POETRY MONDAY: KAREN CHASE
Karen Chase
Some of you may have already encountered the poems of Karen Chase. Her poems have appeared in magazines such as The New Yorker, The Gettysburg Review and The New Republic, in the Norton anthologies Introduction to Literature and Introduction to Poetry, in Billy Collins’ Poetry 180, and in two collections, Kazimierz Square and Bear. In 2007, however, she published a different kind of book – one that may be of special interest to readers of this publication. The non-fiction Land of Stone: Breaking Silence through Poetry (Wayne State University Press) is Chase’s account of two years during the decade she spent as Poet-in-Residence at a large psychiatric hospital outside of New York City. Working one-on-one with a young man who refused to talk, she developed a technique that helped him break through his silence and begin to write poetry. A gifted, intuitive teacher, she never violated her student’s privacy or dignity, nor did she overstep and confuse her role with that of the clinicians who were working with him in other ways. Her technique, “I write a line/you write a line,” emphasized craft. Pupil-teacher communication was about such things as metaphor and musicality. Remembering her own struggle to walk again when her legs were paralyzed from childhood polio helped her to do what she had to do to help her student. Many of the poems they wrote together are included in this remarkable, sensitive and loving book, which was named the Bronze Medal winner of the 2008 Independent Publishers’ Book Award.
Here, for our December offering, are three of Karen Chase’s own poems.
Irene Willis
Poetry Editor
THREE POEMS BY KAREN CHASE
This Can Happen When You’re Married
You find blue sheets the color of sky with
the feel of summer, they smell like clothes
drying on the line when you were small.
They feel unusual on your skin; you and your
husband sleep on them.
You find thick white towels that absorb a lot
of water. When you come from the bath, you are
cold for a moment, you think of snow for a moment,
you wrap yourself in a towel, dry off the water.
Now, you unpack your silver, after years, polish it,
set it in red quilted drawers your mother
lined for you when you were young.
You and your husband are in bed. The windows are open.
There is a smell from the lawn. It’s dark and late. You
and your husband are in the sheets. He is like a horse.
You are like grass he is grazing, you are his field. Or
he’s a cow in a barn, licking his calf. It’s raining out.
He gets up, walks to the other room. You listen
for his step, his breath. It is late. For moments
before you sleep, you hear him singing.
He comes to bed. He touches your face. He touches
your skin and lips. Later, he tells you this He puts
his head on your breast. You are dreaming of Rousseau
now, paintings of girls and deserts and lions.
(from Kazimierz Square. CavanKerry Press, Ltd., 2000)
Vowels
“I may lose my sight,” you told my husband
as you watched the Celtics game in the dark bar.
My old doctor, we don’t see each other anymore.
We have no room now where we notice the light,
no window to look at when
we look away, there’s no way
to tell you I love how you say beautiful
the i like a long e.
I’ve been thinking of vowels lately.
There are trees all colors of green this morning,
there’s rain, I hear the e’s and see the greens –
what if you couldn’t see? I’m listening
to sweet Al Green sing his vowels now, how
they stretch on huuuuuuuuuuuhhh
(from Kazimierz Square. CavanKerry Press, Ltd., 2000)
How to Daydream
Unplug the phone.
Don’t check for messages.
Don’t make a list of who you should call and chores.
Don’t fret whether it’s who or whom.
Was that a mouse? Don’t put d-Con in the attic.
There’s no bread in the house – forget about lunch.
Don’t consider whether you’ll get a chicken salad sandwich
at the bagel store.
Don’t check your e-mail.
Don’t, when you get an idea … . oh forget it.
I just heard a bird singing.
Is there supposed to be a thunderstorm?
Don’t check the weather channel.
The other day I paid bills, made calls, cleared the decks.
This room is cold now – I’ll turn the heat up.
Don’t look up daydreaming to see what it makes you think
of.
Meditation. Don’t call a friend to find out
how to start meditating. Meditation Once
there was
a lost
soldier who
wandered into a
cathedral.
His cap on, he had crossed the
trolley tracks, walked along
a river. Music tugged at
him to go to a mikvah
to chant, and praise
the ammunition but a sign
said Prohibited.
I cannot tell you the time of day, nor what
the light was like, I cannot say whether it was
midmorning or late, or even what country it was.
I cannot even tell you that there was a beautiful beach
there.
(from Bear. CavanKerry Press, Ltd., 2008)