Today's book of poetry will be taking a short break. Be back soon.
Upcoming:
In The Tiger Park - Alison Calder (Coteau Books)
Newcomer - Nathaniel Farrell (Ugly Duckling Books)
Everyone is co2 - David James Brock (Wolsak & Wynn)
Friday, August 29, 2014
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Some Birds Walk For The Hell Of It - C. R. Avery (Anvil Press)
Today's book of poetry:
Some Birds Walk For The Hell Of It. C. R. Avery. Anvil Press. Vancouver, British Columbia. 2014.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C.R. Avery was born in Smith Falls, Ontario in 1976. He has released seventeen albums, written and directed three musicals that have been produced in New York, L.A, Seattle and San Francisco. Avery has toured ruthlessly throughout North America, Europe, and Australia with his rock & roll punk ensembles, hip-hop circus’s with 12-bar blues high kicks, and his infamous string quartets and burlesque revues. Some Birds Walk for the Hell of It is his third book of poetry. He presently resides in East Vancouver’s Little Italy neighbourhood.
BLURBS
"First there were the Beats...then there was Hunter S. Thompson...now there is C. R. Avery."
Luke Starr, Kruger Magazine, UK
"A cultural magpie who's impossible to pigeon-hole"
David Kidman, Net Rhythms Magazine
241
Some Birds Walk For The Hell Of It. C. R. Avery. Anvil Press. Vancouver, British Columbia. 2014.
For sheer step on the mother-bleeping gas excitement you'll be hard pressed to find a better ride than C. R. Avery's Some Birds Walk For The Hell Of It.
C. R. Avery is obscene, unruly, rude, over-bearing, condescending and more fun than finding money in your wallet you didn't know you had.
Avery packs an intense and intelligent dynamic energy into everything he machine gun rat-a-tat-tats onto the page.
Mantelpiece Locomotive
Left the desk in the spare room
to be ravaged by a handsome scholar.
Unavoidable heat-score writes his graduate thesis
on the back of non-refundable train tickets.
Sitting by Mrs. Old Age
who loves
to talk 'bout everything
all at once
in 1956 monologue.
Sad wet dog,
still curious, wagging her tail
as we leave the station,
the toothless outlaw still hanging from the noose.
A reminder to locals and visitors alike:
an owl can turn its head clockwise
but its wings are criminal in these here skies.
Spare rooms are most attractive
when you arrive and as you leave.
As I grabbed my suitcase
your desk played a silent note,
like a diamond earring dangling from a peasant girl
pretending to be a princess
or a TV on mute
glowing with the historic images
of those black leather pioneers of rap
or a photograph of my grandfather, who I never knew.
...
Hard to imagine having more glee reading a book of poems than I've had tackling Avery. I read a few of these poems out loud to the office minions. There were gasps and gulps, much laughter. One of our interns ran into the bathroom and locked the door.
The New Messiah
Any guy who says "Divine Blessings" to the line cooks
in a passive baby-lamb voice
as he leaves a restaurant,
so two girls can overhear him sounding like a bearded shaman,
a Reiki-messeuse, the new Messiah,
deserves to have a donkey take a shit in his mouth.
...
When Avery starts rocking there can't be anything else worth looking at. These hyper-active, zoomed-in-focus, dead heat inducing missives really can be blistering good.
That and Avery has one hell of a sense of humour. He doesn't take much seriously, including himself.
There were longer poems that begged to be reprinted here and I almost took the bait. But these short poems are teaser enough.
Do They Play Zoombie Zoo?
I asked my long-time guitar player,
"What was the big-paying gig the rhythm section got,
that they'd rather do than play mainstage at South Country Fair?"
"You're not going to believe this, but they joined a Tom Petty
cover band, it kinda broke my heart."
"Well," I replied, "they're heartbreakers now."
...
Some Birds Walk For The Hell Of It is Dylan's electric guitar, John's Yoko, Sylvia with her head in that oven and the mournful voice of an aging Gordon Lightfoot all compiled on the razor's edge of a knife being juggled for your amusement.
