August 31 – September 6, 2015: Tom Montag and Gavin Yates

Tom Montag and Gavin Yates

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Tom Montag
tmmontag@centurylink.net

Bio (auto)

Tom Montag, Fairwater, Wisconsin, is most recently the author of In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013 (a finalist for the Midwest Independent Publishers Association’ award for books of poetry published in 2014), as well as Middle Ground, Curlew: Home, Kissing Poetry’s Sister, The Idea of the Local, and The Big Book of Ben Zen. In 2015 he was the featured poet at Atticus Review (April) and Contemporary American Voices (August). Other recent poems will be found at Architrave Press, Apeiron Review, Blue Heron Review, The Broken City, The Chaffin Journal, Crack the Spine, Digital Papercut, Eunoia Review, Foliate Oak, Fox Cry, Hamilton Stone Review, The Homestead Review, Hummingbird, Little Patuxent Review, The Magnolia Review, Mud Season Review, On the Rusk, Plainsong, Portage, Red Fez, Riding Light Review, South 85, Split Rock, Sand, Stoneboat, Third Wednesday, Torrid Literature, Town Creek Poetry, Verse-Virtual, and Wilderness House Literary Review. He blogs as The Middlewesterner and serves as Managing Editor of the Lorine Niedecker Monograph Series, What Region?What Region?

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Tom Montag and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Bones

You are blessed when
the poem shows you

its bones. Then you
don’t have to work,

just do as you’re told.

 



Gavin Yates
gavincyates@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Gavin’s poetry is a contemporary example of literary Surrealism, which is the subject of his academic pursuits. His writing attempts to locate the juncture point between dream and conscious experience. He lives in Melbourne, Australia and had previously been published in ‘Make Your Mark" and Verge.

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Gavin Yates and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

I closed my notebook…

I closed my notebook
along with Chopin’s palpitating downpour.

I usually go for something more electric,
but I’m lounging about in some vineyard close to home.

Boiling water out of the throat,
bobbing a bridge of spaghetti for rosemary
and those evaporating minutes of meditation
in a parked car.

But my arms are already heavy with seawater
and a sun-drenched Mediterranean with green hair.

I wore the shirt of emergency
so I could appear more frank and less grave,

though vines continue to sprout from my wrists
while I trawl movie theatres that are fireworks inside a piano. Immunity
is our breath that hovers over the city’s branches
arming myself against banksters and sleepwalkers,
cold war and a slice of lemon.

I am armed to the teeth with electricity.


Summer is an Aeroplane

………….Summer is an aeroplane
in your eye as my espresso chokes out of wilting pine needles.
I much prefer to brush my teeth downstairs than throw rocks
at asteroids. I could toil away at this storm
of nail clippings and hair ties, simmer to nothing in chlorine
and indifferent
introductions until we realise we had made love in a haystack
two hundred years ago. But who has the time?

………….Summer is an aeroplane
and I’ll buy your future with some orphan who survived a flood,
name him after your grandfather and feed him dog food
but that’s as far as I’m willing to go.