Tag Archives: Bill Rasmovicz

Gross Ardor giveaway on GoodReads

29 Oct

Gross Ardor

We’ll be giving away 5 copies of Bill Rasmovicz’s Gross Ardor during the month of November through our GoodReads page. Please follow us there and keep an eye out for the giveaway launch on November 1st.

https://www.goodreads.com/42MilesPress

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Pictures from Bill’s reading

23 Oct

A few pictures from Bill Rasmovicz’s reading at IUSB on October 17th, 2013…

David and Bill

David Dodd Lee and Bill Rasmovicz hosting a Q&A after the reading.

Bill and Bobby

Bill Rasmovicz signing a copy of Gross Ardor for Bobby Meyer-Lee.

Bill and Rachel

Bill Rasmovicz signing a copy of Gross Ardor for Rachel Barrett.

Hear Bill Rasmovicz Read

8 Oct

In anticipation of Bill’s reading at Indiana University South Bend next week, check out three print-with-audio poems up at Clade Song.

Bill Rasmovicz reading at IUSB

1 Oct

bill

42 Miles Press author Bill Rasmovicz will be reading poems from his latest book Gross Ardor as part of the Indiana University South Bend English Department Fall Event Series on Thursday, October 17th, at 7:30pm. The reading will be on the Weikamp 3rd floor bridge.

Bill's cover

“Perhaps Gross Ardor is what happens in a world bent on repeating the same thoughts, same horrors, and the same old consumer driven . . . if not madness, then despondency, enough to insure madness is always nearby, well within earshot, aghast, and not quietly saying what it would say. Gross Ardor goes out there beautifully insisting no, that was just one of our favorite sons trying to be divisive again. When studied long enough, all things acquire human form .. HAIL, AMERICA, VICTORIOUS! . . . You were the animal they warned you about.” —Peter Richards

IT’S HARD TO BELIEVE IN THE SOUL

The little hairs in the lungs rust.
It is hard to imagine wind.
What is emptiness? A flower?
Whosoever’s body is flush with the world is a god.

Where water pools in the shade your reflection trembles.
The woman on the balcony, you imagine her from yesterday.
Vines spill from banister to cement and you swear

the baby’s eyelashes are silk, the river
tons of effluvia at once.
If anything, the soul is a series of invisible arches, mass
without weight, the smallest sense of moon-colored fortitude.

A ladder reaches the roof and keeps going.
The woman, she believes she is bread.
You too believe you are bread, that if anything
the flower is born inside out.

In the mind wild grasses pant and fold.
The broken colloquy of a hammer, thirst of trees
in your blood. The blue thread
you ease from your shirt to stitch air to air.

* from Gross Ardor, 42 Miles Press, 2013.

Poems of the Week – Bill Rasmovicz

20 Sep

THREE POEMS BY BILL RASMOVICZ

THE EVIDENCE

The air choked with cottonwood dander
and tranquilizer blue.
From the crevice of a rock wall, a fist of wildflowers
sucker-punching the nothing.
People toting cameras and beers

equaling some inebriated form of truth-equals-beauty.
In the broken cathedral
a windowless window frames the notion that
what’s gone is gone, evidence
that evidence of ourselves sometimes suggests otherwise.

In a field behind, a child runs, hair flagging the calm,
her face apple-red and the stinger
still in her heel.
The imprint she leaves in the grass someone
later says must have been a small deer’s.

YOU CAN ALMOST SEE THE OCEAN FROM HERE

To differentiate between fire and flame
one must offer the self.

Sebastian, he let the arrows pierce him into ecstasy.
At least that’s what Gozzoli revealed–
that perma-grin, that attitude exuded in the astute
pitch of his hip.

Despite our capacity to outshine the godhead himself,
the body is to be spent.
Any imaginable Shangri-La then

is just an incarnation of someone else’s Gulag.
So it is, that the ethics of desire need not apply
for chemical warfare,

that, leg gashed, the man perennially seeking change
outside the drugstore smiles wider than you.

What are any of us a bad dream couldn’t set straight,
a day in the mines?
From the moment of our outset it was known,

doubt is a stone you swallow, rain
a multiplication by many zeros, and the hip or
spine is always the first to go.

