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The poems of Melinda Wilson have a hard won sense of self that I trust. The poet’s love of nature and every living creature in it allow her poems to appear as they are on the page. Empathy and honesty have no shame. No matter what her poems are saying—some truths are not pleasant to hear—the understanding they engender is always a pleasure to read.
Indolent Books has recently published What It Was Like To Be A Woman, a book of poems by Melinda Wilson whose title, though in the past, is a harbinger of things to come. In a world of grave uncertainties, I always leave a poem by Melinda Wilson feeling confidently better, they are that good.
You will find What It Was Like To Be A Woman here:
I recorded Melinda Wilson read at KGB a little while ago. You will find her here and now in the Vimeo below. Enjoy.
Hooded Seal
Not nearly as beautiful as the Ribbon
or Harp, though they migrate alongside
to call him bladder nose and liver-face—
that membranous balloon, a giant’s heart.
A mask keeps him far from the circus,
as his kisser would terrify, so he winters
off the banks of Newfoundland, spends
summers on the packed ice of Greenland
or deep diving in the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
The muscles are particularly tasty this season,
the starfish a little tough.
We Blue Bayou
for Claire Nelson
None of the bathers asked where we were headed
When we swam beyond the buoy-clad rope,
Swam till we felt the camber of the globe,
And the lemon Vista fought not to redden.
The scent on Heron Island was fetid,
And I failed to make plain my forlorn hope:
The turtles will love us even when sober.
You blinked slowly, and I saw your method:
Lengthen the neck, but retract all the limbs;
The head’s at the front cuz it’s a weapon.
We’ll turn off our dread, collect gator skins,
kill distress with some cold beer and resin.
The sun’s all but dead, and we’re drunk as kings
A hundred more lives won’t repeat this heaven.
The Scammer
I’m on the phone, holding for a customer rep
who seems to think I’m the one with the bad
attitude, and usually, I am, and often not
for very good reasons. But in this case,
I’ve been sold a single can of dog food
for $23 US dollars. I assumed, at that price
it was a pack of a dozen. One pack of one
dozen cans. The quantity says “one,” the rep
repeats. Yes, one dozen, I say. No. One, she
insists. No ONE in their right mind would pay
that price for a single can of dog food, I go on.
I try to tell the rep what dog food really is, how
cheaply it’s made, how unreasonable the price,
how it’s overly processed animal byproducts,
that we are animals feeding animals
to other animals.
……………………………But we are all stardust, she says.
……………………………And she’s fucking right.
Reading an Old Issue of The New Yorker
Hummingbirds, goose-down, robes, songs in the key of Yiddish—
these are things in the world on this particular day.
Brown leaves collecting on the windowsill,
a pinkish glow seeping in from the evening outside.
Sparkling cider, a John Travolta TV special,
a poem by John Ashbury called “In Those Days.”
The days are all here, or will be eventually,
piling up like hills of dirty snow.
A cartoon on this page features the grim reaper
and his buddies. Not far away, dead people have dead pets—
dead fish floating in grimy bowls, dead, canaries
in rusted cages. It wouldn’t matter if you forgot
to shut the cage door, which you probably
would, sitting dead on the couch.
Fisherman’s Sonnet
I once heard a used condom called
a Coney Island Whitefish and wondered
what cold-blooded vertebrate that makes me.
With my gills peeled open in those wholly hostile
waters, the shore is thick with my dead.
But most white fish have bones, do they not?
Little skeletons holding their flesh
tight to their sides. Those tiny ivory needles
that lodge in the throat when we are too ravenous
to withstand any delay. Under the boardwalk,
the love-carcass looks nearly transparent,
more jelly than fish. More guts than vessel.
More impulse than animal.
Poor little Whitefish, forgotten so soon.
What It Was Like To Be A Woman is published by Indolent Books. You can check it out here:
Two poems: Sylvan Missive and Hibernaculum:
An Interview with Melinda Wilson at the New School:
Melinda Wilson has been hosting a poetry reading series in the Bronx for many years now. Yes, when it comes to poetry, thanks to Melinda, the Bronx is in the house. You can check out the events at Beal Bocht Cafe here:
