Behind on my chapbook reviewing (as I am behind on all things—behind on more things than can be dreamed of, in your philosophy), so attempting to catch up a bit, here.
Brooklyn NY: I hadn’t heard anything from or by American poet Jed Munson since producing a chapbook of theirs a couple of years back, so it was good to get my hands on Vision Sans Seraphim (Brooklyn NY: Beautiful Days Press, 2025), produced as “Beautiful Days Press #11,” although there have apparently been some other titles I’ve missed as well, including the prose collection Commentary on the Birds (Rescue Press, 2023), and chapbooks Portrait with Parkinson’s (Oxeye Press, 2023) and Minesweeper (New Michigan Press/DIAGRAM, 2023), as well as his prior chapbook, Newsflash Under Fire, Over the Shoulder (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2021). Clearly I am quite behind.
O, I heard the choir’s
down
a voice again
a visa
bounced
or the voice stopped
wanting to
dream this dream. The pews
are filled
with benchwarmers, O
it’s easy
to go out as a heat
into any old wind (“Centers”)
Composing an exploratory lyric across love, interiority and elements of faith, Vision San Seraphim is a collection set as three sections, each titled “O”—the first two as clusters of extended lyrics, and closing with the title poem. Munson’s poems are stretched, fragmented and gestural, as each poem-section, as most poems or poem-fragments begin with a gesture, an aside, perhaps, that opening “O.” “O, I don’t know this instrument,” the opening poem, “Centers,” begins, “but I’ve been playing it all morning.” There’s such lovely pacing on these pages, in these lines, one that I wouldn’t mind hearing read/performed, how the gestures of the lyric are clearly set on each page. “O I’m no Lazarus. // I’m just kicking // severed fish tails into / the rails just trying to // slip one through the rails [.]”
America, somewhere: I’m intrigued by Nick Hedtke’s chapbook, THE YEARS, produced “in an undisclosed number of copies” by b l u s h in summer 2025, as part of their “i l l i c i t z i n e s” series. Beyond the fact that author and publisher both reside in the United States, I can’t seem to find anything any more specific than that, which is fine enough, sure. These thirteen poems are interesting for their pacing, their purposeful movement, offering point, point and then point. With titles including “Recurring Themes,” “John Invents Black & Blue,” “Learning to Fly,” “Album of the Year” and “The Frontier Period,” there’s an intriguing element of how Hedtke utilizes these titles as umbrellas or tethers, providing a kind of anchor across the narrative of each piece, some of which he is also completely allowed to ignore. “the music is fading // but still inspiring,” the poem “Blood Fest 2009” writes, “the way we move // these night moves [.]” Or the poem “Animal Sounds,” that begins: “people were asking if I was okay // that’s the power of blood // I used to have long hair // that’s the feeling of sadness // under a camouflage tent [.]” Hedtke’s directions are both straightforward and slightly curved, providing an almost-surrealism, or even a hint of something else, other. There’s so much else composed in the spaces around these short lines.
American Awesome
I had classic experiences
my shirt off in bed
hanging off the bed a little bit
if you put every painting on earth side by side
that would be cool
like loving an animal in the woods you’ll never see
maximum heart
like a brand-new color
Edmonton AB: One of the latest titles by relatively new Edmonton chapbook publisher Agatha Press is Edmonton poet, translator and professor Leilei Chen’s latest, i give birth to my body (2025), a gracefully-produced title in an edition of one hundred copies. As the author’s foreword begins: “the verses here are the traces of a creative mind, of a chronically ailing body exacerbated by long covid. brain fog. fatigue. palpitation. headache. depression. for one day they’re part of me like a conjoined twin. for another they hit hard like a storm in deep mountains. poetry hums and sings. it comes and stays. spontaneously. i feel its healing power, my heart big with gratitude.” The poems here are concise, working slowly and purposefully through a way to reclaim agency. “this rejuvenating form breaks / free from shackles to save its warm heart,” the title poem closes, “to learn the baby steps of walk / with light strides and a tall spine / striving one day to stand on a cloud / a sailing boat on blue water [.]” Chen’s poems are delicate, finely-honed, moving carefully into and across a territory of reclaiming space, some of which hold elements of the moment, the koan, with other stretches pushing at the boundaries of possibility. These are poems that both take and hold time.
different reactions
trauma is common
our reactions are
different
some hide in the cave and
turn dark
pity themselves and
resent the world
some learn its workings
and grow wise
create poetry and inspire
others
