Carol Smallwood’s review of Deborah Turner’s poetry collection Sweating it Out

Photo of four young Black women playing basketball, on the cover of Deborah Turner's poetry collection. Title is in red and yellow and the photo is in black and white. Next to that is a photo of poet Deborah Turner, a Black woman with earrings and a green top standing in front of a brick wall.

Sweating It Out

Finishing Line Press

September, 2020

$14.99, softcover, 30 pages

ISBN 978-1-64662-256-6 (paperback)

Smallwood: What is your educational background?

Turner: I earned successive degrees from the Universities of California, Berkeley, Michigan, and then Washington, respectively. I majored in English and minored in Native American Studies and moved on to library studies. I eventually earned my doctorate in Information Science, focusing mainly on library management and talking as a way to exchange information.

Smallwood: When did sports become an important part of your life?

Turner: Very early on. My transition from playing to competing in sports went fairly easily. Likely this reflects how I benefited from Title IX. As a kid, I was very active and played sports. I’ve always been tall for my age. A coach once looked across the school yard and spotted me, head and shoulders above the other sixth-graders. He recruited me for a relay race. Basketball, rowing, softball, and track coaches would later repeat this gesture right up through my undergraduate years.

Smallwood: How did you come up with the theme for Sweating It Out?

Turner: A mentor and later a fellow member of my feminist writing group, Akasha (Gloria) Hull, heard my first sports poem and encouraged me. It used softball to explore the experience of becoming the family matriarch. “Five poems make up a series,” she’d said. Her words motivated me to write additional jock poems, as I called them. That series has become Sweating with its sports poetry.

Smallwood: Some lines in the first poem in your chapbook, “Juneteenth,” caught my attention:

And the children run free

like schools of sardines

lacing the kelp-like crowd in jubilee.

       Please share some other imagery lines using your sports background:

Turner: Ah, thank you for mentioning that line. I do love having been fortunate to have spent several hours mesmerized by marine creatures at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Such experiences provide wonderful metaphors for poetry.

When elders step in to help right a situation, I feel a reverence that reminds me of the rhythmic tension involved in watching a tennis match (from “Something from Nothin”):

…a cautious serve, slow and inviting, a volley ensued smooth as a grandfather clock tocking…

There’s another instance of imagery in “Double Dutch,” perhaps a symbol of Me Too despite it having been written before that movement began:

…she pretends

It’s her turn to twirl

and the game ends

with rain.

I first experienced and expressed real anger while playing in a basketball game. An 8th grade teammate prevented me from scoring. For the good of the team, I shook a fist at and then one-armed hugged her, tight. Next, I let go of the intense feelings rushing through me and kept playing, certain we could still win. Sports helped me learn how to remain grounded when emotional, while remaining present during challenging situations (“Sidelined”):

She parents like she’s coming in off the bench.

Been coached forever, but the real thing—well…

It can be an incredible sensation to enter into a sporting event tentatively and come out confident—just as it is in life.

Smallwood: In the poem, “My Son’s Avatar” please comment on these very relevant lines:

And I try to recall what a decade of burning bras

and another of fighting, to make our lives matter,

 meant.

Turner: Each generation does what it can, we hope, to make the world a better place. Yet, we have no idea how the next generation will make sense of our efforts. We strive so earnestly. Meanwhile, children are born; young people get old. When working to make sense of the moments we have, I’m moved to anger, sadness, laughter, and—of course—the unexpected. This poem emerges from watching a beautiful, mixed-race boy passionately select a cartoonish, stereotypically sexual girl from among all the available avatars to be his online game piece. His choice gave me pause and reminded me to make careful wishes. It results in a poem that, among other things, conveys a warning and a wish that we work to ensure our ethical and social practices keep pace with our technological advances.

Smallwood: When did you become conscious of feminism?

Turner: Hum, what a good question. It’s hard to pin down an answer. I studied it in college. Yet, I lived it as a kid. My mother was a hippie and a feminist. So, looking back, I recall being introduced to feminist ways of being from how she modeled it with her life choices. But I had no word for it back then. While studying it, I felt a sense of familiarity while reading classical works, like those in Cherrie Moraga’s This Bridge Called My Back. I once shared a stage with her. That was a real honor.

