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Three Poems by Larissa Nash

The Last of the Lily Maids


“Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;
‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said
The Lady of Shalott.”
–Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The ocean spills from my conch shell ears.
I hear only my own sighing, as though
I am still half-submerged—the last of the lily maids,
a creature too destitute for a barge
and bound by whispered words,
the syllables popping like sea foam.

Once conjured, it is my nature—
my curse—to ruin any man I encounter.
I should cast this fisherman into the sea,
but he is gentle, with eyes
like tarnished armor. He listens
when I say I am sick of the water—
of white dresses and swimmer’s ear—
of scaly skin and rotten blooms—
of faraway fires and the demand
for ghost girls.

“I know not what the curse may be.
I have seen the fires. You are more
than offering and incantation—
more than curse. Come inside. It is cold.
You are free.”

The fisherman takes my hand
as he leads me from the rocks.
His palm is warm and rough—barnacle-like.

When the moon bobs above
his crumbling cottage,
I’ll return to the sea—
alone—and break the curse,

the syllables popping like sea foam.

I’ll never be free.

*

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“I wanted to figure out why we’re so scared of feelings”: An Interview with Tavi Gevinson

Trailing clouds of glitter from a surprise Broadway triumph in Kenneth Lonergan’s serio-comedy This Is Our YouthRookie magazine founder Tavi Gevinson has expanded her extensive resume to include publishing maven. In addition to compiling the fourth Rookie Yearbook, due out this fall, Gevinson just made her debut as a literary editor. In the July/August issue of Poetry, the 103-year-old magazine that introduced American readers to the likes of Ezra Pound, Langston Hughes, and Edna St. Vincent Millay, Gevinson curated and edited more than 50 pages of poems, prose and art, including a self-deprecating, funny, charming essay she wrote about her own evolution as a writer and a reader. She celebrates the kind of sincerity adults are taught to reject; her selections are optimistic, unironic, and downright joyful.

Gevinson and I talked on the phone about poetry, feelings, moving to New York, and her ever-evolving personal aesthetic—she is, after all, still 19.

Eugenia Williamson: In the essay you wrote in Poetry, you talk about the embarrassment you felt about liking Sylvia Plath when you were a young teenager and other ways poetry conjures embarrassment. Tell me more!

Tavi Gevinson: I wouldn’t be comfortable writing poetry myself. I wrote about the shame or stigma I felt around it, and [I wasn’t talking about] the challenge of great poets that you study in English class. Where I went to school, there was a spoken word program, and it was a requirement every year. The teacher who ran the program would come in to your class and run a week-long workshop. I was just too embarrassed to share this stuff with my classmates. I didn’t want to expose [myself] trying to be deep or any of that. I just blew it off a lot of the time. The one time I really tried, I couldn’t get through it without laughing at myself.

Now I feel like it’s really silly to be afraid of those things, and I should have embraced something I’m good at, which is speaking candidly about how I feel. It’s kind of funny—that’s something that maybe you naturally have as a kid or is somewhat innate to childhood, the way kids are brutally honest. Somewhere along the line, you’re like, “Oh wait, life is a competition,” and everything is a reality show; everything is an episode of “The Apprentice.” You learn about parts of the world where the currency is how much you can withhold. But eventually, you learn that if you actually communicate with people then you’ll have happier relationships. [With this essay], I wanted to figure out why we’re so scared of feelings.

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David Brooks Writes a Sestina About Ta-Nehisi Coates

Sarah Miller’s previous work for The Toast, including other sestinas by David Brooks, can be found here.

Before I talk about you, Ta-Nehisi Coates, I want to say how interesting
it is to be white,
and what a kick I get out of receiving actual cash money to reflect upon the lives of people.
And, although I enjoy my written meditations on all Americans,
there’s something extra special about the African-American
experience. Your whole situation really makes me think.

Gosh, I love to think.
One’s brain – so interesting.
Case in point: You are black and an African-American.
I am white
and a Jewish-American.
(Which means I get pogroms.) But we are both people.

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“The Spinster’s Almanac”: Poetic Advice for Finding Your Way in the World

Please email all questions you would like poetry to answer to [email protected], with “Spinster’s Almanac” in the subject line.

Dear Spinster,

I’m moving out of my family’s home this week. I’m moving to the twin city of my hometown for the summer before starting college across the country in the fall. I have always been an “independent” person; I grew up in a single-parent household with few monetary or material resources, and I’ve held various jobs since I was fifteen and have saved more than a bit of money.

I’ve felt trapped in this town since we moved here years ago, and now that I’m leaving, I feel equally trapped and more scared than I probably should be. I’ve never really been happy here and I have no reason to stay other than fear, but my fear of failure on my own is equal to my fear of stasis here.

I don’t have many supportive friends to rely on or a stable family to fall back onto, but now that I’ll be truly alone, I need something to quell my anxiety enough to allow me to try, no matter what. How can I build a strong base for my life amidst the odds, and remain optimistic? How can I transfer my emotional reactions to practical action?

Reader, I feel your longing in this letter, so keenly, for a sense of belonging and stability in your next life after your years as an outsider. Community can be utterly mystifying to someone used to relying on themselves, to never resting entirely easy. Do you feel yourself to be marked in some invisible fashion? Do you worry about learning to forge the tools to stand on your own? You have money and a desire to make a life for yourself, and that is an excellent start. But what else?

Here is a poem by Ansel Elkins to fold up and keep in your pocket, to remind you of how you have survived already: “The Girl with Antlers.” Elkins writes an intense and sensitive parable of an outsider left to find her way in the world, marked and made to feel apart.

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This Writer’s On Fire: Rachel Eliza Griffiths

“Your alphabet wraps itself
like a tourniquet
around my tongue.

Speak now, the static says.
A half-dressed woman named Truth
tells me she is a radio.”

–from “Dear America” at Four Way Review.

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Texts From Charles Bukowski

As a young man I could not believe that people could give their lives over to those conditions. As an old man, I still can’t believe it.
what do you mean
like
going to work?
What do they do it for? Sex?
what
no
that’s not why people go to work and you know it
TV?
i mean that’s not the primary reason
An automobile on monthly payments? Or children?
yes
obviously
that is why most people go to their jobs
is to pay their bills and also feed their families
Children who are just going to do the same things that they did?
are you honestly asking me to explain the circle of life to you right now
“Hey, the boss can come in here at any moment and lay all of us off, just like that, don’t you realize that?”
yes
we all realize that

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Christopher Marlowe’s “The Passionate Shepherd” Is The Most Frequently Owned-Upon Poem In History

The original, and the replies, for context.

Christopher Marlowe

Fuck this, let’s just go live in the woods.
I don’t need anything, and you don’t need anything
Either, just each other and some trees. Right?
We’ll make, like, a Cave House, and watch
shepherds take care of their sheep, like chumps.
Babe, it’ll be so awesome, I promise.
We’ll sleep on flowers, and also wear them
You can bring your slippers if you get cold.
I just love you and also being outside.

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Ode on an Abandoned Shopping Mall

Previously by Summer Block: Herodotus Writes a History of the 20th Century

Ode on an Abandoned Shopping Mall

Thou still and slumbering pleasure palace,
Where thousands didst once gladly gather
Sheltered from the wind and weather
To buy a sweatshirt and a copy of Vs. on cassette.
Ferns, once tenderly potted, now riotously clamor o’er the escalator;
Proud skylights, cracked and battered, survey a vanished world.
What benches, where fathers once would rest?
What play areas, filth-encrusted?
What atriums? What corridors
Where seniors wouldst early stride between the Hallmark and the Ladies Foot Locker?

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