MTPR

poetry

"Dear John Letter - Christmas 2015"

Dec 28, 2015
Jonathan Cohen

Dear John:
I just played your Christmas song,
first your peace version
recorded with Yoko in Montreal,
then the unofficial one with snowy landscapes,
fire lit hearths,
joyful faces,
and one soldier, grey faced, alone,
walking in a war zone...

So this is Christmas 2015:
same carousel,
old and new wars right here at home,
recharged guns,
and children dying in the deranged streets.

And nights silent in snowdrifts
under a single star,
bullets, and promises broken in Bethlehem.

"Before I Go"

Dec 21, 2015
tymesynk

I want to say the guacamole was pleasant,
metallic and viscous, and the ornamentation,
while excessive, contributed a certain vagueness
to the otherwise overly-managed event. For instance,
the various proposals concerning the movement
of shoulders and hips; the recent prohibition
of leaning-beside-the-punch-bowl; the manic outbursts
of praise near the X-mas tree. For that matter,
the damaging claims made by carolers, the rigid order
for the revelation of gifts, the marked lack of scholarship

Poetry Club On 'Pea Green Boat'

Dec 10, 2015

It's rare to hear live poetry readings anymore. Unless of course you tune in to "Pea Green Boat" once a month for poetry club. Marcia, Barbara, Marylor & Annie Garde share recent finds and old classics that are sure to appeal to kids of all ages.

"The Ground, Which Is Only Heavy Wind"

Nov 30, 2015
Melissa Kwasny, Mary Austin Speaker / Milkweed Editions

The women of the interior prepare themselves for pain by igniting small piles of fir needles on their wrists. I, too, want to age in the mountains, though all my life, I have avoided the extreme. When I turn away in public from the women with white hair, I become less public presence. To stumble on time: the biographic tradition, rift in the concrete I hit with my boots. I have been traveling away from home. I must return to it. Buffalo are the animals women were taught to emulate. They take care of their young. They mate for life, not like the deer, who are flighty and promiscuous.

Pigs, Poems, and the Purpose of Farming

Nov 25, 2015

About the book:

David James Duncan called Slotnick "a Wendell-Berry-style 'mad farmer'" and said, "The bracing bittersweetness lacing this free-verse report from the frontlines of a post-corporate agricultural renaissance is all the sweetness we need. FarmHome. is one of the most responsible books of poetry I've ever read."

"Moose"

Nov 23, 2015
University of Montana Press

Let's call it by its Algonquin name:
"he strips off"
                            or, if you will,
"the sage" or "respectful one." Not a twig
left on top of another, not a single flower
sticking out from the prairie.

Someone (perhaps a hunter)
once said it was ugly,
that its snout and antlers were too big,
that it was ungraceful and dumb.

When the moose hears this,
it just shrugs its shoulders
and munches quietly on the water lilies
or the tree bark.

Poetry’s been around a long time. Jazz, on the other hand, is a relatively recent American original. So why would jazz composer Wayne Horvitz write music in honor of a poet? Specifically, about Richard Hugo, perhaps Montana’s most renowned practitioner of the art? Wayne Horvitz explains on this episode of "Home Ground Radio,” listen now.

"Grille"

Nov 16, 2015

As if through glass, through windows, in a café, in the afternoon or early evening, in June, in June or November, month like a fetish of gray—a month of water hanging onto itself; until it drizzles, a month of dulled light—he is seen for a moment, accidentally, between appointments, in the middle of errands, walking down steps, the cement steps, say, of an old bank—old enough for granite, for columns—pulling his keys out of his pocket, or gripping the small black remote that replaces keys (which you can't hear the sound of, behind all this glass), and approaching his car, so that for an ins

"Goddammit"

Nov 9, 2015
Mel McCudden / Lost Horse Press

We learn to swear from our fathers
when they're chopping wood
and miss the log,
axe skimming bark
off the woodblock,
dew off the grass,
goddammit raising its hot white streak
into November.

When my father's scanner
picks up police reports,
he's pulling on Key pants,
grabbing black jacket,
out to the garage to pull the tarp
off the tow truck.
I wake to hear the engine
having it out with the cold.

"Grandmother Rattler"

Nov 2, 2015
University of Arizona Press

who coils in my bones,
what were you thinking that summer night
when you found the warm road
on the edge of the canyon and stopped
just there exactly at the center
where the pickups and cars and evening walkers would see
your spiral upon spiral,
hear the singing voice of your tail,
see your black head rising?

When I stopped my car
and walked up to you,
arms spread and hands open,
why didn't you move?
Why didn't you slide down the stones

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