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).

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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.

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Meet the Team

Joe Luna (Hi Zero)

Robbie Dawson

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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 too — well OK, too a lot of things, but especially — white.

Cf. Kate Nepveu’s Con or Bust project, which raises money 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. Conventions can cost hundreds of pounds, whereas poetry events cost a fiver. (Though 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 something like seven thousand 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 — is it worth thinking about what poetry costs, and 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.

 

Forthcoming in Spring 2014!

Sad Press has been slumbering. Now the caldera of tears is rumbling again. Watch this space for — no, run for your lives from — ALERT SPACE IS HEIGHTENED: an imperative imprimatura, by nick-e melville.