Smallwood: There are not that many librarians who also are accomplished poets. How did it influence you?

Turner: Yes, that’s true. I’m happy to be following in your accomplished footsteps. There’s an interesting anthology on this theme, Poet-Librarians in the Library of Babel: Innovative Meditations on Librarianship. I really relate to one of its poems about finding an especially moving letter in an archival collection and getting completely distracted from my professional responsibilities! As a librarian, I worked mainly in library public services. Doing so allowed me to watch. I’ve listened to Alice Walker, Maya Angelou, and many other poets describe how writers need to observe. I find helping and watching how people learn how to get much-desired information very satisfying. I relate to the showing/teaching side of library work. Enjoyment in such educational activities led me into the library and information science professorate. Since, I’ve realized there is a strong teaching and learning element in poetry. In that way, librarianship enhanced my career as a writer, which predates mine as a librarian.

Smallwood: Distinguished Professor of English Education, Jeffrey D. Wilhelm (Boise State University) observed that your poems deal with “…deep issues of identity and transformation.” Please share some of these lines:

Turner: The concepts of identity and transformation easily bring to mind how we come of age into adulthood. Yet, life is full of many moments in which we fully realize and accept who we are and use it to inform a different way of being.

A professional arrives at a new place of peace and ambition in “Time Out”:

one by one, lessons of assimilating

fly up and out the mediation retreat window,

taking with them the good sense your mama made you

promise to use

Some lines explore lovingly choosing oneself over others you love (“From the Lighthouse”):

May you know my love even as I leave the lighthouse.

Other lines reflect accepting one’s parents (“Black Patriarch”):

She used to think him snake-like, shedding families like skin   

Still others focus on changing roles with one’s parents (“Switch Hitting”):

This time

who has permission

to grant, to deny?

Pondering, she feels eight again

awkwardly switch hitting…

in the last inning

of her mother’s final season.

Smallwood: Please comment on your contributions to two anthologies: Philadelphia Says: Black Lives Have Always Mattered, and Testimony:

Turner: I have a poem and a prose piece in these works. In Philadelphia Stories, my poem, “Young, Gifted, and Back,” speaks to life after completing college. The title plays on Lorraine Hansberry’s famous play. The second work Testimony has quite a sub-title… Young African-Americans on Self-Discovery and Black Identity. My prose contribution to the volume, “Letters to My Sister,” provides a window into the lives of two young women, one in college; another, a mental institution.

Smallwood: What are you working on now?

Turner: I am working on a novel and a memoir. My first novel, Harvesting Her Own Cranberries is set in 1983. Harvesting tells the story of 12-year-old, mixed-race Tink, who goes missing. Readers follow Tink and her blended family, working to get her home safely. As readers learn what becomes of Tink, they’ll journey with her through a cranberry farm that nurtures more than what first appears. It also touches on a theme I mention above, coming of age at different times throughout one’s life. I’m also working on a memoir based on my life in West Philadelphia.

For a reading and discussion guide for Sweating It Out, or to learn more about Turner and her works, please check: http://www.deborahturner.online

Carol Smallwood, MLS, MA, Marquis Lifetime Achievement Award recipient, is a literary reader, judge, interviewer; her 13th poetry collection is Thread, Form, and Other Enclosures (Main Street Rag, 2020)

Poetry from Rori Raghda

“Rock and Sand”

Raghda Mouazen, Syria

As rock and sand we live

You so strong cannot be harmed

Taking over the surface, keeping me captive

The pressure goes on and on till I burned

Breakable now I to glass turned

You say sand I used to be I won’t break

There I lay shattered under rocks

They say it was the heat and you made no mistake

“My Sole Sun”

Raghda Mouazen, Syria                

I truly adore
Your dazzling shine
Lovely upon my core
The dreary night you confine
With flames of vitality you always bore.

Stunned, Impassioned I behold
How you can reach
Every one and each
Corner of my world.

I thrive to survive the mighty storm
My roses are worn, my trees are bare
My fields to a cemetery transform
Only death, only despair
To roam!

I see only black, I feel only cold
Weary as I am, I cannot hold
Impossible for life to flower, to grow
Without your blaze, without your warmth
It is not utter darkness though.

