August 12, 2007

Bethany Wright & Joseph Bradshaw

Sunday, August 12th, 7:30 pm


New American Art Union
922 SE Ankeny

$5.00 suggested donation


Joseph Bradshaw co-curated the Spare Room reading series for several
years before leaving for Iowa, where he's pursuing an MFA in poetry with
an undeclared minor in the Anthropology of Poetic Reification. A
chapbook, The Way Birds Become, was recently published by Weather Press.
His poetry and reviews can be found in current or forthcoming issues of
Cannibal, Cultural Society, Denver Quarterly, Jacket, Mirage #4 /
Period(ical), and elsewhere. He's back in Portland for the summer for
nuptial engagements and such with Bethany Wright. He doesn't know how to
swim.


Bethany Wright has authored three chapbooks, including Indeed, Insist (a
mystery) [Ugly Duckling Presse]. Other poems can be found in Fascicle,
Swerve, The Brooklyn Rail, SHIFTER, Bird Dog, and Arson. Excerpts of her
solo performance work Hark the Harbingers have been presented at The
Brooklyn Museum, PS122, and Zieher Smith Gallery in New York, and at
Nocturnal Gallery and The Mizpah in Portland, OR. In 2002, she
co-founded FO (A) RM magazine, and in 2006 co-directed / curated the
Gilded Pony Performance Festival in upstate NY. Wright teaches Comp and
film theory for beginners, and researches oracular bodies, additionally.


HOST

Necessity lyrical to find
neighbor's window broke.

As chimney formed from smoke I go
to cicadas, alfalfa
the distance of house from where
feet'd tremble is Idaho, a coming
Host to wing smashed into a
you takes no stepping light

finding it harder to sleep at night.
Cold bed's to be bartered
&'s retarding, as the woe
of two round a tree—

one falls the other
fells, hoy timber to follow
what hands or house one brings.

   —Joseph Bradshaw


Doe As Black Cloud, to Conceal

Does Doe slo-mo. Doe deemed herself
flown, then up in smoke, in through
gills, fabled breath froze Doe.
Down with the dishwater, daring dying, laying
low, lying down in long gone puffs, in coal dust.

Flitting their hallways, saying palpably
that her gold is crowned, her cusp forlorn. With her
robes un-tucked and flinging foreward. The plaster cast gracing
her front and naught. As it caught
her cold and seemingly yawning, daring dying, long blue
by now, its long drawn
songs neverend, neversong. Its long
drawn death comb, sucked into her fluff, bruised, and coming
to bleed on. Her scrim, her tusks agape. Her many-tongued
mouths remit her dawning. Entrance at last: Doe, doing somersaults,
assails that stopwatch.

Emits a last cry, a full cry, a head culled outside her larynx;
a last breath, a full breath;
a pale toad, a firm toad, a feather of grass to plead it softly, then

~ to coax the juices relax their blossoms soft ~
~ to prod those pouches to recede from their blooming ~

Doe into duress, redressing, refitting.


   —Bethany Wright