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Showing posts with label Nathan Ballingrud. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nathan Ballingrud. Show all posts

Monday, September 16, 2013

Book-tour-and-collaboration friends--

Marly with Nathan Ballingrud at Malaprop's. Photo by Paul Digby.
Here are a few of the promised pictures from the August book tour--one from my reading with Nathan Balingrud at Malaprop's in Asheville, and several with the Digbys in front of my family home in Cullowhee. My mother made a splendid lunch for us all.

Lynn Digby and Marly. Photo by Paul Digby.
Lynn and Paul drove all the way from Alliance, Ohio to go to the reading and meet in person. We ate at an Indian restaurant with Nathan and then moseyed over to Malaprop's. A great stop, especially reading with the hometown boy! 

Paul Digby and Marly. Photo by Lynn Digby.
I've been e-friends with composer (and more--what doesn't he do?) Paul and painter Lynn quite a while, and I'm grateful to Paul for the lovely youtube videos he has done (and will do) of my poems--so grateful that I dedicated Thaliad to him (and to one other who has also been a friend to my work, John Wilson.)

Paul, Lynn, and I are collaborating on a work called Requiem (well, my part I'm currently calling The Gold Requiem) that will culminate in a gallery show with paintings, music, and poems. I'm looking forward to more music and paintings!

Paul took a picture of his plate! The small empty one at left
was a cold, lemony eggplant salad with Indigo Rose tomatoes.
Here he has onion tart, fresh creamed corn, butter beans,
corn bread with cracklin', white acre peas, and okra and tomatoes.
Very Southern. And much from my mother's garden.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Bartlebyesque un-post.

1.   In which I am Bartleby, that strange curled-up, non-reader

As I have written and then deleted three posts (forever, in ruthlessness and high boredom), I find that I must be a Melvillean Bartleby today, one who unaccountably prefers not to--at least in the matter of posts. Because it might be dangerous to wander past that point of preferring-not.

2. Whatever

shall I write a post about, since I throw everything away? Requests and questions solicited. Am thinking of making some podcasts... Or perhaps I prefer not to. Perhaps I prefer something else. A little ragery or growlery or some skipping-about. Or not. Please relieve the agony of my not-preferring with a request that I might possibly prefer. That might make me wonderfully frisky and manic, outpouring nonsense and ideas and dancing with the Wild Things. Or not. Hey, Muse of Blogs (MOB), over here!

3.   Thaliad elsewhere--favorite public mentions from the last few days. You know, perhaps it's a splot of flapdoodle, and perhaps it's true. The only way to find out is by curling up to read. Please do.
  •  novelist Nathan Balligrud at facebook:  I just finished reading Thaliad, by Marly Youmans: a story of group of children discovering how to live after an apocalypse, told in blank verse. It's brutal and gorgeous, and like nothing else out there.
                "I want to go where ground is not a waste,
                 And where my life is not a ruined town."  
  • poet and writer William P. Baldwin at facebook:  I finished Thaliad in the wee hours of the morning. An amazing read. Starts strong and gets better and better. You're something else, Marly. Again. Amazing.

  • more Nathan: This joins Anna Tambour's Crandolin as a work that deserves to be on the World Fantasy ballot, but is probably published by too small a press to get sufficient attention. There's such wonderful work being done out of the spotlight.
4.  Other comments were good but I especially liked these because: 
  • a.    Who doesn't want the brand new book to be like nothing else?
  • b.    Who doesn't want it to get better and better?
  • c.    Ms. Bartleby needs some refreshing words now and then to encourage her to prefer.
  • d.    And I love book recommendations Crandolin looks wild! 

    by Anna Tambour

    Publication Date: 14th Nov, 2012
    ISBN: 978-1-907681-19-6
    Paperback, 382 pages

    In a medieval cookbook in a special-collections library, near-future London, jaded food and drink authority Nick Kippax finds an alluring stain next to a recipe for the mythical crandolin. He tastes it, ravishing the page. Then he disappears.
    So begins an adwentour that quantum-leapfrogs time, place, singularities, and Quests – from the secrets of confectionery to the agonies of making a truly great moustache, from maidens in towers to tiffs between cosmic forces. Food, music, science, fruitloopery, superstition, railways, bladder-pipes and birth-marked Soviet statesmen; all are present in an extraordinary novel that is truly for the adwentoursomme.