A fair gleam can reach
These silky strings of gold
Penetrate through the shadows
Gently laid upon my sorrows.

Look! how the gallows
Turn to buds and blooms
Oh how the rainbow
Defeats the ache and the gloom
As if I were never hollow.
 
The bleak dew
Now on the petals glow
A colourful starry sky
You paint in the morn.

The darkness of the night cannot prevail
Or plot the black death of my soul
For although you have worn your veil
A white glimmer of hope you send keeps me whole.

But how do the stars glitter far?
Perhaps every single one
Has its own universe
To bring life to,
To flicker.

Forever in your care
Under your large wings
I find tenderness, I find love
How I adore you up above,
With your everlasting beauty
And compassionate heart,
How vast my love is for thee,
Mother.

“Overthinking”

Raghda Mouazen, Syria

Filled with all gloomy thoughts

The air enters my lungs

After whispering into my ears

Leaving me between life and death hung.

You shouldn’t have followed the goblins

Staying with humans was best!

But I have to save the tiny butterflies

And give them the burden of my chest.

A snake keeps hissing

In the air spreading its poison

The butterflies are missing

And the snake is plotting with the goblins.

I swallow the poison downwards

The selfish words keep hissing

I look the snake in the eyes

To stone my mind turns

A new sting on my heart

And it burns.

The goblins laugh and party

Drinking the tears,

Dancing on the sobs

Into giant monsters they turn

Feeding on the fears

Bearing a sword reciting them to me.

Only thorns it plants

Horns they have bent

Words that redden they grant

But believe me certainly not meant!

Blood dripping roses they give

To others who won’t live

To say that they have witnessed the giant’s teeth

A smile they show when I pass by

A knife they stab when I turn my eyes.

Bear the pain I can not

I once escaped but no, now I’m not

I had to regret a lot

For forsaking the slaughter

And die quietly among their laughter.

The strong memory of the ears

Did no good for the red weary eyes

Reciting nothing but fears

Generating only sobs and sighs.

In my throat it is still

The bitterness of the poisonous letters

Breaking my bones

Eating up my flesh

Sucking the crimson well

That feeds my heart.

The pillow is fed up with my tears

The night is furious at my sobs

That broke the sacred silence of the ears

Still, darkness is the only friend that never left me.

Poetry from Henry Bladon

Narcissist

Don’t tell me to roll with the punches

and don’t lecture me with  

supercharged sepulchral rhetoric

about the curses and blessings of life.

Posturing is the seedling of toxicity

and gesturing is the mother of pomposity,

but you wouldn’t know about that

existing in your world of endless personal imagery.

Your lime juice sense of entitlement

and distorted chilli pepper logic

congeals in your bubble gum brain

like acid pips in a rotten core

Take your arrogance for a long walk

and watch the filament of your empathy

uncoil behind you like a rusted fuse wire

I know what you are and so do you.

The Denial of Darkness

While contemplating

the hypersensitivity of others

I became hypersensitive

to modern etiquette

and subsequently terrified

of transgressing a rule

about which I am

yet to be informed

so,

I closed my eyes

only to discover that

the complete Book of Revelations

was written in pen

on the inside of my eyelids.


Henry is a writer, poet and mental health essayist based in Somerset in the UK. He has a PhD in literature and creative writing from the University of Birmingham. His latest poetry collection is a collaboration about mental health with Dutch artist Marcel Herms and is available from Egalitarian Publishing.

Elizabeth Hughes’ Book Periscope

Middle aged white woman with glasses, a smile and blonde bangs
Elizabeth Hughes

Without Jenny by Mark Gunther

Barren tree on a hill against a blue background. Without Jenny and the author's name, Mark Gunther, are in white at the top.

Without Jenny is a bittersweet novel about the Jewish Community in San Francisco. It follows the Rosenberg family through their grieving process after a freak accident took the life of their daughter Jenny. Joy and Jenny were on their way to have a mother/daughter outing when Joy pulls across the street from a small store to buy a water for her daughter. While in the store she hears a horrible crash and finds that tons of scaffolding has crushed her car with Jenny inside. The story follows how hard it is to grieve the death of one child while trying to be there emotionally for their younger son. It also shows how the grieving of a child can not only tear a family apart but how hard it is to stay together. It also lets us know how the grieving process is very personal, how a parent never “gets over it” but learns how to cope and learn to live again.