Then C. R. Avery throws the knife at you.
And any poet who gallants Bill Hicks is always going to be a pal of mine.
C. R. Avery
C.R. Avery was born in Smith Falls, Ontario in 1976. He has released seventeen albums, written and directed three musicals that have been produced in New York, L.A, Seattle and San Francisco. Avery has toured ruthlessly throughout North America, Europe, and Australia with his rock & roll punk ensembles, hip-hop circus’s with 12-bar blues high kicks, and his infamous string quartets and burlesque revues. Some Birds Walk for the Hell of It is his third book of poetry. He presently resides in East Vancouver’s Little Italy neighbourhood.
BLURBS
"First there were the Beats...then there was Hunter S. Thompson...now there is C. R. Avery."
Luke Starr, Kruger Magazine, UK
"A cultural magpie who's impossible to pigeon-hole"
David Kidman, Net Rhythms Magazine
"Birdcage" by C. R. Avery
241
Saturday, August 23, 2014
How A Mirage Works - Beverly Burch (Sixteen Rivers Press)
Today's book of poetry:
How a Mirage Works. Beverly Burch. Sixteen Rivers Press.
San Francisco, California. 2014.
In 2004 Beverly Burch published Sweet to Burn (Gival Press), and I wrote about it on this blog and you can see it here: http://michaeldennispoet.blogspot.ca/2014/03/sweet-to-burn-beverly-burch.html
I thoroughly enjoyed Sweet to Burn or I wouldn't have written about it — but this, How a Mirage Works, is a whole new ball game, this was written by a different woman, a different poet.
In ten years Beverly Burch has turned into an entirely different poet, one who oozes smart confidence but is never overbearing. She is so sure of her voice that the reader just falls into Burchworld.
Picnic in Stone
We stopped for lunch, a bare schoolyard,
a wooden table exposed to summer sun.
I can't remember where we were going,
the state we were in—just a blank highway,
little insular towns. I can't remember
who was with me. An early lover?
Only how bleak it was beside the stone bleachers
where we held twin halves of a ham sandwhich,
lettuce wilting at the edges. Memory's
an old dog running off-trail. Now it returns
with a torn scarf, one rank sock: ragged pieces—
strained cheer, the taste of peaches,
yellow jackets working crooked little limbs
across a curl of green melon.
...
"yellow jackets working crooked little limbs
across a curl of green melon."
That's a wickedly good line of poetry.
Burch is emotionally immediate without cloying over her misfortunes. These poems are mature when they could be maudlin—and constantly filled with a search for both understanding and joy.
Today's book of poetry was thrilled to death and tickled pink to come across Burch's poem "Reading Ondaatje's Billy the Kid, I Paint My Nails.
Around our office Today's book of poetry is convinced that The Collected Works of Billy the Kid is one of the most important books of poetry ever written by a Canadian. It is certainly one of the best.
So when an American poet notices and appreciates one of our heroes we notice.
Reading Ondaatje's Billy the Kid, I Paint My Nails
blood red and think of my father:
like Billy, angry weather in his head.
Everyone in our part of Georgia
mixed red dirt and alcohol. I took a few shots
myself, tripped on the back roads, skidded
the line. At six, I prowled the yard
in a sparkly red vest, tasseled boots,
lacquered pistol. My mother stopped me stealing
neighbor's red roses, made me say,
Sorry, ma'am. Billy himself was the pink of politeness.
First summer away, I wore a plaid bikini,
went to the beach with my forty-year-old boss,
his wife out of town. Radios played, "Hey there,
Little Red Ridin' Hood, you sure are lookin' good."
Billy's face was boyish, nothing like
the cyclone cowboy inside. His mind split
like red rock, so much murder he saw wounds in the sky.
in the air. My father blazed trails on skin,
hooked me on fear. Luckier than Billy, he cooled,
turned gray. After my mother died, a cousin
told me straight: when he was young, my father killed a man.
