Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Antigua & Xanax Press

So, I'm getting flown to a wedding in Antigua for the next 4 days. Pretty weird/awesome, right?

What does this mean to you?

1) While you are sleeping at 5am, I will be trying not to act upon my insane fear of flying. (The only way I can explain it is that my fear is directly proportional to the irony of the timing of death-by-plane-crash. For example, if I am just jumping on a plane to go to an academic conference and nothing else important is happening in my life at the time, I might not actually be that anxious. But if, for example, I have just moved in to a new apartment and have just unpacked, than the Irony Factor increases and I get more anxious that the plane will crash. For example, if I flew home for father's day- that would make me incredibly anxious.)

2) You will most likely see & laugh at a photo of me next week looking incredibly sunburned. Or maybe a photo of me huddled under a palm tree, wrapped in multiple white towels, trying not to get incredibly sunburned.

3) You might get a postcard from me like 5 weeks after I've actually returned from the trip.

4) Since I won't have Internet access (yes, this makes me very nervous) I have recruited a secret guest blogger. Secret Guest Blogger is not a poet, (but previously ran a poetry journal,) so for the next 4 days you might actually learn some interesting facts about the world outside of my neurotic head.

Secret Guest blogger has free range to write whatever pleases said Secret Guest Blogger as long as Secret Guest Blogger does not insult my friends or family.

This is going to be good. I won't even be able to read these blogs until I get back.

But what if you like Secret Guest Blogger more than me?

Will there be a coup?


Before I go, I just wanted to say that I've been reading Amanda Nadelberg's first book, which came out in 2006, called Isa the Truck Named Isadore from Slope Editions.

From reviews of Isa the Truck Named Isadore:

These poems practically beg us to read them aloud—they have the virtues, not of short stories, but of out-loud, audience-conscious storytelling. ... Nadelberg's self-confident and quirky system suggests Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons ("Myrtle will be married / and green and warm"). Her backpedaling humilities and the acoustics of her short free-verse lines, with so many anticlimaxes and charming stumbles, share much with the poetry of James Schuyler. ... No book in recent memory has sounded as waifish, as faux-naif, as given to winks and shrugs; no recent poet has made those qualities into such virtues.
- Stephen Burt, The Believer

Simple as it appears at first, Amanda Nadelberg's world becomes more involving the more time you spend with it. There is more at stake each time. The light, humorous tone is made to do double duty—comic and tragic. In this sense, the author has imagined an oddly complete emotional world by deliberately limiting its contents.
- Mike McDonough, Coldfront Magazine

Here are three poems:


Today is not a day to be pregnant.

The environs are such that

anything could result in an

anti-pregnancy. The air

pressure makes a

fetus impossible. On

airplanes especially. Once,

I was driving, trying not to

get pregnant in Missouri and

the billboard this one billboard

in northern Missouri almost

Iowa said if you think you’re

fat now, wait until you’re

pregnant. For the most part

the roads there are for

truckers who all go home

and tell their wives and

girlfriends and daughters.

I went home I am not

a trucker and I laughed

at Missouri and Iowa for

where they are. A face and

its belly a big belly in

the middle of the country.

Missouri is always pregnant.



Spanish soap and

Dial soap were

walking through a

forest when the

spirit jumped out

from the bushes.

Where are you going?

Aruba they say.

For what?

We bought a

timeshare they say.

Take me with you.

How much do you

weigh—there’s a

weight limit. I don’t

eat much. Okay. Let’s

see. Come into my

purse. There. Perfect.

The spirit fits into

the side compartment

and weighs almost

nothing. Dial soap and

Spanish soap and the

secret spirit all go

to Aruba for two weeks

in February. The end.



Like a name like

flower. Like a

country like the

sound of a state.

Once we drove

in a small car

through a field of

tulips so red so

red the sky had

to leave. The sky

was not itself and

all that was left

was gray so gray

that red could

seem more red

than anything. That

day so many cars

stopped, people

ran into the

field and made

intonations to the

tulips. It was

February. A good

month for tulips.

In a small country

with a view of

the ocean.

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