Dane Hamann

Q&A
[based on the poems in Life on Mars by Tracy K. Smith]

                                Question: who understands
                                                                        the blessings of the body?
                                                                                                                                                                The blind, dancing around
                                                                                                                                                                        with a fistful of ocean.

                                 Swaying across the rocks
                                                                        as if they were open minefields?
                                                                                                                                                                                 Or gassing about
                                                                                                                                                                              like runaway gods.

                                 So those who are ageless
                                                                       are also honeyed and gnarled?
                                                                                                                                                           In theory they are everything,
                                                                                                                                                                    the heat of all moments.

                                 Like a conflagration of hours?
                                                                                                                                                         Yes, marvelous and deathless.

                                With what fury
                                                                       do their footsteps burn?
                                                                                                                                                                          As if a whole country
                                                                                                                                                                            unfurls into the sea.

                                What will they find
                                                                       in that molten bedlam?
                                                                                                                                                                            A frenzy of galaxies
                                                                                                                                                                     smiling in the darkness.

                                 Do they dare sink
                                                                      into that weightless universe?
                                                                                                                                                           There is proof such surprises
                                                                                                                                                                           dwindle day by day.

---

Q&A
[based on the poems in The City, Our City by Wayne Miller]

                                Question: who exists
                                                                        in the City?
                                                                                                                                                            The whispered, the buoyant,
                                                                                                                                                            the painted, the abandoned.

                               How will we remember
                                                                       such strangers?
                                                                                                                                                           With gunbarrel superstitions
                                                                                                                                                            and a tangle of abstractions.

                               Are they occupiers, like bullets
                                                                       wandering inside our walls?
                                                                                                                                                       No, artists of a silent language,
                                                                                                                                                                                   a dialect of fire.

                                Where can we find
                                                                        their scrawling words?
                                                                                                                                                               In the neon of boulevards
                                                                                                                                                             and the sparks of subways.

                                Their voices are the music
                                                                        of jittering light?
                                                                                                                                                                Their voices are the City
                                                                                                                                                                   unraveling in the wind.

                                How can we preserve something
                                                                        so futureless?
                                                                                                                                                 By being blessed with the same
                                                                                                                                                                          luminous damage.

                                What toast should we say
                                                                        to the fervorous newcomers?
                                                                                                                                                                       To art, to revolution,
                                                                                                                                                                     to beautiful alchemy.

---

Q&A
[based on the poems in Fancy Beasts by Alex Lemon]

                                Question: how does interpreting dreams
                                                                        clean us of cruelty?
                                                                                                                                                                                  We become fire,
                                                                                                                                                             grinning and ready for more.

                                So we upflame headfirst
                                                                        like a sweet, holy shock?
                                                                                                                                                                     Yes, like brass knuckles
                                                                                                                                                     punching zigzags through the air.

                                What stops our chainsawing climb
                                                                        into moonlight?
                                                                                                                                                        Nothing but the horrible mouth
                                                                                                                                                                                                    of day.

                                Is it within us to love
                                                                        the feverish grip of night?
                                                                                                                                                          The secret is jabbering hearts
                                                                                                                                                                of tar, honey, and mercury.

                                And for the heart filled
                                                                        with extraordinary emptiness?
                                                                                                                                                                     Neuroses, or the grace
                                                                                                                                                                of endless light and wind.

                                How do we finally welcome
                                                                        the milky-wayed midnight?
                                                                                                                                                                         Gnashing painkillers,
                                                                                                                                                drowning in an orchestra of bones.

                                Are we deserving of such an avalanche
                                                                        unfolding inside our bodies?
                                                                                                                                                                                        Believe me,
                                                                                                                                                      it doesn’t really fucking matter.



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­­Dane Hamann works as an editor for a textbook publisher in the southwest suburbs of Chicago.  He received his MFA in Creative Writing from Northwestern University, where he currently serves as the poetry editor of TriQuarterly. ­­