*

Bow, big hair, big coat,
blue and red to prove
each other, gray and red
just the same. Lies in the
country, lies. Compromise
as the height of devotion
I won’t make anyone do that.

*

The little voice walks out
the door, red scarf goodbyes,
they take the train, these
dark-haired women, office
beautiful. Coats in the closet
and red scarves, she has a
secret apartment she hides
from her home in the suburbs.
Fancy Paris.

*

To not seem handy
on account of the ether,
blue red gray black, he’s
up to something. And
all the new towns that
happened in the ‘80’s, they
make me feel like dying, like
flying to France and dying.

*

We all need time alone, Louise.

*

Private, public reverie,
I wouldn’t live with anybody.
Having skipped loneliness
entirely, she solves her own she
paints the apartment blue gray.
Paris will do for a secret. When
cotton was the best shape, me too,
me too.

*

Red couch, the city
makes us put coats on,
take them off again. Coat
performance, wrapping paper,
surprise, the birthday, the
dress, strap-zippers.

*

Terribly planted, people
configuring life before another,
he tries to seduce her she
almost laughs it’s like she’s
laughing. All of us, beasts
some of the time.

*

One woman green, one is
white, party chit chat, what
they wear to demonstrate
a body. Another making lamps,
they have strong faces, I never
want to leave this party. And
when her boyfriend walks up to
her, she looks like death, the
face of death, big drapes
in a tall room in France.

*

From one to another
“Don’t stop her from
dancing!” Talk they knew
they’d have — if you’re
bored then go already —
the tiny lady crying,
a real treat, I’m not angry,
they always say that, but
then they’re always lying.

*

Everything ruined, the car,
a way home, women
discussing violence and
whether men want to love.
An ethics in the carried,
glass blue door, the handles,
he looks like a French vampire.

*

She knows it will make him
mad, she says it anyway.
I am painting my apartment
and I want to live there, I like
my furniture. To be like that,
sitting on a chair saying things,
blue red flowers that prove
two o’clock, I never married the
others but if you let me live alone
I could love you forever. A calm
absurd discussion like when a
boy and I used to compromise,
but that was a long time ago
and in the U.S.A.

*

December, a trunk, a painting.
How many rooms in a month,
gray and red, the bedded telephone,
repetition as our only friend.
Plans broken, make new plans.
A green book, acquaintances,
what to do with ourselves,
it was museums we wanted.

*

Breakfast with cassette tapes.

Begotten teapots.

Wow, he says in France.

*

January, a smaller room, her
friend immediately talking.
His eyes too big he speaks
of terrified fields, just
beautiful, she washes her
hands, momentary Poland,
she does not want to exit the
bathroom, the restaurant of
my sister’s 16th birthday.

I take off my socks at
this point in the movie.

*

The business of lamp making,
incredible bulbs the colors of
a game of colors. To hear and
not hear at the same time,
ahora mismo, I am not Spain.

A discussion of indefinite
articles, the train station
expressing new colors.

*

February dancing in a
small black dress.
The kitchen kissing
orange juice, some
friendships dwell on
planet danger. The
last train home
sounded hands. I can’t
tonight, call tomorrow.

*

Little apple, why are you
so green, tomorrow a message,
impatient machine.

The detectives we are, a way
to make shame garden
on the face, her friend
ridiculous: if I’d slept with you,
nonsense. People confusing
each other to no end.

*

Moon, a bike ride, coffee
then dancing and while
the moon is still they
sleep. She cannot sleep
— she takes her bag and
coat bravely — she leaves
the apartment. Plaid men
introduce the full moon.

*

Let’s just say it didn’t work,
the apartment arrangements.
She goes home to the country, on
the first train, her boyfriend not
there, where, blue door, did you
sleep last night. When she looks
out the windows it’s like looking
forever, not more just different.

