The Happy Booker

Crucial Shopping

Reb Livingston, poetry powerhouse and small press visionary, stops by today to give us her "best of" gift list as we enter the holiday season. Why? Because she's a giver, folks, the kind of gal who truly knows that it's far better to give than to receive—unless you're on the receiving end of one of these cool and unique gifts! Our many thanks to the very busy Ms. Reb; we can't wait to see what she's picked out to give us this year!!

Crucial Rooster Holiday Picks

Last year I made a case against gift cards, wish lists, mass produced and practical holiday gifts.  Long story short, you are not your family’s and friends’ personal shopper.  Remember what it means to give a gift.  Significance does not correlate with monetary cost.  Gift giving is a ritual of expression and recognition.  That's right, express and recognize, not compete and overspend.  Consider giving your loved ones something unexpected, something they may possibly cherish for its uniqueness, its thought, its exquisiteness.  As if you don’t possess the rocks not to get the usual dictated expectations, try coming up with something special in addition to the ole mass produced game console.  Many of these suggestions are inexpensive and won’t break your bank.  An added benefit is that you can purchase all these items online and don’t have to camp outside a Best Buy with a gaggle of pimply goons while being taunted by the drive-by moonings of the cooler folk.  (That was not my shiny white heiny reflecting the moonlight, I swear.)

As the year winds down, up pops a number of book lists – mostly written by reviewers mightily impressed with themselves for being able to come up with the most predictable ho-hum selections imaginable.  Do you really need those suggestions?  Can’t you just walk into any book superstore and finds those same titles on the tables and shelves within 15 feet of the front door?   Haven’t these same titles already been reviewed in the same publications right next to their expensive full-page advertisements? 

Here are my recommendations, I own copies of every book, chapbook and journal mentioned and am mightily impressed with them.  Some were given to me, some were trades, but most were purchased.  You probably aren’t familiar with most of these titles, that’s why I’m making a point of recommending them here.  This is a glimpse of what the so-called media giants don’t bother covering because they think their readership desires idea impoverished and narrow lists.  Dear reader, I hold a much higher opinion of you.  I always pull out the good stuff for special occasions.  These are my best selections.

Physically Gorgeous Books

Some books take your breath away before you even open them up.  The perfect book lives up to its cover.  One of the most striking covers is Rebecca Loudon’s Radish King (Ravenna Press), yes, the vegetable in the middle is picking its nose and it’s still a book you’ll leave out on your coffee table.  I must disclose I am a huge fan of Loudon’s work, so huge, my press recently published her chapbook, Navigate, Amelia Earhart’s Letters Home (No Tell Books), with another stunning cover. 

The most dazzling chapbooks to appear in my mailbox this year are those from Fewer and Further Press.  Michael Carr’s Platinum Blonde and Christopher Rizzo’s the Breaks (the perfect choice for a jazz aficionado) are true stand outs, as well as Crucial Rooster favorite, Joseph Massey’s Property Line.  All of these chaps have an understated elegance, both design and poems.

Effing Press is mentioned here on a regular basis, and for good reason, all of its books are mini-works of art, collectable small run editions.  Effing’s latest title is Anne Boyer’s Good Apocalypse filled with striking poems and collages by the author.  Pick up that with the unexpectedly touching (and I mean that in best the way) Is It the King by Farid Matuk and Effing Magazine Number Five (edited by Allyssa Wolf) and Happy Birthday Jesus, you just assembled a kick ass holiday gift for your coolest, most discerning friend.  For only $20.

Have a brainy, word-loving pal? For God’s sake, don’t get her one of those inane Word-a-Day calendars.  Are you trapped in the ‘80’s?  Instead, give her Inverse (Nine Muses Books) by Maryrose Larkin, a dictionary-based abecedarian sure to delight and dazzle with its silver end pages.  And if you’re dead set on getting some kind of calendar, tread on the wild side with the Whimsy Daybook 2007.

Ugly Duckling Presse has no one distinct style in any sense since it’s run by a collective, yet it consistently publishes inventive and staggering books, chapbooks, translations, magazines and in a few cases, I can’t even explain what.  That’s OK.  Who wants to understand everything?  Not me.  Late last year I treated myself to a subscription and it was my best literary investment.  If you want a gift that keeps on giving all year long, this would be a fine choice.

Exhilarating Reads

Exhilarating is a broad idea, there are many ways to be roused and for very different reasons.  Evie Shockley’s riveting first collection, a  half-red sea (Carolina Wren Press), weaves and clashes African-American history with U.S. culture in a series of rich and contemplative pieces.  A must read for everyone. 

Kate Greenstreet's case sensitive (Ahsahta Press) is a beautifully ambitious telling of ideas.  These are love poems, broad and intriguing.  The book to get for that thoughtful type. 

If you know someone with bold, brash tastes, a copy of Cornstarch Figurine (Dusie) by Elizabeth Treadwell will hit the mark.  Fierce and unapologetically feminine.  Guaranteed to induce swooning.

Lastly, Hitler may not seem like a natural fit for the holiday season and apprehension would be understandable, but if you know someone who loves the strange, quirky and absurd, try Hitler’s Mustache (Barnwood Press) by Peter Davis.  Remember, it's not about the man, it's about the mustache.

Poetry in Washington, DC

Perhaps not known as a literary center, it’s not all John Grisham and Tom Clancy novels in our nations capital.  The Washington Writers’ Publishing House has been publishing poetry books since the 1970s and this year’s winner of its annual book contest, the steam sequence by George Washington instructor Carly Sachs would make a circumspect Hanukah or Christmas gift.  In a sparse and graceful writing style, it tells personal stories of those affected by the Holocaust. 

