Monday, September 26, 2011

The I-90 Poetry Revolution

Thanks to editor Tom Holmes and guest editor Sean Thomas Dougherty for including me in issue 14 of Redactions. I'm in lofty company. Some of the poems are breathless, like Gregory Sherl's "I Have Told Myself Much About You":

"Everything in Vermont is a postcard. What I mean
is look at my heart and then look at my heart

again. It grows like frost on a windshield like
I'm coming for you but I'm already there..."

and Sherman Alexie's small poem "Downpour":

"I can't stop writing about my dead father.
He's sixty-two percent of me. Like water."

Adam Houle's creepy wonderful "Green Bay" muses on a monument to this northern city - what would it look like?

"... A cheese wheel,
an Acme Packer, his arms draped
in casings of fresh sausage or half-slabs
ready to pack in ice for that half-cow's
trek south in cold cars that chug the SOO Line?"

The I-90 Manifesto by Dougherty and Holmes claims those of us who live along this cleaving line "embrace the bicoastal and the local but disdain coastal pretension and inland parochialisms. We disdain cosmopolitan elitisms and rural anti-intellectualisms. We embrace the idea of wanting to be elsewhere while at the same time loving where we are."

Poets, let us give subscriptions to journals to everyone we love.

Here's my contribution, on page 59, tucked between Laura E.J. Moran and Gwendolyn Cash James.

second spring

she throws up her hands, catches them.

--amy bracken sparks

when she spreads open her eyes
for him, after they have taken off their

disquietudes, kicked them from the bed,
red sun beyond the window, blind

striping her back with light, the way he
comes closer. outside somewhere lie the pieces

of mirror and the hard hairbrush, bargains
with god. inside

she finds the handful of consummate skin,
his inset spine, assonance. she inhales

his breath. since she saw the back of him
on the bus last tuesday, or at least

those shoulders, that hair, earring –
the way he lowers himself

to sit. time was, she preferred
to be alone. the angry men she

used to know
tumble down the stairs.

No comments:

Post a Comment