Fall 2020 Featured Artist: Felicia Van Bork

I believe I must be painting this way because I am in revolt against the unconsidered opinions expressed by people in the news these days. There is an aching need for empathy and tenderness in the world and I am teaching myself these things as fast as I can. Felicia van Bork, March 28, 2020

Comment 17   2019, oil on canvas, 14 x 11 in.

Comment 17
2019, oil on canvas, 14 x 11 in.

Felicia Van Bork

Born in Toronto, Canada, Felicia van Bork completed her undergraduate studies at the Ontario College of Art and Design University and earned her MFA at the Massachusetts College of Art and Design at the Fine Arts Work Center, Provincetown, MA.

The artist's paintings and collages are widely collected in the United States and Canada and Felicia has been the recipient of numerous residency fellowships, including from the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and McColl Center for Art + Innovation, where she manages the printmaking studio. In the summer of 2017, she was a Visiting Artist at the American Academy in Rome.

But what I really love is her series of How To collages…

How to Turn the Moon  2014, collage on panel, 36 x 36 in.

How to Turn the Moon
2014, collage on panel, 36 x 36 in.

How to Beckon  2015, collage on panel, 36 x 36 in.

How to Beckon
2015, collage on panel, 36 x 36 in.


Watch Felicia van Bork discuss her collage process!


How to Divide and Multiply  2015, collage on panel, 36 x 36 in.

How to Divide and Multiply
2015, collage on panel, 36 x 36 in.

Recommended Reading: Lauren Russell's Descent

Lauren Russell’s Descent came out from Tarpaulin Sky Press last month—a gorgeous hybrid book that I count among the best recent poetry collections.

From Tarpaulin Sky:
In 2013, poet Lauren Russell acquired a copy of the diary of her great-great-grandfather, Robert Wallace Hubert, a Captain in the Confederate Army. After his return from the Civil War, he fathered twenty children by three of his former slaves. One of those children was the poet’s great-grandmother. Through several years of research, Russell would seek the words to fill the diary’s omissions and to imagine the voice of her great-great-grandmother, Peggy Hubert, a black woman silenced by history. The result is a hybrid work of verse, prose, images and documents that traverses centuries as the past bleeds into the present.

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Read this great Poets & Writers
interview with Lauren (in which I get a little shout out).

New Poems in Issue 18 of Sugar House Review!

I’m honored that two poems from my new manuscript, “October Renga” and “Boston Under Water by 2100,” are in Issue 18 of Sugar House Review.

Here’s a sneak peak of the new issue—featuring poems by Rebecca Aronson, Steven Cramer, Thomas Moore, and others.

And much thanks to the editors for nominating “Boston Under Water by 2100” for a 2019 Pushcart Prize.

Currently Reading: Rose Alcalá's MyOTHER TONGUE

I am especially digging the prose poems in Rose Alcalá‘s MyOTHER TONGUE (Futurepoem, 2017). They are haunting and illuminating, and leave my mind hanging in multiple imagined places. Which is always something to admire in a poem: its ability to shift me elsewhere.

AT HOBBY LOBBY

She tosses a bolt of fabric into the air. Hill country, prairie, a horse trots there. I say three yards,
and her eyes say more: What you need is guidance, a hand that can zip scissor through cloth.
You need a picture of what you’ve lost. To double the width against the window for the gathering.
Consider where you sit in the morning (transparency’s appealing, except it blinds us before day’s
begun). How I long to captain that table, to repeat in a beautiful accent a customer’s request. My
mother cut threads from buttons with her teeth, inquiring with a finger in the band if it dug into
the waist. Or kneeled against her client and pulled a hem down to a calf to cool a husband’s collar.
I can see this in my sleep, among notions. My bed was inches from the sewing machine, a dress on
the chair weeping its luminescent frays. Sleep was the sound of insinuation, a zigzag to keep holes
receptive. Or awakened by a backstitch balling under the foot. A needle cracking? Blood on a white
suit? When my baby’s asleep I write to no one and cannot expect a response. The fit’s poor, always.
No one wears it out the door. But fashions continue to fly out of magazines like girls out of windows.
Sure, they are my sisters. Their machines, my own. The office from which I wave to them in their
descent has uneven curtains, made with my own pink and fragile hands.

