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Archive for January 2016


 The hip thing these days is to be a poet and write fiction. It is not the hip thing these days to be a fiction writer and write poetry. The former brings possible public reward and greater numbers of readers; the latter brings no public reward and notice but by a few. That is the surface reason this book of poetry--a single dark, weird, shattering poem, really--by the singular fiction writer Chuck Richardson might trigger curiosity and attention. Even as its title fairly announces a refusal to hope for what the poem, given the rules and odds of the current game, will almost certainly not receive. Within the noise and clutter of the present situation, where, how, does a poem with no expectation or desire of reward fit in the frame of familiar poetic motive and need? That the poem is written out of such a question (and negative capability) is another, deeper reason it might trigger curiosity and attention. If not now, then perhaps when readers now unborn are reading... Perhaps. But even then probably not. Because the unborn, to poach from Richardson the poet, torque their cerebral tombs to tacitly melt the dreams of all poetry beams. Which were always the real bones of fiction, anyway.

—Kent Johnson

From the invocative opener of “Chant Divine Syrup,” onward through the “Ussing” of his “Emergent Satori,” the “Ash heaps smoldering / with refugees” that characterize Chuck Richardson’s Poem for the Unborn strike me as a needed addition to the American poetic milieu. Armed with the postmodern novelist’s sensitivity to “social speech types” and metanarrative (& Sade, Celine and Acker), Richardson manages to unearth and make striking, with an unrelenting parataxis and lethal dose of poem parody, an “alien optimism” of “Hubris,” nostering away in the quietude of his Love Hut. This devotional nihilism is a strange, beautiful and horrifying, all around frolicking work of a singular poetic instinct. Welcome Chuck Richardson’s debut in the form.

—Jared Schickling

Book Information:

· Paperback: 166 pages

· Binding: Perfect-Bound

· Publisher: BlazeVOX [books] 

· ISBN: 978-1-60964-237-2



POEM for the UNBORN by Chuck Richardson Book Preview

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Writers Who Read interviews Kristina Marie Darling

 The Writers Who Read series continues this week with Kristina Marie Darling. Welcome, Kristina!

Who are you?
I’m a poet, fiction writer, and critic. My most recent books are Women and Ghosts and Failure Lyric, both available from BlazeVOX Books. I also serve as Associate Editor at Tupelo Quarterly, Founding Editor of Noctuary Press, and an editor at Handsome, the magazine publication of Black Ocean Books.

Which book or series was your gateway into the world of reading?
I loved C.S. Lewis when I was younger, but it wasn’t long before I became interested in nineteenth century Russian literature. Honestly, it’s like I went straight from sipping on a beer to guzzling scotch. Once I read War and Peace, there was no stopping me from reading Crime and Punishment, Dead Souls, all of Turgenev’s fiction, and all of Chekhov’s plays.

Nowadays, what makes you crack open a book instead of pressing play on your favorite Netflix show?
I’ve been traveling to various artist residencies for the past year, so usually, Netflix isn’t an option. Or if it is, there’s a tremendous amount of shame and guilt involved when you’re surrounded by smart, talented, creative people and you’re trying to find out who won on The Voice. And who would want Netflix anyway when these smart, talented artists are offering you book recommendations?

Which authors are auto-buys for you? Why?
If I could hit a button and pre-order everything by Joshua Clover, I would. I admire the ways that he uses the resources of poetry to make compelling interventions into contemporary literary theory. He suggests that poets can make necessary contribution to complex academic and philosophical conversations, ultimately democratizing the act of literary criticism.

Read the whole interview here 

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Wade Stevenson interviewed on Green Life Blue Water


Wade Stevenson

[Photo courtesy of the author]

An Interview with Wade Stevenson

First off, congrats on the success of Flutes and Tomatoes, one of Kirkus Review’s Best Indie Books of 2015. What an honor.

I read Dear You and Flutes and Tomatoes in relatively short order. There is such a full blown range of longing, despair, grief, and, dare I say, an exhilaration in the expression of it all, maybe more emotion packed into two slim volumes than many would experience in a lifetime. So — are you reconciled with the events that took you to such a dark place, maybe at peace, and if so, how did the writing help you to get there?

Writing for me has always been an act of catharsis, of purification, of healing. The stories described in Flutes and Tomatoes and Dear You did indeed take me to dark, difficult places. No one would want to stay for a long time in that kind of emotional cell, and the only path I could find to free myself went through words. The words that make up the fabric of those poems became me. I lived them as if they were real. The events that caused the original pain happened again, in real time. Holding those two books in my hand, I can say, “You are the proof of that love that was lived and lost.” That feeling is one of wonderful release, it creates peace.

