#Cori A. Winrock
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"Polaroid Ode" by Cori A. Winrock
For Federico Durand.
Something has been inexplicably lost with the rise of infinite HD digital photography. Maybe it was the inherent finitude of analog photography, the shortage of film and the time, energy, and resources to cultivate it. You had to really think about what you were going to shoot. You had to choose and, when you had, you had to stand by that decision.
Perhaps this is why…
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#Ambient Music#Cori A. Winrock#Erato#Federico Durand#Memory#Photography#Poem of the Week#Poetry#poetry themes#Polaroids#Polymnia#The Vision and the Voice
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cori winrock // scab mag issue I / saint james harris wood
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The mountains wallpaper the city
in snow, in not-another-
word: O faceted animals
in whiteshift, what mars-scape
is this? Our bodies pinned
open into the last kind blues
of Nyquil. I have nothing to say
about what the moon is doing
now, or to this unendingly ghostless
house. Or to you, who have taken
to recreating our expected life
in diminuendos—tiny us
with newborns, tiny us with so little
light—for shame for shame.
To reappear in the salt
lake and to know the right
meaning—. What is a house
but a syllable that accumulates
our fleece. Adonai, the moon is cutting
its teeth on our bedroom floor.
How underwhelming its apprehensive
face, how glozing.
Adonai, we’ve been sleeping
on top of the covers like dollhouse
lovers. I’ve untucked all seven doors
from their hinges—laid them down
as benedictions. Love, let us unbreak
and unbreak every lightbulb left
in its threads, as if we might be allowed
to pass through these walls, circle
back to the before of each other.
– Cori A. Winrock, Elegy as Yichud Room
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And O to be the curve of the ambulance’s bones, / its frame picked to glittering / in the parking lot.
Cori A. Winrock, “Love Poem in a Time of Ambulances” from Little Envelope of Earth Conditions
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Poetry Recommendations (2019/2020 releases)
Little Envelope of Earth Conditions by Cori A. Winrock
3.65/5 stars on goodreads
Poems dive straight into the depths of mental illness and depression, evoking intense grief and pain. Heavy space imagery is paired with streams of consciousness, trying to come to terms with loss but feeling like you’re floating through a surreal world like an astronaut on a different planet.
The Truth About Magic by Atticus Poetry
3.99/5 stars on goodreads
From the internationally bestselling author of The Dark Between Stars and Love Her Wild, Instagram sensation Atticus returns with another romantic and deeply moving collection.
The Truth About Magic builds on the pains and joys of romance explored in Love Her Wild and the New York Times bestseller, The Dark Between Stars—heartbreaks and falling in love, looking back and looking inwards—by taking a fresh, awakened journey outward. An adventure into the great unknown. It’s about finding ourselves, our purpose, and the simple joys of life. It’s about lavender fields, drinking white wine out of oak barrels on vineyards, laughing until you cry, dancing in old barns until the sun comes up, and making love on sandy beaches.
The Truth About Magic is a vibrant, transcendent journey into growth, which will leave you energized and eager to explore the wider world.
Witch by Philip Matthews
4.14/5 stars on goodreads
Poems merge queer ecopoetics with religious disposition, speaking through a pantheon of mythic figures―from Jesus to Aphrodite―to commune or contend with reality. What emerges is a cumulative awareness of being a physical, energetic body in a fractured world, attempting to heal some part of it while exploring and embracing the gray areas of identity and ambiguity.
Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky
4.48/5 stars on goodreads
Ilya Kaminsky's astonishing parable in poems asks us, What is silence?
Deaf Republic opens in an occupied country in a time of political unrest. When soldiers breaking up a protest kill a deaf boy, Petya, the gunshot becomes the last thing the citizens hear--they all have gone deaf, and their dissent becomes coordinated by sign language. The story follows the private lives of townspeople encircled by public violence: a newly married couple, Alfonso and Sonya, expecting a child; the brash Momma Galya, instigating the insurgency from her puppet theater; and Galya's girls, heroically teaching signing by day and by night luring soldiers one by one to their deaths behind the curtain. At once a love story, an elegy, and an urgent plea, Ilya Kaminsky's long-awaited Deaf Republic confronts our time's vicious atrocities and our collective silence in the face of them.
Homie by Danez Smith
4.5/5 stars on goodreads
Homie is Danez Smith’s magnificent anthem about the saving grace of friendship. Rooted in the loss of one of Smith’s close friends, this book comes out of the search for joy and intimacy within a nation where both can seem scarce and getting scarcer. In poems of rare power and generosity, Smith acknowledges that in a country overrun by violence, xenophobia, and disparity, and in a body defined by race, queerness, and diagnosis, it can be hard to survive, even harder to remember reasons for living. But then the phone lights up, or a shout comes up to the window, and family—blood and chosen—arrives with just the right food and some redemption. Part friendship diary, part bright elegy, part war cry, Homie is the exuberant new book written for Danez and for Danez’s friends and for you and for yours.
