The Art of Dying — Sarah Tolmie (McGill-Queens University Press)

Today's book of poetry:
The Art of Dying.  Sarah Tolmie.  McGill-Queens University Press.  Montreal & Kingston·London·Chicago.  2018.

Before you read a word of Sarah Tolmie's transcendent The Art of Dying, you need to listen to Sir Ralph Stanley's harrowing rendition of his classic "O Death", which you can hear here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xmRWj7gJEU 

If you're still standing you might be ready for what Sarah Tolmie has cooked up for us.  Today's book of poetry sits in awe listening to Mr. Stanley bargain it all down and Tolmie has the same glaze of class and integrity.  The same deathly grit.

The Art of Dying tackles death with a capital D.  Tolmie takes on every experience death has to offer.  If you listen closely enough you might even come to think that Sarah Tolmie loved death.

Tolmie has plenty to say to the "poets" and their lofty ideals, she knows full well that death is waiting for them too, and tells them so.  There are eighty-nine numbered poems in The Art of Dying, Today's book of poetry had a field day because we could have shared, happily, any of them.  Tolmie doesn't tolerate any weak siblings, she has no dead weight allowed.

2

Poets no longer rate so high

In the consolation industry.

We've been fools.

TV has usurped our role:

Zombies, vampires, doctors, priests

Tell us our deaths need not be.

Our friends spam us from the internet

With the final selfie that death photobombed.

Truth is becalmed.

💫💫💫

The Art of Dying tickles the poetry funny bone with whimsy and some wacky rhymes, but it is all for amusement, to calm the dying, for giggles.  Tolmie has laser vision, night-goggle vision, into our deepest fears, our deepest fear, the last one: death.

Sarah Tolmie runs a tight ship.  Each of these untitled pronouncements rings precisely, clearly and then precariously, all taking on death, all dying.

It's not like of this comes as too much of a surprise for Today's book of poetry.  Any of our regular readers will remember that Sarah Tolmie is a two-time Today's book of poetry star.  The Art of Dying is Tolmie's third appearance here.  Back in May of 2015 Today's book of poetry was delighted to write about Tolmie's Sonnets in a Blue Dress and Other Poems (Baseline Press, 2014).  Then in November of the same year we were lucky enough to get our hands on Tolmie's Trio (McGill-Queens University Press, 2015).  Both of those can be seen here:

http://michaeldennispoet.blogspot.com/2015/05/sonnets-in-blue-dress-and-other-poems.html 

http://michaeldennispoet.blogspot.com/2015/11/trio-sarah-tolmie-mcgill-queens.html 

Today's book of poetry has come to believe that Sarah Tolmie is as dependable a poet as you can imagine, we know that when we pick up a Sarah Tolmie book that it will be full of riches.

37

Michael Jackson had a Lazarus fail.

He always did thing on the grand scale,

Having himself euthanized nightly.

Finally it stuck.

The doc went out to smoke or make a call

And he never woke-up.

Widespread woe, tributes, lawsuits ensued

but one thing everybody knew

Was all his wealth did him no good.

This is counterintuitive

And makes us slightly pleased

At the death of celebrities.

💫💫💫

Kathryn, our Jr. Editor, took control of the morning reading and rolled out our copies of Trio and Sonnet in a Blue Dress and Other Poems to accompany The Art of Dying.  Tomas and Frieda, two old friends of Today's book of poetry, dropped by this morning and of course Kathryn made them read as well.  Tomas and Frieda added some spice and some enthusiasm to our core group.  And of course whenever we have visitors the staff are inspired to reach for their better poetry selves.

Reading The Art of Dying is a little like skipping and hop-scotch:  you read the first poem and get you a poetry smile/high going and then gravity, momentum, and other unseen forces of nature compel you forward.  Curiosity kisses one side of your cheek and death kisses the other.  This is Chef type burning.

Today's book of poetry would be remiss if we didn't mention the spectacular killer cover of The Art of Dying.  David Drummond designed it and we are convinced he is a Devilchild.  But the cover is hard-core cool and worthy of the fine poems enclosed within.

64

The present American horror show

May yet be remembered by a single poem.

People get tired of video.

I've seen this poem a dozen times

About just one guy who died.

Otherwise it's all the same.

