LITTLE SPRING ANTHOLOGY ~

YOU KNOW YOU'RE IN FOR TROUBLE IF ON THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING, IT SNOWS!



___________________


 WILLIAM BLAKE
RON PADGETT
LEW WELCH
LUCILLE CLIFTON
MATTHEW ZAPRUDER
WALLACE STEVENS
KENNETH REXROTH
CLAUDE MCKAY
KIM ADDONIZIO
GOTTFRIED BENN
ANONYMOUS / FRANCES DENSMORE
TOMAS TRANSTROMER
BOB ARNOLD
ALICIA OSTRIKER 


___________________
 

Spring's Answer

Earth rais'd up her head, 

From the darkness dread & drear.

Her light fled: 

Stony dread!

And her locks cover'd with grey despair.

Prison'd on watry shore 

Starry Jealousy does keep my den 

Cold and hoar 

Weeping o'er 

I hear the Father of the ancient men 

Selfish father of men 

Cruel, jealous, selfish fear 

Can delight 

Chain'd in night 

The virgins of youth and morning bear. 

Does spring hide its joy

When buds and blossoms grow?

Does the sower? 

Sow by night? 

Or the plowman in darkness plow?

Break this heavy chain, 

That does freeze my bones around 

Selfish! vain!

Eternal bane!

That free Love with bondage bound.

WILLIAM BLAKE

Poem

 

I’m in the house.

It’s nice out: warm

sun on cold snow.

First day of   spring

or last of   winter.

My legs run down

the stairs and out

the door, my top

half   here typing

RON PADGETT







Springtime in the Rockies, Lichen

All these years I overlooked them in the

racket of the rest, this

symbiotic splash of plant and fungus feeding

on rock, on sun, a little moisture, air —

tiny acid-factories dissolving

salt from living rocks and

eating them.

 

Here they are, blooming!

Trail rock, talus and scree, all dusted with it:

rust, ivory, brilliant yellow-green, and

cliffs like murals!

Huge panels streaked and patched, quietly

with shooting-stars and lupine at the base.

 

Closer, with the glass, a city of cups!

Clumps of mushrooms and where do the

plants begin? Why are they doing this?

In this big sky and all around me peaks &

the melting glaciers, why am I made to

kneel and peer at Tiny?

 

These are the stamps of the final envelope.

 

How can the poisons reach them?

In such thin air, how can they care for the

loss of a million breaths?

What, possibly, could make their ground more bare?

 

Let it all die.

 

The hushed globe will wait and wait for

what is now so small and slow to

open it again.

 

As now, indeed, it opens it again, this

scentless velvet,

crumbler-of-the-rocks,

 

this Lichen!

 
LEW WELCH

spring song

the green of Jesus

is breaking the ground

and the sweet

smell of delicious Jesus

is opening the house and

the dance of Jesus music

has hold of the air and

the world is turning

in the body of Jesus and

the future is possible

LUCILLE CLIFTON

April Snow

Today in El Paso all the planes are asleep on the runway. The world

is in a delay. All the political consultants drinking whiskey keep

their heads down, lifting them only to look at the beautiful scarred

waitress who wears typewriter keys as a necklace. They jingle

when she brings them drinks. Outside the giant plate glass windows

the planes are completely covered in snow, it piles up on the wings.

I feel like a mountain of cell phone chargers. Each of the various

faiths of our various fathers keeps us only partly protected. I don’t

want to talk on the phone to an angel. At night before I go to sleep

I am already dreaming. Of coffee, of ancient generals, of the faces

of statues each of which has the eternal expression of one of my feelings.

I examine my feelings without feeling anything. I ride my blue bike

on the edge of the desert. I am president of this glass of water.

  
    MATTHEW ZAPRUDER

 Indian River

The trade-wind jingles the rings in the nets around the racks

        by the docks on Indian River.

It is the same jingle of the water among roots under the

        banks of the palmettoes.

It is the same jingle of the red-bird breasting the orange-trees

        out of the cedars.

Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor

       on the nunnery beaches.

WALLACE STEVENS 

 Toward An Organic Philosophy

SPRING, COAST RANGE

The glow of my campfire is dark red and flameless,   

The circle of white ash widens around it.

I get up and walk off in the moonlight and each time   

I look back the red is deeper and the light smaller.   

