The poet cries before Georgia O’Keeffe

The poet knew from the experience of others about the emotional confrontation or inner-electric shock that occurs when confronted by paintings that summon memories deliberately stored away. She thought about all the documented spiritual experiences that must exist in personal archives, attics or carefully tucked behind skin and skulls:

…sitting in Rothko’s Chapel in Houston, Texas, for example the blacks, the acid trip in variations of monochrome pigment that causes headaches and the heart rate to quicken, blood pressure almost never voluntary.

She both waited for this moment and dispelled its possibility, disbelieving it, debasing it as myth, and refusing to abandon her intellect and participate in irresponsible acts of losing oneself.

The poet stands before the paintings of Georgia O’Keeffe in an exhibition aiming to situate the artist outside the common rhetoric equating her flora to female sex.

Landscape never seemed so important. Watercolour topography had yet to be so apt, so private, yet also about the planet we love but didn’t choose. The poet examines photographs of naked Georgia, taken by her photographer husband, man/maker: Georgia was everywhere and the poet let herself cry without restriction.

Love poem

We lay without pants 

on the unchartered tiles 

of the cold bathroom floor

where we kissed each other’s bodies:

there was so much affection between us. 

Having forgotten our friends 

just outside the door, 

as they danced and drank whiskey, 

we spent time

knowing, accepting, revelling

in how vulnerable we knew we were becoming, 

feeling somehow safe despite it 

in all the new. 

With each touch, 

we were learning and 

taking notes of the particularities 

of the other 

without realising. 

It was hard to kiss

and look at each other 

at the same time, and 

I wondered which I had to privilege. 

I tried to memorise your face

so that I could elicit it 

in moments apart. 

We knew the words 

for what was happening all weekend. 

Too soon to utter anything, 

we spooned, 

switching every so often 

to assure we were both held so close. 

Two poems for the first time in a while

Water

I check the news
every morning before I shower
in case
they have warned about
contaminated water.
Should the world end,
and they announce it in advance,
I would pray
nonetheless
for clean water, throughout:
back to the basics.
If I dream when I sleep,
it is always, invariably, about
the glacial river at Cathedral Mountain.
I allow my apocalyptic fears to
wash over me,
even though I know better.


Air

To sit on the lodge porch again
overlooking the river
so fresh you could bring your glass to it
and rehydrate your body
in its entirety
with a single sip:
get me out of London.

Carbon monoxide fills me up instead
and I grow aware of molecules
in the air I wish to call my own,
although it clearly
belongs to something much larger.
I imagine the rain tastes of poison,
though I cannot be certain:
I acknowledge my tendency
for amplification
for the production of false atmospherics
emotional in my mind.

Suzannah

Suzannah

Your half pint caused me distress:
I thought if we drank enough
we might become sisters,
already now.

We talked about sex with men
and sex with women
so I thought us all inaugurated
with one another
as we organised our own bodies on the couches in our living room.

"There's a koala in you"
you told me that afternoon we drank rice tea and lived together, separately
and I felt you understood me.
When we agreed it was hard to write about love
I secretly swore never to do it.

Maybe I'll sing to you one day
some kind of country song
that I haven't written yet
about beer and bodies.
It was that man who spoke about concrete
that brought us together
and made us old to each other, known to each other.

When I washed my face
I thought about not doing it
and going out to roll in snow,
but England didn't make enough of it.

A sentiment describing right now

A sentiment describing right now

I’ll always remember you

reading Walt Whitman that summer

but now its warmer than it should be outside,

nearly five years later

and it feels like we’ve barely spoken.

I’m having one of those moments

I know I should try to hold onto on purpose,

where music can almost levitate you

(maybe its just the air mattress)

but I could swear it’s the fiddle.

Wondering now what the new Star Wars

sounds like with a Polish voice over –

always that same man-voice –

for folks with bellies full of carp and pate,

or for me.

When you said it was ok to cry

in public, I could never have predicted

it would stay with me this way,

this way that it has,

and yet, I cry less often now.

I thought about your gestures,

though it seems I’ve forgotten how

you move your body to tell me something.

I read books quickly these days, flipping the pages

as they dictate the angles of my hands.

Forebearer finally here!

Super Inuit & Jessica Schouela – Forebearer

Out November 20th on download and cassette limited to 50 copies. 

Full album:

Soundcloud | Bandcamp

Forebearer is the audio product of a collaboration between Super Inuit (Brian Pokora) and Jessica Schouela. The compilation of Jessica’s poems launched the project and, although written at different times, they were chosen based on a shared sense of curiosity, vulnerability, and a wish to explore familial interactions. The poems are a play between viewing and reviewing history and at the same time, interrogating a possible future. Although the poems had not originally been intended as spoken word, they nonetheless lend themselves to an oral reading, even more so in conversation with Brian’s underlying soundscapes on which the readings sit. 

