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    HUMAN-CARRYING FLIGHT TECHNOLOGY Christopher Shipman BlazeVOX [books] Christopher Shipman’s first book is strikingly unpretentious. In spite of its somewhat cold title, the poems are as warm as they come. Not afraid to elegize his dead grandmother who loved double-cheeseburgers or to remind us that humans urinate and “shit,” he writes calmly and beautifully about what reads like actual life, the speaker fluctuating seamlessly between the facts of imagination and those of the earth, recalling the childhood lusts that haunt the adult like a shameless ghost. And in spite of the subtitles that invoke the theatre, the poems in each section sound private, unadorned, free of exaggeration. If Shipman insists on a troupe, then it is made of ghosts, and his stage is fluid, not wooden. Ghosts do the oaring in most of these poems, ferrying us through the realm of “middle tone,” stirring the depths where love and death embrace. “Growing a tongue felt like dying,” he says in the poem “Death Writes Home” which echoes an earlier statement that naming is a form of killing. And yet, the poet uses rhetoric to escape the restricted view; the line goes on: “…by the way, but when I lean in to kiss/ my beautiful bride she’s full of light.” Not only do these poems risk sentimentality, they risk stylistic honesty. The mode of delivery is not an eye-catching machine, but a mouth— once human, now spectral, now both. —Larissa Szporluk, author of Isolato, winner of the Iowa Poetry Prize In “the steady ache of language” a picaresque (askew and bemused) I seeks ways of enlarging awareness and acceptance. How do I rise to life’s ongoing occasion? How do I see the other fully? How can I find my way to the largest vision? Human Carrying Flight Technology offers a rich, complicated, original and vivid collection of responses to these questions— open-ended and exciting poems. Inviting us to come with him on a necessary and strange trip, mapping the unsteady space of memory and desire with unusual intensity, Shipman’s work switches on the “whisper burner” to lift us up where the heart’s exquisite unreliability makes other worlds shimmer over and within our own. —Laura Mullen, author of Dark Archive Christopher Shipman’s debut collection of poetry is edgy, quirky, sharply observed, and evocative. With language simultaneously plain and artful, poem after poem draws us into a landscape familiar but odd, a world that pleasures and troubles. Shipman’s is one of the most exciting voices I’ve heard in ages. —Rick Lott, author of The Apple Picker’s Children Shipman foxes with sly grins. In addition to figurines of animals, lovers, and family, Shipman whittles monsters, the board squeaking under you, the entire porch, the (mad) house, the neighborhood, the mills of a deity theater, the woods where urges axe through time. These poems have palms and splinters that petrify in our skin. No tweezers required. At the collection's end, “the only magic I can do / is feel.” —Vincent A. Cellucci, author of An Easy Place / To Die There is a deep sadness in Christopher Shipman that needs poems the way a carnivore needs meat. He makes poems to feed his sadness, to appease insistent hunger. He's become a skilled cook of these soul-meals. —Andrei Codrescu, author of Whatever Gets You through the Night: a Story of Sheherezade and the Arabian Entertainments Chris Shipman’s poems escape alive out of reverie, between the jagged memory of “last night’s dream” and tomorrow’s nighttime prophecy, while gazing at today’s loose dirt and rusty merry-go-rounds. His poems have extra heart in their human evolution, stories told before the charred ruins of the city’s dark and its distant traffic and celebrations of love, joy, terror and beauty in all their disorder. This Human-Carrying Flight Technology soars far above the usual first book, into the imaginal free-space that needs no wings. —Rodger Kamenetz, author of The Very Rich Hours and The History of Last Night’s Dream Shipman peo

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    HUMAN-CARRYING FLIGHT TECHNOLOGY Christopher Shipman BlazeVOX [books] Christopher Shipman’s first book is strikingly unpretentious. In spite of its somewhat cold title, the poems are as warm as they come. Not afraid to elegize his dead grandmother who loved double-cheeseburgers or to remind us that humans urinate and “shit,” he writes calmly and beautifully about what reads like actual life, the speaker fluctuating seamlessly between the facts of imagination and those of the earth, recalling the childhood lusts that haunt the adult like a shameless ghost. And in spite of the subtitles that invoke the theatre, the poems in each section sound private, unadorned, free of exaggeration. If Shipman insists on a troupe, then it is made of ghosts, and his stage is fluid, not wooden. Ghosts do the oaring in most of these poems, ferrying us through the realm of “middle tone,” stirring the depths where love and death embrace. “Growing a tongue felt like dying,” he says in the poem “Death Writes Home” which echoes an earlier statement that naming is a form of killing. And yet, the poet uses rhetoric to escape the restricted view; the line goes on: “…by the way, but when I lean in to kiss/ my beautiful bride she’s full of light.” Not only do these poems risk sentimentality, they risk stylistic honesty. The mode of delivery is not an eye-catching machine, but a mouth— once human, now spectral, now both. —Larissa Szporluk, author of Isolato, winner of the Iowa Poetry Prize In “the steady ache of language” a picaresque (askew and bemused) I seeks ways of enlarging awareness and acceptance. How do I rise to life’s ongoing occasion? How do I see the other fully? How can I find my way to the largest vision? Human Carrying Flight Technology offers a rich, complicated, original and vivid collection of responses to these questions— open-ended and exciting poems. Inviting us to come with him on a necessary and strange trip, mapping the unsteady space of memory and desire with unusual intensity, Shipman’s work switches on the “whisper burner” to lift us up where the heart’s exquisite unreliability makes other worlds shimmer over and within our own. —Laura Mullen, author of Dark Archive Christopher Shipman’s debut collection of poetry is edgy, quirky, sharply observed, and evocative. With language simultaneously plain and artful, poem after poem draws us into a landscape familiar but odd, a world that pleasures and troubles. Shipman’s is one of the most exciting voices I’ve heard in ages. —Rick Lott, author of The Apple Picker’s Children Shipman foxes with sly grins. In addition to figurines of animals, lovers, and family, Shipman whittles monsters, the board squeaking under you, the entire porch, the (mad) house, the neighborhood, the mills of a deity theater, the woods where urges axe through time. These poems have palms and splinters that petrify in our skin. No tweezers required. At the collection's end, “the only magic I can do / is feel.” —Vincent A. Cellucci, author of An Easy Place / To Die There is a deep sadness in Christopher Shipman that needs poems the way a carnivore needs meat. He makes poems to feed his sadness, to appease insistent hunger. He's become a skilled cook of these soul-meals. —Andrei Codrescu, author of Whatever Gets You through the Night: a Story of Sheherezade and the Arabian Entertainments Chris Shipman’s poems escape alive out of reverie, between the jagged memory of “last night’s dream” and tomorrow’s nighttime prophecy, while gazing at today’s loose dirt and rusty merry-go-rounds. His poems have extra heart in their human evolution, stories told before the charred ruins of the city’s dark and its distant traffic and celebrations of love, joy, terror and beauty in all their disorder. This Human-Carrying Flight Technology soars far above the usual first book, into the imaginal free-space that needs no wings. —Rodger Kamenetz, author of The Very Rich Hours and The History of Last Night’s Dream Shipman peo

    Copyright:

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    Scarica in formato PDF, TXT o leggi online su Scribd
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    492 visualizzazioni11 pagine

    Human-Carrying Flight Technology by Christopher Shipman Book Preview

    Caricato da

    BlazeVOX [books]
    HUMAN-CARRYING FLIGHT TECHNOLOGY Christopher Shipman BlazeVOX [books] Christopher Shipman’s first book is strikingly unpretentious. In spite of its somewhat cold title, the poems are as warm as they come. Not afraid to elegize his dead grandmother who loved double-cheeseburgers or to remind us that humans urinate and “shit,” he writes calmly and beautifully about what reads like actual life, the speaker fluctuating seamlessly between the facts of imagination and those of the earth, recalling the childhood lusts that haunt the adult like a shameless ghost. And in spite of the subtitles that invoke the theatre, the poems in each section sound private, unadorned, free of exaggeration. If Shipman insists on a troupe, then it is made of ghosts, and his stage is fluid, not wooden. Ghosts do the oaring in most of these poems, ferrying us through the realm of “middle tone,” stirring the depths where love and death embrace. “Growing a tongue felt like dying,” he says in the poem “Death Writes Home” which echoes an earlier statement that naming is a form of killing. And yet, the poet uses rhetoric to escape the restricted view; the line goes on: “…by the way, but when I lean in to kiss/ my beautiful bride she’s full of light.” Not only do these poems risk sentimentality, they risk stylistic honesty. The mode of delivery is not an eye-catching machine, but a mouth— once human, now spectral, now both. —Larissa Szporluk, author of Isolato, winner of the Iowa Poetry Prize In “the steady ache of language” a picaresque (askew and bemused) I seeks ways of enlarging awareness and acceptance. How do I rise to life’s ongoing occasion? How do I see the other fully? How can I find my way to the largest vision? Human Carrying Flight Technology offers a rich, complicated, original and vivid collection of responses to these questions— open-ended and exciting poems. Inviting us to come with him on a necessary and strange trip, mapping the unsteady space of memory and desire with unusual intensity, Shipman’s work switches on the “whisper burner” to lift us up where the heart’s exquisite unreliability makes other worlds shimmer over and within our own. —Laura Mullen, author of Dark Archive Christopher Shipman’s debut collection of poetry is edgy, quirky, sharply observed, and evocative. With language simultaneously plain and artful, poem after poem draws us into a landscape familiar but odd, a world that pleasures and troubles. Shipman’s is one of the most exciting voices I’ve heard in ages. —Rick Lott, author of The Apple Picker’s Children Shipman foxes with sly grins. In addition to figurines of animals, lovers, and family, Shipman whittles monsters, the board squeaking under you, the entire porch, the (mad) house, the neighborhood, the mills of a deity theater, the woods where urges axe through time. These poems have palms and splinters that petrify in our skin. No tweezers required. At the collection's end, “the only magic I can do / is feel.” —Vincent A. Cellucci, author of An Easy Place / To Die There is a deep sadness in Christopher Shipman that needs poems the way a carnivore needs meat. He makes poems to feed his sadness, to appease insistent hunger. He's become a skilled cook of these soul-meals. —Andrei Codrescu, author of Whatever Gets You through the Night: a Story of Sheherezade and the Arabian Entertainments Chris Shipman’s poems escape alive out of reverie, between the jagged memory of “last night’s dream” and tomorrow’s nighttime prophecy, while gazing at today’s loose dirt and rusty merry-go-rounds. His poems have extra heart in their human evolution, stories told before the charred ruins of the city’s dark and its distant traffic and celebrations of love, joy, terror and beauty in all their disorder. This Human-Carrying Flight Technology soars far above the usual first book, into the imaginal free-space that needs no wings. —Rodger Kamenetz, author of The Very Rich Hours and The History of Last Night’s Dream Shipman peo

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    HUMAN-CARRYING FLIGHT TECHNOLOGY

    Christopher Shipman

    BlazeVOX [books] Buffalo, NY

    HUMAN-CARRYING FLIGHT TECHNOLOGY by Christopher Shipman Copyright 2011 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Book design by Geoffrey Gatza Author Photo by Ryan Gibbs First Edition ISBN: 978-1-60964-081-1 Library of Congress Control Number: 2011939097 BlazeVOX [books] 76 Inwood Place Buffalo, NY 14209 Editor@blazevox.org

    p ublisher of weird little books

    BlazeVOX [ books ]
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    human being theater

    At birth winter came cold as ever. I curled beside my mothers warm belly, where I had kicked. I had taken them all back. The wind and my mothers voice hovered above me when the blue men turned our heat off my mother said they blued you with an icy throat. The summer after that Memphis winter half-naked cousins licked candy necklaces their necks stained Arkansas sunsets. I wanted to hold what light hid in the dark under their warm beds. My mother said I love you and I leapt from the porch into the sun.

    15

    O pening No one has ever seen inside this orange. Before being shipped to some produce market on the borders of Baton Rouge, before the phrase Valencia variety adapted for Florida use was ever uttered, before the seedling and the soft soil, before the mulch and compost, before the plow, the pump and hose, before the branches and the sun and the moon, before the harvest and its hot breath and blood circulating through beaten earth kids climbed orange trees and cats climbed orange trees and so much has happened in the world until now when picked from a Cabotins vendor tray stuffed with brown bags of unsalted popcorn and ten more oranges, a girl dressed in gypsy rags for the play shes in, tosses me an orange across a hallway, where Ive waited for the door to open for twenty minutes. Its her job to rile up the crowd of parents who stare at orange programs to find familiar names, so I jingle loose change, ask her how much.

    Its on the house, she says.


    I imagine a grove growing from her fingertips. I imagine my hands are stabbing knives to carve out the tender flesh. Its so delicious I want to tear open the girl

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    when no one is looking. I want to eat a small segment of her insides, and her fear of anything whatsoever, while I whisper little orange lies in her ear.

    17

    Last N ights D ream of the Reader You had a baby that said things like I bet the movie theater on fire is beautiful to see. I went in after the evacuation ceased. Smoke smelled like the bad breath of red curtains and there was no one to tell any of this to so we were stranded on a small island. You had a lover you told a thousand lies to so we could sail away in the rivers reddest wind with your baby strapped to a turtle shell. Your lover and I decided to trade licks with an ax. When I chopped off my own hand instead your baby slipped back inside your belly.

    18

    Rivercourse / Last Call

    -for Vincent Cellucci


    I this is as close as you can get to the river without jumping off a bridge said the river said the boat said the barge and the levee in its bulging distance said the kids just across playing in the yard said the far away stars in their eyes said the sex in the marsh said the bridge and its Christmas lights when night falls on its head said hope for said pray to said resurrection and o please! said the dirty sheets on the bed said like giant catfish said sweet dreams. II the river said I love you so you leapt off a bridge. III the sex in the marsh the exceptional sex in the marsh the sex on the levee the talk about the sex on the levee the having sex on the levee or in the marsh the the the knee deep in fish eggs the caviar on the tongue the pissing it all away the farther you get the bar closing the last call.

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    The End of the W orld

    for Benjamin Lowenkron


    I I woke with a mouth full of fish. My black cat hunched under the sink by the trash where she likes to hide when the lamp bulb blows. Outside, cars stuttered bumper to bumper. In The Bottoms no one has one that runs to the end of the river. II Im told by my neighbor, T-Loke, we were all under water once, the Mississippi bullied us before the levee was raised, The Bottoms what was left when the waves choked back. III I woke to the end of the world, walked to Chevron to buy light bulbs and a twelve-pack of Miller High-Life. IV I woke in a bowl of fish and the world ended. Sirens sang careless as sleep. Sky a coral reef of neon signs. The girl sleeping beside me still counted sheep or bottles or fish whatever dried up the river in her head.

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