July 8, 2012

Sarah Bartlett, Chris McCreary & Jenn McCreary

Sunday, July 8
7:30 pm

Open Space Cafe
2815 SE Holgate
Portland, OR

$5 suggested donation

Sarah Bartlett lives in Portland, OR. She is the co-author of two chapbook collaborations: Baby On The Safe Side Publishing Genius 2011) and A Mule Shaped Cloud (horse less press 2008). Her recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in: iO, Eleven Eleven, Phantom Limb, Heavy Feather Review, Spork, Sixth Finch, NOO, inter|rupture, Jellyfish, Filter, New Delta Review, Burnside Review, Raleigh Quarterly, and elsewhere.

Chris McCreary's most recent books of poems is Undone : A Fakebook (Furniture Press, 2010), and a new chapbook, Elseworlds, is forthcoming from Cy Gist Press. His reviews and interviews have been published in venues such as Rain Taxi and The Poetry Project Newsletter, and his short fiction can be found online at BlazeVOX. Along with Jenn McCreary, he co-edits ixnay press, a tiny Philadelphia-based poetry press.

Jenn McCreary is the author of :ab ovo: (Dusie Press, 2009), & of several chapbooks, most recently Odyssey & Oracle (Least Weasel Press, 2011).  A new full-length collection, & now my feet are maps, is forthcoming from Dusie in 2012.  She lives with her family in Philadelphia where she co-edits ixnay press with the writer Chris McCreary, wrangles twins, & charms snakes.

Sunday Is A Series Of Hands

When they toss leaves off
the roof, they hit the ground
like dead bodies.
I put the thud in my chest
for later when I'll need it.
The clouds have taken over
a monotonous haul.
Your telescope is a metaphor,
and anyway, you can't use it here.
Don't you feel it?
Every broken thing just arrived
completely healed for the day.
In this diorama, you are
the tree and I am the same tree.
We are making a stand.
Miracles are rarely solvent.
Every day, a woman
inside the darkest shrine
rubs sacred dirt on her
sorest parts, gets up to leave.
The sounds she creates
while praying make a mouse
jealous. It starts to eat
through the wall.

Sarah Bartlett

Lectures in the Everdark

I dress in the half-
light & then it's empty porches,

the sleepy
baristas. Dark roast, yes,

even headlights as synecdoche & yet
I'm Still Life w/Donut

in search of
better verb. Something there is

that doesn't love
pentameter, & how my thesis

turns specter when cross-
hatched at its seems. Tenebrism,

Emma says,
for want of hot chocolate. More coffee I

auger. Mont Blanc on the
blackboard, first frost

on the quad.

Chris McCreary

Poem For My Daughter

for Kirsten Kaschock

Your     undaughter    is      born      during     a
thunderstorm      a  hurricane  a  nor'easter  at
the   ocean  a pop-up  blizzard  in  late  March
& April  is  the  cruelest   month  & she is born
during  a  full  moon  a blue  moon  a hunter's
moon   a   harvest  moon   &   you  name  her
something   mythological   archetypal   Gaelic
after your favorite doll & she is called Ariadne
Jane          Faye  Blythe & you take her to the
museum    the     library    the    seaside    the
playground  Paris       Coney Island  the  Four
Seasons  in maryjanes  &  starched eyelet for
high tea  &  she wears  pigtails wears   bangs
wears  striped tights  wears  knit cardigans  &
she  knits  paints writes plays playacts & plays
the cello   the  piano   the  guitar & sings      in
a   choirloft   sings   around   campfires   sings
at   bonfires   on  the  beach  at   night   under
fireworks  &  she loves  peanut-butter  pickles
olives   coffee   ice-cream   ice-skating  body-
surfing  Shakespeare  & you sing to her hush
little all  the pretty  little horse  & cart turn over
the ocean  beyond the sea  & read to her Little
Red Riding Hood   Little Women   Little House
on  the  Prairie  Bridge  to Terabithia  Narnia
when you send her into the forest you arm her
you armor her she has a knife in her basket a
needle in her basket a bottle of wine a loaf of
bread  a  spool  of  thread  a  silver  bullet   &
still & yet & everafter.

Jenn McCreary