C.N.P Poetry 

  • Cathexis Northwest Press

Something Like Heaven; The Difference Between Looking and Seeing; Maternity

By: R.C. Neighbors


Something Like Heaven



1.


I get sad     the schoolgirl says

as her eyes well

like a cartoon     impossible

amounts of fluid

quivering on the precipice

when I think of him

that dog in the ground

for years


2.


a relatively young man

I have not known death

much

two school friends

two grandfathers

various distant relations

lucky I guess


there was a grandmother

whose loss still stings

for weeks after she left

my aunt would feel her

climb into bed for warmth

the way the old gal did

while the chemo ransacked her body


years later she still visits

my dreams

though my sedated mind remembers

she's gone

even before I wake


3.


before one grandfather passed

as the dementia clouded

his mind like a steamy shower door

he would weep for his parents

gone for decades as if

their graves were fresh


4.


daddy I don't want to die



5.


I've thought about doing it

would leave a note of course

love you all but

the world was too much

in this scenario

nine millimeter

messy but quick

silver muzzle in mouth

to take out the automata

heartbeat and breath

who wants to be

comatose     to linger


6.


a worn book in her lap

the schoolgirl says

I want to learn everything

I can about people and places

a long time ago

she flips past

glossy pages of full-color

photos     the Taj Mahal

Coliseum and Pyramids of Giza

daddy will I be in history     she asks

daddy


7.


the world is not enough


8.


the more we write     the less we die

wrote someone     somewhere

I forget

as if words can hold a heartbeat

catch a breath     and they can


linger     ink on parchment

or black pixels     a wafted whisper

however spectral

to caress a cheek     to express


9.


I never did it

did I

day after day


10.


when the old gal passed

we gathered around her

bed in the fluorescent-filled hospital room

and my mother asked a question     impossible

amounts of fluid

overflowing the precipice

is she in heaven son


is she


it made sense to ask

she and the old gal never ones for church

even if they agreed with Jesus and all that

and I    a former minister turned secret skeptic


of course I answered

yes


11.


we fat all creatures else to fat us

and we fat ourselves for maggots

wrote someone     somewhere


12.


the two of us     this schoolgirl and I

we recline under a veil

of common cumulus as it shifts

in hue from bleached

bone to weeping flesh

to inner eyelid


the sky     she tells me

the way the clouds hang there

it looks like heaven





The Difference Between Looking and Seeing

for Stephanie




Today I found a photograph

we took I think near graduation,

inside that restaurant, you know,

that tosses rolls across the room

and bears a smorgasbord around

the drunken booths: so, there I pose,

bare arm behind your neck, my cap

turned backwards as I stare off-frame,

out toward tomorrow, so profound

or simply acting like a fool,


and on the other side you sit,

carefree, a twinkle for the flash,

but neither knows the future has

at most a few more years of you

before the lumps on tongue, pinpricks,

soft prayers, more medications—you:

a gaunt unmoving frame in bed;

a ribcage scrambling for its breath;

two eyelids flitting open; then

“I think this is the end.”






Maternity



In high school, a friend flew

through the windshield of a pickup.

The front tire slid into the ditch

of a country road, and as it sprang back

onto the gravel, the entire truck vaulted

into the air like a gymnast.


In the immediate after,

fifteen-year-old me lay asleep

under cotton sheets covered

with pictures of baseballs and basemen.


My mother walked in—

provider of the exasperated sigh,

the harsh word, the barked command

and enjoyer of the one-too-many.


“There’s been an accident,” she whispered

and curled herself against me.

Then she wept

over my shocked silence,

her arm cradling my chest,

the squeeze so tight


I could scarcely breathe.





R.C. Neighbors is an Oklahoma expatriate who received a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from Texas A&M University and an M.F.A from Hollins University. He currently serves as a Lecturer at the Texas A&M Higher Education Center in McAllen, TX. He lives with his wife, four kids, two dogs, and a photo of himself with the head of hair and motorcycle he used to have. When possible, he enjoys sitting alone, doing nothing and not being bothered. His work has appeared in Tampa Review, Barely South Review, Found Poetry Review, Southern Poetry Anthology: Texas, and elsewhere.


