THE VOYEUR LED THROUGH LIFE AND DEATH
a Pecha Kucha after Egon Schiele
[PROCESSION]
The simple sorrow of a monk bent over the heap
of rock. face half in peace; in worry. gentle lines
etching aged skin. the woman leading through
rubble. fixed, empty expression. the ghost of a face
behind her, held mostly out of sight. her feet go on
[DEAD MOTHER]
sorrow enveloping the child, innocent shine
two tender hands, the smallest curve of smile
grasping, wrapped in a hollow carry, held in
the dry hand of the dead mother’s untouching
grief. her lips pulled, pallid skin, eyes drawn
[DEATH AND THE MAIDEN]
the body pleading supplication, thrown at the feet
of death. sorrow wrapping her arms around him
his arms gentle around her, their embrace almost
tender, save his expressionless face; his eyes
wide and empty. her hands curled and needing
[PREGNANT WOMAN AND DEATH]
she could be thought sleeping if not for his gaze
empty eyes staring straight ahead. her rounded
stomach, her bent head, her arms encircling
protection most needed and futile. there is no
clear touch. her face peaceful, knowing nothing
[MOTHER AND CHILD]
a child growing, held loft in the arms of a living
mother. staring on, out, eyebrows arched down
mother, trailing the lines of age creasing her
lovely face. one eye closed, the other lidded
gazing down, lower half of two faces the same
[HINDERING THE ARTIST IS A CRIME
IT IS MURDERING LIFE IN THE BUD]
to murder life; to pull everything out where it can—
must! be seen. to ignore the disdain, the raised
brows, to dive into the dark hollow, explore the
center. bring it all back with you, regardless of
taste. lay it out below you, let it be ignored, now
[GIRL IN BLUE DRESS]
a face of fear or simple consternation, who could
say for certain? a pair of bruises, or a dramatic flair
love bites, or else wandering eyes, slipping down
stockings hooked by a finger, dragged to reveal, let
snap. leaning back, lips parted. empty, ever a mirror
[DOUBLE SELF PORTRAIT]
wrapping around yourself, holding close. is it made
in the mind or two fingers curled ‘ round the throat
pull yourself to yourself, out of yourself, into each
other, inviting the voyeur with both sets of eyes to
come, go, stay, play, bite. or some such indulgence
[SELF PORTRAIT WITH HAND TO CHEEK]
oh, each sweet fold of skin along the neck, the
lips pulled down by the crest of the hand. the
face holding hand itself so heavy, so light
pulling down the flesh beneath eye. one wide
staring, other squinted small toward distance
[MOTHER AND CHILD TWO]
the child lost to the face of anger, an animal. the
swell of life balanced against nothing, reaching
for comfort, possession. bracing against weight
oh, the mother; needing nothing, wanting every
thing; any desire, to hold, some pointed invitation
[THE POET]
the slanted body, holding wrist, asking with eyes
for any touch but his own. the lips, the longing
the delicate balance, such desire turned hunger
played shadow; filled with need. the light, such
light! turned the body halo, closed in on himself
[PROPHETS / DOUBLE SELF PORTRAIT]
eyes closed in pride, lidded with desire, opened
in shock. the two bodies pressed to one, clothed
in darkness, stretched in light, the curved rib
showing above the shine. the hollow lung, the
hint of sly smile in front of ringed body of horror
[LOVERS]
desperation curled ‘round satisfaction, the smallest
grin found possession, both finding in another their
need made match. not replicated, but transited
as close as touch can get. one clutches, tight grip
one simply lays their hand. this ill-made match
[FORWARDS BENT FEMININE ACT]
the gift of strain felt by those hips; tilting, curling
angling so precisely. tracing each ridge of bone
cherish each small allowance, each peach-kiss of
skin, kiss of heat, blush. trace the spine til it ends
wrap a hand around small waist, find fingers, grasp
[SEATED WOMAN WITH HER LEFT HAND IN HER HAIR]
oh, her glorious curved thighs begging for nails
to dig into flesh. teeth to sink, leave a mark. but
that mouth refused to pull thin, those eyes wide
and stern. her arm crossing over herself, cloth
covering her body, her hand pulls back her hair
[WOMAN UNDRESSING]
the folds not sensuous, but the bending body, this
way and that, half-revealed, half in secret, body
stretching away from fact. each indent begging
touch; each bruise begging more; the dress
forgotten, the curve of neck, bone begging kiss
[SEATED WOMAN]
the smallest curve of stomach, the swell of thigh
holding pale stocking, one leg wrapped over the
other. arms bent at beautiful angles, one hand
draped over the thigh, other wrapped around arm
the nipple shown dark as bruise, begging bite
[RECLINING WOMAN WITH GREEN
STOCKINGS / ADELE HARMS]
legs parted, arm looped through the break
pulling thigh up, offering an opening, an angle
a small, shy grin; dress bunched at the hips
laces piling untied, hands splayed at each angle
only smallest touch of strain, both eyes open wide
[BLACK HAIRED GIRL WITH HIGH SKIRT]
oh, the satisfied grin, the eyes closed in pleasure,
knowing the voyeur present, the body watched
taken in as it was meant, presented as a gift
arms splayed, legs spread, hair curling freely
the dark pressed up against the pale, pink lining
[THE EMBRACE / THE LOVING]
here, we’ve found reciprocation, both bodies
hungry for each other, each touch pulling
fingers splayed against muscle, gentle against
cheek, the shell of the ear, arms winding
across the spanse of body, pulling, pulling
BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; a writer creating delicate connections. they have called any number of places home; currently, a single yellow wall in Michigan. they have been published in Revolute Lit, Roanoke Review, and After the Pause, among others. they are the 2022 winner of the Bea Gonzalez Prize for Poetry. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co
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Interview with BEE LB
Why poetry?
