Untitled Country Review (ISSN 2152-7903), published quarterly during 2010-2013, features poetry, book reviews, photography, and short works of non-fiction. Thank you for visiting.


Showing posts with label Lyn Lifshin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lyn Lifshin. Show all posts

Issue 5: Featured Poet - Lyn Lifshin

Interview with Lyn Lifshin (LL) by Scot Siegel (SS)

Bio

Lyn Lifshin’s recent prizewinning book (Paterson Poetry Award) BEFORE IT’S LIGHT was published winter 1999-2000 by Black Sparrow press, following their publication of COLD COMFORT in 1997. ANOTHER WOMAN WHO LOOKS LIKE ME was published by Black Sparrow at David Godine following Lyn Lifshins recent prizewinning book (Paterson Poetry Award) BEFORE ITS LIGHT. TEXAS REVIEW PRESS published her prize winning book of poems about the famous, short lived beautiful race horse, Ruffian: THE LICORICE DAUGHTER: MY YEAR WITH RUFFIAN. Also, IN MIRRORS from Presa Press, AN UNFINISHED STORY, from Foothills Press and THE DAUGHTER I DON’T HAVE from Plan B, A NEW FILM ABOUT A WOMAN IN LOVE WITH THE DEAD, March Street Press. She has published more than 120 books of poetry, including MARILYN MONROE, BLUE TATTOO, won awards for her non fiction and edited 4 anthologies of womens writing including TANGLED VINES, ARIADNES THREAD and LIPS UNSEALED. Her poems have appeared in most literary and poetry magazines and she is the subject of an award winning documentary film, LYN LIFSHIN: NOT MADE OF GLASS, available from Women Make Movies. Her poem, No More Apologizing has been called among the most impressive documents of the womens poetry movement,by Alicia Ostriker.  An update to her Gale Research Projects Autobiographical series, On The Outside, Lips, Blues, Blue Lace, was published Spring 2003. Other new chapbooks include, NOVEMBERLY from ETC Press, WHEN A CAT DIES and ANOTHER WOMANS STORY, BARBIE POEMS,  SHE WAS LAST SEEN TREADING WATER, WHAT MATTERS MOST,  AUGUST WIND from Portrait Press and IN THE DARKNESS OF NIGHT from Concrete Meat Press. Her most recent books include BARBARO: BEYOND BROKENESS from Texas Review Press, PERSEPHONE from Red Hen, NEW WORLD PRESS published DESIRE and just published ALL THE POETS (MOSTLY) WHO HAVE TOUCHED ME, LIVING AND DEAD. ALL TRUE, ESPECIALLY THE LIES.   Other new books include 92 RAPPLE, LOST IN THE FOG, NUTLEY POND, LIGHT AT THE END: THE JESUS POEMS and LOST HORSES and BALLET MADONNAS. CHIFFON and KATRINA were published in 2010 as well as BALLET MADONNAS and BALLROOM. She is has finished a book of new poems and a book of new selected and collected poems as well as working on other manuscripts. For interviews, photographs, more biographical material, reviews, interviews, prose, samples of work and more, her web site is www.lynlifshin.com.


Interview

SS: With the exception of the book review “ALL THE POETS” and the poem we have reprinted from that collection, the poems of yours that we are featuring in this issue have their roots in the European-Jewish Diaspora of the Pogroms and Holocaust. How is it that the Holocaust, more than sixty years later, is still front and center in your writing?

LL: Both the Holocaust and the Russian pogroms are still important themes in my writing. My father came from Vilna or Vilnius and because he told me so very little of his life there, I had to make it up out of slivers of images and stories he told. One grandparent came from Covna and another from Odessa with their samovars and fears and hopes. This fall I read poetry in the house my mother and uncles grew up in, now given to a Havurah where the old Russian images are startling and beautiful. Because my mother grew up during Hitler’s time, during the Holocaust, I think the terror was always in the back ground, the sense that it could happen again. I was asked to do a workshop, as I had often been asked, to go with the New York State Museum’s exhibit: The Story of Daniel. For half a year I read everything I could on the Holocaust—lugging 50 books or more from the library and I watched every video and film I could. From all the reading and dreaming and imagining, my book BLUE TATTOO came.

