Two New Titles from DY∆D

DY∆D, Poetry

These two collections are absolute bangers. Quincy Lehr’s Guide to NYC and Nemo Hill’s My Mother’s Legs are Weeping are pressed, sharp and ready to order. You can find the PayPal links under the store tab. Huzzah—

_MG_7817 _MG_7804-2

Advertisements

Atwatergate— Former Members in Review

DY∆D, Occult, Photography, Poetry, Strange

A couple months have passed since the Former Members reading. So, we’ve had some time to reflect and put together an official archive—

The night before the reading was a banger, we had Marc, Quincy, Hannah and our boy Red over to our place in the hood. No one slept, really, except Han. We all had to be up early to cover the VHS party under the overpass on the eastside, trap and electro first thing is how we do. HH snapped a few flicks as we made our way through the goldenrod along the tracks.

P1220120

P1220134

After taking our obligatory photos from backstage and saying what’s up to OMEN, we dipped toward Cabot square, outside the Atwater Library, for a little park drinking. Classic MTL style. We ran into an old friend, Allen, don’t ask— what a gutter jewel. He took a real shine to HH, had to threaten him off the girl with my cast aluminium tripod. Glory.

P1220228

Around now is when the library should have been open as the first few people began to gather around the front doors. You all know what happened, and we’re not going to defame the Atwater Library crew or whatever. The security guard who mixed up his dates left a message the next day that was so sweetly pathetic that we instantly felt forgiveness in our wizened little hearts. The doors remained locked.

t7c6088 (1)

It eventually became apparent that we’d have to run this thing elsewhere. HH had done some recon finding a small, quiet park around back of the library. It seemed perfectly suited for our purposes. We exodused languorously to the second site.

P1220232-2

P1220236

We made six picnic tables into a v shape, set out the books, and let Jesse Chase get to the introductions. This is when the history begins, my friends. The reading started off with HH and I each doing a set. Then our boy Quincy Lehr took the grassy knoll and dropped gems on us as the sun set over the cityscape. The texture of the moment was expressed by this line from Q’s set:

“Yet, here tonight/ it’s slightly more abstract than black and white.”

John Wall Barger came through and hit us with a excerpt from his Book of Festus, and as he read Marc Di Saverio came and shared a cigarette behind the crowd. I remember him remarking that the reading had become something entirely different. How many of you ever leave a reading thinking about how resistance is essential to life? The arch stands by its tendency to fall.

t7c6107

At some point the authorities caught wind of our movements and told us we’d have to vacate as the grounds were considered private property. Dude, we’re DYAD. We can’t trespass, the city’s ours, na’mean. The fuck outta here with that shit! Anyways, I talked them into taking a “walk around the block” and we proceeded to hold court as the streetlights hummed on.

Things were really getting wound up now, here’s Ernest Hilbert’s account and reading:

“In the whirling dusk of the historic and truly mad reading outside of the Atwater Library in Montreal, as the police arrived in force to remove us just as I finished reading “The Gelding” to the gathered and growing crowd, I began frantically handing out copies of my book to people in the dark, since there’s no way a sale was going down in that situation and I was struck with a great streak of generosity and sense of freedom. Some insisted on paying me. One had no money on his person but pressed his card on me, introduced himself as a photographer, and told me he’d be happy to do my portrait before I left the city.” 

That photog is Richard Malouf, his work speaks for itself— this flick of Ernie, though…

t7c6171

At the end of the Hilbert set we got evicted. We had to post up live in the street for Marc’s closing set. Who can go after him anyways? At this point your boy was lit up like Christ’s nimbus— my apologies for the shaky video. Marc blazed his set hard, incanting in the dark street, raving to a slipshod crescent of bodies. This climax was epic as fuck.

t7c6189

This reading changed a lot of things for us and despite the obstacles, and more truly, because of them, it has become one of the dopest literary events MTL has ever witnessed. Who’s heard of a reading getting shut down by cops? That’s some mythic type shit right there, homies. DYAD wants to thank every single person who took part in this rite: poets, journalists, photographers, critics, the security guard who shit the bed on us, the cops that took a walk, the city itself. I left that reading going, “What the fuck was that!?”, and that is something very hard to do. We’ll close with a flick that Q Lehr captured on his phone. It expresses it all, peep game—

12038622_10153015188072096_4584556807287727444_o

Former Members Poetry Reading

DY∆D, Poetry

11057959_10152829853831920_25386849753956712_n

DYAD Presents FORMER MEMBERS, Saturday August 8th at the Atwater Library. This year’s line-up is without a doubt the best we’ve ever had and features some of the most accomplished poets of our generation. We’ve got Montreal’s own Carmine Starnino and Hannah Hackney on the bill, hard-hitting formalist Ernest Hilbert is representing Philly, Quincy Lehr out of NYC with refined vitriol in iambs— there are more names, but I don’t even need to drop them. If you’re in Montreal this weekend and you’re into poetry you’re slipping hard if you even consider missing this reading.

