Ian Kunkes
Title: Southern Poetry Review
Editor: Ken McLaurin
Managing Editor: Lucinda Grey
Associate Editor: P.B. Newman, Stella Hastie, Julie Townsend, Grace Ocasio, Patricia Bostian, Brad Bostian
Consulting Editor: Robert Grey
This journal is published semi-anually.
The journal has a very simple and conservative aesthetic. It is a solid black cover and binding with gold writing on the spine. The pages have no decorations and a simple black font.
It is published out of Armstrong Atlantic State University in Savannah, Georgia.
Southern Poetry Review welcomes previously unpublished poetry submissions from all writers. They consider poems published online or posted there as "previously published" work. They read year-round and respond within three months. They ask that you send 5-7 poems (10 pp. max) and include an SASE for reply. They do not accept electronic mail submissions. SPR accepts no responsibility for the delay, damage or loss of manuscripts.
This journal only includes poetry.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Hoodwinked
Hickory Dickory Dock
It seems they've cleaned your clock.
Your time drew near
As did the fear
Of the hard place and the rock
Jack and Jill went up the hill
For fear of what held chase.
Young Jackie slipped
And poor Jill tripped
Both fell hard from grace.
Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall
Surveying the scene, observing all
His voice full of spite
And with all of his might
He declared, "How the mighty will fall".
The stories we tell to a child
Are so often rought with guile
When looking for proof
From Old Mother Goose
You will find it seldom worth the while.
It seems they've cleaned your clock.
Your time drew near
As did the fear
Of the hard place and the rock
Jack and Jill went up the hill
For fear of what held chase.
Young Jackie slipped
And poor Jill tripped
Both fell hard from grace.
Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall
Surveying the scene, observing all
His voice full of spite
And with all of his might
He declared, "How the mighty will fall".
The stories we tell to a child
Are so often rought with guile
When looking for proof
From Old Mother Goose
You will find it seldom worth the while.
Monday, November 10, 2008
I, Samurai
I can't say why
I, Samurai
Perhaps it is a choice
A choice against modern apathy
for ancient values
against greed
for charity
against the machine
for the sword
Perhaps it is no choice at all
I can't say why
I, Samurai
I, Samurai
Perhaps it is a choice
A choice against modern apathy
for ancient values
against greed
for charity
against the machine
for the sword
Perhaps it is no choice at all
I can't say why
I, Samurai
Saturday, November 1, 2008
An Innocent, Broken.
I am Sorry I am posting this late. I was called into work today from 12-12, and forgot to post this before I went in. Here it is though. Enjoy.
The last time I saw Jamie Meyers was almost 10 years ago, just after I graduated from high school. She was 14 years old, a high school freshman still in pigtails and braces. Never before was there a girl as sweet, innocent and pretty as Jamie. Every Sunday morning she went to church and every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons she volunteered at the local retirement home, reading to old folks whose families had abandoned them. She was an honor roll student and varsity cheerleader, the only freshman on the team. Simply put, she was the all-American girl. Now Jamie Meyers, sweet little Jamie Meyers, is dead, and I can’t help feeling it is my fault.
I am writing this in hopes that, well, I am not really sure what I hope it will do. I just know that if I keep this all inside, it will eat away at me until I follow Jamie’s lead and drown my sorrow in a vodka and sleeping pill cocktail. That’s right. Jamie wasn’t killed. She didn’t die of natural causes. It wasn’t some rare disease or cancer that took the most pure girl I had ever known from this earth. The doctors and police called it suicide but I know better. I know what really killed her. It was life that claimed the girl, but I loaded the gun.
My part in this story started almost ten years ago, at my high school graduation party. Jamie was just getting ready to start her summer vacation and I was getting ready to move out to Los Angeles. I had received a full scholarship to UCLA’s business school and was accepted into their very selective, Leaders of Tomorrow, summer program. I felt like such hot shit. It would be the last time I saw most of my friends, Jamie included, for a very long time and I was alright with that. To be honest, I was happy to get away from it all.
I’ll make this part of the story short, as I am not too proud of any of it. As will happen when high school kids get together at a party, my friends and I were all drinking, heavily. I even managed to convince Jamie that it would be ok if she drank, too, something she had never done before. I used all the clichés in the book; everyone is doing it, it will help you have a better time, it will loosen you up, etc. It didn’t take too much to convince her and in only a few short minutes, she was growing increasingly buzzed. Finally, as the night was dying down, I found myself alone in my room with her.
