Episode 10: Mangoes and Monsters

Welcome to Episode 10 of the PBQ’s Slush pile! Episode 10!!!! Can you believe it? Thus far, we have released 10 episodes of our podcast. We’d like to say thank you to our listeners, supporters, authors and editorial board! Welcome to Episode 10 of the PBQ’s Slush pile! Episode 10!!!! Can you believe it? Thus far, we have released 10 episodes of our podcast. We’d like to say thank you to our listeners, supporters, authors and editorial board! First up is Jen Karetnick, who submitted the poem “The Physics of Falling Mangoes” for the Locals issue. When we asked her if we could discuss the poem she said, “I love the idea of the podcast editorial meeting, although it might prove to be a little nerve-wracking. But I'm sure my students, who get put through the workshop wringer all year long, will consider it more than just! So for their sake alone, I am delighted to say yes.” Side note: It’s mango season, so we thought what better time to discuss this poem than now! Perplexed at first by a few “scientific” words, we grew to appreciate the intimacy of the vocabulary. Karetnick beautifully and authentically captured the atmosphere where mango trees grow; it’s as if she lives among the trees that she describes. In fact, Jen Karetnick lives in Miami Shores on the last acre of a historic plantation with her husband, two teenagers, three dogs, three cats and fourteen mango trees. This poem will make you want a mango, and to read more of her Jen Karetnick’s work: she released the poetry collection American Sentencing (Winter Goose Publications, May 2016). You can also see more @ TheAtlantic.com, Guernica and her website. The next poem was submitted to our Monsters issue, but you probably would have guessed that. When we first asked Tria Wood she said she was “excited and intrigued” also a “little nervous.”Keep up the bravery poets! Immediately, we noticed the contrast between Godzilla’s graceful swan-like nature and his belly collapsing like a flat tire. The imagery in the third and fourth stanzas also had us close to speechless—which loyal listeners know takes a lot! Every detail had us captivated (even Godzilla's cocktail)! A pleasant surprise for all, we quickly fell in love with this re-imagined Godzilla. Make sure to watch Tria read “Godzilla Walks Into a Bar” herself! Tria Wood’s poetry, fiction, and essays have appeared in Rattle, Literary Mama and other publications. Check out one of the public art projects in Houston that features her work. In this podcast, we also clarify some things that have been happening in our podcasts. Even after our tenth episode, we can still be surprised by the outcomes. We’re sorry to learn that “Brazillian” was accepted elsewhere, but we are glad we still got to discuss it in Episode 8. We also discuss a few questions that arose due to Episode 9: Do you consider the work posted here as published? Is there a difference between posting and publishing work? Listen and then chime in! We’d love to know what you think; let us know on our FB page! Sign for our email list if you’re in the area, and even if you’re not! Send us a self-addressed stamped envelope, and we’ll send you a PBQ Podcast sticker. Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly. Don't forget to subscribe and rate us on our iTunes page! Read on! Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Jason Schneiderman Miriam Haier Tim Fitts Isabella Fidanza Production Engineer: Joe Zang PBQ Box Score: 2=0 ------------------------- Jen Karetnick The Physics of Falling Mangoes If a Haden mango, full with sun, and an ovoid Irwin, that ornament of dawn, drop at the same time from panicles equivalent in height, will they accelerate identically despite degrees of heft, of maturity, the knowledge of their own ripeness? Physics says yes, despite mass, even if it’s a late-season Beverly, still green, set upon too early by a squirrel sitting on its stem, or an Indian mango five pounds large, swaying all summer, too big for the basket of the tool I wield like lightning to strike a singular fruit. The damage, then: That should be equal, too. But all things considered, there is no free fall. Air, on a humid whim, can change its resistance, and there is no formula to adjust for the destructive means of a mango during descent, helicoptering sap through the day’s work of spiderwebs, a season of boat-shaped leaves that bear those burns until they themselves release, and the twigs it breaks without discrimination, whether they are ready to reach like hands or be struck down to ground. And the ground, which could be oolite or limestone, grass or a brother mango, the driveway or the chemical buffer of pool water, my shoulder or arm or skull, willing to take the aromatic knock. I know the parts of the equation: limb, fruit, gravity. But not the sum, upon landing. Wholly bruised? Flesh protected by deflection? Or a split that, turned every possible way, simply, dumbly smiles? Tria Wood Godzilla Walks into a Bar Godzilla walks into a bar. He’s much smaller than you’d expect, really. Scaly, dark, and haggard. He’s been sleeping it off for centuries, all that rage, dust and ashes washed out of the cracks in his suit by the surging Pacific. He’s graceful, surprisingly so. Swanlike, even. He will not look at you. When he sits, his forearms pool on the bar like crayons in the sun. His belly is a flat tire collapsing into his crotch and whatever may be there is hidden. He’ll order something tropical, all rum and fruit and fire, incinerate the paper umbrella with a tiny burst that could have been a laugh. He swivels his head to watch it burn, left, right, then pokes its charred skeleton down into the tumbler and gives it a feeble stir with stubbed fingers. One dark claw etches delicate architecture into the condensation on the glass. And when he turns, half-smiles at you, at last you understand love at first sight.