Saturday, August 31, 2019

Mark thy calendar …

Leonard Gontarek

Fri, Aug 30, 7:58 PM (14 hours ago)
to editordouglas.witmer
Poetry In Common and

The Green Line Café Poetry Series On Locust

are honored to celebrate
the posthumous publication

of More Here Than Light:
The Selected Poems of A.V. Christie

This invitation is extended to all.

“A.V. Christie took great care with her poems and so
she took great care of us.” LG

A.V. Christie (1963-2016) was the author of Nine Skies (University of Illinois Press), which won the National Poetry Series; The Housing, winner of the McGovern Prize (Ashland Poetry Press); and the chapbooks The Wonders (Seven Kitchens Press) and And I Began to Entertain Doubts (Folded Word Press).  Her poems have appeared in Crazyhorse, Poetry, Commonweal, AGNI, Ploughshares, The Iowa Review, Prairie Schooner and many other reviews. She was a recipient of grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Pennsylvania and Maryland State Arts Councils and was a visiting writer at Villanova and LaSalle universities, Bryn Mawr College, Goucher College, the University of Maryland and Penn State Abington, as well as a Poet-in-the Schools.

The Poetry of A.V. Christie will be read by

Taije Silverman * Alix Christie *

Nathalie Anderson * Alyson Shore Adler

Hosted by Leonard Gontarek

Wednesday, September 11, 2019,
5:30-7:30 PM

(Please note the address, there are
  other Green Line Café locations.)

     This Event Is Free

     More Here Than Light
     will be available for sale

Corn Maze by A.V. Christie

I heard the next voice over:
Think small it said. Think small.
Through the halls, the walls of corn,
I heard how the voice was held together
by its heritage of fear
and an inescapable sound of wings.
I had tried also always to flee—
the desire that rises and falters unceremoniously
Now I was in the middle with a tall flag
and a poor diagram shedding no light,
crosshatched hay strewn on the path.
It felt as though we all were the remnant
of some great trauma. Wandering.
One voice later, at the two hour mark,
I heard a father: Shut up or I’ll rip your tongue out.
This was maybe too near the center part of our map.
(Where we’d come to again.)
And I’d been one who’d tried always to position
herself at the edge of a field.
I thought we would simply go in and come out.
But here was density, tunnels leading back
to a childhood, its basic cosmology of annihilation.
Oh, this rustling and reliable sequence
of panic—I wondered who could I really be
without it?

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