Showing posts with label devil's whim chapbooks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label devil's whim chapbooks. Show all posts

Saturday, March 14, 2020

CIRCADIA - kevin mcpherson eckhoff (Gaspereau Press Limited)

Today's book of poetry:
CIRCADIA.  kevin mcpherson eckhoff.  Devil's Whim Occasional Chapbook Series.  Devil's Whim Chapbook No. 37.  Gaspereau Press Limited.  Kentville, Nova Scotia.  2018.


kevin mcpherson eckhoff's CIRCADIA gives us twelve absolutely engaging list poems.  Those of you poetry babies who regularly attend Today's book of poetry will remember our fondness of the form.  eckhoff's poems, each of the twelve is titled for a month of the year, are scatalogical gold.

Before you are finished the all too brief CIRCADIA, you really will not want it to end, eckhoff will have you travel from lemming history and Play-Doh to the Violent Femmes and the male CEO of Mother's Against Drunk Driving. This is deep-sea diving without taking a breath.

If this were a road trip, it would be one of the best; CIRCADIA is poetry rendered into hilarious and somewhat doomed hopscotch.  Not sure if eckhoff would ever take his foot off of the gas, but what a ride.

September

    Play that song,
     Play it again.
     Now, improvise.
          JOHN LENT, "INTERSECTIONS"

I ate some cotton candy. I bought a plastic Wonder
Woman cup for a dollar. I lifted some weights. I'm
not in a classroom teaching. I didn't vomit. I picked
up four boxes of books and papers and puppets and
knickknacks that the custodian had cleaned out of 
my office at Okanagan College. I ate five peaches. I
asked the president of the board of directors to step
down. I spit my gum out the car window. I brought
home an orphaned baby vole. Kiddo named the baby
vole, which we've since learned may actually be a
pack rat, Diggin' Smily. I ran. We moved the toddler-
sized armchair into the bathroom because my
3-year-old was spending so much of his day on the
potty and the milking stool gets so hard on the butt
after reading five books. I lifted some weights. My
3-year-old asked: "What does God think of John
Lent?" I flipped a table to emphasize a point. I drove
to Vancouver. Playing at the park with my 1-year-old,
the moonrise was a word thief. I ran. There were
many toads on the road. I ate some popcorn. A kid at
the park told me that he is really into parkour and
that he just learnt about it yesterday. I watched a
lawyer cage his tears, in part, because I questioned
his actions and abilities. I petted a capybara. I didn't
go to the lantern festival. I deactivated my Facebook
account. I cried. I texted so much while driving. I
wondered how dreams work. I took three boxes of
books to the bookstore to sell. I spotted a fawn on
the side of the highway nuzzling a large lump of
brown fur.

📣📣📣📣

The twelve monthly missives make for a eventful year, eckhoff is hammering out poems that are consistent, anti-cryptic, clear cut, and clean of artifice.  What more could the poetry angels ask for?

Today's book of poetry loves the way kevin mcpherson eckhoff rolls the dice and we cannot wait to see more of this obviously smarty-pants brilliant poet's poetry.  

CIRCADIA makes it all simple, a grandfather dies as easily as a snack of warm nuts appears.  A crossword puzzle and Max Ernst's The Hundred Headless Woman appear on the same palette and with the same simple but vivid colours.

March

     Between thought and expression, let us now kiss the culprit.
     Ooh, I don't know just what it's all about
          VELVET UNDERGROUND, "SOME KINDA LOVE"

I almost had sex. I ran. I didn't wear a seatbelt. I got
shit-eared by Laurel because her favorite foliage in
the front yard, a red twig dogwood, which she kept
calling forsythia, was by her judgement, irreparably
over-pruned by my mother. I played at the park. I 
auditioned for the role of James. I Googled "how to
cook frozen steaks." I drank three coffees. I lifted
some weights. I watched my 3-year-old reveal how a
cattail that has survived the winter contains the fluff
of roughly a hundred thousand billion dandelion
seeds. I had a new passport photo taken. I went to
the chiropractor. I went swimming in the public
pool. I cleaned up my 3-year-old's puke from the bed.
I lifted some weights. I bought the hedgehog a 
wheel, in which it ran for 90 minutes. I threw up. I
did not lift any weights. I wondered about the word
"hide" --how its noun and verb meanings collide. I
threw rocks into a creek. I lifted some weights. I had
sex. I momentarily fell asleep on the hardwood floor
while my 3-year-old and I hid from Jehovah's
Witnesses who were knocking on our door. I started
watching the second season of Daredevil. I shaved. I
ran. I beat up the cherry tree using a scythe to sap
my anger. I ate a lot of chocolate. My 3-year-old
tossed a shred of toenail into the hash browns
as they were frying. I picked up my new passport.
I didn't buy my mom a birthday gift.

📣📣📣📣📣

It's almost spring here in Ottawa and we are all anxiously awaiting "open-window-weather", in the meantime we will rely on poetry like kevin mcpherson eckhoff's refreshing CIRCADIA.  There is so much to enjoy in these inventories, catalogues, lists, poems.