Currently Reading: Lauren Russell

I've recently been enjoying the fabulous Lauren Russell's What's Hanging on the Hush. My favorite thing about Lauren's poetry is her keen attention to musicality, a word sound skill at which not every poet is so deft. Consider the following example:


Throat to Ink, Ink to Fin

When I was ten,
my class went whale
watching off the California Coast.
I remember that time as worried
and tall, salt wind halo of frizz
gangly tip toe tripping
toward the rail, alone,
under my breath singing
"Shenandoah." I imagined
a soundtrack to my life, railed
in vibrato strain of bent-back
wind. The hiccup hack, leaning in.

My student writes an essay
about " the loneliest whale" that sings
at a pitch no other whale can hear. (Pitched
into the waves, an ocean tent, bent.)
"But how do you know it's the loneliest?" I insist.

When I was nine, calluses
on my palms from monkey bars,
I sang No man can a hinder me
barring no note swung
vibrato lunge. But the end
of last summer hung
on a mockingbird song:
And the mockingbird
can sing like the crying
of a dove
, the note bent
around a long vowel
strain, and notes
stuck to a mirror, and ink
tripped in the glass, fluke
and flippers rising back.



 

And my favorite poem in the collection:
 

On Loneliness

I am lonely because I could not learn to be a body.
I was born upside down and could never balance on one foot.
I am lonely because there were too many cherry popsicles.
I was holding out for mango, and thus I missed the lesson on sucking up.
I was there for the lesson on ventriloquism: Be careful
when you transfer your voice to another. She might sell it on eBay.
He might dump it in the compost bin. You might be like the Little Mermaid,
lost outside your element, unable to speak to the Handsome Prince.
That is how I feel at parties, but I never had a singing lobster to help me adjust.
I am lonely because I shy away from lobsters.
I saw them crammed together in the supermarket tank, desperate with their pincers bound.
I was fourteen when I became a vegetarian. I was nine when I stopped watching TV.
I am lonely because I do not have a television.
When everyone talks about the latest reality show star, I say, "Who's that?"
and feel bored and superior. I was fifteen when I read Lolita in the bath--
an advantage of contact lenses, to be able to read in a room full of steam.
I am lonely because I stopped wearing contacts.
Some mornings someone steps onto the fire escape and empties a bucket
or bowl or bedpan or bamboo pot. I am always half asleep, and myopic
without my glasses I cannot tell if the dumper is a man, woman, child, or angel.
I am lonely because I never go to the window to find out.

AWP 2018

Good times at AWP 2018 in Tampa. Presented on a couple of panels. Visited with many old friends. And we introduced Berkeley to AWP! He did not like the bookfair.
 

The three-owl family with our friend, the awesome poet, Lauren Russell.

The three-owl family with our friend, the awesome poet, Lauren Russell.

Timothy Daniel Welch's Odd Bloom Seen from Space

Timothy Daniel Welch's prize-winning Odd Bloom Seen from Space is now available!

Here's what Publishers Weekly had to say:
“On what do we prop our lives and/ what if it can’t hold,” asks Welch in his tender, mysterious debut, a winner of the 2016 Iowa Poetry Prize. The props in question may be myth and memory, the book’s base elements, which Welch uses to tell new stories about intimacy and identity. Masculinity is a particular site of revision: the book begins with the loss of virginity rendered in Herculean terms—as a labor, even a slaughter, rather than a feat of bravura. Welch’s poems are about “skinny boys/ without a sense of butchery”—those for whom “honesty is a kind of/ solitude.” Such distance leaves his characters at the fringes of history, struggling to understand their place in it: “I don’t know/ how to collect each new// perspective,” Welch writes in the title poem, which opens with an astronaut’s description of the 9/11 attacks. But this remove also bestows vision, one that often makes the mundane life events the book recounts wonderfully unfamiliar. Welch sees snowballs as “brief comets/ smoldering// at my feet” and hears “Owls and their Michael Jackson/ hooting in the trees.” His work is at once cubist and confessional, aching and wry. Welch’s point-of-view, however eccentric, is an altogether welcome one.

 

 

"Leda Burning" featured in the New York Times Sunday Magazine!

A poem from Latest Volcano, "Leda Burning," will appear in the January 15, 2017 issue of the New York Times Sunday Magazine. How crazy is that?

The magazine's poetry editor, Matthew Zapruder, writes of the poem:

An ekphrastic poem considers a work of art. This poem is a sort of shadow ekphrastic, one that describes a painting at the moment it is burned, in order to freeze us in Leda’s eternal triple violation: by the swan god, by personified fire and by the terrible desire of the soldier, which can be consummated only by destruction. 

Illustration by R.O. Blechman

Illustration by R.O. Blechman