I don’t remember how we got there or who made the first move, though I suspect it was me, but it didn’t take long before we were both lying naked in my bed. She was young, foolish and drunk and despite those facts, or maybe because of them, I fucked her. She was saving herself, I knew that. Hell, everyone knew that. I didn’t care. I am not proud of myself for it, but there it is. I took the innocence from her. That was the last time I spoke to, or even saw Jamie Meyers for ten years.
After graduating from UCLA four years later, I was offered a promising job in Los Angeles, in a high profile marketing firm, which I gratefully took. I rarely made the trip home, aside from on Christmas and Thanksgiving. In fact, I almost never took a day off in my six years there. My entire life revolved around that job. Then about two months ago, without warning, I was laid off. No explanation, no compensation, just a pink slip and an hour to clear out my desk. I found myself without a job and with no real friends worth sticking around for, so at the end of the month, I packed everything I owned into a U-Haul and moved back home.
I could have started searching for a new job but I decided that more than anything else, I needed to take some time off. As I said, I had been working for six years without anything remotely resembling a vacation and was in desperate need of a break. After playing catch up with my family for a few days, I decided to look up some of my old high school friends to see who was still in town. I managed to track down one of the guys I used to hang around with, his name isn’t important, and he asked me if I would be up for going to a titty bar he frequented a few towns over. Not knowing what else there was for a pair of single guys in their late 20’s to do in my home town, I told him that would be fine and asked him to pick me up around nine. This was last night.
By the time we got to the place, we had already done all the catching up I cared to do. All I really wanted was to have a few drinks and head home. When we reached the bar, I ordered two shots of whiskey (which we toasted to “the good ole’ days”) and a beer for each of us and we took a table towards the back of the room with a good view of the stage.
Each of the women who came onto the stage was more pathetic looking than the previous. Either we had come on a night where all of the A girls were off, or this was the saddest looking bunch of dancers ever employed at a strip joint. My friend didn’t seem to mind and after a few drinks he left me alone. He was headed into the back room for a private dance and god only knows what else. This didn’t really bother me.
For some reason I felt less ashamed of the situation when I wasn’t sitting with someone who thought we had stumbled into the playboy mansion. I ordered another beer, lit up a cigarette and turned my attention back towards the stage. I hadn’t noticed, but all the dancers save for one had were gone. There was something about the girl that caught my eye.
She looked like the kind of girl who had been a perfect ten when she was younger, but due to a series of unfortunate events, maybe a few unplanned kids or a string of boyfriends who were a little two rough with her, had been worn down to a shadow of her former self. More than anything else, though, I noticed her eyes. They were the most hollow eyes I had ever seen. They were ghost eyes.
For one brief moment that seemed to last an eternity, our eyes met and I felt there was a sense of recognition that passed between us. I can’t be sure if it was a trick of the dim light but it looked like a single tear rose in each of her eyes. As those tears dripped down her weathered face, I was sure that what little life was left in those eyes dripped out along with them. And then it was over. The music stopped and she left the stage.
I turned around and saw my friend coming back to the table and before he sat down, stood up and told him I was ready to head out. I made up some bullshit excuse about having to get up early the next morning and wanting to get some sleep. Whether he believed me or not, I didn’t care. From the stupid look on his face it was clear that he had gotten what he came for and was also ready to go, too. I paid our bill and we headed out the car.
While we were driving home, I told my old friend about the girl on stage and how I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew her. He didn’t seem surprised by this and told me that he knew exactly who she was. I joked that I got the feeling he knew all of the girls that worked there. He laughed and said that may be true, but we had actually gone to high school with the girl and I should have known her too. Her name was Jamie something or other. All I could say to that was, “Oh.” The immediate realization that it was little Jamie Meyers hit me harder than anything had in longer than I could remember. What could have possibly happened to an angel like Jamie that would cause her to wind up in that sort of place? What cruel trick had life played on her?
Almost as though he could read my thoughts, my friend told me that he always thought it was a shame the way she had wound up. I asked him if he knew what had happened to her, and as if he couldn’t wait to retell the story, he jumped right into it.
Apparently, she never returned to high school after her freshman year. No one knew for sure, but the rumor was that somehow Jamie got knocked up that summer. Her good Christian parents were so ashamed of having a pregnant, 14 year-old daughter, that they forced her to abort the child and then sent her off to live with distant cousins. After a few years, she tried to return home but her parents had moved away without telling her where they went. Having no place to stay and no means to support herself, she started dancing at the bar they went to just to make ends meat. She had been working there ever since.