I love how open this question is… Poetry because: why not? Poetry because: freedom to play. Poetry because: rules are few and far between. Poetry because: sense and understanding both become optional. Poetry because: narrative often fails me. Poetry because: it turns every reflection into a funhouse mirror. Poetry because: it turns most mirrors into windows. Poetry because: I never want to take myself too seriously. Poetry because: the space between craft (as in: effort, as in: practice, as in: learning, as in: expression) and work (as in: effort, as in: profession, as in: labor, as in: exchange) become limitless.
Why did you choose this form to work with for this piece?
This piece came only through and from the form; I don’t think I could’ve created these poems without it. I’m a subscriber of Jada Renée’s patreon, and last year for poetry month, she shared a number of prompts— one of which introduced me to the form of pecha kucha: 15-20 quintets following a certain theme, often written after another form of art.
The original prompt was to produce a Cincovocalic pecha kucha, but I struggle with syllabic work and it honestly just doesn’t interest me much as a writer; staying within the form of repeated ekphrastic poetry segments was more than enough of a challenge for me. I took one of my favorite artists, Egon Schiele, and dug through an archive of his paintings until I found enough material to form a pecha kucha poem out of.
From there, I wrote a series of poem fragments trying to find a throughline between the paintings and the narrative I wanted to convey— the emotional landscape of the characters I imagined to be living within the world of these paintings, when brought together. The title of each segment is the same as the painting it’s written after.
Who are you currently reading?
I’m picking through a number of collections right now; Susan Birkeland’s The Bruised Angel’s Almanac, Saeed Jones’ Prelude to Bruise, rereading both Michael Chang’s Boyfriend Perspective and Lyd Haven’s Chokecherry. As always, I’m rooting through literary magazines, journals, and presses in search of new writers, words, and homes for my own words. Currently I’m deep into Third Coast, The Racket, Phoebe, and Thirty West. My perpetual interest remains with sung yim, Robin Gow, Jaime Hood, and Molly Brodak.
Do you work in other disciplines, arts?
I do, though none so frequent or fluent as poetry. I was once strictly a prose writer, and though switching to poetry has shortened my stamina in regards to narrative and storytelling, I sometimes move back to the other side of it, working in and with both fiction and creative nonfiction. I also paint on occasion, though less as a discipline and more a simple exercise in expression. Which is to say I’m not necessarily good or talented, but that isn’t the point, so I enjoy it quite a lot.
How long have you been writing?
I feel like I’ve been writing all my life. There’s a box somewhere in the world that has my kindergarten scrawl saying I want to be a writer when I grow up and about a dozen notebooks with handwritten “novels” I wrote from 4th-8th grade. Writing has always been my way of seeing myself in the world; it’s the only way I know how to communicate, express myself.
What significant way has your work evolved?
I could give a dozen answers to this and still not be sure if it’s the right one— my work is constantly evolving, shifting and changing, growing alongside me. Maybe the most significant way is in finding my poetic voice, which is of course an ever-evolving thing. When I first started working with poetry, my voice took on the shape of whoever I was reading at the time; often Mary Oliver or Richard Siken. And that still happens when I try out new ways of writing, or find new poets who captivate me, but more and more often I’m settling into the groove of my own voice; I can read through a dozen drafts and pick out what makes the poems uniquely mine, which is something I’ve often found difficult to do. It allows me to stretch the limits of my voice and find new and deeper avenues of truth.
Black Stone / White Stone 