Tag: Jennifer Franklin

Four Poems by Jennifer Franklin

~ ONE ART ~ 2 Comments

THE VOICE

A woman like me should not have children.
Surrounded by books, oblivious to seasons.

Sitting with the dog, reading. A woman
like me doesn’t know how to live

in the present. When I got pregnant,
it was the first time I understood

I had a body but not how it could be
turned against me. Just because I

speak to my dog in a lilting voice
doesn’t mean I am maternal.

It means I prefer the simplicity of animals.
A woman like me should not have children.

Hour after hour, I arrange fragments of truth—
words on paper that cannot love me back.

*

BROKEN & UNALIVE

How horrible the sound, and how loud,
as the doe searches the woods for her felled fawn
who thrashes below us as if she can outrun
death. How alone each of us is in that moment—
the bereft doe, retreating up the mountain,
the dog smelling the deck, as the fawn flails
below her. You, waiting until she is still to drag
her stiff body up the mountain, away from the house.

And most alone—our daughter, singing to herself,
spinning through the cabin—locked in her damaged
mind. And me, watching. Always watching—
waiting for more terrible news. If it were just
the beautiful body of the fawn that was broken
and unalive, why are our limbs suddenly so cold?

*

PARABLE OF THE SICK CHILD BY THE WATER

My life with you these two decades
has been like sitting in the corner
of this deck on the salt marsh,
watching the inlet and seeing,
from time to time, without
warning, two swans flying
low over the water—
flapping their wings,
sounding their loud cry
into the afternoon. Communion
without words—something
between them—one always
ahead of the other. The same way
you lead, showing me how to follow.

*

PARABLE OF THE SICK CHILD IN THE CITY

The apartment is never quiet. Construction
workers bang on the parapets, endlessly.
My daughter’s therapist repeats simple
directions as my daughter, dazed, scripts
and smiles, moves her awkward body
back and forth through the four rooms.
I am never alone with the dog—no time
to know my own thoughts until everyone
finally falls into fitful sleep. All around me,
people plan as if there were a future to walk into.
I believed that too, once. All morning,
my daughter burns as she struggles to brush
her teeth and hair. Sometimes, I can’t look
at her—her face radiates too much light.

*

Jennifer Franklin is the author of three full-length poetry collections, most recently If Some God Shakes Your House (Four Way Books, March 2023), finalist for the Paterson Prize in Poetry and finalist for the Julie Suk Award. Poems from her manuscript in progress, A FIRE IN HER BRAIN, have been published in American Poetry Review, Bennington Review, The Common, “poem-a-day” on poets.org, Poetry Northwest, and the Montreal International Poetry Prize Anthology. Her work has been commissioned by The Metropolitan Museum of Art, published in The Bedford Guide to Literature (Macmillan, 2024), The Paris Review, The Nation, “poem-a-day” on poets.org, and Poetry Society of America’s Poetry in Motion. She is the recipient of a 2024 Pushcart Prize, the 2024 Jon Tribble Editing Fellowship from Poetry by the Sea, a 2021 NYFA/City Artist Corps grant for poetry, and a 2021 Cafe Royal Cultural Foundation Literature Award. She is Poetry Reviews coeditor of The Rumpus and coeditor, with Nicole Callihan & Pichchenda Bao, of the anthology Braving The Body (Harbor Editions, 2024). Jennifer teaches in the Manhattanville MFA Program, 24Pearl Street/Provincetown Fine Arts Center, and has been teaching manuscript revision workshops for over a decade.

Three Poems by Jennifer Franklin

~ ONE ART ~ 3 Comments
TO VIRGINIA WOOLF IN WINTER—
You knew it never goes away—shame from childhood.
The fear of the face behind you in the dining room
mirror. The man who handed me history books
to harden my mind but instead made me too feeling.
I, too, was frozen in bed, petrified by the severe woman
in black, her raven hair pulled in a tight bun,
her disapproving stare. The letters and promises, lights
shut tight to hide the truth, threats writ large below my window.
The wine poured in my childhood glass as I ate
pounded chicken in a wood-paneled room
beside a cathedral. Thinking of the angels gilded wings
so I would not have to see his false face. The pretty things
he said to make me feel important. The walls and walls
of paintings he set before my hungry eyes.
*
VIRGINIA WOOLF KNOWS THE KEY TO LIFE BUT IS NOT ALLOWED TO USE IT
Most of the year had been filled with doctor’s appointments.
It did not count as leaving the house if the destination
was always another room where you were constantly
reminded how ill you were and that life is endlessly
on pause until you are healthy again. How can one
become healthy if one is prevented from walking,
from moving, from being part of the chaos and chatter
of the city and its citizens, knowing their purpose,
owning their various destinations, crisscrossing the city
and the river with the determination of birds of prey,
ready to descend at a moment’s notice? The unhealthy
are always excluded from the orchestra of daily life.
How unbearable to stand inside, listening to the swell
of music as it drifted across the Thames to her open window.
*
TO VIRGINIA WOOLF AS WE WATCH THE CHILDREN—
nieces and nephews— run the grounds,
chase rabbits, make crafts. The beautiful
sound grates our ears. Why can’t they see
suffering? How can they still think
the small self is the primary subject?
They trample grass as if it doesn’t feel
the abuse. Horrific—their twisted movement
and squeals rise into the clouds.
Outside they still want to scrape
my insides with their little shovels.
You were kinder than I am. You wrote
light verse for Vanessa’s children.
I am inviolate, in this burning garden,
the flowers share my fear of their unholy voices.
*
Jennifer Franklin is the author of three full-length poetry collections, most recently If Some God Shakes Your House (Four Way Books, March 2023), finalist for the Paterson Prize in Poetry and finalist for the Julie Suk Award. Poems from her manuscript in progress, A FIRE IN HER BRAIN, have been published in American Poetry Review, Bennington Review, The Common, “poem-a-day” on poets.org, Poetry Northwest, and the Montreal International Poetry Prize Anthology. Her work has been commissioned by The Metropolitan Museum of Art, published in The Bedford Guide to Literature (Macmillan, 2024), The Paris Review, The Nation, “poem-a-day” on poets.org, and Poetry Society of America’s Poetry in Motion. She is the recipient of a 2024 Pushcart Prize, the 2024 Jon Tribble Editing Fellowship from Poetry by the Sea, a 2021 NYFA/City Artist Corps grant for poetry, and a 2021 Cafe Royal Cultural Foundation Literature Award. She is Poetry Reviews coeditor of The Rumpus and coeditor, with Nicole Callihan & Pichchenda Bao, of the anthology Braving The Body (Harbor Editions, 2024). Jennifer teaches in the Manhattanville MFA Program, 24Pearl Street/Provincetown Fine Arts Center, and has been teaching manuscript revision workshops for over a decade.