Dots & Dashes: Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
Autor Jehanne Dubrowen Limba Engleză Paperback – 3 aug 2017
Moving between the languages of love and war, Jehanne Dubrow’s latest book offers valuable testimony to the experiences of military wives. Frequently employing rhyme, meter, and traditional forms, these poems examine what it means to be both a military spouse and an academic, straddling two communities that speak in very different and often conflicting terms.
As in the poet’s earlier collection, Stateside, the poems in Dots & Dashes are explicitly feminist, exploring the experiences of women whose husbands are deployed. But, while Stateside looked to masculine stories of war, Dots & Dashes incorporates the views and voices of female poets who have written about combat. Looking to Sappho and Emily Dickinson, the poet considers how the act of writing allows her autonomy and agency rarely granted to military spouses, even in the twenty-first century. Dubrow catalogs the domestic life of a military spouse, illustrating what it is like to live in a tightly constructed world of rules and regulations, ceremony and tradition, where “every sacrifice already / knows its place.”
Navigating the rough seas of marriage alongside questions about how civilians and those in the military can learn to communicate with one another, Dubrow argues for compassion and empathy on both sides. In this timely collection, Dubrow offers the hope that if we can break apart our preconceptions and stereotypes, we can find what connects all of us.
As in the poet’s earlier collection, Stateside, the poems in Dots & Dashes are explicitly feminist, exploring the experiences of women whose husbands are deployed. But, while Stateside looked to masculine stories of war, Dots & Dashes incorporates the views and voices of female poets who have written about combat. Looking to Sappho and Emily Dickinson, the poet considers how the act of writing allows her autonomy and agency rarely granted to military spouses, even in the twenty-first century. Dubrow catalogs the domestic life of a military spouse, illustrating what it is like to live in a tightly constructed world of rules and regulations, ceremony and tradition, where “every sacrifice already / knows its place.”
Navigating the rough seas of marriage alongside questions about how civilians and those in the military can learn to communicate with one another, Dubrow argues for compassion and empathy on both sides. In this timely collection, Dubrow offers the hope that if we can break apart our preconceptions and stereotypes, we can find what connects all of us.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780809336098
ISBN-10: 080933609X
Pagini: 88
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 13 mm
Greutate: 0.16 kg
Ediția:1st Edition
Editura: Southern Illinois University Press
Colecția Southern Illinois University Press
Seria Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
ISBN-10: 080933609X
Pagini: 88
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 13 mm
Greutate: 0.16 kg
Ediția:1st Edition
Editura: Southern Illinois University Press
Colecția Southern Illinois University Press
Seria Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
Notă biografică
Jehanne Dubrow is the author of five poetry collections, including The Arranged Marriage, Red Army Red, Stateside, From the Fever-World, and The Hardship Post. Her poems, creative nonfiction, and book reviews have appeared in the Southern Review, New York Times Magazine, and Hudson Review, among others. She has received a number of awards and fellowships, including the Alice Fay Di Castagnola Award and two fellowships from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference. She is an associate professor at the University of North Texas.
Extras
A CATALOGUE OF THE CONTENTS
OF HIS NIGHTSTAND
One orphaned oak leaf from his uniform.
Loose change. A pair of collar stays. A tube
of mentholated chapstick going warm.
An accordion of ancient Trojans, lube
that's meant to tingle when it touches skin.
The leather cuff he bought in Santa Fe.
A sample of cologne that smells like gin,
cigars, and prohibition, the satin sway
of bodies in a sweating room. A card
his mother sent-she wonders when he'll write
again. A tin of peppermints now hard
and powdery as chalk. A tiny light
he aimed at shadows as we lay in bed
(bright spheres) until the battery went dead.
OFFICER CANDIDATE SCHOOL
For years the letter hung on your wall,
framed to show both sides beneath glass,
the first with its quick sortie into cordiality,
the other severing whatever truce remained.
Later you described when it first came
Gunnery Sergeant waved it like a flag,
the surrender asked of you, that moment
when he read my message to the barracks
full of men, all of them sitting on the deck
and shining brass. It's the practice
in such places to search for contraband.
Once, a girl sent you pictures of her tabby cat,
the joke that Schwab got pussy in the mail.
I've always been skilled in the strike
that language makes on sentiment.
Long after this, you spoke about those weeks
in Pensacola when you uncreased
my letter from your pocket, reread it as a drill,
like the callusing of feet in combat boots,
how you loved that dispatch for the precision
of its cruelty, my words and their marching
orders to leave me the fuck alone.
FROM THE PENTAGON
He brings me chocolate from the Pentagon,
dark chocolates shaped like tanks and fighter jets,
milk chocolate tomahawks, a bonbon
like a kirsch grenade, mint chocolate bayonets.
