Tag Archives: Ryan Vine

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.

Nightmare: Semantic Dementia
by Ryan Vine

My favorites

were the first to go:

verisimilitude, Constantinople,

crickets. Then went, plucked

from me, words I rarely needed;

but they were beautiful, nonetheless:

retribution, car port, fairgrounds.

In my chair at night, an open book

splayed, they jumped

from me like sparks; they floated like orange embers

across the yard; they lifted like burned paper lifts

from a fire: lawnmower, justice,

sweetwater sea. Some I’d feel

disappearing. It’s like that dream where

you’re on your belly and with one arm

you’re holding a dangling friend by his wrist

over some great abyss

and you know you can’t hold him.

You know he’s going to fall.

But fuck if you don’t hold on.

After, in the distance, the words dematerialize;

it isn’t complete darkness. If I close my eyes

I see outlines, white shadows.

But no matter how hard I listen, I cannot

hear them: calla lily, railroad, endlessness.

 

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

placesaverRyan Vine’s chapbook, Distant Engines, won a Weldon Kees Award from Backwaters Press; the Greensboro Review awarded his work the Robert Watson Poetry Prize; and his new manuscript, Shiv, was a finalist for the May Swenson Poetry Award from Utah State University Press. He teaches in Duluth, MN, where he is the Rose Warner Assistant Professor of English at the College of St. Scholastica.

See all items about Ryan Vine

Visit Ryan Vine’s contributors page.

To the Girl Stranded by the Side Doors of Denfeld High School at 9:52 on a Monday Night Forgotten by Her Mother but Found and Accompanied by the Blue-Overalled Janitor
by Ryan Vine

I used to think that you could choose
your family; that what they did
made no difference; that you could find
some new mother or father, someone
who’d gladly take you in, bruised
as a ball, weird as a rubber tack, pain-
ridden as you are, but I was wrong.
I’m sorry. It’s not true. It’s hard
to explain, but in busses, in line
in the lunch room, on swing sets
or laps in cars, in interviews and committees
you’ll always be standing
in that dark vestibule, in the hours before
the kindly janitor flooded it with hall light.
Even in your favorite songs you’ll hear
the silence you two stood in,
he behind his broom, while you waited.
I have little advice. Really, there’s no one
in the world to help you make your way.
You may find now that white rooftops
in the cloudy winters of West Duluth
make you sad, their tethers of smoke twirling.
You used to love the way that looked.
The sky itself seemed an extension
of the houses: all of Duluth
under the same stretched roof. I promise
you this: your mother will find you.
She’s coming. She’ll honk from the curb,
and you’ll leave the janitor saying nothing
and slump into the front seat
and smell the familiar alcohol
and smile and tell her you missed her.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 1.

placesaver

Ryan Vine’s chapbook, Distant Engines, won a Weldon Kees Award from Backwaters Press; the Greensboro Review awarded his work the Robert Watson Poetry Prize; and his new manuscript, Shiv, was a finalist for the May Swenson Poetry Award from Utah State University Press. He teaches in Duluth, MN, where he is the Rose Warner Assistant Professor of English at the College of St. Scholastica.

See all items about Ryan Vine

Visit Ryan Vine’s contributors page.