I can honestly say that in my entire life, nothing has ever hit me so hard. The pain that I felt was like a taking a bullet to the stomach. There was no doubt in my mind what had happened. Jamie had become pregnant the night of my graduation party and the reason we never spoke again was that she had been sent away. It was all my fault. It was all my fault. An angel had fallen and it was all my fault.
I can’t really remember any more of the night, but when I finally came out of a state of shock after of hearing what had happened, I was lying in my bed at home. I found myself covered in a cold sweat with a half full bottle of whiskey on the pillow next to me. All I can recall before passing out was resolving to return to the bar the next night to take Jamie Meyer away from that place. I didn’t know how I intended to do that, or what I would say when I confronted her, or if she would even speak to me, but I had to do something. If I had to jump on stage, throw her over one shoulder and shoot my way way out, I would do it. Then the booze took over and I passed out.
That was last night. When I woke up this morning, I had a fierce headache. No amount of water or asprin could have alleviated the pain. This was pain that came from deep within me and was not susceptible to hangovers or dehydration. Nonetheless, I went down to the kitchen hoping that some orange juice, coffee, eggs and toast might help. My parents had both gone to work, thank god, so I had the house to myself. There was still some lukewarm coffee in the pot, which I decided would suffice, and just enough orange juice left for one last glass. I quickly scrambled some eggs and threw some bread in the toaster. Once everything was ready, I brought it over to the kitchen table and sat down to eat.
It wasn’t until I was half way through my breakfast that I saw the note my mother had left for me. It read “Good morning, honey. I hope you slept well. I will be home around 5 o’clock. Maybe we could go out for dinner together. Take a look at today’s newspaper, there is a story in there about a girl I think you knew in high school. Love you, Mom”. I lifted the mug of coffee to take a sip as I moved the note aside to look at the article my mom had directed me to. When I looked at the headline and the corresponding picture, my mug dropped from my hand and fell with a resounding crash on the floor, scattering coffee and shards of porcelain around my feet.
The pain I felt the previous night, upon hearing about what had happened to Jamie was nothing compared to what I felt at that moment. It was as if the world stopped spinning and everything had spun into a chaos that blotted out the room around me. At that moment, I knew the world I had known now ceased to exist. The headline read, “Local Girl Found Dead”. I forced myself to read on, “Local girl, Jamie Meyers, was found dead last night in her home. Police found an empty bottle of sleeping pills and several bottles of alcohol around her person.”
I didn’t need to continue to read the article. I knew it would go on to say something about how the cause of death was an intentional overdose and the reason for her suicide was unknown. I was sure that I was the only one who could possibly know her reasoning. I was her reason. I was the reason an angel had fallen. It was life that claimed the girl, but I loaded the gun.
The last time I saw Jamie Meyers was almost 10 years ago, just after I graduated from high school. She was 14 years old, a high school freshman still in pigtails and braces. Never before was there a girl as sweet, innocent and pretty as Jamie. Every Sunday morning she went to church and every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons she volunteered at the local retirement home, reading to old folks whose families had abandoned them. She was an honor roll student and varsity cheerleader, the only freshman on the team. Simply put, she was the all-American girl. Now Jamie Meyers, sweet little Jamie Meyers, is dead, and I can’t help feeling it is my fault.
I am writing this in hopes that, well, I am not really sure what I hope it will do. I just know that if I keep this all inside, it will eat away at me until I follow Jamie’s lead and drown my sorrow in a vodka and sleeping pill cocktail. That’s right. Jamie wasn’t killed. She didn’t die of natural causes. It wasn’t some rare disease or cancer that took the most pure girl I had ever known from this earth. The doctors and police called it suicide but I know better. I know what really killed her. It was life that claimed the girl, but I loaded the gun.
My part in this story started almost ten years ago, at my high school graduation party. Jamie was just getting ready to start her summer vacation and I was getting ready to move out to Los Angeles. I had received a full scholarship to UCLA’s business school and was accepted into their very selective, Leaders of Tomorrow, summer program. I felt like such hot shit. It would be the last time I saw most of my friends, Jamie included, for a very long time and I was alright with that. To be honest, I was happy to get away from it all.
I’ll make this part of the story short, as I am not too proud of any of it. As will happen when high school kids get together at a party, my friends and I were all drinking, heavily. I even managed to convince Jamie that it would be ok if she drank, too, something she had never done before. I used all the clichés in the book; everyone is doing it, it will help you have a better time, it will loosen you up, etc. It didn’t take too much to convince her and in only a few short minutes, she was growing increasingly buzzed. Finally, as the night was dying down, I found myself alone in my room with her.
