Martha Deed
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For me, prose poems offer the possibility of constructing a riff that is both surreal and pointed. An important breakthrough came the first time I heard James Tate read. I came away stunned, thinking, "I didn't know you could do that in poetry," and I've been trying both to define and to do "that" ever since. Tate's reading sent me to many of his books for further study, along with those by such disparate poets as Charles Bernstein, Anselm Berrigan, Carl Dennis, and -- most recently -- Steve McCaffery. Each of my prose poems is an experiment in poetic necessity. If the words can be written in another form, the prose poem simply disappears. My most recent effort is an autobiographical chapbook, 65 × 65, published by Peter Ganick's Small Chapbook Project, which tells a life story in 65 word segments.
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Stopping by Woods
Our furnace had a bilious attack last night from too many excuses This morning’s furnace fricassee is fit for vegetarians alone I do not smoke a pipe I get my highs from BBC for instance the pothole in Uncle Demetrius’s brain dropping things on the table that should have stayed inside perhaps to guide if not to enlighten Rumsfeld nattering on NPR nevertheless so when I went for the MRI in Uncle Mete’s stead they did go on about shifting angiomas shaking hands with the right stabbed in the left I had to agree the left is wounded now for sure blown veins of spirit I had not expected the political discussion but it seemed wise to cooperate and they asked Are you claustrophobic I thought Have a nice day I said Put me in the tube the wire grate two inches from my nose no glasses There is nothing I want to see Rumsfeld I do not need to hear inside this steel tube brain so give me CBC on your rubber earphones lest you blow my head to smithereens like the furnace last night best of all no watches here keeping time with thump thump bang no bombs no Rumsfeld Brandenberg Concerto Number 6 is fine the trumpets tossing high notes at the magnets thrumming all of them saying listen listen listen so it is told by the journalist who invented his best interviews Rumsfeld nattering on I can wait ‘til later the blocks to keep my head in line quite useless the cringing is political not physical so if you could feed me time to time six weeks would be fine in here far from silent furnaces bleeding valves and Uncle Mete who died 80 years ago from a pothole in his head drip-dropping things like mine
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Martha Deed lives on the north bank of the Erie Canal in North Tonawanda, NY, where she looks for trouble. Her chapbook, 65×65, was published by Peter Ganick’s small chapbook project (December 2006). Recent publications include: Iowa Review on the Web (with Millie Niss), Shampoo, Carnelian, Hiss Quarterly, Unlikely Stories, Gypsy, and many others. Her poem “Rest Cure” is included in “On Retirement” (Strasser and Chapman, editors, Iowa University Press, 2007). She maintains links to her published work at www.sporkworld.org/Deed .