to exist. The ghosts that haunt this collection are phantom islands, moon lakes, lasers used to clean the caryatids at the Acropolis, earlier versions of the self, suicides, a madam from the Old West, petroleum, snapdragons, pets, ice apples, Casper, and a “resident ghost” who makes the domestic realm of “the cradle and the bed” uninhabitable. The ghosts are sons, fathers “asleep in front of the TV,” and a variety of exes—“lost boys” with names like The Texan and Mr. No More Cowboy Hat whom Henrietta Goodman treats with snarky wit but also with grief, guilt, and love.
Although memories pervade this collection, these poems also look forward and outward into a world where social inequality and environmental disaster meet the possibility of metamorphosis.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781496236081
ISBN-10: 1496236084
Pagini: 94
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 5 mm
Greutate: 0.15 kg
Editura: The Backwaters Press
Colecția The Backwaters Press
Seria The Backwaters Prize in Poetry Honorable Mention
Locul publicării:United States
ISBN-10: 1496236084
Pagini: 94
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 5 mm
Greutate: 0.15 kg
Editura: The Backwaters Press
Colecția The Backwaters Press
Seria The Backwaters Prize in Poetry Honorable Mention
Locul publicării:United States
Notă biografică
Henrietta Goodman is an assistant professor of English at Rocky Mountain College in Billings, Montana. She is the author of All That Held Us, Hungry Moon, and Take What You Want.
Extras
The Puppy and Kitten Channel
Remember the night I passed my test
and the Thai place where you took me
brought my rice pressed into the shape
of a heart, a maraschino cherry bleeding
sweetly on the top? It’s an old story—once
there was an atom who wanted to
be a molecule. I’ve thought a lot about
innocence since then—the sleeping otters
floating on their backs in the aquarium
pool, paws linked, the human presence
behind the animal videos on the Internet—
intimate laughter, murmured words
in Russian or Norwegian while puppies
lick each other’s faces or a baby deer
eats from someone’s hand. I’ve watched
the puppy and kitten channel. At the Origami
Club, you can learn to make a whole paper
world—origami strawberry shortcake,
origami water bug, origami chicken
hatching from an egg. Do you ever feel
completely ruined? The man with no arms
and no legs takes an egg into his mouth
and drops it into a bowl, takes a whisk
into his mouth and scrambles, takes
the bowl into his mouth and wheels
to the stove, takes a spatula into his mouth
and lifts the egg onto a plate, bits
of shell and all. Takes a fork into his
mouth. Turns and grins. Do you feel
ruined now? Yes, still ruined, and guilty.
Click again, and a couple laughs as a kitten
and a bunny tumble across a flowered
rug. The otters float apart, then back
together. The origami bride smooths
a wrinkle in her immaculate dress.
What Are We Going to Turn Into?
When he was four or five, my son would sometimes ask.
As if these bodies were not our final form. As if nature
or magic might deliver us. Too shy to sing at the Christmas
concert, to clap or shape his fingers into antlers or falling
snow, his hair a blond wave like Hermey the Elf’s. When
one of my professors told me the only neighborhood I could
afford wasn’t safe, he meant it wasn’t white. I stepped
barefoot onto the porch to call my son for dinner and the door
locked behind me. My neighbors came home, and while
I gestured, not knowing how to say locked out or anything
else in Spanish, the man put down his groceries, crossed
my yard, removed the ac unit from my window, picked up
my son and boosted him through. I stood there repeating
gracias. I thought the people on that street might not want
us there—and they passed plates of burgers and potato salad
and chocolate cake over the fence, and Ivan’s mother told him
to give the toys he had outgrown to my son—so many dinosaurs—
and I know I wasn’t anything but lucky, but even the desperate
man who knocked on my door at 2:00 a.m. to try to sell a pair
of boots apologized for waking me and didn’t punch through
the window. I wish I could say that when Jeremiah’s grandmother
came down the street and put out her hand, I wasn’t so aware
of mine—so soft, so small, so white. Almost ten years gone
from Lubbock, and last night my son brought from his father’s
house a green caterpillar his father threw on an anthill. My son
reached for it, swatted the ants that climbed his arm, made it
a home with dirt and pink blossoms and leaves and sticks
in a plastic cup labeled St. Patrick’s Hospital from the week
he spent there trying not to want to die, and I’m thinking
of how Gabriel’s father used to go around shirtless with huge
muscles and a huge grin calling my son Casper, how we laughed
together, and I’m thinking about that question, based on
the simplest metaphor I know, the only one that matters.
