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Articles by Lynn Emanuel
Blonde Bombshell
Love is boring and passé, all that old baggage, the bloody bric-a-brac, the bad, the gothic, retrograde, obscurantist hum and drum of it needs to be swept away. So, night after night, we sit in the dark of the Roxy beside grandmothers with their shanks tied up in the tourniquets of rolled stockings and open ourselves, like earth to rain, to the blue fire of the movie screen where love surrenders suddenly to gangsters and their cuties.
If Being a Man Allowed for Emotion
Skip to main content Poems Find and share the perfect poems. ...it would be like hearing the grass grow or the squirrel’s heartbeat, and we should die of that roar which is the other side of silence - George Eliot My mourning is quiet, stealthy like the pause before bad news. An inherited trait near as I can tell. All the men in my line are instinctually stoic & hidden—brackish bodies, damned at the gates.
Then, suddenly
In 1999, my first writing workshop: Napa Valley Writers’ Conference. Yes, in the Napa Valley. St. Helena. Mark Doty was there. David Lehman. Jane Hirshfield. Richard Bausch. (I always get him and his brother confused, never remembering which one it is I met. Which is terrible, given that we actually had a conversation at the picnic about Atlanta.) Elizabeth McCracken. Lynn Emanuel.
My Eurydice
1967, New York City, East River From Jackson Pollock, I had learned to hate Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus— those white, white sheets— thrown back covers of the breakers’ unmade bed, and Venus uncombed, unkempt, always just decanted from sleep, that hair— a serpentine peignoir tossed across her shoulders— I scrubbed my palette down to nothing but the colors of wash water and zinc bucket and embraced the iron light between Broadway and Bowery, and, beneath the streetlights, the junkies,...
Hello
hello to the unimaginative and dim ways of my kin, hello to the bad lot we are, to the women mean and plucked, and to the men on the broken steps who beat down the roses with their hosings, to the nights that rose black as an inked plate, into which an acid bit stars— puckered, tight, hard, pale as a surgeon’s scars, hello to all that vast, unconditional bad luck, to the sensible, the stuffy, the ugly couture of the thrifty, to the limp of bad goods, of old furniture, the repeated wince of...
"From a Train" | Ovation | columbiatribune.com
From a TrainAfter night’s black abandoned truck —morning is locked down tight,So far at the bottom of thismoment, she could fall off.of sultry shoes. She is five.Meeting her father for the firsttime. Union Station.
‘My Life’ - NYTimes.com
The subtlest changes in syntax can work in a poem to evoke a feeling of strangeness. Here, the inversion in the first line places the emphasis not on the sentence’s noun, the “I,” but on the comparison to the biblical story.
The Fountain of My Youth
On the way to a new life in la Florida we made a stop in Saint Augustine oldest city in our America A side trip to visit la Fortaleza de San Marcos the striped lighthouse cobblestoned plaza and of course Ponce de Leon’s Fountain of Youth A teenager, I didn’t want youth I wanted the age when I would be free Go out and stay out long as the night Drive, drink, drink and drive The unearned freedom of adults Still it was intriguing … Could the waters restore, Preserve, rejuvenate?
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