Out of Everywhere 2

From Reality Street & Emily Critchley, Out of Everywhere 2, linguistically innovative poetry by women in North America & the UK. Including writing by Sascha Akhtar, Amy De’Ath, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, Rachel Blau DuPlessis, Andrea Brady, Lee Ann Brown, Elizabeth Jane Burnett, Mairéad Byrne, Jennifer Cooke, Corina Copp, Emily Critchley, Jean Day, Carrie Etter, Kai Fierle Hedrick, Heather Fuller, Susana Gardner, Susan Gevirtz, Elizabeth James/Frances Presley, Lisa Jarnot, Christine Kennedy, Frances Kruk, Francesca Lisette, Sophie Mayer, Myung Mi Kim, Carol Mirakove, Marianne Morris, Erin Mouré, Jennifer Moxley, Redell Olsen, Holly Pester, Sophie Robinson, Lisa Samuels, Kaia Sand, Susan Schultz, Eleni Sikelianos, Zoe Skoulding, Juliana Spahr, Elizabeth Treadwell, Catherine Wagner, Carol Watts, Sara Wintz, & Lissa Wolsak.

The original 1996 Out of Everywhere, edited by Maggie O’Sullivan, is also available from Reality Street. Including writing by Rae Armantrout, Caroline Bergvall, Nicole Brossard, Paula Claire, Tina Darragh, Deanna Ferguson, Kathleen Fraser, Barbara Guest, Carla Harryman, Lyn Hejinian, Fanny Howe, Susan Howe, Grace Lake, Karen MacCormack, Bernadette Mayer, Geraldine Monk, Wendy Mulford, Melanie Neilson, Maggie O’Sullivan, Carlyle Reedy, Joan Retallack, Denise Riley, Lisa Robertson, Leslie Scalapino, Catriona Strang, Fiona Templeton, Rosmarie Waldrop, Diane Ward, Hannah Weiner, & Marjorie Welish.

Some other recentish anthologies: Dear World & Everyone In ItI’ll Drown My Book: Conceptual Writing by WomenBe the First to Like This: New Scottish Poetry, Norton’s second edition Postmodern American Poetry (which could have removed those bios unless you’ve actually done things & instead kept a few poets from the first edition).

Hix Eros #4 & #5

Hix Eros #4 is out! This one’s a bit different, all about J.H. Prynne. It collects essays by Michael Tencer, Justin Katko, Lisa Jeschke, Timothy Thornton, Joe Luna, John Wilkinson, Abigail Lang, Keston Sutherland & Robin Purves, with an introduction by Keston Sutherland.

The collection is available as a free PDF. There will soon be a limited print edition too. If you are connected with a university, we’d really appreciate you ordering one for your library (Hix Eros #4, ISSN 2056-8908, price TBA shortly).


Hix Eros #5 is also out now, filled with reviews — written by Brandon Brown, Jennifer Cooke, Stephen Emmerson, William Garvin, David Grundy, Iain Morrison, Michael Tencer, Greg Thomas and Karen Veitch — of poetry by Connie Scozzaro, Dodie Bellamy, Richard Barrett, J.H. Prynne, Laura Elrick, Amy Todman, J.L. Williams and Nat Raha, and of Ian Heames’ little magazine No Prizes and Caroline Bergvall, Laynie Browne, Teresa Carmody, and Vanessa Place’s anthology I’ll Drown My Book: Conceptual Writing by Women. There is a free PDF, or you can get it on the Kindle for 79p.


Meet the Team

Joe Luna (Hi Zero)

Robbie Dawson


Past issues: threetwo, one (PDF).

And besides, Verity at Iodine Press has new chapbooks by Lisa Jayne, Will Rowe and Joe Luna.

This entry was posted on September 5, 2014. 1 Comment

Hix Update

Hix #4 (Prynne Spesh) really is imminent. This one’s print: we’d be especially grateful if people with university libraries at their command were to order institutional copies.

Hix #5 is also pretty imminent — hopefully it will hit the Kindle on the weekend, with the usual free PDF following not long after.

And Hix Eros welcomes reviews of contemporary poetry for #6. If you’d be interested in reviewing something which you don’t yet own, it’s usually possible to arrange a review copy: hix me up.

(& I know some of you are waiting for the individual poems to review for the #6 special feature: they should be with you this weekend!)

