Denise Jarrott (Safety Book #37)

Carson + Jarrott

1. Could you tell us the name of a book you love, and why?

Eros the Bittersweet by Anne Carson. I love that this book challenges the expectations of the reader. It is academic, yet conversational. Passionate, yet rational. On every page, what we think we know about love and desire is called into question. I like books that I can argue with in my head, or I think of years later as telling me truths I was not ready to hear.

2. Where were you when you first read, saw, or heard of this book?

Somewhat embarrassingly, it must have been the pilot episode of The L Word, a tv show I haven’t ever really committed myself to watching. The scene in which it is mentioned, though, is memorable because it is so fraught, so tense. The main character’s desires begin to shift. I remember that I liked the way the title sounded, and years later I picked up the book while shelving poetry at Prairie Lights and didn’t read it for months. When I finally did, it changed me.

3. Did this book influence your own writing, thinking, sense of the world, or work?

The ideas that Carson presents in this work, in the context of ancient Greek poetry, made me feel vulnerable. I think that’s what real knowledge does. I didn’t feel validated or encouraged by what Eros is. In fact, it made me question where the boundary between love and desire lies. How can we live our lives with the knowledge that both exist, and not always one in the same? How can a person know and love us utterly, but not necessarily desire one another? When boundaries are crossed, how do we reconcile them? How much of this is our of our control, and how then, do we make art from it? How do we maintain distance and still remain close? I am still in the process of trying to answer these questions, both in my writing and in my life.

4. Give us a line or excerpt from the text that intrigues, engages, mystifies, inspires, disgusts, or transforms you. Discuss…

“… your story begins the moment Eros enters you. That incursion is the biggest risk of your life. How you handle it is an index of the quality, wisdom and decorum of the things inside you. As you handle it you come into contact with what is inside you, in a sudden and startling way. You perceive what you are, what you lack, what you could be.”

This is the passage that made me realize why this discussion matters. It is not about willpower, or even trust. Eros is, it seems, is mostly a recognition of your own inner life, and quickly sheds light, even unflatteringly bright light, at the human being you are and want to become.

5. Who did you send this book to, and why?

A human being that I admire.


Bio: Denise Jarrott makes coffee and sells books at Prairie Lights Bookstore in Iowa City. She is a graduate of the University of Iowa and was a research fellow/book reviewer for Her work has appeared in Little Village, Whole Beast Rag, Petri Press, and elsewhere.

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Luke Bloomfield (Safety Book #36)

4068961. Could you tell us the name of a book that you love, and why?

The Four Questions of Melancholy by Tomaz Salamun, an anthology of his poems that goes all the way back to Poker. There are certain books I can open up and read whatever I open to and have shown to me something perfect. This book is one such example. I love this book because there isn’t a bad poem in it. It’s not a very sophisticated love.

2. Where were you when you first read, or saw, or heard of this book?

When I was 20 I was obsessed with great American and European male fiction writers of the 19th and 20th century, and I thought I would become one for the 21st century. I wrote some awful stuff and showed it to my independent studies professor, Dara Wier. She told me to go to this reading at Memorial Hall at UMass by a Slovene poet. It’s sufficient to say that Tomaz (and Dara) thoroughly altered my thinking about writing. I took his book home and read it all the way through with his haunting accent in my head. Then I wrote a poem. It wasn’t good, but it was the first time I was aware of what the process of writing a poem could feel like.

3. Did this book influence your own writing, thinking, sense of the world, or work?

I want to say that if it weren’t for The Four Questions lukebof Melancholy I wouldn’t be writing poems today. Who can say if that’s true or not, but whenever I’m in a non-writing funk, this book gets me out of it. Tomaz’s poetry exemplifies the truest expression of freedom and the authority to seize it. He’s a total freak that way and an enabler. When I read this book I’m invited to ruin language the way he does which makes me feel good about being a human.

4. Give us a line or excerpt from the text that intrigues, engages, mystifies, inspires, disgusts, or transforms you. Discuss…

Here’s the beginning of the poem “Who’s Who” which I guess first came out in English in 1972 in the book White Ithaca:

Tomaz Salamun you are a genius
you are wonderful you are a joy to behold
you are great you are a giant
you are strong and powerful you are phenomenal
you are the greatest of all time
you are the king you are possessed of great wealth
you are a genius Tomaz Salamun
in harmony with all creation we have to admit that
you are a lion the planets pay homage to you

The entire poem is 36 lines, and it does all the above things except disgusts me.