I don’t remember how we got there or who made the first move, though I suspect it was me, but it didn’t take long before we were both lying naked in my bed. She was young, foolish and drunk and despite those facts, or maybe because of them, I fucked her. She was saving herself, I knew that. Hell, everyone knew that. I didn’t care. I am not proud of myself for it, but there it is. I took the innocence from her. That was the last time I spoke to, or even saw Jamie Meyers for ten years.
After graduating from UCLA four years later, I was offered a promising job in Los Angeles, in a high profile marketing firm, which I gratefully took. I rarely made the trip home, aside from on Christmas and Thanksgiving. In fact, I almost never took a day off in my six years there. My entire life revolved around that job. Then about two months ago, without warning, I was laid off. No explanation, no compensation, just a pink slip and an hour to clear out my desk. I found myself without a job and with no real friends worth sticking around for, so at the end of the month, I packed everything I owned into a U-Haul and moved back home.
I could have started searching for a new job but I decided that more than anything else, I needed to take some time off. As I said, I had been working for six years without anything remotely resembling a vacation and was in desperate need of a break. After playing catch up with my family for a few days, I decided to look up some of my old high school friends to see who was still in town. I managed to track down one of the guys I used to hang around with, his name isn’t important, and he asked me if I would be up for going to a titty bar he frequented a few towns over. Not knowing what else there was for a pair of single guys in their late 20’s to do in my home town, I told him that would be fine and asked him to pick me up around nine. This was last night.
By the time we got to the place, we had already done all the catching up I cared to do. All I really wanted was to have a few drinks and head home. When we reached the bar, I ordered two shots of whiskey (which we toasted to “the good ole’ days”) and a beer for each of us and we took a table towards the back of the room with a good view of the stage.
Each of the women who came onto the stage was more pathetic looking than the previous. Either we had come on a night where all of the A girls were off, or this was the saddest looking bunch of dancers ever employed at a strip joint. My friend didn’t seem to mind and after a few drinks he left me alone. He was headed into the back room for a private dance and god only knows what else. This didn’t really bother me.
For some reason I felt less ashamed of the situation when I wasn’t sitting with someone who thought we had stumbled into the playboy mansion. I ordered another beer, lit up a cigarette and turned my attention back towards the stage. I hadn’t noticed, but all the dancers save for one had were gone. There was something about the girl that caught my eye.
She looked like the kind of girl who had been a perfect ten when she was younger, but due to a series of unfortunate events, maybe a few unplanned kids or a string of boyfriends who were a little two rough with her, had been worn down to a shadow of her former self. More than anything else, though, I noticed her eyes. They were the most hollow eyes I had ever seen. They were ghost eyes.
For one brief moment that seemed to last an eternity, our eyes met and I felt there was a sense of recognition that passed between us. I can’t be sure if it was a trick of the dim light but it looked like a single tear rose in each of her eyes. As those tears dripped down her weathered face, I was sure that what little life was left in those eyes dripped out along with them. And then it was over. The music stopped and she left the stage.
I turned around and saw my friend coming back to the table and before he sat down, stood up and told him I was ready to head out. I made up some bullshit excuse about having to get up early the next morning and wanting to get some sleep. Whether he believed me or not, I didn’t care. From the stupid look on his face it was clear that he had gotten what he came for and was also ready to go, too. I paid our bill and we headed out the car.
While we were driving home, I told my old friend about the girl on stage and how I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew her. He didn’t seem surprised by this and told me that he knew exactly who she was. I joked that I got the feeling he knew all of the girls that worked there. He laughed and said that may be true, but we had actually gone to high school with the girl and I should have known her too. Her name was Jamie something or other. All I could say to that was, “Oh.” The immediate realization that it was little Jamie Meyers hit me harder than anything had in longer than I could remember. What could have possibly happened to an angel like Jamie that would cause her to wind up in that sort of place? What cruel trick had life played on her?
Almost as though he could read my thoughts, my friend told me that he always thought it was a shame the way she had wound up. I asked him if he knew what had happened to her, and as if he couldn’t wait to retell the story, he jumped right into it.
Apparently, she never returned to high school after her freshman year. No one knew for sure, but the rumor was that somehow Jamie got knocked up that summer. Her good Christian parents were so ashamed of having a pregnant, 14 year-old daughter, that they forced her to abort the child and then sent her off to live with distant cousins. After a few years, she tried to return home but her parents had moved away without telling her where they went. Having no place to stay and no means to support herself, she started dancing at the bar they went to just to make ends meat. She had been working there ever since.
