Cami Park

Posts Tagged ‘Weather’

New Michigan Press: A Conventional Weather, by John Pursley III

In Confessional, Poetry, Science on September 8, 2010 at 6:25 pm

Such is the way of windows, of gravity and rock– conventional weather.

A Conventional Weather, John Pursley III

A Conventional Weather, by John Pursley III, is  an exquisitely written collection of 19  portraits of people, places and experience, published by New Michigan Press.

Pursley writes flawlessly, with profound insight and emotional depth, of the conventional lives of conventional people in environments so compellingly drawn as to be both inseparable from, and nearly separate, characters themselves. The Ground Is Swollen & Black: the Air Not Moving at All is a portrait of Pursley‘s father fully wrought with love and pain; almost unbearable to read. The opening lines introduce his father:

Tonight, my father walks the narrow row of railroad ties, now delicate
As the dirt itself & crumbling, the way a mushroom will, when

It begins to dry & draws its moisture to the surface, like a protective skin

and our image of him is inseparable from the land the man is walking: railroad ties, dirt, dryness. Read the rest of this entry »

I have only one house

In How to, Poetry, Science on September 4, 2010 at 8:06 pm

circular motion does zero work
Evelyn Hampton

To attract a swarm of bees, hang a dark box
inside me. Is it my heart or my heart in my hands?
If only I could look closer I would be able to
understand the difference between modern buildings and the
people who built them. The nurses have blood on
their hands and I am the one who has to tell them. A bad
sign, I say, by opening and closing my drawer of
undies. Springs, slinkies, drill bits, and augurs
give the illusion of movement. A man leaves
by getting smaller than my door. A man comes in
by getting taller than my door. This table behaves
more and more like a wave every day. It interferes
with what I am trying to say about the weather,
how it is always hot and gray. The sides of my face
fluctuate randomly, echoing down the hallway. Laughter
the portraitist cannot paint floats to the ceiling
in a photograph of the hallway. Cease to follow the rules
of classical physics and they put you in a room where
four walls are so close together time hardly passes
except to say Bless you and Pass the tissue? At night
I can hear where I put my keys walking behind me. I have only
one house, but I see its doorway everywhere in the
forest. It grows from topsoil I would call enormous.

Some things are like treeswings

In Architecture, Philosophy, Poetry on September 1, 2010 at 11:07 am

Progress Under Blue Sky and Clouds
Karl Parker

It’s difficult to consider building a barn
when we still don’t have a clue down here about the front door.
There is, however, a seemingly-endless amount of stuff

to get lost in, occasionally come alive inside (at least
that’s what it feels like) an old treestump
or someone’s accent. Some things are like treeswings

that don’t need trees, and therefore of intrinsic good.
You see, we proceed by default, but don’t tell that to the weather
or little rivers of flies start to stream from our education.

No Tell Books: Personationskin, by Karl Parker

In Confessional, Opinion, Poetry on September 1, 2010 at 11:00 am

My accomplice is an animal, that’s why I often have an animal’s head.
Karl Parker, from DESERT PLACE

Personationskin, by Karl Parker

Not everyone has the ability to bring us into their heads, but Karl Parker does, and it is a trippy, animalistic place. At 130 pages, Personationskin is a substantial book of poetry, and the poems within are successively, often simultaneously, apocalyptic, tender, naturistic, fantastical.

For instance, the fantastical and tender A Hospital-Bird describes the effect on hospital patients of the visit of  A large bird wearing a hospital gown as the sick ones grew less tired, less borne down upon.  This poem ends with a humorous, suitably understated discovery, which I wouldn’t spoil for the world.

Fog At Morning is at once apocalyptic and somewhat naturistic as it juxtaposes zombies and fog, again, humorously, yet tenderly, sadly:

Zombies appear in the mist.
They take you to the mall, where they make you try on clothes.

These are just two examples, but these poems are often skillfully hitting on multiple cylinders.

Read the rest of this entry »


In Confessional, History, Poetry on August 28, 2010 at 11:43 am

These are the titles I won’t be posting about for National Poetry Month last April, but instead will be doing daily in September. I’m pulling them at random from a suitcase right next to me to determine the order. There aren’t quite enough for an entire month, so if anybody has a poetry book they’d like me to talk about this month, feel free to comment, or e-mail me at oddcitrusdotcamiatgmaildotcom and we can figure it out. Any leftover days will be for poetry publications and anthologies, I think.

