jessingrassellino

Tag: poetry

  • Night at Beachy Head

    jess ingrassellino, summer 2019

    They hadn’t asked to be there, those

    sharp stones at the bottom of Beachy Head.

    But the stones knew some things about

    humans.

    Gangly humans waited until dusk,

    finding their way to the cliff’s edge

    on the flat grassy path. The

    Wind coaxed humans closer to the edge,

    Where the stones had the best view.

    Looking up, those old stones got hit by

    a phone, tossed over the edge, by a human.

    The human – this time a girl –

    Wailed in pain and screamed goodbye,

    Throwing herself over soon after.

    The stones and cliffs noticed:

    Humans aren’t very good at emotions.

    Terrible at grief and loss. Worse at deciding

    What to do about it.

    The sharp stones and white cliffs were

    Stained red more frequently than one might think –

    Twenty times per year if the numbers added up right.

    More often, though, the stones saw

    Sadness – in a dangling foot,

    or an anxious glance,

    cast in their direction –

    pebbles kicked over the edge into the waves below.

    If the stones could shout back at the girl,

    after she launched her phone,

    but before she’d launched herself,

    maybe they’d tell her that

    nothing had gone better for those who had gone before.

  • Two Poems: Sketches of St. Petersburg

    jess ingrassellino, june 2019

    I read Spouts (1921), an earlier poem by William Carlos Williams. I enjoy his first person, direct, and conversational writing style. This poem, like many of his others that I have read, is a single experience written in fragments, making up just one sentence. There is a lot of economy in the way that Williams expresses experience, and there are new stories to be uncovered with repeated reading of his work. These two poems are my first assignment from my first writing class in June, 2019.

    St. Petersburg (May 15, 2019)

    Monument, 

    Taller than the other buildings – it seems, 

    Taller than everything. 

    Guarding the circle, the 

    Subway, the  

    twin buildings 

    Flanking the road 

    into the city. 

    Her dual histories stand, 

    Signed – Piter and Leningrad –  

    Overlooking the city and 

    Her history.  

    In the taxi, I 

    enter.

    The Serfs (May 16, 2019)

    Today, we saw the 

    Yellow building, 

    Three stories high, where

    Serfs were sold.

    Today, the 

    Red roof and clean

    Archways 

    Frame the view from the 

    Second story windows, where

    Tourists can see the 

    Seven bridges when they look

    Outside from the

    Safety of their rooms at the 

    Holiday Inn Express.

  • Reading the world, slowly

    Back in 2015, I had my final inpatient mental hospitalization. That May, I’d experienced the first break-up of my second marriage. I was hurt beyond imagination – we both were. Then there were dramas with my family. Summer of 2015 hit me hard, and I was unsure if I could tolerate my own hopelessness and grief. 

    So unsure, that I drove myself to the hospital for help. I spent the next two August weeks with a small pile of books and a roommate who was an art student, ten years younger; the thing I remember about her is telling crazy stories about my childhood and my life and teaching, and the two of us laughing so hard at midnight that the nursing staff banged on our door to tell us to shut up. I spent time thinking about how to reconnect with my purpose of being.

    At some point during those weeks, I committed to dive head-first into becoming a better human. I embraced my curiosity as a lease on life. as the thing that could save me from being swallowed by my own small mind. 

    When I got home from that last stay, I did two things: I got my tattoo, and I started thinking about making meaning in my life. I started reading more blogs from different writers. I don’t recall where on the internet I found this blog about one woman’s mission to Read the World in year, but it struck me then as such a profound way to experience the vastness of the world, and the beauty. I decided I would read the world, but, slowly.  Starting with the books I already owned (yes, book collector for life!), I began reading and learning from voices and perspectives and stories that so differed from my own. 

    As I read a story, book, essay, or poem from an author in one country, I’d make notes in my journal, and write short reviews of the experience. Through a series of unfortunate technical fails, the blog content was lost in 2016. All I have remaining from the reading and writing I did during that year is a google sheet where I tracked authors and books from each country, and the status of my reading. A checklist. I was so frustrated that I left the project behind not long after (I think maybe I updated the spreadsheet once in the past 5 years). 

    Until recently, I had all but forgotten this project, and its origins in my life. Opening that spreadsheet with its checklist, I remembered the awe I felt when first compiling it. So many countries, so many histories, and so many stories that exist, and for each of those, multitudes that will never be told. 

    In a way, I’m glad I forgot about this, because when I started it, it was probably more “goal oriented” than it should have been. Remembering anew has caused a desire in me to dig into stories, to learn from this world that has felt so inaccessible this past year. And now, six years after that hot August hospital stay, I have so many better questions to ask the stories.

  • The Gate (Nooner)

    This poem is after a close reading of the poem The Storm (Bear), by Mary Oliver. I focused intentionally on attempting to replicate the rhythm and meter Oliver chose, as well as other grammatical choices she made, such as tense and sentence structure. Find the poem and my close reading below

    The Gate (Nooner)

    New upon the shaky gate my kitten
        climbs, crying determined mews
        with new confidence.

    Spine and tail, wriggling, anxious,
        her view of the top, she claws, grasps
    Until the gate’s cloth divider freys
        in small, delicate pieces,
        An early warning foreshadowing
        the struggles of my mind in this world.

    You know, I didn’t see it coming myself.

    Close Reading and Notes


    Reading Mary Oliver’s original poem The Storm (Bear) and working from it caught me by surprise, because in my first reading, it seemed simple. That simplicity is deceptive upon closer reading. As I worked to tell the story of my kitten, Nooner, I noticed that Oliver’s poem’s simplicity was quite intentional and well-crafted.

    Oliver sets up the reader with the scene, setting, and details, using familiar and causal language that make it easy to connect with a scene between animal and human. In the second stanza, Oliver expands on the narrative set in the first, connecting the verb in the first stanza to the three parts of the second stanza.

    The first part of the second stanza, Oliver describes and expands on the verb; in the second part, she reveals the ending or aftermath of the action/verb; in the third section, she uses metaphor to relate the experience of the animal in that moment to the human experience. In Oliver’s poem, she uses the following as the third section of the second stanza:

         a long sentence, expressing
         the pleasures of the body in this world

    In the third stanza, she responds to the metaphor she has expressed with her own voice and feelings on the matter.

    Normally, I try to use the overall tone, grammar choices, and narrative structure of a work as a guide to my study, but it felt important for me to discover how Oliver crafted such a beautiful work that resonated with clarity and beauty, leaving the reader with feelings both simple and profound. I’m glad I spent time with this poem and worked to attempt to understand how Oliver constructed such a poem. I enjoyed this week’s etude, and I hope you enjoy Mary Oliver’s poem, as well as my own attempts to learn from her work.