The Best American Poetry

Shout Out Tuesday: Hissa Halal [by Amy Lawless]

 

 You haven't heard of Hissa Halal? What's wrong with you?  Hilal is a Saudi woman who's one of the finalist in the Persian Gulf reality television show called "The Million's Poet"   [THINK AMERICAN IDOL FOR POETS].  She recites her poems weekly for a voting television audience and guess what? Her poems are pretty revolutionary, considering her stance.  What stance does this woman whose only visible body part is a slit on her face take?  Well, she is against violent arab extremism  (YAY!), she's against the oppression of women (can't hear you under all that heavy wool, honey!), and she's against censorship!  While the extreme members of Islam have issued numerous Fatwas against her (all in a day's work for some no-lifer Arab extremists.... I picture lazy extremists sitting on their couches scratching their balls, issuing fatwas at a blank wall and an uncooperative remote control....).  No but seriously, having death threats made on one's life is no joke, and needs to be taken seriously.   Halal is standing up for all the NORMAL non-terrorist members of Islam who are saying "Listen, hey - you know those guys who ran that whole 9/11 business-- hell we think they cray-cray too!"   

 Wow Halal is super important! She's living [for now...] proof that poetry is necessary, it has a message, and has pulled its head out of the oven/ass.  Think there should be an American version of "The Million's Poet?"  

Read more on Halal here and here.

See ya!

Love,
Amy

"Things fall apart; the center cannot hold" [by Amy Lawless]

Ah, the Omega, my last day of guest blogging at The Best American Poetry.  Thank you, Stacey and David for allowing me to be me here for seven days! I had the time of my life.

I'd like to leave you with a poem my friend Maggie Wells wrote and sent to me while she was living in Paris last year.  I understood this poem to be an account of an ex-patriot's observations near Notre Dame de Paris.  I post it here with her permission. 

Mass

We met for Mass at Notre Dame under
the clouds of the French, inside the cold
roll of Le Seine.  Our bones needed God.  Our
bones had been hitting the bones of others
 under the skirt of skin, so many bones

in collision; the soft whisper of God
was the necessary cartilage.  The center
of the skeleton is actually
the forehead.  Applying Holy Water here,
just in the center, just an index finger

dab, will allow God in.  He will seep in there,
whisper to the skull first.  The shoulders will
slump with white swirling air, the gut free
of the fist grabbing at it, kneading it
like Challah.  Should the Holy Water drip

to the tip of the nose, you will not breathe God. 
God can only breathe you, and he will only
sing to your bones, play them like a harp to match
his perfect pitch.  Kneeling was the only choice. 
It was the place the body lead us towards,

our eyes avoidant of each others, our chests
always pointing in opposite directions. 
 The royal blue streaming from our hearts outward
was never intertwined.  When it was pale,
it was more fluid.  The darkness of the color

has sent the expulsion into a rage. 
Kneeling is for God and Sex and speaking 
to children.  Kneeling is for prayer, for keeping
the body still, allowing the electric
royal blue its force uninterrupted

with gait or saunter.  The ceiling of the church
rained black gold; it stuck in our hair—covered
us like northern snow.  There is no reason
to speak under black gold, in this place,
surrounded by the humming glow of candles

in circular dances with the dead
and the living.  When the procession comes,
the smell of bodies and sage also arrives. 
The smell of flesh under robes, le fleche d'or,
the wetness of it in battle with the smoke

yet in harmony with the booths wherein
humanity pulls off at least one mask
and slaps it against the wall.  The smack of mask
can be heard under the choir swells, coming
from nowhere we are allowed.  When the church

falls quiet of Earthly noise, a priest sweeps
the stone floor of the masks that were removed,

he does this in private, telling no one
of the sadness he collects.

-Maggie Wells

OK so I don't know about you but I'm sick of being indoors!   I know you're all so inspired by my blogs you just want to sit in one place and write poems for the next 72 hours straight, or the next 72 years straight.....but it's a beautiful day today (at least in Brooklyn).  It's going to be 72 degrees today in New York.  I myself am still in sickbay, slowly getting better from a bad bronchitis that tends to plague asthmatic poets with higher than average intelligence/looks.  I'll pull through.  I always do. Carry on world, carry on world. I'll be right beside you.
Love,
Amy Lawless

Friday Is Fun Day [by Amy Lawless]

Dear Everyone, So, it's more cool stuff, you want?  I can't hear you?  I think I hear the sibilant yessssssssssssssssss the crowd.  All right, all right. Settle yourselves down. It's coming it's coming!   