And all you’re inspired to do is catch up with your
couch and drown in a video of the ocean
on your ocean-sized television.

Keep believing you are elsewhere.
Keep forgetting air has weight.

An empire will pull itself into existence by
the straps of its own two boots.
The beard can grow so thick
you can no longer force sustenance through it.

OVER CONVERSATION

Not everything dreams.
By the time the arsenal is built, it is expired.

Someone is always seeking an ethos to bleed.
Nausea occurs even via placebo.
In this life, you must have the tenacity of a tick
with mammoth tusks.

Still, a leaf grazing the pavement mimics
a door creaking open. Eventually, the mystery
of being alone consumes itself.
There are no other eras.

Filed away as memory, memory dissipates
into atmosphere. Then why shouldn’t speech
from one latitude to another,
between us,
appropriate the muscularity of clouds?

What throbs in the bushes is not a bird,
but bird-like, neither gravity nor mystique.
Something pulls us so,

and closer to admiration for the tirelessness
of weeds, for the falling world.

* all poems from newly released Gross Ardor, 42 Miles Press, 2013.

Purchase at SPD or Amazon.

Bill Rasmovicz on Verse Daily

11 Sep

Read Bill’s poem In Ripe Wilderness on Verse Daily today.

Purchase a copy of Gross Ardor at SPD or Amazon.

Bill Rasmovicz’s Gross Ardor out now!

1 Sep
Bill's cover

Winner of the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award, Bill Rasmovicz’s second full-length book of poems, Gross Ardor, focuses on a faith in the alchemy of the imagination. The book is post-apocalyptic in tone, but its incantatory rhythms and perceptual particularities, as they unfold line by line, create a continuously vibrant sense of the phenomenological, the subconscious as a loosely associative narrative that feels, one might say, breathed into existence. It is a visionary and transformative work in which the musicality of language becomes inseparable from the thinking that creates it, and the reader merges with this ongoing depiction of whatever might be said to constitute the world, a voice so urgent and fluid we become one with the book’s central guiding consciousness. Gross Ardor is a truly mesmerizing performance.

“With a nearly archaeological enthusiasm for the layeredness of language, perception, and memory, Bill Rasmovicz’s Gross Ardorexcavates the groove canals, pulls up the faceplates, lets the depth-charges blossom. These poems have surprise-fight in them. They have guts. They erupt. They go the surgical distance all along the horizon and even out beyond it—’implying you in everything’—making way for a soul, then walking you through it.” — Matt Hart

Purchase at SPD or Amazon.

IT’S HARD TO BELIEVE IN THE SOUL

The little hairs in the lungs rust.
It is hard to imagine wind.
What is emptiness? A flower?
Whosoever’s body is flush with the world is a god.

Where water pools in the shade your reflection trembles.
The woman on the balcony, you imagine her from yesterday.
Vines spill from banister to cement and you swear

the baby’s eyelashes are silk, the river
tons of effluvia at once.
If anything, the soul is a series of invisible arches, mass
without weight, the smallest sense of moon-colored fortitude.

A ladder reaches the roof and keeps going.
The woman, she believes she is bread.
You too believe you are bread, that if anything
the flower is born inside out.

In the mind wild grasses pant and fold.
The broken colloquy of a hammer, thirst of trees
in your blood. The blue thread
you ease from your shirt to stitch air to air.

* from Gross Ardor, 42 Miles Press, 2013, just released.

Critics on Bill Rasmovicz’s first book, published by Alice James Books:

“Bill Rasmovicz gives us the world in fine detail. City life, shoreline, night, loss and its shadow, desire—these come to us through an intelligence fully attuned to metaphor’s striking shifts from sight to insight. This is lyric poetry at its best, fully accomplished, probing, deeply felt, with delicate wit and language—oh the language!—stunning enough to pass Miss Dickinson’s test.”
—Betsy Sholl

“The clear intensity of the visionary requires stillness, not high speeds. And there is a restlessness at the heart of such stillness that Bill Rasmovicz’s first book gets at more exquisitely—with a voice that can bear it—than any I’ve read in years. His surreal practices are humanizing faith-keepings with the metamorphic, the elemental, the actual.”
—William Olsen