I think I knew, the way I felt born red-handed.
...
As always, Today's book of poetry is a sucker for a good list poem. "Twenty Ways" is typical of my impression of Burch, she can have lightning quick, intense bursts of delicate anger and savage insight.
Twenty Ways
A woman sits up straight: she's on edge.
She leans into the cushions: she's provocative.
She leans over to another woman: she's a gossip.
She holds the other woman's hand: she's queer.
She holds an apple in her hand, she's a temptress.
She slices the apple: she's tame. She slices
your heart out: she's a bitch. She wears a heart
at her throat: she's a beauty. She wears a silk tie
at her throat: she's butch. She wears a silk camisole:
she's a slut: She's slutty: she's a celebrity.
She celebrates herself: she's got nerve.
She's celibate: she's pathetic. She's empathetic:
she's a sweet thing. She sweetens the deal:
she's a honey pot. She hones her tongue:
she's a shrew. She's shrewd: she's deadly.
She's dead: she's innocent. She's innocent:
she's a virgin. She's a virgin: she's on edge.
...
Beverly Burch has made a John Coltrane like Giant Step with How a Mirage Works. This emotionally immediate poetry is full of the wonders of a wise and generous heart. I'm looking forward to anything with the Burch name on it in the future.
We stopped for lunch, a bare schoolyard,
a wooden table exposed to summer sun.
I can't remember where we were going,
the state we were in—just a blank highway,
little insular towns. I can't remember
who was with me. An early lover?
Only how bleak it was beside the stone bleachers
where we held twin halves of a ham sandwhich,
lettuce wilting at the edges. Memory's
an old dog running off-trail. Now it returns
with a torn scarf, one rank sock: ragged pieces—
strained cheer, the taste of peaches,
yellow jackets working crooked little limbs
across a curl of green melon.
...
"yellow jackets working crooked little limbs
across a curl of green melon."
That's a wickedly good line of poetry.
Burch is emotionally immediate without cloying over her misfortunes. These poems are mature when they could be maudlin—and constantly filled with a search for both understanding and joy.
Today's book of poetry was thrilled to death and tickled pink to come across Burch's poem "Reading Ondaatje's Billy the Kid, I Paint My Nails.
Around our office Today's book of poetry is convinced that The Collected Works of Billy the Kid is one of the most important books of poetry ever written by a Canadian. It is certainly one of the best.
So when an American poet notices and appreciates one of our heroes we notice.
Reading Ondaatje's Billy the Kid, I Paint My Nails
blood red and think of my father:
like Billy, angry weather in his head.
Everyone in our part of Georgia
mixed red dirt and alcohol. I took a few shots
myself, tripped on the back roads, skidded
the line. At six, I prowled the yard
in a sparkly red vest, tasseled boots,
lacquered pistol. My mother stopped me stealing
neighbor's red roses, made me say,
Sorry, ma'am. Billy himself was the pink of politeness.
First summer away, I wore a plaid bikini,
went to the beach with my forty-year-old boss,
his wife out of town. Radios played, "Hey there,
Little Red Ridin' Hood, you sure are lookin' good."
Billy's face was boyish, nothing like
the cyclone cowboy inside. His mind split
like red rock, so much murder he saw wounds in the sky.
in the air. My father blazed trails on skin,
hooked me on fear. Luckier than Billy, he cooled,
turned gray. After my mother died, a cousin
told me straight: when he was young, my father killed a man.
I think I knew, the way I felt born red-handed.
...
As always, Today's book of poetry is a sucker for a good list poem. "Twenty Ways" is typical of my impression of Burch, she can have lightning quick, intense bursts of delicate anger and savage insight.
Twenty Ways
A woman sits up straight: she's on edge.
She leans into the cushions: she's provocative.
She leans over to another woman: she's a gossip.
She holds the other woman's hand: she's queer.
She holds an apple in her hand, she's a temptress.
