Our Portland reading has been rescheduled for Thursday, December 3rd!
Emily Kendal Frey, Carol Guess and I will read at Looking Glass Books at 7pm.
Hope to see you there!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Of unsolvable cause.
Last night I started reading Kary Wayson's American Husband. Last night I made plans to go to the movies this afternoon. Last night I had a dream about going to the movies with Kary Wayson. I'm not going with her. This book, however, is fantastic.
Though I read and love reading a lot of poetry, a lot of contemporary poetry, I get the sense that much of it is well-worn territory, that most of it I don't "need" to read (like I need to read Roberto Bolano, to use a recent obsession).
Yesterday I had a headache and all I did was read Nicholson Baker's new book The Anthologist, in it the narrator talks about John Ashbery, how cool it is that missing r, and says, "I'd never really cottoned to Ashbery's Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror, the book that won three awards and made him known throughout the free-verse universe. I'd tried to read it a few times and failed. It's arbitrary. It reads as if it's written by a cleverly programmed random-phrase generator. It doesn't sing" (233).
I enjoy reading a lot of poetry, but I don't often get those moments where I feel like something has shifted in me that needs to be shifted. Kind of like a chiropractor working on alignment. A bad analogy because I think most chiropractors are crooks or madmen (there is history here). Some molecule or muscle has been moved back into place, or into a new place that makes the body work better. Now I have a word for that, singing. So many contemporary poets seem to work in the cleverly programmed random-phrase generator style. Sometimes it works well, I can't tell why, but perhaps it's that singing that has little to do with sense, and more to do with the primal force of naked language. That said, I myself won't try random-phrasing. I have little confidence that I could make a page sing without saying something.
Anyway, Kary Wayson's work sings. And makes sense. There's none of the in-vogue randomness. Her words mean something. The play is Dr. Seussian at times, the word play is so convoluted it becomes sharpened knifelike, or better wound nooselike, if we're not mixing metaphors, but one never loses what she's saying. It's astonishing to say the least. And I've been waiting a long time, since 2004's chapbook Dog and Me came out with LitRag Press, to read more of her.
AMERICAN HUSBAND
O, Empty-of-Hours, the doctor’s a clock. His hand
is a serrated knife. Heavy his books, his
medical meanings,
his pharmacological eyes.
Father Infallible, Doctor Indelible, Goat
you’ve got, my goad–You, and your mal-
practice suits, your wingtips and tuxedoes.
Doctor Parenthesis, Father
for emphasis, Stepmothers Must
and Because: Doctor dismiss
my dire diagnosis—my god’s
a blot—of implausible pause.
Dear Doctor, Dear Proctor, ad-
Minister my test (your office assigns
your affections.) Dear Doctor, Dear
Forceps, my Father, forget this—
I’ll ration your attention.
I’ll wait
and I’ll wait. I’ll compile
and I’ll plate
an unending compendium of
juvenile complaints:
American make me, American take me
with you when you go. You do not do, you do not do—
Faster, Bastard! American
Fetch! you do not do—you don’t.
American Father, my General Boss
I am your lather—and you
are my loss. Professor my lecture, mother
my tongue—I live
with a desk where nothing gets done.
Inhibit my habits and dress me in gauze—my god’s
a clot. Of unsolvable cause.
American Husband, American Head, nobody
stopped me, nobody said Surgeons
must be very careful/ When they take the knife!
-Kary Wayson
It's not my favorite poem in the collection. But it's a great place to start. And you should.
Though I read and love reading a lot of poetry, a lot of contemporary poetry, I get the sense that much of it is well-worn territory, that most of it I don't "need" to read (like I need to read Roberto Bolano, to use a recent obsession).
Yesterday I had a headache and all I did was read Nicholson Baker's new book The Anthologist, in it the narrator talks about John Ashbery, how cool it is that missing r, and says, "I'd never really cottoned to Ashbery's Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror, the book that won three awards and made him known throughout the free-verse universe. I'd tried to read it a few times and failed. It's arbitrary. It reads as if it's written by a cleverly programmed random-phrase generator. It doesn't sing" (233).
I enjoy reading a lot of poetry, but I don't often get those moments where I feel like something has shifted in me that needs to be shifted. Kind of like a chiropractor working on alignment. A bad analogy because I think most chiropractors are crooks or madmen (there is history here). Some molecule or muscle has been moved back into place, or into a new place that makes the body work better. Now I have a word for that, singing. So many contemporary poets seem to work in the cleverly programmed random-phrase generator style. Sometimes it works well, I can't tell why, but perhaps it's that singing that has little to do with sense, and more to do with the primal force of naked language. That said, I myself won't try random-phrasing. I have little confidence that I could make a page sing without saying something.
