Source: One poem from the latest book, On The Badlands Of New Times
Endorsers have said Paul Bamberger’s book is “filled with powerful poetry . . . ” and, “Some of the most intelligent and challenging poems I have ever read . . . ”
Here is one poem from the beginning of the book:
Preludes To The Past
caught in the last improbable light of the pretty hour
nerve endings of paradox hum destiny’s long shot
tomorrow’s brilliant rational truth’s sharp tongue
swing of axe shadowing its own to and fro as desert
traveler crosses the slow red decay of dying sun and
small lie howls there is always something in it for
you but we who harvest wildflowers on the dark side
of the moon have our own brothers to keep
what studies we are slow steppers looking for caution
sign dreamers of lilies in shock time blind to
evening’s tomorrow no more than what meets the
eye no walk arm-in-arm dream lowered into the
dark what could have been
what are we thinking this no rags to riches story
no home sweet home let’s go home baby no sweet
dreams we got it made baby nonsense and the long
haul’s what brought us to this street multitudes
scavenging among the well-fed dogs old men pacing
cluttered rooms running out of time losing their
timing making no sense of it joyless hearts riding
their shadows down to where the rattled bones are
laughing door left ajar
and from the unlucky we steal long shots to pay off
the junkyard dog bone has its use
Review of I Emily Dickinson & Other Found Poems
I, Emily Dickinson & Other Found Poems, by J.R. Solonche, is an absolute delight. I have read it more than three times. To do it justice, I’d want to quote liberally from the many priceless jewels—entries found in books, newspapers, field guides, menus, things read in bathrooms, overheard in museums—but I’m certainly not going to do that.
Often the pleasure in the found poem lies in the ridicule it carries, the smug joy of the reader in the crazy obtuseness of the anonymous source. Here this is hardly the case. Even Donald Rumsfeld’s “Known knowns . . .” rises a bit above ridicule, it being probably the smartest thing he ever said.
The opening find is from the index of Dickinson’s collected poems (Johnson). It lists alphabetically the first lines of poems that begin with “I,” the first one being “I am afraid to own a body.” These entries are arranged in quatrains, ending with a couplet. One hundred and forty-two lines later we read, “I years had been from home.” This is more than a trick; it is something on the order of a portrait of Emily Dickinson.
The last entry in this wonderful collection lists vocabulary books on sale at Barnes & Noble, so the last line is “Word power made easy.” Perfect.
Sally Fisher’s latest publication is Good Question, a book of poems from Bright Hill Press
A poem from Won’t Be Long; poems short; poems shorter; poems shortest, by J.R. Solonche.
Michael Meyerhofer said about Won’t Be Long: “Sweet Jesus, this is great stuff!”
Here is a poem from the new book Where You Happen to Be by Leonore Hildebrandt.
In her new book Leonore Hildebrandt explores the power of place to inform, humble, and inspire our human experience.
One author said this for the back cover: In Where You Happen to Be, Leonore Hildebrandt writes of “discern[ing] layers / of sound and scent,” of probing “the human dilemma / of purpose and failure.” The poems in this collection assume this task of recognition and discovery.
Here is the opening poem from a fine book- Francis Blessington’s book Poems from Underground.
Praise for Poems from Underground
Poems from Underground is an outstanding collection, well deserving a place on any adequate shelf of contemporary poetry. T he whole book gives pleasure and stimulation. Francis Blessington brings fresh insight to every subject he touches, with a rare mastery of imagery and metaphor. Great art can inspire him (Goya’s Prints), but so can the sordid (Cockfight). His control of free verse forms is admirable, as well as his handling of traditional meter and rhyme, so well displayed in his memorable translations from Baudelaire and Mistral.
—X. J. Kennedy