#matthew minicucci

[heart-songs]

Nostalgia

by Matthew Minicucci

The worst part of it is that I’ve forgotten your face. Or the idea that each tide was a slender finger pulling at these knots, loose end then left to work on another day. Lost at sea, love is a logogram: less than, fewer still, a word made nothing more than cauter-mark on starboard hard, port I left all those years ago. Sometimes, I dream of my own (sorry, our own) great-rooted bed, shaped from something still alive. Eurycleia means “broad fame” and that’s a sandy-pit, if you ask me. It’s an island beautiful as a scarred oxen’s back, sowed with lash and eyes. I saw something of you the other day in this glass of magic, vase filled with smoke’s children. There’s that dress you wore, I said to no one in particular. There’s that blue that never bled to red wine, dark in its never-nocked-arrow waves. And suddenly you’re the moon, again, lost in reflection’s sea. I follow the light to nowhere as I wander through the sipped sleeve. Because. Because you walked the stairs that night before I left, after we heard the rain spill like grain from a split sack. You walked in front of me, just above the cochineal stars, bright bald ember, fashioned still spear. I think of nothing else but you. It’s true. It’s the worst part of forgetting, all this remembering.

[cyberdank]

Nostalgia by Matthew Minicucci

[verseberger]

[Preface: Apologies for the delay in posting and recording! It’s been a week. Here’s a poem that makes me ponder our connections and our yearnings. What does it make you ponder? Please share in the comments.]

This week’s poem is “On Conversations” by Matthew Minicucci. Call 401-900-1090 to listen. Recordings stay up for one week, after which time they vanish like so much starshine.

[ukdamo]

Nostalgia

Matthew Minicucci

The worst part of it is that I’ve forgotten your face. Or the idea that each tide was a slender finger pulling at these knots, loose end then left to work on another day. Lost at sea, love is a logogram: less than, fewer still, a word made nothing more than cauter-mark on starboard hard, port I left all those years ago. Sometimes, I dream of my own (sorry, our own) great-rooted bed, shaped from something still alive. Eurycleia means “broad fame” and that’s a sandy-pit, if you ask me. It’s an island beautiful as a scarred oxen’s back, sowed with lash and eyes. I saw something of you the other day in this glass of magic, vase filled with smoke’s children. There’s that dress you wore, I said to no one in particular. There’s that blue that never bled to red wine, dark in its never-nocked-arrow waves. And suddenly you’re the moon, again, lost in reflection’s sea. I follow the light to nowhere as I wander through the sipped sleeve. Because. Because you walked the stairs that night before I left, after we heard the rain spill like grain from a split sack. You walked in front of me, just above the cochineal stars, bright bald ember, fashioned still spear. I think of nothing else but you. It’s true. It’s the worst part of forgetting, all this remembering.

[asmallmadhope]

Nostalgia by Matthew Minicucci

"The worst part of it is that I’ve forgotten your face. Or the idea that each tide was a slender finger pulling at these knots, loose end then left to work on another day. Lost at sea, love is a logogram: less than, fewer still, a word made nothing more than cauter-mark on starboard hard, port I left all those years ago. Sometimes, I dream of my own (sorry, our own) great-rooted bed, shaped from something still alive. Eurycleia means “broad fame” and that’s a sandy-pit, if you ask me. It’s an island beautiful as a scarred oxen’s back, sowed with lash and eyes. I saw something of you the other day in this glass of magic, vase filled with smoke’s children. There’s that dress you wore, I said to no one in particular. There’s that blue that never bled to red wine, dark in its never-nocked-arrow waves. And suddenly you’re the moon, again, lost in reflection’s sea. I follow the light to nowhere as I wander through the sipped sleeve. Because. Because you walked the stairs that night before I left, after we heard the rain spill like grain from a split sack. You walked in front of me, just above the cochineal stars, bright bald ember, fashioned still spear. I think of nothing else but you. It’s true. It’s the worst part of forgetting, all this remembering."

