David J. Daniels
Relieved, to be frank, it was you, not me
the nightly news, forced to one knee
in a parking lot, your unacknowledged
kinks now fully on display. Though they
your face out, kindly enough, with pixels.
Fingerprints, then off to one of their jail cells
night. Your wife bailed you out. The town
hushed, then whispered, whereas I, who was one
among your innermost circle, dropped off
a casserole. After our shock wore off,
dimmed to concern, then
to faint understanding,
we, your inner circle, who were learning
about you things we hadn't known, started
with small jokes, puns mostly, that smarted,
you said, but also healed: our usual
mode of endearment, to stay casual
lest the terror of it sting. We prodded
for details, times of day,
how you'd plotted
it out sometimes in advance, then fought
against it; other times, with no forethought,
yourself in the act, often
whipping it out for yourself, with no one
about, to reclaim what part of the beast
was in you, what little part. Thus released,
one had seen you, you'd saunter home
through suburban dark, back the way you'd come,
glad, sure, to some degree,
but all the more
deeply hurt, in the long run, the longer
you reflected on it. What was the wild
you were looking
for, that your wife and child,
waiting at the table, seemed unable
to give you? Not that you were unstable
exactly; at least, I didn't think so,
and I say that, of course, as
has extracted brief pleasure from strangers,
and sometimes, too, in a park, the dangers
outweighed by expectation, or meager
shot at joy. Joy? Really, now?
I'm not sure
that's the proper word. I've circled the park's
perimeter at night, studied the dark's
inhabitants, circling round the public
monuments, the park a sort of
for the homeless, mostly, with one or two
strays come in from the neighborhood: men who,
out, feign a sudden interest
in jogging, perhaps, with an almost
imperceptible itch, or remotest
tug in the
nylon crotch folds of their sweats,
and head out, yes,
I think, for joy, and one
or two have joined me in the brush, hidden
behind the gold façade of a stoic
monument, some dead, now deemed heroic,
whose smile, held firm, went suddenly grim
the more the sculptor repositioned
The casserole was an afterthought,
but not crude,
of veal soaked in vinegar & honey,
then boiled, as my mother taught, & I'd brought it along not for him
but as a gift for her, whom I didn't know well
had come to accept as a private, sadly frumpy, dignified woman, upon whom the awful had happened.
Like my mother, I pulled the meat by hand, still steaming on the bone, & tossed this into a skillet of sweated
shallots, ginger, & cream,
then wine, of an ordinary
grape, all the while thinking how soon
to turn from her, & from what we thought
of what she was grappling with,
she took the casserole from me, standing at the door that first night of her husband's
release from jail, standing on
floorboards I'd helped lay
in the earliest days of their
& the casserole, finished & studded
with leek & shaved water chestnuts, bore
sudden intimacy, restrained yet capacious enough to say
care, right now, in the immediacy, but my troubles, you see,
elsewhere. "He's drunk," she said, "near the fire pit,"
& she ushered me through a side door
into the yard
where others, our inner circle, had already
gathered around him. His voice, as he confessed everything, shifted
from shame to moments of weirdly
& I felt, sitting down to join them, what my mother had often told me
about the casserole's vacant weight.
Whereas darkness surrounds
us; or other bodies, if we're fortunate; or one body in particular, if we conceal our neediness; whereas these things, as
well as skyscrapers, clouds, and broken windows surround us, the nail
goes in, drives in, enters. The nail doesn't confuse itself with the newel, which helps us ascend to the second
floor; nor with the Nile, an example of something flowing, like narrative or a suitcase or a staircase ending elsewhere.
A staircase erected without nails (one in particular comes to mind, in a monastery outside Santa Fe), we refer to as
a miracle. Which is to say, it isn't the nail but the absence of nail
which impresses us with the diving. I mean the divine. Similar absences, gaps in the story, wherever his body had gone to
when they rolled the stone away. If the ending weren't accompanied by a knell, bees rushing from an olive grove, the trees
disappearing in fog in the darkening knoll; if that music
so seductive, making us stray from the body farther; if we hadn't glanced away, we might have seen
the nails getting plucked out, the holes widening, starting to flow. Meander. We might have seen his bare arms
jutting out from foliage, solidly as nails. We might have noticed his one finger curled, as we tried to run. Might have
seen him emerge from the shade, the awful shade we dreamed of as kids.