Anyway, Kary Wayson's work sings. And makes sense. There's none of the in-vogue randomness. Her words mean something. The play is Dr. Seussian at times, the word play is so convoluted it becomes sharpened knifelike, or better wound nooselike, if we're not mixing metaphors, but one never loses what she's saying. It's astonishing to say the least. And I've been waiting a long time, since 2004's chapbook Dog and Me came out with LitRag Press, to read more of her.
AMERICAN HUSBAND
O, Empty-of-Hours, the doctor’s a clock. His hand
is a serrated knife. Heavy his books, his
medical meanings,
his pharmacological eyes.
Father Infallible, Doctor Indelible, Goat
you’ve got, my goad–You, and your mal-
practice suits, your wingtips and tuxedoes.
Doctor Parenthesis, Father
for emphasis, Stepmothers Must
and Because: Doctor dismiss
my dire diagnosis—my god’s
a blot—of implausible pause.
Dear Doctor, Dear Proctor, ad-
Minister my test (your office assigns
your affections.) Dear Doctor, Dear
Forceps, my Father, forget this—
I’ll ration your attention.
I’ll wait
and I’ll wait. I’ll compile
and I’ll plate
an unending compendium of
juvenile complaints:
American make me, American take me
with you when you go. You do not do, you do not do—
Faster, Bastard! American
Fetch! you do not do—you don’t.
American Father, my General Boss
I am your lather—and you
are my loss. Professor my lecture, mother
my tongue—I live
with a desk where nothing gets done.
Inhibit my habits and dress me in gauze—my god’s
a clot. Of unsolvable cause.
American Husband, American Head, nobody
stopped me, nobody said Surgeons
must be very careful/ When they take the knife!
-Kary Wayson
It's not my favorite poem in the collection. But it's a great place to start. And you should.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Portland friends!
The November 5th reading has been canceled. We're working on rescheduling. More information soon!
(You could drive up for the Seattle reading on the 12th. I'm just sayin'...)
(You could drive up for the Seattle reading on the 12th. I'm just sayin'...)
Friday, October 16, 2009
Upcoming readings in Portland (Nov. 5) and Seattle (Nov. 12)
Thursday, November 5, 2009: Portland
Looking Glass Books, 7pm
with Emily Kendal Frey and Carol Guess
Check out more from them here:
http://carolguess.blogspot.com
http://issuu.com/bluehourpress/docs/airport
*
Thursday, November 12, 2009: Seattle
Seattle Public Library, Ballard Branch, 6-8pm
with Carol Guess and Jeremy Halinen
To learn more about Jeremy:
http://www.pw.org/content/jeremy_halinen
Or the journal he co-founded and co-edits, Knockout:
http://www.knockoutlit.org/
Looking Glass Books, 7pm
with Emily Kendal Frey and Carol Guess
Check out more from them here:
http://carolguess.blogspot.com
http://issuu.com/bluehourpress/docs/airport
*
Thursday, November 12, 2009: Seattle
Seattle Public Library, Ballard Branch, 6-8pm
with Carol Guess and Jeremy Halinen
To learn more about Jeremy:
http://www.pw.org/content/jeremy_halinen
Or the journal he co-founded and co-edits, Knockout:
http://www.knockoutlit.org/
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Hey 'dolf,
There's still a few minutes left, so I'll say it here: happy birthday to my brother who dropped off the face of the earth several years ago. Some of us miss you, some of us should. I hope wherever you are that you're well and happy and surrounding yourself with good things and good people.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Official News Update from Steel Toe Books:
We are pleased to announce the winners of our 2009 poetry book prizes.
Guest Judge Denise Duhamel, the 2009 Distinguished Visiting Professor of Creative Writing at Western Kentucky University, selected MONEY FOR SUNSETS by Elizabeth J. Colen as winner of the Judge’s Prize. In her judge’s citation, which will serve as a foreword for the book, Duhamel had the following to say about Colen’s haunting sequence of prose poems: “If I were Colen’s agent, I’d pitch these poems to a movie producer as “David Lynch meets Gertrude Stein.” MONEY FOR SUNSETS, like TENDER BUTTONS, is syntactically rich and varied, using fragments, repetition, and word association. If I were Colen’s agent, I might not mention her complicated and smart observations on women, violence, and money – since I’m assuming that most movie producers are capitalists. . . . Innovative and evocative, these poems have arrived at just the right cultural moment. And I, for one, am grateful they’re here.”