Mark Gunther’s Without Jenny is available here.

Poetry from Alan Catlin

13-

Jellyfish beach bingo.  No Annette.

No Frankie. Men of war. Tentacle

tungsten light house.  What are we

fighting for.  Eric Burden and House

of the Rising.  John O’Hara or Frank.

Aristophanes is out. Brook Farm is

no Utopia. Nowhere. Erewhon. No

matter what Well(e)s says. War of

the Worlds my ass.  Even real life is

a movie. If true, who will direct.

                        14-

A child’s religious experience is a

merry-go-round. The bear comes

over the mountain.  The movie. I

forget. A Child’s Christmas in Wales

Wails. By the Sound.  East Egg red

warning light. Across the vast expanse.

Every night . On the wrong side of

the enchanted toll booth. Cash only.

No passing in this lane. How many axels.

Tool collector’s scam.  Big money that.

Once upon a time. Séance on a Wet

Afternoon. Not a good beach day.

                        15-

Either the aluminum ice cream or

the luminous supermarket eggs.

Inside the Not-So-Friendly’s. Best

job I never got. We’ll call you.

Don’t call. I’m still not holding my

breath. Yale Art gallery steeped

in Americana.  Not DeLillo.  Waiting

for Francis Bacon Express train to

Hartford.  Suicide on the tracks.

The relative importance of beer and

hot dogs. On the beach. After the bomb

drops.  The jelly fish graveyard.

Buried alive in wet sand. No Swimming

Allowed. How to tell the kids.

The Summer is almost over.

                        16-

I need money.  Beatles on the radio.

Not an original to them.  Twist and.

Summertime and the living is. Porgy and.

Peanut Butter and jelly on.  The beach.

Where the kids are. What the kids love.

A Walk in the Sun. The yellow brick road

to hell. It’s all politics. Cape Fear(s).

Fists of Fury, Love and hate tattoos.

Words of God.  Jesus wore sandals.

Walked on water. Was a tough act to follow.

                        17-

Sleeping with Jim Morrison. Not a religious

experience. Said Eve Babitz. She would

know. Knew him when.  New word-Zuihitsu.

means writing by following the brush. How

about by following the thought. Wherever.

Whatever. Along The Narrow Road to the Interior.

I guess. No evident meaning. Asleep, I am, on

my pillow book. Not the movie. Maybe my life.

Definitely not a Draughtsman Contract.

I apologize for the eyes in my head. I dare

you to spell Komunyakaa twice fast. Once.

Oh the trouble I have seen. In my interior

journal. The brush is wet. Light my fire.

                        18-

Can’t wake up. My pillow book is so

aggressive.  Inscribing pictures of Breughel

on my skin. Not tattoos. Not an illustrative

man. A motion picture. Skin movies.

Theaters of the mind. Coming soon.

Not as good as real sex. Or as bad.

Poetry from Stephen Golds

I’ll Never Forget

Wearing the sneakers my mother’d 

got from a catalogue 

smiling on half-price sale for my birthday. 

The kids at school sneered, pointed with 

fingers like pistols. 

Somehow they always knew. 

I never wore them again &

Mother kept paying the layaway. 


15

alone in that old house 

It felt the least haunted then.

Smoking my father’s cigarettes, 

sipping at his whisky. 

knowing I should be at school but 

realizing that was just exchanging 

one kind of isolation for another. 

I’ll Give It Your Name

Right here, I said. I want your mark.

She holding the straight razor, 

couldn’t do it, hurt me that way. 

It wasn’t in her nature, she said. 

She fucked that guy she met 

from the internet instead. 

When It Flares Up 

That vicious stray clawing 

at the door. Rain moving, 

a grey blanket inside this room. 

Counting worthless things lying to 

myself that everything’s going to be alright.

Mercy

A damp Sunday afternoon

walking with my father 

through fields.

We found a rabbit 

that was blind and deaf, 

its fur moved like water 

underneath my tiny fingertips.