Sept. 1Personationskin, by Karl Parker
Sept. 2Cadaver Dogs, by Rebecca Loudon
Sept. 3God Damsel, by Reb Livingston
Sept. 4We Were Eternal and Gigantic, by Evelyn Hampton
Sept. 5A Conventional Weather, by John Pursley III
Sept. 6Say, Poem, by Adam Robinson
Sept. 7In Another Castle, by Matthew Shindell
Sept. 8 Feign, by Kristy Bowen
Sept. 9 –   MC Oroville’s Answering Machine, by Mike Young
Sept. 10In the Particular Particular, by Stephanie Anderson
Sept. 11 – The Forgiveness Parade, by Jeffrey McDaniel
Sept. 12Lamu, by Steve Timm
Sept. 13Arbor, by Melissa Ginsburg
Sept. 14Exit Interview, by Paul Guest
Sept. 15Radish King, by Rebecca Loudon
Sept. 16The Emperor’s Sofa, by Greg Santos
Sept. 17make-believe love-making, by Ana Carrete

Robin Camille Davis


In Art, Confessional, Prose on March 9, 2010 at 8:17 pm

I have a new story, Even the Smallest, up at the always fresh Wigleaf. Plus a postcard.

Beehive is sick of all your poetry bullshit

In Photography, Poetry, Science on March 8, 2010 at 7:54 pm

Beehive Magazine has sent out a new call for submissions, and it goes a little something like this:

We need stuff to publish on the website and we are sick of all your poetry bullshit.

Here are the new guidelines:

If you think your piece of writing is profound or beautiful or zen or ironically unimportant or whatever, we don’t want it.

What Beehive is seeking is the stupidest irrelevant bullshit you have ever written/drawn/taken a picture of (whatevs). This means your dumb drawings during class, the syntaxy drippings of your blacked-out mind, space aliens, blood splatter, stuff you obviously didn’t write, pictures of your children (or other people’s children), pornography, scanned objects, failed craigslist ads, essays with all your teacher’s corrections scribbled on top, a list of all your bathroom contents, blueprints, schematics, graphs, charts, crayon drawings.

Really just anything you don’t care about.

The deadline is right now.

Sounds good. I like a lot of the stuff they have already, by folks like Alexandra Lukens, Michelle Puckett, Alexandra Ran, Kyle Hemmings, and especially Theresa Stefeniak of which I further post a sample:

Theresa Stefaniak

tell me about your osmosis

about getting gobbled up by weather

I want to breathe wet

a slight chance of rain showers

in the end, bacon won the prize

katana swords make men (into) dinner

he’s going to bring cool catness back

baby loves digable planets

what about the assemblage of gingerbread?

Shakespeare takes a brand new job

if nothing foes wrong against horse thieves

or the dignified quality of an opera box

the Adult Services of a California blonde

indulge & unwind- New York Style

This understated crunch

In Film, Household, Poetry on March 6, 2010 at 9:45 pm

NOÖ Journal: Rad poetry

Pours like a fountain

In Confessional, How to, Music on February 6, 2010 at 11:53 pm

I was so busy procrastinating on things today, that now I have to phone my blog post in at the last minute, but in a nice way, with Shelby Lynne.

Dzanc Best of the Web 2010

In List, Poetry, Prose on February 5, 2010 at 1:23 pm

As closure to my Dzanc all* Best of the Web in one place nominees & Dzanc all* Best of the Web in one place nominees – cont’d. posts, here is a partial list of works chosen by Kathy Fish, Matt Bell, and the editorial staff at Dzanc Books to be included their Best of the Web 2010 anthololgy.

“Who’s there?”

Molly Gaudry, The Sky as John Saw It the Night Kate Sparkled

Alice Blue Review
I’m afraid if God saw me, he would very nearly recognize me.

Lucas Farrell, Translations of “My Refrigerator Light Makes Its Way Toward You” Into the 34 Languages Spoken in the Many Woods of Grief

Apparatus Magazine
my teeth played like the keys of a xylophone

Rachel BuntingMartha Stewart Claims She Has Been Struck by Lightning Three Times

The Barefoot Muse
Who was asking for you that you’ve come knocking on my door,/And looking like a single spark in an August of no rain?

James Scannell McCormick, Trouble

BluePrint Review
Dark clouds hang low, and she’d like to snag one with her fingernail.

Michelle Reale, Nostrum

If you had a boy to love what would you not do?

Kyle Minor, Suspended

Carte Blanche Literary Review
To worry about snow is to be snow, bound; and snow’s where I got married and this picture of him running like a cartoon and his sad-happy eyes is like a canvas I can write anything I want.

