As spring begins its long crawl out from the snow, I find myself thinking a lot about what is under there. What are the things that pop up first? How do they shape the landscape as it grows and changes. Full disclosure: I love winter and snow. But this thought had been intriguing me as of late, so I started to think of my writing in terms of some of the things that are under there. And while I will always chalk up life and curiosity as stronger forces than direct creative influence, I wanted to give a shout out to some works I feel have inhabited my "beneath the snow" in meaningful ways.
Books of Poetry
Simko, Daniel. The Arrival.
York, Jake Adam. Murder Ballads.
Teague, Alexandra. Mortal Geography.
Levis, Larry. Elegy.
Anonymous Old English. The Exeter Book.
Calvocoressi, Gabrielle. The Last Time I Saw Amelia Earhardt.
Komunyakaa, Yusef. Neon Vernacular.
Wright, Franz. Ill Lit.
Rosko, Emily. Proprockery.
Neurnberger, Kathryn. Rag & Bone.
Olds, Sharon. Satan Says.
McQuerry, Claire. Lacemakers.
Range, Melissa. Horse & Rider.
McKee, Marc. What Apocalypse?
Lately, in journals, I have also been digging the work of Kimberly Grey and Gerardo Mena.
Books of Prose
Vonnegut, Kurt. Bluebeard and Mother Night and Timequake.
DeLillo, Don. Americana.
Krauss, Nicole. History of Love.
O'Brien, Tim. In the Lake of the Woods.
Robbins, Tom. Skinny Legs and All.
Diaz, Junot. Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.
Anderson, Sherwood. Winesburg, Ohio.
Gaiman, Neil. American Gods.
Walter, Jess. The Zero.
Cooper, Susan. The Grey King.
Coover, Robert. The Public Burning.
Bradbury, Ray. The Martian Chronicles.
Brown, Karen. Pins & Needles.
Crooked Fingers. Breaks in the Armor.
Weakerthans. Left & Leaving.
Hot Water Music. Forever and Counting.
Jets to Brazil. Orange Rhyming Dictionary.
Guided by Voices. Under the Bushes, Under the Stars.
Tom Waits. Heartattack and Vine.
Tori Amos. From the Choirgirl Hotel.
Ugly Casanova. Sharpen Your Teeth.
So I think these works will be, in some ways, helping to sculpt the landscape of my new collection as it grows. I never can tell which ways, but I can sense many of these things underneath.