With Paper for Feet
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About this ebook
curse.
...Gold is heavy,
and chafes....
aware that more is expected of them, but unwilling to play up.
Praise for Jennifer A. McGowan's work
...gritty thought; wit; striking candour – an unafraid recognition
of life's richness and desolation; memorable detail; all these are
underpinned by a graceful, subtle, quite lovely way with language.
Kevin Crossley-Holland
...bedecked with wit, irony, bittersweet folly and dictional-shifts
jazzy enough to make a reader dance. Gray Jacobik
... precise, observant and deep into mythology.
Claribel Alegría
Jennifer A. McGowan
Jennifer A. McGowan lives in Oxford. Despite being certified as disabled with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome at age 16, she became a semi-professional mime artist and performed until the disability became too much. Recently she has worked as researcher, editor, and writer for a UK company in 'devil’s advocacy'. She has taught both under- and postgraduates at several universities, across English, history, and heritage studies. Jennifer’s first full collection 'With Paper for Feet' was published by in 2017, and her follow up HOw to be a Tarot Card (Or a Teenager) in 2021 She has poems in Arachne anthologies 'The Other Side of Sleep' and 'No Spider Harmed in the Making of this Book'. Jennifer’s poems have also appeared in literary journals on both sides of the Atlantic, including The Connecticut Review, Gargoyle, Storm Cellar, Envoi, Acumen, and Agenda; her chapbooks, 'Life in Captivity' and 'Sounding' are available from Finishing Line Press. Her work has been anthologized in 'Birchsong' (Blue Line Press, 2012), 'A Moment of Change' (Aqueduct Press, 2012), and Arachne Press’ 'The Other Side of Sleep'. Her songs have been recorded on several labels.
Read more from Jennifer A. Mc Gowan
The Other Side of Sleep: Narrative Poems Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHow to be a Tarot Card (or a Teenager) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
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With Paper for Feet - Jennifer A. McGowan
SECTION ONE
WHITE WOMAN WALKS ACROSS CHINA WITH PAPER FOR FEET
Each night, the same approach to a different small house: Qĭng nĭ, yī diăn diăn fàn, diăn diăn shuĭ. Wù yào chī fàn.Please, a little rice, a little water. I need to eat. Duō xiè.Thank you. The right words coming out of my waì guó rén mouth.
Each night, setting up a bivvy against the wind, lighting a small light, writing in my journal stories, memories, forgotten names.
Sometimes I’d get lost in words, stay two or three days. Children would approach: Nĭ weìshĕnme găo cĭ a? Why do you do this?
I’d reply Wŏ de mŭ qīn chūmò wŏ, My mother haunts me, and they’d nod.
The brave would act out my need for a shrine. Sometimes where I camped, I’d leave paper ribbons, small piles of stone. Paper was the only thing to get heavier, not lighter, with use. My words, my attempt to find my mother’s birthscape, how or if I could fit into it: heavy.
Yet for all my vocabulary I could not talk, could not trade words, despite having paper for feet.
Could not send my words home, for I didn’t know where,
and what parcel box could fit all of me? Nine months of wandering, soaking my feet in flooded fields, pressing pulp to new paper, bleeding ink. White woman alone, her Chinese half never showing.
Finally at the foot of an anonymous hill my mother drifted in
with the mist. Qĭng nĭ, māmā, gĕi wŏ yī diăn diăn fàn.
Please, mother, give me something to live on. I could not see her face, but before she dissolved she spoke my name.
THE TALKING SKULL
adapted from a Nigerian folktale
A hunter
in search of food for his family
walked and walked
but found no prey.
The plains stretched on
and the sun beat
and he was weary.
There was one tree
that stretched its branches
and he sat beneath it.
Propped his feet
on a white rock
and drank.
When he was rested, he noticed
the rock had two eye-holes
and teeth. Alone
in the vast expanse
except for the sky,
he addressed the rock
in a casual fashion:
‘What brought you here, my friend?’
Then he laughed,
grateful no one could hear him.
So perhaps it is to be forgiven
if the hunter jumped
when the skull fixed him
in its empty gaze and said,
‘Talking brought me here!’
Food and family forgotten,
the hunter ran to the king
to tell him of this wonder
and the king
and all his attendants
went in stately fashion
to see the talking skull.
The plains stretched on
and the sun beat
so it is perhaps to be forgiven
if the king was weary
and rather hot and bothered
when at last they reached the one tree
that stretched its branches.
The king ordered the hunter
to show him the wonder
and the hunter found the skull
and addressed it in a friendly fashion:
‘Greetings again! Please tell my king–
what brought you here?’
But the skull
was silent.
For a long time
the hunter pleaded and implored
questioned and queried
but the skull
might well have been
a white rock to prop his feet on
for