Bramble Winter/Spring 2021 print issue is also available.
Reckonings
Editor’s Note
How fitting that poetry was in the spotlight at the Biden-Harris inauguration on January 20th.
Given the violent, criminal acts of just two weeks earlier—an armed and predominantly white male mob storming the Capitol on behalf of a defeated racist’s lust for power—the day might well have turned out otherwise.
All the more fitting, then, that a Black American woman, Amanda Gorman, delivered the inaugural poem “The Hill We Climb,” her upfront reckoning with the enduring challenge of the American experiment.
We are striving to forge a union with purpose
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors,
characters and conditions of man…
During Gorman’s moving and spirited reading, I thought she came through brilliantly with what Hemingway called grace under pressure. And not only that—she seemed to be relishing the moment. Way to go, poet!
And yet. And yet. It will take more than poetry and poetic justice to get America out of the deep holes it’s dug for itself, and this would be much easier to do if the bottommost depths dated back only four years instead of four hundred.
Whatever comes next, good poems, new or old—whatever their form, style, origin, voice or language—will be essential parts of personal and/or political reckonings with where and how we live.
Thirty such poems appear in this issue of Bramble, quite a few more than usual. Given the moment and the submissions received, including more poems seemed an appropriate way to serve writers and Bramble’s readers.
Mark Zimmermann
March 2021
Mark Zimmermann is currently working on a book-length poetry manuscript focused on his life in Japan, where he lived from 1990-91 and 1993-2001. His first poetry collection, Impersonations, was published in 2015 by Pebblebrook Press, and work from it has been featured on Milwaukee Public Radio’s “Lake Effect,” at The Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, and in Wisconsin People and Ideas, and was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His poems and prose have appeared in a variety of print and online venues. Currently he lives in Milwaukee with his wife Carole and two cats.
Artist Statement:
Fragments and splinters, cuts partially through images, and unfinished kernels of work litter the studio in bags, boxes, and piles. Once spliced apart, scraps of photos from one location mingle with those from another creating a relationship I hadn’t noticed before. Torn between preserving, transforming every piece of the landscape in the work & a desire to start fresh, to move on from the unresolved.
In my recent work, the images weave back and through themselves. The environment twists, conceals, and opens itself. In exploring the activity occurring just below the surface of the visible, I am interested in exposing the ways in which we undermine our natural environment.
Oblinger’s recent exhibitions include solo shows at Mount Mary University in Milwaukee, Thelma Sadoff Center for the Arts in Fond du Lac, and Miami University in Ohio. She been awarded residencies at Playa in Oregon, the Alpena Wildlife Sanctuary in Michigan, and in New Mexico at the Roswell Artist in Residence.
She has public artworks along the Kinnickinnic River Trail in Milwaukee and schools in New Mexico. Oblinger received an MFA in Studio Art from the University of California, Davis and a BFA in Sculpture from Syracuse University. She is currently a Professor in the Department of Art and Art History at Ripon College in Wisconsin. www.mollieoblinger.com
A black crow flew over the long fence
as the First People signed the treaty
When Dad finds out
I need a nickel for Brownie dues,
If I hadn’t seen it myself
I wouldn’t have believed
The new calves
are growing stiff
My friend is a Weight Watcher’s master,
knows the points for every food on earth:
Bluebeard—I mean, bluebird—I
mean, blackbard squawking I AM
Matisse is on the wall above my head tinting my hair in reds and golds.
Picasso is in the dark mirror, my eyeliner edged hard against pale skin.
She finds a four-leaf clover
while sprawled on the hill during magic hour
I’ve taken to being the navigator,
to watching the roadside treeline for hawks
I
That is no resort for young men. The old
With new electric carts, golf clubs and bags,
Dear God, this world is but a word to you,
a whisper on your lips lit by the sun,
Karleton Armstrong wanted to fly,
wanted to bring the war home
August 31, 1942
A Jewish apartment. Number 10 Altonaer Street. Second floor. Berlin Northwest 87.
Three and a half rooms. A bathroom. Hot water. Monthly rent: 83 marks 65 pfennigs.
We were at Mayo Clinic with our service dog
when a little boy asked if he could pet her. He hugged
On Christmas Day I assemble a revelation
that changes my life forever.
There he was at the Stop & Eat Diner
on Highway 31 outside Racine,
last night after a fight with my lover
I sat on my front porch under an umbrella
Shadow of owl on the nave wall,
ghost eyes drilling into my skeptic’s heart.
every spring
a cavalcade bears the boy
trees logged off on
mountain slopes
In anticipation of my potential,
you carefully plucked me
We loved you for your expanse rolling miles beyond
the horizon which itself is far and faint. At our feet
Last night was the season’s first sharp frost.
The year is treading into middle age.
Orange tabby eating on pantry rug
won’t always be here. Neither will I—
We sat in the long, rectangular room
with the long, rectangular table topped
To steer at thirty-seven
miles per hour with the
grandma wanted to make
tamalitos de chipilín
This is how we fought. Forearm meeting
wrist with clench and heat. If not fingers