Poetry, Strange

Remember the times when you and the artists you respected were interested in having your work published in Poetry?

 

Fuck Stuck

 

Do I fuck you or hate you?
It feels wrong in every limb
But I do it anyway
’Cause it feels right when you’re in.

 

Your generosity is perverse
And confined to your bed
The only thing you’ve given me freely
Is head.

 

– Naomi Morris, in the July/August 2015 Issue

 

White Boots, 2014, by Rachel Louise Hodgson

Poetry

Sharp blank verse by Roxanna Bennett from the new edition of THE PURITAN — you never know who else you might find at such a venue.

 

I’m on an unbroken streak of never speaking,
to Stuart Ross though the spaces we share
are shrinking. The internet fits in my fist
but is larger than geography. We started

with a country, then city, I veered around him
on sidewalks where he sold his poetry. I had
no money then for words but respected his
all-weather commitment. It keeps collapsing,

neighbourhoods, parks, launches at bars.
Now we’re down to houses, rooms.
It’s not that I don’t want to talk to
Stuart Ross. Historically, in the decades

of my silent observation, he’s friendly,
accessible. I’m fine on Facebook, but
it’s complicated. Liking something,
a thumbs up, is the least amount

of social you can do. But acceptable.
We are satisfied with so little. Both
too much and hungry. I forget who
I am sometimes and have to hear a

poem to know. Anyone’s poem in another
voice not mine. I tried this trick with
Paul Vermeersch but he snapped my
streak by introducing himself. If you want

to go unseen never be early and alone.
Never speaking to Stuart Ross is like hoarding
unwatched Philip Seymour Hoffman films
so there’s some future thing to hope for.

It will keep narrowing, grouped in a living
room, crowded kitchen, cold porch, closet.
One day he’ll be on the other side of the
closed curtains that circle the dark bathtub

I live in, the hard enamel crusted with crumbs,
blanketed with books I never had a chance to read.
“Stuart Ross,” I’ll murmur finally. “Stuart Ross.”
“I’ve forgotten the bird. I can’t remember the sky.”

Poetry

DY∆D will be publishing a selection of poems by Peleg Held — here’s a taste:

 

A lone cetacean, believed to be either a Blue Whale or a Fin Whale, has been tracked and recorded in the Pacific since 1989: a singer heard, but never seen. The whale sings at a frequency unheard of for any known species. It has gone alone and unanswered, as far as we know, for decades.

52 Hertz

By fathomed sound we count you round
five thousand knots a year,
across trench and rift and otolith
we press our windwhipped ear

down, upon the blue womb wall,
and fashion what we hear—
a soul charcoaled on bulla bone,
an unmanned mind drawn near.

At every checkpoint monitored
from every spec of sphere,
unanswered cries come in from out.
The world’s a rumbling smear

of songs of lonely firsting-fire
and square-pegged bursts of queer
tolling under dark sea face,
each scrawling rawl a flare

appearing in the lower skies
to mark each mutineer
or call some flagging will to form,
some leaper to the shear.

Songs of lonely firsting fire
and square pegged burst of queer,
soundings all along the wall—
motherfuckers I am here.

Poetry

On the Twenty-fifth Anniversary of
John Lennon’s Murder

On the step behind the Holiday Inn,
Two Russians roamed up, bummed a cigarette,
While a third snuck up, struck me from behind.
I sprawled to asphalt. Then the boot came in.
I swung through the red, but it’s a good bet
I didn’t land one. The blackout was kind.
I woke knotted in blood-ruined sheets, startled:
Smashed, stamped and splintered to a numbed dazzle,
I spat back wads into the fuzzy sink.
One look in the mirror, my brain curdled.
I propped in the shower stall. Steam sizzled.
My hair loosed a sick swirl of sour pink.
They made off, grinning, with all I had: two
Dollars, five cigarettes, and my Zippo.

 

In Ernest Hilbert’s poetry there is a striking juxtaposition of formality and common language. Humorous, plain-spoken lines are followed by sharp and lilting images, reminiscent of Frost, which turn again to the raw confessional mode that recalls Lowell at his best. The effect is dazzling and poignant. Hilbert may be the presiding genius of contemporary formalism.

Poetry

Rarely do we hear/see such a minimalist, lyrical stance in modern poetry. Wendy Videlock has just dropped her third full length Slingshots and Plum Poems with Able Muse. She’s got poems placed in venues like Rattle and Poetry. There are few, in any age, that have woven spells as pure as these. Check out her work.

 

North of Mist

Just north of mist,
along the border,
half a color
from the water,

under the kiss
of shadow’s daughter,
(two breaths backward,
one word upward),

past the rumpled
terra cotta,
down the salve
of templed sorrow,

up the scales
of Bach, and Buddha,
down the moon
of broken solder,

through the eyes
of someone’s father,
in the grass

beside the water;

one part liar,
one part seer,
one part lyric,
one part scholar,

this is the walk
we come to wander,
one part illness,
one part healer.

 

First published in POETRY