Jen Sperry Hands Me My Voice; Her Read: a Graphic Poem; Reading Begets Writing
I haven’t written/finished a poem in five years. I need to be reading poetry in order to write it, and for the past five years, while I was working on my novel, Your Silent Face, I wasn’t really able to do much poetry exploration. I was able to paint when I wasn’t writing, but I wasn’t able to write poetry. Over time, I became concerned that I had lost my voice—a voice that had taken a decade or so to develop.
Recently, I have delved back into exploring poetry. And, inevitably, I guess, it has led to writing a poem titled “Speedboat.” Jennifer Sperry Steinorth deserves a little thanks for this, me thinks. She reached out to me.
Jen Sperry has a new book coming out—Her Read: a Graphic Poem—an intriguing project, really. She wanted to pick my brain for some out-of-the-box promotional ideas.
I met Jen Sperry once, over twenty years ago. Poetry is like that. It turns out that Jen Sperry already has a book out—A Wake with Nine Shades: Poems—which I have ordered. Her Read can be preordered; it will be available soon.
I hope you take a moment to read my new poem. A few of my earlier collections of poetry are available on this website.
I also hope you check out Jennifer Sperry Steinorth’s work, which I admire. It’s been a while.
Scroll for links.
Speedboat
—with thanks, Jen Sperry
I tried to finish yard
work but ultimately wound up in bed
with a can of Coke &
Paul Carroll’s anthology—
The Young American Poets.
There is nothing young
about any of these poets
but I habitually turn to
it, wondering where
they are now, how they are doing
& what has become of their
lives.
An annual
thing: a Memorial Weekend
ritual of avoiding
duty & cemeteries.
Poetry is useful.
Reading poetry is hard work
if you are grasping for
wonder;
wondering how to improve.
It’s like any—
no! I won’t say craft. I hate
the word. Fuck it.
Similarly, I rarely
find joy
in mowing the
lawn, nothing gained to insert into a
conversation
in a café
unless it’s scattered thoughts—
strong-smelling blades of grass—
raked from drudgery;
bagged from searching.
Above all else, I remember
art is present. Bow to this;
as generous
as judgmental—
forever the skeptic;
shaped to wonder;
cut & blown;
fucked by
something
unintentional.
And I can’t help
writing poetry
after reading
a bunch of
poems.
I can’t help
asking the questions, often
from bed sheets—
the sun melting the afternoon
like a pat of butter
inside a warm
roll.
How should we live?
Who can we trust?
When may we start?
Why even yard waste?
What kind of roll?
Those people
planting flowers & stones
on the grassy median in our
pot-smoking, hipster neighborhood;
a car full of laughing punks blaring loud,
obnoxious music; healthy, glowing
friends drinking beers
in a speedboat on a jostled
lake reflecting painful javelins
of sunlight from an endless
sky? It’s beautiful, really. A sky
both as useless &
ambitious as a folder
of your unused working
titles & abandoned
first drafts.
Her Read: A Graphic Poem By Steinorth, Jennifer Sperry 
A Wake with Nine Shades: Poems By Steinorth, Jennifer Sperry 
Poetry
Your Silent Face Available Now
Original Art for Sale