To Drink Coffee with a Ghost by Amanda Lovelace
4.08/5 stars on goodreads
"You cannot have a funeral for your mother without also having a funeral for yourself." This book poses the ever-lingering question: What happens when someone dies before they're able to redeem themselves?
From the bestselling & award-winning poetess, amanda lovelace, comes the finale of her illustrated duology, "things that h(a)unt." In the first installment, to make monsters out of girls, lovelace explored the memory of being in a toxic romantic relationship. In to drink coffee with a ghost, lovelace unravels the memory of the complicated relationship she had with her now-deceased mother.
#muticultural#Reading Recs#book recs#poetry#diverse authors#diversity#reading list#Book Recommendations#reading recommendations#booklist#booklr#library#public library#to read#tbr#currently reading#diverse reads#poets#literature#modern poetry#poems
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Polaroid Ode
O four-cornered room
in which we tuck the ever-
developing light of our warm
bodies. O snapshot, O ether-
ized flash of childhood—swarm
of chemicals murmuring together
to form empty sky, exposing
day’s blue dissolve from blue.
O bad 70s plaid sofas
& pearl snapshirts, costumes
fading like fisher-price cars
on washed-out lawns. O moon
boots without stars.
O family re-gathering as light-
seep, as grief. O ablation
& emulsion & actual moon—
you day-lurker, you—
balloon I imagine deflating
above our duplex—why the resistance?
Tell me who was in our living room
to capture this instant, whose hand
was shaking us into existence.
—Cori A. Winrock
http://bostonreview.net/poetry/2016-poetry-contest-winner-cori-winrock-judge-shane-mccrae
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FINISHING LINE PRESS CHAPBOOK OF THE DAY:
Grasp This Salt by Erin Kae
$14.99, paper
https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/grasp-this-salt-by-erin-kae/
Erin Kae’s poetry has been featured in Vinyl, Sonora Review, Crab Fat Magazine, Fugue, and elsewhere. She was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize by Aster(ix) Journal, and was selected as a finalist for the 2017 Locked Horn Press Publication Prize for their Read: Water anthology. She currently resides outside Boston, MA, where she splits her time writing poetry and children’s literature.
“Who are we to one another? Erin Kae‘s insistent, unsettling poems find ways to listen, to imagine and care, where most of us would pass by unthinking, would make a monster of a person. An unforgettable new voice has arrived.”
–Lytton Smith, author of My Radar Data Knows Its Thing (Foundlings Press, 2018)
“What does it mean to try to understand our own mother’s experience of mothering us? Or to try to understand another mother’s experience of mothering? Erin Kae’s unflinching debut imagines what it means to be a tourist in the city of a mother’s unimaginable decisions. Through a cycle of sharply wrought elegies, Kae investigates the complexity of motherhood through the closed car windows of the Susan Smith trials. The poems deftly refract Smith’s voice through time—before mothering, in the act of mothering, in the act of watching or not watching, in the moment of inventing the black man she blames (whose own voice rises to the surface of the lake through Cornelius Eady’s rendering of this racism). Nestled inside Smith’s crime is the voice of a mother of a toddler named Erin who keeps playing at drowning, alongside a Greek choir at the trial ready to let us in on the sins of a woman who would kill her own children. The poems in Grasp This Salt are beautiful and frightening, unafraid to grasp at miscarriage, murder, and whether we can make sense of violent death—to look behind the curtains left open “for neighbors to know there is nothing to see here.” Through intricate form Kae’s collection never loses sight of the ways the public might want a mother to suffer for her decisions, but she also knows that only the Lake Birds Observing Brutal Imagination “know best, who comes and goes from the lake.” These are fierce lyrics of violence and of mothering.”
–Cori A. Winrock, author of Little Envelope of Earth Conditions (Alice James, forthcoming)
RESERVE YOUR COPY TODAY
PREORDER SHIPS MAY 10, 2019
https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/grasp-this-salt-by-erin-kae/ #FLP #poetry #chapbook
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2003 | Text and Image
The Art Library's 2003 annual spring student exhibition in honor of Clarence Ward's birthday was entitled "Text and Image" continuing themes from last fall's Richard Minsky "Bill of Rights" and illuminated medieval manuscript shows in the Main Library. All expressions and investigations (e.g., paintings, artists' books, drawings, prints, sculpture, creative writing, poems, etc.) exploring or inspired by the interrelationship of text and image were eligibale for inclusion in this show. The opening for the show was on Monday, March 10th, 2003 at 4:30 p.m. in the Clarence Ward Art Library. Authors read their work and there were gallery talks. The show continued through the 2003 Commencement weekend. During the Art Library Open House artists and authors had an opportunity to discuss their work with visiting alumni and parents.
The exhibit featured artwork and poetry by Oberlin College students Emma Blose, Laura Fong Cline, Shelley Goldman, Ryan E. Holman, Mollie Hosmer-Dillard, Claire Nereim, Elissa Papendick, Jessie Perlik, Rachel Schaffran, Madeleine Stern, Cori A. Winrock, and Anna Wolfson, as well as area high school students Bill Anderson, Eddie D’Agostino, Mary C. Findley, and Rachel Washburn.