Nanette Rayman-RiveraSounds of Silence

Cerise Press
the discovery of snail warfare in the margins/of monastic manuscripts, the zero/that could hold an empty space, the neutron bomb,/the seedless tangerine.

Eleanor Wilner, Headlong for that Fair Target
Jie Li, The Taste of Mangoes

Emprise Review
Peonies, azalea, sweet-scented osmanthus—I beheaded/them all.

Barbara Yien, If You See Buddha on the Road, Kill Him

Everyday Genius
The trees are not enough.

Aaron Burch, How To
David McLendon, Penumbra
Peter Markus, What We Tell Girl to Do With Us Brothers If We Ever Stop Making Mud
Stephen Graham Jones, Modern Love
A man with such loneliness repels even the moon’s face in water.

Terese Svoboda, Swanbit

Fiction Weekly
They rested there, a man and a woman motionless holding hands, until the pounding of drums announced dinner.

Patricia O’Donnell, Gods for Sale

Fiction Writers Review
Withholding details—in other words, failing to communicate well—is a sign of a monster.

Christine Hartzler, Games Are Not About Monsters

FRiGG Magazine
She’s at the window, blowing smoke at the stars. “I’d pull them out by their roots if I could.”

Charles Lennox, Touching the Spine
Robert Bradley, Contemplations of the Saints

Nothing She said Would make me happier.

Sasha Fletcher, One Day All Your Teeth Will Be Mine

> kill author
He fans out his fingers and I feel his hand not as a certain thing, but as a variable, as a thing that can change.

Emma J. Lannie, Proxy
J. A. Tyler, Jimmy and his Father and the Ways About Them

Lamination Colony
The coals might pop and light the straw grass on fire and maybe burn the whole yard, maybe burn the house and the barn, spread to the field, blow into town and choke the sky with a sooty eclipse.

Josh Maday, Ashes to Undermine the Smell

The presidents oh man the scenario and the sun, but remain untagged.

Brian Baldi, Ideally Learnt French for Eavesdroppers

Everything that happened underground was doctrine

Mary Biddinger, Population: 41,685

Mississippi Review Online
She lay on her bed with the phone up snug to her ear during this particular conversation and her room seemed smaller to her after he said this.

Myfanwy Collins, Wash, Dry, Fold

Necessary Fiction
We watched the orange streetlights come on, and sweated without knowing it.

Jensen Beach, Family
Rachel Yoder, Arizona’s Lonely
Sara Levine, Baby Love
Steven J. McDermott, When a Furnace Is All That Remains

Night Train Magazine
They’ve been writing on the walls with themselves.

Donora Hillard, From: Chorus from the Land of Grownups
William Walsh, Muse

No Tell Motel
Forget/in both directions from this moment.

Joanna Ruocco, When I Worked for Madonna

NOÖ Journal
Before the sky got low and touched the ground and the neighborhood got small and fragile and the storms came through and tore trees apart and threw them onto houses and garages and split cars in half and pulled away the swamp grass and cat-tails and roof shingles, and rope swings, we spent our days in play.

Mary Hamilton, You Wouldn’t Believe Me If I Told You, But Me and Theodore Built a Time Machine

The Northville Review
I liked being in my room, and I liked walking around outside looking for birds’ nests, fox holes, new growth in the spring.

Lydia Copeland, Pact

The Scrambler
Am I the only one in this who hopes it gets worse?

Leigh Stein, The Reckoning

Smokelong Quarterly
I built a bridge for strong and sturdy. I built a bridge and named it Doris.

Mary Hamilton, Me and Theodore Are Trapped in the Trunk of the Car with Rags in Our Mouths and Tape Around Our Wrists and Ankles, Please Let Us Out
Michael Czyzniejewski, Pregnant With Peanut Butter

Staccato Fiction
She also once told me she felt like she was drowning.

Cami Park, Glory

The Summerset Review
Butter flows slower than blood.

Kasandra Snow Duthie, Where the Glazed Girls Go
My history of falls is unkind.

Pamela Uschuk, A Short History of Falling

Toasted Cheese
He kept them tethered with string and fed them regular doses of helium from a baby bottle.

Frank O’Connor, Foolish Creatures

Valparaiso Poetry Review
Their mouths are full./They have no wings.

Claudia Emerson, Ground Truth

The sink was water-stained, the mirror missing a corner. I recognized myself in it right away.

Dave Housley, Pop Star Dead at 22
Elizabeth Ellen, Samuel L. Jackson Is Not a Good Name for a Rabbit
Jennifer Pieroni, Now, Right Now
Mary Miller, Aesthete
Sean Lovelace, A Sigh Is Just a Sigh