I can honestly say that in my entire life, nothing has ever hit me so hard. The pain that I felt was like a taking a bullet to the stomach. There was no doubt in my mind what had happened. Jamie had become pregnant the night of my graduation party and the reason we never spoke again was that she had been sent away. It was all my fault. It was all my fault. An angel had fallen and it was all my fault.
I can’t really remember any more of the night, but when I finally came out of a state of shock after of hearing what had happened, I was lying in my bed at home. I found myself covered in a cold sweat with a half full bottle of whiskey on the pillow next to me. All I can recall before passing out was resolving to return to the bar the next night to take Jamie Meyer away from that place. I didn’t know how I intended to do that, or what I would say when I confronted her, or if she would even speak to me, but I had to do something. If I had to jump on stage, throw her over one shoulder and shoot my way way out, I would do it. Then the booze took over and I passed out.
That was last night. When I woke up this morning, I had a fierce headache. No amount of water or asprin could have alleviated the pain. This was pain that came from deep within me and was not susceptible to hangovers or dehydration. Nonetheless, I went down to the kitchen hoping that some orange juice, coffee, eggs and toast might help. My parents had both gone to work, thank god, so I had the house to myself. There was still some lukewarm coffee in the pot, which I decided would suffice, and just enough orange juice left for one last glass. I quickly scrambled some eggs and threw some bread in the toaster. Once everything was ready, I brought it over to the kitchen table and sat down to eat.
It wasn’t until I was half way through my breakfast that I saw the note my mother had left for me. It read “Good morning, honey. I hope you slept well. I will be home around 5 o’clock. Maybe we could go out for dinner together. Take a look at today’s newspaper, there is a story in there about a girl I think you knew in high school. Love you, Mom”. I lifted the mug of coffee to take a sip as I moved the note aside to look at the article my mom had directed me to. When I looked at the headline and the corresponding picture, my mug dropped from my hand and fell with a resounding crash on the floor, scattering coffee and shards of porcelain around my feet.
The pain I felt the previous night, upon hearing about what had happened to Jamie was nothing compared to what I felt at that moment. It was as if the world stopped spinning and everything had spun into a chaos that blotted out the room around me. At that moment, I knew the world I had known now ceased to exist. The headline read, “Local Girl Found Dead”. I forced myself to read on, “Local girl, Jamie Meyers, was found dead last night in her home. Police found an empty bottle of sleeping pills and several bottles of alcohol around her person.”
I didn’t need to continue to read the article. I knew it would go on to say something about how the cause of death was an intentional overdose and the reason for her suicide was unknown. I was sure that I was the only one who could possibly know her reasoning. I was her reason. I was the reason an angel had fallen. It was life that claimed the girl, but I loaded the gun.
Monday, October 27, 2008
An Autumn Lament
As was suggested in class, I played around with the final line of the first stanza. I would love to hear what you thought about it. It used to be the line about the eastern bound train.
I grow weary as the year veers drearily on
And with tears in my ears and such pain
I drink beers to mask fears of a cheerier year
Though it's clear I should switch champaign
Often shouting aloud in a close quartered crowd
I am proud to move ‘round the mundane
But this fast growing shroud like a cover of clouds
Will resound over radiant plains
You may ask why this mask grows ever vast,
alas
As will pass with each seasons refrain
In whose beauty we basked through each day as it passed
Autumns dance seems a trance once again
I grow weary as the year veers drearily on
And with tears in my ears and such pain
I drink beers to mask fears of a cheerier year
Though it's clear I should switch champaign
Often shouting aloud in a close quartered crowd
I am proud to move ‘round the mundane
But this fast growing shroud like a cover of clouds
Will resound over radiant plains
You may ask why this mask grows ever vast,
alas
As will pass with each seasons refrain
In whose beauty we basked through each day as it passed
Autumns dance seems a trance once again
Monday, October 20, 2008
Angels from New Jersey
I believe in angels.
I believe in an angel.
My angel knows all the angles.
She drinks Jack, smokes Reds
Swears like a sailor, fucks like a dream.
She smells like angels aught to smell.
Tastes like angels aught to taste.
My angel is rough around the edges
And smoother than silk.
And the way my angel dances...
you should see her dance.
I found her in New Jersey,
The land of Angels.
This was the original poem, but it required some changes. I thought I would post it here anyway, so you could see hwo i revised it.
I believe in angels.
I believe in an angel.
My angel knows all the angles.
