Thursday, September 29, 2016

Barbara Brinson Curiel, CASCADIA, A Bunchgrass Press Chapbook




Cascadia

poems

Barbara Brinson Curiel


Bunchgrass Press is pleased to publish a 3rd (limited edition) poetry chapbook of Barbara Brinson Curiel's poems: Cascadia.


The poems included are:

Walking the Bottoms, Arcata, California

Drought, Humboldt County, California, 2014

Two Seasons, Northern California

Cascadia 


Barbara Brinson Curiel


Barbara Brinson Curiel won the Philip Levine Prize for her book Mexican Jenny and Other Poems (Anhinga Press, 2014).  Curiel teaches English and Creative Writing at Humboldt State University.

Friday, September 23, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #336

The Condor Club, San Francisco, 1970
(Wikipedia photo... by Michael Holley)


Hawk Season Notebook #336

Poison mushrooms. That kind of 1971 wariness. You stand belly-ill in front of a Chinatown window, stare at wood slat cages of mallard ducks. It is a touristy night. Your girlfriend is behind you, holding you, holding a good camera. North Beach is filled with orange and yellow lights, blues and hot-pinks. There is a wreck at Broadway and Columbus... two identical Ford Mavericks. A bloody-brow woman in a fur coat is at the sidewalk curb by the Condor Club... moaning. Your girlfriend has a basement apartment in the Marina where you sometimes sleep. She keeps a small garden. She likes paper lanterns. She asks, Want duck next Friday... without mushrooms? Two tow trucks pull up. The Condor Club's neon, outlining a famous stripper, blinks; Carol Doda, you say to your girlfriend, I met her before she got silicone. You will soon break up, so you stroll your girlfriend back into Chinatown and buy, to be romantic, another paper lantern... a space filler.

Thursday, September 22, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #335



Hawk Season Notebook #335

Dead winter beach.  Driftwood and a salt-wind. Someone is holding your hand; you remember this much. A vase of schoolteacher flowers. You are costumed for a photo studio... handed a teddy bear you could love. You're quite little and cannot draw breath. Someone lifts  you onto a stainless steel gurney; you remember this much... and a rubbery, vibrating odor of ether. Anxiety comes back in dreams. You claw off the bed, land on the floor next to the Wolfhound... and Peaches says, You're not on your own. Back on the bed, awake for hours, you listen to your wife breathe. Outside, wheeling over big sagebrush, huge-winged dark birds speak to one another of keeping and of giving away.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #326



Hawk Season Notebook # 326

Comic Relief

What shall we do in Heaven?

Heaven?

Sing... watch horror movies... practice ballet?

We won't exist... not in this meat-manner.

Heaven doesn't exist?

The place we will find ourselves...

Yes?

... will be that hot, dry plateau where knowledge is... volcanic dust... in a whirl of wind.

Saturday, September 17, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #309



Hawk Season Notebook #309

Forever lost 1962 photo booth strip of K.E. Taken a week before she and her mother drove cross-country to Spartanburg. In memory there are brown chemical specks on the four pictures of her on your lap. Holding hands, waiting for the strip to slide out of the machine, she said, Want to do it again? No quarter for the machine. We'll just sit... share something. Pretty soon: a zippy-happy note on Rock Springs motel stationery, I like driving... window down. Silence for a period. Later: Jesu Bone Pastor. A sorority at a college in North Carolina for water coloring biblical deserts. Silence followed. Decades and decades and a windstorm one day and to the south there are brown chemical specks on dust clouds where a freeway is being closed for driver safety. 

Friday, September 16, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #307





Hawk Season Notebook #307

A bowl of ripe yellow pears was on the table.  It was morning. Someone served the small group jasmine tea in miniature cups. The man had been adopted by a wealthy childless couple. The father ignored him. I was my mother's favorite acquired object, the man said. He was old and famous. A camera crew from a TV station was expected. A graduate student came along to brush the man's hair back. You showed the man what you thought was a lyric monologue. He picked up one of the pears, turned it over, lightly rubbed a brown spot with his thumb, See... it is bruised underneath.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #295

