Conversion: Laura Macgowen'S Notes: Extensive Revisions

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:
Im seriously honored to be one of your readers. I loved these poems, and I

hope my notes are helpful. Hang in there; I know the semester is wild right
now, but youre so close to being done!! Love you!
Conversion
When I remember church, I see broken glass,
Shards shaming Josephs coat,
Rainbowed, tingling, hummed with morning sun,
I see the shards bound together, hand by hand,

What once was called glass bathed in you, in me, in an
old lady, who once gave casserole,
I see all the colors contrasted against white washed walls,

empty tombs, empty book shelves, and then living water
bathed in light, kaleidoscoping fragmented hearts into the
distorted knowing. Full shards stitched to neighbor, stitched
to Love, mere fuses in the light of likeness.
And I remember a tarnished, gold saucer,

Bent on the edge from when Nick and I ran
Round pews, Jerichos walls, up and down, back, forth,
Golden saucer sinking in the sea of laugher,
Doused and bent into what it means to be born,
Into what it means to be boy, into what it means to be live.
But what I remember most is pastor Michael dipping

hands into the coolness of water, bringing up with it

Salvation. Three fingers licking the bottom, then flicking
onetwothree seven drops on brow, dousing me in
what it means to be holy, what it means to be whole, what
it means to be an image,
broken glass in a sea of light.
Such a strong opening. Sets up the big motifs of the collection subtly,
elegantly. This is kind of a wild-card thought, but: what would happen if the
whole poem were just two stanzas, one with the stained glass image (and
the speaker/nick running around in church image) and one with the baptism
image? Basically I feel like there are so many strong lines doing so much
work that the extra images and phrases kind of weigh the poem down.

Bee Bites
You were tying your shoe. The left one.
Conversed sneakers with red stars, stars that
kicked like flint to heel against black asphalt,
and a bony knee plying open the break in your pant
With each stride.
And I was there. Standing. Apart from

You. In a field where weeds sprung up
As white flowers with hearts of gold,
Yellowed pollen that fluttered along the
Backs of the bumble bees. A boy
amongst the natural, the being.
Until one stung you.
Brave Nick. Strong Nick. The Nick that never cried.

You told me it was only pollen in your eye.

Bee bites and spring days, the times we went

Out to play. You squeezed my hand and told me it
Would all be okay.
This one feels light, charming, innocent, and yellow. Calm before the storm.
Its quite accessible, too, which is nice since later poems require more work
from the reader.
To Nick
fingers against scalp, your hair
bending like wheat in wind.
I rubbed in the beginnings of

A world of you and me in the dark.
Traced a brow line to a crooked lip,

Grazed the clogged pores of a young man.
Undercover minorities in the light,

Finding a place where we could be known.

ohhhhh i like this. sensual and intimate but tasteful, still has a measure of
innocence in it, in a complicated and lovely way. the couplet form fits it.
seems like the inciting event of the collection, if you will.
Freedom Paints Itself

Thumb-stroking the backside of my pale
white hand, the coarse, goosebumped skin rising to touch, in fingerprints,
thumb to hand, thumb to hand,
thumb to hand. Finger-painting.
Bristled, hued. Blushed reds,

pinched in pinksflushed cheeks,
blistered lip. Caucasian canvas
splashed by passion.

Freedom rests itself on my left leg,

A/C humming, engine whining, dark night
Holding secret in its palms,
Freedom painting itself in yellow

Dashes, bright and thick, headlights
To night in the paining of our freedom.
I think this poem is still figuring itself out. It seems reminiscent of To nick, a
little more mature, more audacious. But I want it to be more different. I want
it to say more on its own. Or maybe think about it this way: How does this
one poem complicate the collection? The images are accessible, but I want
more from them!
Bed-side Table Bibles

You fell asleep,
thick arm hanging

on my shoulder
Loud snoring breaking
the 3am into wake.

I lay [tucked by heat]

Staring at gold letters
cut by King James,
The taunt hide of God
Gold ink catching light

bent blinds,
Upward
Fingers pressed
Peaks for your Fathers car,

seeing if business trips have
a second coming
(bars bent)
Light dripping in
Watching the Nick that
wonder,
became my home, and I
About the Father who left.

I can see and feel this 3AM scene so clearly, almost as if Im in the room. The
reflective, still tone lets the reader slow down after the intensity of the last
couple poems (and before the even greater intensity of the next couple) but
still complicates it nicely, adds the father/Father comparison in.

