Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Hell's Kitchen Reading, Part 1

Ana Božičević-Bowling, Matt Rasmussen

Hell's Kitchen Reading, Part 2

Mathias Svalina & Julia Cohen, Chris Tonelli & Sarah Bartlett

Hell's Kitchen Reading, Part 3

Sommer Browning, Matt Henriksen

Hell's Kitchen Reading, Part 4

Justin Marks, Elisa Gabbert

Hell's Kitchen Reading, Part 5

Sampson Starkweather, Dan Boehl

The Rise of Chapbooks and DIY Publishing

Monday, February 11, 2008

Rock of Love

Rock of Love II

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

A Potrait of Poets in a Convex Mirror

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Publicly Complex Reading, Providence, RI

Had a great time! Thanks to Kate for having us, and to ana and ravi for the great readings.

Dinner in Providence, Breakfast in Cambridge

The weather strangely changes

That stone is now a forehead where dreams lie moaning

Thursday, February 7, 2008

AWPp, the Prequel

i had a reading in my apartment wednesday, january 30th, 2008. here are some pictures.

the readers

dan hoy and efrem oshinsky (efrem did the cover art for Why I am White, by mathias svalina)

elisa gabbert

(out of time. will add to this post later.)

Come hear Justin Marks, Ana Bozicevic-Bowling & Ravi Shankar

Ada Books and The Publicly Complex Reading Series present a new night of poetry! Justin Marks, Ana Bozicevic-Bowling & Ravi Shankar will read this

Saturday, February 9, at 6pm.
330 Dean Street (where it crosses Westminster)
Providence, RI

There will be free wine and snacks for those who like that sort of thing. Do come.

A Note from AWP

for Chris Tonelli & Sam Starkweather

When the distinguished author
said the death
of humor was upon us
I farted out loud.
No one laughed.

Monday, February 4, 2008

The Replacements - Androgynous

this is one of my favorite songs. it just occurred to me that it's very much about being a poet, or any kind of artist. or maybe i just shouldn't have had that 3rd diet coke.

A Rusty Can of Worms

i was in a meeting at work today and found myself jotting down some thoughts on the totally overdone subject of poetry's lack of readership. i think it had something to with thoughts i was having about my work as a copywriter and how i've never worked at place where anyone other than fellow copywriters really "got" what copy was all about. below are those thoughts pretty much the same as i jotted them down:

writing in general is not appreciated. a general readership almost always has no idea what they are being confronted with when they read a text.

unless you're saying something very familiar or completely emotionally and intellectually sophomoric--e.g., life lessons for the npr set or some sort of john grisham-esque thriller--you can't realistically expect to have more than a precious few readers. nor should you want more than that. or so says i.

at the same time, as a poet i don't always want to be talking to other poets. poetry is about energy. it's indifferent to right or wrong or good and bad. it is either alive or it is not. i want to reach living human beings. people engaged with the world, excited by it, open to all its strangeness and horror and beauty and splendor.

it's sad to say, but most of the poets i come across, at least judging from their work, are not these people. so even among poets there are a precious few readers one should hope to reach. and it goes without saying that most of the general readership are all but beyond reach. (i sometimes suspect that the readers i want who are not themselves poets are people who have lost interest in poetry because there is so much of it out there that is dead.)

this all makes me sad. at the same time, though, it gives me comfort. it makes me thankful for the few readers i do have, the people that respond to my work, and whose work i respond to, some of whom i got to meet and/or reunite with at awp. that we have found each other at all, to me, is miraculous, as in the following poem...

The City Limits

When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold
itself but pours its abundance without selection into every
nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider

that birds' bones make no awful noise against the light but
lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider
the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest

swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,
not flinching into disguise or darkening; when you consider
the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue

bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped
guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of shit and in no
way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider

that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen,
each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then
the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the

leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark
work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes
and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.

A.R. Ammons


he gleeked on russell edson. i got this theory he was put on earth to give men succulent rub-downs.