Bringing the Poet-Tree to Life

An exquisite corpse from the writers of AWP 2017

by Mikayla Davis, Poetry Reader

On February 8-11, 2017, Arkana took a trip up to Washington D.C. to attend the Association of Writers & Writing Programs (AWP) conference. AWP is the biggest conference for writers in the United States, boasting attendance numbers over 12 thousand. It’s a great place for writers, publishers, and programs to share their work and network.

This was Arkana’s first year attending, since we had only just produced our first online publication, and we wanted to make sure that we would stand out from all the other fabulous publishers in the Book Fair. We were also sharing a  table with our homefront’s MFA program and the C.D. Wright’s Women Writers Conference, so it was even more important that we make a place for ourselves.

One of the ways we did this was by bringing along what we were calling the Poet-Tree.

The Arkana staff built a bare tree from actual branches and cut leaf shapes from construction paper. We then asked visitors to our booth to contribute a line of poetry (and even prose) to the branches, to bring Arkana to life, so-to-speak.

Below are the lines we were given. Each grouping is a branch from the Poet-Tree and we have tried to remain as true to format as the lines were written.

We hope you enjoy as much as we did.


 

The pecan tree in the yard — mother, in her way, burning

This

The north wind cuts sharp against my skin

The tree died,
It’s lifeblood milled for pulp
Paper plant, shipped, boxed, cut.
It is now a leaf again.

***

Not today, apocalypse!

The last slice of night before

The rocks on the shore fall into the water like rain

And we were dogwood petals

I feel naked,
But am fully clothed,
Wearing a sweater,
But my soul is exposed

I am torn
But you are watching me
Hold on

Be leaf.
Be change.
Be light to the shadow

Let’s go backwards when forwards fails.

***

If you think that my hair makes me
something that can’t be explained,
then you can go fuck yourself

I am a satellite —
A transmitter of language
Floating through the air

Only in poetry are fragments holistic

Headline News:
“Senator Warren
Fistacuffing
In the senate.”

This shit doesn’t have to be good.

Good, cause mine’s not 

“He sang his didn’t
He danced his did”

I am,
I am,
I am…

I was once so once that I am always once

“Your mother told you that if you held
the seashell to your ear, you would hear oceans,
but all you really heard was the sound of yourself.”

I licked my thumb and pressed it
into the crumbs on my plate, not wanting
to lose a single artisanal calorie.

Scrub the wooden
slab, vinegar fills your nose
until the dust dissolves you

Purple is purple
is exactly!

“You can only run on art and love for so long.”

I imagined
What I’d say
I imagined how it’d go
I imagined, I imagine,
And some how when
I was still thinking,
You did.

***

Hail hits the trailer roof
like jawbreakers tipped
from a cup

The trees are in
celebration, their vermillion
and sunset yellow leaves
Falling to the earth justLike confetti

I am unbroken and unafraid

I like to eat cherry pop-tarts in the moonlight

Let my soul sink into the sidewalk,
wrapped in concrete and footprints

…hope the harvest is worth the work
and all those ragged scars

My poetry is lacking
but this poet tree is damn fine

Roses are read

I think I will look at you and think,
“We have always been made for this”

How to Subterfuge:
Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition
Or Sexy jutsu

Find Happiness or it will find you

Keep climbing,
Snail,
But slowly, slowly

***

Leaf me alone
Just kidding.
Take me with you, wholly

Leftovers don’t travel well.
Pack granola.

I, too, have a Spanish dictionary.
You’ll never find it.

There was a deep blue sky

We spell ourselves into the quiet of a long day

Today, beloved,
We have shared marble and snow
It is eternity

Hell is dying and meeting the person you could have been

He remembered turning
off his light, letting darkness slip
deep into every crevice,
and screaming until his Voice gave out.

And then as we traveled through Pakistan

How big my guts were. How red and jealous.

***

What is my line of poetry?

One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.

Watch your eyes

His eyes contain earths
that tug me back
into his warm orbit.

For a “light” art form, poetry
in my tote bag weighs a lot.

A hush had fallen over
the basement as if any sound
louder than a whisper
would bring another disaster

Gale force winds such
So does this hangover.
Can  I get a bloody mary?

Break the sky and make it bleed.

***

All day I do work —
All day I drink

The promise of the American Dream:
“Keep punching down and you’ll rise to the top.”
It’s a lie. Wake up, Dreamers.

Let the light in and let it divine you

I passed the man with the pink jacket and I wonder what words
he goes home to.

And then, as I held my hand
to your ribs, you breathed out a purple, “maybe.”

The milk was cold and fresh, the cookies warm.

With their umbrella tipped upside down they stood like spirits under a lotus frond waiting for the rain to pass.

Blisters block the arteries of my heart, stretching blood until bursting.

There’s something that does not love a wall.

Honey drips from her lips, sweet sugar sticking, choking.

Is that a spork in your eye or a meatloaf of the mind?

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Loneliness is still time spend with the world.

People need to be more like trees and branch out.

***

Spending writing time above printing blood.

And only wonder comprehends anything

Sickle cells slice black signatures into my veins

this is not a sentence because it doesn’t start with a capital letter

There’s something unnerving about being the only listener in a room of speakers

He walked with confidence, but not anger

I am a westerner,
I am a west
Turner. I am
The west.