Poems - Bio - Review - Interviews
David J. Daniels is the author of
two chapbooks, Breakfast in the Suburbs and Indecency, both from Seven Kitchens Press, and the full-length
collection Clean, winner of the Four Way Books Intro Prize. A former Stadler Poetry Fellow at Bucknell, he is currently
Poetry Editor of Pebble Lake Review and teaches at the University of Denver. His poetry has appeared in numerous
journals and anthologies, including Best of the Net 2012, Kenyon Review, Pleiades, and elsewhere.
A Review of David J. Daniels' Clean,
first published at Scout Poetry
The opening lines of “Public Indecency,” the inaugural poem in Clean, capture the candor of
the entire collection: “Relieved, to be frank, it was you, not me / caught on the nightly news…”
this poem about exposure, Daniels immediately subjects himself to scrutiny, and we soon realize that he and his disgraced
friend are not so unlike after all: Daniels admits that he, too, has “circled the park’s / perimeter at night”
and that “one / or two have joined me in the brush” for what he finally names “joy.” In “This
Is the Pink,” Daniels goes beyond the personal to splice stories of a mugging, Hurricane Katrina, racism, and the
poet’s own failed relationship with a woman to unflinchingly interrogate the lies we tell about ourselves and others.
We all wear masks: the dying “old queen” who insists on shaving her moustache in the hospital, mothers in suburbs
serving “pork incognito” for breakfast, and the closeted groom on his wedding day. Yet though these poems feature
urinal troughs, glory holes, sores, and a cast of the criminal, addicted, infected, and deceased, Daniels never fails
to endow his subjects with dignity. In “Farmer John,” Daniels suggests his poems attempt a “restorative
elegance // for the dead,” but in turn a friend derides the writer’s “over-allegiance / to rhyme,”
arguing that “Risk…that calculated // isn’t risk at all.” However, the power of this collection
comes largely from its tightly coiled forms — syllabics, meters, startling rhymes, and slant rhymes (“crèche
figurine” / “polyurethane” or “quarries” / “Queerest” or “St. Luke’s”
The poems’ structures highlight the tension between the strictures of society and those who slip through
its cracks, between the ravages of flesh and a spirit that persists. In “Public Indecency,” a statue’s
smile goes “grim / the more the sculptor repositioned him,” but Daniels carefully chiseled poems never lack
energy or unadulterated auditory pleasure. In “Hurricane David,” (“Both bird / and burial, you rolled
// from the pink-flamingoed sprawl / of white America into the immigrant citrus // bungalows below…”) the
lines surge down the page like the storm itself. As Daniels notes, “the Lord pronounced to Noah after the flood
that ‘on earth / every living thing shall be your meat.’” Daniels makes not only a meal of it all—the
clean and unclean alike—but a music.
An Interview with David J. Daniels by
Martha Silano, first published at Best American Poetry
I was lucky enough to spend some time chatting with David J. Daniels, winner of the Four Way Books Intro Poetry
Prize, about his new book Clean (D.A. Powell, Judge). My questions
primarily deal with the ways that writing in fixed forms--in David's case, rhymed and metered quatrains--can often assist
poets in tackling painful subjects they might not otherwise venture to write about. We also discussed his infuences, religious
upbringing, and Whitmanesque compassion. Here's how the conversation went:
Martha Silano: Clean was a book I picked up late one night, and it kept me awake till
I finished. I was tired, so that’s saying a lot. I was drawn in immediately by the opening poem, “Public Indecency.”
Talk about not wasting time to shock the reader: to begin with a poem about a friend caught on camera exposing himself.
It’s a bold move, not exactly standard subject matter—that the speaker is friends with a criminal.
What I love about this poem is how the speaker’s reactions to this incident progress from “sure glad it wasn’t
me” to “there but for the grace of God,” a kind of Whitmanian embrace and compassionate witness: Not
that you were unstable / exactly; at least, I don’t think so, / and I say that, of course, as someone who / has extracted
brief pleasure from strangers”. It’s straight out of Leaves of Grass,: “no two alike, and every
one good”! I wondered if you could talk about how this poem evolved – the structure, the use of rhymed double-quatrain
couplets, the progression from relief to, well, acceptance, and joy?
