Ive Spring Fever. For books. Ive acquired all these new titles I only now have time for. Here are my two favorites. Mothers, lock up your manuscripts.





Julie Doxsee is one my favorite writers out there now. Her new Objects for a Fog Death.


Aaron Kunin's The Sore Throat is profound in its reserved wildness. His new chapbook Cold Genius is great too.

James Tate loves final lines. He has good finality. Its one of his trademarks. Here are the final lines from each poem of James Tates’ THE GHOST SOLDIERS, the lines standing alone. Together they make something still.

- “Noon at Sadie’s,” I said

- I slunk out of his room with my head nearly banging against my knees, longing for my bed again, not knowing if I’d ever find it.

- “Everything,” he said

- “The Memory palace has no memory. See, it just doesn’t care,” he said

- I started licking my chocolate cone with a deep sense of mystery.

- They were a lost tribe, and I wasn’t lost, just confused.

- I started firing every which way, blind as a bat.

- “That’s their native ground,” he said.

- “I don’t want to talk about that now. It’s such a beautiful night.”

- Our sun’s going to go out in twenty-five billion years, what then?

- My shoes are on the wrong feet, or so it seems to me now.

- And so the afternoon passed into the evening, and in the evening I sewed a button on my shirt, and felt really good about that.

- She was looking pretty good by now.

- He was walking fast and didn’t even look back at me.

- “Never believe in miracles” he said. “I won’t” I said.

- I wanted to put my finger on her forehead, but there was nothing there.

- I howled in pain.

- And then I slept and was happy.

- They call them the ghost soldiers, much beloved even by their enemies, and I guess that’s why I went to the parade, just to feel them march past, that little rush of cold air.

- I am worried the cricket may have been struck by some lightning of its own.

- Birdseed was her middle name.

- The starry sky, the police hiding in the bushes, God, it’s good to be alive, I think, and pee behind my car in the darkness of my own private darkness.

- Otto Guttchen showed me a fossil.

- “You’re beautiful,” he said, laughing, while nearly suffocating me with his fraternal bear hug.

- It was a parallel night, much like the other, and that was some comfort, cold comfort, as they like to say.

- “Martinez, nullify the Buddha.”

- I like the old fire engine, and the beat up roads.

- I respect them too much to ever try and trap one of them, although my fondest dream is to spend an evening with one, alone, in my home and for him or her to like me, to look me in the eyes, and for both of us to speak our hearts, for life is a serious business, never quite what it seems, and, the, always more.

- “Still, nice horse,” I said

- Nobody wants to have fun.

- “Lester! Lester Cunningham! Your dinner is getting cold.”

- “Bad bunnies,” she says, “very bad bunnies.”

- “You look a little peaked. Maybe a spider bit you, “I said.

- And then I went to bed.

- Then he went and fixed my lock.

- “Good, we can share a taxi,” he said.

- It was coming, and I was ready.

- Then, it changed.

- Any fool could see that.

- I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face.

- “Beef stew,” he said.

- My poor mother never believes a word of it.

- She’d walk out onto the porch and stare at the stars, not sharing her thoughts with anyone, and that’s the way I want to be from now on.

- It already resembles one when I squint my eyes.

- I soon found myself in the midst of a lively crowd of shoppers, and I smiled at anyone who would accept my smile, and several who would not, and bought a hat from a lady whose hand I touched.

- Otters don’t lay eggs, but I was starving.

- “Just wildflowers and butterflies.”

- I was pulling a yak over a mountaintop, hauling water and rice to a dead wise man, who knows nothing, says nothing.

- I threw the newspaper into the trashcan and walked toward the fountain between two six-year-old hoodlums.

- He was just a crazy man, I told myself, one of those people who think they’re above the fray, when in fact they’ve already been crushed by it.

- “Well, now we’ve met. We’ve broken the ice.”

- “Those are the caringest people you’ll ever meet, “I said.

- “And, besides, if we had stolen that statue of Calvin Coolidge, this town would have nothing. It would blow away in the wind,” I said.

- “I’m sorry I ever told you about the swordfish. It was probably crazy anyway,” she said.

- The doe and two fauns were gone, but their ghosts remained.

- “Over my dead body,” he says.

- One soldier was startled by a shadow and fired at it.

- “But he’s missing,” I said.

- I dated that waitress for a while, but she left me for a drummer.

- “National security. It’s for your own good.”

- “You’re a very poor snake,” he said.

- “Well it’s time we did something,” she said.

- “Oh, cool,” he said.

- I looked stunned, then we both started laughing.

- “Let’s pretend you are my cowboy,” he said.

- “That was their calling. They went happily to the land of the vapors,” she said.

- I was surprisingly calm.

- “I know, I know,” and he held his arms out toward me.

- A Happy Think Tank just wasn’t my style.