5. Who did you send this book to, why?

I should send this book to my grandparents Warren and Rosalie with the hope they’ll understand my own work a little better.


Bio: Luke Bloomfield is the author of a chapbook called The Duffel Bag (Factory Hollow Press, 2011) and a longer collection called Russian Novels (FHP, 2014). He earned an MFA from UMass, and he supports all Massachusetts sports teams.

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Stephen Lovely (Safety Book #35)

1340453_2393643-caseiphone5_lCould you tell us the name of a book that you love, and why?

To the Lighthouse, by Virginia Woolf. I’m just as crazy for Mrs. Dalloway, and I’ve always thought of the two novels as a set, as companion pieces, either because of stylistic similarities plenty of people have remarked on—Dalloway was published in 1925, Lighthouse in 1927, in a kind of soaring into her own following the more tentative flights of Jacob’s Room—or, just as likely, because the editions I bought in the late 1980’s as a callow undergraduate are nearly identical: small, dense, ingot-like Harcourt Brace Jovanovich paperbacks with cover drawings by John Alcorn of Clarissa Dalloway and Lily Briscoe and a squat, sturdy typeface whose thick-stemmed capitals look as though their ink might still be wet. Over a period of years my copy of To the Lighthouse suffered spinal wear and finally disgorged a chunk of pages. I considered a replacement, but Harcourt had updated to a frail, reedy typeface I didn’t think flattered Virginia’s prose. I hunted down and hoarded used copies of my favorite editions. These days, thanks to the good folks at Feetan, China’s largest English-language digital book publisher, I can carry (legally, I think) the collected works on my phone, and simply by touching the pale green icon from which Virginia’s face curiously gazes at the blue Facebook icon next door, I can fill my screen with that astonishing, crystalline English, which seems to have been burbling and flickering all this time like an eternal spring beneath the overgrowth, and which contains all the clatter and clamor of human life distilled to essences.

Why do I love To the Lighthouse? The reasons Virginia Woolf. (Virginia Woolf, a Britisth authoress of "A Room of One's Own", "To the Lighthouse", "Jacob's Room" and other novels and crit)everyone else does, probably. The lucidity and precision of the prose, which flows easily and purely with unflagging impetus and suppleness and grace across space and time, from one consciousness to another, from the particular to the universal, the quotidian to the cosmic, in the space of a paragraph or a sentence; the way she threads the point of view lightly and deftly through her characters and allows them to emerge not only as products of their own thoughts and feelings but as aggregates of each other’s perceptions and misperceptions; the intensity of the focus, which cuts through the fog of qualia to light on the salient object or idea or feeling; the formal challenge she sets for herself, confining the first and last sections of the novel to small pockets of elapsed time (an afternoon and evening; an early morning) while managing to send so many people and places and things flowing through with such marvelous economy; her ability to animate or update a character with one or two well-placed strokes (“He was unkempt. He dropped things on his coat. He had the tiresomeness of an old man with nothing in the world to do”); her dazzling choreography, the way she handles all those people wandering all over the house, up and down the terrace, up and down from the beach, kids everywhere, not to mention a novelist’s nightmare, a forty page dinner for sixteen, all without any clunky hydraulics. And of course the hungry, incandescent mind that struggles, as Lily Briscoe does at her easel, to connect things that resist connection or resist disclosing the nature of their connection, the relentless seeking intelligence that looks and looks harder, teases apart, fits together, reconfigures, realigns, adjusts, plays, working with the weird pieces at the center of the puzzle.

Where were you when you first read, or saw, or heard of this book?

