The Phoenix left him off the ballot for 2011. Wtf mate.
But we'll have no monarchy in Boston. It's time to shake the pillars of power once again and upend the patriarchy.
Vote for Elisa Gabbert as Boston's Best Poet of 2011.
1. Click the Write-in field, enter her name.
2. Click “Submit Vote”
3. Click “Skip to Finish” (they don't know what “submit” means)
4. Then click “Vote Now” (no need to enter your info at all)
Elisa is an excellent poet and a great reader. Please vote for her and in so doing urge the Phoenix to get hip to what's happening in poetry in poetry in Boston! Janaka Stucky (Black Ocean) and I are working together to make poetry interesting in Boston — please help us by casting your vote.
Read Elisa's blog, The French Exit
Check out this Bookslut interview with Elisa from June 2010: “Certain things we sense are simple and it's easy to recognize them and conjure them up in your imagination when they're not present, the way you can pretty much play a familiar pop song in your head and it's almost as good as hearing it for real. Or the taste of green apple Jolly Ranchers, which is more consistent than real apples. But with something more complex, you can't simply memorize it. John listens to a lot of experimental chamber music and it often takes me a bit to realize when I've heard it before, and like you said, I recognize it by feel. Or perfume: The best perfumes are complex and abstract and therefore difficult to describe and difficult to remember with anywhere near the sort of rich sensory detail you get when you're actually smelling it. And often, when I've only met someone once or twice, it's hard to picture them clearly, they seem hazy in my mind like a dream face. Which is all to say that poetry is slippery because, like good perfume and good faces, it's complex.”
And a poem, from Typo 12:
“Aubade”
We both dream about wild animals.
There had been a dog fight at the party—
the older, bigger dog somehow threatened
by the puppy, a girl—he was chasing her
in circles around the yard, knocking over drinks
and gnawing on her leg. I tensed
when they bumped against mine,
and you said not to be afraid of them,
they’re only dogs. A rash prickled up there
and I scratched it all night.
The birds screech outside at this bleak hour.
Why do they always sound terrorized?
It’s a wave—their cries, the encroaching light;
the room growing paler in pindots,
coming up to our edges. Us feeling separate.
The nightmare you gave me, or caught.
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