A dog named Bukowski? Only on the MAR blog. Today’s photo is thanks to Sasha Khalifeh, Bukowski’s owner and MAR‘s fearless managing editor. Enjoy:
Want to include your pet in this special Pets with MAR blog series? Simply send your photo, along with your pet’s name and any other relevant details, to mar@bgsu.edu with “Pets with MAR” in the subject line.
We have quite a few new contributor interviews for issue 35.1 in the hopper, but until then, let’s focus on this fun, witty interview with Melissa Stephenson. Her poem, “After Mating for Life,” appears in 34.2.
Melissa Stephenson lives, plays, and writes in Missoula, Montana. Her fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in various journals, including Cutbank, Other Voices, The Chattahoochee Review, New South, Memoir (and), and Passages North. She holds a B.A. in English from University of Montana and an M.F.A. in Fiction from Texas State University. She is currently at work completing a collection of poems and revising her first book-length work, a memoir.
Quick! Summarize your story/poem/essay in 10 words or fewer.
Divorce sucks. Divorcing with kids is worse.
What can you share about this piece prior to its MAR publication?
This poem was born more or less intact. It bubbled up one morning as I was struggling to meet a deadline for writing textbook materials. Cheating on paid work is a great motivator and time-saver for me. I stole a half hour, banged it out, set it aside, and tweaked it a few months later.
Before the poem was published, I also had the random luck to come into contact with the creator of one of the films that inspired my draft. The title of my poem, “After Mating for Life” is based on a misreading of a local film festival schedule. Cindy Stillwell, the maker of a documentary on bird migration called “Mating for Life,” read my poem and enjoyed it. Her film contrasted her choice to stay single with the mating and migration patterns of the sandhill crane. It was deeply satisfying to me to see how her art inspired mine, and how both our stories were acts of mid-life reckoning with the romantic choices we’d made.
What was your reaction upon receiving your MAR acceptance?
I texted my ex-husband and offered him one of the two contributor’s copies to honor our 50/50 divorce agreement about intellectual property created within the marriage. (We were still legally married when I wrote the poem.) A year before, he’d made a similar call to me, only his coup was a hefty advance on his first novel, which we both shared.
He laughed when I called. We share a similarly dark shade of funny bone.
What was the worst/best feedback you received on this piece?
In the past few years, I returned to writing poetry after a 15-year break, so I have no poet-friend readers. I am not a Master of Poetry. I received no feedback before publication. But afterwards, a friend called it “wonderfully dark.” This tickled me and bummed me out at the same time, since I thought of “After Mating for Life” as my almost-funny poem.
You’re at a family reunion and some long-lost relative asks about your writing. What do you say?
“I’ve become a poet.” This usually stops the questions.
What do you consider your biggest writing-related success?
Finishing a full draft of my memoir-in-progress while raising two young kids 98% on my own.
Your biggest writing-related regret?
Taking years to realize that trying to please the majority with your writing will leave you with a pile of bright, shiny, lifeless words.
Your biggest non-writing-related regret?
Not becoming an auto mechanic that summer I was in Anchorage and had the chance.
Tell us one strange thing about yourself that does not involve writing.
I was raised to believe myself a distant relative-by-marriage of the silent film actor Lon Chaney and have recently researched enough to find out this can’t be true.
Tell us one strange thing about yourself that does involve writing.
Running long distances does more for my creative self than my MFA in Fiction ever did.
Can you show us a photo of you holding your MAR contributor’s copy?
I wish. My close friend and my ex-husband’s aunt have both absconded with my contributor’s copies. I think MAR being theft-worthy is high praise.
Thanks for the interview, Melissa!
Laura Maylene Walter, Fiction Editor
Dog lovers, you had your turn recently with Ares — and trust us, more dogs are on the way — but today is the day of the cat. Allow us to present Nina:
Nina belongs to Anne Barngrover, a contributor to not one but two recent issues of MAR. Her poems “Dock and Withers” and “Survival Tactics” appear in issue 34.2 (pictured above with the gorgeous Nina), and “Site Fidelity” appears in issue 35.1 as the winner of the AWP Intro Journals Award for poetry. Congratulations to Anne for her fine work and to Nina for looking so good next to MAR.
(p.s. Check out the shout out “Pets with MAR” received recently from Ruminate Magazine!)