Faucet
Have you tried to clasp on?
Water washing away a days dirt,
Have you felt the coolness of water
As knuckles whiten, and fingers strangle

Rushing like Congo, fulvous streams of blue
Clenching and unclenching
Knocking against the white basin with fever

WaterDirtSkins cellsChurned, chopped,
mixed. Muddled without prejudice. All of you baptized
into the sink by a faucet, grey necked, knobbed handed,
Sanctifying in the experience,

as the ocean welcomes all of you home.
There is so much that I love in this poem. Cheifly, the way it talks to
Conversion, and also the form, the emotional intensity. The only thing is
that Im not completely clear on whats going on, which doesnt actually
bother me all that much, Im cool if this is a poem that you feel more than
understand. My best guess is that the speaker is trying to cleanse himself
(albeit futilely), although Im not sure how the last stanza fits into that. That
said, a line or two of grounding context might be nice, if you want to add it
in.
It was not Sex

(After Thom Gunns The Hug)
it was not sex

it was devious
it was ketchup
it was breath

that turned me on
your mouth
how it hugged
the corners
when you smiled

air
mouths corners
filled with
rising from bed

shadow
latent buns
muffled voice
morning
bluffing
it was the guilt
a straight
i know you hold
breath hot
8a.m.
Sparkled eye
a pair of kings
us
Wow! I dont think Ive ever seen a poem structured like this before. This is
so interesting. Im thinking its meant to be read left to right, but it almost
works if you read it top to bottom too (the first column does almost
completely, and i think with a few tweaks the whole thing mightthat would
be COOL). I dont have very many comments about it, but I really like it, its
nice and concrete, the pair of kings phrase is spot on,
Revelation
Rooded bark laid perpendicular,
Wood by wood, planked flooring,
And murmured voices clung like

dust
On purple pews, moth bit and
butted

Head bent, knee numbed, with the
umbered-eyed planks watching,
Trees white pupils blaring,
I knelt to the alter, and mouthed
"'Holy, holy, holy

is the Lord God Almighty.
And I unclasp my purple hands1

to stroke the sky, and feel the
empty
embrace of the congregation,
voices,
Who was and is
Mouthing,
and who failed to come.
1 On October 31, 1969, The peaceful

protest against the "homophobic
editorial policies" of
the Examiner turned tumultuous as ink
was dumped on them from the third
story window. The protestors used the
ink to write pro-gay slogans
throughout downtown San Francisco.
(Straight News: Gays, Lesbians, and
the News ).
Its really all a lead up to the last

two lines, as it should be. After six
poems out of church, speaker is
back in church (presumably the
church from Conversion?) and it
is every bit as painful as one might
have guessed. I wonder if you
could add in just a hint more
complication in the earlier parts.
Alsowhere is the light in this
poem? Is it still coming through the
stained glass?

Seven Years
I prayed to God
Wet pillow slips. Hand-eye rubbing. Knees bent.
Eyes clasped. Teeth barred. Silent screams of pain.
I prayed to God
Abomination, congregational amen. Chorus
Chanting, its your choice. Praying for the dead.
I prayed to God
[
]
I prayed to God
Psychiatrist referral. Black. Cold Leather.
Sticking to thigh. Reading specs. Failure.
I prayed to God
Cat calls whistle through locker rooms.
Showers. Dodgeballs judgment day.
I prayed to God
Door clicked locked. Face smash face. Hand
Wild and electric. Finding you in the dark.
I prayed to God
And this is what I got.

Oof. This is heart wrenching to read (as so much good poetry is). The
intensity, the raw emotion, is beautiful. I honestly dont even feel like I can
touch it. The brackets are great.
Tanner. These are wonderful. Im not just saying that. I am so taken with the
light/dark/color images that anchor this collection. And I love love love the
way you play with form throughout. You are saying some important things,
and you say them well. So excited to see how they turn out.

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Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

Im seriously honored to be one of your readers. I loved these poems, and I

I see the shards bound together, hand by hand,

I see all the colors contrasted against white washed walls,

And I remember a tarnished, gold saucer,

But what I remember most is pastor Michael dipping

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

broken glass in a sea of light.

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

And I was there. Standing. Apart from

Until one stung you.

Brave Nick. Strong Nick. The Nick that never cried.

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

Bee bites and spring days, the times we went

I rubbed in the beginnings of

Traced a brow line to a crooked lip,

Undercover minorities in the light,

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

Freedom Paints Itself

Bristled, hued. Blushed reds,

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

Freedom rests itself on my left leg,

Freedom painting itself in yellow

Bed-side Table Bibles

thick arm hanging

Loud snoring breaking

the 3am into wake.

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

I lay [tucked by heat]

Gold ink catching light

Peaks for your Fathers car,

became my home, and I

About the Father who left.

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

As knuckles whiten, and fingers strangle

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

Rushing like Congo, fulvous streams of blue

Clenching and unclenching

Knocking against the white basin with fever

Sanctifying in the experience,

It was not Sex

it was not sex

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

when you smiled

rising from bed

it was the guilt

i know you hold

And murmured voices clung like

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

"'Holy, holy, holy

And I unclasp my purple hands1

Who was and is

and who failed to come.

1 On October 31, 1969, The peaceful

Its really all a lead up to the last

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

And this is what I got.

Laura MacGowens notes: Extensive revisions:

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