#alison luterman

[firstfullmoon]

Alison Luterman, from “Saddam Hussein Is Writing Poetry In Solitary Confinement”

[dabiconcordia]

I Confess

I stalked her in the grocery store: her crown of golden hairs held in place by a great silver clip, her erect bearing, radiating tenderness, watching the way she placed yogurt and avocados in her basket, beaming peace like the North Star. I wanted to ask, "What aisle did you find your serenity in, do you know how to be married for twenty years or how to live alone, excuse me for interrupting, but you seem to possess some knowledge that makes the earth turn and burn on its axis—" But we don't request such things from strangers nowadays. So I said, "I love your hair." by Alison Luterman

[deviantpersuasion]

Praise the Broken Promise of America

Friends,

Take a minute. Follow the link to read all of it…

Praise deep mineral veins under rich dirt,

and fossilized remains of dinosaurs turning themselves into gas

for our benefit. Praise the exhausted earth,

miles and miles of subsidized corn

and cattle lowing from their hell-holes

in automated milking barns.

Praise farmworkers rising before dawn,

their sore backs and aching knees. Praise the myths

that drew them here, stories eagerly consumed

when there is nothing to eat but faith.

[jadeseadragon]

January 26, 2025

“Praise the Broken Promise of America” by Alison Luterman

Praise deep mineral veins under rich dirt,

and fossilized remains of dinosaurs turning themselves into gas

for our benefit. Praise the exhausted earth,

miles and miles of subsidized corn

and cattle lowing from their hell-holes

in automated milking barns.

Praise farmworkers rising before dawn,

their sore backs and aching knees. Praise the myths

that drew them here, stories eagerly consumed

when there is nothing to eat but faith.

Praise the courage of the reverend to look

the dragon in the eye and preach mercy;

praise whatever hidden waterways are still pristine.

Praise music that refused to play at the funeral of democracy.

and the killing cold that swept through Washington

when the fake Pope took power.

Praise drag queens and lipstick lesbians, boys who are girls

and girls who are lions, butch women wearing tool belts,

and all the music theater nerds

who are even now building new passageways

mapping the next underground railroad

and suiting up to be conductors—oh, everybody,

get on board! This train will chug quietly

across the great plains and over rocky Sierras,

into the desert where people still leave bottles of water

and packets of food for the desperate

who have always been the lifeblood

of this nation. It will stop in obscure hamlets

to pick up fugitives with tears tattooed on their cheeks

and fraying backpacks overspilling with contraband books.

Praise the weirdos because if anyone can save us

it will be us. And praise all the glittering illusions

we gawked at, ignoring our own neighbors

in favor of a 24-hour peep show on the internet.

Praise the convict fire fighters on the front lines in L.A.,

battling the insurmountable for ten dollars a day. We gambled

our future for a hot air balloon with a hole in it. Praise

our reckless hubris, and the infinite distractions

of the hall of mirrors we find ourselves in now, and bless

our overwhelmed brains, scurrying like mice for shelter.

Bless our collective rage, and protect

the officers who stood up on January 6th and now see their attackers

roaming the streets like rabid dogs, ah, bless the animals

we have always been, in our coats and shoes

and clumsy language, bless our willful ignorance,

so enormous, so world-altering, that, like the great wall of China,

it can be seen from outer space,

where the gods are shaking their heads even now,

in pity and in awe.

- from Poets Respond

Alison Luterman: “The poem says it all. This past week has been heart-shredding. I’m not saying poetry can change anything right now, but it comforted me to write this, and I hope it offers comfort to anyone who reads it.”

[theswampghost]

holding vigil, alison luterman

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Dedicated especially to single and solo moms! A mother’s day poem: “Because no one could ever praise me enough, because I don't mean these poems only but the unseen unbelievable effort it takes to live the life that goes on between them, I think all the time about invisible work. About the young mother on Welfare I interviewed years ago, who said, "It's hard. You bring him to the park, run rings around yourself keeping him safe, cut hot dogs into bite-sized pieces for dinner, and there's no one to say what a good job you're doing, how you were patient and loving for the thousandth time even though you had a headache." And I, who am used to feeling sorry for myself because I am lonely, when all the while, as the Chippewa poem says, I am being carried by great winds across the sky, thought of the invisible work that stitches up the world day and night, the slow, unglamorous work of healing, the way worms in the garden tunnel ceaselessly so the earth can breathe and bees ransack this world into being, while owls and poets stalk shadows, our loneliest labors under the moon. There are mothers for everything, and the sea is a mother too, whispering and whispering to us long after we have stopped listening. I stopped and let myself lean a moment, against the blue shoulder of the air. The work of my heart is the work of the world's heart. There is no other art.” ~ Alison Luterman ~ (thanks to Patrice McDonough)

[via Leila L'Abate]

[nightkitchentarot]

[dk-thrive]

There is no other art.

Because no one could ever praise me enough, because I don’t mean these poems only but the unseen unbelievable effort it takes to live the life that goes on between them, I think all the time about invisible work... I stopped and let myself lean a moment, against the blue shoulder of the air. The work of my heart is the work of the world’s heart. There is no other art.

— Alison Luterman, from “Invisible Work” in The Sun Magazine (Feb 1995) (via beyondthefieldsweknow...)