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In Place Podcast: Cori A. Winrock
Yes, you get another In Place Podcast this week. Today we feature the amazing Cori A. Winrock.
Our eleventh episode of the In Place Podcast features poems from Cori A. Winrock’s July set at Eastern Point Lit House in Gloucester, MA. When we asked Margaret Young to read she suggested Cori join her and we were totally wowed.
If you host readings and would like them to be featured in the podcast, contact Jenn Monroe.
In Place Podcast Episode 11: Cori A. Winrock
Recorded July 12, Eastern Point…
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Anterior of a Razed Room
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"Each morning I awake: my grief is up
already, an early
riser. My steps slush through.
I you
(arctics and over-
coats) metered up a hill,
breath pressed inside
out. My heart is.
Is is.
My heart in the language
of the left half. Patience, adieu."
Cori A. Winrock, from "I You"
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Some days no one is my mother
but my mother. & my mother is no
longer a distance that cinches itself—
the flush on flush of the new
fever, the baby’s first floral-
heat nursed down—with a telephone
call. I could not gather, could not
collect your voice in fits
in tinder in sleep. So the flowerbeds:
empty. The endless ringing: all hesitation,
no digging. I wake to bury
you again, stumbling
for the rotary receiver on its vine—
swinging from the wall of a house
I left burning-small: votive
light throwing off no sound.
In the yard the petals all flame
& lantern. In the crib
my daughter moro-s herself
in heartbeat cycles, limbs sparked
apart with shock. The smoke of us both
rises: like a moon: like a pulse. & I am
alone in our surveillance, our time-
lapsed fevering burst into a single bloom
: the resurrected echo-light of your ambulance
dissolving through the walls.
– Cori A. Winrock, All By Myself I Am a Huge Camellia
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Portrayal, X-Ray | Cori A. Winrock
We snag cabs and drift through the middle
of the night. The city a cathedral
we are ushered into, press our ears against—
listen for the sea sliding inside
its shell: the hushed shuffle
of feet across a pearling
asphalt nave, elapsed traffic, or blank radio
frequencies. The windows seal us in
with the damp heat of our breathing.
Outside the lakes lace themselves with ice.
In this particular depiction we play at staying
mum, at detecting the pre-blush
blush, at transforming
the stray flock of ambulance lights burst live
into a charm of humming-
birds. If it's romantic to architect a thing
back into its bones—imagine us in ruins
from the start.
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Naïve with sweetness, the bees hive-crowd: sugar
swarm the maraschino factory, siphon redness like a sunset
until zaftig—honeystomachs lining silk with cordial
as we triage for backrooms where we can slough off
wintering: feed our own bodies so full with blood and bees
that we might re-dress ourselves in the welting. Skin-close
or closing: thrum like a barebulb-light; the sudden tightness
of teeth next to teeth. Dear red wet match-sting
in our mouths, taste we’ve been tendering-for.
How speech is a pheromone
that incites the alarm. And our throats—: as closed
as cherries. As undivine. No grief
in the swelling. In the numb bulbs left to be carried
off from the hive. Such a crushed
and candied liqueur: husk of bees and us, almost
unrecognizable in the plush housing of dyes—
blushed to a fevering, garmentless.
– Cori A. Winrock, Anaphylaxis as Apotheosis
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Elegy as Yichud Room
The mountains wallpaper the city
in snow, in not-another-
word: O faceted animals
in whiteshift, what mars-scape
is this? Our bodies pinned
open into the last kind blues
of Nyquil. I have nothing to say
about what the moon is doing
now, or to this unendingly ghostless
house. Or to you, who have taken
to recreating our expected life
in diminuendos—tiny us
with newborns, tiny us with so little
light—for shame for shame.
To reappear in the salt
lake and to know the right
meaning—. What is a house
but a syllable that accumulates
our fleece. Adonai, the moon is cutting
its teeth on our bedroom floor.
How underwhelming its apprehensive
face, how glozing.
Adonai, we’ve been sleeping
on top of the covers like dollhouse
lovers. I’ve untucked all seven doors
from their hinges—laid them down
as benedictions. Love, let us unbreak
and unbreak every lightbulb left
in its threads, as if we might be allowed
to pass through these walls, circle
back to the before of each other.
Cori A. Winrock
http://bostonreview.net/poetry/2016-poetry-contest-winner-cori-winrock-judge-shane-mccrae
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"First heart container in the ribcage.
Shiver down; plunge the spine. I loop my lungs
on string and swing them around: lung to lung.
Second heart container in the hand.
Shake against; snow the bone. I clasp my fingers
on ice and bite its melt: marrow to lung.
Third heart container in the artery.
Splice despite; efface the breath. I tie my cells
onto memory and worry: platelet to lung.
Fourth heart container in the mouth.
Sink in; swallow the throat. I tongue my name
over words and amend: sick love to lung.
Fifth heart container in the desert.
Siphon dry; crack the body. I lace my voice
through sand and descend: empty core to lung."
-Cori A. Winrock, "Descending to Level"
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