Scorpio rises late with Mars caught in his claw;   

The moon has come before them, the light   

Like a choir of children in the young laurel trees.   

It is April; the shad, the hot headed fish,

Climbs the rivers; there is trillium in the damp canyons;   

The foetid adder’s tongue lolls by the waterfall.

There was a farm at this campsite once, it is almost gone now.   

There were sheep here after the farm, and fire   

Long ago burned the redwoods out of the gulch,   

The Douglas fir off the ridge; today the soil   

Is stony and incoherent, the small stones lie flat   

And plate the surface like scales.

Twenty years ago the spreading gully

Toppled the big oak over onto the house.   

Now there is nothing left but the foundations   

Hidden in poison oak, and above on the ridge,   

Six lonely, ominous fenceposts;

The redwood beams of the barn make a footbridge   

Over the deep waterless creek bed;

The hills are covered with wild oats

Dry and white by midsummer.

I walk in the random survivals of the orchard.   

In a patch of moonlight a mole

Shakes his tunnel like an angry vein;

Orion walks waist deep in the fog coming in from the ocean;   

Leo crouches under the zenith.

There are tiny hard fruits already on the plum trees.   

The purity of the apple blossoms is incredible.   

As the wind dies down their fragrance

Clusters around them like thick smoke.

All the day they roared with bees, in the moonlight   

They are silent and immaculate.

 KENNETH REXROTH 

 After the Winter

Some day, when trees have shed their leaves

     And against the morning’s white

The shivering birds beneath the eaves

     Have sheltered for the night,

We’ll turn our faces southward, love,

     Toward the summer isle

Where bamboos spire the shafted grove

     And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

And we will seek the quiet hill

     Where towers the cotton tree,

And leaps the laughing crystal rill,

     And works the droning bee.

And we will build a cottage there

     Beside an open glade,

With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,

     And ferns that never fade.

CLAUDE MCKAY 






Onset

Watching that frenzy of insects above the bush of white flowers,   

bush I see everywhere on hill after hill, all I can think of   

is how terrifying spring is, in its tireless, mindless replications.   

Everywhere emergence: seed case, chrysalis, uterus, endless manufacturing.

And the wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups in the grocery, lately

I can’t stand them, the shelves of canned beans and soups, freezers   

of identical dinners; then the snowflake-diamond-snowflake of the rug

beneath my chair, rows of books turning their backs,

even my two feet, how they mirror each other oppresses me,

the way they fit so perfectly together, how I can nestle one big toe into the other

like little continents that have drifted; my God the unity of everything,

my hands and eyes, yours; doesn’t that frighten you sometimes, remembering

the pleasure of nakedness in fresh sheets, all the lovers there before you,

beside you, crowding you out? And the scouring griefs,

don’t look at them all or they’ll kill you, you can barely encompass your own;

I’m saying I know all about you, whoever you are, it’s spring   

and it’s starting again, the longing that begins, and begins, and begins.

KIM ADDONIZIO

Last Spring

Fill yourself up with the forsythias

and when the lilacs flower, stir them in too

with your blood and happiness and wretchedness,

the dark ground that seems to come with you.

Sluggish days. All obstacles overcome.

And if you say: ending or beginning, who knows,

then maybe—just maybe—the hours will carry you

   into June, when the roses blow.

     GOTTFRIED BENN

       trans. from the German by Michael Hofmann

Spring Song

  

  As my eyes search the prairie
I feel the summer in the spring.

 

     ANONYMOUS

     FRANCES DENSMORE (translated)

      Source: Chippewa Music II Bulletin 53 (1913) 

 The Indoors Is Endless

It’s spring in 1827, Beethoven

hoists his death-mask and sails off.

The grindstones are turning in Europe’s windmills.

The wild geese are flying northwards.

Here is the north, here is Stockholm

swimming palaces and hovels.

The logs in the royal fireplace

collapse from Attention to At Ease.

Peace prevails, vaccine and potatoes,

but the city wells breathe heavily.

Privy barrels in sedan chairs like paschas

are carried by night over the North Bridge.

The cobblestones make them stagger

mamselles loafers gentlemen.

Implacably still, the sign-board

with the smoking blackamoor.

So many islands, so much rowing

with invisible oars against the current!