New DC poetry press Red Morning recently published its second title, Jen Tynes’ The End of Rude Handles, a fascinating mixture of fragmented poetry and essay filled with the every day and the brutal.  A truly memorable read.  Red Morning’s upcoming next title, mortal by Ivy Alvarez looks promising and is available on its site for pre-order.

A new chapbook transfer by young and noteworthy DC poet, Alan King, is a compassionate tour through urban neighborhoods and lives.  An intimate rendering told with clarity and reflection.

I would be remiss not to mention my own DC-based poetry press, No Tell Books.  Bruce Covey's Elapsing Speedway Organism is romantic and funny.  For those fearful of a little poetry, try PF Potvin's The Attention Lesson, a collection of sharp prose poems.  Reads just like compact fiction, I promise.  I'm even going to do the garish and mention my own chapbook, Wanton Textiles.  I know, what's next, regifting?   But I don't feel so bad since it's only half mine.  It's half Ravi Shankar's too.  We wrote it together, but we can't agree on how to describe it.  Ravi claims that it is "basting together bawdy pun with epistemological speculation" whereas I prefer "pornography for your underpants."  Teamwork can be challenging.

April Crucial Rooster

We've got our Crucial Rooster up and crowing, just in time to spread some National Poetry Month love.  Once again Reb is on the case, our favorite poet and editor serves up some easy listening recommendations to get our poetry groove on.

Crucial Rooster: Poetry Column by Reb Livingston

It’s National Poetry Month and you’re thinking “Oh dear, that crowing poet chick is going to guilt me into reading poetry – AGAIN.”  Oh, if only guilt was that effective.  Ok, since it’s a holiday month I’m going to let you off easy – WAIT just one minute, where do you think you’re going?  I said easy, not completely, it would be a crime not to partake in poetry during this most holiest of poetry months.

So pull out your iPod or plug your headset into your computer – because this month we’re going to listen to poetry at MiPOradio.  For the past year, this project produced by Didi Menendez slowly expanded from audio poems recorded from issues of  MiPOesias into regular audio releases of new poems, interviews, columns and live readings from around the country.

One of the newest weekly programs on MiPOradio is The Goodnight Show Pjed (Podcast Jockey) by Michelle Buchanan.  Every week she slips into her jammies, sends up her Top Ten favorite poems published online that week and invites the authors to read them. Buchanan’s selections are quirky and varied and qualify for a highly enjoyable listening experience.  From this past week’s “Mellow Yellow” episode she invited Aaron Belz, to read “Pain Boot” that goes as follows:

If you have nothing better to do, try wearing a pain boot. / I wore one for two weeks and as a result wrote a book / about the history of sadness. Fill a boot with broken glass, / put it on, lace it tightly, and walk around for two weeks.

Now that’s poetry, not instructions, following such a suggestion is not advisable and Belz, while possibly one of today’s pre-eminent authorities on pain boots cannot be held responsible for any injuries that might incur.  Of course, some of us need the inspiration to finish our books and appreciate the idea.

Another regular feature on MiPOradio I appreciate are the many author interviews and one of my favorite interviewers is Amy King, whose warm, casual and conversational style makes the listener feel like she’s sitting at the table, part of the discussion.  A great example is her recent interview with Daisy Fried, author of My Brother is Getting Arrested Again.

If you like what you hear, it’s easy to implement the shows into your daily routine.  Simply sign up for the RSS feed if you’re listening from your computer or if you want to download the shows on your iPod, subscribe on iTunes or Odeo.  It’s the perfect thing to listen to while you’re driving, riding the subway, tuning out the loud wheezing jackass in the cubicle next door or just relaxing on the sofa.  You can even listen while you take in an air show, a mime performance or give your overworked eyeballs a break and close them tightly.  Happy National Poetry Month, dear retina, enjoy it while it lasts, next month it’s back to the book mines for you!

March Crucial Rooster

Our roving Reb sends in appreciative prose about her Jewish-Irishy colleague—though today in honor of the holiday, we're going with Irishy-Jewishy, so indulge us. Could Ms. Crucial Rooster, beloved poet and esteemed editor really have an evil twin? We're not sure the world is ready for two Rebs!

Crucial Rooster: Poetry Column by Reb Livingston

Poet Laurel Snyder is my evil doppelganger.  OK, she’s not really evil and she’s probably not truly my doppelganger, but our lives have eerie overlaps and coincidences and well, let’s just say I’ve been keeping my eye on Ms. Snyder for quite some time.  After some lengthy correspondence, we finally met last week at a writers’ conference in Austin.  They say keep your friends close and your doppelgangers even closer and I did just that by bringing her to dinner with some grad school friends.  As we enjoyed our inexpensive and potent margaritas, Laurel told inappropriate joke after inappropriate joke, at every turn raising the stakes to a new and enviable level of naughtiness.  Everyone exclaimed, “Well, no wonder you two are friends!”

