Paying Attention

In Stephen Knauth’s “My Favorite Bird,” a “drab” little visitor to the author’s backyard prompts a thoughtful and empathetic contemplation of who this feathered creature is. The poem is a reminder that the world around us deserves our attention, an idea that is shared by the other poems in our April issue. Leath Tonino tells the story of a day, one moment at a time—from fires and floods to a man forgetting to plug in his slow cooker—in “Shift.” In Richard Chess’s “The Loneliest Monk Listens,” an unidentified presence counsels the speaker to breathe, remember, and listen. We invite you to do the same: You can hear the authors read their poems by clicking the Play buttons below.

Take care and listen well,
Nancy Holochwost, Associate Editor

 

My Favorite Bird
By Stephen Knauth

I prefer the fence-colored bird
who has no song,
or none that he shares with me.

Each day at dusk he stops by to scold me.
Quietly, with a stiff hop.
He seems to know I’ve wasted the day.

He glares at the sky.
He glares at the earth.
I can’t find his picture in the book.

The Church says
I can be saved but not him.
Is that why he pouts on his cedar post?

A bird so drab
he makes the others look like clowns:
the cardinal, the jay, the black-capped chickadee.

So solemn
he might be one of grief’s angels
or some homesick sentry of the heart.

When I offer him crumbs from my meal,
he flies away in a huff,
his silent cry caught in my throat.

Shift
By Leath Tonino

An elderly man prepares broccoli with slivered almonds and lemon juice, his hands shaky. An elderly woman snores and dreams in her cane rocker, Brahms crescendoing on the radio, Wheel of Fortune muted on the television. Rain falls. Two young parents joke about the horrid smell emanating from their baby’s diaper. Thousands die in a tsunami. A dozen die in a supermarket shooting, prompting a grisly chat room comedian to write, “Cleanup in aisle 9,” and, in fact, someone does fetch a mop. Retired insurance adjusters rejigger their rejiggered golf swings. Puppies tumble over puppies. My mother coughs her chronic cough. The Dow gains seventeen points, the Nasdaq five and a half. Historians in a Zoom meeting argue the relative evils of twentieth-century dictators. At the edge of the playground, past the monkey bars, a little boy kneels and proposes to a little girl, who says, “Already married to myself for forever, sorry.” Many people fail to come home from work for many different reasons. River otters glisten and bark. A newspaper runs an article detailing the demise of the newspaper industry. An amateur photographer snaps a photo of shrimp tacos. A professional photographer carefully composes a photograph of shrimp tacos. The sun slips behind a screen of gray clouds. Rain falls. I fill the crock-pot with vegetables, lentils, broth. Prisoners rattle chains. Guards rattle keys. Rattlesnakes rattle tails. A purple-haired DJ rolling on ecstasy builds the tension beyond what her flesh, her heart, her spirit believe possible, then, finally, blinded by tears, she drops the beat. Fires destroy a slum. Rain falls. Floods cancel a parade. Presidents on every continent except Antarctica, which has no president, lie through their pancake makeup, smiling. Kittens tumble over kittens. A librarian feigns anger before saying, “If you really, really enjoyed reading it, I’ll waive the late fee.” Activists fight activists with wooden bats and bicycle locks for weapons. A rookie, a nobody, throws a perfect game. Crowds cheer and crowds boo and crowds lynch and crowds keen and crowds hum in harmony. Vigil candles flicker because the crosscurrents of breath, the mingling exhalations, will not be denied. The gravedigger collapses while shoveling. The doula learns she’s pregnant. A hundred-ton blue whale breaches, crashes, vanishes. Rain falls. Rain falls. On the back of a torn envelope, a brave, lonely, world-weary thirteen-year-old scribbles a poem that opens, “Doc sees a shadow on my lung? Well hell, don’t we all got one?” Having forgotten to plug in the crock-pot, I call Triscuits and ice cream dinner, though I stop short of calling it a meal. Someone dumpsters a mop. The mountain underfoot grows a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of an inch. At midnight, rubbing red eyes, Wednesday arrives to begin yet another shift, asking Tuesday out of habit, “Anything to report?” Tuesday lights a cigarette, takes a deep draw, and answers, “The rain, look, it’s turning to snow.”

The Loneliest Monk Listens
By Richard Chess

The first step is to imagine.

No, before that: breathe. Breathe, and know
breath. That’s where it begins.

Breath? Consciousness?

That’s where you begin.

I have enough of me. I’m everywhere I turn.
The fog on the window, the shadow on the sidewalk,
the chattering inner voice . . .

The next step: remember.

Remember to breathe? To know?

Once, you drifted in a plastic boat in a swimming pool.
Once, racing to catch a fly ball, you tumbled in right field.
Once, you shook flakes from your scalp onto the page of an algebra textbook.
Once, humming your way home from the record store, you clutched a bag with New Morning in it.
Once, you kissed a Belgian girl on a Mediterranean beach.
Once, after seeing a surgeon on a Tuesday morning, you read
         mortal poetry on an art museum’s sunny steps.

How do you know this?

Like you, I breathe. I know. I remember.

You remember me?

I imagine you.

You do seem to know me.

I know what the bare light bulb in the attic knows, I know
what the key in the lock knows, I know
what the bedroom mirror knows.

How do you know?

Who do you think you’re talking to?

I thought I was talking to myself.

God, you
are so full of yourself.
Shut up
now. Listen.