We Heart Dean Young

Dean Young Benefit Event, Thursday, 23 June, 7 p.m.



A celebration of the work and life of poet Dean Young.

Maud Fife Room, Wheeler Hall, University of California, Berkeley

Free Admission. Donations Welcome and Encouraged.



Readers Robert Hass, W.S. DiPiero, Michael Wiegers, Brenda Hillman, Octavio Solis, David Breskin, Dora Malech, Troy Jollimore, Joe DiPrisco and D. A. Powell. Hosted by Zyzzyva managing editor Oscar Villalon.

Signed copies of Dean Young books, as well as specially commissioned broadsides of his poems, will be available. A reception featuring wine and snacks will follow the readings.

Anti-

Anti-, the online brainchild of Stephen D. Schroeder, A. J. Patrick Liszkiewicz, Kristin Sumner, Brent Goodman, Aaron Anstett, Jill Alexander Essbaum, Suzanne Frischkorn, Hannah Craig & A. D. Thomas, is a magazine that publishes work which is contrarian, working to break the conventions of traditional poetry. I'm perhaps too orthodox on my own to be thought of as "non-traditional." But, when I work in collaboration with Ryan Courtwright, the notion of what's acceptable on the page doesn't even apply. Together, we make a third voice, and we give more permission to that voice than we would perhaps give ourselves. At least as far as what we'd be overheard saying in public. Click here to read our "Blow by Blow" and "That Would Be in the Butt Bob." A new age demands a new set of principles. While we're waiting for those to happen, we're writing whatever the hell we like.

anti-poetry.com/feature50/

Flashback

Found this old Polaroid shot from 1979. My hair is down in my eyes and I've got a polyester scarf hanging from my neck. What could be worse? Maybe the background.

Used to be I'd find such a photo and I'd cringe. But eh....so what if I looked like a refugee from Yugoslavia. Like looking at a wall that's been scorched by fire, you think, "well, I survived that, too."

So I'm older and messier in some ways. But not nearly the kind of mess that I was back then.

Giving It Away

Dunstan Thompson: On the Life and Work of a Lost American Master, Kevin Prufer & D.A. Powell, eds.






The 15th of June marks the official publication date of Pleiades Press' inaugural volume in the Unsung Masters Series. Dunstan Thompson: on the life & work of a lost American master, showcases the brilliant, witty, sensual work of a poet who debuted brightly then virtually disappeared. Thompson's early, bold sexuality and his subsequent recommitment to Catholicism are both explored through the lens of Thompson's eloquent lyrics.

If you'd like a chance at getting a free copy, visit the Goodreads Giveaway at:

http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/4404-dunstan-thompson

Here's a little snatch of Thompson as a preview:

Tarquin, Dunstan Thompson

The red-haired robber in the ravished bed
is doomsday driven, and averts his head.
Turning to spurn the spoiled subjected body,
That, lately lying altar for his ardor,
Uncandled, scandalizes him, afraid he
Has lost his lifetime in a momen't murder:
His is the sinner who is saint instead,
This dark night makes him wish that he were dead.

What daring could not do, the drinks have done:
The limbo lad communicated one
Last sacrament, and, fast as falling, heaven
No longer held a stranger to emotion,
Who, like a star, unsexed, unshamed, unshriven,
Was hurled, a lost world, whirling past damnation:
Circled by chaos but by eros spun,
The devil burned much brighter than the sun.

This bellboy beauty, this flamingo groom,
Who left his nickname soul too little room
For blood on blades of grass, must now turn over,
Feel for the fatal flower, the hothouse sterile
Rose, raised in no god's praise, and, like death, never
Again enjoyed, must make his madness moral:
Washed by the inland waters of the womb,
The salt sheet is his shroud, the bed his tomb.

Announcing Lo-Ball's Premiere Issue!

No Frills. That's the Lo-Ball motto. Actually, the Lo-Ball motto is Our Reputation Rests in Your Mouth. But that's kind of the same...

T.J. DiFrancesco and I are happy to announce that the first issue of Lo-Ball is out, and available at Prairie Lights Bookstore in Iowa City, plus other select locations. Or you can buy it on the world wide web at Lo-Ball. The cost per issue is $4.99. That's right. Cheaper than most of the high-brow print journals, but with twice the quality.

Contributors for issue one: Alex Lemon, John Casteen, Camille T. Dungy, Ryan Call, Erin Belieu, Paisley Rekdal, Ely Shipley, Kristin Hatch, Benjamin Paloff, David Trinidad, Katie Ford, Rachel Zucker, Ryan Courtwright, John Beer, Stephen Elliot, J. Peter Moore, CJ Evans, Luke Sykora, Kristen Tracy, Peter Covino, Ash Bowen, Rachel Loden, Derek Mong, Randall Mann, Timothy O'Keefe and Ilya Kaminsky's translation of a poem by Alexander Blok.