Make no mistake that a news report,

Whatever that is in this day and age,

Whoever protests, whoever pays,

Lasts a single minute. Holinshed's lists

Of aristocrats who died for this and that

Come over slowly from Calais

On parchment strips, those will remain

While all things fade

From the digital consciousness.

Eric Garner. That was the name.

Let it be carried in the world mainframe

Until the canticle for Leibowitz.

💫💫💫

As previously stated, Today's book of poetry is now an official Sarah Tolmie fan.  With The Art of Dying Tolmie enters the rare "threepeat" territory on our pages.

Today's book of poetry now knows Tolmie is gold and burning.  I guess we've known it all along.

Sarah Tolmie

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarah Tolmie is associate professor of English at the University of Waterloo. Her poetry collection Trio was shortlisted for the 2016 Pat Lowther Memorial Award.

BLURB

“There is astute compassion in discussions of assisted suicide, the fleeting life of an imaginary friend, and the confusion of hospital stays that deftly turn daily incidences into larger existential considerations … In these direct, personal brushes with death, Tolmie is at her most clear-sighted, stripping away the rubble of euphemism we use as a salve against the enigma of death.”

    — Montreal Review of Books

mqup.ca

710

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.

Pressed Against All That Nothing — Cody Deitz (Yak Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Pressed Against All That Nothing.  Cody Deitz.
Number One - Native Blossom Chapbook Series Two.  Yak Press.  Littlerock, California.  2015.

Take note, if Today's book of poetry gave out stars, today we would have to give them all to Cody Deitz.  Pressed Against All That Nothing is nothing short of extraordinary.  

Cody Deitz does a bunch of things in this marvelous book, but mostly Today's book of poetry thinks Deitz shows his brother true love and devotion.

These poems don't just "give sorrow words," as Maryse Holder would have said, they are both a vivid poetry accounting of harrowing personal losses, and a lovingly detailed account of the strength of a brother's love.  Deitz writes both about his brother's addictions and his incarceration but always from a loving and accepting terra firma.

Joshua Trees (Yucca brevifolia)

               for my brother, and R.G.

In the great expanse of sky

                                        and nothing,

we pass cigarettes back and forth:

the only holy incense we know,

timid offerings to the teenage gods of rebellion and getting lucky,

each sacramental stick carried

out into the desert—where else do sacraments belong?

Brothers, we share apathy,

exhaled through the nose,

                                 staining clothes and fingertips vanilla.

From the depths of our chests,

each streak of smoke flies off

like a pale crow.

I'm nostalgic for a past that doesn't exist

in a town that was never real,

and though it's still years to come,

                                                 and now, we're still in this together—

I can already see me getting out of this place and you standing alone

out in the Joshua trees, pressed against all that nothing.

💫💫💫

Deitz never loses hope for the reappearance of his lost brother and he understands that this battle doesn't always have a victor.  The emotionally fraught landscape of these poems is one where the family of an addict endure, suffer, wait.  

The canvas Pressed Against All That Nothing appears on is mined with dangers both unseen and predicted.  And as much as Deitz fears his brother may never return from his abyss, Deitz never loses hope or faith.

Cody Deitz is one hell of a marksman because every single poem in Pressed Against All That Nothing hits the target right in its blood-red centre.  Today's book of poetry is here to tell you that Deitz is more than a fine marksman, he consistently hits targets that only moments ago were invisible.

Hindsight In Six Parts

— 

July evening, mid-summer drought

                                      like always, and windy.

A red-tailed hawk updrafts foothills nearby,

                                                      just hunting for mice,

and you're not sober yet—the leaves wait to turn

and let gravity take them, the earth waiting—

But you haven't yet lost your sense of being alive, either,

                                                     the shudder and cringe of it,

as you wait again for a car to drive you into the night.

—

You have yet to be left in the desert

while mom and dad fly off—

the tired nest finally pulled out from under you.

Your room is still your own, a cluttered installation:

video games, tissue boxes, cheap watches that hold their breath—

                                            things not yet sold for Vicodin and rum.

The floor strewn with empty Marlboro packs,

                                                         their many tiny gaping mouths.

—

You have yet to be picked up in the night,

pulled from that red-eyed neighborhood,

                                              your freedom left on the roadside.

Your car emptied of plastic bottles, pinhead knot of resin,

glass pieces with bowls like small translucent moons:

                                         small catalog of municipal reckoning.

