Rachel White
Rachel White is an emerging poet and artist based in South Australia. Originally from Wisconsin, she has worked in Connecticut and Australia as a visual art teacher for over a decade, and is a U.S. Army veteran. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Third Wednesday Magazine and Anti-Heroin Chic.
St. George's Basin
we meet at the Pink Moon—danced here as kids
my sick excuses layer
it looks different now, worn upholstery
like bar crumbs on the carpet
sticky dance floor, much younger bartender
& never quite answer why I clung
Sam sighs, swivels in the bar chair like a child
to this love like a dinghy anchored
grips vodka sour number six
in inky waters, rotten barnacles
too close to the speakers, Dua Lipa thumps
climb up the underbelly
an old insult gathers substance, curls her lip
warmed seaweed stagnates
through winding vapours of bar smoke
subtle waves lap the rim of St. George’s Basin
I pull a skewered olive with my teeth
& I swim up with a field knife in my mouth
as she probes my private life, loud as a playground
saw through the anchored rope
return the next table’s sideways glances
as if it’s my own arm
I’d rather drain my glass than speak up
dragged by the tide, the dingy
reach in the front pocket of my Levi’s
untethered, bobs on the waves
slide a few bills under the salt shaker
of a shrill outboard motor
my sick excuses layer
it looks different now, worn upholstery
like bar crumbs on the carpet
sticky dance floor, much younger bartender
& never quite answer why I clung
Sam sighs, swivels in the bar chair like a child
to this love like a dinghy anchored
grips vodka sour number six
in inky waters, rotten barnacles
too close to the speakers, Dua Lipa thumps
climb up the underbelly
an old insult gathers substance, curls her lip
warmed seaweed stagnates
through winding vapours of bar smoke
subtle waves lap the rim of St. George’s Basin
I pull a skewered olive with my teeth
& I swim up with a field knife in my mouth
as she probes my private life, loud as a playground
saw through the anchored rope
return the next table’s sideways glances
as if it’s my own arm
I’d rather drain my glass than speak up
dragged by the tide, the dingy
reach in the front pocket of my Levi’s
untethered, bobs on the waves
slide a few bills under the salt shaker
of a shrill outboard motor
Commentary
Rachel on “St. George's Basin”:
I’ve been writing a lot about goodbyes and endings as a way to process loss and the changing nature of relationships. I wrote the inlet imagery a few years prior, but when I pulled it into this poem, it really worked as a metaphor for what is going on in the mind of the speaker. I’ve always had a strong connection to nature, and it’s present in most of my poetry.
I pull a lot of imagery from my life experiences. The bar, for example, still opens every night in my hometown. The sawing of the rope came from a newspaper article that I read about a woman who sawed her own arm off to save her life after getting stuck under a boulder in an avalanche. The field knife, from my Army days, is sitting on the dresser in my closet. My favourite drink is a martini with three olives. The dingy is still anchored in front of the neighbour’s house at my husband’s family’s retreat at Basin View, NSW, and I have spent many hours on that body of water in contemplation.
A friend suggested trying a braided structure for this poem. I actually had no idea how it would fit together. To be honest, I was a bit timid to try it. Once I started staggering the lines, though, they began to communicate to each other in an unexpected way—a sort of comparison of the internal dialogue and the actual behaviour of the speaker. I found the structure of this poem also mimicked waves, which strengthened the internal force of the speaker even further.
Assistant Editor Matt Hsu on “St. George's Basin”:
A masterclass in split storytelling, Rachel White’s “St. George’s Basin” spins a narrative that begins singular, then branches out, then reconnects at the end. As the speaker enters the bar, their mind drifts to a distant memory that accompanies them as they settle in. White does a wondrous job at juxtaposing the two scenes: a sticky, weary night alone in a bar and a dramatic dive beneath the waves. There are several clever subtleties within the form, such as the section on the right being wave-shaped, or certain fragments of the two stories being aligned: “I pull a skewered olive with my teeth/& I swim up with a field knife in my mouth”. The imagery is ubiquitous, giving the piece a universality that makes us readers feel as if we’ve been in this bar before as well. Perhaps most importantly, White captures the essence of a heartbreak that lingers inside you, too raw to share with strangers. While many of us have never visited St. George’s Basin, we’ve all felt the ropes that chain us below the lake’s rippling surface.
I’ve been writing a lot about goodbyes and endings as a way to process loss and the changing nature of relationships. I wrote the inlet imagery a few years prior, but when I pulled it into this poem, it really worked as a metaphor for what is going on in the mind of the speaker. I’ve always had a strong connection to nature, and it’s present in most of my poetry.
I pull a lot of imagery from my life experiences. The bar, for example, still opens every night in my hometown. The sawing of the rope came from a newspaper article that I read about a woman who sawed her own arm off to save her life after getting stuck under a boulder in an avalanche. The field knife, from my Army days, is sitting on the dresser in my closet. My favourite drink is a martini with three olives. The dingy is still anchored in front of the neighbour’s house at my husband’s family’s retreat at Basin View, NSW, and I have spent many hours on that body of water in contemplation.
A friend suggested trying a braided structure for this poem. I actually had no idea how it would fit together. To be honest, I was a bit timid to try it. Once I started staggering the lines, though, they began to communicate to each other in an unexpected way—a sort of comparison of the internal dialogue and the actual behaviour of the speaker. I found the structure of this poem also mimicked waves, which strengthened the internal force of the speaker even further.
Assistant Editor Matt Hsu on “St. George's Basin”:
A masterclass in split storytelling, Rachel White’s “St. George’s Basin” spins a narrative that begins singular, then branches out, then reconnects at the end. As the speaker enters the bar, their mind drifts to a distant memory that accompanies them as they settle in. White does a wondrous job at juxtaposing the two scenes: a sticky, weary night alone in a bar and a dramatic dive beneath the waves. There are several clever subtleties within the form, such as the section on the right being wave-shaped, or certain fragments of the two stories being aligned: “I pull a skewered olive with my teeth/& I swim up with a field knife in my mouth”. The imagery is ubiquitous, giving the piece a universality that makes us readers feel as if we’ve been in this bar before as well. Perhaps most importantly, White captures the essence of a heartbreak that lingers inside you, too raw to share with strangers. While many of us have never visited St. George’s Basin, we’ve all felt the ropes that chain us below the lake’s rippling surface.
