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Bryce Passage

Dan Morris

 

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"Dan Morris’ Bryce Passage arrests my attention because the voice that speaks in it is like no other in our contemporary poetry." —Allen Grossman
Daniel Morris: Bryce Passage

Allen Grossman: Morris identifies a crisis which forms our lives, but has had no poetic voice until this “diary”. Morris’s subject is the tornado moment between youth and age when the self that speaks comes upon the language of the world he must live in— and finds it a language utterly inescapable, but inadequate to desire. This book does what poetry should do. It adds a voice to our voice. To borrrow one of Daniel Morris’s titles, these are “Poem(s) Written in the Logic of Late Capitalism”: smart, sassy, self-reflexive, satiric, and strangely soulful. And to borrow a line from one of these poems, Morris is “a prophet to Gnostics in a knowledge econonomy”: Post-Language, Post-NY School, and (of course) Post-Postmodern. Poetry rediscovers itself as play in this work. And such play is always pleasure.—Norman Finkelstein

The poems in Daniel Morris’s fine collection are not temperate, restrained, or careful, and that is the first reason I am grateful for them: these lyrical narratives are shaped by voice and the urgent substance that caused them to be written. Each line is a high-speed search through charged silence rather than an amble along a pre-imagined, or formal path; each line can lead to places that are revelatory, wholly unexpected, and possessed of a surprising clarity. The second reason for my gratitude is that the compassionate intelligence that guides Morris’s work adds to these poems the constant reminder that language belongs
to all of us, and that, as we can know from the work of Mallarme and Whitman, the poet’s job, for each generation, is to restore it to its rightful owners.— Chuck Wachtel

Daniel Morris’s poetry has appeared in Agni, Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, Western Humanities Review, Southern Humanities Review, River City, and other journals. Associate Professor of English at Purdue University, Morris has published scholarly books on William Carlos Williams and on how contemporary American authors have responded to modern painting. He lives in West Lafayette, Indiana with his wife, Joy, and young sons, Isaac and Aaron.

ISBN 0-9724785-7-4 $10.00

Self/Portrait

I sip an ounce of erasable ink. I jump down to please my friends.
My mother’s gentleman thinks her son should be more concerned.
My fingers are raw from protecting the smell of your milk gown.
I haven’t checked lately, but of course your closet was never locked to me.
Name my obscenity.
They cream me and open my face until they say: “This one is definitely not Osip.”
Mary, am I taller than Keats?
“By an inch, but the back of your head is flatter than Rilke’s.”
Obey cable.
I lick my salty chain and taste the loose evaporated milk.
A monk with an urge to be the son with the body of an Indian elephant.
She grazes in fields of blue corn.
Damp gown.
My head another limb.

After a Pirouette in Translucent Dress

After a pirouette in translucent dress
I try the green complexion cream.
The lines on my face subdivide into streets, the rouge
Different colored subway routes, and the mascara
Alleys that don't appear on any current map.
My face is the almanac stack in the
Clearance bins at Wal-Mart in July.
You will find me near the check-out aisle
Beside the hurricane plant.