She slices the apple: she's tame. She slices
your heart out: she's a bitch. She wears a heart
at her throat: she's a beauty. She wears a silk tie
at her throat: she's butch. She wears a silk camisole:
she's a slut: She's slutty: she's a celebrity.
She celebrates herself: she's got nerve.
She's celibate: she's pathetic. She's empathetic:
she's a sweet thing. She sweetens the deal:
she's a honey pot. She hones her tongue:
she's a shrew. She's shrewd: she's deadly.
She's dead: she's innocent. She's innocent:
she's a virgin. She's a virgin: she's on edge.
...
Beverly Burch has made a John Coltrane like Giant Step with How a Mirage Works. This emotionally immediate poetry is full of the wonders of a wise and generous heart. I'm looking forward to anything with the Burch name on it in the future.
Beverly Burch
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BEVERLY BURCH’s previous poetry collection, Sweet to Burn (Gival Press, 2004, won the Gival Poetry Prize and a Lambda Literary Award. Two non-fiction books on psychoanalytic theory and sexual orientation have also been published: On Intimate Terms (U. of Ill. Press) and Other Women (Columbia University Press). An Atlanta native, she’s lived most of her adult life in the Bay Area and has a psychotherapy practice in Berkeley, CA.
BLURB
"How A Mirage Works is a powerful collection of poems. Burch's mastery of the music of words is remarkable, and the poems stay alive long after they have been read. A poet's voice as richly nuanced as hers is a rare and always welcome thing."
Thomas Ogden, author of The Parts Left Out: A Novel
www.sixteenriverspress.org
241
BLURB
"How A Mirage Works is a powerful collection of poems. Burch's mastery of the music of words is remarkable, and the poems stay alive long after they have been read. A poet's voice as richly nuanced as hers is a rare and always welcome thing."
Thomas Ogden, author of The Parts Left Out: A Novel
www.sixteenriverspress.org
241
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
A Most Beautiful Deception - Melissa Morelli Lacroix (University of Alberta Press)
Today's book of poetry:
A Most Beautiful Deception. Melissa Morelli Lacroix. University of Alberta Press. Edmonton, Alberta. 2014.
A Most Beautiful Deception indeed, to write poetry of this calibre is always a deception of sorts. The tapestry of misdirection. It's the same with the best magicians.
I don't know much about classical music so I'm sure I'm missing some of the references Lacroix is making to musicians and to particular works. This is of little concern. It doesn't matter because Melissa Morelli Lacroix uses music as a diving board to jump into a much deeper pool. One where we all swim.
Reunion
see you later I assured
with a squeeze of my hand
before they took you away
simple they said
straightforward
cartilage and bone removed
plastic and metal put in their place
but there were complications
unforeseen reactions
between anesthetic and medication
oh your knee healed
but your lungs swelled
filled with themselves
bronchiolitis they said
obliterans
organizing pneumonia
boop
deception
their solution to your pain
the dawn was lost you said
in the mist
and I could see it
hear it in the music you played
the Chopin from Majorca
cold and rainy
fog and darkness rolling in
the music stopped in the twilight hour
our golden dreams were nothing
but coughs gasps
air you could not catch
see you later I whispered
as you went away
see you later you choked
in reply
...
These compelling poems contain an orchestrated lament, a poetic howl with a cultured voice.
Lacroix is all about asking herself and the reader some big questions.
Variation IV
people love for many reasons
to become immortal
because their heart happens to be open
because they have heard sounds that beguile the heart
people love for many reasons
to become immortal
because their heart can still nurture a hope
because they have looked into a pair of beautiful eyes
depthless pools of stars
through which my joy and agonies
have flown away
in night and wind
in my delusions my hallucinations
I know you always
cross the distance
to which you have dedicated our life
we make love in our minds
we make love in satin beds
on flowering summer stone
veiled by night sky
people love for many reasons
but I love
for only
one
...
A Most Beautiful Deception talks about the nature of creativity, love, immortality and so on. Lacroix
does this with a wicked good sense of humour, a gallant charm.
