1 poem

by Sara Bess

Sara Bess grew up in the rural mid-south but she doesn't live there anymore. She was a 2017 Lambda Literary Fellow in poetry and a recipient of the Bryn Kelly Scholarship. Her poems have appeared in Nat. Brut, Witch Craft Magazine, Plenitude Magazine, and elsewhere. She's a co-editor at The Wanderer.

This poem was awarded the 2019 Peach Gold in Poetry by guest judge Dorothea Lasky.

"This poem was such a standout from the bunch. I thought to myself while reading it: wow, this poet is an expert! This poem is the winner! There is such elegance here and expertise in terms of pacing, form, imagery, and feeling—all the things you need in a great poem. I loved how the poem started with the clown, coming out of the frame, or more so 'wandering' out of it (the careless way it wanders is terrifying) and then by the middle we are all wearing the 'red nose from time to time,' i.e,. can’t we all be the clown sometimes? Oh yes, I certainly do agree, but to what end? Also, who is this cute boy in the poem? I didn’t really want him to die but I was glad the poem did as it made me feel like I was in the presence of something infinitely strong. Also, poor Corbière publishing only one poem, only a 'single' poem (that 'single' is so fancy), before he died so young was so sad. This poem made me think of so many things and it did so so utterly gracefully. I love it!"

-DOROTHEA LASKY

Elegy for L’homme

        After Jean Rollin

Se mourant en someil, il se vivait en rêve.

 

Somewhere in the middle a clown

wanders through the frame, no real

 

motivation. At the end of the night,

do you really need a reason to

 

bury some cute boy in a turtleneck

in a moldering sepulchre? Corbière

 

died of tuberculosis at the age

of twenty-nine, having only

 

published a single poem. We all have

our cemeteries. We all wear

 

the red nose from time to time,

by which I mean a plaid skirt

 

can hide grave dirt pretty well,

by which I mean sometimes

 

it’s better not to speak at all, feign

the inability or just smile

 

for the crowd, There are

different kinds of clowns

 

but only one kind of cute boy

in a turtleneck: they all read the same

 

poem at different parties

and they all want the same thing,

 

which is to be buried

alive by a beautiful woman.

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