The channels open up, April May

and sweet honey dribbling June.

The heat reaches islands far out.

The village doors are open, except one.

The snake-clock’s pointer licks the silence.

The rock slopes glow with geology’s patience.

It happened like this, or almost.

It is an obscure family tale

about Erik, done down by a curse

disabled by a bullet through the soul.

He went to town, met an enemy

and sailed home sick and grey.

Keeps to his bed all that summer.

The tools on the wall are in mourning.

He lies awake, hears the woolly flutter

of night moths, his moonlight comrades.

His strength ebbs out, he pushes in vain

against the iron-bound tomorrow.

And the God of the depths cries out of the depths

‘Deliver me! Deliver yourself!’

All the surface action turns inwards.

He’s taken apart, put together.

The wind rises and the wild rose bushes

catch on the fleeing light.

The future opens, he looks into

the self-rotating kaleidoscope

sees indistinct fluttering faces

family faces not yet born.

By mistake his gaze strikes me

as I walk around here in Washington

among grandiose houses where only   

every second column bears weight.

White buildings in crematorium style

where the dream of the poor turns to ash.

The gentle downward slope gets steeper

and imperceptibly becomes an abyss.

  
    

TOMAS TRANSTROMER

      translated by Robin Fulton





Passing



It is Spring

Already you relax in a cotton skirt

Passing through mountains is a strong feeling

Fields plowed, new wood split, a hawk floating

Puffs of softwood in the gray hills

A river runs with snow melting

A small bridge neatly built to get by

There is pleasure in such places

An old woman and her huge straw hat

Raking the far corner of a hayfield



 BOB ARNOLD

 April

 
The optimists among us
taking heart because it is spring
skip along
attending their meetings
signing their e-mail petitions
marching with their satiric signs
singing their we shall overcome songs
posting their pungent twitters and blogs
believing in a better world
for no good reason
I envy them
said the old woman

The seasons go round they
go round and around
said the tulip
dancing among her friends
in their brown bed in the sun
in the April breeze
under a maple canopy
that was also dancing
only with greater motions
casting greater shadows
and the grass
hardly stirring

What a concerto
of good stinks said the dog
trotting along Riverside Drive
in the early spring afternoon
sniffing this way and that
how gratifying the cellos of the river
the tubas of the traffic
the trombones
of the leafing elms with the legato
of my rivals’ piss at their feet
and the leftover meat and grease
singing along in all the wastebaskets

        
         ALICIA OSTRIKER

 ________________



little spring anthology compiled by BA  ~

william blake: the collected poems (anchor/doubleday)
claude mckay: complete poems (u illinois press)
lucille clifton: the collected poems (boa editions)
ron padgett: collected poems (coffee house books)
kenneth rexroth: the collected shorter poems (new directions)
tomas transtromer; new and collected poems (bloodaxe books)
kim addonizio: tell me (boa editions)
matthew zapruder: come on all you ghosts (copper canyon press)
bob arnold: where rivers meet (mad river press)
wallace stevens: the collected poems (knopf)
lew welch: ring of bone (grey fox press)

photo © bob arnold 

POETS IN HOME MOVIES ~

Bobbie Louise Hawkins

Home Movies

(don't hesitate)

http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Hawkins-Creeley.html

ELISSA WALD ~

Many of the titles from this press are irresistible in that old tradition noir lust, although the quality of the novels vary and one must poke around and steer carefully. Naturally David Goodis is a shoe-in, and so is Elissa Wald, working a bit in the James M. Cain mode. Go dig in.

http://www.rtbookreviews.com/rt-daily-blog/author-qa-elissa-wald-secret-lives-married-women

The Secret Lives of Married Women
Elissa Wald
Hard Case, 2013

GAUCHE ~

   

 

What You Get for ... $5,000,000

 (that's 5 million)

Of course we don't have to look at these ads, articles, nonsense (whatever they are), but there they are each week, or far too often, in the New York Times. Not so glaring in the print edition as the screen display of the newspaper, but glaring like one more reminder of the 1% royalty that do now run the world — 'here's what you can have for, say, 4 million dollars: a trophy house smack-dab built in the Tetons of Wyoming, and the land will cost you a million and half on top of that. That's dollars.'

