It’s been a little quiet here at Ph.D. in Creative Writing. Let’s liven things up with another Book Giveaway!
Juliana Gray, from the most recent interview, How Juliana Gray Became a Writer, is giving away three copies of her new book of poems, Roleplay. Contest runs until midnight Friday. Winners will be announced and contacted Saturday shortly after the contest closes.
Here is what superduperpoet* Mark Jarman says about the book:
To find such wit and canniness about self and sex in American poetry, we have to look back to Dorothy Parker. Of course, we can look across the Atlantic to Wendy Cope. Juliana Gray has their sense of style but something else, too, which is all her own.
She has located the ferocious tension in the undercurrent of society, which comes out as slapstick in comedy and violence in tragedy, but in either case is the same thing: human desire in conflict. Gray’s inimitable humor is dark, indeed, but brilliant.
HOW TO ENTER
It’s super easy. Post a comment on this post before this Friday, September 7, 2012 at Midnight (Eastern time). (Don’t know what to say in a comment? Tell your favorite summer vegetable. Juliana probably grows it in her garden. See picture and poem below.)
Your comment number will be your entry number. A Random Number Generator will select the THREE winners.
One comment per person, please. With one exception: If you reblog this post or mention it on your blog, your pingback counts as an eligible second entry.
And a garden poem from Roleplay:
Mornings in late May, dew ascends
in smoky plumes from sunstruck rooftops, while I
bend low, my hands deep in fresh-tilled earth.
Wrinkled beet seeds nestle in rows beside
the garlic and spring onions’ tender spears.
The last of fall’s potatoes have gone crazy
in basement isolation, shooting out
identically pale roots and stems.
I cut them into soft, bristly chunks
and bury them in furrows mulched with hay.
I leave plenty of room for kale and chard,
nudge the climbing peas toward the fence.
Tomato seedlings, toughening against
a late frost, bask in greenhouse sun.
I straighten, arch, pull against the ache.
Warmth, light, calls of chickadees
around the feeder, smells of earth and grass—
mornings such as this are reason enough
to go on living. Tonight I’ll have to cut
my fingernails to rid them of the dirt.
Then, one day in August, a single Roma
overloaded with green fruit wilts
as if it alone were kissed by early frost.
Then all the Romas turn limp and spotted brown.
Then the cherries. Heirlooms. Early Girls.
And all my plants must be uprooted, bagged,
denied even the humble dignity
of compost, hauled away with the rest of the trash.
I gather up the fallen, blighted fruit
so there may be no seed of return.
And I was not wrong before: these small
earthly pleasures are all that we are offered.
And they shall ever come to such an end.
*Editor’s note: formerly “superpoet,” corrected to “superduperpoet”