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Carrie Fountain

 02-23-2016

 
Carrie Fountain
 
In the Distant Past

Things weren't very specific
when I was in labor,

yet everything was
there, suddenly: all that

my body had known,
even things I'd only been

reminded of occasionally,
as when a stranger's scent

had reminded me
of someone I'd known

in the distant past. The few
men I'd loved but didn't

marry. The time, living
alone in Albuquerque,

when I fainted in the kitchen
one morning before work

and woke up on the floor,
covered in coffee.

The visit to the psychic
who told Jon he was just where

he needed to be in life,
then told me I was born

to wait and that if
I demonstrated patience

I would someday be
the instant winner

of a great and luxurious prize,
though what it would be

and when it would come
she could not say. Finally,

it was coming. It was all moving
forward. Finally, it was all going

to pass through me. It was
beginning to happen

and it was all going to happen
in one, single night.

No more lingering
in the adolescent pools

of memory, no more giving it
a little more time to see

if things would get better
or worse. No more moving

from one place to the next.
Finally, my body was all

that had ever been given
to me, it was all I had,

and I sweated through it
in layers, so that when,

in the end, I was finally
standing outside myself

and watching, I could see
that what brought me

into the world was pulling
you into the world,

and I could see that my body
was giving you up

and giving you to me,
and where in my body

there were talents, there
were talents, and where

there were no talents
there would be scars.

Nostalgia Says No

Your father is a man with a mustache
and black hair sitting on his haunches
in the sunlight unhooking warm cans of beer
from a six-pack and forcing each
with an easy shove into the white heart
of the ice chest. But no, that was
years ago. Where is the crunching sound
the ice makes? Where is the slow melt
of the passing day, the dead center
of the birthday party, the piñata swaying
heavily overhead? And the now-dead
with their hands folded and their legs
crossed in their lawn chairs, when did they
stand and walk out of the yard, oblivious,
saying, Save me a piece of cake, saying, no
I'll be back, save me a piece of cake.
Is it really that easy? Remind me:
oblivious is a word with no eyes or

Prayer (Rinsed)

By now I feel rinsed
by time, by what

can happen and what can't
happen, rinsed too

by surprise, by the accident
and then the discipline

of love, the body
I've come to, which I am,

even now, leaving behind,
and the mind, the weird

guilt of the passing hour,
the shame of clocks, the way

the day opens its wet, blue
petals then whitens

in the center and falls off
heavily into night, rinsed,

even, by the conversation
I'm having with myself

right now, waiting for the next part
of this sentence, for the next

airplane to pass overhead,
above the city, through

the equanimity of sky, making
that sickening sound of force

and action that is simply
the sound of this prayer

being made and this prayer
being torn apart again.

                        -from Instant Winner

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Poems - Bio - Reviews - Interviews - Reading

Carrie Fountain’s poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Tin House, and Poetry, among others. Her debut collection, Burn Lake, was a National Poetry Series winner and was published in 2010 by Penguin. Her second collection, Instant WInner, was published by Penguin in 2014.

Born and raised in Mesilla, New Mexico, Fountain received her MFA as a fellow at the James A. Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas at Austin. Currently writer-in-residence at St. Edward's University, she lives in Austin with her husband, playwright Kirk Lynn, and their children.

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 A Review of Carrie Fountain's Instant Winner by Caitlin Makcenzi, first published at The Rumpus

Prayer is the language of the poet.

This is not to say a poet’s voice is antiquated. Or inherently more reverent. Or even more laden with longing. Rather, poetry requires an act of faith: the poet sends her language into the world in all its limitations, frustrations, and failures. Despite these impossibilities, the poet believes in transcendence, that language can (does) transcend its own limitations; and it is then hopefully, mysteriously, and strangely received by its reader.

The poems of Instant Winner, Carrie Fountain’s second book of poetry (following her National Poetry Series winning debut, Burn Lake) are fraught prayers, full of doubt and ambivalence and hopeful agnosticism. They are poems seated in insularity. But they spark and flare out and off the page. Exploring change, relationships, parenthood, Instant Winner revels in the contained space (the body, the page, the prayer) while hungering for transcendence. “Why do these / ducks make my soul go nuts // inside the responsibility of my body.” These lines appear in a poem called “Prayer (Wild),” which is part of a series of prayer poems binding Instant Winner. The body doesn’t have responsibilities; the body is responsibility. It is the living, physical, mortal vehicle containing our longings, especially our longings for that which is more than physical and mortal. Our bodies contain the mysterious momentums of mind and heart, our patterns of craving and giving. “Prayer (Wild)” ends:

inside the responsibility of my body
throwing itself at the beauty of the world

like a wild dog someone found
in the woods and took home

and fell in love with and chained
to the porch.

