Poems - Bio - Review - Interviews
One moment. I remember a ditch. A ditch
where the young mother's body was
dumped. There were crosses
and bluebonnets. There is
an apartment overlooking a
rainy city and the news
discusses the implication of sunshine. I shake just
thinking of the airline. A company
a living thing. I've forgotten who I am a
From surgery, from drugs. The police are searching
all the cars on the north side of the block today,
and the south side of the block tomorrow. They say
it's very important, but I don't think there's anything
I want them to find, personally. Personally, I'd take
the door with the tiger, but that would be an accident.
It's my luck.
There's a tiger behind every door. A plane
crash beneath every plane. A carjacking on every corner.
Dread sprouting from every word. From Aryan to Zion.
Suicide to Zen Meditation. Ha! You thought
I was beyond that. Above that. A stray bullet hits
the woman in front of us at the bank. In front of both
of us. When I tell the story I say she was in front
when you tell the story you say she was in front of you.
The truth is she was just in front of the bullet. What
will it take for us to learn the value of our pitiful
I mean all of them, put together, a wisp in the corner
of a dark room, a missed word in the middle
of an epic bildungsroman about sorcery and betrayal
most carnal sense. One gasp in a silent crowd.
A Guarantee Of Protection
I, nameable. I, a
collection of syllables. I, policier. I, "All
Night Long" by Lionel Richie. I, lion. I, impervious
most insults yet few objects. I, terror incarnate. I, devil's
advocate. I, devil. I, many ones and zeros. I, proud Canadian.
I, born from ruin. I, protector of small rodents. I, filled
with bones and blood. I, mud. I, sheet music. I, broken
I, unfilled calendar. I, loud music, yet played
softly. I, aimless clicking through many pages. I, summing
it all up in too few words, it gets confusing. It is called
meandering and pointless, and the important issues are
in the fury of it. I, unproud Arab. I, the fury of it. I, a deliveryman
of pain. Don't worry though, it's only
mine. I, terrified incarnate.
I, technology. I, your voice as you hear it when you read silently.
I, silent. I,
consumer watchdog on the take. I, not making it.
I, swindler. I, geekgasm. I, speechless for a change, are you
I, last word, but not a very good one. Tell them I said
something. I, the filth and the shit. I, an impenetrable shield.
I, happy for a bit. Come to me if you want to know the truth
about me. I, a little bit of truth here and there. I,
but not the hare. I, broken down when you can't see. I,
the moment before sex, and the moment right after.
I, all night. I, misdirection incarnate, you don't know just
what it means. I, all night. I, too drunk
to dance. I, all night.
At 1:30 in the morning somebody bangs on your back door. A woman wails outside
in the distance. Her sobbing
You wake to sirens
and the power is out.
clear day, one lightning bolt cuts the sky.
Somebody has smashed the window of your car and taken nothing.
The cellar light is busted and there is a groan in the farthest corner.
You have 10 unanswered messages from your father and 3 from your ex-girlfriend
left on your machine.
Tanks are on the news, slowly
rolling down an emptied city street.
The grocery store out of water, gas impossible to find.
The eyes of the dead have been painted over in the old photographs to make them
Who was that begging at your door? "Please, please, it's so cold, I'm sorry, he
You drive by three black men beating a fourth on the ground. You don't stop.
In the cemetery, graverobbers have struck your father's tomb again. This
Picking up the phone
to dial you hear somebody's faint, panicked breathing.
You pass the body of an old man on the side of the darkest country road.
O, gods of fear! Are we arrogant to believe the world will end in our lifetimes,
we in all
of history were so important to pull a chair up to the big exeunt?
Your family left you to face all of this mottled dark alone.
The knives have been removed from the table settings.
Somewhere, A-10 Tank Killers are photographed for a magazine cover. This
meant to impress,
darling. They are loaded with the most colorful blanks.
