A. E. Stallings
Alicia Stallings, who publishes as A. E. Stallings, was born in 1968. She grew up in Decatur, GA, and was educated at the University of
Georgia and Oxford University in Classics. Her poetry has appeared in The Best American
Poetry (1994 & 2000) and has received numerous awards, including a Pushcart
Prize (Pushcart Prize Anthology XXII), and the Benjamin H. Danks award from the
American Academy of Arts and Letters. Her first collection, Archaic Smile (University of Evansville Press)
received the 1999 Richard Wilbur Award, and her second collection, Hapax,
(Northwestern University Press) received the 2008 Poets’ Prize. A third collection is forthcoming.
Her verse translation of Lucretius, The Nature of Things, is out from
Penguin Classics. She has lived in Athens, Greece since 1999.
The Ghost Ship
She plies an inland sea. Dull
With rust, scarred by a jagged reef.
In Cyrillic, on her hull
Is lettered, Grief.
The dim stars do not signify;
No sonar with its eerie ping
Sounds the depths—she travels by
At her heart is a stopped clock.
In her wake, the hours drag.
There is no port where she can dock,
She flies no flag,
Has no allegiance to a state,
No registry, no harbor berth,
Nowhere to discharge her freight
Upon the earth.
Originally published in Smartish Pace
The Mother’s Loathing of Balloons
I hate you,
How the children plead
At first sight—
I want, I need,
I hate how nearly
At first say no,
And then comply.
They will grow bored
Over the moon,
Should you come home,
They’d cease to care—
Who tugs you through
The front door
On a leash, won’t want you
And will forget you
On the ceiling—
A giddy feeling—
Later to find you,
Against the wall.
And fit to burst,
You break for her
Who wants you worst.
Your forebear was
The sack of the winds,
The boon that gives
And then rescinds,
But the force
That blows everyone
Your one chore done,
You float like happiness
To the sun,
You’ve left behind:
Their tinfoil tears,
Their plastic cries,
And moot goodbyes,
You shrug them off—
You do not heed—
O loose bloom
With no root
Originally published in Poetry (June 2009)
First, the four corners,
Then the flat edges.
Assemble the lost borders,
Walk the dizzy ledges,
Hoard one color—try
To make it all connected—
The water and the deep sky
And the sky reflected.
And lock shapes into place,
And random forms combine
To make a tree, a face.
Slowly you restore
The fractured world and start
To recreate an afternoon before
It fell apart:
Here is summer, here is blue,
Here two lovers kissing,
And here the nothingness shows through
Where one piece is missing.
Originally published in River Styx (Number 80, June 2009)
Fairy tales are full of impossible tasks:
Gather the chin hairs of a man-eating goat,
Or cross a sulphuric lake in a leaky boat,
Select the prince from a row of identical masks,
Tiptoe up to a dragon where it basks
And snatch its bone; count dust specks, mote by mote,
Or learn the phone directory by rote.
Always it’s impossible what someone asks—
You have to fight magic with magic. You have to believe
That you have something impossible up your sleeve,
The language of snakes, perhaps, an invisible cloak,
An army of ants at your beck, or a lethal joke,
The will to do whatever must be done:
Marry a monster. Hand over your firstborn son.
Originally published in Poetry(March 2010)
Another Bedtime Story
One day you realize it. It doesn’t need to be said—
Just as you turn the page—the end—and close the cover—
All, all of the stories are about going to bed:
Goldilocks snug upstairs, the toothy wolf instead
Of grandmother tucked in the quilts, crooning, closer,
One day you realize it. It hardly needs to be said:
The snow-pale princess sleeps—the pillow under her head
Of rose petals or crystal—and dreams of a lost lover—
All, all of the stories are about going to bed;
Even the one about witches and ovens and gingerbread
In the dark heart of Europe—can children save each
You start to doubt it a little. It doesn’t need to be
But I’ll say it, because it’s embedded in everything
The tales that start with once and end with ever-after,
All, all of the stories are about going to bed,
About coming to terms with the night, alleviating the
Of laying the body down, of lying under a cover.
That’s why our children resist it so. That’s why it
mustn’t be said:
All, all of the stories are about going to bed.
Originally published in Beloit Poetry Journal
after the words of Penny Turner, Nymphaion, Greece
Our guide turned in her saddle, broke the spell:
"You ride now through a field of asphodel,
The flower that grows on the plains of hell.
Across just such a field the pale shade came
Of proud Achilles, who had preferred a name
And short life to a long life without fame,
And summoned by Odysseus he gave
This wisdom, 'Better by far to be a slave
Among the living, than great among the grave.'
I used to wonder, how did such a bloom
Become associated with the tomb?
Then one evening, walking through the gloom,
I noticed a strange fragrance. It was sweet,
Like honey but with hints of rotting meat.
An army of them bristled at my feet."
Originally published in Beloit Poetry Journal
I cease to run. I halt you here,
Pursuer, with an answer:
Do what you will.
What blood you've set to music I
Can change to chlorophyll,
And root myself, and with my toes
Wind to subterranean streams.
Through solid rock my strength now grows.
Such now am I, I cease to eat,
But feed on flashes from your eyes;
Light, to my new cells, is meat.
Find then, when you seize my arm
That xylem thickens in my skin
And there are splinters in my charm.
I may give in; I do not lose.
Your hot stare cannot stop my shivering,
With delight, if I so choose.
Originally published in Archaic Smile, University of Evansville Press