Charlie Baylis’ chapbook swimming – bathed in baby blue – backstrokes across ripples of keeping afloat in its pool of romantic and other variables. The sweet hue is in the beauty of its cover as well as soothing moments of lyrical reflection. In essence, this is a bittersweet play on the seriousness of romance, intent and frustration, poetry, and how language oscillates within and beyond this universe.

An obvious account of such vicissitude in romance occurs early in the title poem, when

which then moves certainly/realistically to this on the very next page

Surface but also pleasing playfulness is shown in lines like

and

where pararhyme and rhyme remind it isn’t just a poetic convention when given fresh gaming like this.

I write this review the day after Remembrance Day [but posted now] and such a context perpetrates further dances with intention and meaning

an explosion of unresolved hope and outcome.

If I can find lyricism in a writer’s work I will because this is a personally welcome poetic door to the sweetspot of language, opened [when clever, and Baylis is] in unexpected places

At this poem’s close, the ‘sham’ within our lyrical moments might be inherently as well as declaratively forgiven

In the second poem divers, there is more uncertainty conveyed because it is being conveyed again. This is presented in writing that is more than playful, though it still is, and reveals – as we have clearly seen – that within lyricism there will always be interruption. Ending on one page [I think really just the result of sequential placing on pages], the following ava in moves onto the next as

I love the sound of this as much as I do its surprise and its confirmation.

As with so many of the wonderful Red Ceilings Press chapbooks, this is a quick read – impact and reflection transcending – so were I to write about and quote more I would be spoiling. So I won’t.

To purchase, go here.

As I have already written on Twitter, I genuinely enjoy seeing other writers post pics of the arrival of their books, but it is so much more fun to receive your own work! In thanking the publisher via email, I did say I hoped it was normal to be my age and feel this excited like a kid…

I think this is a great cover: designed by the publisher Alec Newman with a painting [I have the original] by Rupert Loydell.

© Greg Kuzma

[Image by artist and photographer Nick Dormand]

You never do find out what makes you tick, and after a while it’s unimportant.
― Norman Mailer

Norman Mailer is shadow boxing at the curb.
The curb is cornered, no place to duck
and Norm’s going in for the knockout. He works
the inside, pounding the mortar. He tucks

his chin tight like an owl, squares his shoulders
where the tar and the cement meet.
The light is falling, both traffic and sky. The smolder
of taverns and cafes begins to sing

in neon. The blurs in storefront windows glow
like ribbons. The curb lays back. Shadows fail
and Norman boxes in the evening’s dark scene.
Suddenly there are no curbs or sidewalks. Now

the stars glide and arc in their contrails
and Norman concedes to the quiet breeze.

© Michael Catherwood

The first official notice of publication, I think. I am so pleased and thankful. See more here.

My first year teaching at UNO,
I gave an exam in my fiction course.
One of the students, a little below
a B so far, chose Joyce’s “The Dead”
for his test topic, the lyrical force
of the ending, its melancholy awe:
“It would put your mind in
a wonder,” he said.
I found my vocation in Omaha.

© Michael Skau

On the last day of school
four in a cherry red Ford
cruising topdown
long hair flying

wind lifting their laughter
their spirits rising now
this day this time
flying

© J.J. McKenna

* A reminder that this series of ‘Nebraska’ poets, the State of my birth, includes poets/writers also born in Nebraska, or linked through residence, education and/or teaching there.

In all cases copyright remains with the authors. Having not sought permission to post, I trust writers are nonetheless happy to be represented in this celebration of their ‘roots’ and work, but I would obviously remove any such posts were I asked to do so by the authors.

(for K)

This morning was good for me,
but not you,

my walking in to our town,
November-crisp and a clear blue sky with sun shining,

passing by that one other thing
you wanted to see on this visit –

too late now with your boarding the long flight back home
as I write –

such an enormous new-build of older people’s apartments
to dwarf the thatched restaurant by its side and

those houses directly opposite the stream,
their years of a beautiful view you’ll once have seen

also completely destroyed,
walls of red brick never to be pretty like the

fallen autumn leaves on that footbridge
over the river as I returned home,

so many still fresh, if pastel, and the few
vibrant orange

or as I still see this
wonderful colour.