Joe Starrett once lived in the shadow of the Tetons with his little family — son Joey and wife Marian. It was a log home they built by hand with woodsmoke always drifting out of its roof top pipe day or night. Joe could be seen part of each day whaling away on an ornery stump five times larger than he was and made of the best mother earth steel. His axe blade went dull after an hour of beating on the stump, but he was making progress. Wood chips flew. Marian had a kitchen garden and Joey was meant to keep the few cows that kept the family in milk out of the garden. Deer came close, almost tame. And the sunshine baked the treeless plain.

The above paragraph is all fantasy. Alan Ladd is about to stroll his handsome horse into the picture and the 1953 movie Shane is about to really get rolling. But wouldn't you rather live in this picture? than some boom frickered nightmare of get rich builders and realtors playing with the jet set?

Things would change mightily for these Shane period homesteaders by 1980 in films. Heaven's Gate, directed by Michael Cimino, would reveal what would happen to Joe Starrett and his little family when bruts, hired by the then 1% during the Johnson County War of Wyoming, executed, flash shotgun style, small settling ranchers in the way of big daddy development. It's still being done today by depriving, thievery and big money. Dreams cut down to size. To the size of embitterment.

George Stevens was the director of Shane — maybe the finest full-blown western ever made, complete with starstruck dazzle and a remarkably grim center plot of prejudice and fighting for justice with a lawman no closer than "100 miles away." The showdown between Ladd and Jack Palance, in a saloon, Clint Eastwood would attempt to reoccur in his classic Unforgiven, and while Eastwood's version is riveting, nothing tops the two hour build-up in Shane. George Stevens may have been the most subtle and physical director then in the business. Few could come even close to the sound and fury in very small doses that both Ladd and Palance portray in this film. In Stevens' earlier film, the classic drama A Place in the Sun, with Montgomery Clift and Elizabeth Taylor, Stevens has Clift's character meeting a lawman looking for him while attempting to escape through a woodlot. It's a moment on screen of hollowed out, wintering patience. We rarely see this any longer in American cinema.

Or real estate.  

For one of the links below, the taxes yearly on the home and land will cost anyone $14,000-$15,000, which is the total annual income for some people I know. That's just the taxes. I didn't even bother  to look at the taxes for the Wyoming wingding. Don't come around snooping or even dreaming about buying this property, buster, if you don't have the dough. And let's face it, even the majority of the New York Times readers no longer have this kind of dough to splash around.

It's a disturbing contribution to a way of life that hurts to see, to even think someone is preparing these "dream destinations" at the New York Times each week — without the money to purchase much more than their already sky rocketed city apartment rent — to appease a gentry that are basically moving to a personal Shangri-La that's out of their element.

It's all about attempting to tame the land, bring it around, make it recognizable to us. End the wilderness.

Drop the ads, the articles, the gauche, whatever they are Mr. and Mrs. New York Times.

Work the stump. 

  [ BA ]

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/13/greathomesanddestinations/what-you-get-for-1850000.html?hp

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/13/greathomesanddestinations/roll-out-the-snow-carpet.html?hpw&rref=garden&_r=0 


flip side of the coin on the 1% ~ the possible good:

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/16/science/billionaires-with-big-ideas-are-privatizing-american-science.html?hp

photo: ny times

MARCH BREEZE ~

drawing © bob arnold 

THE ADVENTURES OF HENRY THOREAU ~

Yet one more biography and survey of the young man born old out of his beloved Concord, Massachusetts. The story hasn't grown old, only richer, as it has with Thoreau's neighbor to the west Emily Dickinson. The further we go, and the further we lose touch with the earth, these two earth angels sparkle. Michael Sims has taken the gnarly usual story of HDT and made for us a jaunty easy gait portrait. We go to Harvard with Thoreau, on travels, to the rivers, and of course get ourselves planted for two years at Walden Pond with the author. You'll be surprised just how little time Thoreau spent during his legendary 'life in the woods'. But what's time? 
The depth of the heart is another matter.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/book-world-review-the-adventures-of-henry-thoreau-by-michael-sims/2014/03/03/ceaed3b6-9e42-11e3-b8d8-94577ff66b28_story.html

The Adventures of Henry Thoreau

Michael Sims

Bloomsbury, 2014

SAINT KNOTT ~

Bill Knott
(1940 b. Carson City. MI. ~ 2014) 



There's a photograph of Charles Olson akin to this one of Bill Knott — nearly the same glasses, leaning into his step, hulk of torso, glasses case in the shirt pocket, and the eyes searching ahead. It's just a similarity I noticed as I started to write a few words about this poet's passing.

