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Interview with poet Allison Joseph, by Stephen
Furlong
SF:
First and foremost, thank you for taking the time for this interview. In
light of all of your responsibilities (teacher, director, editor, poet),
how do you manage your time? What helps you unwind?
AJ:
I manage my time pretty poorly—in terms of things like day planners,
online scheduling, etc—I’m terrible at that! But I do use time pretty
wisely when I’m forced into situations that demand it. I write when I’m
on a train or plane. I write in hotel rooms. I write in my head when I’m
out for a walk.
Read more...
At a Misogynist’s Funeral,
Refusing to Grieve
I’ve come because my husband asked me to.
You were his boss, not somebody I mourn.
I will not shed a single tear for you.
I’d had my fill of you, your lust for porn
made obvious when you would watch at work.
You weren’t my boss, not somebody I mourn,
a man who had no dignity, smug quirks
of humor that some older men display
made obvious when you would watch at work—
your “girls” on screen, your desk in disarray
with magazines you read on business time.
Of humor that some older men display
yours centered on a woman’s weight, like mine.
You’d comment on each woman’s waist and thighs.
With magazines you read on business time—
that’s what I’d fill your coffin with. No prize,
you’d comment on each woman’s hips and thighs.
I will not shed a single tear for you.
I’ve come because my husband asked me to.
Mr. Brauman
Sharp and dark was his motto
those high school afternoons
we’d try to exact imitations
of blueprints in mechanical
design class, scoring our sheets
with pencils we’d constantly sharpen,
drawing our shaky lines atop
our board of education-issued
drafting boards, shaky wooden slabs
nicked and carved by generations
of half-hearted student attempts
at this discipline that was no
discipline to us, though our
orange-hued, cigar-cured teacher
took it ever so seriously
as he scowled and mocked
all the failures of our T-squares.
Why was he so enraged
toward us, group of tenth-
grade geeks far more comfortable
in dissection lab or AP History,
little geniuses who chose
his class to be the one they’d
slack off in in that era long
before computers made design
fun? Why did he lurk the rows
between our desks, hoping
to peer down the blouses
of the few among us favored
with pretty breasts, why did
he chant sit on my lap and I’ll
give you a 100 so often we
all made a joke of it, his
come-ons to the girls in class
so ridiculous we all had our
own vocal imitation of it
by semester’s end? Maybe
that short squat dude
with the slick hair and widow’s peak
had no friends, not even among
our other awkward teachers—
the roly-poly debate coach,
the bony history teacher
who spat when excited during lectures.
By now, Braumman’s likely dead,
having never gotten any of us near his lap
—not the well-endowed or flat-chested,
bucktoothed or the flaxen-haired.
We’ve seen versions of him since:
boss whose hands somehow
found our bra straps during a group
picture, administrator who
told us to move closer to him
so we could hear better,
though the acoustics were fine,
professor who requests office
hours though we’re pulling all A’s.
We’ve suffered in silence
in response or filled out paperwork
for investigations that got us
no resolution; and we’ve quit
those jobs when we had to,
another sharp and dark line
on our resumes, another black
mark we can’t rub off, erase away.
Singing for Karma
Music, make me lose control—
treat me like your favorite, baby.
Doesn’t matter that I’m not hot—
I like this rhythm in my motion,
like these colors in my blues,
waiting on elusive karma.
But who knows anything about karma?
I’m giving up complete control
to these newly-purchased blues,
better than a newborn, baby.
Check out my outlandish motions,
keeping everybody hot.
Skinny, funky, fat or hot,
all we’ve got is death and karma.
Might as well enjoy these motions,
muscled flights you can’t control.
Give me something different, baby,
better than the same old blues.
I’m making up a brand-new blues,
one that simmers ’til it’s hot.
More than something special, baby,
guaranteed to soothe your karma.
Loving what I can’t control,
how about these sacred motions?
Going through each daily motion,
I had to find a better blues.
I’m smacking down those fake controls
that say that I’m not “in” or “hot.”
Magazines won’t kill my karma—
I’m a million dollar baby,
even though I’m busted, baby.
All I’ve got is this lush motion
camouflaging wicked karma.
Sister, sing some more black blues,
songs both cool and blessed-hot,
body blessed with sleek control.
I’ll control my own limbs, baby.
Hot’s much more than wicked motion,
and blues got me singing for karma.
Rains, Pours, Whatever
Crack your neck and have a stroke,
pay your bills but still stay broke.
Find a spot—might it be cancer?
Your back reminds you: you’re no dancer.
Pay for college—yours and theirs—
all these majors spell despair.
Fix the roof, but damn—the plumbing!
Ancient house just keeps on coming.
File for sudden unemployment
while your kid is on deployment.
Potholes ruin undercarriage;
adultery will spoil your marriage.
So many troubles, so many choices:
still you hear your parents’ voices
telling you to just work hard—
chin up, chin out, stay on your guard
but can they see your slouchy posture,
the four flat tires, the balky washer,
the surgery on all those organs,
the doctors with their x-ray jargon?
Your parents, settled in their sleep,
console you while you shrink and sweep.
But do not wish them from their graves.
Your life’s not something they can save.
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 Allison
Joseph lives in Carbondale, Illinois, where she
is Professor of English and Director of the MFA Program
in Creative Writing at Southern Illinois University. She
serves as poetry editor of Crab Orchard Review. Her
books and chapbooks include What Keeps Us Here
(Ampersand Press), Soul Train (Carnegie Mellon
University Press), In Every Seam (University of
Pittsburgh Press), Worldly Pleasures (Word Tech
Communications), Imitation of Life (Carnegie
Mellon UP), Voice: Poems (Mayapple Press),
My Father's Kites (Steel Toe Books), Trace
Particles (Backbone Press), Little Epiphanies
(NightBallet Press), Mercurial (Mayapple
Press), Mortal Rewards (White Violet Press),
Multitudes (Word Poetry), The Purpose of
Hands (Glass Lyre Press), Double Identity
(Singing Bone Press) Corporal Muse (Sibling
Rivalry), What Once You Loved (Barefoot Muse
Press) and Smart Pretender (Finishing Line
Press). Her most recent full-length collection,
Confessions of a Barefaced Woman was published by
Red Hen Press in June 2018 and is the Gold/First Place
winner of the 2019 Feathered Quill Award in Poetry and
is a nominated work for the 2019 NAACP Image Award in
Poetry. She is the literary partner and wife of poet and
editor Jon Tribble.
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