Excerpts from Someone Falls Overboard: Talking in Poems
(listen to the co-author, Ralph James Savarese, read the introduction, followed by his first poem, EGGS)
In the spirit of William Stafford and Marvin Bell’s 1983 book Segues: A Correspondence in Poetry, Steve and I have written a book called Someone Falls Overboard: Talking in Poems. The ten poems below, five by each of us, come from this manuscript. Disability plays a prominent role in them, even as we talk about all manner of things, including poets we like and don’t like. There were few rules for this poetic exchange: 1) 16-line poems (an extra line is permissible) and each poem must respond in some way to the one that precedes it. As Bell writes in Segues, “I pinch off/ a part of the story I know;/toss it to you.” –RJS
EGGS
Can I say it?
Milosz wasn’t much
of a poet
all bombast and wings
a kind of preachy pterodactyl
A ship anchor
floats better than
his verses.
Now Herbert, on the other hand,
or Szymborska
shy little robin’s eggs
ever so happy not to hatch.
A basket
Easter morning
Easter moaning
Make me an omelet, please.
–Ralph James Savarese
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Say What You Want No One’s Much of a Poet…
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
I was reading Elizabeth Bishop
Beside a lake when the book
Fell in. I watched it sink
Pictured it spiraling
And fish
With isinglass eyes
Drifting past.
I thought it important
To remember
The last lines I’d read:
A moose has come out of
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
I gathered my oars—
“She was better than this—wasn’t she?”
–Stephen Kuusisto
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WET PAGES
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
Stop throwing your children
in the water, Steve!
Everything sinks,
including these lines,
which fish for hope….
If I read one more story
about the pandemic….
My teacher had polio;
his son, who wore a cape
in the movies, fell off a horse
and couldn’t move.
It took him a while
to want to live.
What nerve titling
a book Still Me.
That pun is a moose.
–Ralph James Savarese
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A Pal of Mine…
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
Who lives in the far north
Saw homeless men in snow
Each holding his loaf of French bread
And a plastic bottle of anti-freeze.
Their trick was to hollow out the loaves
Pour the liquid through
And drink it
From emptied crust.
“You won’t go blind
This way,” one said,
Adding, “you won’t…”
You know me Ralph,
I’m Episcopalian—
Lord may we be living vessels
Of mercy, grace, and love.
Remind us to carry our treasure gingerly…
–Stephen Kuusisto
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VESSEL
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
Two disabled men—this isn’t a joke—
take a boat out onto Lake Winnipesaukee.
One is blind; the other has heart
rot and crumbled joints.
But first the latter must take
a test at the fly-and-tackle shop.
Though he’s read Moby-Dick
a hundred times—it’s his Bible—
he doesn’t know what the word aft means.
First question: Someone falls overboard.
Should you a) rev the motor and move in circles
around them or b) wait until Jesus descends?
Obviously b. a uses up too much gas!
Out on the lake, they moon
the Republican nominee.
Mormon Mitt has a humble mansion.
–Ralph James Savarese
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Sunrise…
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
My mother when a girl
Stepped from a boat
To walk on lilies
So perfect
I am looking for you Captain…
The algebra of waters
Sets loose the gorging
Of green things
As she’d say
Were she still with us.
Boats are somber
Hollow affairs
Inside death
Even when we pretend
Otherwise
Is there another place?
–Stephen Kuusisto
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PICNICKERS
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
Coming into Wolfboro, I panicked,
and you took the wheel.
It was like parallel parking on a hill
in Vermont except the boats were all
dancing drunk or having a seizure.
I thought echolocation was a myth!
But there you were, throwing
your voice like a baseball.
The Tom Seaver of accents:
William F. Buckley, Dutch….
Even then, you made me laugh
and docked the god damn whaler.
When you climbed out—
your guide dog, Nira, leading you—
two picnickers gasped.
Who needs eyes or math?
Just listen to your own voice.
–Ralph James Savarese
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I Like to Mimic Presidents…
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
The world is too much with us—
I “do” Reagan
In the Motor Vehicle Department
Asking strangers
In “the Gipper’s” voice
If they like Campbell’s soup
Or Bill Clinton
At the Sonic
Wants to know
If you understand
You look like Dmitri Shostakovich
And are you going to eat
Those French Fries?
Danger! Nixon
In the hardware store asks
If you know what to do with tiny screws.
–Stephen Kuusisto
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GAIT COACH
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
After my hip replacement—
I remember looking
at the x-rays
and being fascinated
by the tiny screws—
I had to learn how
to walk again,
to find myself in legs.
Crutches, walker, cane….
The gait coach said,
“Movement is like
a foreign language:
you must live there
to learn it.” And so,
my feet moved to Venice
and my knees, to Milan.
–Ralph James Savarese
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Blind Travel, or, I Can’t Explain It
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
I managed to get lost in Venice
Just me and my dog
In Milan I went in circles
How troublesome the streets!
We manage,
Talk to ourselves,
Mumble mumble death
Just there; psst
Can’t find our way
Back to the Bridge of Sighs.
I knew a man
Who made his living
Manufacturing odors
For vacuum packed foods—
Lost, I swear he follows me.
–Stephen Kuusisto
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About the Authors
Stephen Kuusisto is a professor at Syracuse University. His latest book is the poetry collection, Old Horse, What Is To Be Done? (Tiger Bark Press, 2020).
Ralph James Savarese is the author of two books of prose, Reasonable People and See It Feelingly, and two collections of poetry, Republican Fathers and When This Is Over. Recent work has appeared, or is about to appear, in Bellingham Review, The Haven, Main Street Rag, Mudlark, One Art, Red Wheelbarrow, and 2River. He lives in Iowa City, Iowa.