And here is where it says
one summer was hard.
Something concerning bruised
lilac, drowned hickory. Then
something about a concert, it
was small, there were trumpets
and animals in the field, man’s
face like a carriage, certain. Supposing
dress, it describes better ways to get
naked, wet shoes and stockings
worth solving. Brave, green
explains the morning, the part
about the violent age and weather
becoming a friend who stops
by to inquire. A tooth falls
out in hell. Blood evidence,
the shirt bleeds, it says the
marks were halting and how
the family prayed. The ocean
brought itself back to the country,
managed to stay, maneuvering
triumph in the face of decay. How
water carries flowers into the fields,
it says something then about that.

heart, they say. You can have it, I
say to the people. Open your mouths

sit here a while, and wait for it, I
say. It is falling from the sky

it is a piece of the sky and today
you are all Jason Varitek.

This weather is going to pass, and
I am going to bed early. I am

a part of the telephone,
I am the part that hinges the

lights on and off. I am the
part that hinges the light. You

are the buttons and the
buttons are breaking. I tell the whole

room how funny we are and
they enjoy what it is you

do to me, they enjoy us. The Face,
my dear brother carries our bags inside.

There will be time for everything
he says. In the dark in the

driveway I light an emergency
from my biggest pocket.

For the first time in history
we have a situation: legs and legs

are pairs of sounds. In the small
town we become ourselves again.

There is no bonfire but there
are plenty of fires. O, do I know

you’re special. We are
a competitive love! These

are the things of horse races, and you
are a good horse and I am not going away.

turns into a University and we wish
we were students. Teach me,
whiskey on the soccer field,
October. The road is long

and full of terrible conversation. The
road feels our plight. The gas
stations open their restrooms to our
hearts. You are the only one I

want to buy big Diet Cokes
with. The foot long jerky,
the maps and sunglasses. We
look for our name in all of the

fortunes. The fortunes swim in
other rivers. The rivers sound like
living, they say: stop the
applications! Stop the paper

work! The paper mill is
bleeding! The river smells the
way your breath and
your hair always smell good.

You are my sister and even
though I love you. An okay
corral is what we’re after.
The riverbeds we sleep in.

We listen to all the
people. To all of them
we salute ourselves we
salute our hair down we

grow it longer we refuse
the hair cuts we refuse
ourselves Birthday we
refuse to go home together.

The rambling the love I
have for you in my pocket.
We are on fire. We are on
fire and we’re not gonna tell.

A firefighter I am
going to be a fire
fighter just imagine
confronting all that
fear. They need certain
people for all the
small spaces. Just
imagine how great
it will be:
write a poem; slide
down the pole; write
a poem; drink some
beer; write a poem;
put out the fires
of dragons.

the measurements the mapping.

For supplies try a market. For

inspiration let the faucet run. Any

water will do. Trains in

emergencies. The mouth

unnecessary. Forrest has been to

the beach. If all you need to do

is go home to watch a

French film then go,

for god’s sake. The all ever

embarrassment of ridicule. The

markings this serious. When

you broke his ears open what

did you find. When the car

shakes just stop driving. If

a lot of gas goes by try

to paint on it, paint the

sound of the markings hire

a chorus, your mouth is

not necessary but the others

are. The islands surrounded

cavalry a cavalry

and the cavalry pulls

the trains. This is not (though

it could be) a pretty thing.

This is contractual, tertiary, not

without consequence.

· · ·

The big picture will be

approximately twelve pages

long. You will say, that’s

all?   And I will beat you

with a shovel. Somewhere

between the ice maker and

the lake, the suburbs, I will

find the shovel. If it is a

back saver it will hurt you

less. If this is the third

in a long line of princes.

What does the expanded big picture

look like.

· · ·

And because you say

this should make me think

of Spain. They make books

to remind us that trees

look different in different

places. That road in

California for instance.

· · ·

This of imitation. This of the

weather and my favorite

meets your favorite for lunch

in other cities. The other kinds of

language we could use. Me especially.

Extensive. Horizontal. The bigger

your flank the more many

syllables you will need. The

counting the counting the

counting. Forgive my not listening

but it is snowing very hard

and very pretty. How would

you like me if this were

a prose poem. Some people and

their standards. So I am

not this familiar with Octavio

Paz. I can still like his music.

