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BOOK DETAILS

Poetry
67 pp
6 x 9.25
Paperback
0-9707186-9-1
978-0-9707186-9-1
April 2004


Emerging Voices

Misery Islands,
by January Gill O’Neil

Spooky Action at a Distance,
by Howard Levy

My Painted Warriors,
by Peggy Penn

Red Canoe: Love In Its Making, by Joan Cusack Handler

door of thin skins,
by Shira Dentz

The One Fifteen to Penn Station, by Kevin Carey

Where the Dead Are,
by Wanda S. Praisner

Darkening the Grass, by Michael Miller

Neighborhood Register,
by Marcus Jackson

Night Sessions,
by David S. Cho

Underlife,
by January Gill O'Neil

The Second Night of the Spirit, by Bhisham Bherwani

Imago,
by Joseph O. Legaspi

WE AREN'T WHO WE ARE and this world isn't either,
by Christine Korfhage

Through a Gate of Trees,
by Susan Jackson

Against Which,
by Ross Gay

The Silence of Men,
by Richard Jeffrey Newman

The Dishelved Bed,
by Andrea Carter Brown

The Singers I Prefer,
by Christian Barter

The Fork Without Hunger,
by Laurie Lamon

An Imperfect Lover,
Poems and watercolors by Georgianna Orsini

Soft Box,
by Celia Bland

Rattle,
by Eloise Bruce

Momentum,
by Catherine Doty

Silk Elegy,
by Sondra Gash

The Palace of Ashes,
by Sherry Fairchok

Eyelevel: Fifty Histories,
by Christopher Matthews

GLOrious,
by Joan Cusack Handler

So Close, by Peggy Penn

Snakeskin Stilettos,
by Moyra Donaldson

Grub, by Martin Mooney

Kazimierz Square,
by Karen Chase

A Day This Lit,
by Howard Levy

CavanKerry Press LTD.
CavanKerry Press

Soft Box

by Celia Bland

Foreword by Jane Cooper

Soft BoxThis poet writes like a woman with a mission. Her collection resounds with an honesty that is at once brutal and determined. Soft Box speaks for itself and does not speak softly. Celia Bland writes like a woman possessed and the result is bewitching. —Foreword Magazine 2005

This account of coming of age, marrying, giving birth is different from any other that I have read: It is violently original. Sometimes raw and tough, sometimes startling in their beauty and sense of necessity, these poems, which read like swift, migratory chapters, are wildly gifted. —Jean Valentine

Celia Bland makes of her poems a new world, newly opened to us. She strikes us where we live, in poems to which nothing human is alien: eternal delight, mental action, moral integrity. Love of true speech, the minded boy, the embodied memory drives her forward to discover the whole person undenied. She is doing the work our language needs. —Marie Ponsot

She possesses a thrilling sense of the erotics of everyday things; her deft particulars fetch us. She resists the pallid entitlements of relationship stuff, and keeps her lyrics rueful reminders that each person, despite kinfolk and connections, is radically alone in the world of desire and shortcoming. Sometimes gloriously alone, as she feels her way through her own complexities: vigilant, detailed, intellectually joyous. —Robert Kelly

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Celia BlandCELIA BLAND is the author of thirteen books for young readers, including the historical novel, The Conspiracy of the Secret Nine, which was a finalist for the Heckin Award for Children’s Fiction. Her poetry has been collected in anthologies published by Persea and Faber & Faber, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She is a contributing editor to The New York Public Library Desk Reference, and has published articles in Poets & Writers, Forbes Best of the Web, Art & Antiques and other magazines. She lives in New York’s Hudson Valley and is Director of College Writing at Bard College.

EXCERPT

Misconceptions of Childhood

My father was a sidewise Jack, always in profile, a
             hand on his rod.
His pack was a Destroyer, said my mother,
where he played ping-pong on the deck, two fingers flat
            on his spade.
I saw his photo: a big-bellied dick in a tailor-made sailor
            suit.
“Bye-Bye!” he waved, and out I sprang, strong enough
            to shove all the drawers shut.

My teeth took root. White stalagmites, their stems sunk             inward
and rotted. Biting strawberries, they sheared unripe
            heads from luscious tips.
The leaves caused a rash.

My mouth’s toes, St. Theresa, grind with your hips
when you close your eyes. Sex is sacred, you say.
Leaving me, to prove it.