Jean L. Kreiling

Jean L. Kreiling is the author of three previous collections of poetry, and her poems appear widely in print and online journals and in anthologies. Her work has been awarded the Able Muse Write Prize, the Frost Farm Prize for Metrical Poetry, the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Award, and three New England Poetry Club prizes, among other honors. She earned an MA in English language and literature from the University of Virginia, and an MA and a PhD in musicology from the University of North Carolina; her articles on the intersections between music and literature have appeared in several academic journals. She lives on the coast of Massachusetts.

Sample poems from Jean L. Kreiling's Breath and Bone

The “History of Rock” Professor

The gray-haired prof wears blue jeans to teach “History of Rock”;
his thirty blue-jeaned students mostly doze or watch the clock.

If he were well-prepared, he’d do just fine in tie and tweeds,
but he thinks his own history is all the prep he needs.

Like others past their prime, he tends to ramble and repeat,
and so the class pays close attention only to the beat

of paltry progress made by a lethargic minute hand;
they don’t care that he once played in a heavy metal band.

    (previously published in Lighten Up Online)

The Assistant District Attorney

She knows she’s seen too many episodes
of Law and Order—many of them twice.
She knows each character and plot device:
the smug detective who routinely goads
a smarmy suspect into spilling loads
of information, the uptight but nice
D.A. who wins the case at any price,
the judge who stretches the judicial codes.
And in most cases, those well-dressed D.A.’s
will win, or take an equitable plea.
Of course, they’ve been impressively equipped
with libraries, assistants, and delays
allowing them a thorough inquiry
into the crime—she needs that kind of script.

But here she is, compelled to improvise—
not sure which precedent she ought to cite,
in fact, not even sure she can indict,
much less convict. The suspect has told lies,
and claims the flimsiest of alibis,
but she can’t prove it. She would love to write
a scene that proves her case to be airtight,
one in which she does more than theorize.
She’ll research case law, diligently delve
into forensics and the cops’ report,
and write a brilliant closing that can’t lose.
But it’s her audience, the chosen twelve,
who’ll write the story’s end in open court—
the verdict more hard-won than rave reviews.

The night before the trial starts, she dreams
that she forgets her lines in the voir dire,
her props (that is, exhibits) disappear,
and finally the judge irately deems
her evidence irrelevant. It seems        
the case is lost, and with it her career—
but when day dawns, she faces down her fear
of judges, nerves, and other lawyers’ schemes,
and pleads her case. She’s poised and she’s well-dressed
(not in Armani, as on NBC,
but in a good black suit), and she can tell
she’s been persuasive. Jurors seem impressed.
The suspect smirks, each day more sullenly,
and slouches as he’s led back to his cell.

Deliberations go on for a week,
and then the verdict’s in. The courtroom crowd
is hushed as the defendant stands, head bowed,
and all wait for the foreperson to speak.
As he says Guilty, some gasp, and chairs creak,
just as on TV. Someone weeps aloud.
She’s won—but feels more horrified than proud
when she thinks of the sentence she should seek.
No somber cello drone accompanies
her victory in righteous affirmation;
the jury’s “rave review” only begins
another tragic episode. She sees
no credits roll, and to her consternation,
no fade to black—and no one really wins.

    (previously published in the SLANT)

The Baritone

   performing the Brahms Requiem

The baritone sang thinly.  I was standing
behind him, in the alto section, sure
of my own part, and I was certain, too,
how his should sound. His tone should be commanding,
vibrato more controlled, pitch more secure—
or so began my merciless review.

But by the second phrase or so, I heard
a depth that I had missed before, or felt
that depth, as he stood tall and bravely sang
of purpose—Ziel the solid German word—
so earnestly it was as if he’d knelt,
and the immortal prayer rose and rang.

I don’t know if his voice got stronger, or
if I had learned to listen better, hearing
what Brahms himself might once have had in mind:
a moment of ineffable rapport
when words and notes and art and faith were nearing
true concord, beats and heartbeats all aligned.

The baritone performed imperfectly,
but with conviction. Lehre mich, he pled,
teach me my days are limited, and so
am I; teach me, he sang, the sanctity
of hope. I took a breath and looked ahead
to my part, less sure than a phrase ago.

And in my doubt, it may be I knew more.
I’d unlearned baseless certainty, and learned
what music breathed into the words from Psalms.
Hope tuned my grasp of the familiar score:
I sang with grace unstudied and unearned,
enlightened by the baritone and Brahms.

    (previously published in the Quarterday Review)

What Remains

   “He feels her absence, though, all the time. . . . 
     He understands now.  Our absence is what remains of us.” 
      — Catherine O’Flynn, The News Where You Are

What will remain of you? What is the shape
your absence will impress on those who’ve known
your presence? A familiar void will gape,
its haunting silhouette and style your own.
Someone will reach out for your hand and find
your bony knuckles are no longer there;
a lack of laughing blue eyes will remind
someone of yours. When you fail to prepare
the one dessert that Uncle Fred will eat,
when gardens you once tended fail to bloom,
when crossword puzzles are left incomplete,
it’s possible another might assume
your roles, but not the way you did, for no
replacement quite fills your shape when you go.

    (previously published in Life and Legends)

The Woman at the Clothesline

   after the painting Woman at Clothesline by Alex Colville

I won’t wait until all the laundry’s dried;
it doesn’t matter that my basket’s not
quite full and more hangs on the line. Inside,
he’s watching golf on TV—hasn’t got
a clue about my plans, what else I bear
besides clean sheets, or even where I’ll be
by lunchtime. Once more I’ll walk past his chair
to make our bed with laundered linens; he
won’t notice, but I like things neat. He’s blind
to so much—like the slim dark dress I’m wearing,
not suitable for chores, but more the kind
you wear for travel—and he’s well past caring.
But when these strappy shoes bear me away,
he’ll notice he’s been served no lunch today.

    (previously published in the Extreme Sonnets)