Rebecca Weber

When Rebecca Weber's poetry found its way into my inbox I was genuinely overjoyed. I'd heard a few good things about Rebecca through a mutual friend and was completely hooked upon first read. I would say that this collection of poetry houses such luscious versification affording the reader moments to sink their teeth into something truly delectable.

I trip over my words in old hallways, 
misquoting bible verses to the abandoned 
that I can only hope are listening 
trapped in a time lapse so long and low 
the tide itself cannot reach 
a house so haunted 
that the dead will not go there. 
I try to levitate- 
my feet never leave the ground again. 
I’ll have to find a different way 
to escape the chorus of ghosts 
rising from the floor, singing 
you should have found a better place 
to call home 

Are you serious right now? This:
trapped in a time lapse so long and low 
the tide itself cannot reach 
a house so haunted 
that the dead will not go there. 

I can clearly see the image of this house through my third eye. It's a century home that's at least seen a few deaths. Something eerie like The Bates home. A place where not even the dead would go that is a pretty powerful image -- in it's own right. We as humans could have the potential to be frightened of the dead but -- what could possibly scare the dead right? Save the fact that they are no longer living so anything related to life would be mute.
In between seasons, 
in between my breaths, 
I search for signs 
in the graffiti 
that bleeds in places I used to write 
through the drawers of old notes I received 
should have returned to sender 
there must be more to 
simply being an acquaintance 
sometimes my own 
Achilles heel throbbing 
is the final nail in the coffin- 
the ultimate warning to give up the ghost 
or become one myself 
I search underneath the weight of the molded blankets, 
the communion gowns, 
all of the treasures locked away in the trunk 
And once I find the sign I 
won’t even make the connection 
until years later watching the footage 
of my wreck 
there’s always something in the background 
you always have to watch it twice. 
I watch the Christmas lights blinking out one by one 
across the hall 
I’m starting to think 
its some type 
of Morse code 

The first stanza of Signs completely hooked me – I liked the way Rebecca paired the two themes of seasons and breaths on both a macro & micro level.  I imagined searching for signs during seasons for long term goals and the breaths for short.  
In between seasons, 
in between my breaths, 
I search for signs 

Isn't it beautiful? The concept of being in between something there is always an endless possibility where one could potentially search for signs. I must admit, I am constantly looking for signs. Similar to the voice in the poem when my imagination runs wild there is potential for quirky and inquisitive visions -- like perhaps finding morse code in something as simple as Christmas lights. I totally LOVE that!  
In my wildest fantasies, 
I imagine stability. 
Stability without sacrifice 
sacrifice without ritual 
I imagine having roots 
what it must feel like to be planted, 
to be a small thing, 
alive with certainty 
that there’s always next spring 
what it must feel like as an anchor. 
trusting of it’s own slow sinking 
to be sure 
that my job is nothing more than to live at the bottom 
to be sure at all 
I pray someday I know it 
I know someday I won’t 

I think this is my favourite piece out of the three. I've yet to meet a person on this earth who is completely 100% secure. I know from personal experience as I'm sure you do that being secure in oneself is quite the task. I've allowed my mind to wander here a little bit – “what it must feel like to be planted” I imagine myself as tree with my legs as a tree truck and my feet as the roots that must grow into the earth for stability. It's quite a beautiful photograph don't you think? Too bad we are not like Treebeard where we can be planted and mobile in case we want to change directions. The other snapshot that stays with me was the visual used to describe an anchor.  I envisioned the weight of the earth Atlas himself carries on his back. One so heavily anchored in a different fashion than a planted tree. Both of which ooze strength of spirit.  

Thank you so much to Rebecca for furnishing me with this bio: 

Rebecca Weber is a poet from Keyport, NJ and a headliner in the NJ Poetry Scene. Her debut chapbook, Beauty School Dropout, is forthcoming from Indigent Press March 2017. She is an expert at hiding from people behind garbage cans.

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