Jackie Langetieg is retired from state government. She is a recovering alcoholic and since giving up the drink has mined all those years as fodder for writing. Memory is still serving her, so you may see a sensual poem or two in her books. She has been involved in literary activities in the Madison area since 1988, was president and treasurer of The Writers’ Place board of directors, and involved in the city’s first book fair. Her first writing accomplishment was at the age of eight when she wrote a “newsletter” using a push-letter child’s typewriter. She writes poetry and prose and has been published in many journals and anthologies, as well as the WFOP calendar since 1988, with the exception of one year. She has three books, as well as numerous chapbooks. She has birthed two boys, one of whom is deceased. She lives in Verona, Wisconsin, with her son, Eric Alver, a former standup comic, and two cats.
White Shoulders, a chapbook of conversations between a daughter and her mother, Cross+Roads Press, Editor and publisher, Norbert Blei, 2000. $25.00 (only a few available).
Confetti in a Silent City, a collection of poems, 66 pages, in three sections. Ghost Horse Press, 2008. $10.00
And Just What in Hell is a Stage of Grief? A chapbook of 41 pages. Poems relating to the process of grieving the death of the author’s 32-year-old son. It is printed on slick paper and includes color photos. Ghost Horse Press, 2008. $12.00
A Terrible Tenderness, a 56 page collection woven of dream and memory. Ghost Horse Press, 2013. $10.00.
Include $2 S/H for each order
As time speeds away from his dying
I find myself feeling mostly tenderness
when I think of him, try to bring back his voice.
The blue lake in the Dells where he swam
in his dusty jean shorts after climbing the bluffs
where we were just two people not mother and son.
I think of him sometimes as a cascade of star stuff
a trembling vibration within a blue black night
a lofty memory with a brief ache of happiness.
I don’t want to go to Chet Baker’s house
Let him come to me, lean his back against
the scene of ancient Chinese mountains in my living room
Let me serve him Metaxa brandy in a water glass
Don’t let the smoke leave the room—nothing should fly out
on the wings of notes coming from his horn, his voice, his hands
words left hanging on black clefs of minor chords
I’m loose on the sofa, robe slightly open hoping he’ll notice
baby grand ready for the touch of his fingers
like the counting of my ribs, each finger placed surely
on the steps of my spine
I feel his concentration on the music
I’m just a body temporarily in his way for tonight
The old serrated trees on the panel behind me sway
and fantasy fills my head. The music trails off and he joins me
We speak little, lie to each other, talk of insignificances
Soon dawn is opening the curtains of night and he drives off leaving
me lost in the smoky night music still at play in the room.