Red Shuttleworth


Hawk Season Notebook #295

Heavy autumn shadows. Self-extinguishing stars you can only imagine once existed. Recalled pleasures... like Copenhagen Snuff. Did the Marlboro Man really die of cancer? Memory: the girl ran cold water on a motel-white washcloth, gave it a hard half-wring, ran it angry-wet across her brow... and you liked how clear drops of water dripped off her chin. You picked up your black Resistol from a low set of cheap-wood drawers, put it on tight against the outside summer wind. She said, I hate privacy. Half-lit lamps.... We should all be public. When we aren't public, we get discarded... like theatre programs left on seats after a show. She poured herself a shot... the last of that tequila. Heavy autumn clouds... no rain. Today it is September-middle. A friend turns up at the post office... unseen for a decade. He is eighty. Lifts weights, but still looks eighty... an in-shape eighty. He speaks of having entered a season of death, funerals he attends. You're supposed to care, he says, but you sit and mind-wander, don't know half the mourners, and you ask where God might be, not that most of us should live past where we find ourselves. Memory: white inland gulls settling onto furrowed ground.

Monday, September 12, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #287

Red Shuttleworth


Hawk Season Notebook #287

Depopulated Plains. The best career move: pensive silence. Crayons remain. Put on your Sunday-best Stetson. Press hard on thick paper. Crosshatch night. Hours of blue on black. Below that the High Plains. A lone yard light left at an abandoned, water-gone ranch. Presences left behind... snaggle-tooth gravestones... broke fences... cow and horse ribs. Presences invoke late 19th century songs. Hymns. Chants. Inquiry songs. Whatever Became of sorts of dark songs of blood and sorrow. All the obvious suggestions were followed... into rafter-rope suicide barns.

Sunday, September 11, 2016

CHAPBOOK #138, A Red Shuttleworth Poetry Collection




Chapbook #138

Three Poems

Red Shuttleworth


Published in a limited edition (44 copies) by Bunchgrass Press, Red Shuttleworth's Chapbook #138 presents three poems from the in-progress Hawk Season Notebook: Poems and Tidings:

Transitionals

Renderings

and

Fragment: Hawk Season Notebook


Red Shuttleworth's Woe to the Land Shadowing (Blue Horse Press) received the 2016 Western Heritage (Wrangler) Award for Outstanding Poetry Book.  Shuttleworth is a three-time winner of the (Western Writers of America) Spur Award for Poetry.  In 2007, True West magazine named Shuttleworth "Best Living Western Poet."


Red Shuttleworth

Saturday, September 10, 2016

4,500 MILES: TAKING JACK BACK ON THE ROAD, A Gonzo Prose Book by Ciara Shuttleworth





4,500 Miles:
Taking Jack Back on the Road

A Gonzo Prose Book by

Ciara Shuttleworth


Ciara Shuttleworth's 4,500 Miles: Taking Jack Back on the Road is published by Humanitas Media Publishing and is available in hardcover, softcover, and digitally vial Kindle and iBooks.

The book features artistically rendered images starring a cut-out of Jack Kerouac ("Flat Jack")... which accompanies author Ciara Shuttleworth from her residency at the Jack Kerouac House in Orlando, Florida, to the scablands of Washington State.

Ciara Shuttleworth
at Kerouac House, Orlando, Florida


The book's photographs were edited by award-winning filmmaker, artist, and photographer Pamela Theodutou.

Ciara Shuttleworth has been published in journals and anthologies, including Alaska Quarterly Review, Confrontation, Hayden's Ferry Review, The New Yorker, the Norton Introduction to Literature (11e), Ploughshares, and The Southern Review.  Shuttleworth was the "Feature Poet" of the Fall 2016 issue of San Pedro River Review.

Ciara Shuttleworth 
in Jack Kerouac's chair, Kerouac House, Orlando, Florida,
early 2015, when she was the Kerouac Project's
51st Writer-in-Residence



Shuttleworth received an MFA in Poetry from the University of Idaho, a BFA in Painting/Drawing from San Francisco Art Institute, and a BA in Studio Art from Gustavus Adolphus College.

Shuttleworth's poetry chapbook, Night Holds Its Own, was published by Blue Horse Press.  It is available on Amazon.



