the latest galatea resurrects, edited by eileen tabios, is up and, uniquely in her editorial practice apparently, contains reviews in abundance. 35 "new reviews" of 39 new poetry publications, of which i can safely say that i have only heard of 14 of the poets whose work is being reviewed.
that's 25 out of 39 poets, nearly two out of every three, that i have never heard of before. and it's not like i just crawled out of a cave or something. so much for keeping on top of things. i mean i will never read all 39 of these publications -- and who knows what good work i might be missing as a result. it's getting to the point now where we need reviews of the reviews. or a compliation of quoted passages.
which is what i've done here. if you like any of these head to the mag itself and comb through those reviews, or lemme know and i can get you the cite. i've pulled from reviews in the order they appear, typically taking the first quoted passage from the review. (if there wasn't one i skipped that review.)i know it's yanking these things out of the context but reading any of it's better than reading none at all i figure.
I am talking about an antechamber
petrified forest of images
faucets dripping from the underground
a ball of wax and second class citizens
a replica who counts
till the bones are crushed to the last breath
Into the glass the sunset and its long arm
Raindrops dissolve low visibility equals grey light
Like my eyes like yours and other reference points
The playing card is the traffic island
In the film jet fuel froze but
the hero could still light
a match. Is that science?
It's hard to say something
intelligent about a dishtowel, so
I hung one up instead.
Every moment a zen master
Slap. Thanks for the link
to the self-defense nightstand.
What exists but now, wet and pulmonary,
rinsed of context like two glasses used to mix a drink—
what’s not soluble in liquid exchange?
Personally, I’d trade my kingdom for your clavicle,
the chance to draw a bow across the viola of your hips.
chill reflect the myriad
of hopefuls & the din's aswirlin here
like the way reason flames this season . . .
put down that card and roll . . .
to know how those kept out
set foot inside, sat down, and how
the mirrors around the lunch counter
reflected the face
to face—the cross-mirrored depth reached
infinitely back into either—
the one pouring the bowl over the head of
the one sitting in
at that counter.
Indigenous eyes, the hardness
of shale. Indigenous sky,
colorless. Wind wakes
the wanting of the weeds.
Fire frees the founding of the fence.
The sea slays the slicing
of the seasons. Rock
rocks the rocking of rage
into stone. Let it turn you
to salt. Let it lick you into
rapids. Make it see you
Our two, worth their maximum and minimum,
perambulate, perform. Parabola, ellipsis, ellipses:
I would like to mention discontinuity at this juncture.
It slices our pair from the earth’s mantle.
We’ll paint the bedroom yellow
Not like corn, you said, like wheat
I sleep outside and dream about my daughter.
The mountain wears a headdress
The wheat will be a mother
keep me dry:
my floating board.
Ohoh, when you’re famous
you’ll be bald, but allright
we’ll show them you had hair once
and not only where they think.
I need a metaphor that will transform
This skeleton of passion into some
Thing that breathes fire rather than the still air
Of considered conundrums, into some
Thing that stands of its own accord against
Time and these chill unseasonable winds.
Caller six: I cannot think.
Caller seven: You do not recollect.
Caller six: What makes my ankles grow so thick?
Caller seven: How great a calf they carry!
blood. In the
of the labyrinth
chickenheadfred's mother sits at the bus stop
by a brown paper bag full
of old clothes entitled FREE
she complains about the younger generation
how only five years earlier
kids did not drive around in circles
shouting fuck you out windows
but now we are all hooked
on awful smoking drinking habits
we all want to quit life
there is no way around quitting
life she says
The gods could
still arrive at my door, . . . .
make my daughters lie down
with swans, leave my grandchild chained
...she builds another house;...tears
for bricks, and cries as loud as she can...
Still he can’t hear her because the house’s
rectangular tears are too dazzlingly beautiful
Protestants once lived
a life of service,
but ever since the Sixties
the service has sucked.
A drowning breath, Luisa,
begins the poem
of our making
and unmaking -- night drifting
between two days. The sea
was calm, its music impossibly
curl like waves, or was it
waves curl like flames?
while you build your fortresses high,
the saints dance and the devil
waits outside a thousand years.
a spider swings
with the spider plant
We paddled these people across the street in a canoe,
one by one.
We carried them up eight flights of stairs
to the parking garage roof.
We’re waiting for helicopters they told us would be here.
ARDS-man just croaked.
My hands are sore for squeezing that bag.
I kept him alive for four days
and now he’s kicked the bucket....
I should have protested loudly
about some things and not at
all about others
I should have learned Spanish and German
I shouldn’t have been so easily discouraged
I should have listened to my mother
my life could have been so much better by now
There is a season to this ripening,
the way sap of tree rises to fulfill
fruit of the topmost branch,
or the motion of jasmine
climbing trellises to show off
a single blossom at new moon tide....
Saying goodnight is saying goodbye--
leave-takings are forever. When
you were born, time began—yet for you
there’s no such thing as time.
Geese in tones of black and white
move about in perfect grace,
creating endless layers
of luminous whirlpools.
When I smelled the peony, I remembered
the millennia, lives I was meant
for, all laid out
You were there.
We were the same body, separated
by the big bang, jetting into the system,
doomed to reunite.
for every daemonic place he erects stone
archangels and infernos, exacts penance
from those driven underground, spills his seed,
his battle cry, his body presses firm dispensation.
he invents himself by extracting others’ titles.
which do i like? 6 (Ed Robeson), 7 (Lorna Dee Cervantes), 8 (Catherine Daly), 13 (Olivia Cronk), and 19 (Barry Schwabsky).