By Barbara Goldberg
Winner of the 2008 Felix Pollak Prize in Poetry, chosen by way of David St. John These poems, right away stylish and earthy, exhibit the interior workings of the human psyche and express us that usually the easiest safeguard opposed to terror is making mischief. The Royal Baker’s Daughter was once raised on a nutrition of stone soup and the occasional leftover royal deal with. This leaves her with an urge for food for authenticity. With not anything yet her deft fingers to steer her, she embarks on a trip into the darkish woodland, “where sticks and stones and absolutes reign and not anything, even sin, is original.” Best Fall publication from the Montserrat evaluate
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Extra resources for The Royal Baker's Daughter
In a sack, Father, I carry them He said if everyone jumped in the lake, would you jump too? Yes, Father, the water is cool and green If you’re frightened of someone he said imagine them in their underpants. Father, I cannot even imagine your face In the one snapshot of us on the bridge in Baden Baden the half smile on your lips is unfamiliar you are standing behind me on a step to make yourself taller, leaner I am clutching my purse with both hands And your hand on my shoulder— it is heavy, Father, it is heavy 22 II cedar tree.
And once this land was defined as a promise of milk, a promise of honey. Now half brothers fight for a dunam of earth, a ceiling to count on. Now this land is a promise gone haywire, a daredevil’s mishap. Go out in the street and play Russian roulette. Go out to a club and find fresh young bodies blown to bits, their garments still sparkling. Now the forest is burning. Charred skeletons of trees provide neither food nor shelter. Goats grind their teeth on whatever grows. Now the camera freezes on demonstrators from both sides wearing baseball caps and faded T-shirts, as though fitted by the same tailor in a uniform of rage.
Of course, I'd prefer preserving beauty, but this pays better and I still get to use my craft. 43 Headquarters I have been sitting in this chair, this office, this room with a window that doesn't open so long I fear I've lost the art of breathing. My task is to draft speeches for powerful people that must pass through the eyes of a man scared of losing his job. The trick is to write in his style so he can get the credit. In this way I become indispensable. Strange how common ghosting is. Today I heard my own words coming from the chief of staff, exhorting us to soften the environment for brand acceptance, bombard it with the message that this association is new and innovative, helping people over 50 enjoy life.