HOW TO START A POETRY SCENE IN YOUR BACKYARD Elisha May Rubacha & Justin Million launch bird, buried press
“A mix of straightforward, gritty poems with fanciful stuff. Some wry humour, some poems of youth, and ferocious poems as well.”—Amanda Earl, Editor of Bywords.ca & Angel House Press
“The new poems are strong and tough and honest and lovely and welcome after so long, and the books are beautifully made.”—Cameron Anstee, Apt. 9 Press
I am proud to announce that, one, the first edition of Amanda Besserer’s The Desert and The Flood sold out, and two, that a new edition is now available. Please visit my Horsebroke Press for a copy.
Horsebroke Press – http://wp.me/p2ofAe-q9
I’ll be at the Ottawa Small Press Fair this Saturday with new titles from Horsebroke Press (e.g., Amanda Besserer) and Apt. 9 Press (e.g., Lea Graham). The night before I’ll be at the Carleton Tavern helping to launch Amanda’s The Desert and The Flood. Stoked.
Apt. 9 Press will be present at the upcoming Ottawa Small Press Book Fair on Saturday, June 18th. Sadly, I will not be personally present (though for exciting reasons; I’ll be speaking at this conference in Montreal). Jeff Blackman (poet, friend, father, neighbour, gardener, and publisher of Horsebroke Press), will be running a half-Apt. 9, half-Horsebroke table. Come out to see his new exciting things, and be sure to pick up Apt. 9’s latest chapbook, Lea Graham’s This End of the World: Notes to Robert Kroetsch. We will also have backlist from Lillian Necakov, Michael Casteels, Christine McNair, and of course, copies of Five.
Packed up for the Book Fair.
Speaking of Lea Graham’s chapbook, it has received threeseparatereviews since it was published last month. We’re very happy that people are responding to it so positively! You can also find a new review…
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Of course you may go out but you must know
when I alone lay down our son, full of formula and promise
I instinctively envision single-parenthood while I sing him
“Wish You Were Here” for the hundredth night.
When I was seventeen I envisioned that anthem
sound-tracking my painless, accidental death
featuring my cuckolding crush weeping over my body,
as Pink Floyd synced the monitor, and up the camera went.
I am thirty-one and you are thirty-one. In the nursery,
our son maws gibberish in the dark. The female cat
who you correctly identify as my cat, whinges.
Oh wife, come home to me, and spoon my nervous hinges.