The Blue Door — Poetry is for everyone #9

A reader recommended mystery wonder!

Photo by Ben Ostrower on Unsplash

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Welcome to the latest edition of poetry is for everyone. Each week I intuitively send out a poem that is speaking to me that hopefully in some numinous way speaks to you too. It is my intention to keep the selection diverse and interesting and introduce you to some new writers along the way. Feel free to make suggestions or recommend your favourite poets/poems to the group in the comments.

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This poem was a recommendation from a reader, and I loved it so much I had to share it!

It definitely falls into the more challenging end of the poetry spectrum but that’s precisely why I love it.

It’s one of those poems that forces you to forget what you think you know about language and syntax and structure, and surrender utterly to its song. You must absorb it for what it is according to where you are. Like a piece of art that demands that you simply observe how it makes you feel in its presence.

This is a poem you can return to over and over again — to try to understand it, yes, but also to cultivate a deeper relationship with its mysteries something I personally find enormously satisfying. Each reading affording you a little more context, a more thorough excavation, or at least a feeling of it by spending more time in its company. Its subterranean layers are infinite and therefore so becomes your enjoyment.

Ann Lauterbach its author, was someone I hadn’t heard of before and having done a little reading on her for this piece she remains something of an enigma herself.

At first glance I could have mistaken her for Tilda Swinton and her relationship to art feels Swintonesque too. When asked about the abstract nature of her poetry, Ann Lauterbach said this:

“I’m much more interested in a more difficult kind of sense-making, and I mean difficult in the sense of complexity, and obscurity, but not willful obscurity, just the fact that there are certain things we cannot penetrate and do not know, we can’t know, we may never know.”

She also later wrote:

“I began to give up the use of classical syntax, the logic of cause and effect, of an assumed relation between subject and object, after my sister died. The narrative as story had been ruptured once and for all; I wanted the gaps to show.”

The gaps do show and her work is all the richer for it. Like a movie shot on proper film that allows you to fill in the gaps yourself, to create a far more seamless and immersive experience than modern HD will entrust to you — that’s a confident writer who believes in your imagination and intelligence as a reader. Yes please and thank you. Chapolas I invite you to step through this mystery portal, I give you: The Blue Door.

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The Blue Door

by Ann Lauterbach

In memory, Kenward Elmslie

1

The obligatory cancels its strophe. Let me get a grip,
and begin in this other patch where the air is.

Am I among the vanishing? How does it feel?
As if turning, as if falling, as if coming

unstuck from the body’s inconvenience?
Too many questions spoil the poem.

The poem-as-poem cannot reply.
Which is why we need more voices, even

as we know what happens when
there are more voices. Noise, argument, rupture.

Why not a single voice, one that
represents everyone? Poem? Are you listening?

A crucible of dalliance supersedes Goldilocks
and all other pending catastrophes

angling toward power. As if on the last
day you could recall power.

If only the field could retract
into a new beginning, intact, complex,

the geography of the many
seeding the plural world with accord,

good replicating good; evil,
singular, kept to its barren agenda.

Prayers and wishes could then speed
our recovery from the uninhabitable

scald of the venal market.
Not to be hysterical or polemical. Not to

confuse personal anxiety with the future.
I was once at the Stray Dog Cabaret, once in

unlit neighborhoods where sexy initiatives
were underway, awaiting Jim Jarmusch.

Clubs, bars, sudden upswept encounters
with the privileged poor. Dancing with the stars.

Meanwhile.

Meanwhile, another beginning in another district.
I am seeing the headlights of an oncoming

vehicle; I am seeing the filmic snow.
O, and I am stepping into the new day

like a doe among bucks, a girl in sequins.
I am trying not to count lovers, or shoes.

The shoes
gather, episodic, in twos.

There are no agents,
no inscriptions,

as the story flows down into a rescinded pile.
I have come to fear the punctuated day.

I have come to wish I had done things differently,
never to have begun with such sad disclosures.

Absent the stanza, the difficult vocabulary,
wandering barefoot along an avenue,

before these piles, these sticks,
the distant lump of dark vestigial matter

and skittering sounds from under the floor
lasting until dawn, and so

looking outward, where skies assemble
their beautiful reconnaissance

traveling, as if beckoning, as if to include.

2

There are countless children wandering.

Singles and plurals, one shoe, many children

or one child, many shoes. These

discrepancies confuse the grammatical

police; they do not know what to arrest.

Please speak carefully, as this is a vote,

and whether or not you have shoes

you need to say, to choose

whether or not. What undergirds

these words? What might be found?

A frugal sandal or the dazzling

technicolor magic

of the good witch’s

rubies? Everyone is after ruby slippers.

We might sort through the archive of sneakers,

the branded stores; we might look

at the feet of strangers, shod in tar and

mildew, mud and blood, the goo

trammeled underfoot, like history.

The southern sky has turned peachy.
I would like to wear it out tomorrow
as a slip. And so slip
through the hole in the sky
into the azure assembly, the tiered swerve
from universe to universe, in my new attire
looking for a mate, or moonstruck
in the glitter of heaven. No guns allowed.
If you listen carefully, you can hear the thrum
of insomniac wings pulsating between episodes of cloud.
In this atmosphere, nothing is shut,
and so motion is the rule, motion without time,
this time, our time, our habit of counting up
and counting down, speaking in numbers
as if they were thought. In the distance I hear
the sound of a creature being slain by another
creature. The beings I love are creatures.

Is writing a way of stalling for time,
to delay the tasks in the next room,
dishes and clothes, books and papers,
the pile of shoes on the floor, the floor,
the rugs, the drawer
chaotic with nails and hooks and small tools?
Poem is too busy to answer.
Words are like small magnets,
pulling other words toward them, one by one,
so the singles gather and as they gather
they attest to an alignment that will become
meaning. What was it you said about naming?
It makes a way between unbeing and being,
the definite flowing into the circulating infinite,
the blue door opening the night sky.

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I am now an affiliate of Bookshop.org so if you’d like to read more from any of the featured artists on our growing poetry curation, I have put together a selection on my page <3