The Sunken Cathedral
it is a dawn mistaken for a sunset
this deep calm
this harmonious haze
this legend
I am the princess who was never
cut out to be a saint
corrupt and selfish I
open the door to the storm
to flood the fires of my soul
with an expression that becomes more
grandiose I sink while Claude rises
from the damp ruins of my life
like an echo I am
parts of all that came before me
music food intestines
oblivion disguised as art
I am the most beautiful deception of all
...
Melissa Morelli Lacroix is quite fearless and tackles many demons most lesser mortals would leave undisturbed. Not Lacroix. She brings humour, warmth and intelligence to every dark omen lurking in the shadows.
Lacroix is not hesitant to turn her rapier eyes on herself with equal vigor. What fine poetry.
Melissa's work has appeared in Canadian, American and British print and on-line publications such as Crave It, World on a Maple Leaf, Family Pictures, Ars Medica, Other Voices, In the Red and The Dawntreader. Her fiction and drama have been read and produced on CBC Radio, at the Walterdale Theatre and by Rabid Marmot Productions.
A Most Beautiful Deception. Melissa Morelli Lacroix. University of Alberta Press. Edmonton, Alberta. 2014.
A Most Beautiful Deception indeed, to write poetry of this calibre is always a deception of sorts. The tapestry of misdirection. It's the same with the best magicians.
I don't know much about classical music so I'm sure I'm missing some of the references Lacroix is making to musicians and to particular works. This is of little concern. It doesn't matter because Melissa Morelli Lacroix uses music as a diving board to jump into a much deeper pool. One where we all swim.
Reunion
see you later I assured
with a squeeze of my hand
before they took you away
simple they said
straightforward
cartilage and bone removed
plastic and metal put in their place
but there were complications
unforeseen reactions
between anesthetic and medication
oh your knee healed
but your lungs swelled
filled with themselves
bronchiolitis they said
obliterans
organizing pneumonia
boop
deception
their solution to your pain
the dawn was lost you said
in the mist
and I could see it
hear it in the music you played
the Chopin from Majorca
cold and rainy
fog and darkness rolling in
the music stopped in the twilight hour
our golden dreams were nothing
but coughs gasps
air you could not catch
see you later I whispered
as you went away
see you later you choked
in reply
...
These compelling poems contain an orchestrated lament, a poetic howl with a cultured voice.
Lacroix is all about asking herself and the reader some big questions.
Variation IV
people love for many reasons
to become immortal
because their heart happens to be open
because they have heard sounds that beguile the heart
people love for many reasons
to become immortal
because their heart can still nurture a hope
because they have looked into a pair of beautiful eyes
depthless pools of stars
through which my joy and agonies
have flown away
in night and wind
in my delusions my hallucinations
I know you always
cross the distance
to which you have dedicated our life
we make love in our minds
we make love in satin beds
on flowering summer stone
veiled by night sky
people love for many reasons
but I love
for only
one
...
A Most Beautiful Deception talks about the nature of creativity, love, immortality and so on. Lacroix
does this with a wicked good sense of humour, a gallant charm.
The Sunken Cathedral
it is a dawn mistaken for a sunset
this deep calm
this harmonious haze
this legend
I am the princess who was never
cut out to be a saint
corrupt and selfish I
open the door to the storm
to flood the fires of my soul
with an expression that becomes more
grandiose I sink while Claude rises
from the damp ruins of my life
like an echo I am
parts of all that came before me
music food intestines
oblivion disguised as art
I am the most beautiful deception of all
...
Melissa Morelli Lacroix is quite fearless and tackles many demons most lesser mortals would leave undisturbed. Not Lacroix. She brings humour, warmth and intelligence to every dark omen lurking in the shadows.
Lacroix is not hesitant to turn her rapier eyes on herself with equal vigor. What fine poetry.