It will sit empty in the weeds for months,

mechanical ghost

              of your leaving.

—

You've yet to be bussed downtown

and left in Men's Central,

locked away for months in psychiatric,

        (How will you keep warm in that heat-sink,

          angry architecture?)

where you will freeze in your powerlessness,

its democratic pain.

The prison windows are tall, narrow eyes

                                             that look out into nothing.

—

You have yet to learn in rehab you've carried sickness for years,

an illegible letter, chicken-scratch diagnosis.

You haven't stood beneath the streetlight amber,

                                             watched the smoke rise

from the coffee-can ashtray, carcinogen bloom,

cigarette butts wrinkled petals wedged

into that strange bouquet nobody sent.

—

Now you stop your car on 65th street,

sleeping houses on one side,

                    tumbleweeds and dark on the other.

You load a bowl and look out, considering all that grows

                                                                  without sustenance:

Joshua trees and juniper amazingly green without a breath

of water for weeks, their heads tall and stoic in the desert chill—

you read once, of their root structures,

                         everything connected so nothing slips past.

💫💫💫

Today's book of poetry has been behind the wheel of car for six of the last seven days and still feels the wind whipping past.  As a result, we aren't moving very much, or very quickly, today.  But Today's book of poetry was so taken by Deitz's Pressed Against All That Nothing that today's office reading was a solo shot.  The entire staff sat stone silent while I whipped through Pressed Against All That Nothing as though it were something of my own creation.  I should be so lucky.

These poems felt so tight I could barely get the pages apart.  These poems were so ripped with magic Today's book of poetry didn't know whether to spit or wind my watch, they just worked.  Cody Deitz is in Master Chef territory, he's so good in the poetry kitchen you can smell his burn from every direction.

Habit Of The World

          Don't take it personal, they said;

          but I did, I took it all quite personal

                        -Tony Hoagland

The jacaranda tree at the end of my street

has been losing itself all week,

dropping its amethyst and lavender

all over the sidewalk, while spring burns off like fog

                                       and the sky looks blue and determined.

It's easy to take it personal—this undermining of permanence,

                                                                   this habit of the world.

💫💫💫

Cody Deitz gives his brother every opportunity to come home again but as Thomas the Wolfe so aptly told us, you can never do that again.  

Today's book of poetry fell in love with how far Deitz was willing to go in his brother's name.  As it turns out Deitz is willing to go as far as it takes, these poems are a full-fledged love song to his flawed and beautiful sibling.

Deitz knows that being straight is a good thing but it is not the only thing.  Some of us have other dreams.

Cody Deitz

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cody Deitz, a California native, now resides in North Dakota where he is pursuing his PhD. in English at the University of North Dakota. He is fascinated with poetry of place, and how geography informs individual experience, seeking in his work to explore this connection and the insights it affords.

BLURBS

Cody Deitz understands something about interiority—that ‘the subconscious is always a terrain’—and he fluidly moves between the psychic space of the shared dark and that brighter horizon where ‘the sun becomes the symbol it always wanted to be, / that slippery metaphor for god, shooting into the well’s eye.’ These are poems of addiction, recovery, fraternal love, and a Ginsberg-like faith that there is salvation in poetry. The genius of Cody Deitz is in his intimate, meditative act of witness, far-seeing yet detailed. He offers an undeniably unifying force of human spirit where we learn the pain and possibility of ‘unmaking. . .the terrible.’ Like the ‘steel refrigerator / with its cord buried in dirt,’ these poems, too, seem ‘plugged. . .into the world.’ ”

     ~ Leilani Hall, author of Swimming the Witch  

“Cody Deitz’s collection documents a brother’s disappearance into addiction, a black hole around which the family spins. After stints in prison, psych care, and rehab, he reemerges barely recognizable — a figure that, like Zeno’s paradox, the speaker can never fully reach, ‘the idea of progress // suddenly unfathomable.’ These events are embodied and presented in vivid, resonant details: Joshua trees, shoe prints in desert sand, the mouths of empty Marlboro packs, the crackle of a prison telephone. In his precise and yet discursive verse, Deitz’s poetic attention is ‘More than turning on a light—it’s becoming // the bulb and the switch and the finger. . .’ ”

     ~ Heidi Czerwiec, author of Self-Portrait as Bettie Page and A is for A-ké, The Chinese Monster 

“Cody Deitz’ work is a live wire snaking over the asphalt of lyrical poetry, though the hum of his words never rises above the electric din: instead, it is the reader who reverberates with recognition in the mechanical ghost Deitz creates out of his stark architecture. The invisible cord of his words will become a nightlight in a forever-darkening sky, will conduct electricity against this fleeting urban solitude. His poetry is a voice that both reassures from the hallway and echoes back to you in a strange rhythm, as you lay safe and pressed against all that nothing.”