He brings me chocolate ships, a submarine
descending in a chocolate sea, a drone
unmanned and filled with hazelnut praline.
He brings me cocoa powder, like chocolate blown
to bits. Or chocolate squares of pepper heat.
Or if perhaps we've fought, he brings a box
of truffles home, missiles of semisweet
dissolving on the tongue. He brings me Glocks
and chocolate mines, a tiny transport plane,
a bomb that looks delicious in its cellophane.
NOVEMBER 11
My mother calls it pushing and contractions,
not Armistice or Veterans,
or according to the Internet, the day
Sherman began his burning
to the sea. Riots broke out in Tibet.
On this date, Kurt Vonnegut was born,
and the Internet lists him first
as soldier, then author, academic,
the order perhaps not incorrect,
given the smell of mustard gas
and roses. After a bombing, what
do the birdies say with their barbedwire
beaks? On this day: a battle,
a massacre. A thing called disaster.
Vonnegut wrote of the present-
how wide it was, how deep.
The doctrine of transubstantiation
was defined on this day, the way
Vonnegut said of blood in the snow,
the color of raspberry sherbet.
My father calls this one of his happiest-
the bread he consumed, the wine.
The sudden transformation of a man.
The Internet tells me: on this day
the end of occupied France.
And if I trust Vonnegut, we're trapped
in the amber of this moment,
this date and any other fossilized,
suspended in resin, held dying
and delivered in the hard yellow light.
COMBAT VETERAN LIVES HERE PLEASE
BE COURTEOUS WITH FIREWORKS
Fourth of July lawn signs for veterans with PTSD
Our weekend brings its long barrage-the flare
and cherry bomb, the snap, the thunder-flash.
A rocket streaks the sky. Green mortars crash.
A roman candle lacerates the air
with sparks, a hissing brilliance everywhere
that wrenches shadows from the grass. Each splash
of light sets off the dogs-they smell the ash,
they scurry from the missile's steady glare.
Small parachutes drift paper-frail as thought.
There's smoke, a shattering of shells, a crack
which sounds the way a rifle might when shot
into the night. Our neighborhood is hot,
alive with waiting, one moment powder-black
then bright, as if we're all under attack-
SOS
Distress is signaled by a run of threes:
three dits three dahs three dits, and then it all
begins again. The meaning of this call
for help can be discerned in its reprise.
No matter where the listener starts, the pleas
for help-please help me please-repeat their small
alert. The ship is threatened by a squall.
The ship is lost, has suffered casualties.
If we are ships we too have signaled land
or called each other in the dark. We've scanned
the sky for help. We've said emergency,
a sequence made of silences and tones.
And when it ends, we've said seelonce feenee.
The sea says nothing back. The anchor groans.
OF HIS NIGHTSTAND
One orphaned oak leaf from his uniform.
Loose change. A pair of collar stays. A tube
of mentholated chapstick going warm.
An accordion of ancient Trojans, lube
that's meant to tingle when it touches skin.
The leather cuff he bought in Santa Fe.
A sample of cologne that smells like gin,
cigars, and prohibition, the satin sway
of bodies in a sweating room. A card
his mother sent-she wonders when he'll write
again. A tin of peppermints now hard
and powdery as chalk. A tiny light
he aimed at shadows as we lay in bed
(bright spheres) until the battery went dead.
OFFICER CANDIDATE SCHOOL
For years the letter hung on your wall,
framed to show both sides beneath glass,
the first with its quick sortie into cordiality,
the other severing whatever truce remained.
Later you described when it first came
Gunnery Sergeant waved it like a flag,
the surrender asked of you, that moment
when he read my message to the barracks
full of men, all of them sitting on the deck
and shining brass. It's the practice
in such places to search for contraband.
Once, a girl sent you pictures of her tabby cat,
the joke that Schwab got pussy in the mail.
I've always been skilled in the strike
that language makes on sentiment.
Long after this, you spoke about those weeks
in Pensacola when you uncreased
my letter from your pocket, reread it as a drill,
like the callusing of feet in combat boots,
how you loved that dispatch for the precision
of its cruelty, my words and their marching
orders to leave me the fuck alone.
FROM THE PENTAGON
He brings me chocolate from the Pentagon,
dark chocolates shaped like tanks and fighter jets,
milk chocolate tomahawks, a bonbon
like a kirsch grenade, mint chocolate bayonets.
He brings me chocolate ships, a submarine
descending in a chocolate sea, a drone
unmanned and filled with hazelnut praline.
He brings me cocoa powder, like chocolate blown
to bits. Or chocolate squares of pepper heat.
