Dialogue:
Lance Gutierrez &
Fen Song
Lance Gutierrez on Fen Song’s “lost”
When invited to dialogue with Fen Song’s poem “Lost,” I began recalling 3 recent exchanges with other poets. Actually, 2 conversations and 1 social media post, all of them apropos of dialoguing with the work of fellow writers:
- I had passed a link to an online poetry workshop to an old friend of mine. He replied that he wasn’t interested in that sort of thing, since he didn’t wish his writing to be “influenced by anyone else.”
- Another friend, mentor, and established poet, with books, films and all the “success” which might be ascribed to a winning writer, confessed that he’d often felt envy when encountering a well-written poem, and by extension, the success of other writers.
- Lastly, there's a well-known poet I follow on Instagram who frequently posts self-congratulatory updates on his publications. He's complained of late about mean criticism for rubbing his success in the faces of other writers (who might be struggling to get recognized).
Though none of those comments resonate strongly with me at this moment, I will admit to having felt a twinge of similar sentiments at one time or another in the past. In any case, I thought I’d bring them all to join me in the dialogue with “Lost” by Fen Song. They’ll be listening and lurking in the background.
LOST.
Don’t be afraid. Take the poet’s name, as it is a beautiful little poem in itself. It will soften your mouth for what’s to come. Trust, but don’t trust: since we are poets too, we know that what is said is not what’s meant. We are not lost, we are just awakening to what at first appears stealthily. Drip-drops, wriggles, and internal private knockings that come humbly announced, eventually pull us forcefully into the slight frame of this piece. The short lines in this poem are in consonance with the tight weaves and snares of the layers that enfold throughout it: sound layered upon movement, layered upon sensuality, layered upon turns and contradictions. You are now in the poem, and you now are vulnerable. You are small, weak, and alone, but what’s more important is that you are moving, and that in itself is a way out. You are okay because you know that poetry is useless, but essential, so you give yourself to it. Now you are both poem and poet. You have never been to Scotland. Now, you have always been in Scotland, and the dark, indifferent turns of the Lamlash threaten to tear you to shreds. You say you’re scared, but you’re not, because you have made a taut and lustrous tightrope of your fears- out of language. Accuse yourself of a form of apophasis. You’ve claimed you’ll make no sound, but what leaks from the swollen heart you’ve hidden in your throat is much, much louder. We are listening.
Fen Song on Lance Gutierrez’s “Self Portrait as Weed Twisting in the Wind”
I immerse myself in LC Gutierrez’s poem, a self portrait that gazes back through quiet echoes, honest ache; a painterly little map of language. I’m moved by its mystery; its giving of breath. Within the poem, I find myself lost in its cautious survival dance, salvaging a lullaby
from some lingering vein of water. Hesychia buried in the understory, perhaps. I’m wild thistle, creeping; I’m navel yet star; I’m cave, jaw, and appetite. Ascend that fleeting kiss with sorry contemplation, to idle in its pull. Homesick creature: a ringlet with an untrue eye falls into moss, smothered with luck
that yesterday was only torment. Might it ride north for a sea of companion wings, tumbled to verge? The roots gnaw at me. Sometimes, I encounter my mind slung like an old clot from a thorn. I devour it before it stirs, dreaming of the taste. Faint, quivering sap, and the grace of rain. For that, I could rise past clouds
where nobody needs me, and wait for birth. Could that be a home, even so? Below the scattered earth it’s crowded; winds trample me awake, just to starve. In defiance, I curl and fray. Picture myself scorched, parched; drowned, then sated. I wonder if this is the beginning of autumn, my shadow drooping
gently ‘til it goes. Oh, for a fresh loch to circle. For a heartbeat I can hear. Though, who is left to fool? Isn’t there a womb in this oak-branch, where bees gather to mourn? My thoughts
snag curiously on the end of this poem. Here the field-blood lovers. Here the wet discovered. Here new roots for rot. Here to rest to die. I ask: will the field sing me down, that eternity might come soft; and, is eternity a promise at all? My chest gives and gives. I breathe dark air, tangle once more
and sink all the way to my damp eyes, haunting.
For each issue, ballast asks pairs of poets to read each other’s work and respond in some way. We hope these dialogues will sound the resonances contained within the issue as well as serve to foster a sense of interconnection and community among our authors.
If you’ve been published in a previous issue of ballast and would like to participate in a dialogue, please reach out to our editors at ballastjournal@gmail.com.