“When you’re not yourself you’re Tyler Gobble. When you lose your voice, it’s in Other People’s Poems. Infusing the oracular into homage, these poems writhe on the fault line of their temples, channeling and challenging their contemporaries. Such fearlessness and range is a rarity. ‘What are your eyes doing over there?’ You ask yourself. Look to Gobble to find out.”
-Roberto Montes, author of I DON’T KNOW DO YOU
Are YOU one of Tyler Gobble’s poems?
Peter Davis? Wendy Xu? Zach Arnett? Ashley Farmer? Abraham Smith? Joshua Ware? Natasha Kessler? Davis Macks? Alexis Pope? A.T. Grant? Daniel Bailey? Carrie Lorig? Laura Relyea? Matt Hart? Heather Christle? Mike Young? Layne Ransom? Diana Salier? Mike Krutel? Nick Sturm? Ryan Rader? Joshua Kleinberg? Tyler Gobble?
Now available to read as a free PDF download or with Issuu.
Joyelle McSweeney asks, "Are we in the end times or are we being challenged to evolve? Can we evolve from here or are we petrified? Hooray, we tell ourselves, on the internet there are no more borders — and yet we know it’s not really true. Not everyone has the same internet, and not for long."
A must read.
SOME HOT ACTION ;)
Here’s a review of Danielle Pafunda’s new book, Natural History Rape Museum, also in context of Gurlesque:
"In my early twenties, I made a concerted effort to stop calling myself a ‘girl’. Although ‘woman’ never quite felt like it fit, I insisted on the distinction. I willed my speech and manner to embody the word, desirous as I was to shed all associations with the mewling, coy, and flighty thing I believed ‘girl’ represented and meant.
There were ways in which this linguistic adjustment empowered me, but it also simplified my perspective and understanding of identity and relationships. As a ‘girl’, it was all too easy to pitch my voice high and thin, to make myself seem smaller, and lighter—and so too were the things I said, made less, and small. However, as a ‘woman’, I was able to convince at least myself that what I spoke carried their own weight. Years enough have taught me that misogyny doesn’t distinguish between the two, and I’ve come around to recovering the complexities and useful darknesseses found within that idea of ‘girl’.”
[Click Here] to read the full article
ok this has been a long time coming !! boost house is accepting submisions !! right now we’re mainly looking for stuff for our anthology (The YOLO Pages), and for our ongoing internet presence (tumblr / instagram / twitter / facebook). however, many of the contributors we find from these submissions will likely be people who we return to, again and again, soliciting more material, possibly publishing full books by them, etc… so if you’re interested in being a boost house author/artist, please send us some stuff now!!
our submission guidelines:
no strict rules about genre/artform: mainelyyy we want short-form creative writing, but we’re not limited to “poetry” per se—we want tweets and visual pieces, activist calls-to-action, etc. no format is off-limits on principle. even sound recordings and video can be shared thru our internet presence.
we accept previously published stuff: we’d like to think our audience is diferent from other publishers, so your work will be new to our followers anyway. we aim to reach many non-poets, and people who aren’t familiar with much of the small-press lit world. and so:
we want writing that could be a gateway for new poetry readers: we’re interested in “accessible” writing—but mainly “accessible” by internet standards. often that means short or visualy interesting
we invite you to submit a bunch of material: include a bunch of poems, attach pdf’s of your (e-)books, a link to your twitter, a link to the “poetry” tag on your blog, etc. include it all in one email, so we can freely choose our favorite stuff to publish from it.
call our attention to your stuff which most fits our mission: we’re most interested in writing that has an activist spirit of critiquing oppressive systems or calling others to action; and/or writing that has a “positive” message of hope, appreciation for existence, or spreading kindness. if possible, call our attention to your pieces which especialy have this kind of orientation; we’re most likely to publish those.
submit any time before february 17th. send it all to firstname.lastname@example.org. our plan is to select and notify all our contributors by the end of february. if you did’t get notified by march 1st, we probably didnt choose you for this round of submissions, im sorry :( there wil be more in the future !!!!!
THANK YOU in advance to everybody who submits :)
"These poems lurch from the murky waters of our collective unconscious and side-swipe us with a lyric invocation of the dark forces of… what? Nature? History? The alien life-force that drives planetary evolution? A primal being raises itself from the swamp of human consciousness, animated by the archaic and archetypal Sobek, the Egyptian god in crocodile form. The two voices that alternate in this narrative of trauma—the quotidian voice of the poet and a ritual voice of invocation—queer the story in the most profound way. Together with de Lima we call forth the god who will transform the narrative. As queers, we are the incarnation of countless shamans, medicine men, magicians and priests. The poet places himself in this tradition through his invocation."