Yes, every one of her racy comments was one I believed I could have said, if only I was a little more on my game and this leads me to her new chapbook Daphne and Jim, A choose-your-own-adventure biography in verse (Burnside Review Press, $9), a fictionalized biography of her parents' courtship and marriage.  Oh, why didn’t I write a choose-your-own adventure poetry chapbook?  Years ago the thought did cross my mind.  I’ll tell you why – because when I tried, it was hard and I never got anywhere and I thought it was such a brilliant idea and I had all the time in the world to get back to it.  Well, it still is a brilliant idea and I can still write my own, but to the best of my knowledge, Laurel Snyder is the mother of choose-your-own adventure poetry.  Yes dear reader, in Daphne and Jim, you can choose where this poem goes, just like the choose-your-own adventure books of your childhood, but you won’t end up in a forest or fighting a dragon, you’ll be deciding if you’ll be following the characters to the beach, college, an abortion clinic or a wedding.  It’s a chapbook you can read over and over again for a truly new experience, when you find yourself at “Jim sees Daphne:  Pomona College, 1969” and presented with:

“Some things last because they’re impossible, like this, / this beach, Pacific and full of this skinny girl.  Someone / will pull her out, but I’ll remember it better, later, once / they’ve forgot it ever.  I’ll remind her, once I’ve / thought it through, unlaced my boots.  Once she’s dry.”

you have the option to select:

“To follow Jim home turn to page 12”

or

“For a birds-eye view of life in the dorms, turn to page 3”

This chapbook is a pleasure on so many levels, from the spare and quiet language, to the direct yet delicate handling of the situation and the overall ease it’s presented.  It's an ambitious project that’s so successful, it looks easy.  It looks easy because it's done so well.  This is yet another example of the vital work poets are doing right now – the work that for whatever reasons are being ignored by the more established poetry presses, but embraced by the independent, boutique and DIY presses.  Evil doppelganger or not, Laurel Snyder is a poet who should not be ignored – not because we fear her stealing our friends, our husband, our very existence, no, no, that’s the paranoia getting the best of us.  We should pay attention to Laurel Snyder’s poetry because it’s engaging and thrilling and because it’s doing the things some of us still aspire.

{Crucial Rooster image from the Elvgren concordance}

Gloria Mundi

Lots to crow about this morning.

The LBC Winter Read This! selection has been announced. Go on over and see the book we'll all be talking about— and check out  Powell's 30% discount! Dan Wickett nominated this title and posts today about his selection process. Four more titles will be announced over the next four days, so stand by.

Our first Crucial Rooster column of the year has arrived! Color us excited. Reb Livingston, our favorite poet and editor, stops by to remind us that some of the best things in life are free...

Crucial Rooster: Poetry Column by Reb Livingston

Now that it’s 2006 will the name of this column change to the Dire Dog?  No, this old coot[ie] gal is still crowing.

On Monday afternoon (probably right as you read this) I’m having a new furnace installed.  My old one went bye-bye Saturday night.  Unplanned furnace purchase + usual decadent Christmas expenditures = Broke Rooster.  Since I doubt I’m the only one dragging her pillow case of loose change to Coinstar, let’s start off the New Year CHEAP and by cheap, I mean absolutely FREE.

Sure, chapbooks are an inexpensive way to acquaint oneself with a poet, but is there such a thing as a free chapbook?

Thanks to Whole Coconut Chapbook Series editor Bruce Covey, yes, there is such a thing.  Not only are they free – but you have a choice, you can read them online or you can print them out on your printer, staple down the middle and be your own Susie Bookmaker.  Holding my new self-printed chapbook makes me feel rich – like I just got back from a shopping trip at the bookstore. 

The first two chapbooks in this series are "Trespass Slightly In" by Sueyeun Juliette Lee and “Boxd Transistor” by Jon Leon.

Lee’s poems are searing (which comes as a great relief to my shivering, suffering limbs), her lines invoke a sense of lushness and alertness, for example:

quietly we crawl under our covers, three in a bed / the house stands still after hours of unrest / delicate as folding screens these turns burn our faces shut

Mmm, threesomes and hot faces, I’m so there.  Ok, the “three in a bed” isn’t what I’m inferring, it’s more likely a young child sleeping with her parents.  But since that’s about to become my reality as soon as I’m finished writing this column (tonight we’re sleeping in the basement, huddled around a space heater), I’m indulging in a quick interlude of fantasy and whimsy.  I’ve said this before here, don’t get too hung up on a poem’s meaning, it’s not a riddle you have to solve – instead slow down, don’t skim, speak the poems out loud – enjoy the sounds, images and senses the reading unleashes – the meaning will come later. 

I want you to remember that when you read Leon’s chapbook.  Dear dear fiction readers, nothing makes me want to wrap my small (but unusually wide) hands around your precious throats when I hear “I don’t get poetry” or “I’m not smart enough” or whatever ridiculous excuse you’re serving to explain why you don’t read contemporary poetry.  You’ve plodded through Tolstoy, Faulkner, Bronte, Kafka and numerous others, you’re plenty capable enough.  It’s all in your approach and we can blame that on a high school English teacher or TV or too much Rolling Rock –  it doesn’t matter.  It’s easily correctable.  Stop worrying about the “meaning.”  I’m not proposing these poems have no meaning, not at all.  What I'm saying is that’s not where you want to start.  Do you look at a Jackson Pollack painting and try to figure out “what is it supposed to be?”  Do we judge portraits by how closely they mimic the object?  “You know, that Monet guy’s technique seems a little blurry, don’t you think?”  Of course we don’t approach paintings in such a way – what’s the point in that?  If you want an “exact” representation, pull out a disposable camera and snap away (but remember, the camera adds 20 pounds).