Or if perhaps we've fought, he brings a box
of truffles home, missiles of semisweet
dissolving on the tongue. He brings me Glocks
and chocolate mines, a tiny transport plane,
a bomb that looks delicious in its cellophane.
NOVEMBER 11
My mother calls it pushing and contractions,
not Armistice or Veterans,
or according to the Internet, the day
Sherman began his burning
to the sea. Riots broke out in Tibet.
On this date, Kurt Vonnegut was born,
and the Internet lists him first
as soldier, then author, academic,
the order perhaps not incorrect,
given the smell of mustard gas
and roses. After a bombing, what
do the birdies say with their barbedwire
beaks? On this day: a battle,
a massacre. A thing called disaster.
Vonnegut wrote of the present-
how wide it was, how deep.
The doctrine of transubstantiation
was defined on this day, the way
Vonnegut said of blood in the snow,
the color of raspberry sherbet.
My father calls this one of his happiest-
the bread he consumed, the wine.
The sudden transformation of a man.
The Internet tells me: on this day
the end of occupied France.
And if I trust Vonnegut, we're trapped
in the amber of this moment,
this date and any other fossilized,
suspended in resin, held dying
and delivered in the hard yellow light.
COMBAT VETERAN LIVES HERE PLEASE
BE COURTEOUS WITH FIREWORKS
Fourth of July lawn signs for veterans with PTSD
Our weekend brings its long barrage-the flare
and cherry bomb, the snap, the thunder-flash.
A rocket streaks the sky. Green mortars crash.
A roman candle lacerates the air
with sparks, a hissing brilliance everywhere
that wrenches shadows from the grass. Each splash
of light sets off the dogs-they smell the ash,
they scurry from the missile's steady glare.
Small parachutes drift paper-frail as thought.
There's smoke, a shattering of shells, a crack
which sounds the way a rifle might when shot
into the night. Our neighborhood is hot,
alive with waiting, one moment powder-black
then bright, as if we're all under attack-
SOS
Distress is signaled by a run of threes:
three dits three dahs three dits, and then it all
begins again. The meaning of this call
for help can be discerned in its reprise.
No matter where the listener starts, the pleas
for help-please help me please-repeat their small
alert. The ship is threatened by a squall.
The ship is lost, has suffered casualties.
If we are ships we too have signaled land
or called each other in the dark. We've scanned
the sky for help. We've said emergency,
a sequence made of silences and tones.
And when it ends, we've said seelonce feenee.
The sea says nothing back. The anchor groans.
Cuprins
PLEASE STAND BY
A Catalogue of the Contents of His Nightstand
Reading Poetry on Maryland Public Radio
[To a Navy Wife, in Maryland]
Ramrod
Cadets Read “Howl”
Officer Candidate School
A Global Force for Good™
USS Ronald Reagan
Something Charming
Achilles
Old Glory
Tackle Box
CAUTION: HOLE IN SHIP
What We Talk about When We Talk about Deployment
Much Tattooed Sailor aboard USS New Jersey
The Signal Flag
[The Dependent Says]
CALLING ANY STATION
From the Pentagon
Drone
Runaway Military Surveillance Blimp Drifts from Maryland to Pennsylvania
[When I Marry Eros]
Homeport
My Husband Calls Me Shipmate
Five Poetry Readings
Patton
POEM
November 11
At the Reading of the Antiwar Poets, 2007
Combat Veteran Lives Here Please Be Courteous with Fireworks
From the Aberdeen Proving Ground
[As for the Sailors]
The Alarm
OVER
SOS
[Then the God of War]
A Row of Ribbons
Casualty Notification
War Widow
The Long Deployment
[If You Are Squeamish]
Photograph of General Petraeus with Paula Broadwell
[Lament for This Long Celibacy]
Reading Sappho in Pensacola
Persuasion
Asking and Telling
The Beaufort Scale
Elegy with Full Dress Blues
Armed Services Editions
Liberty
Notes
Acknowledgments
A Catalogue of the Contents of His Nightstand
Reading Poetry on Maryland Public Radio
[To a Navy Wife, in Maryland]
Ramrod
Cadets Read “Howl”
Officer Candidate School
A Global Force for Good™
USS Ronald Reagan
Something Charming
Achilles
Old Glory
Tackle Box
CAUTION: HOLE IN SHIP
What We Talk about When We Talk about Deployment
Much Tattooed Sailor aboard USS New Jersey
The Signal Flag
[The Dependent Says]
CALLING ANY STATION
From the Pentagon
Drone
Runaway Military Surveillance Blimp Drifts from Maryland to Pennsylvania
[When I Marry Eros]
Homeport
My Husband Calls Me Shipmate
Five Poetry Readings
Patton
POEM
November 11
At the Reading of the Antiwar Poets, 2007
Combat Veteran Lives Here Please Be Courteous with Fireworks
From the Aberdeen Proving Ground
[As for the Sailors]
The Alarm
OVER
SOS
[Then the God of War]
A Row of Ribbons
Casualty Notification
War Widow
The Long Deployment
[If You Are Squeamish]
Photograph of General Petraeus with Paula Broadwell
[Lament for This Long Celibacy]
Reading Sappho in Pensacola
Persuasion
Asking and Telling
The Beaufort Scale