As I wrote to J.D. earlier today, it's a shame about the passing of Bill Knott, a poet I started to read at age 15 when I discovered his poems on my lonesome. That lonesome period took on authors that were my very best friends, for life, whether they knew it or not.

So many decades later Knott started to send me his earliest self-published books with strict orders to "just give them away!" Which was like instructing P.T. Barnum about a chair and a whip and a lion, I had to laugh. But he made a fool of himself as he barked further orders and then calmed down as he did his homework, read the Birdhouse, and then my appreciation to him on said blog, shut his mouth and put the Birdhouse as a link onto his own feisty blog that I will miss. 

 Bill Knott was a brilliant young poet as we all well know. Robert Bly knew, too. Published him in his Sixties and Seventies journals. And the poet's oeuvre always stayed at least invigorating, while the Knott-man appeared a wee bit troubled, and probably for good reason.  There were few first books that really blew the tops of the heads off of us youngsters like Knott's The Naomi Poems: Corpse and Beans. Eerie, resonant, concise, playful, dark with laughter all at once. That's pretty much magic.

[ BA ]




Some Books by Bill Knott

_________________________ 

    The Naomi Poems: Book One: Corpse and Beans (1968), Follett, 
(under the pseudonym    'St. Geraud')
    Aurealism: A Study (1969), Salt Mound Press (chapbook)
    Auto-Necrophilia; Book 2 (1971), Big Table
    Nights of Naomi (1972), Big Table (chapbook)
    Love Poems to Myself (1974), Barn Dream Press, Boston (chapbook)
    Rome in Rome (1976), Release Press
    Selected and Collected Poems (1977), SUN
    Becos (1983), Random House
    Outremer (1989), University of Iowa Press
    Poems 1963-1988 (1989), University of Pittsburgh Press
    Collected Political Poems 1965-1993 (1993) Self-published chapbook
    Sixty Poems of Love and Homage (1994) Self-published chapbook
    The Quicken Tree (1995), Boa Editions
    Laugh at the End of the World: Collected Comic Poems 1969-1999 (2000), Boa Editions
    The Unsubscriber (2004), Farrar, Straus and Giroux
    Stigmata Errata Etcetera (2007), Saturnalia Books

BRONK-TO-CORMAN ~

william bronk

More correspondence (all Bronk) that has come my way on a typical circuitous route from some place in the US to someplace overseas and bounced back to Vermont. I don't mind, it gets here. The letters are one more essential back-feeder into the workings of William Bronk, a poet crucially still unknown to many readers.

As I wrote to my Cid Corman drug supplier (remember to chuckle people, laughter is good for you): 

Here, to my mind, via Bronk (who did write me a very brief letter once upon a time relating to Cid) is his core thinking at least on his poetry (1961): " I am after "the weight, the texture, the strength," not of words but of statements, something initially more static than you are, the shape of the rocks as they lie against each other not the sound they make as they tumble over together. What was breath in your metaphor becomes rocks in mine to your great disadvantage but this is my letter and I'll make the metaphors." I think of two poets — you and Joe Massey, who may, just may, over time be thought of two poets after Cid and Bronk who distilled both their mannerisms from their poetry into your own. A fine blend. . .

. . .Of course since early 1974 I went through with Cid his dismissal by Bronk. I can well understand why both men did what they did since they essentially acted on their own personalities, and these were largely different, but complimentary with intent. It's curious what we become. Bronk was a Dartmouth man (we took you to the town, remember the rocking chairs on the porch?) and Cid was anything but. Bronk was small town a wee bit west of New England but still very much of old New England stock. Once upon a time Susan and I went to Bronk's town, he was still alive, and walked down his street, found his large Victorian home, attractive front yard, wide berth porch, winding to disappear behind the house driveway, and looked around at the surroundings. In these letters when he gets up off the porch to take a walk, I know, somewhat, where he was walking. There was one used bookstore in town, a pretty good one, Bronk sold books from his personal library to the store and I found some of these and bought what I could find, they also interested me. In the back of the store was tucked away a magic shop. It was ideal for our purposes because it kept Carson enthralled for hours. Like my father, Bronk was involved in lumber and coal, which he mentions very little in his letters or writing. Cid was the champion of inclusion and thinking he knew best about people and for people (and he was often right), but when he was wrong (as he mishandled some of Bronk, certainly not all) he hit his thumb with his own hammer. Bronk admits that without Cid his poetry may never have been seen. Cid brought it by his persistence and desire to the eyes of Jim Weil and James Laughlin and other publishers watching the pulse of Origin.