Leon’s poems are unusual, they don’t go where you expect them to go, no you’re not a dope, every line is a surprise, in fact, often the next word is unexpected – it’s a delight.  Consider how the poem “Prison Grinder” begins:

The sleeper cells were some luxury.  I caribou you. / We began tragedy with comedy.  We began avocation./ A pigeon for a pigeon.  My silence. / I think it was we who descended a staircase, / were rejected, directly.  We confiding in we, / outlining moving picture stills.  We on the corner of where.

Wow, I didn’t see any of that coming.  Did you?  It's like Leon presenting something in a way I've never considered before and it's a little weird, but it's also oddly tender.  I'm reminded of a guy I used to know, everything happened and nothing happened . . . I should google him.

When you finish the chapbooks and realize there’s a lot you can get from poems like these, check out the online magazine, Coconut, for more. 

I’ll be back in February and remember, no matter what you might hear in the locker room, I caribou you the most.

Crucial Rooster

The year of the rooster is drawing to a close, and along with it comes our last Crucial Rooster column for '05. Reb Livingston, our funny, smart, neighborhood poet, has galvanized this Friday space into a must read for many of our fiction-centric friends, the ones who so often wear blinders when it comes to poetry. Reb has cajoled, taunted, flaunted and seduced us into caring about well-designed chapbooks, little known magazines, and one very kick ass online poetry journal. She has broadened our worldview and challenged our old-timey notions of meter and synecdoche and—god forbid!— a certain Pulitzer prize winning poet. We thank Reb Livingston. We can't pay her. But we can thank her quite publicly and unabashedly. Plus, we're happy to put in a good word with the big guy to go easy on the coal this year— she wasn't really that naughty, was she?

Crucial Rooster: Poetry Column by Reb Livingston

Christmas and Hanukah are only 16 days away, Kwanza 17 days and all this means you have to get your holiday shopping (online, of course) done by  early next week.  Finding that unique and thoughtful gift becomes more difficult each year.  It’s those damn chain stores, I tell you.  Oh, I do my fair share of shopping at them.  Where else am I going to find such great prices on toilet paper, shampoo and Mr. Rooster’s tube socks?  But wouldn’t you like to give a beautiful and interesting gift to your loved ones?  Something they might (gasp) treasure?  Sure, it’s riskier than that Banana Republic gift card and we all have that relative who really just wants a bottle of vodka.  But gift giving is about the thought, not becoming everyone else’s personal shopper for a day.  Every year relatives send me their “What I Want Lists” and demand the same in return.  Sure, this means I no longer get teddy bear sweaters and electric pencil sharpeners and if I buy my dad those road flares, I won’t have to hear him grumble “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” but but but . . .

Working off a list is uninspired and there’s still a chance for misinterpretation.  Two years ago I asked Mr. Rooster for tanzanite earrings, I took him to a store and showed him the purple stones and reminded him than I only wear platinum, white gold or silver.  So what does he get me?  A tourmaline ring, set in yellow gold with two hideous sphinx heads.  I wish I was making this up.  When I opened the gift I cried.  Not only did he get me a horrific gift, but our special holiday was marred by the reminder that he never listens to a thing I say.  Then he had the nerve to insist I said TOURMALINE.  A triple whammy.  The dashed expectations, the . . . wait a minute, why did I have any expectations in the first place?  Because I basically contracted him to be my personal shopper, something I would never have done in any other situation other than a last minute grocery run.  Mr. Rooster is SO unqualified for the job.  Aren’t most of us unqualified?

How I yearn for the days of special gifts.  I know you do too.  Let me guide you towards some simple, inexpensive and marvelous poetry-ish gifts that I promise will surprise (and most likely delight) any civilized individual.  Give the gift nobody expects.  None of these gifts should break your bank, so if you’ll be banished to the sofa for not buying off the list, consider these as something a little extra – something to break up the monotony of instructed present-time.  Also, these are perfect ideas for stocking, “Secret Santas” and “Grab Bags.” 

CALENDAR

Everybody needs a calendar.  Sure, you could go to your local chain bookstore and agonize over chubby cherubs or kittens with yarn or the hilarious Dilbert and when Grandma forgets who you are when she’s revising her will on her deathbed. . .  but if she received The Most Intriguing (and Sensual) Male Poets 2006 ($19.99) you might just earn the status of stand-out grandchild and reap the spoils.  Beefcake poets?  You betcha!  Some are legitimately hot, for real.  The brains behind this brawny outfit are three lovely poets, Didi Menendez, Jenni Russell and Pris Campell.  All profits from this calendar will go CFIDS (Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome) research. 

STATIONARY

OK, this is totally demented, that is why I love it.  Poet, Jill Alexander Essbaum, recently learned how to cook chickens.  Chicken was What’s for Dinner? at the Essbaum household on a regular basis.  Being a creative type, naturally Jill started dressing the chickens in costumes.  Then she started building props and sets.  She took pictures.  Her habit was getting costly and time consuming and hence Emily Chickenson ($2 - $16.50) was hatched.  All the chickens used in these photographs were eventually eaten.

Jill also has a new book of demented sonnets called Oh, Forbidden (Pecan Grove, $9) – a mix of the “sacred and profane,” this slim collection will spice up any Christmas Eve:

“We did it / in the master bath, pressed against the sink. / We were quick, but very quiet.  You came / like Christ, as a thief in the night; I split / into halves, a crimson sweet.  You polished the wink / of my wet, wistful eye.  Then you went home.” 