Both books were published in 2015. How much time passed between the events and the writing of the books? Did you find yourself agonizing anew as you wrote them?

Both books were published in 2015 because they’re related in terms of their emotional context and impact. Flutes and Tomatoes grew out of an experience I had in Paris when I was in my early twenties. That was in the late 1960s. I still have the notebooks that formed the basis of the book. The story narrated in Dear Youtook place in 1992. I started writing about it then but I couldn’t finish it. It hurt me to finish it, and in one way I didn’t want to finish it because that meant putting closure to it. And I felt I needed to keep the wound open. It’s strange how that happens, no? You don’t want to stop reliving in your memory something that hurt you very much.

Dear You is a very intimate exposé of your feelings at a specific time in your life, but also an intimate portrait of the mother of one your children. You share a daughter and shared a life, the details of which now are very public. I think it would be hard to be written about in such an intimate fashion. How does the Mlle. X. feel about your characterization of your relationship and particularly of her part in it? 

I like to think that my poems are written from the center of my stomach, what the Japanese call “Hara”. You could also say: from the gut. You’re absolutely right: “Dear You” is a very intimate portrait. Extreme intimacy. I was afraid of showing it to Mlle. X, the mother of my child. But I also felt it would be wrong to publish it without first letting her read it. So I sent it to her and said, “If you don’t like it, or don’t approve, I’ll just keep it in my desk drawer.” She called me up a few days later and said, “It’s a beautiful book. I’m so sorry, I never realized I caused you so much pain.”

Do you think there are patterns in life and that people succumb to certain ones or that there’s much more of a randomness to the universe? For example, Greg Braden talks about something called Fractal Time and how, like the inside of a nautilus shell or the repeating patterns of a pine cone, life spirals out in ever-widening circles, but the pattern remains the same. Braden posits that there’s a precise mathematical formula to prove his theory and with certain bits of information such as the date of the inciting event, among other things, he can predict when the next event will occur, allowing you to prepare yourself for a disaster or maybe keep it from happening, or conversely, accept a blessing. I’m fascinated by this concept and wonder if you’ve heard of it and what your opinion of it may be. 

Greg Braden’s idea is intriguing, but I deal in my texts with emotional time, not mathematical time. My own books, such as the memoir One Time in Paris, or the novel The Electric Affinities, or my prose poem, The Little Book of He and She, draw on such different experiences of life and love that it would be impossible to say they conform to any preset pattern. In your own book, Six Sisters, you write a passage about how nothing happens by chance. I agree, but I don’t think that’s the same thing as saying that people succumb to certain patterns that keep replicating themselves.

I’m sure your familiar with the work of Joseph Campbell and the power of myth and archetype throughout the ages. You have two stories of lost love, both of which might have shattered you, but you proved resilient. Do you think that we are all living our lives under the umbrella of a few archetypes developed early on in our childhoods, and if so, what archetypes resonate with you? 

Joseph Campbell’s book The Hero with a Thousand Faces, is one of my favorites, and I strongly believe in his mythological narratives. The archetype that resonates with me is that of the hero, the man who, assuming his own destiny, ventures out on a dangerous quest, meets several obstacles, overcomes them, and is victorious. There are many types of “quests” and the victory is always a spiritual one, symbolic, but it must be fought for and achieved. My books are all about a quest for love, or what happens in the aftermath of a broken love.

What’s your next project? Another hybrid book of memoir/poem or something completely different?

My next book is actually about the moon. It’s called Moon Talk. It will be published by BlazeVOX next month. It’s divided into three parts, a long poem, an essay, and some quotations. It’s a poetic, spiritual, and philosophical journey through all the phases of the lunar cycle. It’s a lyrical riff on the moon as myth and symbol. Joseph Campbell would have liked it.

Sounds wonderful.  So what’s a regular writing day look like for you? Part time? Full time? Some time? Every day or only when the muse strikes?

I’m a nocturnal poet, I need the night to write. A certain solitude is essential. I don’t believe in the Muse. Writing comes from patience and discipline. For me, it’s almost like a Zen meditation. When I’m in it, I’m ready to kill any distraction.

I gather you are not a religious man, yet you write as though there is a real spirit of the divine in your work. Reconcile this for me.

I’m not religious in the sense of going to church or following any established ritual. But I went to a religious school (St. Paul’s School in Concord, New Hampshire), and at one time I even converted to Judaism. My forthcoming Moon Talk book is quite mystical. It talks about that “Name who, moving among darkness, sheds light”.

What is your greatest hope for the future of mankind?

If mankind as a whole read more poetry, the world would certainly be a greener, more peaceful place.

