Celebrate
the new year by getting yourself a copy of 2007s
Pushcart Prize. I've always felt the poems are consistently better
than the ones in that other anthology. Among the standouts are Jean
Nordhaus' "The Innocent," Bruce Beasley's "Self Portrait
in Ink," and Steve Gehrke's "Gassed," a poem in response
to this painting by John Singer Sargent.
Here are a few lines: "The dying grasp at their pant-legs // as
they pass, as they wobble along the duckboards just above the mud gasping
at their feet, the steaming trash heaps / of the dead, the battlefield
sloppy as a butcher's floor.") It's a grisly poem, yes, but Gehrke
knows how to transcend that horror into something else, and says it
best while describing Sargent's thoughts, how "his mind, at its
core, could not help making things // beautiful." I've barely made
a dent in the prose selections, but so far I've liked Kate Braverman's
darkly funny story "Cocktail Hour" and Kristin Kovacic's essay
"A Short History of My Breath," which will surely take away
yours.
I wrote a short story that might end
up becoming the first chapter of novel #3. I'll let you know how that
goes.
I bought another replica at Aaron
Brothers to paint over like the Renoir/Jesus'
Son I did awhile ago. This time I'm using Van Gogh's Irises
as a backdrop and I'll be pulling text from Lisa's A Girl Becomes
a Comma Like That. I'll post it here once I'm done.
Speaking of posting, I'll be updating
this site less regularly. None of this every-two-weeks business.
12.15.06
Me
back. David ask me write for him because he busy rereading
Cormac McCarthy book. He not mad no more for thing happen two week
ago. He tell me turn off computer when done playing Solitaire and me
use my club. It turn off though.
Me listen to LiarsDrum's Not Dead lately. Of course drum not dead: It don't have
heart. Bagpipe not dead either. Album still good. Me like to listen
on iPod when me hunt woolly mammoth. Not many woolly mammoth in Long
Beach. David tell me go to park and me find plenty. Me see plenty dogs
and squirrels, but not woolly mammoth. Me begin to think David pull
my leg.
Tomorrow me have audition for new
Geico commercial. Like this one:
Wish me luck. Me nervous they ask
me to go on travelator too. Me hope they just tell me step on ground
not moving and walk upright. Me got that down.
12.1.06
Field
has once again published an exceptional issue. Their track record is
incredible, which is why I've kept the last 23 issues on my shelf. The
latest includes outstanding poems by such regulars as D. Nurkse, Mariane
Boruch, Michael Chitwood, and Lance Larsen. Wish I'd written Richard
Robbins' "For Extra Credit" and Melissa Ginsburg's "In
the Coat Closet" ("I like brown with mink collar. I like gum
/ in the pockets. Someone will come / when the party is over but the
party / chatters on...") Both of Zanni Schauffler's poems, especially
"The Doctor's Poster of Twenty Dangerous Moles," are poignat
and comical at once ("My father is old and clatters his metal knees.
/ He is not much longer here and the sky is falling, / so let's you
and me put on jumpsuits, flee to a remote Canadian / province / and
make pancakes.") And Sarah Maclay's wonderful "Gratitude"
has a last line that's been in my head for days: "Or someone walkng
up the stairs, perhaps, if stairs were level." I can see it so
vividly in my mind, those steps magically falling staight down...the
first step leveling off with the ground first, then the next step, then
the next, and so on until all that's left is a lonely banister.
Did anyone else get that cryptic email about this
new online poetry magazine?
I leave you with a supernatural video by The Black Keys:
I know I said in my last journal entry that
I'd have more to say this time around, but I've got something that's
much more entertaining than letting you know what I've been reading
or writing or listening to.
Boys and girls, behold the poetry of Sally Kirkland:
Isn't it time for all of us to scrape off our layers
of ectoplastic ego? Go, I say. Go and put on a pair of rubber gloves,
take hold of some steel wool, and start chaffing.
10.15.06
Those
of you who already own the Cold
War Kids EPs might feel a little cheated by the release of their
full-length debut, Robbers
& Cowards. Only two new songs made it in. Still, it's worth
checking out the re-recorded versions. And it's definitely worth your
time to catch them live, which I did this past Tuesday at Fingerprints.
Here is a photo from the show. And here
they are performing live the next day on KCRW's Morning Becomes Eclectic.
If you want to see a truly frightening movie this Halloween,
go see Jesus Camp.