SS: What current events in the world most significantly influence your writing today?

LL: I wrote KATRINA following the hurricane and I wrote many poems about Vietnam: they are among my earliest poems. Today I wrote about women in China. I feel compelled to write about atrocities in various conflicts. Like probably every poet, I am writing about Japan today.

SS: Untitled Country Review is interested in personal discoveries and how story-telling promotes human development and, possibly, contributes to a more humane world. How does writing help you better understand the world and put the past in perspective?

LL: I think it is extremely fascinating to write and read about lives different from my own, to get into others feelings and experiences in any way I can. I know BLUE TATTOO has touched people who might never have had a feeling or understanding of the Holocaust. A few nights ago I read a poem called “Why I wear My Hair Long” -- a poem that starts in the ordinary world and moves into the Holocaust and the next day got an e mail from a young student who knew nothing about WW2, said it was her favorite poem, that she was wild to know more.

SS: What is your next project?

LL: After having maybe 10 or 12 books and chapbooks out in the last few years, I am working on a kind of new and selected but also hoping to type up 50 or 60 new.

SS: Thank you.

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Issue 5: Featured Poet - Lyn Lifshin


(c) Lyn Lifshin

Untitled Country Review is pleased to present new work from our featured poet for Spring-Summer 2011, Lyn Lifshin. William Page’s review of Lifshin’s latest book, a poem from the book, and an interview with Lifshin conducted by Untitled Country editor Scot Siegel follow.


If My Grandmother Could Have Written 
a Postcard to the Sister Left Behind

It would be written
on sand, or on a
hand colored photo
graph of a country
with nobody waiting
with guns, no thatched
roofs on fire, no
hiding in trees after
a knock on the
door: Sister, it is
nothing like we had
or what we imagined.
There are no Jews
in the small rural
towns hardly. They
don’t spit or say
we are thieves but
it is as icy in Vermont
as days in Russia.
Lake Champlain is
not like our sea. We
are safe, we are
lonely


If My Grandmother Would Have Written 
a Postcard to Odessa

she would write her
name in salt, salt
and mist, an SOS
from the ship sea
wind slaps with night
water. Somehow I’m
dreaming of Russian
pines. I don’t dream
of the houses on fire,
babies pressed into
a shivering woman’s
chest to keep them
still. Someone had
something to eat the
color of sun going
down behind the
hill late summer,
rose, with its own
sweet skin. They
are everywhere in
America. If the lilies
bloom in our
town of darkness,
just one petal in an
envelope would be
enough


From the First Weeks in New York, If My Grandmother 
Could Have Written a Postcard 

if he had the words, the
language. If he could
spell. If he wasn’t
selling pencils but knew
how to use them, make
the shapes for words
he doesn’t know. If he
was not weighed down
with a pack that made
red marks on his shoulder,
rubbed the skin that
grew pale under layers
of wet wool, he might have
taken the brown wrapping
paper and tried to write
three lines in Russian
to a mother or aunt he
might never see again.
But instead, too tired to
wash hair smelling of
burning leaves he walked
thru, maybe he curled
in  a blue quilt, all he had
of the cottage he left
that night running past
straw roofs on fire,
dreamt of those tall black
pines, but not how, not
yet 17, he will live in
a house he will own,
more grand than any he
saw in his old country


56 North Pleasant Street

past the beads hung over the door,
rose light floods the back room
where the safe is, my grandmother
with a sick baby crying, tapping
the pane under apple leaves

