Tag Archives: Carrie Oeding

New Review: Carrie Oeding’s Our List of Solutions

1 Dec

There is a new review of Carrie Oeding’s Our List of Solutions up at Boxcar Poetry Review written by Frank Montesonti.

Excerpt: 

Welcome to the neighborhood. Our List of Solutions by Carrie Oeding feels like an eccentric neighbor who shows up on your front porch with a pitcher of sangria and a plate of burnt sausages from the barbeque next door. And though we have been trained to act gruff and solitary, it’s a pleasant intrusion because this neighbor has great gossip and secretly, down deep, we are lonely and want a visitor.

Find the full review here.

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Tracey Knapp’s MOUTH — Available on SPD and Amazon

25 Aug

photo (12)

(poem from p. 77 of Tracey Knapp’s MOUTH, 42 Miles Press, 2015)

Tracey Knapp’s MOUTH is now available at AMAZON and SPD.

Click here for a sneak peek of the first couple of pages.

If you are in the California area, Tracey will be celebrating the release of her first book, MOUTH, Wednesday, September 9 at 7:00pm @ Bazaar Cafe. Tracey will read with two other local poet friends, Matthew Siegel and Xan Roberti. For more details please visit Bazaar Cafe or the official Facebook event page. (May need to be signed in to view.)

Other 42 Miles Press titles such as Allan Peterson’s PRECARIOUS, Betsy Andrews’ THE BOTTOM, and Carrie Oeding’s OUR LIST OF SOLUTIONS can be found here thanks to the great people at SPD.

Still have questions, comments, or concerns? Feel free to shoot us an e-mail, tweet, or look us up on Facebook.

A Review of Carrie Oeding’s Our List of Solutions 

31 Jul

As It Ought to Be

Carrie Oeding Our List of SolutionsA Review of Carrie Oeding’s Our List of Solutions

by Angie Mazakis

In a January 2010 blog post at HTMLGIANT, Elisa Gabbert, with the help of Mike Young*, cataloged popular “moves” in contemporary poetry, and the list, which is singular and far-reaching, is veracious in its deconstruction of the recent (and nearly-recent) ways in which poets’ work has attempted a unique voice. The list was undoubtedly welcomed by poetry’s readers and writers, corroborating our suspicions that certain repeated current devices may have become gimmick, especially if they are vulnerable to a collection of several examples and labeled as “moves.” At the same time, the list is somewhat dispiriting―all our word tricks exposed in one bill of misfare. (See #34 on Gabbert’s list: “Clipping or altering a cliché.”)

Carrie Oeding’s poems in Our List of Solutions, winner of the inaugural 42 Miles Press Poetry Award, transcend reliance on any of the…

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A FEW FAVORITES / Carrie Oeding

5 May

Interview with the Dickman twins, small excerpt and link . . .

 

Matthew: Everyone reading this should run and read Michael’s poem “Stations.” This poem has helped me sleep at night and then also kept me up until dawn. Right now, as far as my own contemporaries are concerned, I am excited about Bianca Stone, Roger Reeves, Dorothea Lasky, Heather Christle, Gary Jackson, and Carrie Oeding to name only a few.

from an interview with Matthew and Michael Dickman

Carrie Oeding featured in the Denver Quarterly

14 Feb

Here is a wonderful poem by Carrie Oeding that was featured in a recent issue of the Denver Quarterly.

 

Inside a Map of Arnold Schwarzeneggar’s Arm

 

I map my arm as if it can be a map, too.
I want to see my arm inside of his,
to arm wrestle for territory with his best arm, his younger one,
his arm that can’t move while I map mine inside.

I will never contain the secret to mind-blowing arms
within this map of my arm inside his, but every map has resources.
To know my house, I make a map of all of its blue.
To understand my potential,
I make a map of tomorrow and navigate it when the real day
               happens,
but my map and the real day never match.

How to approach tomorrow takes a long time.
About the same time it takes to find everything blue in my house,
which is not as long as it takes to build up great arms.
For something that requires a lot of time, pumping iron really lacks
               mystery.
You either work on your arms, or you don’t—you know how it goes.

I love the map of my arm inside Arnold’s, because there is nowhere
               to go.
Like being in a room built entirely for blue things. Like building a
               house, a tiny house just around the top of my house, around
               the weather vane, where you go up and visit and just look at it,
               without the weather to direct it.

 

* poem from Denver Quarterly, Vol. 48, No. 2, 2014.

Carrie Oeding on Connotation Press

12 Nov

Carrie has a few new poems up over at Connotation Press

 

The Roped Years
 
 
After the age of disconnection came the age of connection.

One couple tied each end of a three-foot rope around a wrist. They connected.

They touched each other less. They touched each other more. They pretended not to know each other. They decided not to know each other. They decided not to touch. They touched. They found their rules. They broke them. They danced.

They worked from home, which was convenient, that this worked out. They weren’t trying to destroy their lives or anything.

Some evenings he sketched her. She drew over it.
They made sentences as long as the rope.

This wasn’t competitive or a sedative, an adjective or a noun.
This wasn’t, How do you go to the bathroom? Wasn’t kink. Wasn’t exhibition.

Could this be about anything else than intimacy?

Whether the other ate or not, they never dined alone.

They didn’t talk one day, all day, then a few days, seeing if they could read each other’s minds. I am trying to read you. I am trying to read you! It became a line for awhile,

but the rope, always one.
A line of what to do, not what to say.

The rope not as telephone string or psychic cord.
Not a symbol of intimacy.
Not a connection through confessions, obsessions, secrets, mindreading.

They used the rope to lasso each other.
They stood apart and made fractions.
The rope as border, this side and that side, on the bed,
across the shower, on the supermarket floor.

Other people thought the couple was stupid, which brought these other people closer together.

 

* poem courtesy of Connotation Press.