- Tweetee’ relentless pursuit of knowledge had taken him into the darkest and most dangerous waters, and the whale waited patiently with one thing in mind.

- But Spinoza knows and I know, we were there.

- Instead, I loved the little man, almost to death.

- She was the only Patty I knew.

- I got up and started walking toward them, then stopped, turned around and left the park, a rich man, a stranger.

- But a pig that can count to ten is a thing of glory.

- I saw the monster with my own two eyes, and he was real, as much as anything’s real.

- I thought, I’m going to take this ship down to the bottom of the deep blue sea where we can rest at last, and maybe have some fun.

- Back home, I reflected on the mystery of life, then forgot it.

- It seemed to be fire resistant.

- I had until seven to find a human in me, to teach him to walk and talk, and maybe even to care, though maybe that was asking too much.

- I stood under the paulownia tree, its panicles of fragrant violet flowers almost smothering.

- He’s like a very flawed, lowly God, poor man.

- That would really be something.

- He looked really friendly and I was already starting to like him.

- “Meanwhile, try Candy Spots in the third,” he said.

- So I sat and waited, and no one ever came.

- “yes, mothers always do,” I said.

- “Impossible! There is nothing to know,” he said.

- I wondered how many prayers had been said with it, and if any of them had been answered, but I guess it is the faith that matters most, only to end up in Linda’s panties.

- Or I think we did.

- Something deep down was broken.

- I still didn’t know which side I was on

Two poems in 751 Magazine.

This weekend is the One Year Anniversary of The Deep Moat Reading Series. We'll have Lara Glenum, Sandy Florian, & Ben Kopel representing. See the invite here fore more info.

hannah:

Hannah features collaborations between poets from UMass Amherst, 10 poets from University of Iowa, and 17 paintings from artists from the University of Iowa. I responded to an artists named Michael Perrone. He creates awe. See the painting above. The collaborations are now collected in book you can buy. Below is more info.

hannah (han’na) n. 1. A book of collaborations between painters at the University of Iowa & poets from the University of Iowa & University of Massachusetts Amherst Artists and Authors Included: Jeff Downey, Crystal Roethlisberger, Alan Felsenthal, Philip Miller, Genevieve Lawrence, Youngsoon Chon, Ben Estes, Douglas Degges, Brian Foley, Patrick Haas, Micah Bloom, Charity Stebbins, Chris Reno, Rawaan Alkhatib, Megan Dirks, Zach Savich, Mariah Dekkenga, Jono Tosch, David Dunlap, Amanda Nadelberg, Travis Head, Kiki Petrosino, Pete Schulte, Daniel Poppick, Michael Perrone, Cole Swensen, Mary Laube, Sarah Boyer, Ellen Siebers, Elaine Kahn, Zach Stensen, Adam Roberts, Danielle Kimzey

See what Amanda Nadelberg did with Phillip Miller.

Then buy a copy here. Enter this code FREEMAIL305 by May 1st and get free shipping.

The Black Eye & Whatever You Love of Weapons You Love For Weapons

Now Available for purchase from Brave Men Press

	front			back

THE BLACK EYE Brian Foley Brian Foley has had poems appear or are forthcoming in Typo, Fou, Glitterpony, No Tell Motel, Sixth Finch, and others. He edits SIR! Magazine and was recently selected by Pam Rehm for the Academy of American Poets prize. He lives in Massachusetts where he attends the MFA for Poets and Writers at Umass Amherst. Cover is letterpressed with black ink on red paper. Printed in a limited edition of 150. 22 pages. read sample poems $9

WHATEVER YOU LOVE OF WEAPONS YOU LOVE FOR WEAPONS
Mathias Svalina

Author's Artist Statement:

"This poem comes from a manuscript of serial poems exploring what it means to be influenced by an artist. They are ekphrastic in the basic sense that they respond to artists or works of art. Beyond that they attempt to understand, via the lyric, how the art that matters to us continues to be present long after we’ve stopped thinking about the color, form & content of an individual work. This poem is a response to Caravaggio’s The Calling of St. Matthew, a painting that I have never been able to get out of my head."

Author's artist statement originally written for The Tusculum Review.

read excerpt

Cover is letterpressed with copper and black ink on blue paper.
Printed in a limited edition of 150.
27 pages.

$9

Notnostrums issue 4 is out. Three poems by me. Awesome drawings by Ben Estes.

self

Yesterday I won the Academy of American Poets Award. It was judged by Pam Rehm. I don't know much about it, but if theres money involved I buying one of these for us.





If your in the area, Im reading at Nat Ottings House on Sunday at 3pm.



Its to celebrate the release of this, which will be available in the next day or so.



AWP was a total wonder. It was good to make the world smaller for a few days.

