In
addition to writing poetry, Judith does oil painting and plays the violin as a
rusty amateur. Her poems have appeared in J
Journal, Poetry, FIELD, The Southern Review, The Iowa Review, Midwest Quarterly Review, Prairie Schooner, Seneca Review, and other journals and anthologies. She has been a
Writer in Residence at the Centrum Foundation in Port Townsend, Washington, and
The Hedgebrook Foundation. At the Center for French Translation in Seneffe,
Belgium, she translated Belgian-French poet Anne-Marie Derése.
A Jack Straw Writer in 2008 and 2013, Skillman’s work has been
nominated for Pushcart Prizes, the UK Kit Award, Best of the Web, and is
included in Best Indie Verse of New
England. For more, visit www.judithskillman.com
Ms.
Skillman is available for manuscript consultations through her website.
THIS POTASH DAWN
DESIRE
Long after
a woman
accepts
the rack of age—
intolerant
overseer
with his
bloodied instruments—
a vestige
of passion clings.
Like the
appetite of boiled milk
for its
skin, or a winter day
for the
sun. Like the single
marigold
blooming
on a
veranda—
that
stubborn, red-headed child.
Long into
the lateness of life,
after the
shadow puppets
of parents
have been pulled
from the
theatre,
their
heads twisted off—
deep
inside the body
an
extravagant wish surfaces,
requests
to play the part
of
descant.
THIS POTASH DAWN
Come, but
come early too much, arrive
with your
toxins that turn the sky yellow
as our sun
rises above the tree
that fell
last summer on a windless night
from
drought. Come already, I know
your face
more than sound—the birds
dying to
catch up on news, puffed up,
full of
sleep, feathers catching a quick beak.
C’mon into
this-–how else to say—
chronic
pain, this age, the crown
of grand
motherhood tarnished. Lust
synthesized:
old lovers, new husband,
new
husband, old lovers. Wheeze me
out of the
house mid afternoon, blowsy
as laundry
strung on a line, for the shower,
the
chores, the stretch of muscles tight
with
spasms and that curve where discs
non-surgical—bulge against nerve,
bent anew
as with the wrench
my father
wielded, when he had a door
to fix,
and later the vise on his workbench,
teeth
clenched, uttering curses for lack
of oil, as
I watched my child-self
grow up to
the lip of the wood.
WRITE YOUR POEM:
Back to basics. How to you juxtapose your metaphors to maximize irony?
Poetry distills words like moonshine distills corn mash. Are you treating the words like kernels of corn to be treated under pressure?
Look at what Judith does:
"after the shadow puppets
of parents have been pulled
from the theatre,"
Look at the power of shadow puppets juxtaposed against the power of parents. Just three words carefully chosen.
Another:
"arrive
with your toxins that turn the sky yellow"
Consider the power of toxins and sky set up with the modifier of yellow. You get the hints of acids and the sunset all wrapped into a couplet.
Distill your words. Make them punch. Cut things out until the words hit your core.