She drinks.
She smokes.
She swears like a sailor
And fucks like a dream.
My angel has an ace up her sleeve
And slips it to me when im down on my luck.
My angel is rough around the edges
And smooth as silk.
When I wake up in the morning
Her naked body next to mine
A miracle with bed head and morning breath
I believe in angels.
I believe in an angel.
My angel knows all the angles.
She drinks Jack, smokes Reds
Swears like a sailor, fucks like a dream.
She smells like angels aught to smell.
Tastes like angels aught to taste.
My angel is rough around the edges
And smoother than silk.
And the way my angel dances...
you should see her dance.
I found her in New Jersey,
The land of Angels.
This was the original poem, but it required some changes. I thought I would post it here anyway, so you could see hwo i revised it.
I believe in angels.
I believe in an angel.
My angel knows all the angles.
She drinks.
She smokes.
She swears like a sailor
And fucks like a dream.
My angel has an ace up her sleeve
And slips it to me when im down on my luck.
My angel is rough around the edges
And smooth as silk.
When I wake up in the morning
Her naked body next to mine
A miracle with bed head and morning breath
I believe in angels.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Michael Earl Craig
Born: 1970
Years Active: Presently active
Genre: Surrealist
Biography
Michael Craig is most definitely not Hemmingway, nor is he Mark Twain. He is clearly not Edgar Allen Poe and would laugh at being compared to Hunter S. Thompson. In fact, at first glance, the only thing that would seem remotely poetic about Michael Earl Craig is how completely ordinary and unpoetic his life seems. He is a man who is drenched in normality. Yet, often within the most average and unassuming man lies the soul of a poet. Such is the case with Craig.
Michael Earl Craig was born in 1970. The details of his life seem to be a well-kept secret. Whether this is of his own wishes, or simply a lack of public interest, it is hard to say. All that is known about him is that he is currently living in Livingston, Montana, where he works as a farrier, making horseshoes and taking care of horse hooves. While he has only published a small amount of books, his poems have appeared in such magazines and journals as Verse, Volt, Jubilat, Cutbank, The Iowa Review, Dunes Review, and Provincetown Arts.
There seems to be a very inviting quality about Craig’s work. He has a tendency to open his poems by welcoming the reader in casually and without any real force as in, Master Chang and Student, which he starts off “Something came to mind this morning:/ a pudding esplanade.” From there, his ability to put together humorous two-liners encourages the reader and holds their interest as in the line from the same poem, “Ideal for Sigourney Weaver tombstone:/ You saw my panties in alien.” Perhaps the most recognizable theme in Craig’s poems is his uncanny ability to pick out seemingly unimportant and mundane details that would likely have gone overlooked and give them great import. It leaves the reader with a feeling of, “well I guess I always saw it that way, I just never really thought about it.”
Major Works:
2002: You Can Relax In My House
2004: Isn’t it Romantic
2006: Yes, Master
Moods:
Humorous – “When I look at the box of Twinkies/ They make me want to puke./ I eat ten of them./ Ten is all I can eat./ Now two remain, and I look at them./ For some reason I don’t feel so sick./ I don’t feel sick at all./ I think I can eat them” from Untitled.
Outlandish – “Today you strike me as needing something./ So take my ten-thousand-pound typewriter . . ./ . . . For here is an older,/ other world, taking almost forty sheep to make one sock.” from Can You Relax In My House
Naturalistic- “A horse is walked before me/ and needs her toes shortened”
Absurd – “I’d like to see just once/ the rabbit box this hawk”
Ironic – “On my way to see my therapist/… She always cries during out sessions.” from Seashore.
Groups or Movements
Surrealist
The surrealist movement began in Europe during the early 1920’s as a reaction to the harsh realities of World War I. Unlike the movements predecessor, the Dada movement, which focused on “anti-art”, setting out to deliberately break rules and defy reason, the surrealist movement emphasized positive expression. It sprung up as the antithesis of rationalism, which many believed was the mind-set responsible for guiding Europe into both of the World Wars. Rather than view the world as strictly black and white and constrained by what seemed plausible and concrete, surrealist writers tried to achieve a joining of the dreams and reality. Their goal was the joining of the conscious and the unconscious through artistic expression.
One of the prevailing traits of Michael Earl Craig’s work is his ability to take that which seems commonplace and ordinary and make seem extraordinary. His way of looking at the world are unapologetically unique and individualize, a point which he is quick to point that out and does so in his poem, Ways of Dealing, after describing a collection of money he is handling, “The bills smell like sharkskin,/ shake like celebrity boobs./ You can’t leave it to me to describe your world.”
