Thoughts and affection for Martha from Kate:

I’m embarrassed to admit I only discovered Martha Silano’s brilliant poetry this year, when a guest on our podcast brought her poem “Self-Elegies” to our “Toast or Roast” segment. In the three years we’ve been hashing out poems on Table for Deuce, it was the first time I ever opened with: “TOAST! NO NOTES!”

We went on to marvel at the complexity of Martha’s work—how it manages to be both controlled and chaotic, heartbreaking and bitterly funny. I joked that Martha taught me I could put the word “Cuisinart” in a poem and make it work. She gave me permission to call things what they were—to be honest, even when it’s strange or, in the case of her poem “Fame Is a Fickle Friend,” downright absurd:

“…But each time you think you’ve found 

this way-rad, labyrinthine dude, she grabs the map, 

points toward something sexier, more bling, 

more Christmas-glitzy-snowflake-and-wild-duck rad, 

to galaxies named Gangsta, Fuck Yo, That Some Epic Shit.”

Martha wanted this poem to be over the top—full of slang, surreal images, pop culture, and spiraling syntax. Because fame is chaos, isn’t it? The higher you rise, the more pressure there is to perform—and the easier it is to lose the truth of who you are. Even in the poetry world, success can erode authenticity. But Martha—acclaimed, celebrated, undeniably a big deal—was still the realest of the real: funny, fearless, and fully herself, right to the end.

After the episode aired, Martha messaged me her phone number with a note: “Not to be pushy but time IS short!!!!” So, I did what any sane unknown poet would do—I texted her and asked if she wanted to be BEST FRIENDS (yes, in all caps). From that point on, we texted constantly. We talked about her ALS battle, traded pics of our kids and cats, and asked each other ridiculous icebreakers like “What’s your favorite color?” or “What are three of your favorite things?”

We also talked about God and the afterlife, our relationships, ghosts, and space. We were unapologetically direct with one another. Martha spoke about dying with an irreverence I couldn’t help but admire. I knew she didn’t want to die—but she had accepted it, and she stayed completely herself through it all.

Martha’s distinct, candid voice couldn’t be more apparent in “Fame Is a Fickle Friend.” We’re talking about a woman with zero fucks left. The poem is surreal, indulgent, dazzling—and just a little unhinged. Just when you think you’re lost in its breathless propulsion, Martha flips the tone. The poem becomes a lament. Fame, she tells us, has ripped away the “I’m-nobody-who-are-you? bliss.”

It’s a powerful reminder that anonymity can be a kind of freedom—from performance, from expectation—and maybe the surest way to stay in touch with who we really are.

Meeting Martha was one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. I learned so much from her work—and continue to be inspired by a voice and craft that stayed razor-sharp, right through her final poem. I’m deeply grateful for the time we shared, and for the trust she placed in Michael and me to present her work (her knees, and her stained poem) at The Seat. -Kate

Thoughts and affection for Martha from Michael:

Living in Washington State, of course I knew Martha Silano. We corresponded via email beginning sometime around 2009, kept in touch through the years sporadically. She published a poem of mine at some point during the years, and I a poem of hers. She invited me to read at a series she curated. All the usual interactions of local literary life. Of course if you knew her, you knew Martha was anything but “usual.”

One of the most joyous but challenging parts of being an editor is reading submissions that are, on a craft level, superb, but also something you yourself could or would never write. Perhaps maybe even something you don’t even gravitate toward when reading for fun. Martha was that kind of poet for me. She always wrote in a way I could never (to be fair, who could?) She was funny, smart, and expressed her love of language in a completely different way than I did. Her poems have a velocity and wit to this day I can’t easily tap into. But her work is confident, jovial, and like all the extroverts I’ve loved in my life, invites you along for adventures despite your introverted ways. Her poems link arms with a reader and gets them to join in the fun the same way hearing someone guffaw can make you giggle even if you miss the punchline.

We had the pleasure of discussing one of Martha’s poems on our podcast, and afterward, we received a submission from her. We published one of her poems back in March and then “Fame is a Fickle Friend” last month, posthumously.

Martha said she planned on living until “at least” September. And she always seemed so unstoppable; I believed her. I thought I had time to write and say “The music in these lines are amazing and your diction always feels like a celebration: purple-plumed, carbon-dark, gawk. So much fun to just SAY!” or “You’ve always managed this energetic, almost-manic flow to your poems with lovely internal rhymes and breaks that keep the piece moving.”

I also would have pushed back on a few things, ask some questions about her use of slang. I’d have loved to ask about what comedians she enjoyed or what poets she thought were funny these days, and why.

I should have emailed sooner so we could talk about spaghettification.

All this to say, “Fame is a Fickle Friend” isn’t what I consider a perfect poem (I mean, besides “Song” by Brigit Pegeen Kelly, is there a perfect poem?) but it is a perfectly Martha Silano poem, one that finds happiness and (dark) humor in language. It’s a poem that asks us to come over and enjoy language for what it can do, even after we lost her, even when we feel “sucked down a black hole. Less / than minus.” -Michael

Unfiltered Genius: A Look at “Fame Is a Fickle Friend” by Martha Silano

The Unmoored Dagger: A look at “on a late drive home…” by Bill Neumire