[Stylist] poem I read and had to share

Tue Jun 14 02:16:34 UTC 2022

I'm with Chris on this one but if I went with my intuition, it's as nasty as yucky flies are.

Barbara Hammel
We are all but characters in the books of God’s library. — Chris Colfer

On Jun 13, 2022, at 16:26, Ann Chiappetta via Stylist <stylist at nfbnet.org> wrote:

Hey Chris and all-
Examining poetry, for me, is like being a detective of literature and a talent for understanding the human condition. I also find intuition is part of it, too. I take notes of the words chosen, the symbolism, inferences and rhythm, even non-rhyming poems follow some kind of pattern.
I am thinking, wondering, is the author the fly or is  the fly their lover or is the poet pointing out  that both of them  can be the fly?
This is why I love this poem.

The last stanza reminds me of  collapsing in wet grass, ankles wet from pushing through it and then  leaving yourself open to the earth, the sky and the  bugs.  This  could be how the  poet views their relationship,   leaving themselves exposed and losing  themselves a little bit at a time.

Each line and words counts towards the conclusion and each stanza flows and links to the next one.  I think my favorite line is: I pull my lover open like a zipper,
I drag a trowel through them,
I lick the paint off my own stick,

So there you go.

There Is a Black Fly in Your Chardonnay
Rindon Johnson

Outside, I have never been lonesome,
Always a fence, a plank, an eyebrow in the ocean,
A baby received in a house, anything tall is a tree.
The sky rearranges itself in the desert;
The sky rearranges itself in the water;
The sky rearranges itself while I am in the sky.
How lucky I thought I was to see the street lights turn on,
Clouds like rows of planting, mistakes we make and agree to continue,
A view of the river, my rock in the glade,
Bigger, relatively, and still, until,
I pull my lover open like a zipper,
I drag a trowel through them,
I lick the paint off my own stick,
I have a cold back and wet ankles.
Later, a slow moon laboring over the hillside;
Later, the fog reflects the moon;Later, my blood is sucked and I itch.
Will we will we ever find home?
The car calls us in the distance,
To walk the stairs, to take off my shoes, to stand
Wringing hands, scratching grass blades on toenails.
You are starting to see things we could never see before like:
You have been born,
Or how I waited a whole year for September,
A piece of fruit,
A source of fire,
An edge, an excuse on a small scrap of paper,
The woods in my mouth.
It is so hot today like yesterday and the day before.

Rindon Johnson
Rindon Johnson is the author of The Law of Large Numbers: Black Sonic Abyss (Chisenhale, Inpatient, SculptureCenter, 2021), among other titles. He was born on the unceded territories of the Ohlone people and currently lives in Berlin.

Ann M. Chiappetta, M.S.
Making Meaningful ConnectionsThrough Media
914.393.6605 USA
Anniecms64 at gmail.com<mailto:Anniecms64 at gmail.com>
All things Annie: www.annchiappetta.com<http://www.annchiappetta.com>

From: Stylist <stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org> On Behalf Of Chris Kuell via Stylist
Sent: Monday, June 13, 2022 1:23 PM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Cc: ckuell at comcast.net
Subject: Re: [Stylist] poem I read and had to share

Hey Annie,

I’ve read this poem a few times now, and if I’m being perfectly honest—I don’t get a whole lot out of it. I like the title—a reference to a line in an Alanis Morriset song—and the poem has a nice lyrical nature. Some of the imagery is quite beautiful… but as a  whole, I have no real idea what the poet is trying to convey.

Would you share your thoughts on it? Other opinions?

Chris

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