Poems - Bio - Review - Interviews
Glenn Shaheen received his MFA in Creative
Writing from the University of Houston. He was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and currently lives in Michigan, where
he edits the journal NANO Fiction and is the poetry editor for Third Coast. His book of poems, Predatory,
won the Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize, and is available from the University of Pittsburgh Press. Work has appeared in
Ploughshares, The New Republic, Subtropics, and elsewhere. Additionally, he presently
serves on the board of directors for the Radius of Arab-American Writers, Inc.
Poems - Bio - Review - Interviews
A Review of Glenn Shaheen's Predatory
by Sean Lovelace from
HTMLGiant at http://htmlgiant.com/random/predatory-by-glenn-shaheen-2/
Well, the dog needs bossing, also the baseball practice (batting balls)
and the plumber on the copper pipes (he looks like a man who enjoys a good banging) and the general lack of cheese, shredded.
Suddenly there is a rash of either lost cell phones beneath couch cushions or fleeing blackbirds on wing and car doors slamming
all around our block and I think to myself this is it, they are coming to take me away. I hold my breath waiting for my garage
door to rattle open, loose teeth of nuts and bolts falling, wondering how I am going to get at my toothbrush now that my
illicit lover has locked herself into the bathroom (they do this, eventually). But then the government truck farts
and rumbles off, there must have been another opportunity at the Walmart across the road. I want to be arrested
so that I can read books of poetry, right through from the beginning to the end.
Example, Predatory, by Glenn Shaheen. (It had another more melodramatic title, Shaheen told me,
but I forget the exact. It was a beery evening. [I think])
This book is paranoid. Or maybe just ill that way with perception:
All night, a howl
the window. All night an animal
Look, I have to drive off to the cafe to buy some cat food, or fetch my
grandfather from judo, or this very book of poetry lands on the lawn covered in blood. I unfold it, and out fall
foaming KILLING MACHINE and THE PAGE ON WHICH THE SPINE IS BROKEN, MONSTROUS, SUDDENLY, A BOTTOMLESS PIT, black
widow spiders, PREDATORY, and ACCIDENTAL INJURY AND THOSE WHO ARE LIABLE.
By the middle of the night the grass is still red because these are all titles from the book, Predatory,
except for the black widows, I just added that for effect. But look at all the paranoia and the violence and the
blood, I mentioned the blood. I like a book to know itself and be a thing. This book is a violent machine mirror
thing and you can see CNN inside it, but also the way CNN is your spleen, you know? Like everything that revolts
your brain only works because your brain has to go, yes, there's a little bit of me-cell there, a little CNN inside
all our acronyms, no matter the AKAs we wear most every day. We asked for this, Shaheen is saying:
I've forgotten who I am a few times.
From surgery, from drugs.
We've been sucked
into the latest story in the great saga of fire.
("Introducing Love into the Fragile Texas Ecosystem")
One time Shaheen said he sent this book out either 200 or 1,000
times. Wait, it had to be 200. Yeh, I bet it was 200 but costs like $1,000 to do so. There's a reality there, you
know. The way these things get done, have to get done, will be done, something. It's a path a book of poetry takes,
a meandering sometimes, a fit and starts. The origin story of a book interests me. There should probably be an interview
series, or a blog, or whatnot ONLY about origin stories of books. How it got there, to that artifact. I bet there
already is such a blog, right? Well, I apologize. Though not really. No.
In "The Longest Day of the Year" Shaheen writes, "From here things only get worse. Your friends divorce.
Your family dies./Disease. Crumbling ground over a deep chasm. You aren't able to run/anymore."
Ah, that one hurt me. To not be able to run anymore. To sink, that way.
There's a lot of burning, but there's a lot to burn out there. We've built
a lot of things. And to keep from burning. And to never...still, it will burn. So paranoia-that word again-becomes
awareness. There's an argument here, not didactic, not even wanting to be, just this way a thing builds. Repetition
is a brick, you know. They wall a thing. They rise. Some forces are so large they bleed into a poet's consciousness.