Tom C. Hunley, Director of Steel Toe Books, has selected ZEPHYR by Susan Browne as winner of the Editor’s Prize. Browne’s poems have both heart and smarts, both gravitas and a sense of humor. Here is a short poem from Zephyr which we read as an ars poetica as well as an example of Browne’s keen, compassionate eye:
A Robin with Ragged Wings
perches on the edge of the roof, chirping feebly
to the sky, his head turned at an odd angle
as if his neck is broken, and some of his feathers
look like the cat tried to saw them off
with her claws. He’s about to die any second,
but he doesn’t stop his song,
reminding me of the many on earth who ask
and never receive. I stand by the window,
wondering how can I help, searching the apple
tree for his buddies to come save him.
I go outside for a closer look. He’s gone.
The yard is weirdly quiet without
that wretched singing.
MONEY FOR SUNSETS and ZEPHYR edged out these finalists:
SMILES OF THE UNSTOPPABLE by Jason Bredle
DEATH OBSCURA by Rick Bursky
MY BODY, TORN FROM ME by Anna Evans
AMERICAN BUSBOY by Matthew Guenette
DEAD MAN’S WORD by Greg McBride
DISAPPEARING ADDRESS by Simone Muench and Philip Jenks
CANNOLI GANGSTER by Joey Nicoletti
NOTHING FATAL by Sarah Perrier
WHAT REMAINS, PERSISTS by Doris Umbers
THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF A DISAPPOINTING APOCALYPSE by Gabriel Welsch
Guest Judge Denise Duhamel, the 2009 Distinguished Visiting Professor of Creative Writing at Western Kentucky University, selected MONEY FOR SUNSETS by Elizabeth J. Colen as winner of the Judge’s Prize. In her judge’s citation, which will serve as a foreword for the book, Duhamel had the following to say about Colen’s haunting sequence of prose poems: “If I were Colen’s agent, I’d pitch these poems to a movie producer as “David Lynch meets Gertrude Stein.” MONEY FOR SUNSETS, like TENDER BUTTONS, is syntactically rich and varied, using fragments, repetition, and word association. If I were Colen’s agent, I might not mention her complicated and smart observations on women, violence, and money – since I’m assuming that most movie producers are capitalists. . . . Innovative and evocative, these poems have arrived at just the right cultural moment. And I, for one, am grateful they’re here.”
Tom C. Hunley, Director of Steel Toe Books, has selected ZEPHYR by Susan Browne as winner of the Editor’s Prize. Browne’s poems have both heart and smarts, both gravitas and a sense of humor. Here is a short poem from Zephyr which we read as an ars poetica as well as an example of Browne’s keen, compassionate eye:
A Robin with Ragged Wings
perches on the edge of the roof, chirping feebly
to the sky, his head turned at an odd angle
as if his neck is broken, and some of his feathers
look like the cat tried to saw them off
with her claws. He’s about to die any second,
but he doesn’t stop his song,
reminding me of the many on earth who ask
and never receive. I stand by the window,
wondering how can I help, searching the apple
tree for his buddies to come save him.
I go outside for a closer look. He’s gone.
The yard is weirdly quiet without
that wretched singing.
MONEY FOR SUNSETS and ZEPHYR edged out these finalists:
SMILES OF THE UNSTOPPABLE by Jason Bredle
DEATH OBSCURA by Rick Bursky
MY BODY, TORN FROM ME by Anna Evans
AMERICAN BUSBOY by Matthew Guenette
DEAD MAN’S WORD by Greg McBride
DISAPPEARING ADDRESS by Simone Muench and Philip Jenks
CANNOLI GANGSTER by Joey Nicoletti
NOTHING FATAL by Sarah Perrier
WHAT REMAINS, PERSISTS by Doris Umbers
THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF A DISAPPOINTING APOCALYPSE by Gabriel Welsch
Thursday, August 6, 2009
On queue
I learned yesterday that my first book of poems, entitled Money for Sunsets was chosen by Denise Duhamel for Steel Toe Books' 2009 Judge's Prize and will be unleashed in 2010.
The year 2010 looks space-aged for some reason. It's only next year.
More later!
For now, should you need a brief morning read, I have a new little story up at Juked. Click........ here.
The year 2010 looks space-aged for some reason. It's only next year.
More later!
For now, should you need a brief morning read, I have a new little story up at Juked. Click........ here.
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