The Cut with Jack B. Bedell

Jack B. Bedell’s poetry is inseparable from South Louisiana—the land, its people, and its culture. His work doesn’t merely observe the world around him; it honours and archives it, creating a testament to a life lived with profound connection to place. For Bedell, poetry is a map, a record, and, above all, an expression of hope.

‘I would hope the honour, respect, and devotion I hold for my home distinguishes the poems I write,’ he says. In an era where irony and detachment often dominate, Bedell’s work stands out for its sincerity. His devotion to the land beneath his feet and the traditions that sustain it is unwavering, grounding his poetry in a sense of place that is both personal and universal.

A Poetry of Connection

For Bedell, poetry is as much about searching as it is about documenting. ‘These days, I would hope my work comes across as searching for truth rather than delivering what I think it to be to my readers,’ he reflects. This humility—this willingness to ask rather than answer—infuses his writing with a rare authenticity.

His poems chart a cartography of understanding, mapping moments of clarity and connection rather than staking claims. ‘I’d love for readers to leave my recent work thinking I’d at least asked the right questions or sniffed around some real truth,’ he adds.

This approach sets him apart in contemporary poetry, where the push for originality can sometimes overwhelm the quiet grace of simply bearing witness. ‘My only goal is to honour and archive the things I love, the moments I’ve been blessed to experience, and the parts of this life that have revealed themselves to me in some small way,’ he explains.

Ghost Forest
		—Manchac, after Frank Relle’s photograph, “Alhambra”

1.

Backlit by city and refinery’s glow
	these cypress bones shimmer

on the still lake’s surface.
	It’s easy to see a storm’s

coming with the sky rolling
	gray overhead and the water

glass-calm. Even easier to know
	these trees have weathered 

some rough winds, their branches 
	here and there, pointing this

a-way and that at what 
	we’ve done to this place.

Their trunks gather here
	like hoary, Old Testament prophets

come down from the mountain
	to rest in this body dump,
	
gold light hitting the moss
	all Luminol-shine and whisper.



2.

Water’s the only thing
	that gets in here easily, pushed

in by storms or poured
	through spillway gates.

Years of its salt have loosened
	the coast line’s faith, turned

forest to roots and sawgrass,
	constant loss. This water

rises, seeps, leaves doubt
	everywhere dirt should be.

It’s not worth lying down
	in the hull of your boat

to scrape under the rail trellis
	if you’re only coming here

to see what used to be. Do it
	so you can hear the ghost forest

sing about what’s coming next
	after the water’s had its way.


3.

What is moss if it isn’t
	memory? It hangs off these branches,

sways on the breeze like Merton’s 
	prayers, the closest these trees 

will get to needles again. Everything else
	here is dead still, waiting for the storm

to blow in. No frog bellow,
	no heron flap—just moss

waving and the water’s slow rise
	to prove this place breathes.

Stillness is faith, locust’s whine
	benediction here, and this moss

knows all there is to know
	about holding on, and air,

and how fully empty time is
	with all this water aching

to fill it. Trunks. Branches.
	Sky bruising into storm.
	
	—from Ghost Forest (Mercer University Press, 2024)

Finding the Good in the Day

Bedell’s annual New Year’s resolution is simple: ‘Find the good in the day.’ It’s a philosophy that shapes both his life and his poetry, and one he hopes resonates with his readers. His poems serve as reminders to appreciate life’s fleeting beauty—the feel of the earth underfoot, the warmth of connection, the solace of tradition.

‘I would hope the poems I’ve written would stand to represent what it means to be human in this world, to be humane in this world,’ Bedell says. This humanity is the beating heart of his work, where even the most specific details speak to a broader, shared experience.

Angles Suite
		—after photographs by Francesca Woodman

I. House #3, 1976

No matter how long it’s stood,
how solid its frame, this house
has to crumble into something
else, something even the morning
light streaming in from its windows
cannot redeem. Glacial slow, like paint
losing all moisture and chipping
to floor or plaster surrendering 
its grip, this transformation
gives itself to time. Only the sharp
corners of walls, the right angles
of windowsills and straight 
lines of floorboards hold true.
Without these to prove resistance
builds hope, the blur you make
dropping into this scene would be
just another inevitable falling away.

A Rich Catalogue of Work

Bedell’s poetry extends across decades and dozens of collections, including Ghost Forest (2024), All the Woods’ Wild (2023), and No Brother, This Storm (2018). Each book deepens his exploration of life in south Louisiana, weaving together the threads of memory, landscape, and tradition.

His work also reaches beyond his home state, as seen in collaborative collections like Vanishing Points: Poems and Photographs of Texas Roadside Memorials (2016). Yet, even here, Bedell’s voice remains grounded, tethered to the values and ethos that define his writing.

II. Swan Song, 1978

The white paper wings you’ve
slipped over your arms suit you
almost as well as your form fits 
the table top you’ve chosen to hold
this scene. Which is to say—
not at all. Your legs spilled over
the edge hold some of the swan’s
grace you wish to capture, as much
of it as the severed pigeon wing
near your thighs clings to its 
memory of flight. Whatever 
becomes something else in this frame
hides in the lines and angles you’ve
collected here, in the shadows of hope
dancing just out of your lens’s reach.

The Power of Place

In Jack B. Bedell’s poetry, the specifics of south Louisiana become a lens through which readers can understand universal truths. His commitment to honouring the world as he sees it—not through bold experiments but through careful attention and devotion—offers a rare kind of authenticity in today’s literary landscape.

Ultimately, Bedell’s work reminds us that poetry doesn’t need to shout to be heard. It needs only to look closely, listen deeply, and, as he does, find the good in the day. His poems stand as both a celebration and a call to action: to notice, to honour, and to archive the beauty of our own lives.

III. Space², 1976

If an inside exists, then outside
must as well. But this truth isn’t
two-dimensional, is it? The horse’s
skull inside its glass case is contained,
on display. You are outside the case,
but inside the frame your lens creates. 
Also on display. You press yourself against
the glass but do not need to climb
inside to be shown, or to see. Bones
in case. Bones encased. In air. In light. In
flesh. In limine. In. Out. You. Us. Time.
Timeless. The window you fashion, squared.