Do you twail behind us on Twitter, BTW? @HIXEROS

Poetry & White People

Sometimes the poetry communities and networks I kind of live inside notice that we are way too — well OK, too a lot of things, but especially — white.

I recently came across Kate Nepveu’s Con or Bust project, which uses crowdfunding to help people of colour to get to science fiction conventions.

I’m not exactly sure how to extrapolate something like Con or Bust to poetry. (Is there anything like this out there?) SF conventions can cost hundreds of pounds, whereas most poetry events cost a fiver. (Though I guess when you add transport, the cost of a few pamphlets …)

Or — another way of construing “the cost of getting to poetry events” — a part-time MA costs thousands and thousands of pounds, and that seems like more than the poets’ shallow pockets could feasibly furnish.

And maybe the idea has a cringey tokenistic feel. There are other ways of addressing diversity and they’re probably better.

But as an AND or as an UNTIL, nor as an OR — can we think about what poetry costs? Can we think about the kinds of bursaries or grants or scholarships or other projects that we could set up, just by passing around a massive hat?

New Sad Press book!

This one is by Verity Spott & Megan Alan.

Four Poems

£4.50 incl. P&P in the UK.

“[…] Remember the boy
days – my whole body, I am greener
than grass. No more than a man away
from murder. […]”

Find out what happens next!

Buy it by clicking here or here or here or here or here.

Verity (Verity means truth in almost every language) knows you have questions: Vine.


From “The War Memoirs of Commandant Ludwig Krause, 1899-1900″

By Commandant Ludwig Krause.

In order that the meat of a slaughtered ox, e.g., might be fairly divided, we followed this practice. The under-corporal, with a list of the burgers in his hand, stands with his back towards the slaughtered animal. Another man, the dealer, faces the animal, but has his back to the under-corporal, so that he cannot see the list of names. The dealer then takes a piece of meat in his hand and shouts “Whose is this?” The under-corporal then reads a name from the list and the piece of meat goes to the man whose name is read out. This system gave an equal chance to everyone and precluded the possibility of favouritism. The corporals and under-corporals were very hard worked men, and consequently this was a job which no one readily undertook.

From “Echo’s Bones”

By Samuel Beckett.

Something simply had to happen, the ground-fog lifted, the sky was mare’s-tail and shed a livid light, ghastly in the puddles that pitted the land, but beautiful also, like the complexion of Addison’s disease. A child, radiant in scarlet diaper and pale blue pilch, skipped down off the road and began to sail a boat.

“Though you hedge” said Belacqua, “Miss Privet, yet do you win, and my shame be my glory.”

“That’s a most sensible cadaver” said Zaborovna. She began to back away most gracefully.

“Let the deadbeats get on” said Belacqua, “I can’t bear a crowd.”

The faithful, seeded with demons, a dim rabble, cringing home after Vespers, regrettably not Sicilian. In the van an Editor, of a Monthly masquerading as a Quarterly, his po hat cockaded fore and aft with a title-page and a poem of pleasure, a tailor of John Jameson o’Lantern dancing before him; next, a friend’s wife, splendid specimen of exophthalmic goitre, storming along, her nipples up her nose; next, a Gipsy Rondo, glabrous but fecund, by-blow of a long line of aguas and iluminaciones; next, Hairy, leaning back, moving very stiff and open; next, in a covered Baby Austen, the Count of Parabimbi and his lady; next, trained to a hair, a nest of rank outsiders, mending in perfect amity a hard place in Eliot, relaxing from time to time to quire their manifesto: “Boycott Poulter’s Measure!”; next, as usual in the thick of the mischief, a caput of highly liberally educated ex-eunuchs, rotating slowly as they tottered forward, their worn buttocks gleaming through the slits in their robes; next, Caleken Frica, stark staring naked, jotting notes for period dialogue with a cauter dipped in cocoa round the riddle of her navel minnehaha minnehaha; next, a honeymoon unicorn, brow-beating his half-hunter; next, a Yogi milkman, singeing his beard with a standard candle, a contortionist leprechaun riding in his brain (abdominal); next, the sisters Debauch and Death, holding their noses. So they passed by and passed away, those mentioned and one or two more, the second after the first, the third after the second, and so forth in order, until the last — a fully grown androgyne of tempestuous loveliness — after the rest, and after the last a spacious nothing.