David J. Ddaniels: Well, first,
I’m delighted the book gripped you, and I’m touched that you’ve asked to interview me. Having that line
appear first in the book – “Relieved, to be frank, it was you not me” – was D.A. Powell’s
decision. He insisted on it because he thought the peculiar moral stance captured an essence of the collection, about looking
and exposing and public risks and being found guilty for things. My looking and my exposing. "Public Indecency"
was a tricky poem to write, emotionally, because I felt nervous about further humiliating my friend who'd already been
fairly publicly shamed (ruined, really, in some ways) for what happened to him. Yet I also felt an immediate sort of kinship
toward him – certainly, I didn’t judge him – because, yes, as I say in the poem, I've done similar things,
and then some, in darkened parks. Many closeted men have (my friend, by the way, is straight), so I also felt some grand
moral urge not just to 'out' those truths but to understand and accept them. To name those acts, to give them an identity
apart from how our police force would name them. This is maybe the Whitmanesque quality you're sensing, and what I hope
is one of the humane motives of the book, of not just telling 'the truth' (which is risky) but of truly empathizing and
calling those truths, if not holy, then understandably human and real. And among my feelings – and those of our
mutual friends, as we talked about the incident repeatedly in a bar – were grief, concern, sympathy, some joking occurred,
some folks rejected him, but nobody, as I recall, mentioned ‘relief’ even though, as I looked around the table,
I knew we were all (in the state’s eyes) similarly ‘guilty’ for things. Is relief so startling to admit?
As for the strict syllabic rhymes, perhaps they
offered me a more distant motivating stance, so I could propel the poem in terms apart from its subject matter. I remember
drafting the poem fairly vividly, over the course of a few days, lining up couplets, tossing some aside, jotting down
the word ‘jail cells’ for instance, then listing as many rhymes as possible until landing on ‘pixels’
and asking myself, How would pixels ever occur in this scene? In an earlier draft, I’d gone with ‘pretzels’
and went on this goofy tangent about kids eating pretzels innocently in a park (I suppose I’d invented some sort of
pretzel stand and vendor – what rhymes with vendor?) while my friend did his business in nearby bushes.
what it's worth, when I read the poem aloud, audiences sometimes laugh at moments I still find most tragic and sad, weirdly.
“Public Indecency” turns out to be just the tip of the risk-taking iceberg in this book with its most fitting
title, as one of the themes seems to be about making clean what has been deemed dirty. There’s also this sense of
danger which is part of the allure – “Stared at / long enough, the night no longer // can be trusted, is filled
with accident / or misplaced longing.” Could you talk a bit about how the book evolved into a treatise on revisioning
what you deem, in “Larghissimo, as your “soul less salvageable”?
DJD: There’s a danger,
certainly, in talking so plainly about things I’ve done, things friends have done, and so forth, things that are
deemed criminal or morally unsound. As the Mommie Dearest epigraph states, This isn’t clean; nothing is
clean!, just as (I suppose) nothing is fully dirty. I lived a long time in various closets, sexual and otherwise,
denying, refusing to name, and I nearly destroyed a few people -- including myself – in the process because of those
layers of secrecy and shame. So part of the book is about refusing to deny, of being "frank,” and maybe this
makes it Confessional in a very specifically Catholic sense, except my priest ain’t alone with me in a booth. Does
this level of honesty make my soul less salvageable? I hope not. I hope, if anything, that it makes me more known, that
it makes the people I've loved more known, and brings us toward greater intimacy with others. Whitman again, I suppose:
nothing is dirty, it's just us, often sad, sometimes criminal, sometimes very funny.
MS: There’s quite a bit
of Catholicism throughout this book. We learn that Catechism derives from “the Greek kata, meaning “down,”
plus / echein, more or less equaling “sound”—/ roughly, then, “to sound down,” // to make
from airy music a meaty tangible, / from ether the actual gravel.” This is sort of what you do in Clean,
if I have it correctly? Take the ethereal, one’s received religion and cultural norms, and render them not only
into flesh, but flesh not sullied or sinful? Was that your intention at the outset, or am I completely misreading your
DJD: “A meaty tangible” – I don’t much love my own work, upon reading
it in print, I’ll admit, but that phrase strikes me as a crazy, good way to describe Christ, or God taking on physical
form. Outlandish, a meaty tangible. Few people, I think, would call me a Christian poet, despite the number of religious
references in the book, yet I was raised in a very Christian/Catholic household, by two of the coolest, most liberal people
I know. Liberal in the sense that Christ was liberal. (My dad's a deacon, and my mother works for the Catholic Diocese,
far down South in one of the big states that wants to leave the union.) While I've rejected most of the Church's teachings,
I remain fascinated by the carnal, by the blood and flesh of it, and I've tried to hold on to a few central Christian
virtues that my parents taught me growing up, those of acceptance and compassion.