Elegy with Full Dress Blues
Armed Services Editions
Liberty
Notes
Acknowledgments
Recenzii
“With Dots Dashes, Jehanne Dubrow gives us a panoramic view of the landscape of marriage within the structure and confines of military life. This difficult and layered collection refuses to avert its gaze from trouble in all its overt and nuanced forms. While these poems offer glimpses into an often closed-off world, the core experiences within these poems don’t reside on military bases and in military life alone. Dots Dashes is a series of messages called out over the waters of a life—isolation, separation, the silences and failures of communication—a reminder that sailors are not always the ones who are lost at sea.”—Brian Turner, author of Phantom Noise and Here, Bullet
“Jehanne Dubrow’s newest collection, Dots Dashes, masterfully plays with the military’s attempts at simplifying and standardizing information. With an agility of language that is both intimate and far-gazing, Dubrow examines the difficulty of communication between man and woman, military and civilian, service member and academic. This exploration of relationships is written with the intensity and honesty that makes Dubrow one of our greatest poets, and the brilliance of Dots Dashes reads loud and clear.”—Siobhan Fallon, author of You Know When the Men Are Gone
“In her new book, Jehanne Dubrow’s poems are simultaneously so raw and well-made, so elemental and sophisticated, as to seem almost operatic in their reach and power. One thing that she restores to poetry is the premodern, particularly ancient Greek, sense of the insistent link between armaments and warriors on the one hand and Eros on the other. Her poems, nevertheless, are firmly contemporary with their modern naval references, but her colloquy with other authors—there’s a lovely poem on Jane Austen’s Persuasion for example—gives them a sobering and timeless ‘’twas ever thus’ feel. And not the least of its charms is that the book can be read as one long, lyrical, involved, and self-aware love poem (I doubt the word husband appears so many times, and with such varied emphases, in any other recent poetry book of comparable quality). A wonderful read!”—Dick Davis, author of At Home, and Far from Home: Poems on Iran and Persian Culture
"The tangled conflicts that arise from the speaker's position are fascinating. Within the confines of their marriage, she objects to the way that her husband's uniform seems to dehumanize him. Viewing military culture through this critical lens is something commonly acceptable in her identity as a poet but quite taboo in her identity as a military spouse."--Catalina Righter, The Summerset Review
“Jehanne Dubrow’s newest collection, Dots Dashes, masterfully plays with the military’s attempts at simplifying and standardizing information. With an agility of language that is both intimate and far-gazing, Dubrow examines the difficulty of communication between man and woman, military and civilian, service member and academic. This exploration of relationships is written with the intensity and honesty that makes Dubrow one of our greatest poets, and the brilliance of Dots Dashes reads loud and clear.”—Siobhan Fallon, author of You Know When the Men Are Gone
“In her new book, Jehanne Dubrow’s poems are simultaneously so raw and well-made, so elemental and sophisticated, as to seem almost operatic in their reach and power. One thing that she restores to poetry is the premodern, particularly ancient Greek, sense of the insistent link between armaments and warriors on the one hand and Eros on the other. Her poems, nevertheless, are firmly contemporary with their modern naval references, but her colloquy with other authors—there’s a lovely poem on Jane Austen’s Persuasion for example—gives them a sobering and timeless ‘’twas ever thus’ feel. And not the least of its charms is that the book can be read as one long, lyrical, involved, and self-aware love poem (I doubt the word husband appears so many times, and with such varied emphases, in any other recent poetry book of comparable quality). A wonderful read!”—Dick Davis, author of At Home, and Far from Home: Poems on Iran and Persian Culture
"The tangled conflicts that arise from the speaker's position are fascinating. Within the confines of their marriage, she objects to the way that her husband's uniform seems to dehumanize him. Viewing military culture through this critical lens is something commonly acceptable in her identity as a poet but quite taboo in her identity as a military spouse."--Catalina Righter, The Summerset Review
Descriere
Moving between the languages of love and war, Jehanne Dubrow’s latest book testifies to the experiences of military wives. Dubrow navigates the rough seas of marriage alongside questions of how civilians and military personnel can learn to communicate with each other.