They inform every poem.
Then THINGS FALL APART.
A book of poems is a book, not a collection of poems. It accumulates,
gathers into a FORCE or PUSHING or like if you threw the book at a wall, it would scratch there, but then imagine
the INSIDES of the book, propelling, the concepts, the words, the forms and functions, like they would go through
the drywall, or the fake rock, or out the other...expand like the copper mushroom around the lead, a bullet (compression
forms) I mean, metaphorically, but if it HITS you as you read, moves synapses, rattles acetylcholine, is it metaphorical
at all? What is it to MOVE?:
there were an interruption.
on Which the Spine is Broken")
are invaded like this all the time.
("What Can we Know from the Footage the News Replays")
There was only a public outcry
When the hedge animals started to collapse
on themselves. The "check brake fluid" light is on again
you tell me. I am not a mechanic.
Injury and Those Who Are Liable")
know, I was helping judge a poetry contest a while back and I got this batch of poems and read and read and when
done said to someone, "Damn, everyone was writing about trees and shit. Where are the iPhones? I know some
of these people own iPhones."
So I enjoyed Shaheen
immersing me in a world I know, of course I know it, know it well: Super Targets, TV specials
(talk about an oxymoron), Saran Wrap, Pfizer truck, Celebrities, Police violence, Bullets, Blood...
But I'll be down at the coffee shop, drinking, you know, coffee. Writing down something crass like, "I
want to be arrested..."
Oh, do you?
Do you now?
Anyway, as Shaheen writes, "I have a real tendency to ramble." (Unlimited)
I'd like to end by saying I arrive to poetry for many reasons.
But always the push. I love the push and thump in the line. This book is loaded with kicky. It sometimes seems poetry
reviews should be written in poem form. I mean I feel like excerpting these lines doesn't get to the thing I'm saying,
but, trust me, I guess. If you want modern krunch, that frenetic thing that attacks us, that is inescapable, unfortunately.
I mean I guess I think Predatory is a Predator drone. That's it, watching us.
A gurney pulls
down an empty street.
off a title like,
(IN YELLOWKNIFE, AN INTUIT MAN IS SUSPECTED
OF SNEAKING INTO HOMES AT NIGHT AND CUTTING OUT THE ORGANS OF PEOPLE FOR FOOD)
In photos, Earth
is an iris drowned in pupil. A crushing black. The
unfurling of a deep fog. There's something formal
about the muzzle of a gun, I've always said, having
never held one.
On and on, the
jumps, the cuts, the examination of the jump-cutted. It's what poetry can do, the cutting I mean. The blood. But
that's OK, just...A buzzing above. A buzzing. What is that?
Poems - Bio - Review - Interviews
An Interview with Glenn Shaheen
by Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum
Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum: I just love "Dementia Unit."
It utilizes such a strong voice and leaps almost effortlessly from one idea to the next in a way that I rarely see
pulled off so convincingly. It's obviously a poem about that central question: "What / will it take for us
to learn the value of our pitiful lives?" I'm wondering how difficult a poem this was to write. With its associative
construction and somewhat relaxed voice, it comes off as one that might have fallen out of the sky in a few drafts.
Of course, that rarely happens; it seems more likely a lot of work went into this poem to make it seem so effortless.
How concerned are you with the "tightness"
or economy of language in your poetry. "Dementia Unit" isn't an extraordinarily controlled poem when it
comes to the level of the line; rather, it's relaxed, colloquial, almost conversational. Why use this approach in
this poem in particular?
I find one of the most difficult elements of poetry is determining how much artifice I want to leave exposed in
each poem. Of course, a poem is by definition artifice (as is all writing), but the layout of a poem is an acknowledgment
of that structure, to lesser or greater degrees. In "Dementia Unit" I did want to make it seem relaxed
in its diction, but to work that relaxation against the subject matter and the form, destruction and mental anguish
written in tercets and an almost regular footed line. I guess it's easier than solving a murder, but it takes me a
long time to get it the way I want it, and then I just hope it works for the reader.
