Night-Plane

by Mara Jebsen I cross the country. Beneath me Towns crackle, bullet holes bleeding light. Yellow, hard, a bright-mustard honey.There are bees and bees in the skull in the sky.Amnesia, I think, is the white air inside an airplane. And fears, I expect, are bizarre infant-plants that grow without sunin the very wee hours. To…

Radiant Blues

by Mara Jebsen Woke up this morning, the moon wasn't right. Woke up this morning, the moon wasn't right. Sharp as a blade, and she slung to the right. Woke up this morning, the moon wasn't right. Carolina, I miss you, miss your crackle-whipped pines; Miss your bread-rising breath, thick-sweet like old times; And I…

The Garden

by Mara Jebsen In this iteration of this poem-essay on Brooklyn, Gentrification, Love, Baseball, Ghosts, and Gardens, I am heavy on instinct and making sense with the senses– in terms of my approach to the way these things connect. In another iteration I may add more of what I am slowly learning about the fascinating…

The Lucky One: On Success, New York and the Artistic Impulse

by Mara Jebsen I met a woman the other day; she told me she was writing a book on luck.“Luck!” I said, “that’s an excellent topic.”And someone else drank some beer and said: “Luck, I’ve heard. . .is just statistics taken personally.” And the woman laughed, agreeing, I think. But I must confess I’m superstitious;…

Poem

by Mara Jebsen First day of May, and the roses on my block all boiled into bloom, as if following a summons– water-logged and lewd they nodded as I passed and I wanted to touch them, but didn't have time– Then I watched a rat pull an entire poppy-seed bagel along subway tracks. He kept…

Rediscovering Renata Adler

by Mara Jebsen One of Claire Messud's interviews for “The Woman Upstairs” has got a lot of people talking about literature and likeability, and about whether a book’s protagonist ought to be warm, and about whether expectations about that warmth are gendered. Messud, in a tone and with a vividness that ultimately pleased even the…