I wish I could say there were some blazing instance of communion I had with this novel, but I can’t remember one. I’m sure I owned To the Lighthouse and Mrs. Dalloway in college—I can tell from the price stamps (both books were $5.95, new) that I bought them in the Kenyon College bookstore circa 1984—but I don’t remember reading them, and if I did I probably lost interest. Isn’t there a huge disjuncture between the amount of emotional maturity and life experience necessary to connect with great novels and the amount a college student is likely to have? There was in my case. I was fortunate enough to spend a long, idyllic junior year studying in England, where my classmates and I were asked to do little more than read one nineteenth-century English novel after another, have lunchtime pints with our tutor, and roam the countryside. I fell in love with England and its novels; my mind came alive; I grew up a little. I must have read Lighthouse and Dalloway for the first time shortly afterwards, because I remember dimly apprehending that these novels were radically different, in terms of style and structure and point of view, from the Victorian novels I’d been reading. I knew this had something to do with something called Modernism, but Ulysses had scared me to death—if that was Modernism I didn’t want any part of it. Woolf’s was a kinder, gentler Modernism. There was something about her voice that wanted to bring me into its fold, to carry me along. We were going to take our time. We were going to linger, particularly on the subtleties of relationships. She was going to show me the world, which I felt I’d never paid attention to properly, certainly not with the kind of intensity and patience necessary to locate the divine in the mundane, to be, as Lily Briscoe thinks, “on a level with ordinary experience, to feel simply that’s a chair, that’s a table, and yet at the same time, It’s a miracle, it’s an ecstasy.” I still feel obtuse and disengaged, which is why I read Woolf, and why I carry her on my phone. In idle moments, sitting and waiting, if I absolutely can’t be bothered to attend to my physical surroundings, I try to resist plunging into the phatic chorus and touch my finger to her cheek.

Did this book influence your own writing, thinking, sense of the world, or work?

Oh, Lordy. I wanted to write like Virginia Woolf so badly. I floated my characters out and recorded their every thought and feeling and sensation and association, the slightest quiver of a dendrite, as they stood paralyzed by the profundity of their observations, perhaps occasionally moving a limb, or tripping over a semicolon, and the minutes passed slowly as hours, and the light shifted, and a bird darted overhead, and similes proliferated like pollen, and every so often a metaphor cratered in. It wasn’t pretty. Actually it was pretty, I thought. My first teacher at Iowa, Deborah Eisenberg, who I hoped would appreciate my aspirations—she even looked a little like Virginia—sat me down for our conference, placed my story on the desk in front of us, touched the tip of her pen to my first sentence, studied it for a moment, and then informed me, delicately but firmly, sounding bewildered but above all concerned, that we really could not discuss my story, which was entirely composed of sentences like the first one, until I made an effort to arrange words in such a way as to communicate something around which we could arrange words. I thought this would be the beginning of our conference, but it was the end. I left shell-shocked—surely Virginia would have recognized my genius—but it wasn’t long before I felt desperately grateful to Deborah. Nowadays I try, in my writing, for some semblance of the depth and precision and sensitivity I find in To the Lighthouse (hey, nothing wrong with trying) but Woolf naturally descends to a running depth in consciousness I tend to forget even exists, and that I can’t access outside her language, without her soul. I take encouragement from Lily Briscoe, the young painter in Lighthouse who labors on a single painting, at the easel and away from it, throughout the novel, over a period of ten years, struggling to “have her vision” as Virginia struggled to have her own: “One must keep on looking without for a second relaxing the intensity of the emotion, the determination not to be put off, not to be bamboozled.” And this: “It was a miserable machine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus for painting or for feeling; it always broke down at the critical moment; heroically, one must force it on.”

lighthouseGive us a line or excerpt from the text that intrigues, engages, mystifies, inspires, disgusts, or transforms you. Discuss…

I could lift a paragraph at random from To the Lighthouse and it would intrigue, engage, mystify and inspire. One of the amazing things about this novel, for me, is that the entire world, or everything about the world that I’m interested in, is contained within it: the joys and burdens of interpersonal relationships, human love and conflict, marriage, childhood, the nature of self, consciousness, time, memory, death, tyranny, the importance of art, the visible and the invisible, our simultaneous and often irreconcilable cravings for community and solitude. On the last of which, this, which enshrines the depth and allure of the inner life so beautifully and suggests, as a kind of converse, our unavoidable obscurity to one another. Mrs. Ramsay, who’s been ministering to her husband and children and guests for 85 pages, finally gets a moment to herself.

