Neil Shepard’s How It Is: Selected Poems gathers the greatest hits from six full-length collections by a poet who is both planted and peripatetic. Founder and helmsman for some 25 years of this journal, Shepard has long maintained one base in the landscape of the Green Mountain State’s Northeast Kingdom and one in the urbanscape of New York City.
he Popol Vuh creation myth stems from the Mayan oral tradition, and was written down in the K’iche’ language between 1554 and 1558. With its roots in deeply communicative ritual, there is great emphasis placed on the relationship between speaking and hearing, as opposed to writing and seeing—“These are the first words. This is the first speaking.”
Michell’s latest collection, The Out of Body Shop, is taut, haunted and emotionally demanding; her poems are archeological exercises: unearthing the past and spreading it in the sun to “burn/off the mold, the stink.”
Cynthia Huntington’s most recent book of poetry, HEAVENLY BODIES (Crab Orchard Poetry Series, 2012), was a finalist for the National Book Award in Poetry. She teaches English and Creative Writing at Dartmouth College and lives just across the river in Vermont.
Told in rhythmic, sometimes drunken party language, and woven around the physical place of New Jersey, the poems catch the reader in a whirlwind of sound, beauty, grief and nostalgia. . . . AMERICAN RHAPSODY is a fun collection, one that transports the reader back to a time in this country that sounds as foreign to us as it does familiar.
I consider you as I lay bleeding. The bullet passed through my chest beneath the collar bone, clean, but must have nicked something on the way because a little crook of bone is jutting out the exit wound and I can’t help myself from touching it with the tip of my finger.
Steve Langan is the author of Meet Me at the Happy Bar, Notes on Exile and Other Poems, and Freezing. He lives in Omaha and on Cliff Island, Maine.
These drawings sear across a spectrum of black humor—from the repulsively crude and the delightfully clever to the delightfully crude and the repulsively clever. Depending on the taste and constitution of the reader, Life Is with People may or may not induce a maniacal cycle of laughter, grimaces, and grimace-laughter. This book has guts. On every page it slits and spills them.
Kate never planned to steal a baby, yet here she was, driving around with a cheerful, bald-headed baby she’d only just met, kicking his stout legs on the passenger seat.
Fishing with him was a little like fishing with Nick Adams—not so much sport or celebration as it was ritual, a chance for us to taste the river and the river us.
Virtually every story in Andrew Malan Milward’s Juniper Prize-winning collection, The Agriculture Hall of Fame, involves a disappearance.