Month / March 2016

by J.L. Smith

2 Poems featured at Dead Snakes

Two of my poems are featured at the Dead Snakes for this month! “Insomnia” and “Bar Fine” can be viewed directly here, but be sure to check out the large (huge, really!) collection of poetry there!

Some background on one of the pieces, “Bar Fine.”  To be blunt, this one is about sex trafficking.  More specifically, it is about the sex trade in South Korea, where I lived for 8.5 months, about a decade ago.  So, if you are sensitive to this subject, you may want to skip this one.  It is the second poem listed.

This poem, for obvious reasons, was hard to place among my Korea-themed poems.  However, I believe in the poem and its message, so I am thankful that Dead Snakes gave me the opportunity to share it.

 

 

 

by J.L. Smith

Throwback Thursday: Joanna’s Child

This poem was published in Cirque‘s Winter 2015 issue.  It was written around 2001.  It remained dormant until 2015, when I decided to revise it and submit it for publication.  Despite some revision, little changed from old version to the final published version.

A side note: if you have never read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith, do yourself a favor and check out this coming-of-age classic!

Enjoy!

Joanna’s Child

 

But what makes you get a baby often

                        starts with a kiss…Remember Joanna.

                                                –Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

 

At 14, I learned that I was Joanna’s baby.

The realization was somewhere

between sixth grade,

maxi pads

and sex education.

 

I was different—

not in the typical angst way,

for I stayed out of trouble,

in a small town

where no one divorced,

where everyone went to your church,

or some church,

where everyone wanted to know you,

or at least, your business—

I was an unwedded birth when good

girls did not keep their babies.

 

I’m your mother and father,

my mother would say,

and I believed her.

I told everyone I had no father,

 

until I became older and realized

the “oh” would be followed

by the awkward nod,

a shuffle of feet,

or rattle of ice in a drinking cup,

when I told them

my parents had not married,

nor had I had any contact

with him.

 

Eventually I caught on;

it was a signal—

we could no longer be friends.

 

Later, in my college years

the questions would be more demanding:

Do you know who he is?

Wouldn’t you like to know?

Aren’t you curious?

I would lie and say no.

 

Like all of the stones that were hurled at Joanna,

I knew my mother had her scars.

 

She would remind me often that

she was a good mother

(and to the best of her ability she was),

It was her attempt to negate those who thought otherwise

because she chose to break the rules.

 

So, what “lessons” did Joanna share

with her child?

I don’t fully know her pain

(or his name),

aside from the assurances of her mothering,

the glares and the asides.

She never shared her wounds,

and the wounds from the rocks that hit me

never healed either.

 

 

by J.L. Smith

Publishing opportunity: 13Chairs Literary Journal

Copied from Alaska Women Speak’s Facebook page:

**While this publication is located in Anchorage, Alaska, they are not a regional journal, and they are accepting writers from everywhere for publication. **

13 Chairs Literary Journal, a new literary journal publishing short stories and poetry from new and emerging authors, seeks submissions and volunteers. They are currently composing their flagship issue, straight out of JBER, AK. To learn more, and to submit, email info@13chairs.com or visit 13chairs.com.

by J.L. Smith

Alaska Women Speak

I’m pleased to announce that Alaska Women Speak will publish, along with 3 of my poems, a nonfiction piece of mine called “The Forgotten War.”  This piece is about my visit to the DMZ that separates North and South Korea.  For all my local readers, these works will be available at Barnes & Noble Anchorage, Homer Bookstore and other outlets throughout Alaska.

by J.L. Smith

Throwback Thursday: The Important Things

This nonfiction piece was published by Alaska Women Speak in its Winter 2015 issue.  The theme was “talking over coffee (or tea).”  This my first creative nonfiction piece to be published.  Enjoy!

The Important Things

It’s been that kind of a day and now, at home, you are faced with a household tragedy: the tea supply has run dry. Not that fancy, loose tea that sits atop of the cupboard by the stove: the rooibos, the jasmine, the gunpowder green. The kind that requires the French press, a teaspoon to measure, four cups of water, and four minutes to brew. No, you are out of the ordinary Red Rose Tea, the one that comes in the bulk 100-count boxes. The ones that are not individually wrapped for freshness. Those are the ones you lack and need.

You leave your husband and the overtired one-year-old who refused to nap today to make the important journey. You travel to the only grocery store in your small town that has this tea. Forget about the decaffeinated version, you want the real thing, and buy two boxes. When you return home, his raised eyebrows, sigh and silent house tell you that he’s succeed in his mission and the child is asleep. You produce the tea, proving you were successful in yours, too.

The evening proceeds like many others do. You select the preferred cups: his, is the plain, white ceramic; yours, the clear glass Starbucks one. You are not fancy. This does not require much decorum. Just two cups of water, a microwave, and two minutes.

After a moment of silence, you turn on the TV. Forget about the Syrian refugee crisis and the falling Dow Jones, you discuss the important things of life over Futurama: like Katey Sagal’s career after Married…with Children ended and how much adults like Disney cartoons, too.

Your tea is the liquor that calms the nerves and re-energizes your soul. The last sip, overly sweet and growing cold after fifteen minutes, gives you the final jolt you need to pack the diaper bag, make the turkey sandwich lunch and check your calendar one more time, before winding down to a short sleep before the day begins again.