CHAPBOOKS

Yes, I’m totally hot for elegantly designed chapbooks.  I never stop talking about them, do I?  They’re so intimate, such labors of love and so rare.  Chapbook print runs are usually anywhere from 25 to 300 copies.  These aren’t Cabbage Patch Dolls or Xboxes.  Nobody is getting trampled or punched in the face for the last one.  Isn’t that a good thing?  While everyone is fighting over and overpaying for crap, you get your choice of the good stuff.

Chapbook darling, Joseph Massey, has done it again with his latest chapbook, Bramble a book of lunes (Hot Whiskey Press, $6.50).  The little birdies have informed me that there aren’t too many of these left, destining it to become a hot collectable in the not too distant future.  If you know someone who’s into haiku, they’ll love the lune form (usually three lines with five syllables, three syllables, and finishing with five syllables).

   

    crows cackle over
an engine
            starting and stopping

Or give two poets for the price of one. Coltsfoot Insularity (Fewer & Further Press, $7) is a collaboration between poets Aaron Tieger and Jess Mynes.   Truly an original purchase, each cover is handcrafted and unique containing different colors, stamp impressions, and design.  These poems are funny and surprisingly tender.

What a sight
it must be
I’ve never
been, you?  I
like anise
only OK
too much Orzo
once spilled
& mopped
the floor with
my red wool
pants while I
was wearing
them killed
it for me.

That reminds me, my red wool pants are still at the cleaners.  Better go pick them up.  I need something to wear at the holiday parties.  Have a wonderful holiday and remember, be creative with your gift giving! 

Crucial Rooster

This month our Crucial Rooster columnist has flown the coop for Miami. If you're reading this in the vicinity of Coral Gables, don't miss Ms. Livingston's appearance tonight at Books & Books.  Tell her the Happy Booker sent you!

(Can you keep a secret? While our favorite poet, editor and blogger is away enjoying some fun in the sun, we thought we'd take this opportunity to do a little holiday shopping for her. She's quite impossible to shop for, but right now we've gotten it narrowed down to this or this. What do you think?)

Crucial Rooster: Poetry Column by Reb Livingston

As an editor of a poetry magazine, it’s important for me to keep up with other poetry publications.  I read as many as I can and always pay attention to the buzz generated.  One reason I do this is so I can stay current with contemporary poets.  Another reason is so I can compare my magazine with the rest.  I’m a Capricorn and we’re the competitive sign. 

Since I became an editor, I get a lot of sunshine blown up my ass.  Everyday I receive poetry submissions with letters telling me my magazine is the sexiest, best, most wonderful poetry publication out there.  After I select a poet’s work to publish, I’m told my editorial taste is superior to all other poetry editors.  It’s a delicious feeling.  Sometimes, after I change my baby’s explosive diaper and feel a little down about my predicament, I read a few suck-up letters to lift my spirits.  Those sweet messages have saved me countless trips to the liquor cabinet.

On September 28, 2005, my fragile ego was devastated by poet, Rebecca Loudon.  In June, five of Rebecca’s fabulous poems appeared in No Tell Motel.  She conveyed her excitement for the publication and thanked me for being willing to put the word “assitude” in a poem.  I thought we had something special between us.  But just a few short months later she wrote on her blog regarding Forklift, Ohio:  A Journal of Poetry, Cooking & Light Industrial Safey:

“This has to be the absolute coolest publication I've ever been in. Seriously. The cover of this issue is a polyethylene membrane with a grid structure of square, cut-back cavities, and an anchoring fleece laminated to its underside. The binding is plastic tie-wrap. There were other little miracles floating inside the envelope including a carpenter's pencil and an actual order form for a bottle manifold dated 10-17-67.”

Miracles?!? Reading the above was an akin to hearing an ex-boyfriend brag how his new girlfriend is the prettiest he’s ever had.  It hurts.

Also hurtful was seeing how many other No Tell poets were in this “absolute coolest publication” of all time.  Anthony Robinson, Hugh Steinberg, Cami Park, Corey Mesler, Nate Pritts, oh how could you!?!

Like any jealous ex, I had to get a copy and see for myself.  I thought, Forklift, Ohio can’t be that amazing, surely she has wonky eyes or man hands.  There has to be something wrong with her.  This is where I could have benefited from a straight-talking friend, somebody to tell me “Let it go.  Have a little dignity!”  No such friend was around.  The journal arrived and I read it cover to cover. 

Then I ate an entire chocolate cake. 

It was true, Forklift, Ohio is an absolutely cool publication from its unique DIY style to its vibrant (sometimes hilarious) poems.  Even the recipes are tantalizing.  Rotini with Jalapenos.  Coconut Fishball Soup.  Grilled Figs with Thyme Honey!!!

Everything about this journal feels physical, from the rough construction and graphics, layout, food and the poems.  Reading this issue isn’t going to transport you to the land of fairies and pixie dust (or whatever “magical” thing poetry is supposed to do for you), it’s going to be a reminder that you’re human with a corporeal form and earthly needs.  Take Samuel Amadon’s poem “Head Injury” for example:

He also thinks / my blood-pressure will lower if I meditate & that // our waitress is beautiful.  Our waitress is not beautiful / but it’s better not to argue with a neuroscientist.  Probably / better not to let one look at your head too closely either.  / Do you really want to know what’s happened to you // after how many times you stood up into a spiral staircase / or how many times the collected Lowell fell on your temple / before you picked a different place to keep it?

Forklift, Ohio is edited by Matt Hart and Eric Appleby.  While I will concede their journal is indeed cool, I still claim that I am by far the better kisser.  Issue #14 is available for $10 here.

Crucial Rooster

We don't know from poetry, which is why esteemed editor and poet Reb Livingston moonlights for us on a monthly basis. We rely on Reb to give us our poetry straight up, no ice. 