“No, she thought, putting together some of the pictures he had cut out—a refrigerator, a mowing machine, a gentleman in evening dress—children never forget. For this reason, it was so important what one said, and what one did, and it was a relief when they went to bed. For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of—to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others. Although she continued to knit, and sat upright, it was thus that she felt herself; and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures. When life sank down for a moment, the range of experience seemed limitless. And to everybody there was always this sense of unlimited resources, she supposed; one after another, she, Lily, Augustus Carmichael, must feel, our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.”

Who did you send this book to, why?

I sent a copy of To the Lighthouse to Kit Haggard, a student at Sarah Lawrence who attended the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio in 2008. She just returned from a junior year in England. When I messaged her to ask whether she’d read the novel, she replied right away that she hadn’t, though she had read Mrs. Dalloway. She also told me she’d just sat down on a bus to Massachusetts next to a guy who was carrying a copy of To the Lighthouse. This made me think of a passage I discovered recently in Woolf’s Moments of Being:

“From [writing the parts into a whole] I reach what I might call a philosophy; at any rate it is a constant idea of mine; that behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we—I mean all human beings—are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.”


Bio: Stephen Lovely is a fiction writer who lives in Iowa City, Iowa. His first novel, Irreplaceable, was published by Hyperion/Voice in 2009. He is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and the Director of the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio.

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This winter Rescue Press will consider book-length prose submissions for our Open Prose Series, which publishes one work a year of nonfiction, fiction, or sui generis prose. The series aims to support singular prose works and the wider discussion of contemporary literary prose; the first book in the series, Anne Germanacos’s Tribute, will be released in spring 2014 (see below). We invite you to submit a manuscript to our open reading period between January 1 and January 31, 2014. All submissions will be reviewed by series editors Hilary Plum and Zach Savich, who will work with the editors of Rescue Press to select a manuscript for publication. We expect to make a decision by April 2014.

Please send submissions to rescueopenprose [at] gmail [dot] com along with a biographical note and a brief statement about your work. Manuscripts should be sent as .pdf, .doc, .docx, or .rtf attachments. Participants have the option to submit a reading fee via this Paypal link; donations of any amount are appreciated and go toward publishing the selected manuscript. There are no restrictions on who may submit.


2671 Anne Germanacos LO RES copyTribute by Anne Germanacos
forthcoming, spring 2014

In her masterful second book, Anne Germanacos gets right down to the elemental: the single line. Tribute is a work of prose—novel, essay, experiment in narrative?—created from distinct lines, a work of continual shape-shift and exhilarating motion. Tribute chronicles the daily life of a woman whose mother is dying and who begins to see a psychoanalyst, a woman who lives among lovers, sisters, and children, across continents and their conflicts (New York, San Francisco, Crete, Cyprus, Israel/Palestine). The book that results offers us both her story—forcefully sensual, vibrantly lived—and, through its bold form, her complex relationship to story.

Germanacos’s restless relationship to form is born of that most essential restlessness: desire. In Tribute she documents desire’s manifold incarnations, the body’s and the mind’s; she pays beautiful tribute to the force of desire and to those who have been bold enough to try to comprehend it—gentle echoes remind us of H.D. and her Freud. In the tradition of Clarice Lispector, David Markson, and Marguerite Duras, Tribute takes us deep into the borderlands where fiction and nonfiction meet. The first book in Rescue Press’s new series of innovative prose, this is a work of profound ambition and rare urgency.

Anne Germanacos is the author of the short-story collection In the Time of the Girls (BOA Editions, 2010). Together with her husband, Nick Germanacos, she ran the Ithaka Cultural Studies Program on the islands of Kalymnos and Crete. She now runs the Germanacos Foundation in San Francisco.

To request a review copy, please email rescuepress [at] gmail [dot] com.

Read an excerpt in the Kenyon Review Online!