     ~ Gina Alexandra, MFA candidate, UCSD

Cody Deitz

reads from

Pressed Against All That Nothing

Video:  YakPress

yakpress.com 

709

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

Bociany (Storks) — Jonathan Garfinkel (knife|fork|book)

Today's book of poetry:
Bociany (Storks).  Jonathan Garfinkel.  knife|fork|book.  Toronto, Ontario.  2017.

(Two things about this photo - our apologies to Jonathan Garfinkel,

this was the best we could do and it is a sorry attempt.  Milo, our 

head tech, was on holiday today.  Secondly, Bociany (Storks), 

is a smart and tidy looking book, contrary to our photo.

Bociany - Przylecialy  "the storks have arrived" Polish folklore.

Jonathan Garfinkel has that thing, we all want to see it in a poem, magic.  And I bet he has it in his plays as well.  This type of certainty isn't random.

One of the short gems from this golden jewel is titled "Ornithology."  Ornithology is the study of birds and Garfinkel flights his poems with plenty of aviators.  But Today's book of poetry couldn't help but think of the Charlie Parker song/anthem/call to prayer "Ornithology" and all of the flying it has inspired.  Garfinkel's study is a poem that takes the same imaginative leaps of faith as Charlie Parker, he gives these poems wings.

Ornithology

I light a fire. Put on the coffee.
The radio struggles.
Wearing only a white towel,
'Molting,' you promise.

See no change. remember
your father beat you
to the punch. He wanted
to drive out the birds
from beneath.

We make love in the corridor
The station clearer.

A grey jay studies its reflection
moments before hitting the window.

💫💫💫

The storks are a good omen in Polish folklore and Garfinkel uses them and others flights of fancy as he is looking for silver linings when he looks to the cloudy sky.  Today's book of poetry sees little but gold in Bociany (Storks).  Jonathan Garfinkel takes us all over the world with his traveller's knowledge, with his knowing he reaches for the sky, every bird wants to eventually soar, but Garfinkel remains grounded every time out.  This is fancy cooking.

Just to be clear, Today's book of poetry is convinced Bociany (Storks) is a remarkable publication.  These poems are built of strong, solid stuff.  This is a kitchen that burns.

Border

The taut-faced crowd waits to board.
Too little food, too much prayer. One line
becomes four, a sniper takes aim.
Then the trampling and the panic.
I think of Forest Hill, tree-lined streets.
the multitudes of Mercedes
docked at the synagogue.
Rich women kvetch over lattes
too much foam, not enough heat.
Somewhere in their grief, a prayer.
Calling us: All aboard. The captain
whittles the air with his bamboo stick.
'Back,' he screams. We press forward,
teeter toward India.
The clouds full of hidden maps.
The White Nuclear Night.
Women in black burqas dart
to and fro, children
yelp in terror or delight.
The ferry swings towards the lights.

💫💫💫

Today's book of poetry came away from Bociany (Storks) full of admiration for Jonathan Garfinkel.  We think in another life he may have been a watchmaker.  His poems are finely crafted, wheels inside wheels, all in perfect motion, one concentrated motion, every elaboration fitted precisely, every essential puzzle piece dropping into place as though nature intended it.

It's Sunday morning and the Today's book of poetry offices are a tad quieter than usual.  Everyone is here, except Milo, but few are vocal.  The morning reading was followed by several orders for jet-black coffee as the peons scurried back to their poetry-hidey-holes.

All humour aside, Today's book of poetry is a new convert, we're in for every word Garfinkel cares to utter.  We loved Bociany (Storks), what can we say?  The only fault was its brevity, we wanted more and more and more.

Watch

The soul is not a stone
to carve into.
But we take care of the world.
Bridges, gardens, mending.