Today's book of poetry has Pharoah Sanders blasting out of the box, his seminal recording of "Oh Lord, let me do no wrong."  Today's book of poetry bought this recording many years ago, in Los Angeles, and then played it non-stop as we drove our rented car up and down California.  Sanders always gives Today's book of poetry more than we asked for, always a life-confirming Walt Whitman "barbaric yawp."  CIRCADIA dances like that, a rhythm all of its own.

June

          I waited in the shadow of my stupid house.
               JAMES FRANCO, "THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT"

I rolled down a grassy hill. I went to my first gala film
premiere. I lifted some weights. I only had one
coffee. I sneezed. I killed a mosquito. I cleaned the
vegetable crisper. I saw my best friend. I self-taped
an audition for the role of Shawn in a film called He's
Out There, even though I know I won't get it. I was
hot. I ate some buffalo-wing-flavoured combos. I
swam in Okanagan Lake. I ran. I didn't get a
callback. I thought about Orlando, the city, not the
book. I clipped my fingernails. I saw a fly trapped in
a Ziploc bag at the playground and I didn't let it out.
My parents visited. I read 36 chapbook-length
manuscripts. I tried teaching my 10-month-old how
to gesture "momma" in American Sign Language,
which he could only imitate as "bitch." I lifted some
weights. I lamented not having found Anne Tardos
and her work 10 years ago. I felt like a hammer. I
nabbed a feral kitten out from under a red minivan at
Caravan Farm Theatre and brought it home. I went
swimming at the green boathouse. The kitten went
to live with our friend Cody. I signed up for a 
LinkedIn account. I ran. I read about Yuxweluptun's
proposal to rename B.C. I worked out at the Vernon
Boxing Club for the first time.

📣📣📣📣📣📣

Today's book of poetry looks out over our big wooden desk and sees the room Michael Hewko built for me.  A quick and simple look at our shelves quickly reveals how poetry beasts like David Clewell, Stuart Ross, Cameron Anstee, David Collins, et al., have showered on our office with generosity.  The poetry world can be like that.  We have much to be thankful for in these offices and it gives Today's book of poetry hope.

In CIRCADIA eckhoff circumnavigates some difficult terrain but with such elan that the lasting impression is one of giddy comfort.  You will have a poetry smile on your face after reading this book, our new intern Tomas guarantees it.

Image result for kevin mcpherson eckhoff photo

kevin mcpherson eckhoff

ABOUT THE POET
Kevin McPherson Eckhoff is a writer, an actor, a teacher, a hubbub and a daddoo. The Globe & Mail described his most recent book—their biography (BookThug)—as “wide-ranging” and “incredibly playful.” He plays one of the lead characters in Sean Braune’s feature film Nuptials. By day, he teaches writing and shit at Okanagan College with his very star bff, Jake Kennedy; by night, he lives on unceded Splats’in Territory with a Laurel and two miniscule muscular men.

gaspereau.com

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DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"
and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some "cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration.

Thursday, September 19, 2019

Against — Matt Robinson (Gaspereau Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Against.  Matt Robinson.  Gaspereau Press.  Devil's Whim Chapbook No. 38.  Kentville, Nova Scotia.  2018.


Today's book of poetry read Matt Robinson's A Ruckus of Awkward Stacking (Insomniac Press, 2001) back in the day but we had Milo, our head tech, dig it out of the stacks so we could give it another once over before we feasted on Robinson's Against.  

Against is fun, in a cranky sort of way.  You eat it up.  Tear off a bit, roll it around between your tongue and cheek.  Presto, as soon as it hits your poetry taste buds, well, by then the Devil has had his/her way.  You're hooked.

Against is against everything.  Against is a systematic, analytic, thorough and unabashed curmudgeonly look at every thing there is to be against since before the first Zamboni hit the ice.

Matt Robinson is up against it.  If it's out there, our man Matt is against it.

Against The New Year's Day Hangover

     But I enjoy the idea of their shade
     when the sun hits them right.
            FROM "TRANSIT OF MERCURY" BY  DANI COUTURE


When the sun hits them right, those empties
extant in their nesting of shards are less
a dull, throbbing reminder of last night's poor choices
and excess, and more a loosely curated drunk's
afterglow, a showy blown-glass derangement
resting skew-countered, serrated, all edgily cornered
but softened somehow by fruit flies' flittered near caul.
It's the small things, after all. Especially
on mornings like this one when your piss and vinegar's
turned and perverted—been swallowed, undone,
and inverted—to a vinegared distillate pissed at
the mumbling, curvilinear brink of the nauseous,
off-colour dawn's waiting bowl, while
your near-useless hands semi-morse for purchase
against the sink's brim or the unfinished skim
coat of that wall you'd sworn you'd get to.
Last night's howls at the moon, now long gone
and cocooned somewhere in the Advil-gauzed
ale aphasias that stipple your brain's stewing meat.
This new year's a sudden 100 watt bulb,
weaponized; a light's tenuous rhetoric aggressively
weighing the pros and the cons of the eyes'
new-found, ad hoc focus on what passes for promise.
For darkest fears. It's all you can do,
at this waking moment, to blink; your jaundiced lids'
strobing—in the bleary, calendar-tossing AM—
seems an intermittent inconvenience of fact;
a subconscious bias, betrayed. The trick, of course, is learning
to enjoy the idea of their shade.

