Poetry: “Two Poems” by Jordan Ranft
Jordan Ranft isn’t conflict avoidant. The first poem we’ve picked might be about manipulating one’s own feelings, but if we had to guess his love language, it’s probably not words of affirmation. It’s probably something else. His words were intense and they shifted our readers, which is why we’ve brought not one, but two of his poems to share in this week’s New Voices feature. In “Compartmentalization” the speaker uses repetition in a subtle, rhythmic, devilishly clever way, the structure of the poem so neat and tight we don’t even notice we’re being manipulated into Ranft’s little twisted world. And when we get to “11 Years Sober,” we’re familiar with his voice, but that doesn’t mean we’re prepared for the sudden and emotionally volatile shifts from moment to moment. Ranft never loses control, from the simplest phrase to the most nuanced feeling, and everywhere in between. Even when we’re presented with hope, some kind of light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, there’s a layer of dust, irony, and terror. It’s a mirror or maybe a box. Whatever it is, we fear it, but we want to know more. We can’t help but see ourselves and we want to look away but we can’t. Have you ever picked at a scab, knowing you’re making it worse, but you just can’t stop yourself? These poems are like that. Even Pandora can’t compartmentalize forever—her box gets opened, and she has to face the music, just like Ranft, just like all of us at Frontier, just like everyone else.
Compartmentalization
When my father died,
he became ten boxes of
old books and mouse shit.
When he died I walked
away from myself.
I fell down a volcanic well-
I fell down a bottle-
I walked away from myself
a second time.
11 Years Sober
cracked, not open like a skull, but the sidewalk.
thin green weeds sprouting into the air
as if the road I walked wasn’t, itself, artifice.
then again, who needs a hierarchy when
the morning air is this clear, the shade pooling
beneath the eaves of the porch? I have knelt
before worse, made my hands a cup and
filled it with boiling honey, with my mother’s tears,
with my own vomit. if indulgence is a city, I still live there.
but I don’t lie, not anymore, not from either mouth.
I love whatever can pirouette light into a gown of sparks.
years ago, I came to in Trevor’s kitchen, still drunk,
and tried to name the poison that would kill me, but
growth is so natural it can happen by accident,
it can cleave the street apart to get its way.
I’m still going to die, but not for any reason you’d assume.
the dishes need cleaning, the dog is whining by the door.
that, and everything, glimmers like a prayer.
as if joy isn’t joy if there’s blood on its face.
as if everything I’ve said wasn’t a form of thanks.
Jordan Ranft
Jordan Ranft (He/Him) is a Best of the Net and Pushcart-nominated writer. His poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Carve Magazine, Frontier Poetry, Beaver Magazine, Iron Horse Literary Review, Moon City Review, and other outlets. He writes music reviews for Spectrum Culture. In 2015, he placed third at the National Poetry Slam as a member of Team Berkeley. His chapbook, Said The Worms (Wrong Publishing), was released in 2023. He lives in Santa Rosa, California, and works as a clinical social worker and community arts organizer.