The cover of the record is a portrait drawn by Jessica of her grandfather in the 1930s, who lived until 102. In this regard, he represents not only the literal forebearer of the poet, but reflects a life that began in times that could only view the present as some sort of sci-fi existence. Nevertheless, as humans we adapt, a sentiment that ultimately sets the tone for the multi-media project. 

Chakra (Forebearer teaser)

Here is a teaser from my upcoming record with Super Inuit (Brian Pokora), which combines my poems and his electronic beats. The album will be coming out very soon with a press release! Keep an eye out.

Best British Poetry 2015

I'm very excited to announce that my poem, "Poem In Which I Watch Jane Brakhage Give Birth" was selected to be included in this year's Salt's publication of the Best British Poetry 2015. The poem was originally published by Poems In Which back in April. Obviously, I'm thrilled to be included in this anthology.

Read poem at: http://poemsinwhich.com/2015/04/02/poem-in-which-i-watch-jane-brakhage-give-birth/ 

Or buy the book: http://www.saltpublishing.com/products/best-british-poetry-2015-9781784630300

Prose poem on Jungftak

Check out this prose poem I wrote published on Jungftak today: http://www.jungftak.com/#/birthday-party-jessica-schouela/

Image taken from Jungftak, which was illustrated to accompany my prose poem. 

Scottish Isles

Scottish Isles

When I looked out into the Scottish sea,

into the pixels on the screen,

I thought it strange that I felt

well-traveled.

The light from the television reflected

on the surface of my glasses;

I imagined it would be difficult to see my eyes,

with the distracting images of the sea

playing through Netflix on my lenses.

I’d go there,

I thought

because its so close,

because I live in Scotland.

I’ve been there,

I felt

because I’d seen it

because of its presence on my eyes.

I waited with intent for the scene to be over;

I caught myself counting the seconds

until I might be released

from the duty of representing a landscape

that is not native to me.

Slow Things

I've got a poem in this anthology published by The Emma Press called "Slow Things". My poem is about what happens to a person when the internet is slow.

2 PM

2 PM

You joined the Navy

even though I asked you not to,

and I wondered if the sea

is different to people like you.

What happens to your lesbian girlfriend

and your pet ferret

when you are on a boat?

Do you see a lot of whales?

Are you afraid of war?

I’ve seen a lot of war

in the movies,

and have read a lot of words

that didn’t stay with me

in any significant way.

When your aunt died

I cried by myself in Glasgow

and remembered when she stuffed

olives with anchovies

for Christmas Eve dinner.

I said I want to help people

Dad said he just doesn’t see it

I’m too self-oriented,

no offense. I say I prefer the term

emotionally curious.

I wore brown pants

the day you asked me

to marry you, as a joke.

You said,

I can’t marry a woman who

can’t  sew on a button.

I said,

I understand.

But, let me sneeze in your mouth

I can do it on command,

that way, we will share our insides.

I wore my brown pants that day

I spilled ketchup all over my legs,

soiling the linen.

Its hard for you to understand

not getting up before noon

and why for some,

the world is a sensorial horror.

You knew my friend well,

the one who practiced life

on the computer:

sims or chat rooms and shit,

walking around virtual parks,

playing house, leaving bed.

Sweet mother of God,

the sky looks so beautiful

at 2 PM,

unusual.

The Funeral

One of my poems was published today in Issue 7 of Really System. It is one of my poems that is most dear to me and is about my experience at my grandfather's funeral.


http://reallysystem.org/issues/seven/the_funeral/

Café Manuela

Café Manuela

Its been four years since

I saw the adult man shriek and weep

over the freshly dead body

of a small dog in the street,

now stained with a trickle of blood.

Four years later I return

to Café Manuela

under different circumstances.

The waiter comes over and I order my usual:

freshly squeezed please

orange, carrot, ginger

naranja, zanahoria, jengimbre

which comes with a straw

its two usual ice cubes

and I remember.

The waiter brings me a plate of mixed nuts,

crunchy corn and bits of chocolate

and I remember

I only used to eat the corn

so I do that again

despite my temptation for peanuts.

To call the feeling in my chest nostalgia

would be a cheapening

but perhaps accurate description

for the shear delight I took

in my Proustian moment.

I am grateful to the world that not much

has changed at Café Manuela

other than the wait staff.

The chairs are the same,

the white marble tables have remained

(I sit in my usual spot)

the meta paintings of people playing cards

and drinking at Café Manuela still hang

in crammed spaces on the walls.

I think of everyone I have been with

here four summers ago,

as I eat the peanuts,

one by one.

3 poems published by Metatron

Metatron Press recently published on their blog three of my poems which are very dear to me: Before The Grotto, My Boyfriend is a Gangster, The Future. 

Here is the link to the poems: http://www.onmetatron.com/blog/2015/4/28/3-poems-jessica-schouela

Below is the image they chose to accompany my poems and is a photo by Rebecca Storm: