Tag: Autobiography

Three Poems by Denise Duhamel

~ ONE ART ~ 5 Comments

POEM IN WHICH I WRESTLE WITH AUTOBIOGRAPHY

I always wanted to write what was true, True, true blue
to not only the facts, but my feelings about those facts,
which makes me wonder why I became a poet
whose mind could go anywhere. I mostly stayed
in the raw material of my life. One critic wrote
that my poems were too raw and, in shame,
I made my own simile—my poems were like a plate
of eggs. Even the whites were runny. Where was my artistry?
What came first? The chicken or my lousy poem?
A long time ago, a professor told me each verse should pass
the “so what?” test and for a while, in rebellion,
I added that question to the endings of famous poems.
I have wasted my life. So what? and Or does it explode? So what?
and Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. So what?
I was bratty and defensive. My life events were worse
than those of others, but better than many. I fetishized
my childhood trauma, maybe traumatizing my readers.
I became aloof, scared really, when a reader told me
about similar problems of her own. Her autobiography
seemed too real because it wasn’t in the form of a poem.

*

POEM IN WHICH MY ACHES ARE HIDING STORIES

My left pinkie goes numb—inside it
a tiny majorette twirls her baton.
She flips it into the air and it knocks her
head on its way down. She collapses
in all her spangles and I can’t wake her up.
The sciatic nerve runs down my right leg—
in my hip, a luau out of control.
One of the fire dancers misses his throw
and sets aflame a hula girl’s skirt.
Everyone sprints to the exit, panicked,
pushing and shoving in my calf.
And my sore shoulders?—this is where
I am inside myself carrying a backpack
full of rocks. Each one is engraved
with my sins, ungrateful, disloyal, selfish.
They clunk and clash and my therapist
is relieved. Finally a story about me.

*

POEM IN WHICH I REALIZE I AM NOT THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE

I notice shadows of swaying palms on concrete
seaweed clumping like tiny islands at the shore
a lime iguana on the stair
a sea grape squished by a bike tire
a woman crying        a rust stain under the gutter       the sky
an embryo cloud a dinosaur cloud
another woman crying as I disappear

*

Denise Duhamel’s most recent books of poetry are Pink Lady (Pitt Poetry Series, 2025), Second Story (2021) and Scald (2017). Blowout (2013) was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. A distinguished university professor in the MFA program at Florida International University in Miami, she lives in Dania Beach.

Two Poems by Sara Quinn Rivara

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Autobiography

I was born in the middle of America
to a mother whose mother put her on diet
pills at age eleven. My mother eyed
my teenage body and said you’re getting
a little round in the shoulders. What
was I supposed to have? Right angles? Wings?
She meant to protect me. Sometimes
I still cannot feel my body’s borders,
flesh soft and fragile over my waistband,
the round bulge over my bra strap, pooling
in my armpits. At seventeen,
I stuffed myself to the gills
with Pop Tarts and Doctor Pepper
then rode my bike until I puked
with exhaustion. With shame, for what
is hunger but desire? If I could want
nothing, then nothing could hurt me.
What I wanted was to disappear.
But I didn’t. I’m still here.
When it rained today, cherry
blossoms floated onto the ancient
dog’s swayed back. Hummingbirds
buzzed the flowering currant.
Oh! I thought. The world is sweet
and impossible to bear.

*

Persephone in Middle Age

Once I was a young divorcee alone
in my apartment, so afraid
I barely ate. I thought no one

will love me and I meant no man.
I thought I needed one. I thought
I knew hell: a small bedroom

in a closed-up house, windows nailed shut,
bog-marriage.
My body pinned to cheap sheets.

Divorcee stunk of cheap perfume.
Mothers pulled their husbands
away from me at the park,

my son on my hip. I was dangerous.
I had a tattoo. Most nights my toddler slept
in my bed. The others he

was gone, his father pealing
out in a plume of dust, gravel
kicked up from the wheels

of the truck.
I never regretted leaving
that marriage.

Each night he was home,
my son tucked his feet beneath
my hip. I called

him Bird.
All these years
later, I am surprised

at the softness of my body,
that we survived.

*

Sara Quinn Rivara is the author of three collections of poetry, most recently LITTLE BEAST (Riot in Your Throat), a 2024 Finalist for the Oregon Book Award. Her work has appeared recently in CALYX, LEON Literary, Bluestem, Colorado Review and elsewhere. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family.