Melissa Morelli Lacroix
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Melissa Morelli Lacroix is an Edmonton-based writer and writing facilitator. She studied French, Translation and Creative Writing at the University of Alberta and has a master's degree in creative writing from Lancaster University. In addition to writing, Melissa has taught piano for twenty years, which infuses musical themes and lyricism into her writing.Melissa's work has appeared in Canadian, American and British print and on-line publications such as Crave It, World on a Maple Leaf, Family Pictures, Ars Medica, Other Voices, In the Red and The Dawntreader. Her fiction and drama have been read and produced on CBC Radio, at the Walterdale Theatre and by Rabid Marmot Productions.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Caput Nili, How I Won the War and Lost My Taste For Oranges - Lisa Gill (West End Press with Burning Books)
Today's book of poetry:
Caput Nili, How I Won the War and Lost My Taste for Oranges. Lisa Gill. With art by Kris Mills. West End Press with Burning Books. Albuquerque, New Mexico. 2011.
This isn't the African Queen but it is one hell of a journey.
Lisa Gill navigates a terrible history with a splendid poetic voice.
Her misery and the violence she endures become a road map for the fascinated reader, an illuminated text from the inside of a journey that until now - we could only imagine.
INTERPERSONAL ARGHING 1:4
In case
you were wondering,
reciprocity matters to me.
The time someone left a tooth
in the back seat of my car after a break-in
was somehow more creepy and more meaningful
than the usual rock through my window.
I thought of the tooth fairy.
I thought of payback.
I thought of justice.
Fair's fair.
Sometimes.
At least I hold up my end of deals,
try to give back better than I get.
...
Almost thought I heard the melodious voice of Deadwood's Al Swearingin - and that sort of resourceful and be damned voice would not be out of place in Lisa Gill's Caput Nili world.
Gill ties together the myriad moments of her mental trek with prose introductions that help shape the narrative, always looping back to her central themes of struggle/violence/resolution.
This book is not like the rest. Although these poems work on their own — when tied to Gill's prose narrative we really are participants in a talented writer's struggle to drop the shotgun, pick up the pen.
INTERPERSONAL ARGHING 1:9
The shotgun was already in my possession
months before I went to the ER with numb legs.
I'd gotten the gun when a man posing as the propane guy
poked around my property and wedged himself
into my entryway, scoping me and the place out.
I knew he'd figured out that I live alone. I also knew,
if he came back, he'd figure out I have a shotgun.
...
I love the comic menace that is on the tip of Gill's tongue.
Highly entertaining and wickedly intelligent. Lisa Gill confounds expectations and opens new doors. She puts her knee where you don't want it and pushes.
Poetry is what poets make of it and Gill curls her lip and surfs her own dark wave, navigates the surly water if only to amuse herself, get to the truth of it.
HOW TO LIVE WITH IT 4:8
In other words I live—
ordinary phenomenon.
Sleep and dream.
Wake and work.
There are groceries and dishes.
Telephone calls and appointments.
Friends to see.
Books to read.
Books to write.
Books that make me forget to water the houseplants.
Houseplants that wilt and make me put down the books long enough
to get a pitcher of water and pour it.
I watch the stars.
I cross the Rubicon.
I eat apricots and let my lover hold me.
I let my cat, and only my cat, walk all over me.
I remember time.
Violence is the least of my life.
Minute to hours anyway,
it's not the half of it.
...
What is it we all long for? A quiet moment of genuine peace.
Gill's brave adventure sure has some hellish moments, she is clearly a very tough woman, but as horrid as some of the steps of her journey appear — how did reading her book make me so happy?
Caput Nili, How I Won the War and Lost My Taste for Oranges. Lisa Gill. With art by Kris Mills. West End Press with Burning Books. Albuquerque, New Mexico. 2011.
This isn't the African Queen but it is one hell of a journey.
Lisa Gill navigates a terrible history with a splendid poetic voice.
Her misery and the violence she endures become a road map for the fascinated reader, an illuminated text from the inside of a journey that until now - we could only imagine.
INTERPERSONAL ARGHING 1:4
In case
you were wondering,
reciprocity matters to me.