Similar Artist
James Tate
Much like Craig, James Tate is a master of imagery and has a tendency towards a chaotic style According to Tate, “I like being in the world of Michael Craig's poems. Anything can happen, and probably will, and it will affect me in small or large ways that I couldn't have imagined. The precision of their imagery keeps me reeling with delight.” Both Tate and Craig have a level of insight into the surreal and ability to make the normal seem strangely bizarre and the bizarre seem mundanely normal.
Follower
Ian Kunkes (me)
I know this may seem like a cop out, but bear with me. In trying to do this assignment, I was forced to truly dig for each and every scrap of information and poetry available, which was no easy task. In doing so, I was only able to find a very small amount of his poetry. I managed to find a very short interview with him that I found particularly interesting and inspiring. In it, he talks about his work as a farrier. He talks about how much he loves his job, where he gets to work with his hands, using tools that have been around for centuries. He is a man who has a true passion for his job. He also talks about why, given this passion for his day job, he continues to work as a poet. What he basically says is that he loves how ordinary, yet profound he feels his job is, on top fo the fact that it pays the bills. He also talks about this is what influences him to write. He has a way of looking at the world where he is constantly finding things in life that others wouldn’t find and he is abel to express them through poetry. So what it comes down to, is I am inspired by a man who is passionate about his day job, no matter how common-place it may be, and who finds poetry in the ordinary.
Influenced by
Andre Brenton
Brenton is credited as being the founder of the surrealist movement with his book, The Manifesto of Surrealism. Until he started writing, that which we would have considered surreal had a very negative and almost nihilistic view of the world as it was a reaction to the harsh conditions of Europe during World War I. Brenton decided to take a different approach and put a positive spin on fantastical and surreal approaches to literature. He opened the door for other writers, like Craig, to find bizarre humor in unconscious connections in every day life.
Benjamin Peret
Peret was considered the first surrealist poet. His work is characterized by a wild and unrestrained style, which I see in many of Craig’s works. Additionally, Peret, like Craig, has a tendency to go off on tangents about the most common place events and details, until the reader is forced to question what the point is, only to allow his imagination to run amok on the idea with little regard. This is, in my opinion, one of the most interesting and appealing aspects of both poets writing.
Sites Consulted:
http://www.foumagazine.net/MEC.htm
http://www.hoboeye.com/word1.htm
http://greatamericanpinup.blogspot.com/2005/08/can-you-relax-in-my-housemichael-earl.html
http://www.albany.edu/writers-inst/webpages4/archives/fence-journal.html
http://www.bearparade.com/2006/04/touch_my_omeletby_michael_earl.html
http://reviews.coldfrontmag.com/2006/11/yes_master_by_m.html
http://www.surrealist.com/
http://alangullette.com/lit/surreal/
Years Active: Presently active
Genre: Surrealist
Biography
Michael Craig is most definitely not Hemmingway, nor is he Mark Twain. He is clearly not Edgar Allen Poe and would laugh at being compared to Hunter S. Thompson. In fact, at first glance, the only thing that would seem remotely poetic about Michael Earl Craig is how completely ordinary and unpoetic his life seems. He is a man who is drenched in normality. Yet, often within the most average and unassuming man lies the soul of a poet. Such is the case with Craig.
Michael Earl Craig was born in 1970. The details of his life seem to be a well-kept secret. Whether this is of his own wishes, or simply a lack of public interest, it is hard to say. All that is known about him is that he is currently living in Livingston, Montana, where he works as a farrier, making horseshoes and taking care of horse hooves. While he has only published a small amount of books, his poems have appeared in such magazines and journals as Verse, Volt, Jubilat, Cutbank, The Iowa Review, Dunes Review, and Provincetown Arts.
There seems to be a very inviting quality about Craig’s work. He has a tendency to open his poems by welcoming the reader in casually and without any real force as in, Master Chang and Student, which he starts off “Something came to mind this morning:/ a pudding esplanade.” From there, his ability to put together humorous two-liners encourages the reader and holds their interest as in the line from the same poem, “Ideal for Sigourney Weaver tombstone:/ You saw my panties in alien.” Perhaps the most recognizable theme in Craig’s poems is his uncanny ability to pick out seemingly unimportant and mundane details that would likely have gone overlooked and give them great import. It leaves the reader with a feeling of, “well I guess I always saw it that way, I just never really thought about it.”
