New Poetry from Roxanna Bennett!

The Boundary of Acceptable

That phrase, the boundary of acceptable, comes to us from Roxanna Bennett‘s ‘The Last of the Iron Lungs’, second runner-up in Pulp’s 2019 Magpie Award for Poetry. Suggesting both the imposition of limits and the very human need to push against those limits — of pain, disability, desire, of the personal and the universal — the boundary of acceptable both haunts and heals.

Of ‘The Last of the Iron Lungs’, appearing in Issue 24, Autumn 2019, judge Renée Sarojini Saklikar tells us: The striking thing about this poem is how, while sharing the story of a speaker with a disability, Greek myth is used as a parable to warn about our current eco-crisis.

Roxanna has kindly gifted us with another of their evocative poems, ‘The Well of Initiation’, from their forthcoming book The Untranslatable I (Gordon Hill Press, 2021). About these new pieces, Roxanna tells: The poems in this collection reflect the difficulty in communicating the very personal experience of pain to other people. The haunting — and the hope for healing — continues.

The Well of Initiation

by Roxanna Bennett

In Lisbon all lanes lead uphill but the ocean,
                the ocean spills literal cockleshells, stunned
                                 snails, slippery oysters. One euro for tourist

                                                 ginja in miniature chocolate cups, drink
                                 to make it up, always up, past pink
                  peeling football clubs. Is it broken

                                 or is it Portugal? Civilized separate
                                                  lineups for the elderly, pregnant,
                                                                  & me. Will I leave this nest again,

                                                                               be able to swallow the barium,
                                                                   sweet god, terribly from pain,
                                                   I wait for more appointments

                                 The CT scan rescheduled again,
                 still stiff from gastric emptying,
the radioactive egg salad sandwich

                 repeats its slow passage through ruined
                                  & run-down slummy laneways. Rain sluiced
                                                  palm trees & candy coloured churches,

                                  underdressed, dystonic, cranky with pain,
                I feel more wet than wonder. On the train
to Sintra, Roman aqueducts squat in

                the mist lording permanence over
                                tumble-down tenements. The Quinta
                                                da Regaleira renews my love for

                                rich weirdos but I can’t climb down the well of
                 initiation, the green grotto a spiral of
vertigo & in Obidos an emblem of

              Queen Leonor gilds the pillory I
                             lean against, trembling. Motility
                                             meds shred dignity, mobility

                                                             aids slip from slack hands, trip
                                             my thick feet. If I die of mistreatment,
                             take a minute to relax on the pavement

              before finding peace. Stuff me
                              in a mushroom bag a la Luke Perry,
                                              it would be a relief. Nazaré’s

                                                             salt sky lungcrushingly heavy,
                                              how do you people handle this gravity?
                             I was lighter on the rosyfingered moon,

                                              in Mercury, lighter before I was born.
                             At the Lagoa de Obidos
               I scour the sand for a conch, a token,

a symbol, is it my turn to speak, feet
               freeze in cold Atlantic, our romantic
                               dinner on a cliff overlooking the ocean,

                                               I’m grateful to be here but it’s hard to see
                               the sea through the sieve of my own misery
                after the climb & drinks to make it

up, always up, the rickety staircase,
                screaming hips & aching face
                                from keeping a smile fixed in place,

                                                “I’m sorry, I can’t understand you,”
                                a phrase I wish I knew
                in every language.

To read ‘The Last of the Iron Lungs’, and for more from Issue 24, visit our bookstore!

The disabled poem-making entity known as Roxanna Bennett gratefully resides on aboriginal land. They are the author of the award-winning poetry collection Unmeaningable (Gordon Hill Press, 2019) and the forthcoming The Untranslatable I (Gordon Hill Press, 2021).

Calling All Poets!

For your chance to appear in the pages of Pulp and on our blog, enter The Magpie Award for Poetry!

With a $500 top prize and publication in Issue 32, Autumn 2021, the Magpie is your chance to soar! The contest closes 15 April. For all the details, and to enter, visit the website.