Tag Archives: Sean Patrick HIll

Best Thing I’ve Heard This Week: The Big Big Mess (06/08/13)

14 Jun

Last Saturday, The Big Big Mess celebrated its two-year anniversary. Over the course of the past couple of years, this Akron, OH readings series has hosted local, regional, and national writers, such as Mary Biddinger, Matt Hart, Nate Pritts, Cathy Wagner, Adam Clay, Zachary Schomburg, and Heather Christle.

At their most recent event, out-of-town poets from Albany, Atlanta, Chicago, and Louisville converged on Northeast Ohio for a terrific reading. Check out the videos below for highlights.

Sean Patrick Hill reads his poem “1972“:

James Belflower performs an excerpt from his book The Posture of Contour:

Daniela Olszewska reads her poem “Frontier with Fancy Spurs“:

Bruce Covey reads his poem “Foreign Objects“:

The Big Big Mess’ next reading will be on 05 July. They will host The Line Assembly Tour, featuring S.E. Smith and others.

Aside

Back Again With Some Sixth Finch

23 Jan

Sorry to sound like the windmill always yapping about that same wind, but gracious, Sixth Finch sure blows some major energy our way, no? Yes! Issue upon issue has me going GOTTA VOUCH THIS. And THIS turns up to be that and that and that. So here I am again, spinning for the new issue of Sixth Finch.

Here are my tip-top wahoo favorites:

Allison Corporation by Julia Bloch: I love how it writes and rewrites itself, twists and turns itself, the poem, I mean, but also the speaker and the situation and the purpose. Mid-poem, it says, “I’m rewriting the plan,” says it twice even, and this, I feel, is key. This poem is that plan, The Act of rewriting the plan. Then, the end, the admitted emotion of it all: “This is a love poem/and I did not do any research.”

The Grip of All We Cannot Grasp by Sean Patrick Hill:

The moon comes on like a cloud of dead whales.

I lie in snow at the curb, and doves build nests in my sleeves.

Baby Toss by Julie Blackmon: This is one of those photographs one returns to, at first enjoyable in its common connection, it’s field and sky, baby being tossed and caught, as is infancy, but why do I keep returning (as the baby might wonder)? It’s the sky doing its magical bluing, it’s my own wonder what happened to the baby as gravity yanked it, or wait, did the baby drop from above in the first place (the magical red shoes and striped leggings), it’s the I’ve-been-here-before-ness of the kid in the green hat. I’m in love with the space this photo provides.

Worthy of It by Nick Sturm:

[…]Wherever you are awake

I want you to know the barn is falling down

slow enough we can sleep on it. It will be

raining, then it will be snowing, then

we will be wet, soaked, swollen, shore

in a way our bodies deserve. I mean

our mouths, our state shapes, our hair

in the morning. The dirt changes color

the closer I get to you. Like I said,

it’s snowing. It’s snowing just enough

it holds together.

We Claim To Be The Only Species Aware Of Our Own Mortality by Amorak Huey:  Wow at the power of these “We” statements, how they jut into, press holes in, strip apart, shine clear our understanding of our limited time here. Second wow at the power of the He coming to do his thing at the end, though we all should have known it was coming, maybe even hoped it so.

Smoke Bomb by Alex Roulette: WOW YES WOW

Read/look at the whole thing now!