Today we learn that it's resentment that keeps the home fires burning for our most Crucial Rooster, as Reb tells us about two new wonderful poets we're going to love to hate.

Crucial Rooster: Poetry Column by Reb Livingston

I’m going to let you in on a secret.  Whenever a poet reads or hears a line from a poem that she wishes she wrote, her initial reaction is rage and if that poet doesn’t hurry up and practice yoga or run 20 miles or swallow 5 Xanax, that rage will quickly solidifies into a suffocating resentment.

On Tuesday I heard Shanna Compton and Jennifer L. Knox read from their new (and first!) collections of poetry at Chapter’s Bookstore in Washington, D.C.  Compton’s Down Spooky  was the winner of the 2004 Winnow Press Open Poetry Award and Knox’s A Gringo Like Me was just released from Soft Skull Press.

Unfortunately I didn’t have my yoga mat or my running shoes or a prescription for Xanax so I am brimming with resentment and have two new poets to add to my “hate them/wouldn’t want to date them” list.

It was the last reading of the first leg of their U.S. tour.  Later this month and next they will be giving readings in NYC, Ann Arbor, Muncie, Milwaukee, Chicago, Santa Cruz, Berkeley and Ashland.  All the poets have been aflutter about this reading tour:

Atlanta poet and professor Bruce Covey wrote, “Omigod!  Shanna and Jennifer were awesome – you’ll enjoy their reading.” 

Laura Carter said, “Omigod! You are in for a treat. Be sure to ask Jen to read "Chicken Bucket."

MiPOesias, publisher Didi Menendez cheered, “Omigod! Jennifer Knox is really great. She is in the latest miPOradio and Shanna will be on there sometime this week.”

Laurel Snyder blogged, “Holy Moly! Their reading at Java Monkey blew the crowd away. People were crying in laughter. And the Emory reading with the incomparable Danielle Pafunda) was equally incredible. . .”

“Praise Zeus! Knox caused a very awkward moment on a plane when her poems sent me into a fit of laughter” exclaimed Kaplan Page Harris.

Newcomer to the D.C. scene, poet Maureen Thorton, showed up to the Chapter’s reading with handmade signs “Shantastic!” and “Jennifer Knox My Socks Off!”  I’ve given a number of poetry readings and nobody ever bothered to make a sign for me.  A queasy sensation clutched my belly. It’s all hype I told myself.  You’re still the prettiest girl in the room!

The reading started fifteen minutes late because Shanna and Jennifer drove all day from Nashville, TN.  No doubt held up by their adoring groupies.  I am not resentful about the late start, in fact, I believe all poetry readings should start at least 15, if not 30 minutes late.What kind of jackass starts a reading on time?  More than you might imagine.

But no, my ill feelings run much deeper.  I endured poem after poem full of sharp and fabulous lines that I am quite sure I was supposed to write.  Somehow Shanna Compton and Jennifer Knox stole my thoughts years before I ever thought them and according to my lawyer sister, there’s nothing I can do about it.

Between hearing the reading and then pouring over their obnoxiously addictive first books, I suffered numerous indignities.

From Compton’s Down Spooky:

That girl there wore stiffened stays / and laced herself with bones. / She tied herself with strings, became / a little ham of rage. (from the poem “Contrast Girls”)

The warmth / of someone else’s ass left / on the subway seat / is sometimes a comfort  (from the poem “The Local”)

From Knox’s A Gringo Like Me:

Dear reader, I am writing to you / from deep inside my own ass. (from the poem “Call from the Canyon”)

Motherfucker.  I just found out my boyfriend’s a prostitute. (from the poem “Cruising for Prostitutes”)

We are afraid / of our own unborn children—that one day it’ll all come down / to Mom, Dad—can I have the car tonight? and when we say / no they’ll shoot us in the head. (from the poem “We Are Afraid”)

If you’re near any of the places Shanna and Jennifer will be gracing on the 2nd and 3rd legs of their tour and are into getting your “socks knoxed off” – pencil them in your planner.  If not, you can still get your copies of Down Spooky and A Gringo Like Me.  If you’re a writer, remember, resentment is a natural and healthy emotion.  Embrace it.  It’ll keep you warm at night.

Vive la Reb!

Nous aimons Reb Livingston. Far across the Atlantic, surrounded by chocolate croissants and high art, and yet she still found time to send us her monthly Crucial Rooster poetry column. We applaud her work ethic and her elan. That Reb, not only an amazing editor and poet, she's also a class act all the way. Merci, Reb.

(Another cool Eiffel Tower image here for your viewing pleasure, courtesy of The Vapor Trail. )

Crucial Rooster: Poetry Column by Reb Livingston

Being in high demand, this poetry columnist thought it was time she approached the Happy Booker with a show-me-the-money speech.  With so many readers clamoring for poetry and so few poets, it seemed the logical next step.  If you want rare and sought after talent, its going to cost.  Unfortunately, Ms. Booker is tougher than a Ponderosa steak served at closing time and scoffed at all of my reasonable requests.  After weeks of intense negotiation and a few late night phone calls, we finally came to an agreement that was mutually acceptable.  I could go to Paris and meet with the editor of The Page on my own dime and she'd print the column if it didnt have too many typos. 

As I write this, I am indeed in a Paris cafe polishing off my tenth chocolate croissant (btw, what does oink d'oink, petit porc mean anyway?).  A few days earlier I had dinner with Andrew Johnston, New Zealand poet, author of Birds of Europe and editor of The Page. He feels its important that the focus remain off of him, so I wont go into detail of him being a dreamboat. 