AMK: I recently gave a reading where another poet who was reading made the comment that stanzas in a poem
implicate narrative. I'm not sure what he meant by this. It seems to me that there are plenty of poem in tercets,
couplets, etc... that aren't narrative at all. Which brings me to "Dementia Unit"... would you call this
a narrative poem, a lyric poem, or something entirely different or in between? Why the tercets rather than a single
GS: That's an interesting view
for that poet to have - it sounds like somebody with an agenda. If by "narrative" he meant a directing
hand, the poet trying to lead the reader to experience a set of images or meditations in a particular manner, then
I can get behind that. When one creates a stanza, you are choosing a mode of isolation, which of course presents
a unity among the words located within that division. If sometimes that forms a story in the reader's mind, that's
ok I suppose - but placing the corpse of a squirrel next to a hatchet can also create a story in the reader's mind
and that doesn't mean there is one.
If there's a narrative
I'm interested in with my poetry, it's a tonal narrative. For example, if I try to tell the story of a bat coming
into my house at night, I could present to you the factual details of the event. You could pass a test about that
Bat Night, yes, and depending on what descriptors I use, maybe it would even be a scary and funny story. But if
instead I presented a series of images and linguistic fragments that accurately replicated in you the reader the series of
emotions I experienced when the bat came into my house, then isn't that a more faithful narrative? Even if none
of those fragments and images have anything to do with a bat? You may know nothing of the bat, but you would know
(if I was successful) the particular terror of the bat for me. That might be the goal of all of poetry, actually,
now that I type it out.
"A Guarantee of Protection" is a wild poem. I can see it being quite a performance piece. Do you ever "perform"
your poems? By perform I mean something beyond merely reading... What's your take on the whole reading versus performing
GS: I try
to read my poems in an exciting manner, not in the poet reading voice that I'm sure everybody can do a great impression
of, but I don't consider myself a performer. I think when we do readings we should put in an effort to read our work
in a more interesting way than if a stranger picked up our stuff and read it out loud for the very first time. Even
that is too much for some poets, though, based on the readings I've attended.
AMK: I recenty went to see "Slam Nuba," an award winning slam team here in Denver. They
were pretty amazing; the acting was phenomenal and energetic in a way a typical reading rarely achieves (if ever),
and the writing was pretty good. I left the show trying to figure out what it was about slam that I innately felt
was different from poetry. It eventually occurred to me that slam poem is more like a monologue than freeverse.
"A Guarantee of Protection" might be both...
GS: That works for a lot of first person poems where the lens is turned inward - I think
that's the charm of slam poetry a lot of times. It is very performative in nature, like we're watching people tell
us honest and true things about themselves in an intimate manner, with all of the emotional ticks you might notice
your best cousin demonstrate when telling you of her recent breakup. But if you watch a slam poet do the same poem
twice, all of that is revealed to be a different kind of artifice - all of the ticks happen in the same place, it's
carefully rehearsed. To perform slam poetry, you need to be part poet, part actor, I say in all of my authority
of never having performed any slam whatsoever.
How did you come up with this structure of "I, ..., I, ..." Why is this poem not a prose poem given its
I spoke about wanting a line to work in tandem with the sentence (or fragment, here) and image (and of course by "in
tandem" I also mean by subverting them). Here it could be easy for a reader to become trapped by the form,
to ignore it because of the repetition, and I felt by placing those line breaks in some rhythmically abrasive places
(after an "I," for example) it continues to call attention to the obsession with self.
