Friday, March 28, 2014

TORNADO WATCH: 9 EARLY POEMS, A Red Shuttleworth Chapbook

Tornado Watch

9 Early Poems

Red Shuttleworth

Tornado Watch presents nine Red Shuttleworth poems published between 1970 and 1980:

Wee Joe's Theory
A House with Carved and Painted Shutters
Sometimes I Am Lucky
The Boxer on Canvas
The Bullpen Catcher Considers His Condition
Tornado Watch
The Small Rustle
Black Cinders

The poems in Tornado Watch first appeared, decades ago, in the Chicago Tribune Magazine (Marcia Lee Masters, poetry editor), Poetry Now (E.V. Griffith, editor), Road Apple Review (Doug Flaherty, editor), Snapdragon (Ron McFarland, editor), Southwest Review (Margaret Hartley, editor), The Texas Review (Paul Ruffin, editor), and The White Elephant.

Published in a limited edition by Bunchgrass Press, Red Shuttleworth's Tornado Watch is out of print.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

ENVOY: A Chapbook Poetry Anthology


a chapbook poetry anthology featuring:

Tom Clark

Dave Kelly

Red Shuttleworth

Envoy is published in a limited (44 copies) edition by Bunchgrass Press.  To acquire a copy of Envoy, correspond with one of the three included poets.

Monday, March 17, 2014

Under a Darkened Sky

Under a Darkened Sky
after Sean O'Casey's Drums Under the Windows

Whiskey night... descending angel in a wolf skin cloak,
Good God, man: spectral March 17th shadows...
Padraic Pearse, face sidelong, hums a Rosmuc tune,
GB Shaw on his bum, cackles at a leather breviary,
James Connolly, strapped to a chair, bleeds-out.

Rain and wet-brow nods on Grafton Street:
Behan drunk in a trillion photographs at McDaid's.
At Gardiner Place, Cathal Goulding rasps,
Have you been reading your Karl Marx?
Rathfarnham: dusk... high grass... momentary lovers
hand-in-hand... at Pearse's Hermitage for a window peek.

March 17th... hardly a day for the Virgin-Born.
Chill winds....  Books, theatre against shame
and dank Dublin nights: bewildering for O'Casey
to march, for a hundred Easters, wisps of night,
green uniform, behind Connolly's waddle,
behind Pearse, I bring not peace but a sword.

Cathal Goulding (Dublin 1969)
Chief of Staff, Irish Republican Army, 1962-1972

Wednesday, March 12, 2014



Hold on tight: blood-internal jogs
its ebony-death circuit.. and the mouth
gives unexpected glimpse of new-hatched
curse and decay.  And goodnight, folks.

So little locks together in deep water.
We ask for rigorous radar eyeballing.
We ask for elsewhere and for coincidence.
Think of a napkin kept aloft by a breeze.

Profusion-liliaceous upon deep water.
Purple-backdrop prayer... suspended
breath-and-choke: the ghost-plane.
Sequencing of dark depth is grief-impossible.

Saturday, March 8, 2014

PAMPHLET (THREE POEMS): A Red Shuttleworth Chapbook


Three Poems

Red Shuttleworth

Pamphlet, a Red Shuttleworth chapbook published by Bunchgrass Press in a limited edition, features two significantly revised poems from 2011 (Red-Eye Flight and Tattered Edge of Town), plus a new poem (A Shrub... a Shelter Tree).

Columbia Basin, Washington
(between Moses Lake and Ephrata-Soap Lake)

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Winter Recessional

Winter Recessional

The ground remains too frozen to dig deep for reason.
There is spotlighting from passing pick-ups...
deer entrails in roadside ditches.

Enormous old, rusted-out combines:
clouds billow eastward... much larger than Walmart cows.

Is it enough to use knowledge for momentary relief
from domestic complications?  Prescription drugs...
side effects: grey skin, blue skin, blotchy lips,
water retention, pimples, boils, loss of humor, stroke.

What we know is largely the result of apologies:
gold-bill magpies sweep down to clean up yesterday...
homemade spaghetti on death-yellow backyard grass.

Monday, March 3, 2014

Last Night of Winter

Last Night of Winter

Wet snow... an icy steppe:
coyotes with luggage,
welterweights in a different life,
bob-'n-shuffle between tight-
pastured edgy horses.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Crimean Saturday

Crimean Saturday

Aluminum-eyed soldiers
in opera-green outfits
hop out of big-tire trucks.
The sky curves and shakes.
Even the archival is provisional.
The better neighborhoods are littered
with pork-scented Ukrainian flags.
It is a Crimean Saturday:
Stalin's cackling-drunk ghost
pours Georgian blood-wine,
toasts the forever-exile of Tatars.
Itchy narrow-ribbed dogs
wait for stale, tobacco-dough,
Russian biscuit crumbs...
chance a bullet to a floppy ear.