The Page is a clearing house for all things poetry.  Johnston pays attention to everything out there so you dont have to.  Every day this site offers new links to articles on poetry, poems published online and some of the best poetry blogs and publications.  The focus stays on the actual poems, not the backbiting politics that comes with the turf.  Maybe you didnt realize there was politics and turf in poetry?  Stick with The Page and you wont be bothered with such nonsense.

The Page is an invaluable resource for those looking to discover new poets  especially non-American poets writing in English. One day a poem from the Quarterly Literary Review Singapore is featured, the next day one from Australian magazine Cordite and the day after a poem from Canadian general interest magazine The Walrus.  Its always a pleasant surprise to find what shows up there and a great way to sample work from unknown (to you) authors.  I check it daily.

If you like meeting new poets as much as I do, you also want to make sure you check out the latest issue of MiPoesias, The Strange Call guest edited by Gabriel Gudding (author of A Defense of Poetry)  if you like poems about asses, this is a must read.  This issue has some of the most riveting poems by 68 poets, interviews, translations, essays, you name it. A quick sampling of the contributors includes Ron Silliman, Karl Parker, Allyson Salazar, Heidi Lynn Staples, Christian Bök, Amy Gerstler, Josh Corey, Justin Lacour, Amy King, Kent Johnson, Jasper Bernes and so many more I could spend all day naming them.  This is the part where I should also mention I have poem in and was interviewed for this issue. 

Its a lot of reading, but I promise theres not a cruddy a poem in the bunch.  If the poems strike you as a little odd, well, it is The Strange Call.  Theres the poem Stupid Pink Wad by Lara Glenum that ends:

He was riding along / in that snake-/carriage / In his silk hat & / latex opera gloves / He was boring // deep into the darkest furs / He was dangling / six-hundred/hungers / He was creaming & creaming/ gentle revolver in / hand / That spasming angel! / That cocking fountain/ of light!
 
I mean, what could that possibly be about? 

And what does mipoesias mean?  When I asked founding editor, Didi Menendez, she responded MiPoesias is a typo. Once you press the "buy this domain name" it is your baby so I have lived for five years trying to explain my error as "poetic license" which technically when you think about it, has become just that.

The many benefits of being a poet.

MiPoesias will be celebrating its five year anniversary at a reading in Miami at Books and Books in November.  Readers will include David Trinidad, Nick Carbo, Jenni Russell, Bruce Covey, Rita Maria Martinez and many others (and yes, that includes me too). 

Didi was recently described as an industry by effing press editor Scott Pierce (if youve been reading these columns, you know who Im talking about  see, youre in the know).  Probably one of the most accurate descriptions if you consider that in addition to the online magazine, she runs miPOradio  (a poetry podcast) with the help of Birdie Jaworski and is organizing Poetry~At~Sea.  Thats right, its the Love Boat of poetry workshops, you, the salty mist blowing through your hair, David Lehman whispering sweet inspiration, Denise Duhamel getting funky.  Sounds a lot more enticing than one of those lame singles cruises.  Too bad I get sea sick and am nine chocolate croissants too fat for my swimsuit.

If you really want to get to know poets, you should check out Lance Phillips project, Here Comes Everybody.  Lance is the author of Cur Aliquid Vidi.

Here every poet interviewed is asked the same ten questions, such as What is the first poem you ever loved? Why? and Do you believe in a Role for the Poet? If so, how does it differ from the Role of the Citizen? and How would you explain what a poem is to my seven year old?

Why those 10 questions?  Lance said because they're ones I think of while reading someone's work, plus, I think, they leave room for individual perspectives while maintaining a context for comparison.   Which is true, few answers have overlapped and most have ranged from thought provoking to bizarre.  Sometimes a poet cops to not reading much contemporary poetry and I freak and start yelling at my laptop.  A new interview is posted twice a week.  Some of my favorite interviews in the past have been Anthony Robinson, Aaron Belz, Geoffrey Gatza and Mark Yakich and there are a number of interviews with interesting poets coming down the pike, yep, including one with me. 

See, I am a hot commodity and the Happy Booker should start sharing the wealth with the talent.  How many Jimmy Choo shoes does one woman need?  Dear reader, please write and urge Ms. Booker to allow me use of the Booker corporate jet or at the very least, give me a pass to the executive cafeteria.  Now that Ive tasted Paris cuisine, I wont be able to go back to the swill they sling to the general employees. 

Until next month!

Poet Modern

So, it’s getting to be that time of the month again. We’re feeling bloated, cranky, and craving a little free verse with our iced mocha latte. Thankfully, our hipper-than-thou neighbor, Reb Livingston, is around to step in with her monthly poetry column: Crucial Rooster.

Reb is a poet, editor, and the discrete concierge of No Tell Motel. Her poetry column will appear here on the first Friday of every month. (Relive the joy of her first Happy Booker column here.)

Crucial Rooster: Poetry Column by Reb Livingston

Six years ago I took my sister to the Geraldine Dodge Poetry Festival. During our drive from Virginia to New Jersey she asked questions regarding what to expect at a poetry festival. The question that mattered to her most was “Are people going to be wearing berets?” Of course not! Nobody wears a beret to a poetry reading! No doubt you see where this is headed, we showed up and saw hundreds of berets of all different colors. It was a low moment for poetry and I was mortified. To make matters worse, a friend who met us there exclaimed, “I’m thinking about buying a beret!” to which I snapped You’ll look like Monica Lewinsky!

