Storyteller of the Week

Alarie Tennille

 

Photo of Alarie Tennille at the age of 18

 

Alarie Tennille was born and raised in Portsmouth, Virginia, with a genius older brother destined for NASA, a ghost, and a yard full of cats.  She was a pioneer coed at the University of Virginia and graduated with a degree in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. After a career mostly in editing and writing (let’s forget a stint at Social Security), Alarie is retired and pleased to have more time with her husband, cats, and poetry. She serves on the Emeritus Board of The Writers Place in Kansas City, and emcees Rose Garden Readings at a local park. Alarie published her first chapbook in 2010, followed by three longer collections from Kelsay Books (all on Amazon).

 Running Counterclockwise was first runner up for the Thorpe Menn Award for Literary Excellence in 2015. Alarie’s latest book, Three A.M. at the Museum, was named Director’s Pick at The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. She was delighted to have Lorette Luzajic, Editor of The Ekphrastic Review (TER), write an introduction to that book. Lorette honored Alarie with the first Fantastic Ekphrastic Editor’s Choice Award. It’s small wonder that you’ll find her largest collection of online poems in the TER archive. She has also been nominated several times for a Pushcart Prize and for Best of Net.

 

At age 6, Alarie decided she wanted to be an artist, but a summer creative writing class at age 17 changed her path. She didn’t think of herself as a poet, but a friend kept prodding her to write her family’s memoirs. Surprise! They surfaced as poems. The three major themes in Alarie’s poetry are family, art, and quirky news or ideas. Those quirky poems are more rare, but easier, since they feel like they drop from the sky. To learn more about her, check out her blog at alariepoet.com.

 

Comments by Editor Sharon Waller Knutson

 

I’ve been a fan of Alarie Tennille ever since I read “Ballroom Dance School” in 2013 on Your Daily Poem but it wasn’t until I recently commented on her poem, “Anticipating My High School Reunion” on Verse-Virtual in March that we started exchanging emails and discovered we write in a similar style and have published in the same journals. I have selected five of my favorite poems of hers that I have read over the years.

 

Ballroom Dance School

 

We all learn to leave

tennis shoes at home,

to move counterclockwise

around the floor, and not

to watch our feet.  Eventually,

we know whether a song

invites a foxtrot or rumba

without being told.  We stop

counting. Our hips undulate.

We slink like housecats.

 

But you can always tell

who has studied ballet.

It’s in the hands.  The rest of us

can learn the steps, but not that

way of springing sparrows

off a branch, then curling them

back into safety.

                                                           

Southern-Fried Mama

 

At age six or so, my world expanded

to the kitchens of friends. Chef Boyardee

spaghetti that looked like red worms

we used for fishing. Macaroni

and cheese – more worms swimming

in orange water. Iced tea soured

by saccharine. Because I was Mama’s

Daughter, I politely ate what was served.

 

Although she worked full time, Mama

was a queen of Southern cuisine.

Hail to Duke’s mayo, bacon drippings,

Smithfield ham, and Crisco!

 

How could tiny Mama wield a massive

cast iron skillet like she did a fly swatter?

Or stay tiny, for that matter? After fixing

supper, she’d insist the back was her favorite

piece of fried chicken, while the rest of us

gorged on all we could eat. 

 

Since it would be years before I was tall

enough to tend a skillet of popping

oil, she did all the work. I set the table

and kept her company. It was time

for our girl talks.

 

I was proud when she asked me

to shape the salmon cakes,

because my tiny hands made them

extra crispy.

 

No wonder cooking is the only

housework I don’t hate. I cook

lighter and more exotic meals

than Mama, but I often think of her

as I stir and wish I could make

her chicken and dumplings.

 

Alone at the Diner

 

Thinking coffee.

Thinking wheat toast thinly spread

with raspberry jam over a pond of butter.

Thinking two eggs, yolks running away,

corralled by a fence of bacon.

Thinking, “I’m the only customer,”

but feeling you lean across the table.

Knowing you want a taste.

 

Dear Toaster,

 

You deserve a morning person,

someone who bounces out of bed

like, well…you know how you do.

 

I can’t even look at your shiny

morning face without seeing

my sheet wrinkles, bed head,

 

and pre-coffee frown. I need to ease

into day with Debussy.  You’re

the cymbals in a Sousa march.

 

I’m the cat in a You Tube video

who falls off the counter

when you erupt.

 

Poetry 101

 

Let’s jump right into this. Please

take out some paper and write

a jellyfish.

 

You mean a poem? asks Ms. Front

of the Class. No, I never confuse

a jellyfish with a poem. Do you?

 

I mean make me see, feel, want

to be a jellyfish. Say I’m an alien

from Planet Xanax

 

or someone who’s always lived

in the mountains of Tibet. Introduce

me to your jellyfish.

 

Maybe you can tell me why it’s easy

to tell a jellyfish from a poem –

or why is that hard?

 

Because you can see through

a jellyfish to what lies behind it,

suggests Mr. Loves to Talk. Like

 

in a poem, he adds. They move

like they were spilled into the ocean,

suggests another guy in the back.

 

Ms. Worried says, I’ve never seen

a jellyfish. ­ You’re lucky, I say.

You can write the confessions

 

of an imaginary jellyfish. While talking,

my eyes go to the girl in the red cashmere

sweater and the guy who just rolled

 

out of bed. Both are writing furiously,

already out to deep sea,

not looking back.

 

Alarie thanks all the journals that showcase her work.  “Ballroom Dance School” was first published in I-70 Review, “Southern Fried Mama” in Your Daily Poem, “Alone at the Diner” in  Deep South Magazine,  “Dear Toaster” and “Poetry 101” in Wild Goose Poetry Review, which the author wishes would make a comeback.