There's a poem here, at Baltimore Review. Click on my picture.
My memory is bad, and I'm not paying attention, so some
of these are redundant, I know. I'm waiting for a poem about
the conceptual artist John Baldesarri to appear in Cimarron Review. "The Purge," and "Epistemological," and "Magnetic
Handholding" are yet to come in Whiskey Island. Diagram
will publish "Watering the Cannabis" soon. "The Other World"
will appear in Thin Air soon. Two, sort-of, prose poems
will appear in Chattahoochee Review, one called "Blood."
It's quite long. I can't recall the name of the other one. In fact
most of these I had to look up. And I know I'm forgetting several
places. It's not hubris--it's brain deterioration I think . . . Or
something . . .
And, no kidding--the brain is a leaky bag--I forgot to mention The Nation. Something (no, not, something, a poem called
"Recipe) will appear there any day now, word has it.
The new version of this poem, with only a working
title, like many lately, is too long of line, so doesn't fit
here, and it's not worth puzzling out a translation in order to
make it fit. So here is the placeholder. The sun's gleaming
on the surface of the painted ground.
A review of The Nervous Filaments has just appeared,
written by Kay Cosgrove, in Gulf Coast. The review is here.
Here is the second paragraph:
Lee plays on our collective emotions in The Nervous Filaments,
evoking in us a sense of something we knew in a previous life,
always bringing us back to this mysterious, and often eerie, “she”
who haunts the entire collection. “She” is washing your hair,
“and then she’s under you, / smelling of sheetrock, stained by
antibiotics” (“The Seventies”), until suddenly “she” is searching
your palm for a lifeline (“Tachycardia”). Whoever “she” is, she
moves from poem to poem, graceful and terrifying. Her placement
within the collection helps ground the reader in Lee’s world
because “she” acts as the guide, leading us through the anxious
verse that would be completely unknowable without her.
Strangely, “she” herself is unknowable, a series of contradictions,
the sometimes-lover, the sometimes-monster, the constant ghost at
our side: in her we find a piece of ourselves. We become her, if
only for a line or two, and thus we become part of the story, no
longer mere readers but actors in this strange and nervous world.
Author of eight books of poems, most recently The Coldest Winter on Earth (Marick Press). Also author of The Nervous Filaments (Four Way Books, 2010) and Orphan, Indiana (Akron, 2010). 2010
also saw the release of Sky Booths in the Breath Somewhere, the Ashbery Erasure Poems (BlazeVox), as well as The Other Life: the Selected Poems of Herbert Scott,(Carnegie Mellon)which I edited. My new book, Animalities, will be published in 2014 by Four Way Books.