I know a few poets who would agree.  Good luck with your next book. I look forward to reading and reviewing it.

p.j.lazos 1.20.16

Read the whole interview here

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Dear You by Wade Stevenson Reviewed by Green Life Blue Water




Dear You

      Dear You, a combination of poetry and memoir, by Wade Stevenson is one of the most exposed, unrelenting, and heart-breaking pieces on longing that I’ve read. Like Flutes and Tomatoes (reviewed below), named one of the best Indie books of 2015 by Kirkus Reviews,  Dear You is a genre Stevenson seems to have created, and if he didn’t create it, he knows his way around the terrain with the temerity of a conqueror. I love the mix of self-reflective recollection and metaphorical lyricism. It rounds out the narrative and answers the nagging questions that straight poetry leaves to the imagination.

The story starts with a breakup (Stevenson’s marriage); a rat (in the apartment of his soon-to-be beloved, Mlle X.); a rescue (by Stevenson of Mlle X. from the rat); a pregnancy (Mlle X.’s by Stevenson); a marriage (being rescued from a rat does not always end in marriage, but in this instance it did); and a birth. In reading the list above you would not guess that the birth would be the most tragic and life altering of the events that transpired, but it was both stunning and life-derailing for the author. Even more uncanny, Stevenson knew at the exact moment he watched his daughter’s head emerging into the world through his wife’s legs that their affair was over.


I want to know the splitting event
The decisive moment that drove us apart.

Was it in that white hospital room
When her darling head crowned

Between your bloodied groaning thighs?
Standing proudly at your head, I thought:

You will never see her again in this profoundly
Open way. I had such strong sexual energy

Devoted to an act that is God’s
Cosmic joke, and then you laughed,

Asked why I keep returning to you,
I had only one answer, “It’s instant and love.”

I want to write you a poem
So full of magic and power
That you’ll read it and never leave me.

Stevenson had no empirical evidence to support the conclusion that at the precise moment a new life was beginning a prior life would come to an end, but his inner voice advises him as such, and so, there it is. Life in all it’s conundrums.

Dear You is simply, achingly, this: a story of a man who loses his wife. The loss is not in the classic sense through death or divorce although given how abruptly the relationship failed it may as well have been. A traumatic change of heart? Possibly. A near death experience in childbirth? Perhaps. Too much pressure to return to the conjugal bed? Could be. Or was the fruit of the union — the child — more than enough emotion for the mother to hold. After all, the process and pain of childbirth is tumultuous, scary, and maybe closer to God than any of us will ever get while still walking around in our human suits. Before modern medicine, women regularly died in childbirth. Even with modern medicine, some women experience a postpartum depression so severe that it may take months, even years before they return to their own selves while the helpless father sits attentive, ready to assist, but unable to cross the great divide between those two disparate selves that are now joined in the body of that tiny beautiful little baby. How can a father compete against such helplessness? How can he suppress such unbridled longing? The answer is, he can’t.

Stevenson tries valiantly, and sadly, fails, but he leaves behind a collection of poems depicting the war he wages against his new found isolation, punctuated by one of the most despicable, definitive words to pass between lovers: no. For anyone who’s loved and lost, Dear You is your comrade in arms.

Next up:  an interview with Wade Stevenson.

p.j.lazos 1.17.16



Flutes and Tomatoes – A Memoir With Poems

“I became sensitive to every vibration in the air, to every nuance of the changing light. It would be late afternoon. It was then that the snake of emptiness would tighten around my throat. It was hard to breathe. I didn’t know if I could make it to the next day. There was a bottle of red wine on the chair. I grabbed and gulped it and enjoyed the warm swish of the liquid down my throat.” Wade Stevenson, Flutes and Tomatoes, A Memoir With Poems

Flutes and Tomatoes, A Memoir With Poems by Wade Stevenson is not at all what I imagined it would be. Let me start with a confession: poetry confounds me. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the cadence, the sentiment, the succinct nature of the writing; it’s just that I don’t always understand it. Without a context, it could be a metaphor for anything which is exactly the commonality of human emotion the poet intentionally taps into, but for a reader like me who wants certainty, assuredness, a good clean ending, the myriad possibilities that poetry presents can be downright frightening. That’s why I love this hybrid memoir/poem combo platter by Wade Stevenson. There was no guessing as to what had happened to make the poet lock himself in a basement studio in Paris with a bunch of tomatoes and a flute because he tells us, straight off, that he’s in mourning, that his lover has quite unexpectedly died, that he’s not coming out of the basement until he discovers the meaning of it all, or alternatively, learns to live with it. Having been apprised of the situation from the offset, I could relax, free to roam the pages of Stevenson’s poems, spending as much or more time on each as I felt necessary to understand because I’d been released from the chore of deciphering the code. I already had the rudimentary understanding; the rest was pure — wait for it — poetry, and it was illuminating and lovely.