Sarah

Mike Young did an excellent job on the last issue of NOO. Now he's made it into a weekly and has others curate. Check out these poems by Sarah Boyer.

and 5 were solitary
getting their thumbs into onions

I want to yell go
be a gym teacher

take him easy on a pleated couch
we are drying out at Orange

with the bikers
the whole place smells

like macing yourself
it gets better when you do it

Doesn't she kinda look like Jessica Hynes from Spaced?

Concern

I wrote a poem this morning. Because it NaPoMo, I immediately put it up on Ink Node. Was this a good idea? It doesnt matter. Its so nice outside today I cant worry about it, but you can see it here.

Thanks to all those who submitted chapbooks for Brave Men Press's open reading period. We got a lot more than expected. We'll have answers for you immediately following AWP and no later than MAY 31st.

I posted this on htmlgiant, but Im reposting it here.



Do you fear style in poetry?

Do you skeptic it?

Once the style is figured out, does it become less impactful?

My favorite writers are styled.

Their words have good hair.

Lack of style seems to be what keeps good words from becoming distinguished words.

I still look for things that I think are "cool"

"Cool" I think appeals to the mind more than the heart.

It doesn't need to be overt.

"Cool" is the neon sign that comes to mind when reading Cows by Frederic Boyer just published in the new Puerto Del Sol

Only two more days to submit to the Brave Men Press Open Reading Period. Details at the bottom here.

Im reading Lisa Jarnot's Ring of Fire, and cannot excise a comparison to Goddard. The way the cosmic and popular culture are told in a "breathless" manner. Sorry. Bad joke.



I was assured this morning of a teaching job for next year. Celebrate with me by being a Bunny Man.

via BMP blog

Dan Wickett at the Emerging Writers Network wrote a wonderful profile of Brave Men Press. Check it out.

He also had a special feature on Julia Cohen's For the H in Ghost, saying

A great portion of my personal interest in chapbooks, while I'm obviously hoping to find writing that I enjoy, is the chapbook as object itself - this particular edition is stunning - Emily Goodale has created a lovely, sturdy, piece of art all her own here, infused with the art of Cohen's poetry.

Sadly, we are sold out of the book online. However, if you're going to AWP in Denver we will have a handful of copies available at our table. Look for us.

Sixteen Candles
Barcelona
Greenberg
Masculin Feminin
Kicking and Screaming
The White Ribbon
She's Out of My League
The Complete Films of Robert Frank, disc 1
The Crazies
The Last Days of Disco
Shutter Island

There should be a Good Reads type website for movies.

My beautiful cat died so Ive been watching movies.

Cultural Society always has good work, but last night I was pinned.

Here is Steven Manuel with a poem I could sit with on clear nights until never comes.
Ticks are underused.

Untitled

a star
w /
tick
legs

but all
white

stuck
on the wall
of heaven

And here is another

"Whether a night-owl screaming"

Whether a night-owl screaming out
in regular intervals
or a train at either 3 a.m.
or 1 a.m. or some other time
scolding the night’s dark quiet

I lift my head and ear
to the window’s screen
and feel tight cold air
strain in, too, for a glimpse

I love the ramble of the first stanza that gives way to the clarity in the second. Also am taken by the image of cold air, peering.

Here is one from Shannon Tharp. This poem made me buy her book which is older, but I dont care.

An Edge

Patience now’s
a more substantive

shadow, as in
waves changing

in the dark. There’s
an echo here, the ghost

of which is something
like a voice that grows

as it’s eroded. What
remains is listening’s

trace, a struggle
for another pattern;

a growing into
need, want;

a process to not
remember. One

learns this ground
through flashes of

doubt — thought’s
only matter.

Friends,

Birds, LLC is a new independent poetry press specializing in close author relationships in order to make the most awesome books in the world.

The first two books published by Birds, LLC are The French Exit by Elisa Gabbert and The Trees Around by Chris Tonelli.

SPECIAL PRE-SALE OFFER: Buy the first two Birds, LLC releases for just $20. Pre-Sale offer lasts until March 31st. Books ship the first week in April.

About The French Exit:
It’s a pleasure to listen to the opinions of the narrator of The French Exit. Clear-eyed imagery and wit control the anxiety: “[A] boy at the counter disappears / or I can see through him.” Likewise, in a fine prose poem: “Do not be afraid of angering the birds. What angers the birds is fear.” The energy throughout Gabbert’s collection has the clip of the French exit itself – allons-y! – self-aware, self-sufficient, in control, in touch.
- Caroline Knox


About The Trees Around:
Full of the will and the weather, that great skeptic Wallace Stevens walked to work and wrote his poems, poems you may well already love and believe. (Good, as they say, for you.) And as for Chris Tonelli, he walks in that integrity: read him, and be merciful unto yourself. His foot standeth in an even place. This book’ll make you bloom.
- Graham Foust