MS: Fine virtues, indeed! I think for me a big part of the freshness in this book derives from
the use of vernacular and slang while writing in strict forms – rhymed couplets and stanzas. I am trying to think
of others who do this. Marilyn Hacker comes to mind. And William Meredith’s “Effort at Speech,” with
its Sapphics rendered into everyday speech, “Give me your wallet,” which by the way sounds a lot like “We’ve
just made love in the fumes of gasoline” (“Shell Station”). But taking Hacker and Meredith’s vernacular
a step further, you’ve made the choice to go with fuck, shit, and bitch. Can you talk a little about
this dance between content and form, this low and high-brow do-see-do?
DJD: My friends have sometimes
remarked that my poem-voice sounds awfully similar to my happy hour-voice, and I like that, if it's true! Rehashing a
story with them, I often take center stage and can shift sort of wildly in conversation from earnestness to glib humor,
but I hope all those different registers are true – that one tone doesn’t ring false or performative any more
than another. So it feels natural to write that way, too. Hacker is certainly a major influence, although less so Meredith,
whom I haven’t read much, sadly. Thom Gunn is certainly an influence, as is Larkin, both of whom make appearances
in the book. Fuck, I suppose, I learned from them, along with their strict measures and near-holy music and cadences.
I take the writing very seriously – I mean, I regard poetry-making as nearing something like prayer, at least in
the sense of speaking to something that never answers back – so I’m often surprised to go back and see so many
cuss words scattered throughout. It’s not like I’m aiming for shock value; it’s just what comes out naturally,
part of my actual voice. Yours, too, I’d venture to guess. Why withhold that actual language from poetry?
Point well taken, said the woman with a similar fondness for high and low diction, the Latinate versus the Anglo-Saxon.
But while we are on the subject of formal considerations, I’d love to know your scheme for coming up with such dreamy
end-rhymes: plastered/Xeroxed. assume/freedom, Lent/vestment, soul/salvageable. It just doesn’t seem, at first glance,
like you find your rhymes in a freaking rhyme dictionary! And your slant rhyming—exposed/holes—are pure genius.
What’s your method?
DJD: I’m glad you like the rhymes! As central as subject matter might seem in the
book—I guess it's not one's usual poetry fodder, hand jobs and all—for me, form is what truly matters, and rhyme
is one of my peculiar kinks. I mean that honestly: I get off reading Merrill just for his rhymes and syntactical wizardry
-- the opening pages of Light at Sandover are, to my mind, the craziest, most joyful mouthbits of language out
there, just for the sheer technical genius and sound pleasure of it. I do use a rhyming dictionary—a lot!!—and
I'll often post on Facebook to friends, "I need a rhyme for Grindr" or "buttercream.” People are very
generous in response.
As for the actual content, I'll often alter it to fit the next rhyme, so as I'm writing, at some point a more
technical, puzzle-making spirit takes over, a kind of crossword puzzle, more than any earnest allegiance to "telling
the truth," whatever that means. Many moments in the book are made up—bent, or slant-truths, I suppose—just
to achieve a particular rhyme. If it rings, too, as some sort of echoing authenticity, sweet! But that's just gravy.
Again, on the subject of literary devices –music! –“Hurricane David” is an auditory tour de force–“the
brut, the brat, / the funnel cloud, that storm your name / dragged from the Keys / to shit kick a piece of paradise …
Both bird / and burial, you rolled / from the pink-flamingoed sprawl.” It’s such a delight to the ears. I love
“Whirly bird of no mercy” and “the brood, / the brave, the bravura,” not to mention “the
plague, the plunge, the paddle,” and my favorite: “the lost testosterone at sea”! How many drafts did
this poem go through? Do you use a thesaurus? Read a lot of Auden beforehand?
DJD: Auden, too, I should've
name-dropped earlier as among my influences. I just wrote a poem about him – he was into some pretty rough trade
during the Berlin years, apparently. But I don't recall reading Auden in relation to this poem specifically. “Hurricane
David” was really pure sound for me, seeing how far I could sustain its patterns, varying words slightly, rearranging
the letters on the page for each word to see what else they resembled. Testosterone, for instance, was just a verbal gift-from-elsewhere,
as I anagrammed and played around with words like testing, lost, alone, rest, and so forth.
MS: “This is the Pink”
feels like an important big poem as it takes on the issue of racial stereotyping of African-Americans—assumptions,
ignorance, that sort of thing. The mugger as saint. And we learn that the word clean was spoken by, of all Biblical
figures, Noah: go in, all clean. I admire the negative capability of this poem – how fitting its nebulousness,
as to the color of the mugger’s skin, as to why the speaker doesn’t show up at the line-up. Again, that reluctance
to condemn or implicate what could be oneself. Has this always been your natural impulse? Without getting too autobiographical
(unless you want to, of course), who were your teachers?
DJD: “This Is the Pink” is
the center of the book, literally in terms of page numbers, and figuratively in terms of my working through various concerns
of mine, of guilt and naming, of redemption. I’d spent a lot of time cruising public restrooms for intimacy, behind
the back of a woman I lived with. We’d been mugged together on our first date, and stayed together because of that
for close to seven years. Flash forward to Katrina, and yes, I overheard a white bartender in Indiana make racist comments
while we all watched CNN footage, watched people struggle for safety. I was stunned, and his racism and lack of humanity
lingered with me a long time. So the poem works through a lot of overlapping threads: of my coming-out, of the mugging,
of giving name to experience, of both the Biblical storm and the one in New Orleans (which I also don’t name in
the poem, on purpose), of my own sort of endless appetites when I lived there.
By the time I re-read Genesis, for research purposes,
I’d already chosen Clean as the title for the manuscript, so imagine my delight when learning that ‘both
clean and unclean’ beasts were granted entrance to the ark. And God’s promise to Noah, that whatever he salvages
from the storm will be his to eat. Wow! Talk about privilege. Talk about outrageous privilege! I’ve mentioned to
people often that, as much as my own writing may strike them as forthright, the most brazen line in the book (to my mind)
is the one lifted straight out of The Old Testament: every living thing shall be your meat. But of course, I’m
guilty, too: “Mugger. Our mugger. This dumb kid.” Guilty of turning someone who’d mugged me into ‘mine’,
my property, at least linguistically, so part of the poem attempts to work out my own violence. And again, yes, to empathize
with the man who’d mugged me and my girlfriend, to understand the cultural deprivation he must have felt, to make
that choice. And to not condemn him, anymore than I’d condemn myself or others.
MS: Thanks so much for providing
some backstory. Of course, Katrina and the original Flood – they work so well together in this poem. I live for
those times when I’m in the act of writing and am provided that kind of gift—like yours with Noah and The Old
Testament. Call it: coincidence, synchronicity, payback for paying close attention and doing one’s research, but
it’s always a feeling of luck, of privilege, I agree.
“The title poem reminds us of the other sense of
this word, as in clean and sober. In it you rhyme, “Pisa” with “’please,: a,” and “St.
Luke’s” with “shaky-shakes.” Talk about tough material to write about: a guy thrown in jail, then
going through forced detox, but you pull it off with aplomb. Are you emboldened and buoyed (forced to say things you’d
never say) by formal constraints? It seems to me the answer is yes. To an Old Queen Getting Dressed” is a gorgeously
heartbreaking poem. The form seems to work as a poultice, drawing out your best lines. When did you discover that rhymed
quatrains were your friends?
DJD: I love – loved, they’re both dead now – the people at the center
of these two poems, and as I often do when I sit down to write, I write to them directly, trying to recapture some of their
beautiful essence so that history doesn’t obscure them. Of course, they’re not solely beautiful people: they
were both capable, as we all are, of terrible moral crimes. But they were also incredibly funny, at times, and charming,
and deserve to be remembered.