Want to include your pet in this special Pets with MAR blog series? Simply send your photo, along with your pet’s name and any other relevant details, to mar@bgsu.edu with “Pets with MAR” in the subject line.
In our “Accepted” column, Mid-American Review editors discuss why they selected stories, poems, or essays for publication. In this post, Assistant Poetry Editor Jenelle Clausen discusses a poem that appears in issue 34.2. This will be the final “Accepted” entry for 34.2; stay tuned for columns from 35.1.
Genre: Poetry
Titles: “Porch Light, Moonlight, or the Neighbor’s Bedroom”
Authors: Carroll Beauvais
MAR issue: 34.2/Spring 2014
First lines: “When we were children, we dreamed the moon / full of pink lakes, swimming holes without water moccasins.”
In the title, “Porch Light, Moonlight, or the Neighbor’s Bedroom,” Beauvais presents us with three possibilities. Already, we want to know more. And then, the epigraph: “For my sister, if I’d had one.” The epigraph is brief and thoroughly surprising; it establishes the poem as fiction, which is perhaps a nod to the inviting trap of assuming that a poem’s events “really happened” or that the poem’s speaker is the poet himself or herself (a problem we don’t encounter nearly as often when reading prose).
But the epigraph doesn’t diminish the sincerity of the poem. In the first two lines, we are immediately impacted by a striking image—pink lakes on the moon—that is unusual and that establishes the active world of children’s imaginations. This imaginary world on the moon is also defined by what it lacks: “swimming holes without water moccasins.” There is no danger here. This first stanza continues in describing this shared dream-world, a world where girls could wear as little as boys in summertime and where stars would shed glitter on the grass.
The second stanza uses images to firmly ground us in time; the speaker and sister were children when “Buffalo nickels and baseball cards” were popular. We also see the title verbatim and learn that the children would bet on what kind of light it was that “tipped in through the blinds.” The speaker says, “I always chose moonlight and you always won.” This suggests that the speaker’s childhood was characterized by hopeful idealism, which she later realized to be unrealistic.
The death of this hopeful idealism is addressed in the very next stanza, where we’re brought to the present day, many years later. The speaker mentions that “scientists claim water exists on the moon,” but this potential fulfillment of a childhood dream does little good now for an adult filled with worry by the stark reality of life’s hardships: “What good does that do us now that we’re old / and you just called to say they found another tumor?”
Like the first two stanzas, the final stanza is characterized by compelling images that create an emotional impact on readers. It is no longer summer, but autumn; this transition of seasons reflects the aging process. The “sugar maple…is growing bare.” How does something grow bare; how does growth lead to loss? The language here is subtle, and it indicates the disillusionment and sense of loss that comes with growing older, when childhood is left behind.
We are left with a final striking image, not star glitter on the grass, as in the first stanza, but “yellow leaves” that look like “the small, wilted hands of a child.” We can all relate to the sense of loss associated with giving up childhood dreams; this poem has universal meaning.
But wait—remember the epigraph? We’re told that none of this happened. For the speaker, there was no sister, no cancer. This leads to the wonderful intentional ambiguity of the poem: Which is worse? To have lived through this experience, this suffering and disillusionment, or to have not had anything, or anyone, to lose?
What MAR editors said about “Porch Light, Moonlight, or the Neighbor’s Bedroom”:
“The epigraph is really attention-grabbing, and even though it makes it clear that the poem as a whole is fiction, that in no way lessens the emotional truth and impact of it.”
“The author uses great images to let us know where we are in time. There are a lot of imaginary images, like pink lakes, but there are also images like Buffalo nickels and autumn leaves that let us know when the speaker was a child and where we are now.”
Jenelle Clausen, Assistant Poetry Editor
Photo: Jeremy Stratton
MAR is for the dogs — and we like it that way. Here’s Ares snuggling up for some reading time with his favorite literary magazine:
Ares is owned by Chelsea Kerwin, a poet, MAR assistant editor, and MFA candidate at BGSU. Her works appears in Tulane Review and is forthcoming in Hobart.
Want to include your pet in this special Pets with MAR blog series? Simply send your photo, along with your pet’s name and any other relevant details, to mar@bgsu.edu with “Pets with MAR” in the subject line.