Remember the night I passed my test
and the Thai place where you took me
brought my rice pressed into the shape
of a heart, a maraschino cherry bleeding
sweetly on the top? It’s an old story—once
there was an atom who wanted to
be a molecule. I’ve thought a lot about
innocence since then—the sleeping otters
floating on their backs in the aquarium
pool, paws linked, the human presence
behind the animal videos on the Internet—
intimate laughter, murmured words
in Russian or Norwegian while puppies
lick each other’s faces or a baby deer
eats from someone’s hand. I’ve watched
the puppy and kitten channel. At the Origami
Club, you can learn to make a whole paper
world—origami strawberry shortcake,
origami water bug, origami chicken
hatching from an egg. Do you ever feel
completely ruined? The man with no arms
and no legs takes an egg into his mouth
and drops it into a bowl, takes a whisk
into his mouth and scrambles, takes
the bowl into his mouth and wheels
to the stove, takes a spatula into his mouth
and lifts the egg onto a plate, bits
of shell and all. Takes a fork into his
mouth. Turns and grins. Do you feel
ruined now? Yes, still ruined, and guilty.
Click again, and a couple laughs as a kitten
and a bunny tumble across a flowered
rug. The otters float apart, then back
together. The origami bride smooths
a wrinkle in her immaculate dress.
What Are We Going to Turn Into?
When he was four or five, my son would sometimes ask.
As if these bodies were not our final form. As if nature
or magic might deliver us. Too shy to sing at the Christmas
concert, to clap or shape his fingers into antlers or falling
snow, his hair a blond wave like Hermey the Elf’s. When
one of my professors told me the only neighborhood I could
afford wasn’t safe, he meant it wasn’t white. I stepped
barefoot onto the porch to call my son for dinner and the door
locked behind me. My neighbors came home, and while
I gestured, not knowing how to say locked out or anything
else in Spanish, the man put down his groceries, crossed
my yard, removed the ac unit from my window, picked up
my son and boosted him through. I stood there repeating
gracias. I thought the people on that street might not want
us there—and they passed plates of burgers and potato salad
and chocolate cake over the fence, and Ivan’s mother told him
to give the toys he had outgrown to my son—so many dinosaurs—
and I know I wasn’t anything but lucky, but even the desperate
man who knocked on my door at 2:00 a.m. to try to sell a pair
of boots apologized for waking me and didn’t punch through
the window. I wish I could say that when Jeremiah’s grandmother
came down the street and put out her hand, I wasn’t so aware
of mine—so soft, so small, so white. Almost ten years gone
from Lubbock, and last night my son brought from his father’s
house a green caterpillar his father threw on an anthill. My son
reached for it, swatted the ants that climbed his arm, made it
a home with dirt and pink blossoms and leaves and sticks
in a plastic cup labeled St. Patrick’s Hospital from the week
he spent there trying not to want to die, and I’m thinking
of how Gabriel’s father used to go around shirtless with huge
muscles and a huge grin calling my son Casper, how we laughed
together, and I’m thinking about that question, based on
the simplest metaphor I know, the only one that matters.
Cuprins
Acknowledgements
1
The Puppy and Kitten Channel
What Are We Going to Turn Into?
Gretel Returns
Ice Apples
Asked to Imagine the Death of My Son
Self-Portrait, 1921, Alberto Giacometti
Lake of Delight
Self-Portrait Playing Tennis
Self-Portrait with Emergency Landing
Futures
The Man behind the Curtain
Lake of Winter (Berryman)
Self-Portrait as a Stranger
Caryatids
I Want to Be a Door
Opossum of the Month
Sea of Desire
Free Association
Antillia
Lake of Death
Postcolonial Melancholia
Red-Winged Blackbirds
2
I Don’t Require Durability in a Swan
3
When Frankenstein Chased His Creature across the Ice
The Men at Snowbowl Teaching Their Daughters to Ski
The Petroleum Club
Seahorse
Organizational Systems
Self-Portrait in the Blackfoot
Self-Portrait with Northern Lights
Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers (Marc Chagall, 1912)
Lake of Time
Letter from the Ant Queen
The Repetitive Bird
Self-Portrait on Valentine’s Day
Pointillist Self-Portrait
Mr. No More Cowboy Hat
Letter from the Queen of the Crows
Remember What You Said About Women
Lake of Hope
Resident Ghost
The Texan
Self-Portrait in Downtown Missoula
Namaste
Source Acknowledgments
1
The Puppy and Kitten Channel
What Are We Going to Turn Into?
