Showing posts with label Saturnalia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Saturnalia. Show all posts

Sunday, February 08, 2026

Trace Peterson, The Valleys Are So Lush and Steep

 

I’ve been freed from
inside the Fall of Rome,
my contract disrupted.
Civilization will
not descend without
my bet against it rising,
a weather balloon
that hangs against a vast
usurped sky. A carrier
pigeon, to be,
carries me. (“AFTER BEFORE AND AFTER”)

The second full-length collection of poems by Connecticut-born poet, editor and literary scholar Trace Peterson, following Since I Moved In (Tucson AZ: Chax Press, 2007; 2019), is The Valleys Are So Lush and Steep (Broomall PA: Saturnalia Books, 2025), winner of the Alma Book Award from Saturnalia Books. Set with two opening poems, the book opens into five sections of lyrics—“THE VAST CROWD,” “VIOLET SPEECH,” “VENUS,” “EXPERIMENTAL LIFE” and “THE BLUR”—all of which expands into a sharp and fluid collection of lyrics on being and becoming, and being within that pure moment of becoming and having always been. As the poem “THE OTHER MEMBERS WITH MY I.D.” includes: “Let me critique what / I’m saying about the other / members with my I.D. / Apparently the first time / I desired anything I / stayed up all night / thinking about its name / in coalescing form.”

The title poem, second of the two opening poems, runs through a sectioned list of naming a sequence of testosterone blockers: “I have not been having an easy HRT experience for a trans gal,” the poem begins, “especially when it comes to blocking testosterone so my body can develop properly to estrogen.” Each section of the poem begins with description and subsequent reaction, into what drug she switched to, with the next opening starting over, offering that new medication’s description, and so on, building into longer, more complex reactions, some of which expand into the abstract. “Walzanone helped ease off my body hair,” Peterson writes, mid-way through the piece, “but it gave me unanticipated telekinetic powers which would cause a table to fly crashing across the room when I got upset with someone, so I switched to Benefiontin.” The subsequent section reads:

Benefiontin seemed to be working for a while and I could genuinely concentrate, until I slowly became aware that it was making my skin fluorescent green and stretchable over any nearby hardwood surfaces. Punk rock anamorphosis had ended long ago, so I switched to Penalzombion.

In stunning lyric, and through surreal and dream-like stretches that veer commentary from the sublime to the ridiculous, Peterson clarifies the physical and physiological shifts of her transgender self, moving further into becoming that person that she already was, pointedly remarking on the experience itself as being surreal. In a beautifully crafted book-length suite, The Valleys Are So Lush and Steep writes gestural sweeps and concise prose lyrics around identity and public response, community and the self. Another list-accumulation poem, the seven page “EVERYONE IS A LITTLE TRANS,” includes:

Everyone is a little stitch in time
Everyone is a little grammatical error that changed the meaning of our relationship
    completely by accidentally introducing a surprise microaggression
Everyone is a little discriminated against
Everyone is a little interested in sitting on the dryer while it vibrates 

Everyone tells us everyone is a little gay means everyone who is cis
Everyone is a little white crisply ironed shirt
Everyone is a poet
Everyone says no more than what they meant

While a number of the prose poems really do strike, I particularly like the call-and-response piece “IDENTIFICATION,” offering a back-and-forth of the same repeated question—“Can I see your ID?”—through an array of responses, that include “Here it is. I changed my sex so I don’t look like this anymore, but you get the idea.” and “Do I really need an ID to return something that I already have a receipt for?” to “So here’s the deal, you correctly called me ma’am a second ago but no I am going to have to ask you to go against all available legal evidence and ask you to continue calling me ma’am after you have seen it.” to “No.” Again, Peterson showcases the brutal realities she and many others are forced to endure through such a process.

There is a music and an enduring empathy to the long threads of Peterson’s sentences, ebbs and flows of narrative of payoff and reward to move through to the very end in ways playful, layered and highly controlled. “This is a working sentence.” begins the poem “NO ONE COULD SEE THE VAST CROWD,” “Someone walks by. / Three sentences standing around bonding. / Terrible, terrible sentences. / The third sentence resents the fourth sentence more than the fifth. / Sitting in a late cafe crying. / Trying to stare down carbs with the mistress’s tools.”

