Poetry by Valentina Gnup

Christian Collins CC



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One Barn 
              —after “Cotton Gin” a photograph by Andrea A. Gluckman

One barn is a memory.

Fragile as a bombed-out church nave.
Common starlings roost on thin rafters— 
terrible, holy birds singing stolen songs.

One barn is full of chrysanthemums.

In Japan, the word for chrysanthemum is kiku— 
a word meaning listen to the first line of a poem. 

One barn is made of longing. 

On a farm in any country, clouds prop up 
its leaning walls. An old draft horse searches 
for something gone and not returning.

One barn is a womb. One barn is a coffin.

Wood, the petrified gray of ancient forests.
Dust motes float like bullets,
or a thousand spinning prayers.
Tell me you’re ripe with sorrow. 
Put away your wars for good.

One barn has a padlock.

You can imagine anything inside. 
A choir singing Chopin. The last linden tree. 
The words you were too afraid to say.

One barn is yours.

Feel the peeling paint, smell the cow corn,
listen to the wide, forgiving sky— 
​
it’s not too late for you. 
You’re a chrysanthemum, a kiku, 
lovely and imperfect as the first line of a poem.

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​Driving in Los Angeles

I believe the God of Death hides on the I-5
and picks his victims out of a shoe.
Maybe I’m just afraid of freeways.
My date is behind the wheel, 
a guy from Vermont who moved out here 
to become a screenwriter.
It’s too late to warn him his choice is a tragic one,
and who am I to judge stupid choices?
He has a fearless approach to lane changes, 
and his long fingers look sexy hugging the stick.
His car is the oldest Toyota in America. 
We’re going somewhere for cheap food,
a Pretenders song is on the radio,
Oh but it’s hard to live by the rules, 
I never could and still never do.
We’re confessing our sins. Mine are better.
I want him, but mostly because of the song, 
my boots on the dashboard, and the way L.A. 
makes everyone feel a little dangerous.
My right hand hangs out the window 
trying to hold onto whatever the night won’t steal.



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Valentina Gnup's poetry collection, Ruined Music, was published by Grayson Books in 2024. In 2023, she won the Tucson Festival of Books Literary Award for Poetry and second place in the Yeats Prize for poetry. In 2019, she won the Lascaux Prize in Poetry; in 2017, she won the Ekphrastic Challenge from Rattle; and in 2015, she won the Rattle Reader’s Choice Award. She lives in Mill Valley, California. Visit at valentinagnup.com



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