Gretel Returns
Ice Apples
Asked to Imagine the Death of My Son
Self-Portrait, 1921, Alberto Giacometti
Lake of Delight
Self-Portrait Playing Tennis
Self-Portrait with Emergency Landing
Futures
The Man behind the Curtain
Lake of Winter (Berryman)
Self-Portrait as a Stranger
Caryatids
I Want to Be a Door
Opossum of the Month
Sea of Desire
Free Association
Antillia
Lake of Death
Postcolonial Melancholia
Red-Winged Blackbirds
2
I Don’t Require Durability in a Swan
3
When Frankenstein Chased His Creature across the Ice
The Men at Snowbowl Teaching Their Daughters to Ski
The Petroleum Club
Seahorse
Organizational Systems
Self-Portrait in the Blackfoot
Self-Portrait with Northern Lights
Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers (Marc Chagall, 1912)
Lake of Time
Letter from the Ant Queen
The Repetitive Bird
Self-Portrait on Valentine’s Day
Pointillist Self-Portrait
Mr. No More Cowboy Hat
Letter from the Queen of the Crows
Remember What You Said About Women
Lake of Hope
Resident Ghost
The Texan
Self-Portrait in Downtown Missoula
Namaste
Source Acknowledgments
Recenzii
"Readers of this collection will have a hard time shaking the image of Antillia from the horizon of their thoughts, and they will be grateful for the haunting."—Big Sky Journal
“Henrietta Goodman’s is a poetry of testament, an ‘inventory of scars,’ a mosaic of shards and sorrows, a symphony whose movements straddle innocence and experience, whose cinematic cross-cutting of gutting images provides evidence of a wise spirit bruised yet irrepressible. Antillia gestures toward a taxing history of embodied travails, of ice apples, and ghosts, a lived terrain where Goodman sees ‘everything/trying to divide yet stay attached/at the root.’ Here’s a voice gritty, delicate, resilient, raw, a speaker with a handsaw who’s ‘no one’s wife and no one’s martyr,’ instead ‘a gasping head on a platter/of water’ whose eyes cast floodlights on the ‘Forty billion poison gallons/the geese see from air and mistake for a safe place.’ Savvy to feel gifted when the “ground is finally thawed enough to bury the dead”; brilliant to define ‘Happiness: the underside of a dried starfish,’ Goodman reminds us that a child can be ‘made of nothing,’ and that a single word can birth a shattered world of loss and misunderstanding in which we nevertheless abide.”—Katrina Roberts, author of Likeness
“Henrietta Goodman’s Antillia is a collection of searching lyric poems that remember, joke, free associate, interrogate, worry, and examine the roots of words in pursuit of sense or solace. The world depicted is one of potential chaos and harm, though a quest for love, joy, and understanding has not been abandoned. In one Proustian meditation, the smell of Windex conjures memories of the speaker’s grade school crush, yet further consideration yields recollections of a Cold War-era bomb shelter. The bewildered (or sardonic) speaker asks, ‘Windex leads to Martin leads to beauty leads to bomb?’ The volume’s title suggests that a new world might be accessed, though at present it’s more myth than fact. These aesthetically impressive poems stun with their vigor, candor, and wit.”—Christopher Brean Murray, author of Black Observatory: Poems
“‘In the South, everything bites / and f*cks and pretends not to,’ Henrietta Goodman writes in one of her trademark poems that are alive and daring and nervy: all heart and smarts, no pretense. We’re so fortunate to have this new book, which moves from lovers to sons to metaphorical-real lakes to a fancy cowboy bar’s ‘ropes / of neon acrylic squeezed straight from the tube’ to fine art to stinging truths—insisting on loving and facing head-on a world that keeps failing and falling.”—Alexandra Teague, author of Or What We’ll Call Desire
Descriere
Although ghosts of all kinds haunt this collection, these poems also look forward and outward into a world where social inequality and environmental disaster meet the possibility of metamorphosis.