Discarded feathers drained through slush,
making a final journey down grates,
down gutters, down, down, down.

Those who say poetry is dead, have never been to the A.W.P.

Where writers conference, the world is rewritten


Mikayla Davis is a UCA MFA candidate who specializes in poetry while dabbling in fiction. After getting her undergraduate degree at Eastern Washington University, she got lost in two-year business degrees from the local community college before finding her way back to the page. She has a love for cats and magic and has been published in various print and online journals.
Advertisements

Can We Make Money Like Web Comics?

A conversation paraphrased in comic form.

by Shua Miller, Scriptwriting Editor

Constructed Blog Post 3 coverConstructed Blog Post 3 page 1Constructed Blog Post 3 page 2Constructed Blog Post 3 page 3Constructed Blog Post 3 page 4Constructed Blog Post 3 page 5Constructed Blog Post 3 page 6Constructed Blog Post 3 page 7Constructed Blog Post 3 page 8Constructed Blog Post 3 page 9Constructed Blog Post 3 page 10

I formed all of my opinions from reading these articles:

“Web Comics Send Readers Looking for Books” by Douglas Wolk

“Web Comics: Page Clickers to Page Turners” by Heidi MacDonald

“Inside the Economics of Digital Comics with Todd Allen” by Rob Salkowitz

“Trotman Talks Templar” by Brigid Alverson

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Shua Miller is a candidate in the Arkansas Writers MFA Workshop and a producer/director/actor/designer/tech guy at The Lantern Theatre. He writes a little of everything, including about himself in the third person. You can follow his tweets of nonsense.

LIT Will Find a Way

A message about Arkana‘s place in the literary landscape.

by Liz Larson, Fiction Reader

Do trees communicate with each other?
Surprisingly, the answer is yes.
Forest ecologist Dr Suzanne Simard, studies a type of fungi that forms underground communication networks between trees in North American forests.
Big old trees — dubbed ‘mother trees’ — are hubs in this mycorrhizal fungal network, playing a key role in supporting other trees in the forest, especially their offspring.
“If you’re a mother and you have children, you recognize your children and you treat them in certain ways. We’re finding that trees will do the same thing. They’ll adjust their behavior to make room for their own kin and they send those signals through mycorrhizal networks,” says Simard.
“So when a seedling establishes on the forest floor, if it’s near one of these mother trees it just links into that network and accesses that huge resource network.”
Fungal networks don’t just operate between related trees, but also between trees of different species in the same native community, says Simard.
From abc.net.au/science/articles/2015/05/20

What’s the point of starting another literary journal?  Why do we do Arkana? What is it about this persistence, these bits of words that sprout up like seedlings in the shadow of old trees?

The literary economy is tenuous, poorly mapped, and yet diverse in spite of itself. Ask any journal out there right now and you can bet they will tell you it’s a constant scrounge and shout out for monies. All the economies (gift economy, shared economy and capitalism) vie for dollars in rough terrain. No one pays you to write, right?

The last twenty years of literary journal machinations have been fraught and fair peckish with arguments regarding print journals versus online journals. The general fuss, while colorful, has been rich in misperception regarding quality and curb appeal, funding, and staying power. And yet here we are, because Lit will find a way…

We’ve had a lot to compost over the last couple of decades as we digest our ability to adapt. But, bottom line, online journals make good economic sense. They are nimble. They can reach a broader, more diverse audience. Work, as it happens, doesn’t actually disappear down the rabbit hole. (There have been countless reminders and cautionary tales about what you post never going away.) Online journals also don’t negate print journals. We love our print brothers and sisters!

The great news is good writing does happen online. At Arkana, our roots run deep and we are keen to embrace the mystery of our connections. We hope that being an online presence will allow us to connect to others as we discover little synchronicities everywhere and delve into what it means to be the ‘Big Picture Us’.

How are we doing this?  Arkana strives to embrace ambiguity even if that is an uncomfortable place to inhabit. We are open to the ‘Other’, the overlooked, and the strands of diversity that economics creates, calibrates, and often pushes aside.  By becoming a hub for all seedlings, emerging writers and artists will have a rich and supportive space in which to work. Established authors and artists can reach new audiences and share connections as well.

Arkana will be able to reach a broader more diverse audience with its online presence.  Beginning an online journal is to tap into a network that has been there all along, often out of sight or underground. Much like the mycelia that connect the Wood Wide Web, The Arkana strives to explore our connections and intersectionalities. We may discover that we are more connected more interdependent than ever imagined in the pre-digital age. And one day soon we hope to be a ‘Mother Tree’, a hub that interconnects with all others.

How do you connect with Arkana? How do you grow with us and, reciprocally, help us grow?  Submit. Submit. Submit.  Then after you have hit that submit button, tell your friends that you did and where you did.  Use your own wonderful complex hyphae network and spread the word about Arkana.  C’mon, it’ll be fun-gal!!!


Liz Larson is a first year candidate in the Arkansas Writers MFA Workshop and is so cool she can fall down an embankment without hospitalization. She is all about beginnings and never being too old to take on the adventure of the New.