Interview with the Poet:


Cathexis Northwest Press:

How long have you been writing poetry?


R.C. Neighbors

I went through a poetry phase as a teenager—mostly poems about unrequited love—because I needed an outlet for teen angst. I had no idea what I was doing, though, and I’m embarrassed to even think about them now. Thankfully, those poems all ended up in a trash bin at some point.


I didn’t seriously start writing poetry until graduate school about nine years ago, when forced to write poems in some of my courses. I was surprised how much I enjoyed it, though most of the poems were still terrible. As I’ve continued to write fiction over the years, I found myself having ideas that didn’t quite fit for a story, so I returned more and more to poetry as an outlet for my writing.


CNP:

Can you remember the first poem you read that made you fall in love with poetry?


R.C. Neighbors:

A poem I return to again and again, one that grabbed me and helped me understand my own human struggle, over depression, meaning, and wonder, is “Black Rook in Rainy Weather” by Sylvia Plath. I really feel it, every time I read it, that search for beauty, even the miraculous, in the mundane.


CNP:

Who are your favorite poets? Any specific poems?


R.C. Neighbors:

There are too many poets to name, but here are a few: Mark Doty, Lucia Perillo, Qwo-Li Driskill, Cherríe Moraga, Denise Duhamel, Bruce Bond, and Natasha Trethewey.


Over the last few years—given my growing family and declining country—I’ve really appreciated the poem “Good Bones” by Maggie Smith.


CNP:

Can you share for us a little bit about your writing process? Any specific rituals that get you in

the zone?


R.C. Neighbors:

I’ve found the times I’ve had the most success with writing is when I can get into a routine and stick with it. Finding any time at all, though, has been doubly hard now that we are in a global pandemic, with all of my kids stuck at home while I have to teach full time, play part-time elementary school teacher, and try to write. Still, I can manage to eke out some time in the late evening.


I find inspiration while reading other author’s poetry, so I’ll often read before I write. The inspiration can be a topic or a form or even simply a line that spurs a memory, but it’s hard for me to read for very long before I want to pick up the pen or keyboard.


CNP:

How do you decide the form for your poems? Do you start writing with a form in mind, or do you let the poem tell you what it will look like as you go?


R.C. Neighbors:

Typically, when I have an idea for a poem, I simply start writing. Sometimes it starts as a mere block of text, but usually I’ll intuit line breaks. The form typically presents itself during the editing process.


CNP:

Any advice for poets who have yet to find their voice?


R.C. Neighbors:

The most important advice I can give is to read. Read emerging poets, famous poets, dead poets. Read people with similar lives to yours and so many poets with a vast array of differences. Read fiction and nonfiction and screenplays and user’s manuals and cereal boxes. Knowing what is out there is a good way to know what you—with your words and thoughts and experiences—have to offer the world.


CNP:

What is your editing process like?


R.C. Neighbors:

The editing process is the grunt work of writing. After I have a draft, I’ll take a step back and see where the poem seems to be heading. I’ll change line breaks. Add and subtracts words, lines. If several lines suggest a uniform meter, I’ll likely try the poem in meter. Then, probably switch it back. Then, back once more.


It’s about playing with language, seeing what effects and insights can be created. After the poem has become somewhat presentable, I sometimes let a person I trust read it, in order to get a second pair of eyes on it. However, even with readers I trust, I take their feedback with a grain of salt. I’ve gotten some terrible advice over the years. I’ve learned to trust my instincts. If it feels like something may be off about a word or line or poem, it probably is. More times than not, though, the readers’ comments jive with my own feelings.


CNP:

When do you know that a poem is finished?


R.C. Neighbors:

There’s a quote attributed to a few different people that “art is never finished; it is merely abandoned,” which I mostly agree with. I tell my own students that a piece of writing can almost always be improved.


That said, I’m usually finished with a poem when I can no longer think of how to improve it, when I’ve fiddled with it and fiddled with it until I don’t have the physical or emotional energy to continue and need to send it into the world.



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