Advance praise for Tribute:

“What can language do to resolve grief, to forge or release intimacy? In Tribute, Anne Germanacos responds to these mysteries by scouring and saving lit moments, phrases, and scraps. Far from being an act of withholding or willful sketchiness, Tribute is a passionate erasure back to bone. Reading, one experiences the need to stop and look up-as if encountering in a poem a particularly deft use of space which isolates and frames a moment for lavishing. It could take years to read this book, or an afternoon—either would be right—depending on your capacity for the flash-wisdom of aphorism and the pace at which you take your shots of insight.” —Lia Purpura

“Anne Germanacos writes with wit and passion: she is a modern metaphysical poet. Her one-line fragments, discrete and connected, probe the desires and terrors of her embodied existence. Her words move us inward to our own most vital and painful zones. A rigorous, resonant voice.” —Avivah Zornberg

“Anne Germanacos’s Tribute is like nothing I have ever read before. A novel in poetic form, prose poetry, or her own invented style, this is an amazing, original and captivating read. Taking off from HD’s (the poet Hilda Doolittle) Tribute to Freud Germanacos deals with the narrator’s experience of psychoanalysis, her dying mother, love, sexuality, dreams and much more. Like the mystical-spiritual HD, presenting analysis and the other topics in this poetic form seems just right. Each evocative, impressionistic line can be unpacked by the reader in a variety of ways, making for a uniquely rich experience.” —Louis Breger

“A kaleidoscope that can well hold a reader securely while containing a soul.” —Robert Wallerstein

“A master of silence and the subtle pass, Germanacos builds her absorbing and seductive narratives from a thousand fragments. Her paradoxes—intimate, edgy, and luminous—tease us through a maze of reflections on mothers and daughters, Freud, sex and desire, and politics. ‘What is it that writing does to a life?’ Tribute is her answer: it gives it meaning.” —Askold Melnyczuk

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Todd Melicker’s rendezvous

rendezvous.melicker.SPDNOW AVAILABLE!!
Purchase from our website or SPD.

In Todd Melicker’s remarkable debut collection, rendezvous, the reader finds lines that join, converse, and split apart so completely that at times they literally flip, becoming distorted reflections of their own initial utterance. These are poems troubled by adoration and desire, evolution, and the spiraling of the mind immersed in measurement and inquiry. In quick succession we move from the differences between “more sun” and “same sun” to the abundance of the “floodworld/worried” and the strict limitations of “these daily tasks.” Melicker writes—of love, of meeting, of the sun’s slow revolution, and of return—in ways that keep these poems circling through the reader’s mind. “i’m coming aware of the whole, what” he discloses, and “that all parts/ belong.”

“Todd Melicker’s rendezvous shapes itself as a series of creation stories. In the process of forming and naming, he enacts intimacies that are at the heart of creation, for Melicker comprehends a tenderness not immediate to the rest of us, derived, as we are ‘from the/given up/divine etcetera.’ His deeper perception causes imagination and formal assurance (which suffuse this book) to fall away like ‘seedship or boathusk’ before ‘the living arrival’ of recognition. So we meet and so we are dispelled ‘where the first half we believe/ & the second half believes us.'” —Elizabeth Robinson

“A rendezvous is typically between two people, in one case, say, between poet and listener, the poem and the one who has come so gratefully to read Todd Melicker’s long awaited first book. A rendezvous is charged, full of potentiality and longing … Like Creeley, Melicker is a poet of rooms, of domesticity and day. In Melicker’s rooms there is great disharmony, so harmoniously clustered. When we wake in these rooms, we can ask, just what is day? What is the lyric? In the rendezvous Melicker has so importunely invited us to, fantastic moments arise sudden as love and its psychic upheavals—’the astronaut steps from his cul-de-sac of fluid oxygen.’ Something new seems to be going on with the abstract lyric here, in the exacting music of Melicker’s work, where ‘the room is broken/and we live in it.’ How bracing to have such a trusting guide as Melicker, since ‘to swallow/light there is/no needle like me.'” —Gillian Conoley

“Todd Melicker’s rendezvous is a charged and beautifully uneasy meeting—something primal off a new ark, of Eve and what’s his name, of Adam and what’s her name. Our attention is directed to the forces and pivots at play, as if the world were being made (currently) angle by angle, word by word. Haunted by science and math, there is some kind of evolutionary imperative at work, as if humans too (those ‘reanimals’) were also in the process of being made. Ever attended by the birds in their watchfulness—voyagers between realms—Melicker’s elegantly controlled lyricism carries the ache and arc of sentience, of verses becoming voices in the shimmer.” —Aaron Shurin


Todd Melicker daily wanders the streets of Petaluma, CA, gathering data as a GPS technician. He is the author of the chapbooks day collects (Woodland Editions), the immaculate autopsy (Achiote Press), and king & queen (LRL Textile Editions). rendezvous (Rescue Press, 2013) is his first full-length collection. Recently, he was managing editor of VOLT and his work has appeared in Ambush Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, and New American Writing.

