The Real Warnings
Robert Dana-Anhinga Prize for Poetry (2008)
Open this book up anywhere and you'll find a poem of fierce and uncompromising energy and insight, a poem that doesn't pull any punches or take any prisoners, a poem that will both stun and uplift, even as it wounds and sometimes descends into darkness.
I've never read a poet who understands more fully the brutal paradoxes of love and of loving damaged things, nor have I ever read one whose epiphanies felt truer. Even more than the real warnings, this collection represents the real thing and you'll be changed by reading it.
-- Sheryl St. Germain, 2008 Anhinga Prize for Poetry Judge
What a range of feeling Rhett Iseman Trull captures in The Real Warnings! With a dramatist's sense of story and an actor's skill in timing, she gives us everything from adolescent confusion to strung-out loneliness, from the emptiness of unrequited love to the joy of fulfillment, from the celebration of new birth to sorrow for departures. Her foreknowledge is powerfully unsettling, while her respect for the present detail is reverent: "What I can't say, the tipped-over shopping cart outside Wal-Mart / says for me."
Here is a brilliant, caring, and telling new voice. They don't come all that often and never better than this one.
-- Fred Chappell
Cover: I Stopped In at the Farmhouse, oil on canvas, by Dan Rhett
|The Real Warnings Are Always Too Late
I want to go back to the winter I was born and warn you
that I will flood through your life like acid
and you will burn yourselves on me.
On my sixteenth birthday, I will use the candles
to set the basement aflame and run out laughing,
wearing smoke like a new dress. With a pocket knife,
I will try to root out that life you so eagerly started.
I'll dent the garage door with my head, siphon Crown Royal
from your liquor cabinet, jump from a gondola in Venice. I'll smash
my ankle with a hammer, drive through stop signs
with my eyes closed, cost you thousands
in medical bills. Forget about sleeping.
I'll dominate the prayers you keep sending up
like the last of flares from an island no one visits.
For every greeting card poem, I will write four
to hurt you. Some will be true.
Other people's lives will look perfect
as you search the house for its sharper pieces.
And when they lock me up I'll tell the walls
I'm sorry. But these warnings will come like candles
after a night of pyres. I already know
how you will take one look at that new life screaming
into the world, and open your arms,
thinking, if it looks this innocent,
it cannot be so bad.
|Instructions on How to Leave Me
Tell me again about that dream where,
in my lace skirt, I'm stealing your blueberries
faster than you pick them. Tell me how that day
for decades has spread its sweet dark stain
inside you. Remind me of our feet swinging
from the church pew, good shoes knocking together.
Any old memory will do: my Indian-head nickel
flattened on the train tracks, the bad
haircut I got to match yours, you winning me
the onionskin marble from Rush the Crusher.
Or our panic every time we couldn't find
Bob, your dad's retired firedog
that Crazy Miss Robins used to take into town
without asking, letting him ride shotgun,
buying him cheeseburgers at the drive-thru.
Tell me the stories the grown-ups told on porches
as they shelled peas and we organized
our army men, adding up our casualties
in little piles of pewter soldiers. Kiss me
the way you did that first time
in Dr. Harper's office after hours as we waited
for your mother to come out crying with the news,
so sure we were the snake was poisonous
and you were going to die. Kiss me like that,
as if to say you're sorry you're about to leave, sorry
for the unpartnered square dances, ungiven presents
of kittens and decoder rings, undedicated
late-night radio songs. No. Don't
say anything. Just look at me the way you did
that first time you thought you had to go. And go.