Don't forget to come to the reading tonight with Graham Foust, Dot Devota, Brandon Shimoda, and Corina Copp. Okay?
I'm going to start posting some of the intros I've written for previous Bad Shadow Affair readers and links to their work:
I read Erosion’s Pull in 2007 and it was the first time I experienced poems where the titles had line breaks, options, and could snake out as long as the poem itself. Maureen Owen’s titles introduce a poetics of collision and expansion. Giddy with incongruous adjectives and movement, there’s both an excess of elbowroom and an excess of jostling. Her poems are crowded elevators, brimming with the sweaty bike messenger, the stiff-collared executive, the secretary, and the echo of Marilyn Monroe’s ghost. Her poems are the air around the elevator, the air that doesn’t stop once you reach the top floor.
J. Mae Barizo:
One day when I was 21, I stayed late after work at my summer job and my boss came up to me and asked me if I wanted to buy a glass vase with her. Why, I asked? She said, I like to smash them against rocks in the forest. To her, this destruction was music, shards, relief. J. Mae Barizo’s poems pick up pieces of our world and crack them open like geodes, like she’s just trying to figure out what the connective tissue looks like between a bicycle and empathy. And after she cracks open and splinters these objects, noises, moods, she most tenderly adheres them together again, slightly altered. From reading J. Mae’s poems, I’ve learned that America is filled with silly coins and outlined in a rumor; that words are strings of hanging lanterns; that phones are babies; and that we are as uncertain as music.