1. 

Firstly, here's a lovely poem by Alex Smith.  

Fortune Cookie

The story of Nietzsche and the horse—

That Fred was walking down the street

When he saw a man brutally beating his mount,

So he walked up, pushed the man away and then, having stopped the abuse,

Turned to the horse, wrapped his arms around its neck, and began to cry—

Is often told as the tale of a man finally losing his mind to late-stage syphilis.

But anyone who has ever known a horse knows that Fred was not a madman,

But a man of exceptional sanity.

 

Lucky Numbers: 00291  510805  22555

2.  

I'm really looking forward to the release of this:

Against Religion is a collection of Lovecraft’s writing (from letters mainly) about religion. This is what Sporting Gentlemen, the publishers, wrote about Lovecraft:

Against Religion contains the major writings on religion, materialism, and spirituality by master horror writer H.P. Lovecraft. Including an introduction and notes by celebrated Lovecraft scholar S.T. Joshi and a foreword by noted atheist and writer Christopher Hitchens, this essential editions brings a new voice to the religious debate, and Lovecraft’s clairvoyant writing on the topic is as prescient today as it was during his lifetime. H.P. Lovecraft is the author of numerous weird tales, among them The Call of Cthulhu. His recent inclusion in the Library of America marks his unique contribution to the horror genre, and his continuing influence on writers in all genres today. S.T. Joshi is the author of H.P. Lovecrtaft: A Life, and the leading scholar and editor of Lovecraft’s work. Christopher Hitchens is the New York Times bestselling author of God Is Not Great, and editor of The Portable Atheist: Essential Readings for the Nonbeliever.

It should be out next week—and here is a link to where it is on sale now at Lulu:

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/against-religion-the-atheist-writings-of-hp-lovecraft/8442580

3.  Here is an awesome poem by Angela Veronica Wong.  I'm always a fan of Veronica's work, especially her narratives!  She is the author of two chapbooks, All the Little Red Girls on Flying Guillotine Press and to know this on Cy Gist Press.

boys in uniform

ironing is my least favorite household chore
and i am not particularly good at it.  my mother
says men are better at ironing—something

about having more muscle.  it is christmas
day and my father is shooting at squirrels 
on his roof.  i spent the day watching someone

else’s children.  living alone is bizarre; for dinner

i had a potato and a handful of dark chocolate

chips.  yesterday i had cherries and oatmeal.

sometimes i read the words attempted acts
of terrorism and i think: goddamn i do love those
white boys in uniforms, hair cut short, shoulders like
kansas.  they are dusty faces and rolled sleeves,
obedient and respectful: the way i should be: but 
a texas tornado that touches down, rips away
an intersection and disappears.  it's hot—that they
could just go crazy on your ass if you fucked with me. 
this is not a rape fantasy.  i am not prettier
than anyone else here.  when i get married, i will send

his shirts out to be pressed.  i can’t bring myself

to stop being horizontal.  today, i will believe
in everything.

4. Here's a link to a new cool poetry blog.  Lots of energy and talent and passion on  thethe poetry blog.

OK see you tomorrow.  Hint, tomorrow is my last day of guest blogging, so make a cake or at least cookies!  

Yours,
Amy

New Rules [by Amy Lawless]

With all due deference to Mr. Bill Maher, I present some "New Rules"...

"Trippers and askers surround me, 
 People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and 
    city I live in, or the nation, 
 The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new, 
 My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues, 
 The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love, 
 The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or     depressions or exaltations, 
 Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events; 
 These come to me days and nights and go from me again, 
 But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, 
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, 
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, 
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, 
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders, 
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait."

 From Song of Myself, from Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman

New Rule 1: Read more Walt Whitman.  This section above was read idly on a busy New York morning, did a fair bit of calming my own nerves.  I am so scared about what's happening in our country and abroad. Not on a moment to moment basis, from wars, to having a scandalous governor, it's important to remind yourself "But they are not the Me myself."  How does that apply to you? Well, the events of the day are not the same as you.  One must continue breathing in and out, in and out, aware, awed, displeased. But throughout all of this chaos, I am still me, I still bear witness to the day.  The universe is one - don't get swept down to the letter, down to the level of paralysis: this isn't a game of Freeze Tag.