Monday, April 21, 2025

Danielle Pafunda, Along the Road Everyone Must Travel

 

I walked the road seaward for the feast. I took my gold cuffs that keep my voice down, I combed the poison out of my lashes, I lashed to my breast a plate for knitted hours so that I might not / forget the way home, my keep, I keep / my daughter there, but it isn’t / home, I sing the easy tide of doing and weaving, but it isn’t / home, I try to leave it sincere in the knowledge of its anchor, in contrast with the sand, in agreement to stay put under juniper, and juniper, and, then I / send a couple texts to boost my spirits, fuck me, love me, kmn, and then I’m so deep in the road, fellow travelers mistake me for one of its / pebbles / I’m looking for tender / for my tender friends who will recognize me in the concrete ecotone, my bravado welling as Orion’s terse face sinks behind smog, Artemis prowling elsewhere, the god of the sea sucking a shipwreck, don’t / don’t tell me it gets nicer when it’s already nicer than I’d imagined, don’t

or (“Fast by the wide and dismal gates of hell I slowmo consider my claws / frontgold base done jammed with vernal strife even the equinox uneasy for / diggers”)

I’ve been hearing about American writer Danielle Pafunda some time now, only now beginning to attend their work, although she’s some ten published books of poetry and prose deep, the latest being Along the Road Everyone Must Travel (Broomall PA: Saturnalia Books, 2025). The poems that make up this collection are propulsive, explosive, almost excessive; a rush of lyric, with each line and poem expanding almost exponentially. Her titles, even by themselves, offer a deliberate rush of text at breakneck speed, short poems in and of themselves, offering a table contents not simply as a list of titles, but a hint of what is to come: “You go back to get your holy things when your skin has greater part sun than air and stop touching your bitter friends it’s all true once married I had to go to the underworld for a really long time after which I came to live above the biotoxic soil crust but not with you or anyone” to “I turned thirty in wartime I turned forty in wartime stay you irritate my heart with distance until the present comes a sheet of pearls and moor’s breath in a dry clime and I bedeck you” to “I ducked into a sympathetic Pleiades and before I knew it neither desert nor sea stopped where the mountains started [.]” Hers is a lyric akin to prayer, writing of resistance and resilience in and around and through threads of Greek mythology, of gods and daughters and escaping from and to the underworld, offering shades of Demeter; of either/ors, clipped speech and poem-endings, which suggest a kind of ongoingness throughout the collection, akin to a long poem, set as a single, ongoing, staggered sentence.

I fish around for the salt god’s number and involve him in a bath of electrolyte tears / fuck me, I beg / fuck my life / take the bare spot on a bird’s chest and liken it to my losses easily foretold, easy in the hand, so hard to slip the scalpel to / whoever was in there, who left her familiar lashed to the bed, wasn’t me, wasn’t my daughter, I / tell my daughter don’t start crying or you’ll / never stop crying / don’t give your number out to gods, and when you go back to hades, go quiet and lone / sometimes / I’m on the road deep in the desert where sunlight breaches my breastbone, the only protection I took, I wasn’t thinking clearly when I packed my bag, I packed things I didn’t / need / don’t fit in with the salt god’s retinue of beautiful people

or (“I fall asleep waiting for a call from the tribunal waiting for the elders to get here with their sacrificial blade I fall asleep before I die I want more dreams”)

There is an absolute heft packed into the small space of this sharp and stunning collection, approaching the narrative of her lyric moment by small moment, building upon and stretching outward, each stanza set as a dot on a long horizon.

Friday, February 07, 2025

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Lee Upton

Lee Upton is a multi-genre author of fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and literary criticism. Her novel Wrongful, a literary mystery that deals with writers behaving badly, is due out in May 2025 from Sagging Meniscus Press. Her comic novel, Tabitha, Get Up, appeared in May 2024 from the same publisher. Another novel, The Withers, is forthcoming in 2026 from Regal House Publishing. Her other books include The Day Every Day Is (Saturnalia 2023); Visitations: Stories; Bottle the Bottles the Bottles the Bottles: Poems; The Tao of Humiliation: Stories; and the essay collection Swallowing the Sea: On Writing & Ambition Boredom Purity & Secrecy. She is also the author of an award-winning novella, The Guide to the Flying Island, as well as six additional books of poetry and four books of literary criticism. Her poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, The Southern Review, The Massachusetts Review, and three editions of Best American Poetry.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

