I’ve been thinking a lot about “Poetry as Witness” as I prepare to lead a workshop on the subject for The Hive on April 29. Here are two very different poems of witness, one by Kamal E. Kimball of Northside and the other by Patrick Venturella of Hyde Park.
This is one of those scenes a less brave person might turn her eyes from. I am grateful that this brave poet did not.
The bird contorts his oil silk neck,
strains against the black stain
of the man’s gloves as he’s pulled
from a tinted backseat. He fights
twists his wings, carried to the lip
of the January pond, his body
flopped to the cold bank.
He lifts himself on paper legs
shakes off the choke, and launches
his soft, waxy down into the water.
The man slinks back to the Lexus
collar up against my stare,
and rumbles off without a word.
The lone goose, out of season,
puffs his feathers, ruffles
like a worried king. His beak
is broken, chipped open. A thin
strip of wet pink dribbles
from his jawless mouth.
Kamal E. Kimball
Come hear Kamal read tonight along with other members of my From Draft to Craft Poetry Class, 7pm at Joseph Beth/Crestview Hills.
There is a wrenching tenderness in this poem by Patrick Venturella who, like several of our Poetry Month poets, is a member of the Greater Cincinnati Writers League which offers a monthly critique workshop for its members.
your body is a bolt of sheer fabric
shot from a crossbow unwinding
so thin it’s hard to understand
how to hold you gentle
like a handful of raspberries tight
like an arm on an icy sidewalk
at night television light seeps from your cracked
door I can’t shut it but I want to
I want to brick you in and hang a young
picture on the tomb I’m ready please
die tonight so we can stop bending our lips
like question marks around the word love
This poem previously appeared online in Rust+Moth.
Join us for the Cincinnati Poetry Month Daily Project Reading on Wednesday, April 26, 7 pm at People’s Liberty, 1805 Elm Street, Over the Rhine