But I'll end my look with this—in the interest of space, these are only the first and last sections:. I saw no way to usefully excerpt from that swift, skinny poem by Matthew Rohrer, from Destroyer and Preserver , part of whose point is that it's tight as a rubber band, so I've quoted it whole. Its tightness reminds me in a cross-media way of the tendency in early modernist painting to emphasize the two-dimensionality of the picture plane. The poem's run-on syntax and lack of punctuation only the indispensable question mark and the one period after "floor" before we get a sonnetlike turn in part expresses informality, like the ampersands and contractions in Beat and New York School poetry, but it also feels to me a little anti-illusionist, emphasizing the words-on-a-pageness of the enterprise.
The voice, itself, though, continues to achieve the illusion of speaking to us, immersing us in the entirely naturalistic details of its day, and being very witty and funny, especially in its surprise, Terminatorlike threat to Doctor Wong at the end.
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There's quirky charm to Rohrer's voice. I'm struck by the unironic way he speaks of the "blue bloom of love" and the "cathedral" of the day, unafraid to rhapsodize within his abrupt, deadpan form. This book of prose poems , Angles of Approach by Holly Iglesias, has the feel of an America lost around a bend in the road of the last century, America seen from angles both homely and startling:. There is nothing we cannot learn, dear, nothing we cannot do, for the world is our plaything, an oyster, a horse painted blue.
A sea of wheat behind us now, drays along the market road, boys in a hired buggy behind the Grange. The swing still hanging in the orchard, where once my hands caught then pushed, caught then pushed the small of your back till your shoes reached the sky and cottonwoods sighed for love of you. Ache of that in its simplicity, its sweetness and goneness.
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The confidence of that unknown voice, alive in the poem yet betrayed by time. And the mysterious oxymoron of an achieved prose poem. This one is short enough and shapely enough to be analyzable, more or less. But the workings of most of these pieces are much more anomalous, riding only the naked rhythms of speech. Here are the last two sections of "From the Final Book of Ralph":. Old Spice, nosegays, bloody roast beef, the father-daughter banquets were costume dramas of things to come, my old man the only cool cat there, the one who played Louis Prima on the hi-fi and taught me how to drink Scotch neat, the one I drove home as he sobbed into his sleeve, Your mother's one hot ticket.
Now, every day is the day he died—not the Saturdays off, king of the garage in plaid shorts, not the single day I call childhood, when we burned trash at the curb and watched sparks fly, not the Sunday I gave birth in a language he didn't speak, not the morning he pulled the dialysis needle from his arm, the sheet suddenly sprinkled like a suburban lawn, pleading, Please get me, please get me, God, get me out of here.
There are several mysteries there. The books of Ralph are mentioned in one other poem, "Sermonette," and they seem to be a series of redemptive or prophetic books, but it's unclear what their connection might be to this poem, unless the father is, indeed, Ralph. Also, one wonders what "gave birth in a language he didn't speak" means, birth is experienced in its own, woman's language? But these mysteries don't detract from, rather I think they enhance this poem, so clear in its human situations and relationships, yet swift and cryptic in its overall effect.
Like all the poems in this book, it speaks the brand names, celebrities, slang of the first half of the twentieth century. The feeling here is distinctly elegiac, "every day is the day he died," "the single day I call childhood. I can only point to the headlong, stripped feel of the language, the terrible, conclusive rhythms of the father's italicized plea, the way these words seem to speed towards the ending, then to condense around it and give off light like a star.
Tom Sleigh is unusual among American poets for what we might call the swashbuckle, the action component of his writing. But what helps to make him a fine poet is that he goes there with no loss of intelligence or seriousness:. Even this bootleg version of Saddam's death—titillating, almost cheaply pornographic in its forbidden, smuggled out quality—can't help but remind Shakespeare of the cardinal rule of his profession: This is something an old pro understands: Take it from Will Shakespeare, former butcher's boy and glover, you've got to skin and tan it with your own mind before you can relish it, deplore it.
Sleigh is following the unlikely but tasty "hunch" that Shakespeare was holding the camera phone. I've chosen to quote the rhetorical finale rather than 'action' excerpts to give some flavor of his thinking, but the choice of subject speaks for itself as does the crack and muscularity of the writing, particularly those last two lines. On one of a string of days he sees her counting her change on the street, and her face is an "angry orange. Here's the dreamy vision that ends the poem: Fenix's proud, unknowable character, then, like Saddam and much else in this book is touched by death.
So as a last key to Army Cats , its drama, its mystery and brio, let's look at this short poem:. Richard Silberg is associate editor of Poetry Flash. His new book, The Horses: New and Selected Poems , is forthcoming in September, Build Community Through Poetry. An Interview with Miles Champion".
An Interview with John Shoptaw". An Excerpt from a Memoir-in-Progress". Four from Paris Blinks. Two poems from Stairway to Heaven. Visionary With Red-Hot Coins". Fluxional, Vehicular and Transitive". Philip Lamantia , essay on The Collected Poems.
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An Interview with Michael Alenyikov". An Interview with Joseph Stroud". An Interview with Willis Barnstone". Breakfast with Susan," an homage for Susan Herron Sibbet And he became a member of P. In addition to leading a Finnegans Wake Reading Group, he has published thirteen poems in the James Joyce Quarterly and read from them and others of his poems influenced by Joyce to a gathering of the Joyce Society at the Gotham Book Mart.
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Pat Casey's bio was not available in time for this release. Newer Posts Older Posts Home. Hot of the Press: Poet and Artist Collaborate! More Short Fiction by Iris N. And Other Stories by Iris N. Schwartz Poets Wear Prada: Schwartz uses her razor-sharp prose to write about what no one wants to talk about.
Here are 15 unforgettable, fiercely honest, sometimes darkly comic, more often unnerving stories about the human struggle to conceal, circumvent, and transcend shame. Successively Iris's pen goes in and twists -- till you say uncle and confess your shames. More Poetry by George Held: Second Sight, Due Out Winter Get Your Brain Fuel: October 29, ISBN No candy-coated sugar pills served here! October 13, ISBN As she chronicles over a decade of biting into clouds of buttercream, she pokes fun at all we humans hold sacred -- marriage, work, the government, God, and the glorification of our species above all other -- offering us more than sweet confections to sink our teeth into when we enter the alternative universe of her Sweet Dreams Bakeshop.
My Secret Life with Chris Noth: New Poetry from Poets Wear Prada: Smart, candid, often wickedly funny. June 1, Re-issued: March 27, ISBN October 15, ISBN It never strays far from the grip of the moon, and is therefore able to hold a grip on a reader. I suggest reading it, pouring yourself a glass of wine, and then gazing at the moon encouraged by the knowledge that somewhere George Held is probably watching it too.
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March 18, ISBN March 19, ISBN October 07, ISBN October 7, ISBN Young Poets Wear Prada: May 7, ISBN January 28, ISBN June 28, ISBN Kahn Landscapes of Light Poems by B. Watch Our Book Video Trailers! Poets Wear Prada's Podcast. Thrum acknowledges and pays homage to music theory, and illustrates the capacity of poetry for capturing more than just words.
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