 
 (Shhh.....Focus on the bonnet, not her face!)

New Rule 2: No more films about poets anymore! Unless they're good.  I napped so deeply through Bright Star,  I wondered if I should start marketing it for insomniacs.  Sure, the performances were good. Sure the costumes were superb, as was the cinematography.... but the story [as written and performed by this cast and crew] didn't transform into one worthy of film.  Maybe you liked it.  I felt it was a typical young love story aside  from Keats' genius, which was barely a piece of glitter upon my nap.  I felt Keats' character arrogant and he seemed to care so little, while Fanny's devotion and infatuation bordered on the manic.  Keats' BFF Charles Armitage Brown, played superbly by Paul Schneider.  He is the only one who actually got suitably upset about the whole stinking chain of events. Again and again he barked "I killed John Keats." If I had been in the room wearing my Martha Washington bonnet, I would have tapped his shoulder lightly with my hand and whispered "No honey, it was the tuberculosis!"  But I shan't say more since as I mentioned, I slept right through the thing.
 

New Rule 3:  If you haven't watched this Youtube Video, please do.   I don't know anything about it, but it's pretty special.

Yours despite the fact that I'm having an Andy-Rooney-ish type day,
Amy Lawless

Nicholson Baker's "The Anthologist" [by Amy Lawless]

“Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” --Albert Einstein

No book brought me more belly laughs and head shakes and murmurs under-my-breath of "So true, so true" as Nicholson Baker's 2009 gem "The Anthologist," which was published by Simon and Schuster.  The book is written from the perspective of Paul Chowder, a recently dumped poetry anthologist who is lonely for his kind, big hearted ex-girlfriend Roz and unable to complete the daunting task of writing an introduction to his forthcoming anthology of rhymed poems entitled "Only Rhyme."  Chowder "works" relentlessly at this introduction -- and by that I mean he thinks and works on everything except the introduction.  He has a mental block -- this is something many if not all writers and humans can relate to.  If you can't relate to it, you're lying to yourself.  Instead of our protagonist presenting his best side, he leans on his worst foot. The reader is privy to his most dull thoughts, the worst parts of his existence--every day is an assault of loneliness, accidental hand cuts, and disintegrating brooms.  In a favorite passage, our hero is cutting bread:

So I had a slice of bread, and a few calamata olives, and I started singing "Saved by a woman," by Ray LaMontagne, at the top of my lungs, while cutting a second slice, and I got a little jiggy with the bread knife, which is new and sharp with squared-off serrations, and I cut off a small dome of my fingermeat.  It was very similar to cutting off the end of the loaf of bread, except that it hurt. I said some bad words and bled on the bread, and then I went upstairs to the bathroom and did my best to repositionhe sliced-off part where it was supposed to go, and although the blood continued I was able to encircle the fingertip--my left hand's index fingertip--with two Band-aids.  It was the same finger that had crashed into the doorjamb, if you can believe it. I didn't call Roz because two cuts on the same finger is an embarrassment, and I've gotten quite good at self-Band-Aiding."  (Baker, The Anthologist, pgs. 139-40). 

   So, yes, our hero is struggling. And that's exactly why he's so endearing.  Let's face it, people: life is pain. The Buddhists were right.  And instead of beating his chest and being stoic [though the argument can be made that not calling the ex is a form of stoicism], all of his failures are laid bare on the page.  I related to him very much indeed, but not because I'm clumsy.  I related to him because he was human like all of us. When was the last time you farted in front of your boss? When was the last time you burned yourself making pie? When was the last time your friend said you had a "bat in the cave"?  Life is full of embarrassments.  I applaud Baker for his ten star character development.  

But "The Anthologist" is so much more!  Chowder is always thinking about poetry, whether fetishizing a hot lovers weekend between Louise Bogan and Theodore Roethke ("Louse Bogan said that Theodore Roethke made her 'bloom like a Persian rosebush" during their long happy sex weekend together." [Baker, pg. 78]) or if he's promising himself that he is Sara Teasdale's number one fan. The most fascinating parts of this book, which I dare you to put down once you've started it, is discussion of poetry.  Baker knows his shit and is a man of letters.  I wonder -- and mind you I haven't even googled this yet -- if Baker has written any of his own verse.  He certainly either researched the hell out of poetry at-large and can explain the iamb and enjambment better than I ever could.  Makes you wonder.  So my point is, this is not just any novel.  It  teaches the reader about poetry, poetry in America, it's hilarious, and honest.   Chowder is a modern hero.  He's not what hollywood would have you believe a hero is (an ordinary person in extraordinary circumstances).  He's an extraordinary person living in an ordinary world. All throughout the novel, the reader is rooting for Chowder to finish the introduction--we know he can do it! He knows everything about rhyme and if he could just....turn off Dirty Jobs....he could definitely finish that intro!    Ah, the lament of the the non-anthologist.    

Question: Why do you love poetry?

Answer: Because you can't help it.

Thank you, Nicholson Baker for writing the book of the year, 2009.

Yours, 
Amy Lawless

P.S., Nicholson Baker's Beard.  I knew you knew I'd mention it. Here it is, in all its glory!

 

How does it go? Feed a cold, starve an artist? Or, "Shout Out Tuesday" [by Amy Lawless]

 

Hey everyone! It's the day before St. Patrick's day!  I know all you Irish out there are in the last day of "The Master Cleanse" so you can drink your weight in beer tomorrow and then drain the main vein onto Seventh Avenue traffic.... But not me.  I'm home sick in bed with terrible bronchitis AND a sinus infection.  My whole face hurts as if it were just intimate with a staircase (bang, bang, bang, bang, bang).   After sending out a couple emails eliciting sympathy from various sisters and friends that said: "Hey look I'm sick!", I picked up my prescriptions and returned to  Napland, USA.

The second picture--the photograph, dummy, is a photo of me from last year attempting to enter napland.  The photo is no Rielle Hunter GQ spread.  That's for sure. You can't see  any love-children (cuz I ain't got none), and you can't see even one centimeter of toned abs....but I love that photo because clearly I knew my photo was being taken, as I'd carefully pried off my glasses and carefully placed these specs beside myself.

So today is what's called: Shout Out Tuesday. What's the point of Shout Out Tuesday? 
 It's to write about people a few cool people  I know and the cool stuff they did or are doing.  Sure I'm cool and all and could clearly talk about myself all day [that's no spoiler alert], but that's not the point or the message behind Shout Out Tuesday.  No, no NO!  Shout Out Tuesday is about the others.

Firstly, I would like to mention my talented sister, Molly Lawless.  She's writing an amazing graphic novel about timey baseball players Carl Mays and Ray Chapman.   It's amazing to me how detailed and beautiful her story telling is.  She does the hard research of getting everything right. Shout out to Molly! [Then all you readers join in and say 'SHOUT OUT TO MOLLY!] There, you did it! very good.  I pasted one of Molly's many many cool images,  but you can just click on her name up there for more.  Follow Molly's blog because she has all sorts of cool illustrations every week!  And buy her book when it comes out! I am so proud of Molly and not just because she's my sister, but because she's so awesome. Buy her book when it comes out.

 

Secondly, I'd like to give shout outs to Ben Mirov.  He wrote this awesome
chapbook that won the New Michigan Press chapbook contest called I is to Vorticism.   I am sure that Ben was referring to Pound's essay Vorticism which discussed the relationship between self to idea, self to other, self to art movement.  I am glad Ben is thinking about these ideas while the rest of us are wondering when dinner is.  I'm proud of him also, but he's not my kid brother, though that would be rad. He would make a good brother, because I could tease him and tell our parents that he was misbehaving--even when he's not, which is something I'd really like to do.

Here's a poem from Ben Mirov's I Is to Vorticism that I really liked:

CANDLES

I wish I had ideas
I really need your help.
Pretend I'm your rabbit.
Your piano recital.
The ghost that makes you write
whatever you want.
Pretend I'm whatever you want.
I'm going to imagine you're a woman
staring out a kitchen window
hands and face
covered in suds.
Here's my sputtering match:
We do terrible things in the name of love.
Picture me punching through seven mirrors.
Picture everyone you know
punching through seven mirrors.
Picture the Power Goddess
descending from the sky
and placing a wreath of basil on your head.
Now open your eyes.
Not those eyes.
The ones inside you.

So that just about wraps up Shout Out Tuesday. Hopefully tomorrow I'll feel better! Wish me luck.

Love, 

Amy Lawless

"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world" -Shelley [by Amy Lawless]

  If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a noise? 

Shelly wrote hundreds of thousands of years ago that the poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.  Well, we sure know that poets are unacknowledged, that's for sure. How many blank stares have you poets fielded when you've told some hot guy who's hitting on you that you write words followed by line breaks (not to be precious about defining what a poem is..... ) But what's a legislator? A legislator is someone who makes laws and supposedly ensure sthat the laws are carried out.  

If a poet is busy "legislating" -- e.g., talking about current events, writing poems about the soul, nature walking,  creating fake laws about "how things are and should be done," bullshitting about the war, is anyone, ANYONE--besides friends--paying attention anyway?   I don't know.  The poet has an important job here in human society.  I think a lot of members of the media are [bad] poets.   OH ho ho ho, I'm not saying they ARE poets.  Right?  I'm saying they're like  [bad] poets. They gather around the tree like Charlie Brown and friends wave their hands and make whatever topic they're discussing beautiful or at minimum MEANINGFUL. [See this amazing video below. For the reference to the joke I'm referring to, please go to 2:44 seconds and onward.  thanks Robert Smigel!http://www.metatube.com/en/videos/6125/Peanuts-Christmas-SNL-Real-Audio/

I may have inserted that video twice. I'm not sure. The media used to be in the trenches, respecting authority of the agencies, companies, baseball teams they were covering.  Now a reporter has hung up his press hat for a CNN uniform or a lonely laptop and a real big, broad [holding my hands out on either side of my body as if i'm measureing a fish] internet bandwidth connection.  Who knows if any of this makes sense.  I don't know anymore. ... I don't know about ANYTHING anymore! [gentle sob]  Corey Haim is dead, hundreds of Americans are losing their healthcare everyday, and iFart is no longer the top iPhone App.  I feel the America I learned to love in has gone away, is turning into dust in my hands and I just want to show you so much....[gentle sob, rocking body back and forth back and forth, cough, look at tissue, there is blood in it]

Yeah Amy, stop acting like such a itty-baby Keats all the sudden.  You're 33 years old.   Don't be precious about a country that you pay as much attention to as you do to your own stool samples half the time [the other time i pay close attention to my stool samples by the way...]. Oh but I want to change! I can change! I swear I'll be better for you, Girl! I will be there every day, sweating my self silly until you see how much you mean to me!

  See how serious I am?  This isn't me -- this is a graphic internet interpretation of what I am like now, I consider the world we live in to be like a baby I've carried to the 3rd trimester.

So, see how hard it is to be a poet? You have to think and worry about everything all the time! And if you stop for a few months and make sure to dot all your T's and cross all your I's, it becomes harder to write these beauty babies down.  I'm being purposefully precious.  But I encourage all of us to bullshit about the wars our country is in.  I encourage all of us to engage in heady discussions about the healthcare debate.  If you're an unappreciated adjunct professor somewhere, go ahead and work our current events into the discussion of the class.

Some asshole once said "Those who can't, teach." And that's just it.  He -- he had to be a man -- was a total asshole.  He was probably also a shitty teacher.  Most students I've encountered have open enough minds that they want to at minimum know more about their world.  And poets are perfect people to be plying these minds!

PS, sorry that yesterday I told you to set the clocks the wrong way. I never said I was 100% accurate.  It turns out someone was 2 hours early for work in Barcelona yesterday because of me and I apologize half-heartedly for that.

Good night!

Love,
Amy Lawless

Amy Lawless, Guest Blogger March 14 - 20

This week we welcome Amy Lawless as our guest blogger.  Amy is originally from Boston and lives in Brooklyn. Her first book of poems, Noctis Licentia, was published by Black Maze Books in 2008.  Her poems have recently appeared in Sub-Lit, Scapegoat Review, The Paramanu Pentaquark,Forklift, Ohio, Portable Boog Reader 3, Agriculture Reader, Radioactive Moat, Pax Americana, Sink Review, and Barrow Street. Lawless holds a degree in journalism from Boston University and an MFA in poetry from The New School. She  teaches at John Jay College, and lives in Brooklyn. For more about Amy, check out her blog, (F)LAWLESS.

Welcome, Amy.

In other news . . .

There's still time to be featured in Tattoosday's National Poetry Month Poets' Tattoos feature.  Find out more here. 

Live from London!

-- sdh

.

As the crow flies... [by Amy Lawless]

According to the encyclopedia of the people, the phrase "as the crow flies" means the "shortest route between two points."  This is because crows are the  smartest birds and they cut a lot of corners.  They don't stop off for a Roast Beef sandwich on the way, and they may forget a few things. I often lie awake at night and think "how will I get there?" There is, of course, the place we all want to arrive at, the place of happiness--whether we have the hubris to believe we can be famous, or simply define happiness as Aristotle did in the Nichmachean Ethics, which for the life of me I couldn't remember what it is. But before we can get there which is finding happiness, we have to start someplace, somewhere. It's Sunday morning, and I am in the parental womb for the weekend as it rains and the clocks rewind (YES IT'S DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME! CHANGE YOUR CLOCKS YOU LAZY POETS!), in Roslindale, a neighborhood of Boston, Massachusetts, the home of Jim and Carol Lawless, those crazy cats who brought me into the world and in whose house I always return to the emotional age of eleven.  "Mama! I have a headache!" -Me, last night.  "Amy, you left your sock on the floor" -Jim Lawless, five minutes ago.

So yes, dear children, neighbors, cohorts, forefathers, respected elders, friends, frenemies, publishers, BFFs, and Fs, lovers, ex-lovers, family members, and future family members, here is my letter to you about American Poetry.  It's an odd mix of forgetting (this is your second reminder to change your clocks), bullshit, humor, and sympathy.  Because that's me and we wouldn't have me any other way. (Ha ha ha).

As I hear the dulcet tones of my mother making my oatmeal raisin  breakfast in the kitchen (she likes to make sure I have enough fiber when I'm home), I'd like to say that this week is about redemption.  It's about getting there.  We were joyously reminded not to kill ourselves on this very blog a couple months ago. Let's fly by the seats of our pants for just a week! PLEASE! I'm not saying ignore your crippling student debt, or to not regret some random day you murdered someone three years ago.  But have fun.   And I am talking not about this,  which certainly helps, but there's just so much to live for!  When I was a kid I wanted my parents to bring me to Water Country.  But now that I'm 33, I am glad they never brought me to Water Country. Think of all the e. coli bacteria that runs rampant from baby diapers and kids picking their noses, then picking their butts, and then picking their noses again, and then jumping into the cool pool, which is slowly turning yellow, and then back to blue.  So yes, what I'm trying to say is that caution IS necessary but we're going to have fun here this week and do it my way. P.S.,  I heart poetry, just in case I never mentioned that....

Here are a few recommendations to get you through this gloomy Sunday:

1.  The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker.  Buy it today because we're going to be discussing it in great detail later in the week in a discussion about what it means to be a poet.

2.  Please take this quiz to find out what your Spirit Animal is.  I am, obviously, a crow.  It's great fun for small dinner parties, large wild parties, and private tête à têtes.   What does your spirit animal mean?  It means absolutely nothing, just like horoscopes, but like horoscopes, they give us a sense of meaning about the universe, like reading Nietzsche only with less hair and brain heat.

Ok I will see you tomorrow! Please leave as many comments as you see fit. 

Love,

Amy Lawless, your guest blogger for the week.

PS: There are tons of hyper links in this post and your experience reading this will vastly improve if you actually click on them, you lazybones!

Alex Smith on Amy Lawless

On Saturday I attended the 17^th Annual Poet’s House Showcase—a truly inspiring start to the month’s on-going writing events, with the goal of finding Amy Lawless’ debut book of poems, Noctis Licentia. I have a special relationship with Ms. Lawless’ poems; having read them in earlier iterations, heard her read them aloud, and seen to their posterity by publishing them myself. I found her book on the shelves, pleased to know that it would be in such a wonderful collection of poem books, and took the occasion to reread her book and reflect on what makes her such a powerful young poet.

Lawless’ comedy is—and has been—the easiest point of access to her poems. Whether in the raging soliloquy of an ape speaking to her fellow captives at the zoo in “One Ape’s Quest”:

“You envisage a noble ideal, but are you such a noble stone that such a divine image could be fashioned out of you?...

We mated each other in the open air,
Flung our shit through the trees,
And laughed through our teeth.

Or in the pat reportage of insect deaths in “Selections from Top One Thousand Insect Tragedies”: