i am stoked to be able to announce that i have a new chapbook released this week! the grass is a yard now, again has been published by Apt. 9 Press and will be launched this friday at 7pm. more details about the event can be found on the Apt. 9 website, but i do know it will be at Raw Sugar (on somerset just west of bronson) and that it will be spectacular. i’ll be reading from the book at the launch, along with Spencer Gordon and Rhonda Douglas who are both also launching new books. anything Apt. 9 does is pretty much amazing, so it’s definitely an exciting opportunity to have this chapbook published.
more on the chapbook, from the Apt 9 Press site:
“the grass is a yard now, again considers the relations between certainty and uncertainty, between the expected and the unexpected, and between different reasons why narratives are constructed. jesslyn delia smith, as she has done across a series of chapbooks in the last five years, writes poems about the mundane and the everyday that locate the moments where we slip and grow. These poems are unassuming, and thoroughly disarming.”
that i might have lingered, if not
at your feet then in memory,
if not on the skin of your lips then
in history, but seldom your shell
was where i understood
you. you saw me
the saddest i
now i think “this is stupid”, and stop writing, and go camping, again and again it’s the same.
we rented a house by the canal for august first. only a block away. this is going to be very good for any and all new writing. i have a lot of plans.
including a plan to buy myself a congratulatory new writing book to celebrate finding the house (which, by the way, is absolutely perfect).
also, sometime in the next few months i expect to publish a new chapbook, currently untitled. i’ll have updates about that as well, which i’ll probably post while i sit on some awesome canal-side bench less than five minutes from my new home.
as grateful as i am that i have not
received a paper cut in these two
cautionary slice, i am that hockey
season’s over, and with it
that pale memory of yellow living
rooms, the walls the shade of
bags in hospitals, of trails left
by dying snails
and grey shadows of the sounds
of one last game on the TV cast into your eyes,
your eyes i couldn’t see through my
closed eyelids, your eyes i felt
once in awhile while we hid
that we were
holding hands beneath my sweater.
you trailed me home and kissed my
the part of me already dead.
we said “at least
it’s over”, talking about the move,
or the ten centimeter
snowfall in my new city
or the edge of the end
of a week, a quick fuck in
the back of a truck
between friends, a dream
you’ve been having since you
were eighteen and we met,
or talking about your
new now-ex girlfriend, or the
tension between you
or you thanks to us
that we are sure isn’t there
or splitting the cost
of our drinks
it’s been a very long time since i’ve posted any writing on here, but i plan to do that again soon. i’ve been working on a chapbook to be coming out this fall so i haven’t really had a lot of time to write anything that isn’t going to be in the book.
but those poems are now written and i’m starting to edit, so i’ll have some stuff up on my site in a while. i never post any poems here that i actually intend on publishing or that i have a strong connection with. i haven’t been doing a lot of “aimless” writing these past few months. but obviously that won’t always be the case.
plus i never write a lot in the summer. plus i’ve been looking for a house to rent and that’s been taking all my free time. plus i’ve been drinking a lot, a lot, lovely wonderful summer beers. so that’s what’s happening with that.
the disconnection is refreshing.
i feel better, but i still feel worse than ever. at least it’s summer, and i have cigarettes & lucky beers.