My father snapped its neck.

The kindest thing, he said.

I was seven years old 

& I cried.

My father shook his head at me,  

the dead rabbit hanging limp from his fist

like so many words unsaid. 

Medicine 

The VD clinic was empty &

the smell of her lingered 

over my hands & fingers. 

Tinny music left small speakers,

my sneakers dancing alone &

the nurse at the reception desk frowning. 

I grinned a little, while I 

waited, thinking if anyone 

had given me a disease,

I was happy 

it was 

her.


Stephen J. Golds was born in London, U.K, but has lived in Japan for most of his adult life. He enjoys spending time with his daughters, reading books, traveling, boxing and listening to old Soul LPs. His novel Say Goodbye When I’m Gone will be released by Red Dog Press in October 2020 and another novel Glamour Girl Gone will be released by Close to The Bone Press January 2021.

Poetry from Hongri Yuan, translated by Yuanbing Zhang

By Chinese poet Hongri Yuan

Translated by Yuanbing Zhang

 Four Poems

The Sea of The Golden Palace

Happiness is the memory of heaven

And the soul is as sweet as the sun.

On the canvas of the death

you daub a smile from the gods.

Oh, that is the light! The light of honey.

If you can hear the heavenly hymns

that is the sea from that golden palace

lapping sapphire over eternal universe.

黄金的宫殿之海

快乐是天堂的记忆

而灵魂是甜美的太阳

在死亡的画布之上

你涂抹诸神的笑容

哦  那是光  光之蜜

如果你听见了天国的乐曲

那是黄金的宫殿之海

在蓝宝石的太空之上

2016.7.30

The Wine of The Soul

I pick up a smiling flower from the future city

To light up your black iron dreams

The new book of the world delivers by the holy lightning

The giant’s body rotates the transparent picture of the faraway stars-cape

The light emanates from the gods

Let you see yourself without any sorrow

The body is high and translucent, each cells are as sweet as the wine of the souls. 

灵魂之酒

我摘取一朵未来之城的笑容之花

照亮你的黑铁之梦

天国的闪电送来新的世界之书

巨人的体内旋转透明的星云之图

那来自诸神的光芒

让你看到那个不知忧愁的自己

身体巨大透明  每一颗细胞甜美如灵魂之酒

2015.3.16

The City of Angel’s Smile

The white and silvery words of the moon kingdom

shone in the dream last night

The king of giants

in the massive cities of ancient times

presented me the gem book of the soul

I will build a garden in the desert

fill the jade vase with the holy spring

Let the rivers and lakes shine

a city of the angel’s smile

天使的微笑之城 

月亮之国的银白词语

在昨夜的梦境闪烁

那位巨人的王

在史前的巨城

赠我宝石的灵魂之书

我将在沙漠上建造花园

用一只玉瓶盛来天国之甘泉

让河流和湖泊映照

一座天使的微笑之城

 2016.5.7

The Interstellar Kingdom

Sometimes I see the sky smiling at me

The limpidity spirit and flower clouds

such as the old soul of mine

watch my shadow on the earth

The ground beneath my feet like a colossal ship

toward the Interstellar Kingdom

Those cities where giants dwell

blossom on the dustless Milky Way.

星际的王国 

有时我看到天空向我微笑

那淸澈的空明  花朵的云儿

仿佛我那古老的灵魂

注视着我在人间的身影

这脚下的大地是一艘巨轮

正在驶向星际的王国

那些巨人们居住的城市

在没有尘埃的银河上绽放

 2016.1.2

Bio:

Hongri Yuan (b. 1962) is a Chinese mystic poet and philosopher. His work has been published in journals and magazines internationally in UK, USA, India, Mexico, New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria. He has authored a number long poems including Platinum City, The City of Gold, Golden Paradise, Gold Sun and Golden Giant. The theme of his works is the exploration about human prehistoric civilization and future civilization.

About the Translator

Middle aged Chinese man dressed in all black standing in a green field of grain. He has glasses and short black hair.
Yuanbing Zhang

Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), who is a Chinese poet and translator, works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District , Jining City, Shandong Province, China. He can be contacted through his email- 3112362909@qq.com.