Sometimes I can be kind of bitchy. My bitchiness is for the good of the world.

Crummy poetry festivals make me really bitchy. I’m talking about the kind that makes you pay money to sit on filthy, uncomfortable folding chairs or squat in a mud field for days. The kind that shuttle the “celebrity poets” into special “VIP” tents before and after the readings, protecting the poets from the people. What about the people? Give them smelly port-a-johns and cold water to wash their hands. It doesn’t matter, it’s not like they’ll get a chance to shake hands with the genius Pulitzer Prize winner anyhow.

Imagine my glee two weekends ago when I was invited to read in the best poetry festival in the world: The Carrboro Poetry Festival. You probably haven’t heard of this festival which is a shame because Carrboro Poet Laureate Patrick Herron knows how to throw a bitchin’ poetry party (which is totally different from the bitchy poetry party I’d likely throw). I’m pleased to report the place was stocked with clean bathrooms and everyone had access to all 39 poets. Power to the people! Huzzah!

The readings? Spectacular. Life changing. Yeah, sure, that’s what I said. Where else could one hear Gabriel Gudding read about his buttocks, Linh Dinh read about anuses and Christan Bök, the font of alien noise, all in the same room? But lest I lead you to believe the Carrboro Poetry Festival was a parade of asses, it was not. There was ass kicking too. Harryette Mullen manipulated language from her latest and must-own collection, Sleeping with the Dictionary. Tanya Olsen shared a hysterical poem about ending a relationship with Lisa Marie Presley. D.C. poet Rod Smith, who at first struck me as rather unassuming got on stage and ASSUMED. Whew. Disabuse me, baby. I like it.

There was a playful and romantic poetic performance between nobody Ken Rumble and fiancé Kathryn Salisbury. I say “nobody” because Ken doesn’t yet have a book, but he should. Don’t you know? The best poets are nobodies. “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” Emily Dickinson. Rest my case. If you attended the CPF, you would have gotten an opportunity hear the enthralling nobody Ken Rumble before any of your friends.

Because seriously, who cares what big name poets your dreary, so-last-decade-pals are reading? You’re better than them. Read up to your potential. Are you listening to your grandma’s old 78s and dancing the watusi? No way! Way? No! I think you should consider making the trip to North Carolina and attend next year’s festival and in the meantime, order yourself these two poetry journals:

The Hat: Editors, Jordan Davis and Chris Edgars, $12

Issue 6 of The Hat has just been released and all the sexy poets are talking about it. (There are sexy poets? Yes, there are “celebrity” poets and there are “sexy” poets, now stop interrupting.) Why are the sexy poets talking about it? Cause it’s awesome. This yearly publication offers a glimpse of 81 intriguing poets. What’s the significance of 81? There is none, they publish 75 writers or 200 pages, whichever comes first. The significance is in the poetry. What kind of poetry? I get annoyed with questions like that and tend to respond with answers like “poems with words”, but Jordan Davis has the more elegant response “We empathize with the view of poetry as a secular religion . . . I can understand how sublime feelings would make anybody establish rules for living.”

There isn’t one style of poem touted and that’s what makes reading The Hat so enjoyable, so sublime indeed. Every poem is surprise. It’s impossible to pick a few lines from a single poem to stand representative of the whole issue, so I’ll simply pick a few lines from the poem “Horses: Why I like/dislike them” by Daniel Nester:

...
instead of interviewing the true athlete the animal we’re / stuck with the helium-sounding self congratulatory / jockey a freak of nature who has no reason to be / in the winner’s circle oh i know there’s the whole / shitting outside issue with horses but they got people / to sweep that up and so i think horses are pretty cool

Other pretty cool poets included in this issue are Anselm Berrigan, Joseph Donahue, Sasha Frefe-Jones, Sarah Manguso, Michael Schiavo, Prageeta Sharma, Tony Tost, Jonah Winter and many others.

The Canary: Editors, Joshua Edwards, Anthony Robinson, Nick Tremlow, $10

The poet hotties (Shush!) are also twittering about issue 4 of The Canary, with a cover the color of a roasted pepper that doesn’t trigger any images of Tweety bird. The Canary roosts in Eugene, Oregon, but some of its editors have migrated to Philadelphia and New Zealand. The editors strive to offer a good mix of the established and the up and coming and this issue meets that goal with work by better known poets such as Lisa Jarnot, Fanny Howe, David Trinidad and Cole Swenson as well as work by newer poets Zachary Schomburg, Aaron Tieger and Laurel Snyder (featuring a naked Britney Spears).

To say this issue is hot would be redundant. To say the poems are finger-licking good would be creepy and just plain wrong. So I’ll settle on the adjective electric which is just another way of saying sexy, but I’ve already mentioned sexy poets and I don’t want you to think I’m not discriminating with poems, but I am sincere and would never waste your time by pointing you towards the lukewarm.

For instance, the last stanza of Danielle Pafunda’s libidinous “Small Town Rocker” reads:

So much later you found a phone booth. Called me up / on my new red phone. I felt like the Commissioner, or like Batman / on the wrong end of things. I heard the thrum-thrum of your voice, / your lighter click, the little signs. I took off my target t-shirt, I took off / my shiny pants. I stripped down quietly and I unplugged my lights.

See, I might be blunt and offend to save you from a serious fashion faux pas, but I would never steer you wrong when it comes to poems. Until July, darling reader, I think of you often.