Shuttleworth is currently Executive Director of Columbia Basin Allied Arts.

Jack Kerouac in his chair.



Friday, September 9, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #280

Red Shuttleworth


Hawk Season Notebook #280

Fun-house 1962 Saturday evening with CM... the bus ride from Playland at the Beach back to her parents' house, the way she said, Think of me as a version of Today... just before she took off a sweater and then her sundress and kissed you. Her mom and dad were up in Calistoga.  CM played a Gogi Grant 45, The Wayward Wind. The bookcases were jammed with medical textbooks. Her parents liked Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. An uncle was a parish priest in San Jose or Cupertino. That she spoke of Mass the next day and kept her bra and panties on suggested a religious message. It was November... rainy outside. When the heater came on, there was a swampy odor... as if gym socks were drying over a vent. CM asked if you were afraid of roller coasters. You finished the white bread mayonnaise sandwich she made for  you, washed it down with a can of Oly... as if points could be scored. 

Sunday, September 4, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #265



Hawk Season Notebook #265

The Rapture. Farmyard to farmyard missionaries... angle back to their car once a broken Holga camera is produced. Sensitive to graven images of themselves. You swing arms back and forth... simian. You grunt... offer a gravel-voiced, Jasus syphilitic Christ, with a counterfeit County Derry, Ireland, accent. The missionaries drive away, their old Camry rattling over protrusions of scab rock on the two-track. Hours later you stand in weekday-midnight darkness, consider if the Bible is graveyard-sprawl of dislocated ghosts... give wonder to the possibility that Purgatory is the sum of an ill god's last mortal imaginings. You are alone in the darkness, the gray-haired Dublin bookman said, no matter. Not quite alone, no. Coyote yip and bark.

Saturday, September 3, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook # 261



Hawk Season Notebook #261

Play or Film. A boomerang love affair... pathos... cheese wedges and three a.m. wine. Homemade Valentine's Day cards, silver foil horses, It's a Girl bubblegum cigars. She slams the door, phones a best friend. He punches holes in a salmon-pink bedroom wall. Weeks pass like ten screenings of Stealing Beauty. Years pass into the quiet of baking cupcakes for a school sale. He cashes in a dusty, inherited from an uncle with dementia, collection of South American shrunken heads. She opens an artsy small town 2nd hand children's clothing storefront. They buy five acres on high desert, set-up a used double-wide trailer... become wary of rattlesnakes, get used to being on some crop duster to-and-from route. For the children's grade-promotion and graduation backyard picnics, boomerang-shaped goat burgers are barbecued, served on sour dough rolls. The adults sidle-off from the kids, stand and smoke at a barb wire fence, stare-stoned at bunch grass, sagebrush, and enormous rocks left behind by an ancient glacier. 

Friday, September 2, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook # 260



Hawk Season Notebook #260

A slumber party house on Mount Davidson... healthy-glow parochial school girls... a 1962 pillow fight. SK laughs: fireplace marshmallows, a raid on her parents' gin, girls in nighties, leaps from upholstered chair to sofa, You should a seen us. You envision it.... Lovely SK. Presentation High School volleyball star. Tanned. Long chestnut hair. Cherry-flavor lipstick. You and SK watch an Italian film at the Surf Theater, walk the sea wall, hold hands, watch seals at the beach across from Playland and its convex funhouse mirrors. She says she will soon date an older guy... with a car. You shrug. SK tightens her grip on your hand. The seals are fog-shrouded... gruesome-passive. Then her kisses... Sunday comic strip passion.

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #255

Red Shuttleworth


Hawk Season Notebook #255

Your parents' one night... a San Francisco Market Street hotel named for George Bernard Shaw. An empty room... fresh white paint... a hard, narrow bed. Your mother, nineteen, professes distaste for Shaw, prefers Joyce and legends of Paris. Your father, twenty, from the northwest corner of Tennessee, likes Shaw, because they share the same first name. It is January 1944. A thrift bottle of bourbon. He takes off her sweater... folds it square... sets it on the seat of a wooden chair. Night of repetition: a rain-streaked window with flashing lights... the post-midnight rumble and steel grind of streetcars. Awake. Nothing much to say.