Anna Evans – Five Poems
Casualties of Fast Living
A sudden fluttering motion drew my eye
toward the windshield wiper on the right—
a large and richly-patterned butterfly
was pinioned there, wings split, and wedged in tight.
And I was doing seventy on a road
with no hard shoulder, couldn’t stop for five
long miles. I pulled inside of course, and slowed,
knew from her flailing legs she was alive.
At last a pebbled strip appeared. I braked,
gingerly lifted the arm, assessed her plight.
Her abdomen was crushed. My spirit ached.
I prized her off and she attempted flight,
but failed. I moved her to a grassy bed,
said prayers for all of those I’ve left for dead.
Sister Ships
What an experience—travelling on the Olympic!
She is the flagship of the White Star line.
Compared to other ships she looks gigantic—
the epitome of luxury in design.
Her first class cabins are spacious and opulent.
She has a Turkish bath, a swimming pool
Many passengers are prominent
in high society. She is a jewel!
This is a truly marvelous time to be rich.
(It isn’t quite so comfy in third class)
and if by chance the voyage hits a glitch,
an iceberg, say, nothing will come to pass.
She is unsinkable. No need to fear.
Look at her, waiting at Southampton pier.
Look at her, waiting at Southampton pier.
She is unsinkable. No need to fear
an iceberg, say. Nothing will come to pass,
even if the voyage should hit a glitch.
(It may not be so comfy in third class)
This is a truly marvelous time to be rich
in high society. She is a jewel.
Many passengers are prominent.
She has a Turkish bath, a swimming pool.
Her first class cabins are spacious and opulent—
the epitome of luxury in design.
Compared to other ships she is gigantic—
the perfect flagship of the White Star line.
What an experience, traveling on the Titanic!
Under Class
“Mary refused to be parted from John under the women and children first edict
and [was] lost in the sinking.” ~ Encyclopedia Titanica
Black ice in my veins.
I can’t see my husband John,
the man I stayed with.
Sleep pulls me under.
I can’t see John, my husband.
Someone’s crying out.
Sleep pulls me under,
beneath the water again.
Someone’s crying out.
In the name of God.
Beneath the water again,
my mouth full of brine.
In the name of God,
can anybody hear us?
My mouth full of brine.
Freezing bitter tears.
Can anybody hear us?
The boats are far off.
Freezing bitter tears
cannot summon them near us.
The boats so far off.
The man I stayed with
cannot summon them near us.
Black ice in my veins.
Paradelle for the Wreck
For seventy years the wreck’s undisturbed bed.
For seventy years the wreck’s undisturbed bed.
Spider crabs and brittle starfish the only passengers.
Spider crabs and brittle starfish the only passengers
The undisturbed wreck’s only passengers—spider crabs
and starfish—for seventy years the brittle bed.
Man always seeks to find what has been lost.
Man always seeks to find what has been lost.
In the end, the image of a boiler on the sandy floor.
In the end, the image of a boiler on the sandy floor.
Man always seeks the image of what has been lost—
to find in the end a boiler on the sandy floor.
Since then, salvage missions, official and clandestine.
Since then, salvage missions, official and clandestine.
All submarine bumps leave a mark on the hull.
All submarine bumps leave a mark on the hull.
Salvage missions since then all leave a mark,
and on the official hull, clandestine submarine bumps.
For seventy years a boiler bumps spider crabs
and only starfish leave a mark on the undisturbed bed.
Since then, submarine missions, official and clandestine,
find the image of passengers on the sandy floor.
Man seeks to salvage all. In the end,
the wreck’s always what has been lost—the brittle hull.
Curse of the Titanic I
Tragic ship Titanic was cursed, the press claimed.
Headline story: “Mummy of Amen-Ra sinks!”
Lurid tales of ghosts and Egyptian horrors
easy to swallow.
Supernatural terrors are like excuses—
not the fault of anyone human, blameless
Captain Smith and Ismay, unlucky victims
brought down by evil.
Lies, all lies. No mummy aboard Titanic
walked the deck or steered at the iceberg’s flank. But
stupid men who thought they could beat the odds is
harder to live with.
Author’s Statement on Beauty
Can poems about a famous disaster which caused a tragic loss of life truly be called beautiful? In contemplating this question, I am reminded of two very different poems. The first is an excerpt from a poem by the fictional Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings, which begins “The dead swans lay in the stagnant pool.” Miss Jennings was awarded the dubious honor of being the worst poet in the universe, worse even than the Vogons (Hitchhiker’s Guide non-aficionados may need to google here) and the poem is undeniably ugly, but not because of its subject matter. The second is a sonnet by Robert Lowell, which I can’t alas find online to quote, but is about skimming dead turtles into a garden urn as a boy. The subject matter is similarly gruesome, but the poem is beautiful. The beauty is in the language—how the words assemble into a complex form that could have no other shape, and how the combination of that shape and the semantic meaning of those words move the reader. I can only hope my “Titanic” themed poems achieve the same beauty.
Anna M. Evans’ poems have appeared in the Harvard Review, Atlanta Review, Rattle, American Arts Quarterly, and 32 Poems. She gained her MFA from Bennington College, and is the Editor of the Raintown Review. Recipient of Fellowships from the MacDowell Artists’ Colony and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and winner of the 2012 Rattle Poetry Prize Readers’ Choice Award, she currently teaches at West Windsor Art Center and Rowan University at Burlington County College. Her sonnet collection, Sisters & Courtesans, is available from White Violet Press. She blogs at annamevans.com/wordpress.