Of all his jewelry I loved it most.
Light, elegant, a square face
with gold hands.
The watch repairman pried

the case back to show me
dust and moisture seeped into the crown.
Microscopic footprints,
a corroded mechanics, lunar.

When I was a child
I curled into his body.
Seconds that made so much noise.
Time, like love, wanting.

💫💫💫

Today's book of poetry apologizes for our recent absence from the scene, we were filling up our tanks in Quebec.  We visited the Abbaye De Saint-Beniot-Du-Lac where a cluster of Benedictine monks live in silence but sing during their services.  We were lucky enough to hear some of this beautiful chanting.  Nothing like a little perspective to help set the mind straight.

We also bought some cider and cheese, those Benedictine's are industrious.

Jonathan Garfinkel's Bociany (Storks) went down like untapped spring water directly from the source.  Today's book of poetry could not get enough of it.

Jonathan Garfinkel

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jonathan is an award-winning poet, playwright and prose writer. His genre-bending work bridges the personal and the political, and is often inspired by his travels to far-flung, dangerous places, with an eye toward the humourous and absurd. He is the author of the book of poetry Glass Psalms. His plays have been produced across Canada and Germany and include The Trials of John Demjanjuk: A Holocaust Cabaret, and the 2011 Governor General's nominated House of Many Tongues. His award winning non-fiction has appeared in Walrus, Tablet, PEN International, 18 Bridges and the Globe and Mail, as well as Cabin Fever: An Anthology of the Best New Canadian Non-Fiction. His memoir Ambivalence: Crossing the Israel/Palestine Divide, was published to critical acclaim in five countries. In March 2016 his theatrical adaptation of the novel Cockroach by Rawi Hage will premiere in Calgary at Alberta Theatre Projects. Jonathan teaches creative writing at the National Theatre School of Canada.

knifeforkbook.com 

708

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

Sinners Dance — Darrell Epp (Mosaic Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Sinners Dance.  Darrell Epp.  Mosaic Press.  Oakville, Ontario.  2017.

Today's book of poetry is willing to go down any road Darrell Epp chooses to take us.  Sinners Dance continues the hard driving standard we've come to expect from Mr. Epp.

Sinners Dance is the third title by Darrell Epp that Today's book of poetry has explored.  You can find links to Today's book of poetry and After Hours (Mosaic Press, 2016) and Imaginary Maps (Signature Editions) right here:

http://michaeldennispoet.blogspot.com/2017/06/after-hours-darrell-epp-mosaic-press.html

http://michaeldennispoet.blogspot.com/2017/11/imaginary-maps-darrell-epp-signature.html 

The only thing that has changed with Darrell Epp's new poetry, Sinners Dance, is that the beautiful bastard is getting better.  He's upped his game.  Sinners Dance brims with lovely movies and astonishing novels, all sorts of entertainments, disguised as tight, brief and illuminating poems.

Left Lung

the fuzzy black spot on the x-ray reminded

him of a dark star which reminded him of a

movie but this was no movie, the specialist

was very sorry, left lung he said but meant

right lung, the image was reversed, how odd

to be alive, standing in the hub of the world's

sweaty churning in a miami dolphins jersey

not knowing what to say, where to aim. he

thought of that end-times prophet preaching

in front of jackson square; the beast rising

from the sea, the woman with MYSTERY

tattooed on her forehead. he wished he'd

listened, he wished he'd hugged him, why

hadn't he hugged him, he thought of being

a kid, racing his bike up the ramp, catching

air, defying gravity, moments so pregnant

they were building blocks for every other

moment, like fighting against rush hour

traffic, the endless throbbing of it all, he

headed down main west toward james st.,

he'd find that guy waving his homemade

signs, he'd touch him, and as the stock

exchange wound down, as tanks moved

across the desert, confess everything.

💫💫💫

Darrell Epp's poetry often leads to fits of jealousy for Today' book of poetry, when what I really want is to share how fine I find these poems.  One of Epp's excellent tricks is to allow the reader instant access.  Epp doesn't put anything between the story he wants to tell and the reader.  The reader digests these poems on contact.

Another thing about Sinners Dance, Epp is getting wiser.  So many of these poems wrap up the frayed edges of our thinking.  Today's book of poetry isn't suggesting that Darrell Epp suddenly has the answer to everything, instead his poetry leads us, without impediment, to the right questions.