"Lucas de Lima’s stunning book affected me so profoundly at all the stages of reading it, encountering it—before it was a book and afterwards, when it was. In the work of this extraordinary writer, the fragment is not an activity of form. it’s an activity of evisceration."
Lucas de Lima’s WET LAND is now available from Action Books.
Pink Pig’s Fluid
Pink you is floating away in the sky, the naked you
I love watching your naked body, so I clap my hands cha-cha-cha
A full-moon tray passes through your pink body
There is nothing in the world plump you can’t digest
After the tray, the black Okhotsk umbrella passes through your body
Clouds are the same as you and your ancestors
Winds are the same as you and your descendants
(But I say it like this)
(Pink pig is floating away in the sky!)
In the middle of the wailing rainstorm striking the pigsty
Mommy pig has 8 nipples
but 9 piglets have survived
Mommy pig snaps-snaps off each nipple to boil up a dumpling soup
yet the ninth pig dies
Why does the prettiest thing in the world have to leave first?
Why does the worst smell in the world have to leave first?
like the smell of the dead piglet that won’t separate itself from Mommy’s embrace
This time, the new moon mutilates your insides as it passes through
There is nothing in the world that you can’t digest but
qq qqq the western sky turns crimson as you digest the knife-blade
yet I love yawning and stretching inside your pink body so much that
I totally forget who you are whose daughter you are whose mommy you are
I put shoes on all four paws and clap-clap-clap-clap my hands and feet
It’s the hour when all the swimming pools in the world are overflowing with pink
There are so many pink you’s floating about in the air that my sky is too crowded
-from Kim Hyesoon’s Sorrowtoothpaste Mirrorcream (translated by Don Mee Choi)
Something in the bloom of the eye. Something quick, attentive and alive near the rocks. Something blue shifting to green. Something smooth. Something transparent. It was just the transposition of color to specific places, but I knew, without a doubt, it was you. You were skinnier. Your muscles showed and in the dream, you had that calm that spills over whenever you come close to me. When I woke, the nest was still there and through the window I could make out four newborn hummingbirds. The day bared its teeth. Which wasn’t like you. And in the background, a Kurdish song packed with impossible yearning, and rivers of fish filled me with wonder and made me imagine you were far off. The song was sung by poets who didn’t even know the language while you slipped away and the dream evaporated into something translucent. Something, that on your return, will serve as a sign that I’m still lurking around, alive there by the rocks.
Algo en la rosa del ojo. Algo veloz vigilante vivo cerca de las rocas. Algo azul que vira hacia el verde. Algo terso. Transparente. Eran transiciones de colores a sitios pero yo sabía que eras tú. Estabas más delgado. Tenías los músculos a la vista y en el sueño tenías la calma que me invade si estás cerca. Cuando me desperté el nido seguia en su sitio y por la ventana vi cuatro chupamirtos recién nacidos. El día se lleno de colmillos. Eso ya no eras tú. Al fondo una canción kurda llena de anhelos imposibles, de ríos plenos de peces me hizo pensar que ya estabas lejos. La cantaban poetas que desconocen esa lengua, mientras tú salías hacia allá, donde el sueño se evapora en algo translúcido. Algo, que de volver, si volvieras, sería una señal de que sigo al acecho, viva, cerca de las rocas.
-from Valerie Mejer’s Rain of the Future (translated by C.D. Wright, Forrest Gander, and A.S. Zelman-Doring).
Dear Action crowd: new books by Kim Hyesoon, Abraham Smith, Valerie Mejer and Lucas de Lima!! You can buy the new Action Books now (including a special deal - all 4 for 40 bucks).
"This is what Bellatin’s slim novella Beauty Salon (City Lights, trans. by Kurt Hollander) proposes in its revision of the decadent tradition, a call-to-arms much like Joyelle’s ‘We Must Be Decadent, Again’ post against the ‘forward-thinking’ moves trending in our midst. The book’s indulgence in dystopian-utopian artifice, in fact, moves backward on multiple levels. Not only does it transplant the muse of beauty onto anonymous cross-dressing queers in an unnamed city, but it turns our RuPaul-friendly clock back to the beginning of the AIDS epidemic by any other name: the disease afflicting gay men in the book is likewise blacked-out, unidentifiable as in its early years. After the narrator describes having transformed his salon into a hospice for the HIV+, he unflinchingly refers to it as ‘the Terminal’ or ‘Moridero’ in Spanish, a word whose medieval source recalls those dark ages of the bubonic plague…”
via Lucas de Lima
[Click Here] to read more