[thesefevereddays]

Nostalgia

By Matthew Minicucci

The worst part of it is that I’ve forgotten your face. Or the idea that each tide was a slender finger pulling at these knots, loose end then left to work on another day. Lost at sea, love is a logogram: less than, fewer still, a word made nothing more than cauter-mark on starboard hard, port I left all those years ago. Sometimes, I dream of my own (sorry, our own) great-rooted bed, shaped from something still alive. Eurycleia means “broad fame” and that’s a sandy-pit, if you ask me. It’s an island beautiful as a scarred oxen’s back, sowed with lash and eyes. I saw something of you the other day in this glass of magic, vase filled with smoke’s children. There’s that dress you wore, I said to no one in particular. There’s that blue that never bled to red wine, dark in its never-nocked-arrow waves. And suddenly you’re the moon, again, lost in reflection’s sea. I follow the light to nowhere as I wander through the sipped sleeve. Because. Because you walked the stairs that night before I left, after we heard the rain spill like grain from a split sack. You walked in front of me, just above the cochineal stars, bright bald ember, fashioned still spear. I think of nothing else but you. It’s true. It’s the worst part of forgetting, all this remembering.

[pendraegon]

[ID of the poem "ακμων (anvil)" by Matthew Minicucci:

on the left hand side the poem reads:

accusative, of course—direct object / threnody, in the Greek, meek-sounding / loss; smallest piece of the mind’s deep blue / sound here, fettered away in a forge— / I admit my fear of this inevitable loss, / antiphon song, over and over, refrain’s / control—I mourn the incus, anvil in / cudere, beat or strike, which seems right / in the soupy spring of day—nothing / left like a sparkling bit of flecked lead / some new knotty soot, interrupting the / sea just planted, years away from taking root

on the right hand side the poem reads:

of sound’s transitive verb—it’s a dirge, / wail song, or whale song, or some imperfect / soft cleft my grandfather heard nothing of— / he would point to his ear; shake his head— / gloss over the long nights of tinnitus / being unable to regain / the vulgar tongue but actually / there’s so much I’m struck by: simple plans / left in the ear’s spin or dot’s spot lot / dust I’m afraid of—dust like some cusp,  / green carpet suburban summer—tree, yes, / but so impossible to take back now

END ID.]

[hardoncaulfield]

[ID of the poem “σακοζ (shield)” by Matthew Minicucci:

The text is presented in two columns. The left column reads:

On this newly fashioned shield, / portent rather than pity / my grandfather said, / bronzed as broken bones, bodies / forget — every day a holy-water / index finger like / lions that fall upon / them — you can’t save anything / not because I could / but because I would have to look, / at the shield’s slow patina — green as day / the mouth tries to say: I am old / there are stars tonight, but I do not remember

The right column reads:

The story is wrong sided, hanging on / strapped arms — what’s the point? / in pictures, when loss is / left lying in a road — you never / fulcrum to pivot pain away from / the centre of a field — savage / straight horned cattle — you can’t save / the truth: I never wanted children — / find them, by the side of the road, / every day, here / spores spilled from the fruitbody / though my eyes are young, I know / I do not recognize

The last line of the poem is placed below and in between the two columns and reads:

Even one constellation

End text ID]

[lifeinpoetry]

Yes, the most breathtaking things always have the thickest armor.

Matthew Minicucci, from “Children of Men,” published in Poetry Northwest

[therumpus]

It’s the story you tell yourself    ________________when you’re waiting,    patiently wanting nothing to happen, nothing    ___________________________you’ve prepared for    or believed could ever come, something    like the day you entered    ________________the house you owned    by not owning a house, something    _____________________like speaking to the father    you love by not loving one.

excerpted from Not On The Last Day, But On The Very Last by Justin Boening, reviewed by Matthew Minicucci for The Rumpus

[am-london]

Like most conversations, it’s about light. It’s true: if you drive far enough, fast enough, you’ll start to fly. Something about the horizon as X. A dome of cypress trees as Y. Something about here as a layered thing, one piece on top of the other, like teaching a child to build an ice cream sundae. We never got around to that, did we? It’s not supposed to work this way. I should be showing you the world; shielding you from its pointed edges. You should be the one worrying about losing me. But maybe loss is loss. You can lose a bullet in the clavicle; in that long wind from sternal to acromial. You know it’s there because nothing else seems out of place inside you. Nothing but that. It’s like a road, at night, with nothing to light the way but eyes. You have your mother’s eyes. She was the first person to show me what was just out of reach. How close we all are to something else, something that runs right through us.