Octavio and the Renegades

released their third album this

month, and if I didn’t lie to you

I’d say it’s phenomenal. Who is

going to stop this conversation.

Who is going to tell one of us

to stop talking so much. This

like all the others is a one way

conversation. This work in impossible

definitions. When fonts are sexy.

When are fonts sexy.

The look a likes for the beautiful

girl who dates those beautiful

boys. When they come in pairs

and threes, like in Legends

of the Falls, though some people

(stupid, these people) prefer the book.

· · ·

When you miss the weather

this is what you miss.

Red Morning Press (ISBN # 0-9764439-1-0); 57 pages. $12.00.

      One of the greatest pleasures in poetry is when a poet can, within a single volume, emply a broad range of forms, and do it well. Such is Jen Tynes’s accomplishment in The End of Rude Handles, a book-length poem, which is graciously divided into readily digestible portions. That is, you can just open it and enjoy it, it isn’t a book that has to be read from beginning to end.

      The poem is arranged in five sections, the first four of which, generally speaking, feature a titled poem in stanzas on the recto page, and a field-like arrangement of italicized phrases on the facing page. The format proves to be wonderful in its flexibility.

For instance, the poem “It Is Now Among Adults” speaks beautifully:

In a quart
of strawberries buried
some frogs [...]

Do you think this
is sound. Often
nesting them
I begin to feel
a crepuscular
machinery give
out.

This notion of the crepuscular, a word I’ve only ever associated with clouds and god-like-ness, and the successful suggestiveness of Tynes’s syntax, (suggestive because I don’t know exactly what is buried, the frogs or the strawberries; I am thankful for this ambiguity) creates new a variety of possible meaning among otherwise usual words.

      
The phrases facing these lines include ” Daniel Boone Church ” and ” Below Bristol ,” and though it is not clear exactly how they may or may not relate to the preceding lines, the uncertainty makes for a wonderful interruption, a cleansing of the palette before moving on to the next poem. The italics, perhaps only because of convention, suggest a kind of alternative history, a fragmentary list-making.

      
These italicized nouns show that to say something you need only name it, and in this light present a visual, mental, and aural departure from the style of the poems on the recto   pages. The italicized text becomes capitalized: ” WE ADOPTED / THE INSPIRING PRINCIPLE” (31) and sometimes un-italicized “OBJECTS LEFT ON THE CARPORT TO DRY BLACKBERRY BUCKETS ONE PIECE BATHING SUITS. . .” (33). Here, Tynes typographically directs the sentiments of her lines. The field poems also come to rely more heavily on prepositions, stringing things together as they develop, and I enjoy the insecurity I have over whether or not I’m being duped by the author’s stylistic changes.

      
The final section of the book, its only non-numbered section, is called “Ways of Contrariness,” a title especially fitting to its form. A three and a half page prose poem, this piece accomplishes the tremendous feat of tying together the rest of the book, despite   or perhaps because of its format and colloquial voice. The change in voice introduces a complimentary, faster pace, well-suited to the subject of collage. Tynes writes of the collage of quilts and the varying collages of language, both written and spoken. The speaker declares her intentions, “I’m trying here to manage two things: always maintain a constant and a variable, make them both get up and walk around sometimes” (55) and claims responsibility for her words: ” All the italics are mine. ” She admits she’s “partial to stealing the heavy, charged parts of things that wouldn’t walk off by themselves” and suggests what those heavy parts are:

“The journals that farmers’ wives used to keep in appointment books are often given away for nothing at junk stores and rummage sales because there is no blank space left to fill. I like to read how many inches it rained” (56).

This affection for mundane, personal and historical details reminds us of the careful and generous attention of this speaker.

      
Upon reading and rereading Tynes’s spectacular final section, I wondered for a moment if it would have been better placed by the beginning, as an introduction of sorts, to the rest of the poem. But it became clear that this sort of declaration is more effective after the reader becomes intimate with a poem. Tynes writes: “another way to talk about collage: I’m constantly having a conversation with the person across the field” (57). And the good thing Jen Tynes has showed us is that the field is not so big at all.