That's it. That's all I've got. I'll have more to say
in two weeks.
10.1.06
A
few days ago I finished reading Cormac McCarthy's new novel, The
Road, and it's been haunting me gently ever since. His vision
of a post-apocalyptic America—of a land reduced to charred buildings,
blackened trees, and ash—felt frighteningly real. It's a bleak novel,
perhaps McCarthy's bleakest, with plenty of gorgeous passages throughout:
"The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling
along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and
the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod
silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silently as eyes."
That's a poem. It just needs line breaks. The only thing wrong with
The Road is the cover, which doesn't look like any thought
was put into it. I don't know, maybe Chip
Kidd's plate was full, because he usually does beautiful work. You
could've designed a better cover with a box of crayons.
I can't stop playing Bound Stems' Appreciation
Night. It's an ambitious, sprawling record that reminds me
of Broken Social Scene's You Forgot It in People. Definitely
one of the best albums released this year so far. You can listen to
a few of the tracks on their
MySpace page.
Here is John Berryman's "The
Ball Poem." Here it is translated from
English to Portugeese then back to English using Babelfish.
First person to email me (davidhernandez4
at gmail dot com) an alternate design for The Road that
I think is better than the original—using only crayons—will receive
a copy of Always Danger.
Celebrate the new year by getting yourself a copy of 2007s Pushcart Prize. I've always felt the poems are consistently better than the ones in that other anthology. Among the standouts are Jean Nordhaus' "The Innocent," Bruce Beasley's "Self Portrait in Ink," and Steve Gehrke's "Gassed," a poem in response to this painting by John Singer Sargent. Here are a few lines: "The dying grasp at their pant-legs // as they pass, as they wobble along the duckboards just above the mud gasping at their feet, the steaming trash heaps / of the dead, the battlefield sloppy as a butcher's floor.") It's a grisly poem, yes, but Gehrke knows how to transcend that horror into something else, and says it best while describing Sargent's thoughts, how "his mind, at its core, could not help making things // beautiful." I've barely made a dent in the prose selections, but so far I've liked Kate Braverman's darkly funny story "Cocktail Hour" and Kristin Kovacic's essay "A Short History of My Breath," which will surely take away yours.
Me back. David ask me write for him because he busy rereading Cormac McCarthy book. He not mad no more for thing happen two week ago. He tell me turn off computer when done playing Solitaire and me use my club. It turn off though.
Field has once again published an exceptional issue. Their track record is incredible, which is why I've kept the last 23 issues on my shelf. The latest includes outstanding poems by such regulars as D. Nurkse, Mariane Boruch, Michael Chitwood, and Lance Larsen. Wish I'd written Richard Robbins' "For Extra Credit" and Melissa Ginsburg's "In the Coat Closet" ("I like brown with mink collar. I like gum / in the pockets. Someone will come / when the party is over but the party / chatters on...") Both of Zanni Schauffler's poems, especially "The Doctor's Poster of Twenty Dangerous Moles," are poignat and comical at once ("My father is old and clatters his metal knees. / He is not much longer here and the sky is falling, / so let's you and me put on jumpsuits, flee to a remote Canadian / province / and make pancakes.") And Sarah Maclay's wonderful "Gratitude" has a last line that's been in my head for days: "Or someone walkng up the stairs, perhaps, if stairs were level." I can see it so vividly in my mind, those steps magically falling staight down...the first step leveling off with the ground first, then the next step, then the next, and so on until all that's left is a lonely banister.
Those of you who already own the Cold War Kids EPs might feel a little cheated by the release of their full-length debut, Robbers & Cowards. Only two new songs made it in. Still, it's worth checking out the re-recorded versions. And it's definitely worth your time to catch them live, which I did this past Tuesday at Fingerprints. Here is a photo from the show. And here they are performing live the next day on KCRW's Morning Becomes Eclectic.
A few days ago I finished reading Cormac McCarthy's new novel, The Road, and it's been haunting me gently ever since. His vision of a post-apocalyptic America—of a land reduced to charred buildings, blackened trees, and ash—felt frighteningly real. It's a bleak novel, perhaps McCarthy's bleakest, with plenty of gorgeous passages throughout: "The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silently as eyes." That's a poem. It just needs line breaks. The only thing wrong with The Road is the cover, which doesn't look like any thought was put into it. I don't know, maybe Chip Kidd's plate was full, because he usually does beautiful work. You could've designed a better cover with a box of crayons.