My mother is 8, her new doll’s
head lies smashed on the floor.
She is hating her brother. Spirea
covers the sidewalk. She is
furious at her brother and runs
into the hot stove. Her

grandmother gets a cold knife.
My mother screams, is sure the
knife is a weapon. She is wild
to claw her brother. My great
grandmother will die without
replacing the broken head tho

she promises this until her last
month in the blue bed where I
will try to sleep when my mother
goes to have my sister and won’t
tho my grandmother sings

White Cliffs of Dover and the
apples are like magic green eggs
in July light behind the house


--Lyn Lifshin

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Issue 5: Featured Poet - Lyn Lifshin




Lyn Lifshin. 2010. ALL THE POETS (MOSTLY) WHO HAVE TOUCHED ME (LIVING AND DEAD. ALL TRUE: ESPECIALLY THE LIES). 277 pages. Huntington Beach, CA; World Parade Books; ISBN # 978-0-9846198-5-6


I think ALL THE POETS WHO HAVE TOUCHED ME is a tremendous book along the lines of John Berryman's Dream Songs. It's the Lifshin persona with equal attention to the speaker and the subjects presented. There's a great intellect at work in the book, showing the author has digested the essence of the poets, both recent and remote, presented as flesh and blood characters, with their eccentricities and normality. It humanizes them using sound biographical knowledge but fictionalizes them, adding luster and depth. The revelations of both speaker and related poets are powerfully original but have the sense of being basically historically sound. It's an intriguing presentation that keeps the reader eager to see what's on the next page. It's scandalous and morally elevating in turn. It keeps coming back with additional observations real and imaginative. The book with its many pages and accumulation of factual and imagined information has the satisfying weight of a masterpiece, and though phrased in a perfectly conversational tone, it occasionally has the music of a hymn, sometimes a dark melody, at other times a radiance. The diction and milieu are in accord with the varied historical eras treated. The book is not just a hearty meal. It is a feast of words with fascinating descriptions and engrossing ideas. The reader will leave this banquet of literary delights fulfilled.
—William Page



Riding Horseback With Sylvia Plath

She was more hands on. I had taken
a few lessons as a child, but she wanted
to plunge in. I told her I didn't want
any injuries. Ballet was my obsession
and even a mild Achilles tendon ache 
or sore knee makes me seethe. She 
was a good dancer, you should have 
seen her in that tight red dress, blonde
hair. Neither of us were as blonde as
we pretended. What isn't an illusion
with poets? Stages of trying to pare
everything down, poems, our legs,

our whole bodies. Not that she was
ever as plump as I was. I painted
horses, as she did, fell in love with
their beauty, wildness. We both fell
for those enormous mahogany eyes,
as we did for many similar lovers:
big untamable, a little scary. We 
could lose ourselves in their 
manes, leave whatever was most 
terrifying or hideous out of sight. 
When I wrote about Ruffian, the 
gorgeous  tragic race horse, Sylvia 

understood how the world went
away, as when she brushed Ariel,
loosed the cake mud from her
flanks and tail. There was no one
to bother her, no nasty notes from men,
no over-worried mother's calls or
letters, intrusions we both knew
too well and couldn’t quite deal
with. No one was telling us
what to do when we were lost
in horses. No advice, threats,
warnings. We both had had it
being told what to do

Early morning, before it's light,
to be one with a horse, especially
if it's your birthday: ecstasy.
Sometimes, it's as though
it's too much to be charming,
and still, give up wildness.
When Sylvia rode Ariel
as dark sky began to lose
its ink, she broke for that
moment, out of everything
holding her, as I did with Ruffian,
cantering, galloping, airborne,

no longer daughter, mother, wife


--Lyn Lifshin (Reprinted with permission of the author)


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Issue 4 - Lyn Lifshin




Blue Sleighs

December, the
water moves
dark between the
snow dunes in ten
thousand hills
pulling light
around the
black stones, a
sound to sleep
and love by
like bells
running thru the
children’s sleep
when they dream
of blue sleighs


--Lyn Lifshin




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