Tuesday, February 5, 2008

You Can Survive & Then You Can Sleep Press

I've done a little updating to yee olde blogge.

The outdatedness of the journals and also blogs I read was getting me down. As in, I was accruing guilt like a pile of amber leaves on the hill's side. As in, blacking the grass.

So, I feel guilty about many things I procrastinate in doing and then the awareness that I could alleviate this guilt and opt not to, makes me feel even worse. Mole-like. I do not need blog-guilt, a new form of 21st century guilt, to creep into my fever. My fever is a better cape than that.

The Fantastic Results of A Guilt Free Blog Life:

1) I've added a few more blogs I browse to my list (look to your right and down a bit):

Sommer Browning (I am in the process of buying her chapbook as well as one of her comics)
Kate Greenstreet (this woman seriously needs a giant press to eat her up)
Justin Marks
C. Dale Young
Logan Ryan Smith
Julie Doxsee (I love her photos)
Christine Hamm (why not?)

2) Took the forthcoming poems off the forthcoming list because, well, they came, and its rude not to say an issue has been born. Put them on the poems-that-have-been-outed-list. For example, this means that the new Spinning Jenny is out:

CONTRIBUTORS: Stephanie Anderson, Cristiana Baik, Hugh Behm-Steinberg, Graeme Bezanson, Tina Cane, Tom Christopher, Darin Ciccotelli, Julia Cohen, Molly Dorozenski, Suzanne M. Fischer, Adam Golaski, Rae Gouirand, Wayne Hogan, Cecily Iddings, Henry Israeli, Karyna McGlynn, Joyelle McSweeney, Ashley McWaters, Caroline Morrell, Ryan Murphy, Gillian Parrish, Rodney Phillips, James Reiss, Michael Rerick, James Roderick, Ravi Shankar, Leigh Wells:

Holy Crap, Ryan Murphy has a poem that begins like this:

In the age of butterscotch
we waited
for the lamps to come on
and on at any moment

Don't leave me
to fend for myself

With effort we could slant
our own noon.


And Joyelle McSweeney is insanely translating the Aeneid Book II:

And now i'm arrived at the doorstep of my dad's
place and the old house. But my dad, whom I really
wanted to carry first into the nearby mountains and
who I sought out first, refuses to prolong his life, or
to go into exile, with troy in ruins.


You're going to have to order the issue to read the rest of these poems and poets.

H_ngm_n Issue 7 is up:
POEMS: Gavin Adair • Claire Becker • Daniel Becker • Julia Cohen • Simon DeDeo • Eric Elliott • Charley Foster • Noah Eli Gordon • Eryn Green • Timothy Green • Matt Hart • MC Hyland • Becca Klaver • Robert Krut • Brad Liening • Chris Martin • Lauren McCollum • David Sewell • Lori Shine • Peter Jay Shippy • Brenda Sieczkowski • Leigh Stein • Chris Tonelli

Something about the font/background hurts my eyes a bit, so I'm printing some of the poems out, such as Claire Becker's, Tonelli's, Lori Shine's, Matt Hart's and all of the 18 Noah Eli Gordon poems, like:

The Dubtone

Splay the sludge, the foreground, to say

an argument? Starboard, a flame begins

by cupping the sun from first abundant

flower parts. Lacking in noise, in my

finite sense of oil paint. Starboard,

a visible form’s tangible notion of music?

Aft, the archer’s darkroom gear. Outside

the spot where mythic immediacy lacks.


You get my point.

More things I meant to do a while ago:
I took these two photos maybe in September but I wanted to share them with you because I like them:

The light to the left is the moon balancing on a pole, the one to the right is a chilly streetlamp:


Also, JPH sent me this Borges poem months ago, hand wrote it for me on a little jagged piece of paper, and I love it:

Baruch Spinoza (1976)

A haze of gold, the Occident lights up
The window. Now, the assiduous manuscript
Is waiting, weighed down with the infinite.
Someone is building God in a dark cup.
A man engenders God. He is a Jew.
With saddened eyes and lemon-colored skin;
Time carries him the way a leaf, dropped in
A river, is borne off by waters to
Its end. No matter. The magician moved
Carves out his God with fine geometry;
From his disease, from nothing, he's begun
To construct God, using the word. No one
Is granted such prodigious love as he:
The love that has no hope of being loved.


Damn. Everytime I read this poem I love it more.

Someday soon I'm going to update the list of presses I'm constantly checking. But I don't feel too guilty about this one yet.

1 comment:

Kate said...

gah. i love your photos kind of a lot.