The time someone left a tooth
in the back seat of my car after a break-in
was somehow more creepy and more meaningful
than the usual rock through my window.
I thought of the tooth fairy.
I thought of payback.
I thought of justice.
Fair's fair.
Sometimes.
At least I hold up my end of deals,
try to give back better than I get.
...
Almost thought I heard the melodious voice of Deadwood's Al Swearingin - and that sort of resourceful and be damned voice would not be out of place in Lisa Gill's Caput Nili world.
Gill ties together the myriad moments of her mental trek with prose introductions that help shape the narrative, always looping back to her central themes of struggle/violence/resolution.
This book is not like the rest. Although these poems work on their own — when tied to Gill's prose narrative we really are participants in a talented writer's struggle to drop the shotgun, pick up the pen.
INTERPERSONAL ARGHING 1:9
The shotgun was already in my possession
months before I went to the ER with numb legs.
I'd gotten the gun when a man posing as the propane guy
poked around my property and wedged himself
into my entryway, scoping me and the place out.
I knew he'd figured out that I live alone. I also knew,
if he came back, he'd figure out I have a shotgun.
...
I love the comic menace that is on the tip of Gill's tongue.
Highly entertaining and wickedly intelligent. Lisa Gill confounds expectations and opens new doors. She puts her knee where you don't want it and pushes.
Poetry is what poets make of it and Gill curls her lip and surfs her own dark wave, navigates the surly water if only to amuse herself, get to the truth of it.
HOW TO LIVE WITH IT 4:8
In other words I live—
ordinary phenomenon.
Sleep and dream.
Wake and work.
There are groceries and dishes.
Telephone calls and appointments.
Friends to see.
Books to read.
Books to write.
Books that make me forget to water the houseplants.
Houseplants that wilt and make me put down the books long enough
to get a pitcher of water and pour it.
I watch the stars.
I cross the Rubicon.
I eat apricots and let my lover hold me.
I let my cat, and only my cat, walk all over me.
I remember time.
Violence is the least of my life.
Minute to hours anyway,
it's not the half of it.
...
What is it we all long for? A quiet moment of genuine peace.
Gill's brave adventure sure has some hellish moments, she is clearly a very tough woman, but as horrid as some of the steps of her journey appear — how did reading her book make me so happy?
Lisa Gill
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lisa Gill is the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in Literature, an Achievement Award from UNM, the Red Shoes Award (named after Dara McLaughlin), and a New Mexico Literary Arts Gratitude Award. She is the author of The Relenting: A Play of Sorts and the poetry collections Red as a Lotus, Mortar & Pestle, and Dark Enough. A graphic memoir titled Caput Nili: How I Won the War & Lost My Taste for Oranges has also been released by West End Press and Burning Books, and includes five essays, 89 poems, MRI brainscans, and art by Kris Mills. Recent publications include Tuesday; An Art Project, 1913: A Journal of Forms, The Bigger Boat and a poem in the National Endowment for the Arts’ Annual Report. She served as artistic director of STIR: A Festival of Words and received her MFA with distinction in creative nonfiction from the University of New Mexico. She has performed widely from the Taos Poetry Circus to the Thom McGrath Visiting Writers Series in Minnesota and the Seattle Poetry Festival. She favors collaborations and has worked with visual artists Kris Mills, Becky Holtzman, Suzanne Sbarge, Valerie Roybal, Heidi Pollard plus video guru Bryan Konefsky, filmmaker Jeanne Liotta, and Dome Artist Hue Walker. She has performed with countless musicians including Mike Balistreri, Mark Weaver, Janet Feder, J.A. Deane, C.K. Barlow, Mitch Rayes, Kurt Heyl, The Michael Vlatkovich Trio and th3 e1emental orke5tra. She now makes her home in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she helps coordinate poetry for both 516 ARTSand Church of Beethoven and serves as Artistic Director for Local Poets Guild.
Lisa Gill reading for National Poetry Month
UNM Bookstore
239
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