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The Smell of Good Mud

The Smell of Good Mud

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The Smell of Good Mud

4/5 (13 valutazioni)
101 pagine
52 minuti
Nov 5, 2018


Nationally acclaimed for her poem, To The Oklahoma Lawmakers, which called �The most riveting message about the war on women in under three minutes,†Zuniga�s newest collection of poetry, The Smell of Good Mud, explores the wild terrain of queer, feminist, collective living in the conservative state of Oklahoma. Set in a house named Clementine, these poems offer a communal meal, a radiant love affair and the inner carnival of a single mother.
Nov 5, 2018

Informazioni sull'autore

Lauren Zuniga is a nationally touring poet and teaching artist. She is the founder of Oklahoma Young Writers. In 2010, she was nominated for Oklahoma Poet Laureate. She serves on the board of the IAO Gallery, tours for the Oklahoma Arts Council. She has competed in 9 national level poetry competitions.

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  • This is an invitation to stop swallowing the art in your mouth.This is an invitation to stop ripping yourself apart.

  • This is an invitation to stop swallowing the art in your mouth.This is an invitation to stop ripping yourself apart.This is an invitation to be a live nude. Let them draw youdirty, flawed and glistening.This is an invitation toyour opening.

  • Progress is a seriesof small bold moves.Don’t leave.Here is wherewe need you.

  • We will drink, gossip, and curl lips like old people who don’t give a damn about anything because they are old. But we won’t ever get old. We will get artistic. We will get Grand Canyon and shoreline. We will get naked. A lot.

  • When I introduced you as my sweetheart, you called it convenient. Noted how easy it was to hold your hand on Gay Day, in a room full of Andrea Gibson fans but how I couldn’t kiss you in the hallway at work.

Anteprima del libro

The Smell of Good Mud - Lauren Zuniga



The photographer says she can’t wait until my next opening.

I start to correct her and say, with poetry,

it’s called a reading, or a performance,

sometimes a slam.

Then I realize maybe that’s the problem.

I step on my loud and say,

Yes. Please come to my next opening!

It will not be all good light and gallery smiles

but I will fresh slice the walls for you,

hang my absurd and wait for the wine to spill.

It’s been a long time since I’ve shown anything.

Notice the ten-foot installation of Talks Too Much.

I eat margarine when I’m nervous. I get nervous

when you like me. I describe things poetically

to keep from saying what I really think.

This one here is my father. Notice his head

asleep on the stove. His hands, bloated livers.

I drink when I can’t decide who to be.

I starve when I decide I’m too much. I am angry,

almost never.

Which means you best prepare yourself

for the nasty awkward that will rain down upon you,

when I decide some things deserve my fucking angry.

I fall in love like some women fall in mortgage.

I have damn near become my mother

minus five husbands and a bad case of arthritis.

I am still cracking knuckles and divorcing.

Here’s a ticket to The Moment I Surrender.

A portrait called I Don’t Know Anything.

I am terrified that my children think I love poetry

more than I love them. I am never alone. Never ever alone.

I go to crowded places where we sit, with a small plate

of cheese and fruit, cock our head to one side and say,

I can’t believe someone pinned my stomach to a canvas.

That is why we do this.

This is an invitation to stop swallowing the art in your mouth.

This is an invitation to stop ripping yourself apart.

This is an invitation to be a live nude. Let them draw you

dirty, flawed and glistening.

This is an invitation to

your opening.


"Together we work to expel the bore-ocratic chairman of the bored.

We strive to make the world Weirder."

—Mary Daly


Talia pots the citronella to keep

the mosquitoes away. Hangs the mirror.

Waters the rosemary. The tape player

offers muffled trumpet, backyard clarinet.

Keeps time with the curtains slapping

their knees against the window.

The kids are lined up at the corner

waiting for the ice cream man.

Pink headband gang. Drumsticks

in back pockets. Silver coins drop

from hips. They know their loot

will go into the freezer until after dinner

but the little ones giggle, nervous,

as the big ones count their change.

Penny slices onions and the freshest

block of tofu. Megan scoops

spaghetti squash in yellow mounds

of ribbon. Chickweed and dandelion

salad. Sprinkle of sunflower seeds.

Wild rice and morel mushrooms.

The girls built the raised bed while

I was at work. Cedar planks, a truck

full of black dirt. I staple chicken wire

to the wood frame for the compost bin.

The staples punch like snare.

The breeze sings like a plastic harmonica.

I fall in love a thousand times before

I ever get called into dinner.


Maybe it was the gas station vodka and Tahitian Treat.

The bottle rockets exploding in the subway parking lot.

Maybe it was the man in white pants punk-singing

in the basement. The astronaut on the amp,

the green umbrella, the ukulele.

Maybe it was the tough and lovelies haunting

the turn table. The red shag carpet, the rooster lamp.

When I looked at you in that vinyl evening,

I decided then and there that we really should

get that cottage.

Our cottage should not be in the woods, though.

It should be in the city. With a yard full of goats

that sing us worship songs.

We should have a puppet theater with a tiny

green dressing room for our puppets.

We need a huge comfy couch where our feet

don’t touch the ground. It will make us feel small

when we get too big for our britches. And we will.

Get too big for our britches. We will get terribly

lonesome in our fame. We will get so deep

in our awesomeness that we won’t even


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  • (5/5)
    beautiful collection that made my heart ache understanding the world being described and lived in as a queer parent