Jeanne M. Leiby (1964–2011)

Crazy Way by Albert Godbarth – An interesting poem:

“I will work forty hours a week clerking at the painstore.”
-from a poem by Donald Hall. I’d rushed,
and glazed over the t

and yet my accidental revision
feels right for the crabbed, defensive life
that Hall gives voice to, and in fact
for Ace Digornio, who I knew

when I was a child and who did
spend forty hours every week behind the counter
at Talman’s Home Décor and Paint Store.

As You've Planned It by Line-Maria Lång, read here by the author - A very short (3 page) story about sitting with a loved one who is dying.

Welcome, Lost Dogs by Vanessa Blakeslee – A woman struggles with her life alone in Costa Rica after the kidnapping of her rescue dogs.

The Moviegoer, Fifty Years Later by Robert Lacy – A review of the classic New Orleans book which I really need to get to this year.

Groundscratchers by Gabriel Welsch]] – Very interesting story of a grounds supervisor at a large estate as his life falls apart.

Paintings by Ed Smith – exotic paintings of clumps of birds.

Action Figure by Adam Prince – Pretty freaky narrative tracing a meth addict’s descent.

Section 8 by Jaquira Diaz – A powerful and sad tale of two friends discovering their sexuality in a neighborhood dangerous for those who are different.… (más)

The theme appears to be liquidity from what I can tell so far.

Where Has He Gone? by Kevin Prufer – Poetry – A young boy is lost when he gets in a life raft and loses the ship. Shifting perspectives were nice.

The Woman at the Pond by Ron Rash – Short Fiction – A beautiful story of middle-aged man - who dropped out of college to move back to his small hometown and marry his pregnant high school girlfriend – watching a local pond being drained which he regularly fished at in school. Most of the story is his reminiscence of meeting a girl one night after her boyfriend leaves her at the pond. Suspense builds as the reader realizes he is watching the draining because of what he fears may be at the bottom. The first line: “Water has its own archaeology, not a layering but a leveling, and thus truer to our sense of the past, because what is memory but near and far events spread and smoothed beneath the present’s surface.” I added his collection of short stories, Burning Bright, to the wishlist based on the strength of this story.

Isn’t it somewhat romantic and A picture is worth eight hundred and seventy-four words by Bob Hicok** – Poetry – Two very funny poems about relationships. ‘A picture…’ in particular was amusing – telling the tale of a young couple who decide to send each other nude photos before doing the deed. The boy deciding to tuck it after he

“brought the camera to eye and aimed it at the mirror,
I laughed, laughed and thought, Johnson, wang, schlong,
puddle rudder, meatcycle, and noticed once more
that the penis, especially the flaccid penis, appears
to be what God was working on when the phone rang.”

The Litter Bearers and Portraits of the Artist with Montale by Mark Wagenaar – Poetry – Very atmospheric, lyrical poems.

My Two Weeks as a Fellini Extra by Jessica Levine – Essay – As indicated by the title, a tour through Levine’s two weeks as a rollerskating ‘Tall One’ in the Fellini film City of Women and her Italian relationships. It cuts through any ideas of glamour, but ultimately it didn’t gel for me.

The Voice in the Other Room and Why I Don’t Drink Before Readings by David Kirby – Poetry - Two darkly humorous poems – the first about the moans and ‘Oh God’ coming from next door; the second about the important people attending said reading.

The Former Pirate on His Way Back to Lisbon by Weston Cutter – Poetry – An overboard pirate, lovely language.

**I really enjoyed his work. You can read several of his poems at The Poetry Foundation. Particularly good were A private public space, After working sixty hours again for what reason, O my pa-pa, Spirit ditty of no fax-line dial tone, and Unmediated experience (reposted below because it’s the shortest).

Unmediated experience

She does this thing. Our seventeen-
year-old dog. Our mostly deaf dog.
Our mostly dead dog, statistically
speaking. When I crouch.
When I put my mouth to her ear
and shout her name. She walks away.
Walks toward the nothing of speech.
She even trots down the drive, ears up,
as if my voice is coming home.
It’s like watching a child
believe in Christmas, right
before you burn the tree down.
Every time I do it, I think, this time
she’ll turn to me. This time
she’ll put voice to face. This time,
I’ll be absolved of decay.
Which is like being a child
who believes in Christmas
as the tree burns, as the drapes catch,
as Santa lights a smoke
with his blowtorch and asks, want one?… (más)