Rhyming, as staged as it may appear on the page, might also serve as some form of authentic intimacy, or echo
for me: sending out a first word that requires another to join it. Perhaps writing to the dead, as I often do, imitates
my own longing to re-connect with them. I’m not quite sure. I know it would be much easier to simply ‘spill
my guts’ on the page (I mistyped “spill my guys” on the page, then corrected it, although I like the
error!) in free form, but in some ways, free form bugs me: it claims some sort of authenticity or quality of ‘real
speech’ that I simply don’t trust. Poetry isn’t letters or news. It’s sound primarily, and highly
artificial, so I guess the quatrains hold me to the task. Plus, it’s just fun, freakishly fun, to rhyme “Pisa”
with “please: a”. It lets the language remain in control. I suppose there’s some sort of masochistic
pleasure in writing so formally, syllabics and meters and rhymes, of letting the poem call the shots.
I also think, sometimes, stunning things can
occur when we attend to rhymes and loosen our own control. Consider Hacker’s “Against Elegies,” an absolutely
gorgeous poem, which begins with a brief litany of friends who are dying: “James has cancer. Catherine has cancer.
/ Melvin has AIDS. / Whom will I call, and get no answer?” I adore that rhyme, I find it chilling. And whether Catherine
actually has cancer, versus some other disease, matters less to me than the chilling effects of that sonorous
quality. I get the same feeling, of sonic pleasure, of very physical pleasure, from reading Muldoon, who is simply crazy
The word “clean” itself, by the way, particularly in gay culture, is somewhat pejorative, meaning
negative, and thus set apart from those who are infected or (yuck!) dirty. And I’m aware of that when I use it. But
in a book largely about addictions, it’s also meant in that sense of sober.
MS: This is all so enlightening—thanks
for clarifying a definition of clean I wasn’t aware of. And why you prefer rhymed quatrains to “free
verse.” “Poetry isn’t letters or news. It’s sound primarily”: someone should put that on
Your book more than deserves all the attention it’s been getting. I can only imagine that DA Powell feels
lucky to have found it/you. Have you had a chance to meet him/talk? If so, what was that like? And how was it to work
with the editors at Four Way? Did the book undergo much revision from ms. to book stage. If so, what changes were made?
Four Way is a wonderful press, and I’m humbled to work with them. Martha Rhodes has been nothing but supportive and
attentive and kind to me, and the staff, from marketers to in-house designers and line editors, are fantastic. I feel
very lucky. They offered suggestions on arrangement of the poems, although the poems themselves, at the level of line,
are pretty much what they were when I sent in the manuscript.
I’ve met D.A. Powell once, legitimately, just a month
ago, in Seattle at AWP. I was standing in a circle of poets, including Matthew Cooperman and Aby Kauping, who both know
Doug well, and I didn’t recognize him. Matthew was about to introduce us – you know how we all just sort of
drink and linger and speak casually, as friends – when he stopped and said, Wait, you must know each other! And that’s
when it hit me who I’d been standing by. Doug and I hugged, and I thanked him profusely – I’m a gusher
– and yes, he thanked me, too, for writing a book that, he said, he loved so much and found very daring.
I’ve been told, Doug and I danced briefly at another AWP, during one of those late-night sponsored parties. But the
floor was crowded, the lights dim, no doubt Gloria Gaynor was blaring, gin flowed (I drank gin then, whiskey now), and
neither of us recalls it well.
MS: Dancing with “Doug” to Gloria Gaynor late-night at AWP—does it get any
better?! I’m so glad to know you got to meet the person who helped to bring Clean into the world. Wrapping
things up, I’m curious to know what are you working on now.
DJD: I’m working on very
little, or a few things, very slowly. Clean, from start to finish, took me twenty years to write. I’m hoping
the next book arrives more quickly, although the poet Brian Barker likes to tell me just to wait and not rush. I’ve
written about ten poems post-Clean, and a few have appeared in journals, and weirdly, they don’t rhyme.
Well, one does, but it’s an anomaly. Mostly I’m working on a looser, longer line – despite how I praised
strict forms above – reading a lot of C.K. Williams and Ammons, learning how they sustain a line. We shall see.
That’s great advice from Barker. No need to rush! How cool that you are writing poems that are looser and have longer
lines. I think that’s a good instinct—to do what you just said you’d never do. It’s kinda what
the best poets—state they’re vehemently against rhyme, and then the next thing you know they’re extolling
the virtues of terza rima. Whatever form or non-form your next poems come out in, I can’t wait to read them!
Click here to read an interview with
David J. Daniels at Kenyon Review
Poems - Bio - Review - Interviews
Click here to read an interview with
David J. Daniels at Ploughshares