[ BA ]

http://archive.emilydickinson.org/titanic/material/archive/bronkintro.html

http://archive.emilydickinson.org/titanic/material/archive/bronkletters.html

http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Bronk.php


http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Corman.php

photo by Lisa Mahoney

cid corman


Cid Corman passed away ten years ago, yesterday, March 12.
 Instead of recognizing the day, I thought to pay attention to the next day, and the next.

Career

WMEX Radio, Boston, poetry broadcaster, 1949-51; Origin magazine and Origin Press, Ashland, MA, and Kyoto, Japan, editor, beginning 1951. Private teacher, Bari/Matera, Italy, 1956-57, Kyoto Joshidai, Japan, 1958-60, Kyoto, Japan, 1962-66, 1974-79. Sister City Tea House, Boston, owner, operator, teacher of poetry: forever.

To come out
after a
long day's work

into snow —
the latest
version of

nothingness
and all so
light
and crisp —

as if we're
the candles
on the cake.

CC

FINN WILCOX & BILL PORTER ~

Finn Wilcox

Hard To Believe

Tangram  2014

Finn Wilcox is an old friend to Longhouse — poet, treeplanter and fellow islander on the Olympic Peninsula with other mover & shakers like Bill Porter, Mike O' Connor, Tim McNulty, Norman Schaefer, Jim Tolpin, Karma Tenzing Wangchuk and others. Bill's book Road To Heaven: encounters with Chinese hermits (Counterpoint) is one to seek out and own, share, gift, beseech.

If you wish to dig deeper, the Longhouse catalog has many publications by these authors.

POSTCARD 30 ~

traditional crafts

men building dry stone wall in the U.K.

photo by Foto-Bank

TSERING WANGMO DHOMPA ~

Tsering Wangmo Dhompa’s parents fled Tibet in 1959. Raised by her mother in Tibetan communities in Dharamsala, India, and Kathmandu, Nepal, Tsering earned a BA and an MA from Lady Shri Ram College in New Delhi, an MA from the University of Massachusetts Amherst, and an MFA in creative writing from San Francisco State University. 

A friend of Longhouse, we published one of Tsering's earliest booklet of poems.

Bardo 
Tsering Wangmo Dhompa




A hundred and one butter lamps are offered to my uncle who
is no more.

Distraction proves fatal in death. A curtain of butter imprints
in air.

After the burning of bones, ashes are sent on pilgrimage. You are
dead, go into life, we pray. My uncle was a man given to giggles
in solemn moments.

Memory springs like crocuses in bloom. Self conscious and
precise.

Without blurring the cornea, details are resuscitated. Dried yak
meat between teeth. Semblance of what is.

Do not be distracted, Uncle who is no more.

He does not see his reflection in the river. The arching of speech
over  s as he is becoming.

Curvature of spine as it cracked on a misty morning. A shadow
evades the wall.

You are no more, Uncle who is no more.

Every seven days he must relive his moment of expiration.
The living pray frequently amid burning juniper.

Communication efforts require the right initiative.

Somewhere along the line matters of motion and rest are resolved.

Crows pick the last offerings. You are someone else, uncle no
more.


______________________

Tsering Wangmo Dhompa
from Rules of the House  2003
Apogee Press

http://14hills.net/node/108



Books ~

    A Home in Tibet, Penquin India, Delhi 2013
    My Rice Tastes Like the Lake, Apogee Press, Berkeley 2011
    In the Absent Everyday, Apogee Press, Berkeley 2005
    Rules of the House, Apogee Press, Berkeley 2002
    Recurring Gestures, Tangram Press,
    In Writing the Names, A.bacus, 2000