What's Struck Me Of Late

It's been an amazing year for new books of poetry, especially formalist works. There have been new releases from Rick Mullin, Janet Kenny, Philip Quinlan, Austin MacRae, Quincy Lehr and A.E Stallings— there are no doubt many more that I’ve forgotten at the moment. One can hardly keep up with the seemingly unending onslaught of new, engaging and well wrought volumes of poetry. I’ve not been able to afford all of these offerings on my current paycheck, which is, in truth, nonexistent. A little more than a year ago I was ranting through a rabid froth that there was no one writing formal poems, and that poetry in it’s popular incarnation was a dead, migraine inducing schlock fest.  But, what a fool I seem to myself now. Ultimately, this great discovery (good poetry, imagine that) is due to the internet and the strange and wonderful world of online workshops. So here are a few pieces that have blown my top off.

Faultlines

Beauty is truant

and truth is a runaway;

suddenly signs are

that something’s unraveling.

Moon at midday,

the man’s talking in monotone

not meant for anyone;

no one is listening.

Somebody swept up

the sun spilt in alleyways;

all that was broad,

like an artery, narrowing,

starving the heart

till it hardens. The man’s alone;

moon mood is on him

and summer is shivering.

Nothing’s the same thing

that something was yesterday;

backstreets are everywhere,

none is worth following.

The rains have come early,

he weeps for no reason known—

just something slipped slightly,

altering everything.

Philip Quinlan

Jigsaw Puzzle

First, the four corners,

Then the flat edges.

Assemble the lost borders,

Walk the dizzy ledges,

Hoard one color—try

To make it all connected—

The water and the deep sky

And the sky reflected.

Absences align

And lock shapes into place,

And random forms combine

To make a tree, a face.

Slowly you restore

The fractured world and start

To re-create an afternoon before

It fell apart:

Here is summer, here is blue,

Here two lovers kissing,

And here the nothingness shows through

Where one piece is missing.

A.E Stallings

I’ll post some more selections later this week – let these speak for the state of poetry, poetry that blows your head off, raises hair, makes you shut the book. Yes it exists, soak it in.