Questions from Outer Space

Diane Thiel

• Editorial: Red Hen Press
• Año: 2022
• ISBN:
  9781636280288
• Categoría: Letteratura
• Categoría: Poetesse

Diane Thiel's eagerly anticipated collection of poems, Questions from Outer Space, explores fresh and often humorous perspectives that capture the surreal quality of our swiftly changing lives on this planet. The poems travel through questions on many fronts, challenging assumptions and locating unique angles of perception. This thought-provoking book reflects a deep engagement with the natural world, a questioning of our built systems, the expansive wilderness of parenting, and the complexities of navigating outer and inner space.

III

The Farthest Side

As you start to walk on the way,

the way appears.

—Rumi

The Farthest Side

Some afternoons, in the small space of time

between my coming home from school

and his heading off to work, second shift, and maybe

some of third (what did I know of those austere days),

my father would have a question waiting for me.

We couldn’t usually find a way to get beyond

all the history that divided us, that kept us

far from each other, for such a small house.

But when I came home, he would sometimes

have the paper open to The Far Side,

usually one that went a bit further over the edge,

and would ask if I understood this one.

We had our dark favorites that were fairly clear.

The engorged snake stuck in the crib with the teddy bear.

The spider web at the bottom of the slide—

“If we pull this off, we’ll eat like kings.”

But the fact that he asked me, even back then,

about the more complicated ones, believing I would know

about natural selection, space, modern art or poetry

meant more to me than I would have admitted,

more than I even realized at the time.

When we talked about Cow Poetry, it went beyond

the cow’s damning the electric fence. The pilots wondering

what a mountain goat was doing in that cloud bank ahead

brought us to the moment outside the frame.

Maybe Larson intended that a few of these,

like the meat in the bowl on the window table,

or Cow Tools, with its unrecognizable objects,

would resist any quick interpretation

and just get people talking.

The Typewriter

If I could write it by hand and turn it in, I did that,

though it wouldn’t look as polished as others.

Many already had computers in those days.

Our old manual typewriter had a few keys stuck,

so the handed down electric one appeared

like a godsend at first,

until one significant catch revealed itself.

If a hand rested on the metal frame,

it would shock the user. Less than user friendly,

it sat on the far end of the dining room table, hulking

and too heavy to easily move, humming loudly,

a slight burnt smell when we plugged it in.

No door in the house to close, baby brothers making

a fort under the table, shooting pellets at my legs.

No kindred spirit pausing in the stairwell

at the prow of the house, listening to the typewriter

through a shut door, wishing his little starling

a lucky passage.

Just touch the keys, not the edge, and you’ll be fine.

I wasn’t good at keeping to the keys.

A pause to think or rest my wrist would mean

a shock that would find its way to this page.

It was what I knew, to come up against walls.

But with the wits to try again, I went with what I had,

and eventually I flew.

Resourceful, I found an always open room

in the cardio wing of the nearby hospital,

with state-of-the-art, non-shocking typewriters.

Empty in the evening, free coffee down the hall

for the third shift. I could type all night,

and sometimes, given the scope of my plans, but having

underestimated and procrastinated, I needed to.

Those high school years, I would ride my bike

the two miles home, pedaling fast to keep on

the headlight, sometimes at four in the morning.

If my teachers only knew the lengths I would go

to get it done on time, my latest project typed

on the high-grade paper, glowing in my backpack.

Having found the window to get through and finish it,

I would be soaring high, far outside of any walls,

flying through the deserted streets,

safe under the blanket of stars.

Pantoum on a Paper Moon

When it was make believe

I still believed in you.

This paper moon is all I have

to show for all those years

I still believed in you.

This song an early memory

to show for all those years

it seemed to speak directly to me,

this song, an early memory.

Watching the paper moon rise,

it seemed to speak directly to me,

the summer on that makeshift sea.

Watching the paper moon rise

is how I will remember you,

making summer on that shifting sea.

A circle back in time

is how I will remember you.

This paper moon is all I have,

a circl...