My first book was a collection of poetry, The Invention of Kindness. It opened up new and gratifying friendships for me. Wrongful is a literary mystery and, as such, differs a great deal from my previous book, a comic novel—Tabitha, Get Up. This new book, Wrongful, feels quite different because questions about evil animate the book. It’s a romance, in some ways, but there’s terror lurking.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

Poetry came most naturally to me—the way rhythm and images unfold, the way associative links lead us through a poem.  It has taken me a long time to learn how to orchestrate fiction in which cause and effect propel at least some outward action. Writing both poetry and fiction is satisfying—you can’t help but find yourself inside mysteries within other mysteries.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

I tend to work on multiple manuscripts at the same time—and things move quite slowly. When I hit a wall in one area, I work on another manuscript. By the time I return to the original trouble-making manuscript, I may discover a solution. This way of working means that multiple manuscripts finish at roughly the same time. My final drafts often are very different from my first attempts.

4 - Where does a poem or work of prose usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

My poems, short stories, and essays tend to have individual lives and often stubbornly resist becoming part of a collection. Or so I tend to think at first. And then I realize that the same obsessions are winding their way through much of the work.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

I like readings. It’s only the hours before readings that tend to be problematic for me. I’ve hardly ever not been a nervous person. Once I begin reading, however, I’m often very happy to voice the work.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?

In Tabitha, Get Up (2024) I was concerned with issues of self-trust and how we may attempt to defeat entropy and create sustaining meaning. In my new novel Wrongful I’m interested in questions of evil, how evil always has its “reasons” and a self-perpetuating vitality. Wrongful is not only about the temptations toward bad behavior that writers and all of us face; it’s also about readers and reading—the intimate romance of reading

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

This is an individual matter, but it seems that writers should be profoundly grateful to whoever taught them to read and write and find their way to new adventures through the imagination. We can help others find their way by mentoring and by allowing ourselves continual freedom to be bold in our own writing.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

I’ve been able to work with marvelous editors and publishers and designers. Publishing takes a willing and devoted team, and I’ll always feel gratitude for those I’ve worked with.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

 “Relax.” It sounds so insulting, but it’s pretty good advice. If you can relax, your own mind will give you something to imagine and consider…

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to non-fiction)? What do you see as the appeal?

Each form is difficult. Moving toward extended time and action frames in the novel was especially challenging for me, given my general proclivities. Each genre comes bearing its own gifts for discovering whatever mystery we might be avoiding otherwise.

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

I’m now able to write full-time, and so my life is very different from the days when I was working full-time and had small children and many other obligations. Typically, now, my day begins with too much coffee, and then maybe with my making a list about what I want to do, and then—if I don’t have any larger responsibilities—I dive into working. Usually on my laptop first. Then I print out the manuscript and revise. Next, I put those revisions into my manuscript on the laptop, and the process begins again. And again.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

I usually read poetry or fiction—to hear another voice. I might pace around the house…I might eat something, like chocolate. Chocolate needs no defense.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Lilacs.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

Visual art, flowers, trees, talking with family members, overheard conversations

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

I’m inspired by the writing of Muriel Spark, Iris Murdoch, Emily Dickinson, Tomas Transtromer, Anita Brookner, Tracy K. Smith, Margot Livesey, Timothy Liu, Charles Holdefer, Rachel Cusk….and so many others. I’m fortunate to have a number of friends who are writers, and they’re deeply important to me.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

I think it would be nice to stay for a while in a cottage by the sea and take long walks every day. And have marvelous hot soup on those days. (I sound deluded. I’m actually serious. It would be so nice.)

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

If I could pick up another gift and had the talent…I would still want to be a writer. For the freedom and the adventure of it. If I couldn’t be a writer and were suddenly gifted with ability, I’d want to be a singer who worked on original material. Which really means being a writer with vocal range…

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I’ve wanted to be a writer since childhood. I also, as a child, wanted to be a spy. Now I don’t want to be a spy. Although writing is a little like trying to spy into the depths of the culture’s hidden life.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

Last great book: The Sea, The Sea, by Iris Murdoch.

 Last great film: 1900, by Bernardo Bertolucci

20 - What are you currently working on?

I’m working on poems—always—and I’m redrafting a novel in which a younger visual artist believes her life has been dramatically damaged by her relationship with an older artist.  I’m also rewriting a couple of novel manuscripts that I lost faith in earlier. I’m now trying to give those manuscripts new and more exciting lives.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;