Stop by our table at AWP. Actually, we don't have our own table. We're mooching space from Parthenon West. We're plenty proud of the fact that we're as cheap as we are. Every dime we get goes directly into printing. And stuff. So if our website looks extremely low-budget: it is.

We're producing a very limited run of each issue, so if you want to be guaranteed a copy of issue 2, pony up and subscribe. Issue 1 is nearly gone, so act fast. Free Preview:

Ryan Courtwright

Nutbush City Limits


And there you are in the middle of shirtless

water tossing you back and forth on its pecs;

bobbing in a canary raft that's split up the side and

you're rescuscitating it through the nipple—another

modest disaster on the street or in the market

eyes launch you like boys hopping a freight train to anywhere without

the wet hay, anywhere without viscious small town gossip; dawn

and I'm a-sweat at the thought of tracing the tracks down your spine,

reaming around your thighs, careening through your shoulder blades,

steaming across your abdomen—clunky bodysleep, we are habit;

there is no squirmy patch and the first time is religiously free,

listen for the switch in the night

and come away with me, you can work the broken toothed brake and
I'll cover myself with soot,    shoveling coal.    building speed.

The Much Better Than O.K. Corral

Don't y'all just love Eduardo Corral? He's consistently one of the best lyric poets writing, and I feel like I'm always discovering him anew.

In the latest New England Review, he has a beautiful poem entitled "Watermark." I was tempted to post it here, but then I thought it would be better for all of us, instead, if I just urged you to buy a copy of the journal, which you can do by clicking the link above. You'll also get some fantastic poems by Natasha Trethaway, Martha Rhodes and a baker's half dozen others. Plus, fiction, non-fiction, translations. You'd spend the same amount of money on a Nicholas Cage movie and you'd feel like dirt. This way you can feel like you chose PBS over Fox.

Dos Panchos

Spent the afternoon with a group of Stegner Fellows from Stanford, as evidenced by this candid shot which Brittany Perham snapped at the Año Nuevo State Park's Visitors Center, and which was emailed to me by Peter Kline.

On our way to see the elephant seals give birth to their young and to vie for each other's affections, Matthew Siegel and I were sporting nifty plasticware, courtesy of Dina Hardy, our documentary filmmaker, (whose "Survival of the Fittest" is getting all kinds of play on YouTube.) Keetje Kuipers, in the upper right-hand corner, was much more stylishly outfitted. Her equally lovely book, Beautiful in the Mouth, came out just that day from BOA Editions. So there was much cause for celebration.

The weather was horrible. Wind, rain, hailstones. So I guess it was unsurprising that our docent was a bit less talkative than is often the case. He did, however, frequently point out the large number of recently weaned pups, which in sealbiz are called "weaners." We saw a hell of a lot of weaners.

Odd segue: congratulations to Greg Wrenn, who just found out he's been chosen as one of Stanford's Wallace Stegner Fellows! This time next year, we're hoping to take him with us to see a new generation of elephant seals. Weaners and all...

Up on the Rumpus

If you click over to TheRumpus.net (and why wouldn't you? It's the sexiest magazine on the internet), you can read my short review (well, not a review, really. an "appreciation") of Rachel Loden's latest collection of poems, Dick of the Dead.

T. J. DiFrancesco, Jr. interviews Loden, and there's also a new Rachel Loden poem. Three tastes of Loden for the price of internet service.

What, you're waiting for an invitation? Check it out...

Collaborations

Sometimes when I want to step outside of my own concerns and conventions, collaborative writing can open up new ideas. The oldest poetry was collaborative. There was no "Homer." Rather, Homer was a series of poets who memorized and revised the hymns and epics. New language was added; portions were lost. What remains is the effort of not a single poet but a community. I imagine even the whims of the audiences helped shape the poems.

A collaboration is a kind of relationship. When the writers are listening to one another, bringing seriousness, honesty and a healthy dose of play to the work, it can feel wonderfully alive. And if the collaboration isn't working, one or the other should recognize that and have the good sense to talk about it.

I've co-written with some wonderful writers: Rachel Zucker, Mark Bibbins, David Trinidad and Jeffery Conway, Luke Sykora, Ryan Courtwright and T.J. DiFrancesco. Each of them delightful to work with; each of them willing to discard the chaff (whether mine or theirs or both) and to concentrate on the serious play of writing.

Recently, David Trinidad and I finished a short chapbook, a memoir constructed out of sentences from other people's memoirs. I'm very proud of the result--which shows how much a good partner in rhyme matters--and Turtle Point Press has done a beautiful job of designing it and printing it.