Major Works:
2002: You Can Relax In My House
2004: Isn’t it Romantic
2006: Yes, Master
Moods:
Humorous – “When I look at the box of Twinkies/ They make me want to puke./ I eat ten of them./ Ten is all I can eat./ Now two remain, and I look at them./ For some reason I don’t feel so sick./ I don’t feel sick at all./ I think I can eat them” from Untitled.
Outlandish – “Today you strike me as needing something./ So take my ten-thousand-pound typewriter . . ./ . . . For here is an older,/ other world, taking almost forty sheep to make one sock.” from Can You Relax In My House
Naturalistic- “A horse is walked before me/ and needs her toes shortened”
Absurd – “I’d like to see just once/ the rabbit box this hawk”
Ironic – “On my way to see my therapist/… She always cries during out sessions.” from Seashore.
Groups or Movements
Surrealist
The surrealist movement began in Europe during the early 1920’s as a reaction to the harsh realities of World War I. Unlike the movements predecessor, the Dada movement, which focused on “anti-art”, setting out to deliberately break rules and defy reason, the surrealist movement emphasized positive expression. It sprung up as the antithesis of rationalism, which many believed was the mind-set responsible for guiding Europe into both of the World Wars. Rather than view the world as strictly black and white and constrained by what seemed plausible and concrete, surrealist writers tried to achieve a joining of the dreams and reality. Their goal was the joining of the conscious and the unconscious through artistic expression.
One of the prevailing traits of Michael Earl Craig’s work is his ability to take that which seems commonplace and ordinary and make seem extraordinary. His way of looking at the world are unapologetically unique and individualize, a point which he is quick to point that out and does so in his poem, Ways of Dealing, after describing a collection of money he is handling, “The bills smell like sharkskin,/ shake like celebrity boobs./ You can’t leave it to me to describe your world.”
Similar Artist
James Tate
Much like Craig, James Tate is a master of imagery and has a tendency towards a chaotic style According to Tate, “I like being in the world of Michael Craig's poems. Anything can happen, and probably will, and it will affect me in small or large ways that I couldn't have imagined. The precision of their imagery keeps me reeling with delight.” Both Tate and Craig have a level of insight into the surreal and ability to make the normal seem strangely bizarre and the bizarre seem mundanely normal.
Follower
Ian Kunkes (me)
I know this may seem like a cop out, but bear with me. In trying to do this assignment, I was forced to truly dig for each and every scrap of information and poetry available, which was no easy task. In doing so, I was only able to find a very small amount of his poetry. I managed to find a very short interview with him that I found particularly interesting and inspiring. In it, he talks about his work as a farrier. He talks about how much he loves his job, where he gets to work with his hands, using tools that have been around for centuries. He is a man who has a true passion for his job. He also talks about why, given this passion for his day job, he continues to work as a poet. What he basically says is that he loves how ordinary, yet profound he feels his job is, on top fo the fact that it pays the bills. He also talks about this is what influences him to write. He has a way of looking at the world where he is constantly finding things in life that others wouldn’t find and he is abel to express them through poetry. So what it comes down to, is I am inspired by a man who is passionate about his day job, no matter how common-place it may be, and who finds poetry in the ordinary.
Influenced by
Andre Brenton
Brenton is credited as being the founder of the surrealist movement with his book, The Manifesto of Surrealism. Until he started writing, that which we would have considered surreal had a very negative and almost nihilistic view of the world as it was a reaction to the harsh conditions of Europe during World War I. Brenton decided to take a different approach and put a positive spin on fantastical and surreal approaches to literature. He opened the door for other writers, like Craig, to find bizarre humor in unconscious connections in every day life.
Benjamin Peret
Peret was considered the first surrealist poet. His work is characterized by a wild and unrestrained style, which I see in many of Craig’s works. Additionally, Peret, like Craig, has a tendency to go off on tangents about the most common place events and details, until the reader is forced to question what the point is, only to allow his imagination to run amok on the idea with little regard. This is, in my opinion, one of the most interesting and appealing aspects of both poets writing.
Sites Consulted:
http://www.foumagazine.net/MEC.htm
http://www.hoboeye.com/word1.htm
http://greatamericanpinup.blogspot.com/2005/08/can-you-relax-in-my-housemichael-earl.html
http://www.albany.edu/writers-inst/webpages4/archives/fence-journal.html
http://www.bearparade.com/2006/04/touch_my_omeletby_michael_earl.html
http://reviews.coldfrontmag.com/2006/11/yes_master_by_m.html
http://www.surrealist.com/
http://alangullette.com/lit/surreal/
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