George Farrah reads from The Low Pouring Stars
These are the poems you would expect from a poet who is also a painter, perhaps best described by George himself: When I can not talk I write, talking again. I don t know. The image of a heart under a glacier the ancient frozen person, undetected eons still there how did they talk, write warm themselves. Did they imagine their children in the future buried in ice as they would be . . . trying to talk, to write . . . trying to not die on the ice Is this the space where they, we, live in the talking in the writing in the wondering and fearing, in the spaces between us untaught when loving hands touch us all space is born?
Jillian M. Phillips reads from Pretty the Ugly
Pretty the Ugly, Jillian M. Phillips’ collection of poems, poses with its very title the question of whether the contained poems will center on the ways we see the world, or the means and methods we use to manipulate ourselves in order to look better to those who see us. From the first poem’s last phrase—“I forgive you”—it becomes clear, however, that this chapbook will neither merely contemplate nor cut skin-deep, that the critical question it asks of its reader it will also ask of itself: how do we damage ourselves when we pretty the ugly?