#david keplinger

[goreprofonde]

- David Keplinger and Bruce Bond, Whoever is not home grows sick.

[judgingbooksbycovers]

Ice: Poems

By David Keplinger.

[kenneturner]

Life On Earth

Life On Earth — Photo-Artistry by kenne Life On Earth… LIFE ON EARTH is pulled down hard on a man’s head.This life was made by hatters.A busy street is only coffee, bread, and hats.The smell of a man’s hat – an old man’s hat –is like the nostril of a horse.You are breathing in what something beautifuland ancient has breathed out.The heat and life contained in it, the silk interior.An old man’s…

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[stephnz]

On Caligula’s Playhouse:

"Stephen Zerance's poetry is the work of a wild original, and the poems in this collection--whose reveries call from madness' ledge--exhibit a restraint and artistry of classical proportions. Tonight, in Rome, the gorgeous ruin of the emperors lies strewn beside the everyday. In CALIGULA'S PLAYHOUSE a certain formal harmony meets our world's deepening dread. Zerance is a formidable poet and these poems are genius in their spare, unflinching gaze into the bath house of the self." - David Keplinger

[folio-lit-journal-blog]

Keplinger, director of the American University’s MFA creative writing program, presents his fourth collection of poems, a series of symmetrical pieces that consider identity as a mesh of the unique and the shared.

Harris, a widely published poet (The Nation, The Atlantic) with extensive teaching experience, reads from her third book of poems, a series of lyrics with narrative heft that evoke the landscapes of family and memory.

[poet-idiot]

Removal

To feel each branching-outward part. I do not feel each part, though I have prayed to hear the small breath of my cells at Wet Mountain. The aspen grove sends messages in leaf-code to its heart, a clutch of roots. Mildew zones out in provinces. Burn up, burn up, the yellow aspen says, burn up—which is another way of saying remember who you are, as you move in your beautiful, arched- upward body, believing yourself your own kingdom, believing yourself to be only yourself, instead of the land.

—David Keplinger

[therumpus]

And in the reeds the stork began to flush and—now see what I am?—open its colossal wings.”

The Most Natural Thing by David Keplinger, reviewed by Stephanie Papa

[artoflivingslowly]

Wave by David Keplinger

Lincoln, leaving Springfield, 1861,           boards a train with a salute: but it is weak.  To correct it, he slides his hand away           from his face as if waving, as if brushing  the snows of childhood from his eyes.  The train is coming east. In the window           Lincoln watches his face. You'll grow old  the moment you arrive, he says to this face.           But you will never reach great age. The train  speeds like the cortical pressure wave  in the left lateral sinus, say, a bullet           in the skull. Then he will have his salute.  Then they will love him. Then eternity will slow, fall           like snow. Then the treaty with huge silence  which he, his face exhausted, must sign.

David Kepllinger