|
|
||
|
|
|
|
|
|
JoAnne Preiser
is a life-long lover of the written word. She received a MA from the University
of Massachusetts and was a member of the English Department at Dover Sherborn
High School for many years. As a high school English teacher JoAnne was
instrumental in introducing poetry to students. She created a Poetry Workshop
for juniors and seniors and brought a number of poets to her school. As a member of Fine Line Poets (www.finelinepoets.com.), she has enjoyed
joining other members of the group in conducting workshops in poetry and memoir
in the Boston area. JoAnne’s work has appeared in numerous
journals including: Slipstream, Madison Review, Ibbetson Street, and Alehouse Press. She has received honors from New
Millennium Writers, The Ledge, Literal Latte and New Letters. Poet Billy
Collins chose her poem, “Pink Mist” as the winner of Inkwell’s 2006 poetry competition and Charles Martin chose her poem,
“Renditions,” as the winner of Comstock
Review’s 2011 Muriel Craft Bailey
Award. . In 2015 JoAnne received a
scholarship from Finishing Line Press to
attend The Abroad Writers’ Conference in Dublin, Ireland for her poem, “City of
Widows.” Two of her chapbooks, Confirmation (2008) and Riding the Red Chair (2015), were published by Finishing Line Press. The latter consists of poems that deal with the evolution of a mother/daughter relationship as they navigate the world of dementia.
Pink Mist It should be the kind of
drink that young girls in
A-line skirts and round collared
blouses sip at Eber’s Drug Store an effervescent sweet
drawn through long straws
while they spin on soda fountain stools or the name of the first nail polish her mother allows her to
wear a shy color, hardly
noticeable over her unlined fingers,
unscarred cuticles, a polish that
matches the dress she will wear to the
junior prom. It could be the gauzy
fabric that hung in her first
apartment on Keswick Street separating her single
bed from the crowded living room a sound so
sweet like that cloying
cocktail she drank in the Kon Tikki Room
with a boy home from Vietnam, a sound
that conjures nothing like a body, nothing
near the scent of blood nothing resembling the
vaporization of flesh and bones. Winner of the Grand Prize
for Poetry from Inkwell, 2006 Renditions Chapman rendered Homer,
enthralled young Keats, changed his life over
the course of one night. Billie Holiday rendered Summertime in dim lit clubs. I sang her version as a
lullaby, let my voice climb her scales, calm the
screaming newborn in my arms. I remember my mother
rendering fruit for jams and jellies we
spread on morning toast, my mother-in-law melting
chicken fat for chopped liver; she
called it schmaltz, smeared it over seeded
rye. The chicken factory in Chinatown
rendered me weak kneed. On the way
to dim sum I held my nose and on my father’s mink
farm, drums filled with fat, flensed from red
carcasses, waited to be rendered into hand lotions, boot
polish and anti aging creams. There’s an ageless
quality to Billie’s other song, with its strange fruit,
its southern trees that even tonight branch
into new renditions with black hoods and
secret places, a new set of faces rendered hushed and
silent. Received First Place in Comstock Review’s Muriel Craft Baily
Award, 2011 City
of Widows A rainbow of
saris clutters the road to Vrindavan, a confusion of
color to confound the pilgrims who must step
around the multitudes of women
seeking sanctuary. Krishna was
born in this city of temples, courted his childhood
sweetheart here. He and Radha danced in these
streets, prayed in the temples where widows
beg. I was nine when I was betrothed To a husband I had never seen, Twelve when he died and his family Sent me away. Their families
cast them aside, stripped the
rings from their fingers, erased the
bindi from their heads, left them to
wander like jackals denied even the
foods they learned to cook at their
mothers’ side: onions and garlic, pickles and
fish — such heat could ignite
their desires. Donning white a
widow stays faithful to the dead
husband who may have
loved her like a thousand gems who may have
beaten her every day. I wonder if my grandmother’s leap Into the funeral pyre Offered more succor, the ashes of sati Better than banishment, even
from a son’s wedding Like a bat’s
wing, a widow’s shadow spreads bad luck, blackens every
festival. No longer a she, this it, this
husband eater must submit,
shave her head, stay pure— pray
the gods may grant her enlightenment. Published in Madison Review, Spring 2016 Recipient of scholarship
from Finishing Line Press, 2015 . |
|
