| affairs
| bookstore
| contest
| currently
WordPress
featured works

Winter 2013:
Scott King: Plains Emerald

Bethany Schultz Hurst:
Etiquette for the Soft Skinned


Edgar Gabriel Silex: Grief


Summer 2013:
Heidi Shuler: Armadillo in Love
Anna Schachner: Sylvia

Antoinette Brim: Thank You Note To Picasso

Gary Fincke: The House Fox

Winter/Spring 2014 :
Edward Field: Getting Used to It—


Val Haynes: Shark Skin

Summer/Fall 2014:
Terrell Jamal Terry: Wrinkled Respite


friends of fsr
NewPages
The Review Review

Barrelhouse Mag

Little Patuxent Review
Delmarva Review
The Baltimore Review
jmww
Beltway Poetry Quarterly

The Writer's Center
LitMore

Joseph Ross' blog
Alan W. King's blog
W. F. Lantry's blog
Michael Ratcliffe's blog
Pass It On Poetry


Letter from the Neuse River Headwaters

I was born in Heidelberg, Germany in 1981, however, I was raised primarily in Raleigh, NC and Killeen, TX. We moved around a lot in these cities, so every poem I write includes particles of occurrences and possibilities of my life's myth. If you want to get out of yourself, poetry is no escape.

I stumbled on poetry in my late twenties, after a stint in the U.S. Air Force, and towards the end of ten years living and working at various jobs in Seattle, WA. I did a lot of investigating: jazz, classical music, modernist fiction, philosophy, psychology, abstract expressionism. I had my own versions of strife and nothing seemed to work.

I borrow from my reactions to living. There are natural challenges and demands that go beyond form and subject matter; at least for someone who takes poetry seriously and suspiciously. I can't see where I am going, or know what I will discover. I feel strongly that this is the reason why I write. It is constancy. I know that anything may enter the poem, (politics, commercials, religion, emotion, and even indifference) but not everything will. It is a strange and rich artistic communication, and I continue to enter the process without placing intentions on the individual poems.

I have cried at the tiniest things, mostly from songs and scenes.



Some days your mind goes to a silent room.
It says it knows about seduction—
insinuation: the coming days are lost,
and I am unable to sleep beside my malice.
Should I hush with that relationship
in the midst of this fermenting sight
of serious weeping? There is a sun
in cylindrical eyes, so if I speak sarcastically
when discussing the phases of hell
in any human, I am only drunk on confusion
and floored by those dim depths of grief.

But what can I offer?
I have no remedy prepared
for the complicated weight on this world
since the beginning
of our crimes. I think around you
into the full dark swirl in my stomach.

And I cannot reach our children in a spare city
spilling with people. Your form often fades,
so I study the pattern that crafts your name.
Whoever may have eyes on a land fair enough
to see me come from nowhere,
to murky weeks in the good company
of carpet slippers and a leashed libido—
well, they are now birds. I have not caught up
with the times. Last year, I piggybacked
a sample of black nights. I got your texts.

They were odd with wild clarity. However,
I am tied in a tangent over a half century
of technology I don’t love or loathe—
I hear the molecules mule your mind.
You are as elusive as warmth in ice,
with your wet stars and endless jovial motives.
   

 

© 2015 Free State Review