Winter Dream

'talking about shopping is not really talking,'

she said, that's why she didn't answer

jill's texts anymore, that's why she blocked

her on facebook. i said, 'there's an

alternative world where i'm an mvp,

a vip, with dozens of grandkids.'

she said, 'that's cool,' and carved

obscenities with her thumb into

the frost caked on the window.

that winter the world was our

idea, our boozy chauffeur, our

hunchbacked prankmonkey

somersaulting on command.

the spell lasted until the cat

got sick, the vet's disdainful

looks made us feel like guilty

truants, she gave him the finger

as i paid the pharmacist, then

the pipes froze on us and nine

months later she was teaching

english on the island of kyoto.

💫💫💫

Today's book of poetry has Pharoah Saunders on the box this morning and that should come as no surprise.  Our morning read was led, with brisk enthusiasm, by Milo, our head tech.  Milo suggested we come up with a name, a title, a designation of some respect, per se, for the poets we've visited at least three times.

Off the top of my snowy-white head memory would suggest that list include Nelson Ball, Sue Goyette, Stuart Ross and now Darrell Epp.  We will have to look a little closer to confirm our list.

Today's book of poetry is open to suggestion.  We threw Milo's idea around the room and liked it, then we agreed we'd wait until we heard what you readers thought.  We can't wait to hear what you think.

Once we started reading Darrell Epp's Sinners Dance, everyone on our staff entered Epp world and did our best to hammer these fine poems home.

Halo of Flies

i'm patrolling my turf, counting the windows without

glass, the bakeries and shoe stores turned into squats.

this is where ifrah hitched a ride on the handlebars of

my mountain bike, this is where lily informed me we

had nothing in common, she made it sound like she

was imparting the secret of the universe and i could

barely stifle a yawn. that's the first escape where we

looked for mars the war god through your brother's

telescope, had chin-up contests off the ladder. i give

it a tug and the metal groans and shakes, oxidation

takes no prisoners. rust always wins but he doesn't

have to be so smug about it. i'll come back with a

camera, i'll record all the fading signage before

the demolition crews make way for gentrification.

i'm in the dog house because i forgot valentine's

day, my wife says i seem distracted, my head's

an empty bag, my heart's a corroded cog, my

left brain trips up my right brain like a saboteur,

i see consciousness as a halo of flies, as the

900-pound gorilla on the other end of the

seesaw. i step on a crack, say a prayer, give

thanks for the men who poured the concrete,

laid the bricks and pipes we take for granted,

recall there's grace enough for everybody.

💫💫💫

"recall there's grace enough for everybody."  That is a great line and a fine end.

Today's book of poetry has always liked lists.  Darrell Epp is going on our list, the list we keep close for ready referral.  Sinners Dance will reel you around the floor, make you guilty-dizzy in parts, happy-dizzy in others.

That's some good dancing.

Darrell Epp

ABOUT THE POET

Darrell Epp’s poetry has appeared in dozens of magazines including Maisonneuve, Poetry Ireland, Sub-Terrain, and The Saranac Review. His previous poetry collection include Imaginary Maps (Signature Editions, 2009) and After Hours (Mosaic Press, 2016). Darrell lives in Hamilton, Ontario.

BLURBS

“Sinners Dance places the reader in a pre-apocalyptic world, clearly recognizable as our own …There is wit in Epp’s writing, but the overall view of life is bleak, the guardians of our civilization blind, the maps deceiving.”
     – Bernadette Rule, Hamilton Review of Books


“Epp’s poems have a distinct Hamilton flavour, he also says there are certain truths and experiences everyone can identify with, no matter where they live.”
     – Emma Reilly, Interview & Feature in the Hamilton Spectator

Darrell Epp

reads

Pregnant Fly Dead on my Windshield

Video:  Darrell Epp

mosaic-press.com

707

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

Burning the Evidence — Todd Cirillo (Epic Rites Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Burning the Evidence.  Todd Cirillo.  Epic Rites Press.  Woodbridge, Sherwood Park, Alberta, Canada.  2017.

Todd Cirillo, like Heath Ledger's Joker, is quite prepared to watch it all burn.  These poems evoke an anti-establishment ethos from the first hard line Cirillo pounds down.  And all the poems that follow are similarly crafted, hammer to anvil.

No one likes the Bukowski reference these days but Today's book of poetry is too old to know who the new age Buk might be, so there you go.  But we'll settle for any hard-drinking, hard-living, hard writing, truth teller who can make us laugh and make us cry.  Burning the evidence is our huckleberry today.

Perspective

It was the last time

you would stay over,

ever,

and I wasn't sad

about it.

We agreed to say

it was not you

and it was not me.

But really,

we know,

deep down

that the next time

we are at the bar

telling our story,

we will say

it was definitely

you.

💫💫💫

Todd Cirillo brings his own take on things to the game.  Cirillo leads with his heart more often than the traditional tough guy but nothing comes easy when your girlfriend owns a .357.

The heart and soul of the matter is that Today's book of poetry simply likes the way Cirillo talks.  We like the way he gets from A to B, and what he has to say along the way.  Burning the Evidence bristles with anecdotes and love songs, accusations and admissions, and Cirillo makes them all feel true.

These poems feel as though they could happen to you, or may, in another place and time.

Everybody's a Critic

I had been drinking Moscow Mules

for half the day,

trying to work on poems,

attempting to get the words right,

elicit the correct emotion,

break the perfect hearts,

I drank,

I wrote,

I drank,

I wrote.

At 6:30 pm

my girlfriend

joined me.

When she arrived

I got up to go to the bathroom

grabbed my poems

and stated,

"I'll take the poems with me

so no one steals them."

She quickly responded,

"I think there's enough toilet paper in there."

💫💫💫

Burning the Evidence isn't all love's battlefield and hungover mornings.  Todd Cirillo is also able to play the love poem, sweet like a cooing dove, without cloying and only a minimal threat of violence.  Cirillo knows he is always holding the trump card, joker that he is.

The morning read at the Today's book of poetry offices was led by Milo, our head tech.  Milo was convinced early on that just like some other Epic Rites Press poets, Cirillo could really burn.

If Burning the Evidence were a Tom Waits album it would be Blue Valentines, Rickie Lee Jones on the back cover, bent over backwards or a Thunderbird, her blonde hair falling like a dangerous rainbow over the back of the car, like a summer shower with lightning in the offing, the blue neon green of the night all ambient and tender and frightening.

If Burning the Evidence were a meal, it would be the special at a diner, but the gravy is made in the kitchen, the fries are homecut, and the apple pie was made by Mom.

If Burning the Evidence were a car, the body might need a little work, some bondo, but it would cover ground like a cheetah and run like a top.  Maybe some grumble in the idle.

You get the picture.

Memory Never Lies

I won't lie—

it has gotten incredibly difficult

to recall

who I wrote which

poem for.

the names and moments,

even the years

have begun to blue together

in a kaleidoscope

of inspirational moments.

Luckily—

after reading my poems

when a girl asks,

"Who was THAT one about?"

I always remember

to tell the truth:

"That one was

for you baby."

💫💫💫

Burning the Evidence by Todd Cirillo runs a little hot, pick it up with care.  But pick it up.

Todd Cirillo

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Todd Cirillo is co-founder of Six Ft. Swells Press and one of the originators of the After-Hours Poetry movement. He is sought after as an editor and performer and has worked on numerous collections for poets and writers. Todd is widely recognized for his performances. He has read from Jack Kerouac's On the Road to the accompaniment of famed musician, David Amram, performed at the infamous Bukowski Festival in Long Beach, CA, been featured in Portland, San Francisco, Sacramento, New York City, New Orleans, Paris, beaches, barrooms and back alleys.
His books include; Burning the Evidence; Sucker’s Paradise; ROXY; Sexy Devils; Everybody Knows the Dice are Loaded; This Troubled Heart; Still a Party; Tonight, You’re Coming Home with Us, and his poems have appeared in numerous national and international literary journals, magazines such as The New Laurel Review, Trumpet, The Poetry Box, Verse on the Vine, Lummox Press, Sacramento Voices, Red Fez, and on cocktail napkins everywhere.
www.toddcirillo.com

Todd Cirillo

reads "Good Strategy"

at Deep Vellum Bookstore, 

Dallas, Texas

Video: cannibaldrake

epicrites.org

706

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