Joan E. Bauer: It Takes a Lifetime
They’d both mastered the ‘poetics of place,’
small-town Mississippi and post-war California.
Welty believed & surely Macdonald agreed:
‘No art ever came from not risking your neck.’
Joan E. Bauer: They Left Chicago Behind
Saul Bellow called Chicago: a prairie city with a waterfront
& the trees he remembers, elms & cottonwoods.
Joan E. Bauer: Dear Federico
Tonight, we’re watching Amarcord,
your dream-mix of homage, fable & satire.
The boisterous half-grown schoolboy Titta,
the fiery father, the long-suffering mother.
Joan E. Bauer: All But Lost
in the small print of NASA history
the story of my father: Harold E. Bauer,
known as Hal, technical director
of that workhorse, the Saturn IV-B.
Dear Vox Populi subscribers,
At 7pm tonight the official launch of American Ash, my new collection of poems published by Ragged Sky, is happening. I’ll be reading with two wonderful poets — Joan Bauer and Richard St. John.
Joan E. Bauer: Arcosanti
A dusty paint cloth of rust and ochre,
the desert before us as we pass shark fins
of agave & prickly-ribbed saguaro.
Joan E. Bauer: The Sisterhood of Buddleias
Sarah plants a butterfly bush
for the purple, nectar-rich splendor in a pot.
Hannah wants some pink extravagance
to beckon hummingbirds.
Joan E. Bauer: Get Your Kicks
This August my niece Holly will drive
the Mother Road. She’s a writer & I say:
Don’t miss anything: not cornfields, chili fries,
maple syrup farms, not the Big Texan
Steak House in dusty Amarillo…
Joan E. Bauer: W. Eugene Smith in Minamata, Japan 1971
Smith frames: Tomoko Uemura in Her Bath
The mother cradles Tomoko, her misshapen daughter.
Light through a dark window.
A post-modern pietà.