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2013 Hanukkah Sale

Dear Friends,

Hanukkah arrived early (with the turkey) this year and as 2013 comes to a close we’d like to thank you for the support and enthusiasm you’ve shown for Rescue Press’ books and authors. We’re looking forward to this spring’s catalog, which will feature two books: Anne GermanacosTRIBUTE (the first selection in our Open Prose Series) and Hannah Brooks-Motl’s THE NEW YEARS (a Black Box Editor’s Pick).

As a way of showing our appreciation, Rescue Press is offering a special Hanukkah Holiday Sale: receive any 8 Rescue Press books—in celebration of the holiday with 8 days—for only $88.

Click on the link above to purchase ANY EIGHT of our currently published books for $88 between now and the final night of Hanukkah, December 5th! These books—including our three newest: Jonathan Blum’s LAST WORD, Todd Melicker’s RENDEZVOUS, and THE NEW CENSUS: AN ANTHOLOGY OF CONTEMPORARY AMERICAN POETRY (edited by Kevin Gonzalez and Lauren Shapiro)—make great gifts and travel companions! List the books you’d like in the comments section or via email.

With love and happiness from the Midwest—

Caryl & Danny

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Rescue Press Fall Catalog:

Dear Friends,

We’re pleased to announce the Rescue Press fall catalog which includes Jonathan Blum’s dark and hilarious novella, Last Word, as well as The New Census: An Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, edited by Kevin González and Lauren Shapiro, both of which are available to purchase today at our website or from SPD. Also, on November 15th we will release Todd Melicker’s first collection of poetry, rendezvous, which was selected by Zach Savich as the winner of our second Black Box Poetry Prize.

Happy autumn!
Rescue Press


Last Word (SPDCover)Last Word
Jonathan Blum

Last Word, a novella, tells the story of Kip Langer, a successful orthognathic surgeon, who is trying to raise three children, including Eric, a bright but socially awkward thirteen-year-old from his first marriage. As Eric gets into more and more trouble at his Conservative Jewish Day School, Kip tries to understand Eric and guide him toward making better choices. The story, set in a Southern suburban community, examines patterns of love, anger, intimacy, inheritance, and disconnection within one modern blended family.

Jonathan Blum grew up in Miami and graduated from UCLA and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. His short stories have appeared in Green Mountains Review, Gulf Coast, New York Stories, Northwest Review, Other Voices, Playboy, Zaum, and elsewhere. He has taught fiction writing at The University of Iowa and at Drew University, and is the recipient of a Michener-Copernicus Society of America Award and a grant from the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation. He lives in Los Angeles.


The New Census (SPD)The New Census: An Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry
Edited by Kevin González and Lauren Shapiro

Edited by Kevin A. González and Lauren Shapiro, with a foreword by Dara Wier, The New Census captures the kaleidoscopic range of contemporary poetry, spanning a complex array of aesthetic, formal, and social concerns. It includes over one hundred poems from forty poets: Carrie Olivia Adams, Eric Baus, John Beer, Nicky Beer, Ciaran Berry, Jericho Brown, Suzanne Buffam, Heather Christle, Eduardo C. Corral, Kyle Dargan, Darcie Dennigan, Sandra Doller, Timothy Donnelly, Joshua Edwards, Emily Kendal Frey, Dobby Gibson, Yona Harvey, Steve Healey, Tyehimba Jess, Keetje Kuipers, Nick Lantz, Dorothea Lasky, Dora Malech, Sarah Manguso, Randall Mann, Sabrina Orah Mark, Chris Martin, J. Michael Martinez, Adrian Matejka, John Murillo, Sawako Nakayasu, Kathleen Ossip, Kiki Petrosino, Zach Savich, Robyn Schiff, James Shea, Nick Twemlow, Sarah Vap, Jerry Williams, and Jon Woodward. Alongside the work of these forty bright stars, The New Census features twenty census polls of its poets as well as dynamic illustrations by artist Lauren Haldeman.


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