It's so satisfying to work with a fellow poet when you feel that poet feeds the creativity. I've had other experiences with collaborators (not the ones mentioned above) where they just wanted credit for showing up. Some of those poems turned out fine anyway. But it's so much nicer to work with the poets who surprise, delight and challenge us to be at our 'A' game.

The Kids Are Alright

One of the great things about teaching is having students who spur ones own imagination and invention. Gwendolyn Brooks is perhaps the best example of a teacher whose work was profoundly changed by the stylistic innovations of her pupils. One need only look at poems such as "Sermon on the Warpland" or "Riot," to see how much her style was liberated by the possibilities presented by the young people in her classes in Chicago.

A few years ago, David Bromige, who had been my mentor for many years, wrote a note to me in a volume of his poems: "For D. A., who went through so much w/ me that I think I learned something." I have been thinking lately about how much I owe to my own students. They are as much an inspiration to me as any anthology or volume I could peruse.

[For example, last time I was at the Tin House Writers Conference, a talented student--Timothy O'Keefe--had written a poem with the phrase "chia pet" in it. There was much discussion revolving around whether someone could or couldn't use the phrase "chia pet." The question seemed interesting enough that I grappled with the problem myself on paper. The resultant poem was directly indebted to Timothy and to the class.]

At Tin House, Provincetown, the Lambda Retreat, Harvard, Columbia, Iowa, New England College, San Francisco State, Sonoma State, University of San Francisco...all told, I've been fortunate to have had an astounding list of students whose work sustains me, asks me to see poetry in a new way. Though it's not the only marker of how good a poet is, I am proud of those who have gone on to publish books and chapbooks. Their success rarely had anything to do with me. Rather, I was lucky enough to meet them early on; to watch them emerge as writers. Alex Lemon, Richard St. John, Lily Brown, Lucy Ives, Ely Shipley, G. C. Waldrep, Anne Haines, Carol Peters, Scott Inguito, Shira Dentz, Joanne Straley, Michael Montlack, Kathryn Pringle, Justin Dodd, Andrea Rexilius, Kiki Petrosino, Craig Morgan Teicher, Greg Wrenn...these are a few of the students who come immediately to mind. Some are still on their way, publishing in magazines and working on those first manuscripts. I have been buoyed by their craft; inspired by their fresh use of language.

Zach Savich sat in my modernism seminar at University of Iowa with a big, happy grin. He was writing poems that burst with energy from the beginning, like Berryman or Dean Young, and I remember reading a few of his poems and thinking "there's little for me to do here. I'm just a reader, my duty is to simply catch the spirit and say amen."

Zach's first book came out earlier this year, and it is every bit as funny, eclectic, and moving as I would have imagined. He's a poet I'm reading in order to catch up with the art. To quote Bromige, "I think I learned something."

On a Pose of Virgil's

Near its peak, the mountain requires nearly no

effort to climb. There is no sky behind the flags,
barges of pretty silt. Some wrestlers oil themselves

to prevent a grip, others rub grit on their skin

to help it. In the cartoon, Orpheus puts glasses on the back

of his head and walks in reverse. The pastor's white

collar is a foam neck brace. I am sorry to hear,

this morning, as I can't see the mug top through

the pouring steam, that there is nothing new in

philosophy: I meant to tell you a story but cannot

keep myself interested long enough to describe

the pinewoods exactly. I can never remember jokes,

but there were twenty-four flavors of syrup for

the soft-serve, as for an entire day of ice cream,

and a man near the summit holding his palms fast to

the grass, waiting for dew to come so he could wash.


Zach Savich, from Full Catastrophe Living

Goodbye to All That

Photo by Donald Haines Eason, III

The Talented Mr. Ripley

I'm reading Patricia Highsmith's Ripley novels this summer, which I apparently keep refering to under the collective title The Incredible Mr. Ripley. It's wonderful to be swept away into this world of subtrafuge, in which a charming young man connives and lies his way into people's lives.

Also on my list this summer: Robinson Jeffers, Brad Watson, Stephen Elliott, Percival Everett, George Barker, Brenda Shaughnessy, Jonathan Swift. Odd assortment, I know. Just finished a Nathanael West novel and the manuscripts for Jim Ellidge's and Pimone Triplett's next books.

It's actually quite a good reading summer for me. Amazing how much free time one can have once one is divested of a relationship.

It was good to be in a relationship. It was bad to be in a relationship with someone who was an incredibly Ripleyesque creature. But wonderful to have something to write about. Have finished several new poems, including one called "Narcissus in St. Louis" and one called "Do the Hustle." Neither of which is particularly apropos of anything. When life is not poetry, it is fiction. Always sad to near the end of either, even if the subjects pain you.