Tag: Virginia Woolf

Three Poems by Jennifer Franklin

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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.

One Poem by Brooke Herter James

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THE GREAT REVELATION MAY NEVER COME, VIRGINIA WOOLF REMINDS ME

           Instead, there are little daily miracles

The poppy petals that drift
this morning over the lawn
after winds troubled the night
and set them free—

there can be no earthly reason
(when simply pink would do)
for the raspberry peach coral tangerine
floating over this emerald sea.

           Life stand still here

for the poppy petals, yes,
but also, for you – cartwheeling
across summer’s open palm,
your five-year-old self –
“Watch this!” there, in midair.

           Then the old question which traverses the sky of the soul…
           What is the meaning of life?

This morning, perhaps—
Honeybees in the rugosa,
hummingbirds in the petunias
(there is that pink, again!)

           matches struck unexpectantly in the dark

And you, always and no longer five,
a brushstroke of exuberance
certain to fade. But look, here, now,
between the inhale and the exhale.

*

Brooke Herter James’ poems have appeared in Rattle, Orbis, Tulip Tree Review and other publications. She is the author of three poetry chapbooks and one children’s picture book. She lives on a hillside in Vermont with her husband, two donkeys, a mess of chickens and a dog.