On today’s podcast we discussed four poems, all part of a “polyvalent” poetry series by Jayson Iwen. These poems were unique because they could be read two different ways, horizontally and vertically.
Hi and welcome to Episode 15 of the PBQ’s Slush pile. On today’s podcast we discussed four poems, all part of a “polyvalent” poetry series by Jayson Iwen. These poems were unique because they could be read two different ways, ...
On today’s podcast we discussed four poems, all part of a “polyvalent” poetry series by Jayson Iwen. These poems were unique because they could be read two different ways, horizontally and vertically.
Hi and welcome to Episode 15 of the PBQ’s Slush pile. On today’s podcast we discussed four poems, all part of a “polyvalent” poetry series by Jayson Iwen. These poems were unique because they could be read two different ways, horizontally and vertically.
Jayson lived in Beirut, Lebanon for four years where he served as the “Hare-Raiser” for the Beirut Tarboush Hash House Harriers (yeah, we had to look it up, too). He wrote his first two books on a Smith Corona WS250 when he was in high school, and dropped out of pre-med to become a writer. In college he played Petruchio in an S&M, black box version of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew (eat your heart out E.L. James).
You can check out Jayson’s website here; you’ll want to, after your hear and read these poems.
We started with “.1.4.1,” which was the first in the series of “polyvalent” poetry. We started by reading the poem vertically and then moved on to horizontally. We were impressed with the way in which the meaning of the poem became clearer when we read the poem horizontally, like magic. Tim was able to connect with the feelings associated with new parenthood, while Jason questioned our ability to trust such an unconventional voice.
We decided to move on and read all of the poems before we voted, so it was on to “.1.4.2.” We found again that the horizontal version was more accessible to us, and admired the strong images the author’s language conjured.
Next was “.1.4.3,” and we really dug the “creepy” tone that progressed through the first two poems to this one, and when we moved on to “.1.4.4,” we looked forward to seeing where the story that was woven through the first three poems went.
You’ll have to listen to see which poems we ultimately accepted from the series!
Don’t forget to rate and subscribe on our iTunes, then let us know what you thought on our podcast Facebook page.
Read on!
Present at the Editorial Table:
Kathleen Volk Miller
Marion Wrenn
Tim Fitts
Jason Schneiderman
Caitlin McLaughlin
Production Engineer:
Joe Zang
PBQ Box Score: 3:4
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.1.4.1
You have descended from animals Who descended from angels
Who alone have descended From the darkness of their own choice
Where nothing holds its shape for long Hold out your hand
And feel for rain The pain of sex
My great grandmother taught my grand With a knife
My grandfather taught my uncle Respect with a pitch fork
No one arrives at insanity alone It’s a social conclusion
Like finding the baby Waiving goodbye from the top of the stairs
.1.4.2
In the night you lean Over the baby, to make sure it’s okay
The baby wakes terrified A dark animal shape looms
From the fear within you Modeling itself in the child
The only way out of possession To dispossess your thought, you remember
You’ve been so baked you couldn’t stand No one ever mentioned the crystal THC
With which they’d laced the pot Those nights were long affairs
Watching the submarine calm of the ceiling In the extra bedroom
Watching fire light flicker on the tent flap Listening to everything speak your name
.1.4.3
You might dream of a poolside party Where you bump into an old classmate
You thought had died years before With whom you’d never spoken
Our military was so strong It would break its own neck
She said I’ll be in the last room on the left
And left You might wake to find the baby
Sitting up in the dark Staring at a shape in the moonlight
Why did you never come to me It says
You might have found me The high & holy center of the Earth
.1.4.4
I was my mother’s will Sent out into the world
For bread or cheese or meat A vapor trail unforming
Against the morning light The sound of a struck bell
Slipping into the background To live beyond scrutiny
Your glorious brain, my little humon Is a globule of fat
Dangling from the nerve tree We call universe
That’s right, son Daddy’s drinking again
His life is a dead end That tastes like mother’s cup