Each poem in this series is titled simply “Prayer” followed by a parenthetical word or phrase, becoming more fraught throughout the book: “Prayer (Easy),” “Prayer (Snap),” “Prayer (Impossible),” “Prayer (Wild),” “Prayer (Far Away).” Each in the series brings us to the intersection of language and spirituality, but Fountain does not appease (is not appeased). Her lines come up frustrated and usually weighted with more yearning than where they began. In the first in the series (Easy):

Who is running this
lonely operation? A wall

of switches, a hall
leading out into

another hall.

And in another in the series (Rinsed):

That sickening sound of force

and action that is simply
the sound of this prayer

being made and this prayer
being torn apart again.

The spaces we occupy then abandon are innumerable, interminable—a hallway that leads to another hallway. Or a prayer that tears itself apart in the making. Absence is a felt thing, never a vacuum.

All of it—even
the absence, the great and constant

absence, the accumulating absences
and the fleeting ones, too—I don’t care

anymore how easy it looks, or how
impossible. I’m counting all of it.

And all of it should be counted—all the loss that’s imprinted us, all that we’ve been given and is then riven. Birth, then, is the consummate experience of giving and loss: “and I could see that my body / was giving you up // and giving you to me.” Fountain interrogates the momentary flare of the present, which is always birthing itself and then immediately collapsing. “With or without / God, this moment continues to end and end.” That the poems of Instant Winner are about birth and parenting, then, is no surprise. These poems are often explicitly about being a mother, but Fountain does not stray into sentimentality, or even introspection, but she deconstructs contemporary expressions of motherhood. Fountain strips away common constructions to reveal the pain inherent to mothering, the pain of giving out of your body.

In the opening poem of Instant Winner: “Let this body // be the body you’ll carry forward at least into this day.” These lines are indicative of the book’s consummate arc: what we have, our only constant is our body—that mortal vehicle that paradoxically holds infinite webs of memory, impulse, desire, fear. “Finally, my body was all // that had ever been given / to me, it was all I had.” We are kept in skin, kept in the present, which is an extrapolation of the past and influenced by desire for the future. In that tension we have to give and let go.

And in another poem, “how the living // body can feel irrevocable.” “Irrevocable” meaning destined? Meaning instinctive? I suspect both—“irrevocable” anchored to both poles of spiritual and physical, driven by both unknowns and knowns. Is this not the space where faith is most lively? When ordinary and uncommon intersect? And are these moments not, also, the most charged, as they are nearly impossible to command into being, yet they affect our being . . . irrevocably?

Fountain’s poems are not haunted by the past. However they do, in moments, lust for it, but always, wisely, turning away, clinging to the present. Fountain seems tempted to that place of sanctifying memory, but ultimately rejects memorialization for the spark of the lived moment. In one of her best poems, simply titled “Yes,” the speaker repeats a refusal of the past (not necessarily with regret or lamentation): “I am done smoking cigarettes, done waiting tables . . . I am done with the night a guy spread my legs / on a pool table . . . I am done teaching the poetry class where no one talked and no one / listened to me . . . I am done / being a childless woman, a childless wife, a woman with no scars / on her body.” Fountain could have easily constructed this poem as litany of past mistakes and their resounding lessons, but her lines are imbued with ambiguity and embrace. That is, the past is what it is, neither haunt nor nothing. Fountain refuses to dwell. “And I am done too, for the most part, / with the daydream of after. I am after for now.” And then later in “Yes”: “I am done thinking of the past as if it had / survived.” Is this desire to transcend our bounds to time? I wonder if it is more: to live presently, to maintain a moment in its purity. But “though sometimes I think of the past and sometimes I see it / coming, catching up, hands caked with dried mud, heads shaved cleaned.”

The last poem in Instant Winner is, quite naturally, one from the Prayer series. Faith, language, and desire coalesce. And we get Fountain at her most intuitive, most insightful: “I want my heart to belong to God, but / I can’t help feeling that my heart belongs // to me.” Then later “Oh, how tiny I am in this heart” and “So I must look for it. Because that’s / the only way to find it. Right?” That question doesn’t strike me as rhetorical. After all, Fountain is a poet straining for—straining in—faith. All language becomes a series of questions

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Click here to read a review of Instant WinnerI at Kenyon Review

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Poems - Bio - Reviews - Interviews - Reading

Carrie Fountain and the 'Daring Political Act' of Writing About Motherhood at KUT.org

 
Why Carrie Fountain Always Remains a Beginner at KUT.org

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Poems - Bio - Reviews - Interviews - Reading

Click here to view a reading by Carrie Fountain at the Lannan Foundation




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Carrie Fountain



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