Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Featured Poet: Brooklyn Copeland

"Brooklyn Copeland [] was born
in Indianapolis in 1984. She has since lived in Florida and throughout
Northern Europe. Her poems are forthcoming in issues of NOÖ Journal,
Mimesis, Warbler and Blossombones, among others, and her e-chapbook,
The Milk for Free, is available from Scantily Clad Press

Biznass: Brooklyn is co-editor of Taiga [], a
new print-based journal of poetry and translation. The first issue,
available this summer, includes contributions from more than 30
ridiculously talented poets and translators of the Swedish, Russian
and Latvian languages. This issue also includes short interviews with
musicians Helena Espvall, Damon Krukowski, Marissa Nadler, Laura
Naukkarinen and Max Richter. Submissions to Taiga are closed until
later this summer, but the editors are reading chapbook-length
manuscripts for the Tundra Chapbook Series.

List of Brooklyn's Current Favorite Things: At-Large Magazine, Fou
Magazine, Mid)Rib, Textsound Journal, and Warbler. Spring weather and
National Poetry Month. The Midwest. Rufus Sewell. Listening to
Papercuts, Donovan, and Django Reinhardt. Reading new poets. Being
newly married and madly in love with my husband. Trashy romance
novels. My cocker spaniel, Loki. Recipes that involve lots of peanut

An E-Chapbook! What a great idea. And a cocker spaniel. This website sticks with a firmly e-libertarian stance on biographies: people say whatever the hell they want, and on the blog it shall go. U. S. A. I am here for publishing. So I will publish thusly. Here are her poems.

Sightings, Clippings

Painful as the bulb that strains to be the sharpest
tool in the shed. She saves grocery lists from a certain fate,

gathers the names of her friends on the fridge
with the magnets. For all we know she might be ancient,

here to give us back this language. But to watch her: painful
as the crayon that doesn't play with the full deck,

as the neutered beast of leisure
as he humps a stranger's leg.

Ask her any painful question, she makes as if
to joke. Wait for it, she says, then pauses.


Your ukulele. Just because I could not play.
By sleight of wave our names are forever

erased from the sand. By sleight of hand
your card is pulled, melts, seamless,

and our dainty pastel admittance seizes
the moment of gentle tumult to burrow

maybe beyond the discard pile,
beyond my boggled-sight?

Beyond my fire-fingered grasp?
For my love is a painted hermit crab,

yours for a good cry.
The sea, the sea will provide.

This evening, there will be intrigue
while our clothes tumble dry low.