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I'm with Chris on this one but if I went with my intuition, it's as nasty as yucky flies are. <br>
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<div dir="ltr">Barbara Hammel
<div><span style="font-size: 17pt;">We are all but characters in the books of God’s library. — Chris Colfer </span></div>
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<blockquote type="cite">On Jun 13, 2022, at 16:26, Ann Chiappetta via Stylist <stylist@nfbnet.org> wrote:<br>
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<p class="MsoNormal">Hey Chris and all-<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is why I love this poem.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I drag a trowel through them,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I lick the paint off my own stick,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So there you go. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There Is a Black Fly in Your Chardonnay<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Rindon Johnson<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Outside, I have never been lonesome,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Always a fence, a plank, an eyebrow in the ocean,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A baby received in a house, anything tall is a tree.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The sky rearranges itself in the desert;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The sky rearranges itself in the water;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The sky rearranges itself while I am in the sky.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">How lucky I thought I was to see the street lights turn on,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Clouds like rows of planting, mistakes we make and agree to continue,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A view of the river, my rock in the glade,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bigger, relatively, and still, until,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I pull my lover open like a zipper,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I drag a trowel through them,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I lick the paint off my own stick,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have a cold back and wet ankles.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Later, a slow moon laboring over the hillside;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Later, the fog reflects the moon;Later, my blood is sucked and I itch.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Will we will we ever find home? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The car calls us in the distance,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To walk the stairs, to take off my shoes, to stand <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wringing hands, scratching grass blades on toenails. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You are starting to see things we could never see before like:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You have been born,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Or how I waited a whole year for September,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A piece of fruit,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A source of fire,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">An edge, an excuse on a small scrap of paper,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The woods in my mouth.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is so hot today like yesterday and the day before.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Copyright © 2022 by Rindon Johnson. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 10, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Rindon Johnson<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center">Ann M. Chiappetta, M.S.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center">Making Meaningful ConnectionsThrough Media
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">914.393.6605 USA<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="mailto:Anniecms64@gmail.com">Anniecms64@gmail.com</a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All things Annie: <a href="http://www.annchiappetta.com">www.annchiappetta.com</a>
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center">Ann M. Chiappetta, M.S.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center">Making Meaningful ConnectionsThrough Media
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">914.393.6605 USA<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="mailto:Anniecms64@gmail.com"><span style="color:#0563C1">Anniecms64@gmail.com</span></a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All things Annie: <a href="http://www.annchiappetta.com"><span style="color:#0563C1">www.annchiappetta.com</span></a>
<o:p></o:p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><b>From:</b> Stylist <stylist-bounces@nfbnet.org> <b>On Behalf Of
</b>Chris Kuell via Stylist<br>
<b>Sent:</b> Monday, June 13, 2022 1:23 PM<br>
<b>To:</b> 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist@nfbnet.org><br>
<b>Cc:</b> ckuell@comcast.net<br>
<b>Subject:</b> Re: [Stylist] poem I read and had to share<o:p></o:p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hey Annie,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Would you share your thoughts on it? Other opinions?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Chris<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
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