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September 22, 2006 - A literary roundtable with professors and poets Marcellus Leonard, John Knoepfle, and Illinois Poet Laureat Kevin Stein.

The Cost
by Kevin Stein

“Top drawer on the right,” my father yells,
too shaky to screw himself out of the chair,
his Parkinson’s a blight today, so I shovel
for the checkbook to pay an overdue bill
he’s misplaced and then simply forgotten.
There, in his underwear drawer, buried
beside the pistol, beneath private cotton,
there’s the single yellow envelope scrawled
in his schoolboy’s hand, “Mary Francis’s hair.”
One golden curl clipped from the kid sister
askew in mother’s arms, rheumatic fever,
dead before ‘29’s crash—in those old days
back when there was no cure, as there’s none now,
my friends, to quell this ache. Love makes us pay.

—from American Ghost Roses by Kevin Stein, published by University of Illinois Press (2005); previously published in Poet Lore

Confluence
by John Knoepfle

the suns eye gleams on the burnt black prairie
the winter blackened moraines of all conclusions
and the white egret
ascetic alone with his promise
knowing where the river is
threads a fiery needle

it was always more than dawn
that we looked for
something that we had not seen
as we watched here
gathered from the ashes of our vision

may new prayers and new fires
the beloved pleiades
welcome the kickapoo home
star daughters in their hoods of light
dancing at their zenith while the sun
burns down the horizon

this world in peace
this laced temple of darkening colors
it could not have been made for shambles
this green twilight of echoing voices
as the sun hurls its fireball
down the other side of the world

it is long miles through marshgrass
the sangamon sifting to its ending
and beyond us the illinois
intensifies south
beneath the eagles at grafton
our ancient Mississippi
its wide slow waters

—from poems from the sangamon by john Knoepfle, published by University of Illinois Press (1985); previously published in Spoon River Quarterly (1985)

Oh My Sisters!
by Marcellus Leonard

Rakhi: The Thread of Love: The chaste bond of love between a brother and a sister is one of the deepest, noblest of human emotions. In one of the traditions observed in India, 'Raksha Bandhan' or 'Rakhi' celebrates this emotional bonding. Celebrants tie a holy thread around their wrists which is believed to pulsate with sisterly love and sublime sentiments. The thread is rightly called the ‘Rakhi,’ the bond of protection. Raksha Bandhan signifies that the strong must protect the weak from all that’s evil. Rituals like Rakhi help ease societal strains, induce fellow-feeling, open up channels of expression, give an opportunity to rework our roles as humans and, most importantly, bring joy in our mundane lives. Hear Marcellus discuss his research process for Oh My Sisters!

Your bright black eyes scour heaven and earth
ever vigilant to succor me. My seven Sisters’ scolding—
your wings smoldering astride defense. You travel
to secure me from Greenland to Greece. Surely you guard
against even the galaxies, secure the seven seas and coasts,
girded with hope seven times or seventy—smothering grief
on the wing with the love in your wombs—transported
on wheels—whatever the need. Oh my sisters! You are seven
graces—daring love, watchful labor, gratifying birth, strict discipline
arduous training, willful sharing and determined defense.

(Watchful Labor)

My infant probabilities balance on your hips,
circle of your arms, and, in lieu of mama’s teats,
warm milk temperature tested for the bottle in your hands.
The bend in your elbow is the waded river’s bend—
its depth sounded before you beckon me to “Cross!”
Wherever we travel, you are North before me—always
sojourner first, there to craft cradles, bounce tears
vanquish fears and wrestle with the devil—possibilities real
and imagined.

(Gratifying Birth)

From a narrow fertile, valley poppies race
a sloped volcano to the summit of its canon
and wave branched placenta before the red outs.
Your eyes silently pursue. Firmly leading me
by the grip of your hand, determined we trudge
the wagon ruts swept the scruff through toward distinct
distant orchards where ripened fruit begs the arrival
of gratifying birth.

(Strict Discipline)

Black braids twist like ravens' wings. Out
tricycle quick, little sister jumps concrete curbs
to greet me as I broach the house. Your journey encourages me.
Your feed sack shirtwaist mid baby thigh—vigilant for my return—
You ease with a giggle my day made steel at the mills smelting
to dross my sterilized life. In the back of your keen, reflections
of trust and expectations push up sparkles despite my bitter day.
Success is not a question. I have to fine the mettle. You expects it.
Demands it in the reach of your soon becoming—the day dawn side
of your determined rising—raising me with it to noon sky high

(Arduous Training)

You are Noah's raven never returned,
preferring endless flight in freedom
to the horrors of that boat. I understand.
I have been drifting too over wide waters
lengthened between continents but find no
Mount Ararat to come to rest on. You are
the rest of my life with wings—the way—
because Noah forced your hand but unwittingly
had trained you first before the dove was sent.
Elijah knows you, the raven in the kitchen
who feeds his children from Her womb
and his from Yours. Becoming skillful, train me
too my sister; teach me how to fly endlessly, to
make my opportunity then take it when it comes.

(Determined Defense)

All angels are not male as characterized with doves’ wings.
You are female raven like the one Elijah knew.
In the store parking lot, firm grasp on your grocery cart,
you transform when a man shoots out his fist
and grabs your pocketbook. Right there Eden's angry angel
determines to defend the whole world's larder transported
In your purse, and swords become your hands.

(Willful Sharing)

So to share in seven sisters' pact,
you refuse to live when gods pursue
to rob you of the gift between your thighs.
You hoist the weight your father hefts and kill
yourselves for everyone else—you are bright
opportunities unmet but undiminished.

(Daring Love)

“I love you my brother,” my sister whispers
still elegant—still eloquent though her dew
skin has long before expended its gifts
and the breathy fragrance of her beauty
has withered on her tongue. My sister Queen—
darling among my sisters before my twilight
and harmonic Ethernet of stars has configured
the older self, how unprepared I am to chase everlasting
without you.

Oh my sister, I never thought you would die first,
your drum thin skin shames Nefertiti's cheekbones—
Teutonic plates carved sculptures in your face.
Where your eyes are, volcanoes spew
then the light ceases and your pupils refuse
to refract light.

DNA never dies and comprises everything there is,
the code for every metabolic megabyte of all existence.
No tears! No gastric insurrection at the lighted tunnels’ end
ever brightening. Here give me your hand to boost our connection like those metallic foil circuits on the back of cell phones.

Hear Marcellus read an excerpt

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