💫💫💫

As Today's book of poetry is a teetotaler for the most part we had to survey our staff to better understand what a hangover might be like.  Against Today's book of poetry's better judgment we decided to take our Senior Editor, Max, at his word and believe his hangover stories as gospel.  Pretty sure Matt Robinson would be against that too.

Matt Robinson's Against is a real misanthropic marvel, a canyon filling calamity of complaint disguised as the most sulphurous of vapors — poetry.  Bless his cotton socks.  Today's book of poetry was much amused, even against our better instincts.

Robinson's complaints are both universal and deeply personal, all encompassing and all consuming.  In the proper frame of mind Today's book of poetry is convinced Matt Robinson could be against anything.

Against The Opposable Thumb

Briefly unhinged at some pivotal juncture
of a late summer's football-matched
pratfall, this thumb's now a cranky old bugger—uneasily
angry and warily perched on the proverbial porch
of my damaged right hand. Bruise-bloated; arthritic
and swaying; prone to fits of distemper. Barely
able to grasp a mere semblance of whatever
sly, rumoured rhetoric at which its stick has been shaking,
it longs for a line drawn in the sand that slips through
its neighbouring digits' failed clutch. This dull ache's the new face
of what passes for real flexibility in a suddenly post-fractural
world; how our grasp on reality's set, and then loosed,
grudgingly. A trumped up indignant, it's opposed, constantly—
aches to say, in the morning's damp cool
or each evening's close, clammy heat:
Take a hike. Take a seat and watch the world burn.
Yes, this knucklehead seems at once to know best, or know
nothing; or, ape just as much. A nouveau, bespoke, hipster-maker
of handwrung once-fists, of faux-wrought A-OKs—
we just hope its signed puppetry's shadows
are—in some guise—in the end, no more or no less than
good ol' pick-me-ups, an innocence
mimed. Just vaudevillian gestures towards our
coming to grips. Only another nail chewed, chewed,
eschewed, and then spit.

💫💫💫

If Matt Robinson had his way we'd be driving our Zamboni's without any thumbs at all.  Cry havoc.
Another crazy week here in the Today's book of poetry offices, people coming, others going.  The usual September confusion.  

In Today's book of poetry world September has always been the real start of the year.  That's when things start.  January 1st is just the weekend after Christmas.  Today's book of poetry is against January starting the year off and we believe we might convince Matt Robinson to be against it too.  Just for the spite of it.

These too few poems make a bigger impact than you might first expect.  Wasn't it Joe Orton himself who was "Kicking Against the Pricks" and really against it all.  Today's book of poetry is going to make a list shit-kickers and Matt Robinson is going to be on it.  Only the best will do.

Our morning read was highly entertaining.  Maggie, our new Jr. Editor, set the stage with a rousing reading of Robinson's "Against the AR-15".  Then she started pointing fingers.

Against The Wedding Invitation Ampersand

Imperfect ornament; unfinished
script. Lazy journeyman's apprentice-
wrought hackjob of a joinery's
grip left askew and still setting, edges
un-knit. An incomplete circuit,
its breakers just tripped as an idea's
new train of thought makes its ponderous,
penultimate turn and then slows
to pull into mind's station. Unsung
treble clefs, they are nothing
but poorly tied bows on spectacular gifts.
These loop-de-looped maps' near
pseudo-suggestions are a sky's inky contrails,
scrawled insinuations polluting
our horizon's far flung, bird's eye
scansion, its cloudless grammar. Nothing
but a brutish fool's tools—nails
crudely hammered and prised once
and again, and then left en plein air,
an iron-y tangle. They're typeset brambles
hedging their bets on how we—us two,
our traceried routes—have meandered
about and around and into each
and the other. On how the art of connection
sometimes leaves even language
to wonder.

💫💫💫

Matt Robinson's Against proves once and again that size doesn't matter.  This short chapbook stands tall, tall, tall, and against the tide.  Today's book of poetry loved Robinson's verisimilitude, as grumpy as the weather.

Well done is well done.  The proper burn.

Today's book of poetry is tickled pink to have Against heading into the stacks to keep Robinson's A Ruckus of Awkward Stacking company.


Matt Robinson

ABOUT THE POET
Matt Robinson’s previous poetry collections include Against the Hard Angle (2010), no cage contains a stare that well (2005), how we play at it: a list (2002), and A Ruckus of Awkward Stacking (2000), as well as numerous chapbooks. Robinson has won the Grain Prose Poetry Prize, the Petra Kenney Award, and The Malahat Review Long Poem Prize, among others. He lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, with his family.


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DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"
and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some "cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration.