Posts Tagged: poetry

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IR Editors Tell All: Poetry Recommendations for Dummies

If you aren’t already aware: it’s National Poetry Month! This month we’ve been tweeting recommendations of first books by astounding poets. Check out our Favorite Debut Poetry Collections for more info. We’ve seen a lot of great responses to these tweets–so we’ve decided to ramp up our game. We’ve asked our staff to think back to a time when they were unfamiliar with poetry–is there a poem or poet that spoke to them? Which collections would they recommend to new poetry readers? Their answers are below.

Creative Non Fiction Editor Anna Cabe

Thrall by Natasha Trethewey

Reading Thrall was the first time I understood what a “collection” of poems could be, that a book of poems can be carefully curated, can follow a narrative or explore an idea. In this case, Thrall places the complex relationship between Trethewey and her white father against the history of race in the Western hemisphere: “When he laughs, I know he’s grateful / I’ve made a joke of it, this history / that links us — white father, black daughter — / even as it renders us other to each other.” It’s brilliant, heartbreaking, and erudite and helped this prose reader and writer fall in love with contemporary poetry.

Poetry Editor Anni Liu

Electric Arches by Eve Ewing

Eve Ewing’s Electric Arches was a book I read while flying from the Midwest to a place I’d never been, which is an apt description of the book itself. In it, Ewing mixes poetry, prose, and visual art. There is an Afro-futuristic thread connecting many of pieces about black girlhood and womanhood and life in Chicago (which also happen to be my personal favorites). While complex and well-crafted, this book would work well for readers of a wide range of ages, from middle school and beyond.

Editor-in-chief Tessa Yang

When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities by Chen Chen

Chen Chen’s debut collection struck me for its conversational quality. We jump into the collection with “Self-Portrait as So Much Potential,” and I feel like I’m in the room with this poet, listening to him declare how he is “not the heterosexual neat freak” his mother raised him to be. This is a book of queer desire and comic wisdom, a book that always manages to surprise with its selection of that unlikely-but-just-right combination of words. And it’s funny! I think people new to the genre might not realize that poetry can make you laugh out loud. This collection is about piecing together one’s identity with all the awkward striving that process entails, and it’s a joy to read.

Associate Editor Essence London

Elegy by Larry Levis

Larry Levis’ Elegy was recommended to me when I first started writing seriously. His often conversational tone and narrative approach make the poems easy to read, but the leaps! and the tangents! They make the poems so rewarding to read. New poets or readers interested in imagination should check Elegy out. Also, sad people should check it out. There’s something there for you.

Web Editor Hannah Thompson

Bringing the Shovel Down by Ross Gay

I first read this book in 2015 at a family reunion in New Mexico, surrounded by young boys zipping in and out of doors, stalking each other behind bushes, cleaning their nails with pocket knives. While they tumbled down muddy hills, I followed a speaker grappling with boyhood, violence, masculinity, and the way race and class shapes all of this. Ross Gay disguises these weighty questions as gorgeous imagery and enchanting language. Take for instance, these lines from the title poem, “a boy who only moments earlier had been wending through sticker bushes / to pick juicy rubies, whose chin was, in fact, stained with them.” Most memorable though, are the transformations of speaker and language. The title poem, “Bringing the Shovel Down,” appears twice–once at the beginning and once at the end–but in each iteration the ending is altered. I won’t spoil the ending for you, but I will say this–the night before I flew back to Oregon, I gave my copy of this book to my sixteen-year-old cousin. It hooked him on poetry.

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Poetry Feature: Nice: by Steven Cramer

Nice:

 

Chiefly British, it can mean delicious, as when Greg refers to a nice mince pie. He means the opposite of the awful pie in “Dockery and Son,” where Larkin says: life is first boredom, then fear—after changing trains in the furnace fumes of Sheffield, the city where I spent my “junior year abroad” and first met Greg, among the better men I know.

 

Greg used nice for the sauces, puddings, sausages, and peas hefted onto our plates at the trucker’s café three blocks from the University. It catered mainly to students who, said the women serving us, were ducks—as in: What you having, ducks?—and sometimes doves. From Greg I learned to use my knife to plow food onto the back of my fork—an English-style avidity Keats called gusto.

