My Musical-Faith in John Lennon Quakes with Recognition
at Ronnie Hawkins’s Power to Reconcile All.

Ronnie admits, I didn’t know
that much about the Beatles
at that time. My world
was brass-knucks
and combat-boots
everybody was still ruinin’
their livers. Ha ha aaa, ya
know there was no-
body in that love
peace thing in my crew.
Down there everybody
was still rockin’ the lyrics—
I'm gonna call up a gypsy woman on the telephone
I'm gonna send out a worldwide hoo-doo— there
in China Ronnie is arrested
for carrying John’s WAR IS OVER
IF YOU WANT IT—
Peace is easy, but hard to pay for—
Ronnie makes it out of Mao-ville
but John’s Canadian Festival
for Peace is canceled.
John is shot gone,
when Romping Ronnie survives
Cancer: You win some lose some,
I’m lucky to have made it this far
four lifetimes at least, maybe five.
While John waits for resurrection,
Ronnie Hawkins is asking
for VIAGRA ® to go with his chemo.
Gotta treat all parts of a man—
Ronnie knows how to wait—
forty days—
knows (in some form or another)
all things will come back home.
He swallows Rum
and the devil shines down his throat.

The Photographer

Death is the breaking and collapse of all of our
relationships on all their levels. Death is not just a
moment at the end, but a whole realm of brokenness that
affects our lives on many levels.
Michael D. Guinan, O.F.M.

He took one shot. Developed in black and white—naked
I was a boy to him. Arms coiled
against the flesh that moves like silt through currents. Wanted
to pull my teeth—have him
read his name engraved at my roots—spit blood to prove
the ache. Thought to unhinge
the bones in my hand for chimes—music of collision. My faith
dependent on our
reconciliation. Serenades of hope at my fingers—the wind. I was
all fight. Ate dirt to keep
the world from unmaking us. How was he to know I was testing
God by cutting my tongue
into apple slices. Asking him to eat. Without words. How was he
to know I was a woman
in a man’s armor—caught on film—moment of struggle before
the continuous breakage.

Contemporary Prophets

A crow plucks a sparrow from the sky
like fruit
from a blue vine. The palm-bird, visible
from the thick-billed
Corvus, gags the devouring mouth
with its own song
of desperation. Rhythm quick for life—
echoes in the empty
morning. A well of sound—the streets
a larynx swollen
with lamentations. In flight, the crow—
size of a human torso—
chokes and contracts. Its wings pull
inward. The sparrow
is let go—the crow left to hunger.

---------

Nicelle Davis Interview, with Kaite Hillenbrand

These sentences and lines are pared down to only the most necessary words--there are very few articles or conjunctions, for instance--but there is an abundance of layered, highly imagistic language. This, at times, even makes it unclear who the lines refer to--the photographer or the photographed, for instance. How do you make decisions that lead to such sparsity, such precision, of wording?

In general, I always look for words to cut so a poem can be as close to a verb as possible—as present as possible. Articles, conjunctions, and pronouns make me nervous, uneasy even. Personal pronouns make me fearful that the subject of a poem is being masked. The “I” persona of confessional poetry is so powerful. Sylvia Plath is a master at dressing an idea in herself. I love it in her work, hate it in my own. I’m sure there is an element of self consciousness in my avoidance to speak “The I” in a poem.

Specifically, for this collection, the poems are in search of moments of convergence or unison. John Lennon becomes Jesus. Ronnie Hawkings God. Both morph into Judas. The photographer and photographed are inseparable. There is no one person to blame. We are all in this together and what we are in is love. Wish fulfillment at its finest—gotta love poetry.

These poems seem to take place in a world that is fierce in both their sense of stark wonder and darkness. Many of their images are violent--birds devouring birds, devil in the throat, cutting one's tongue... To what extent is this a part your voice, and/or is it a kind of landscape that you keep coming back to, the way some writers may come back to pop culture or nature?

I wanted to be a different poet, a beautiful poet. But the more I try to sound like lovely Ted Kooser or brilliant C.D. Wright, the more visceral the poems become. I think it’s because I’m not convinced my words are enough—art is enough. Van Gogh’s paintings are enough to move a person to tears, but it’s the ear most of us obsess over. How does one prove an emotion—give it substance—flesh even? For me, there seems to be an inner pre-teen who is constantly double-dog daring me—saying “if you really like him all that much…prove it…lick his face in the lunch hall then bark like a chicken five times.”

Your poems make references to a number of people--John Lennon, Ronnie Hawkins, and Michael D. Guinan, notably. What is your process--do you begin inward, with an idea, image, or feeling (etc), and work your way outward to people who represent or are in some way involved with that inner beginning--or do you start by reading, listening to music, etc., and work your way inward toward a poem? In what ways do these figures inspire you?

I grew-up in the backroom of a record store owned by my father, who is a visual artist. I’m not so different from my origins. A poem (for me) starts with an image, usually inspired by music. Writing is always an emotional experience for me.

The second part to this is I don’t think I ever (fully) grew-up. I still like playing make believe in my head. I love stories and it isn’t out of the realm of possibility for me to have pretend conversations with…oh lets say…John Lennon. I bring these “friends” with me to a poem as a way of saying, “They saw it too. It had wings of blue silk lit on fire. It flew into the kitchen. Said it was love. And flew away. John Lennon saw it too. Believe us.”