I think poets, more than novelists, are the epitome of private people. Full disclosure is near impossible which is why they cloak everything in layers of metaphor. As with all good poetry, Flutes and Tomatoes is no exception. Stevenson keeps the details, crushing as they were, in the safety of his private zone. We have no idea, despite the broad brush of events, as to what actually happened in the atelier in Paris: how the lovers met, whether they were young or old, how long they were together, whether they spoke the same language or were perhaps the same sex, whether the trip to the countryside would have been the first or the last. All we know is that the flute and more than a dozen tomatoes remained, the flute maybe because Stevenson and his lover shared a flat. The tomatoes because, as he discloses, they were gathered/stolen from a farmer’s field on a trip that should have been but was/not.

Judge for yourself what could possibly happen to you that would cause you to spend a day, a week, a month, perhaps an entire summer living a solitary existence, just you and an external object(s) of your choice. How devastating the shock? How debilitating the news? It’s unclear from the text how long Stevenson remained underground. Long enough for the tomatoes to rot, for grief to move in with its own baggage and take up excess floor space in his sparsely furnished apartment, for questions of the existential nature of reality — living as he was, at the time, in Europe, the birthplace of existentialism — to be answered, or go unanswered, for him to turn on a tomato or two, to watch them rot and fester and disintegrate into nothingness, to violently throw one against a wall, to embrace his own darkness and ultimately his own light. It’s not an existence for a cowardly heart, perhaps not even a tomato heart. In the end, only the experience remained, and the words, resonating with an emotion the color of tomato.

Tomato Heart

If you choose not to eat it
A tomato quickly becomes useless
Unless by chance you learned to love it
Knowing buried deep inside
Are seeds of water and sunlight
To you it is transformed, a crimson flower
You watch its pink petals fall
Think of everything that might have been
Desires, sorrows and regrets
How to reconcile the shadow of your soul
With your real self? Tenderly, with blind
Fingers you touch the precious skin
As it swells and dilates
Like some enormous empty heart

p.j.lazos 12.9.15

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Province of Numb Errs by Jared Schickling

 Poetry is not another way of telling you what to think. Sure, be a poet, and humble(d). Jared Schickling’s Province of Numb Errs is a relief: out of monotime (“This time has no here its All here u / go”); avoiding collisions with prevalent discourse. If you’re interested in the writing human, be interested in this. 

—Michael Farrell

Camel, ass, lion, pig, donkey, horse, ox, fawn, duckling, osprey, sea snail, snake; infirmary, school, factory farm; bar, travel, underwear, childbirth, solar observatory, sex acts, and “the morning corpse of water”: maybe you can tell from this list of images in this book what Jared Shickling’s concerns are. “Natures impatience / homage de / con struck / shun / remains” enacts the breakdown of a world that we are destroying, so at times her syntax and spelling are altered, even to the point of using single letters. “Until I touch you and am unclean myself’’ suggests the ways we separate ourselves, male from female, human animal from other animals. “He has a blemish // he will profane not my sanctuaries.” Religion and archaisms continue to influence us in unpardonable ways. Critiques of factory farms run through the book, the most upsetting of which is a poem in which a worker confesses the horrors of tortures inflicted upon pigs. This is poetry infused with morality; its structure and its subjects are inseparable, because Shickling clearly feels the waste and misuse of the world so deeply. “Emotions mixed like primary colors.” We need such books.

—Ruth Lepson

Jared Schickling’s Province of Numb Errs is a quirky, sincere and often funny homage to the long arms of his Catholic upbringing. Less dour than Stephen Daedalus and the other cohorts of Joyce’s imagination, the narrators in these poems gleefully yoke together Biblical clichés and homespun homilies, xenophobic injunctions and commonsense imperatives, and, per rhetoric, the highfalutin’ and colloquial. The overall effect: wild swings between apocalyptic musings and unleashed hilarity. Unpacking the pejorative “provincial” lurking behind the more neutral “province,” Schickling delineates the family ties between prejudice and place. Moreover, his forays into flora and fauna husbandry in the second half of the book leave us with this unsettling realization: we were always estranged from any, from every, place.

—Tyrone Williams

Jared Schickling is the author of the BlazeVOX trilogy Two Books on the Gas: Above the Shale and Achieved by Kissing (2014) + ATBOALGFPOPASASBIFL (2013) + The Pink (2012), as well as The Paranoid Reader: Essays, 2006-2012 (Furniture Press, 2014). He edits Delete Press and lives in Western New York.

Book Information:

· Paperback: 78 pages

· Binding: Perfect-Bound

· Publisher: BlazeVOX [books] 

· ISBN: 9781609642457


Province of Numberrs by Jared Schickling Book Preview

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Photos on flickr