Tag Archives: Matthew Zingg

CPR Best of Volume 16 Now Available

CPR Volume 16 Front CoverAfter more than a week of stuffing envelopes, the hard-copy “Best of Volume 16” Cider Press Review is on its way to contributors, subscribers, and former Book Award contest entrants.

The “Best of” issue features poems by Rebecca Baggett, Carol Berg, Jennifer Jackson Berry, Maggie Blake, Ace Boggess, John Bradley, Christine Butterworth-McDermott, Sharon Chmielarz, Lisa J. Cihlar, Joan Colby, Michael Collins, Gemma Cooper-Novack, Jimmie Cumbie, Carol V. Davis, Paul Dickey, Iris Jamahl Dunkle, Carol Ellis, Sarah Estes, David Eye, Evelyn Clark Farbman, Shawn Fawson, Janice Greenwood, David Hathwell, Gary Hawkins, Sara Henning, Brian Patrick Heston, Louisa Howerow, Ann Hudson, Amie Keddy, Heather Lang, Susanna Lang, Mercedes Lawry, Bernadette McBride, Amy Meckler, Colleen Michaels, Nancy Carol Moody, Carolyn Moore, Mary Moore, Susannah Nevison, Amy Newday, Autumn Newman, Sharon Olson, Mary Elizabeth Parker, Lynn Pedersen, Kevin Phan, Katherine Rauk, Geri Rosenzweig, Michael G. Smith, Heather Sommer, Sarah Sousa, Joannie Stangeland, Kelly Terwilliger, Lisken Van Pelt Dus, Ryan Vine, Donna Vorreyer, Chelsea Wagenaar, Mark Wagenaar, Marq Wilson, Laura Madeline Wiseman, Anne Harding Woodworth, Matthew Zingg. Book reviews by Ken Hada and Gary Leising.

To order your own or extra copies, please visit the CPR Bookstore.

from Permanent Residence
by Matthew Zingg

Fall is a maddening spell—a windy babushka:
each day a minor disappearing act:

I want to mention the patina of copper roofs
as a place for unrest: the mountains—

when they are freshly skinned—
mean less & less:

now is the time of year I grow sick:

I shower with the lights off—study the grime
at the basin bottom—the daily cues:

(a knee ache in the morning):

(the radiator’s barometric choke):

thirty minutes a day I spend
dusting the bookshelves—gathering laundry:

preparing my home for the next
new layer of dirt:

I am drowning in the stupid colors of the season—
I go tearing through those mountains

looking for an endless stretch of road.

****

After dinner you re-clean the lawnmower’s
carburetor—soak the jets in kerosene—

then piece the whole back together:

you are a man of work—whose hands
have shaped the work that shapes yours—

hands withdrawn when the shop lamp
clicks on—how the garage windows pull

at the night grass—hands like that: take the time

I stood in the doorway as an example of you
gauging the distance

in a spark plug’s gap—
did you notice: either nothing stuck with me

or everything has:

when there is a yard I can call mine I’ll call it
yours—I’ll cut the same pattern each Sunday—

I’ll keep the mechanism clean—my hands will be

more than bone—more than movement.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 4.

Matthew ZinggMatthew Zingg’s work has appeared in Muzzle, Opium Magazine, The Paris-American, Everyday Genius, The Atlas Review, Blackbird, The Awl, The Rumpus, 32 Poems, and HTML Giant among others. Zingg lives in Baltimore where he curates the Federal Dust Reading Series.

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Visit Matthew Zingg’s contributors page.

Ars Poetica in Marfa, Texas
by Matthew Zingg

Here are the raw, tan hands of the desert, a little scrubweed
stuck in its fingernails, and a great lashing of sun.

In the distance, a shawl of thunderclouds dresses the horizon,
curls low over the knuckled hills. Past that a different terrain,

a chill before creation, a place not mine since I’ve yet to travel
that far. Soon enough it will be dark and I’ll know

the strange lights which throw themselves across the night (other-
worldly visitors perhaps) are only mirrors for my eyes.

But where could I be? The life I wove into the land, the blood
I strung along fault lines and the veins of silver, the flush

I gave the evening bird, the sigh I put to the wind, all me.
And the littleness of my heart too. Though still,

I say this because I could and wanted to, because seeing
is a matter of feeling things out, not experience.

Even the Reata was a fake, its windows and doorways of sky
sculpted by the dry air, the empty skull of an illusion,

now a skeleton, an anonymous outline of lumber. After awhile
my world as well will be nothing more than rusty nails

and rotted wood, an honest notion that a separate universe
once existed in the hull of these motionless gestures.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.

Matthew ZinggMatthew Zingg’s work has appeared in Muzzle, Opium Magazine, The Paris-American, Everyday Genius, The Atlas Review, Blackbird, The Awl, The Rumpus, 32 Poems, and HTML Giant among others. Zingg lives in Baltimore where he curates the Federal Dust Reading Series.

See all items about Matthew Zingg

Visit Matthew Zingg’s contributors page.