Episode 10: Mangoes and Monsters

Painted Bride Quarterly’s Slush Pile

Jun 17, 2016•50 min•Ep. 1

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Episode description

Welcome to Episode 10 of the PBQ’s Slush pile! Episode 10!!!! Can you believe it? Thus far, we have released 10 episodes of our podcast. We’d like to say thank you to our listeners, supporters, authors and editorial board!

First up is Jen Karetnick, who submitted the poem “The Physics of Falling Mangoes” for the Locals issue. When we asked her if we could discuss the poem she said, “I love the idea of the podcast editorial meeting, although it might prove to be a little nerve-wracking. But I'm sure my students, who get put through the workshop wringer all year long, will consider it more than just! So for their sake alone, I am delighted to say yes.”

Side note: It’s mango season, so we thought what better time to discuss this poem than now! Perplexed at first by a few “scientific” words, we grew to appreciate the intimacy of the vocabulary. Karetnick beautifully and authentically captured the atmosphere where mango trees grow; it’s as if she lives among the trees that she describes. In fact, Jen Karetnick lives in Miami Shores on the last acre of a historic plantation with her husband, two teenagers, three dogs, three cats and fourteen mango trees. This poem will make you want a mango, and to read more of her Jen Karetnick’s work: she released the poetry collection American Sentencing (Winter Goose Publications, May 2016). You can also see more @ TheAtlantic.com, Guernica and her website.

The next poem was submitted to our Monsters issue, but you probably would have guessed that. When we first asked Tria Wood she said she was “excited and intrigued” also a “little nervous.”Keep up the bravery poets!

Immediately, we noticed the contrast between Godzilla’s graceful swan-like nature and his belly collapsing like a flat tire. The imagery in the third and fourth stanzas also had us close to speechless—which loyal listeners know takes a lot! Every detail had us captivated (even Godzilla's cocktail)! A pleasant surprise for all, we quickly fell in love with this re-imagined Godzilla.

Make sure to watch Tria read “Godzilla Walks Into a Bar” herself!

Tria Wood’s poetry, fiction, and essays have appeared in Rattle, Literary Mama and other publications. Check out one of the public art projects in Houston that features her work.

In this podcast, we also clarify some things that have been happening in our podcasts. Even after our tenth episode, we can still be surprised by the outcomes. We’re sorry to learn that “Brazillian” was accepted elsewhere, but we are glad we still got to discuss it in Episode 8.

We also discuss a few questions that arose due to Episode 9: Do you consider the work posted here as published? Is there a difference between posting and publishing work? Listen and then chime in!

We’d love to know what you think; let us know on our FB page!

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Send us a self-addressed stamped envelope, and we’ll send you a PBQ Podcast sticker.

Don't forget to subscribe and rate us on our iTunes page!

Read on!

Present at the Editorial Table:

Kathleen Volk Miller

Marion Wrenn

Jason Schneiderman

Miriam Haier

Tim Fitts

Isabella Fidanza

Production Engineer:

Joe Zang

PBQ Box Score: 2=0

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Jen Karetnick

The Physics of Falling Mangoes

If a Haden mango, full with sun,

and an ovoid Irwin, that ornament

of dawn, drop at the same time from

panicles equivalent in height,

will they accelerate identically

despite degrees of heft, of maturity,

the knowledge of their own ripeness?

Physics says yes, despite mass, even

if it’s a late-season Beverly, still green,

set upon too early by a squirrel

sitting on its stem, or an Indian mango

five pounds large, swaying all summer,

too big for the basket of the tool

I wield like lightning to strike

a singular fruit. The damage, then:

That should be equal, too. But all things

considered, there is no free fall. Air,

on a humid whim, can change

its resistance, and there is no formula

to adjust for the destructive means

of a mango during descent, helicoptering

sap through the day’s work of spiderwebs,

a season of boat-shaped leaves that bear

those burns until they themselves release,

and the twigs it breaks without discrimination,

whether they are ready to reach like hands

or be struck down to ground. And the ground,

which could be oolite or limestone, grass

or a brother mango, the driveway

or the chemical buffer of pool water,

my shoulder or arm or skull, willing to take

the aromatic knock. I know the parts

of the equation: limb, fruit, gravity. But not

the sum, upon landing. Wholly bruised? Flesh

protected by deflection? Or a split that, turned

every possible way, simply, dumbly smiles?

Tria Wood

Godzilla Walks into a Bar

Godzilla walks into a bar.

He’s much smaller

than you’d expect, really.

Scaly, dark, and haggard.

He’s been sleeping it off

for centuries, all that rage,

dust and ashes washed out

of the cracks in his suit

by the surging Pacific.

He’s graceful, surprisingly

so. Swanlike, even.

He will not look at you.

When he sits, his forearms pool

on the bar like crayons in the sun.

His belly is a flat tire

collapsing into his crotch

and whatever may be there

is hidden. He’ll order

something tropical, all rum

and fruit and fire,

incinerate the paper umbrella

with a tiny burst

that could have been a laugh.

He swivels his head

to watch it burn, left,

right, then pokes its charred

skeleton down into the tumbler

and gives it a feeble stir

with stubbed fingers. One dark claw

etches delicate architecture

into the condensation on the glass.

And when he turns, half-smiles

at you, at last you understand

love at first sight.