Matthew Minicucci

[thefrostplace-blog]

Matthew Minicucci Listed as a Finalist for 2020 Alice James Award

Matthew Minicucci Listed as a Finalist for 2020 Alice James Award

Matthew Minicuccci, 2019 Dartmouth Poet in Residence at The Frost Place, has been listed as a finalist for the 2020 Alice James Award for his work Stage Weapons and Other Dramatic Objects. 

The winner of the Alice James Award is Aldo Amparan of El Paso, TX for his manuscript, Brother Sleep. He will receive $2,000 and his collection will be published in April of 2022. The Editorial Board also…

[womanfemale]

Malena - https://www.womanfemale.com/?p=16893 - malena120.ca Für hochauflösende Fotos wenden Sie sich bitte an: Tatiana Lesen, Knot PR Tel (416) 220-1466 tvr@knotpr.com (Fotografie von Rick O'Brien) - - - Knot PR arbeitet mit einem Portfolio von lokalen und internationalen Kunden. Wir entwickeln Kommunikationsstrategien für Mode-, Design- und Hospitality-Marken. Sehen Sie unsere an komplette Kundenliste. Halten Sie mit dem Kunden Schritt NACHRICHTEN und MEDIENVERÖFFENTLICHUNGEN. Sie können auch Knoten hinzufügen RSS-Feed zu deinem Leser. Facebook.com/knotpr @ Knotpr - #2011 #Alex Bruveris #Avenue Road #Client #Corporate Dining Toronto #David Minicucci #Fine Dining #Food #food news #Hospitality #Malena #Matthew Sullivan #Private Dining Toronto #restaurant #Sam Kalogiros #september 2011 #toronto #Toronto Restaurant #Yorkville

[mttbll]

Thanks to Booth for including my story "The Architect's Gamble" in their 460-page hardcover tenth-anniversary issue (with this amazing cover!), alongside so many great writers: "This special edition includes fiction from Matt Bell, Roxane Gay, Kirsty Logan, and Brad Watson; poetry by Paula Brancato, John Gallaher, Derrick Harriell, Amorak Huey, Marty McConnell, Matthew Minicucci, Charlotte Pence, and Aubrey Ryan; nonfiction from Kim Addonizio, Jonathan Lethem, John McNally, and Chris Offutt; interviews with Jonathan Franzen, Chuck Klosterman, George Saunders, and Cheryl Strayed; and so much more." Thanks to Robert Stapleton and his staff! You can order the issue here: http://www.shop-booth.com/

[thedollhousereads]

We're back this Saturday for DH #45! We'll have three readers this time around, one of which will be Matthew Minicucci.

Matthew is the author of two collections of poetry: Translation (Kent State University Press, 2015), chosen by Jane Hirshfield for the 2014 Wick Poetry Prize, and Small Gods, forthcoming from New Issues Press in 2017. His work has appeared in Best New Poets 2014, Poetry Daily, and Verse Daily, among others. He currently teaches writing at the University of Illinois at Urbana/Champaign.

RSVP and deets here.

[joanbpoet]

Book Twenty-Five

What if it's said like this: a man leaves. He takes with him all he can carry. What spoils he has slip through the cracks of a hundred rowed ships. What songs are sung sing only of distant homes. In this story, fires live only in hearths. They light and cook and forget the golden locks that might fuel them. Steel goes unwielded; skin collects as dust. In this story, you live, and each morning brings new words, moments of arcing breath translated, old lovers coiled like glided vowels. Here we forget the long fight, the lost, the ground torn like wind-whipped banners. Here, there are only two men: one a poor horseman, the other a handsome prince. They run for miles each night. They sleep clothed only by a single strap of stars, far from the shield's story, close enough to forget the armor they bear.

MATTHEW MINICUCCI

Translation Kent State University Press