AMK: What's up with your titles? They're rather random
GS: Ha, I don't think they're random! These
three poems I think the titles are pretty self-explanatory, but in my book, for example, there's a poem called "The
Blueprints Of The Disastrous Medical Complex Are Hung In The Expensive Museum Above Selected Pieces of Bone And
Rubble And A Fake Burnt American Flag On Which The Stars Have Cleverly Been Replaced By Dollar Signs." It gets
a big laugh when I read the title, sure, and that particular image (narrative moment perhaps? There's a subject,
verb, and object!) is never referred to again. In this case, though, I want the absurdity and violence of the title
to affect the reading of everything that comes after it. I look at titles as the haze that drapes over a poem, and
while they don't need to be related in a linear sense, I feel that they affect the reader's approach to the poem, even
if it may seem random.
Is there a term for a stanza of a single line, like couplet, tercets? Why compose "Cant" in this way?
GS: A monostich is a single line stanza. There's a few
poems in Predatory written in monostichs. I feel that form allows one to segregate a particular lyric moment
more drastically than even a stanza would allow. It works (in my head at least) the same way a numbered section
works, without the tyranny of order numbering imposes. Each monostich ends on a period, and there's no real line
to balance against that. "Cant" is one of the starker poems in the book, and I felt that extreme stutter
worked best for its subject.
love that line "O' gods of fear!, are we arrogant enough to think the world will end in our lifetimes..."
It reminds me of a discussion I had with friend and fellow poet Jeffrey Shultz about the end of the world and the
Apocalyptic Literature that has emerged from this notion over the years and, seemingly, quite a bit more in the
last few years. He said, essentially, that every generation, every society fears its end not because it's actually
scary but because it would validate the fact that we so fear it in the first place. Is that part of what this poem
GS: I think its extraordinarily
conceited to think the world will end in our lifetimes - not just because, as the poem says, the idea that we are
so special to see the end, but the idea that the world couldn't possibly continue without each of us. That's like
imagining that every time you leave a party it instantly stops. The next day somebody tries to tell you about some crazy
hookup that happened at two in the morning, and you're just like "No, the party ended at 11:30." Ha, no,
that's just when you left. Everybody else kept having fun. I think it's "fascinating" that we are so obsessed
with the end right now - a time when interconnectivity and the ease of communication have made us exponentially
less violent. Of course, it's in a lot of powerful people's best interest to keep us in a mindset of fear, because
it makes us purchase or vote according to their needs, and what greater fear than the End of Everything? Whatever
"Everything" is, and whatever "End" even means.
AMK: I presented a paper on the Southern poems of Brian Barker a few years back and read
some of his works as part of that presentation. At some point, a professor of Modern Poetry (not be mistaken for
Contemporary) expressed his annoyance with "our [Contemporary poet's] obsession with the list poem." They've
been done a million times before, he said.
I, for one,
love list poems and really could care less if it's a form we've seen a million time. It's kind of like the observation
Chris Rock made on the Daily Show this summer, that people hate it when they hear a joke they've already heard but
will watch ridiculously predictable TV shows and will watch the same movie over and over again, and will even get angry
when they go to a rock show and the band fails to play their big hit, which they've of course heard already.
What's your take on poetry and originality and/or "newness?" Publishers
deem to be more obsessed with it than ever before...
GS: How quaint that a professor of Modern Poetry would berate any kind of obsession in
any era - the modernists wear their influence on their sleeves as much as anybody. Not that I'm criticizing the
modernists of course.
I don't believe in newness, really.
We're all writing toward one voice screaming (whimpering?) against the behemoth of history. That is, poets now end
up saying the same things in the same ways poets have been saying for centuries, albeit maybe a computer or television
will show up every now and then. Just various shades of suffering and promise.
AMK: Do you think your poems are new, original? They certainly don't feel terribly derivative
GS: I don't think any
poet thinks of himself or herself as new and original - we're too intimate with our own influences. They're always
shifting, too, as I read new stuff. I'm as influenced by a poem a friend emails me as I am by Lunch Poems or Overlord
or a video game I play
Click here for an interview with Glenn Shaheen at Regarding Arts & Letters
Click here for an interview with Glenn Shaheen at Poetry Society of AmericaPoems - Bio - Review - Interviews