 

Visiting Keats’s Hampstead house with Greg two summers ago, apart from a twitch in my spine while staring at the lock of hair, what I remember best is how nicely London alerts you to speed bumps coming up: humps for half a mile, as well as the Yorkshire lorry driver who hoisted Greg and me out of the sooty Sheffield rain nearly three decades before, addressing each of us as luv, without embarrassment, all the way to London. Nice

 

as in kind, considerate to others, like Dan and Isobel, Greg and Gill’s teenagers, playing the word game “sausages” with Charlotte and Ethan; the eight of us packed into their minivan; cows and full-grown lambs like sponged paint on the Kentish hillsides; Greg and I attempting “The General Prologue” and getting no further than from every shires ende / Of Engelond to Canterbury they wende; Hilary and Gill doing most of the driving. A day when almost every word, said or unsaid, seemed benign….

 

In Chaucer’s time, nice could also mean foolish. Which may be why, in our day, the tough-minded deplore it. If someone described a poem as nice, we’d think insipid, wouldn’t we?—as in: thin, like those astonishingly narrow English beds I never got used to sleeping in. This evening, though, with its summer air damp after rain; my back lawn and its bordering woods greening what’s left of the light, I’ll take nice. And I’ll take benign over malignant—because, once dying became more tedious than frightening, her hospice bed broadening as she shrank, my sister called the taste of tapioca nice, and nice the smell of the roast beef she couldn’t eat. Sometimes we ate her meals as she slept, so they wouldn’t go to waste.

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Anni Liu (Poetry Editor): After my first reading of this capacious yet tightly braided prose poem, I immediately read it again. Larkin’s “life is first boredom, then fear” near the opening is reversed to devastating effect: “dying became more tedious than frightening.” By the end, through all its facets of meanings and associations, the word “nice” returns to us newly full of insatiable longing for all the benign yet essential details of life.

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This poem appeared in Indiana Review 25.1, Summer 2003

Steven Cramer is the author of The Eye that Desires to Look Upward (1987), The World Book (1992), Dialogue for the Left and Right Hand (1997), Goodbye to the Orchard (2004)—winner the Sheila Motton Award from the New England Poetry Club and an Honor Book in Poetry from the Massachusetts Center for the Book—and Clangings (2012).  His poems have appeared in numerous journals, including AGNI, The Atlantic Monthly, Field, The Kenyon Review, The Nation, The New England Review, The Paris Review, and Poetry.  Recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship, and two fellowships from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, he founded and teaches in the Low-Residency MFA Program in Creative Writing at Lesley University.

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IR Editors Tell All: Favorite Gabrielle Calvocoressi Poem

From February 1st to March 31st, Indiana Review is accepting submissions for the 2018 Poetry Prize. Send up to three poems with $20 to enter and recieve a year-long subscription to Indiana Review. The winner will recieve $1000 and publication in the next edition of Indiana Review.

This year, our Poetry Prize Judge is Gabrielle Calvocoressi, whose first book, The Last Time I Saw Amelia Earhart, was shortlisted for the Northern California Book Award and won the 2006 Connecticut Book Award in Poetry. Her second collection, Apocalyptic Swing, was a finalist for the 2009 Los Angeles Times Book Prize. Her awards and honors include a Stegner Fellowship, a Jones Lectureship at Stanford University, and a Rona Jaffe Women Writers’ Award. Her poem “Circus Fire, 1944” received The Paris Review’s Bernard F. Connors Prize. She teaches at the MFA programs at California College of Arts in San Francisco and at Warren Wilson College. She also runs the sports desk for the Best American Poetry Blog.

We asked our editors to share their favorite Calvocoressi poem. This is what they said:

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Online Feature: “Metamorphosis: Six Studies” by Eleanor Stanford

 

after Maria Sibylla Merian

 

What’s your urgent charge, if not transformation?

1. Ornate lory on branch of peach tree

 

After my second son was born, I slipped into a severe postpartum depression. I remember nursing the baby, staring blankly out the window at a cold gray April that refused to warm.

My best friend, who was living on another continent and whose first baby had been due the same day as my son, had lost her child suddenly—a full-term stillbirth—without explanation. I felt both lucky and ungrateful, unable to appreciate what I had and unable to console my friend.

There was a peach tree outside our bedroom window that, despite the cold, spread its fragile petals over the narrow city street.

One day, I watched a small green parrot land on a branch. It must have been an escaped pet; as far as I know, there are no wild parrots in Philadelphia. But in my melancholy state, I just stared, barely registering the strangeness. I saw it as a sign. A sign of what? I can’t remember now. Surely something dark. Dislocation? Alienation? The embattled natural world and its inevitable destruction? Something like that.

Later, I saw a reproduction of a painting by the seventeenth-century naturalist Maria Sibylla Merian: Ornate lory on branch of peach tree. I felt an uncanny flash of recognition when I looked at it, this precise rendering of the beauty I had been unable to see when it sat in front of me.

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