The Lightning Room With Henry Hoke

In our latest queer issue, Henry Hoke took us deep down the river with “Bottomless Pit.” He talks with us, below, about reinvention, tangled creeks, and wishing for more wishes with coins that never hit the ground.

1. I love how this piece mingles and conflates characters and events from Tom Sawyer with the tumult of adolescent love. What caused you to choose these characters to tell this story?

When we were little my younger brother and I were lying in the back seat of my dad’s car near the end of a fourteen hour drive. We were road-drunk and sleep-deprived and we “became” Tom and Huck. We spoke in accents more Southern than our regular ones and talked about what we saw out the moon roof as if we were floating down the mighty Mississippi. I addressed him as Huck and he addressed me as Tom, and we kept this up, loudly, for the rest of the trip, recounting our adventures and plotting new ones. I think we’d only read the abridged versions of Twain books at that point, but these two were already our icons of boyhood and mischief. The boys in my story simply took on these identities earlier, before they were born and before they had chewed on a long piece of straw.

2. This piece inhabits a place of nebulous identity- its two characters can change their names, histories, and plots as much as their imagination allows. When do these things solidify?

Honesty and a denial of certainty tend to run neck-in-neck in all of my work. I feel like this approach calcifies when we hear Huck’s real names and Tom’s refusal to let go of his alias. That and the “What if” that opens the piece. Continue reading

Six Questions with Kristina Marie Darling of Noctuary Press

Noctuary Press publishes three titles a year, with a particular emphasis on female writers working with prose forms. We seek to create a record of, and bring visibility to, formally innovative work by women that is underrepresented in mainstream literary publications. All titles are perfect-bound books, which are published in editions of fifty to one-hundred. Noctuary Press is based in Buffalo, New York.

1. Is your name really Darling or are you secretly a country song?

My name really is Darling. My dad’s parents are French, and apparently there’s a “Darling River” in France. That’s where my name comes from, according to family lore. But if I weren’t a poet, I’d definitely be a country singer. If I close my eyes I can see it now: cowboy boots, big hair, and me telling everyone how he done me wrong.

2. What does Noctuary mean? Does it involve vampires? Am I going to be afraid of your books?

A noctuary is a record of what passes in the night. It’s like a nighttime version of a diary. I chose the name because the press tries to give visibility to, and create a record of, women’s writing that happens across (and beyond) traditional genre categories. Noctuary Press will never, ever involve vampires, I promise. But there are still a few reasons to be afraid. Our upcoming titles include a creepy rabbit-keeping neighbor, erasures, and algebra. Continue reading

The January Dispatch

In regards to Alexandra Petri’s terrible Washington Post column declaring poetry to be dead, gasp, have you heard? It’s my general policy to avoid mocking the afflicted, but Ms. Petri’s misplaced obituary in the wake of Richard Blanco’s inaugural poem was so ignorant and petulant, point by sophomoric point, I simply had to say something (or at least post a picture the Cash flipping the bird). Despite her irritating lack of knowledge on the subject of poetry, however, I think we can perhaps take some solace in her minor attentions, however indelicate. Bad press is good press, I’ve been led to believe, and poetry doesn’t get all that much positive limelight, despite its current thriving (all the handwringing and rending of hair to the contrary).

Here are three things that evidently don’t make very good news:

One, there are many successful and critically respected presses and magazines (hundreds!) dedicated, at least in part, to the endeavors of…

…two, a great many successful and critically respected poets. Some of these even manage to make a decent enough living from the maligned endeavor. I’m one of them, though like many, I’ve had to cobble a few things together to make it work. It’s not made me or anyone else I know personally wealthy, but that strikes me as neither a particularly pitiable fate nor historically unprecedented.

And three, the existence of at least enough hungry and eager readers to make this whole obsolete poetry affair quite the little party, despite itself. I would note here that in 2012, across our various print and digital platforms, [PANK] had a readership of at least 382,555 people in well over 100 different countries. That’s conservative. And we’re hardly alone among literary magazines in our small successes.

Responses to Ms. Petri, of course, have been quick, many, and shrill. We are a sensitive lot, us dead poets, so very delicate in our feelings. By the time my dispatch goes live you’ll have little need for more from me on this subject. There was a very good response, I thought, from Coldfront editor-in-chief, John Deming. To my taste, however, my indefatigable friend and distinguished colleague, Matt Bell, wrapped it up on Facebook most succinctly:

“Hey, another terrible article about how poetry is dead, by a person who watched the inauguration but otherwise can’t name a more contemporary poem than ‘Howl.’ Thankfully, poets and readers, you don’t ever have to take advice on poetry from someone whose byline claims they ‘put the pun in punditry.’ Because clearly anyone who announces her presence in this way is not going to be a person who knows anything about language or what it can or cannot do.”

Consider taking a look at Eric Sasson’s Wall Street Journal column reflecting on Mr. Blanco’s inaugural poem. I probably should have spent this dispatch praising Mr. Sasson’s article instead of tearing down Ms. Petri’s. Alas, I am a poet, after all, and I’m too desperate to help myself. If nothing else, it’s probably wise to remember amidst this latest tempest in a teapot and beyond that literature in one form or another is perpetually and forever almost dead. Long live the king.

If you’re still fretting, however, you may find some additional relief in knowing that [PANK]’s horizon is chock-a-block with thriving goodness that we can’t wait to share with you. Here’s a snapshot of a few things to come:

PANK 8, our latest print edition is nigh, featuring cover art from Lori Nix and new writing from Meagan Cass, Kristina Marie Darling, Portia Elan, Joshua Gottlieb-Miller, Ashley Inguanta, Jane Loechler, Kevin Maloney, Delaney Nolan, Sara Slaughter, Meg Thompson, Brian Whalen, and others. Order yours here.

Our February digital edition (8.2) will feature new writing from Eiko Alexander, Nuncio Casanova, Kallie Falandays, Joanna Hoffman, Alexander Lumans, Tara Mae Mulroy, Daniel Olivas, Jenny Sadre-Orafai, Michael Royce, Bret Shepard, Dawn Sperber, Marcelina Viczarra, and Allison Wyss.

In the March digital edition (8.3) look for new writing from Sara Backer, Michelle Bailat-Jones, Marty Cain, Jim Daniels, Robert Glick, Liv Lansdale, Tanya Olson, Christopher Perez, Jennifer Pilch, Matt Rowan, Fred Sasaki, and Jasmine Sawyers.

Also coming up in March is the Association of Writers and Writing Programs conference in Boston. This year [PANK] will be teaming up with Barrelhouse, Hobart, and friends for a party, the Not Reading, on Thursday night of the conference. As promised, no readings, no literary shenanigans, just a lot of writers and editors and friends and family gathering to say hello, catch up, and do a little carousing. If you’re attending this year, put it on your dance card, and don’t forget to stop by one of our book fair tables to pick up your free drink tickets. I, for one, am looking forward to seeing you there.

Further down the road in April, [PANK] will host two Invasion Readings, one in Minneapolis with our friends at Paperdarts Magazine, the other at KGB Bar in New York. Details forthcoming soon.

And changes, changes, changes are afoot for us! We’re very excited about a print redesign for PANK 9. But y’all might be even more interested to know that [PANK] intends to begin paying all magazine contributors, both print and online, in 2014. It’s unlikely to be much to begin with so keep your rumor mongering modest, but it’ll be a start. Make sure you’re encouraging your friends to subscribe. If you’re a submitting writer, consider using the tip jar.

Put all that in your pipe and smoke it, Ms. Petri. Until next time, dear readers and writers, keep your chins up!

_________________________________

M. Bartley Seigel is founding editor of [PANK]. He is the author of THIS IS WHAT THEY SAY (Typecast, 2012) and his writing has appeared in the Michigan Quarterly Review, H_NGM_N, Forklift Ohio, DIAGRAM, and elsewhere. You can follow him at www.mbartleyseigel.com or contact him at mbartley@pankmagazine.com.

The Lightning Room With E. Kristin Anderson

Eons ago, last September, [PANK] published two otherworldly poems by E. Kristin Anderson. Read on, for urban legends, chupacabras, and the Jersey Devil.

1. These two poems dwell on mysterious appearances and disappearances, of an unknowable natural world mixed with something else. Is this a preoccupation for you?

I wouldn’t say it’s a preoccupation. But it’s definitely something that intrigues me. I love reading about urban legends, about things that people believe despite contradictory popular opinions. It’s fascinating, not only in terms of science or culture, but also the human condition.

2. What is your favorite unexplained phenomenon (or, if explained, explained unsatisfactorily to you)?

Right now I’m really intrigued by Mexican and Latin folk legends, like chubacabrasla Llorona, and the lechuza.  A lechuza is a bruja (Spanish for witch) who is half human, half owl…or possibly a woman who turns into an owl. It’s super creepy, which probably why I love it. Continue reading

May We Shed These Human Bodies, by Amber Sparks (A Review by Dawn West)

 

Curbside Splendor

150 pgs/ $12.00

Welcome to the cabaret. Amber Sparks’ May We Shed These Human Bodies is a menagerie of twisted fairy tales, ghost stories, and wild fables. Her stories are often fantastical but her prose is almost scientifically precise. No muss, no fuss. Sparks is our fairy tale cartographer, mapping a world of modern magic and human error.

We begin with Death and the People, a darkly comic fable. Death comes for one of them, and the people stand up to him and say no. “If he goes, they said, then we all go.” Death, who is one suave son of a bitch, looking “tall and elegant and kind of preppy in a crisp white button-down and chinos,” gives in.”You all have to come with me, then.” This story is both humorous and poignant. The people are irrational, insatiable; a chorus of gaping maws, like we really are.

I love how Sparks takes the most surreal characters and renders them tangible- making us empathize with Death, for example. The feral children, the cannibalistic seniors, the trees who become people, the wives who become animals, a big City hungering for mobility, a legion of ghosts- they are all hoarding desires, even the dictator drinking alone,”watching Shane and weeping into a glass of whiskey.” Continue reading

Logophily: Editing + Knowledge

On Christmas Eve, per usual, we went to eat dinner with family. We were supposed to bring drinks, but nobody told us.

I headed back to the closest grocery store to buy some sweet tea and soft drinks [1]. And while I was there, I found the shopping list pictured above [2].

I’m important to note that I’m not making fun of the writer of this list. The misspellings are common. Pedantry is worse than ignorance. Stop being dicks about grammar and spelling and punctuation. Continue reading

The Lightning Room With Kima Jones

In the latest queer issue, Kima Jones wrote about holiness and bodies and Harlem and memory in AD 2012. We asked her questions about all of these things:

1. Talk a little bit about spaces that we can’t traverse, or the ones we cross all too easily.

My first experience with forbidden space was, as a child, reading the story of the tower of Babel with my grandmother. Two things happened that shaped my perception of language and authority: 1. Not only did God confound language, but He scattered the people around the world. 2. When I asked my grandmother why God would do such a thing, she snapped the bible shut and told me not to question God.

That day I learned language was both powerful enough to erect a city toward the seat of God and make my grandmother turn her head away from me as if I had slapped her with my open hand.

I had enough good sense not to ask her anything further. Anything more would have corrupted that space. That day I learned how to watch my words, choose my words and grow my words upward to the Lord.

2. What makes these spaces holy?

The waiting area in language is the holy space. The space between asking and receiving. In that space things grow toward each other out of a yearning, even if they aren’t supposed to. It is the air between my lips and the lips of another when we lean in for the kiss. We may not be sure, but we need something, we are asking something of that space, and we can only get to it by going through.  Continue reading

Hot Meat

I met somebody loud and beautiful two nights ago smoking a cigar in the parking lot of a hibachi place. I said “be right back,” pretended I forgot something in the car, and took a break from the party to watch his breath. He exhaled spider webs, hands all pink like raw meat. When I told him that, he said, “We’re all just sacks of skin, aren’t we?” and laughed like a sparkler fuse. He used to be a philosophy major but switched to business because you gotta earn a living.

I drank some wine last summer, stripped down to my underwear and lay on my front porch like a sugar cookie in the oven. Cars whooshed by, some real slow. My shut eyes swam with colors and I began to feel like hot meat. My neck was a mosque and the convex of my belly was a stained glass cathedral. The pick-up trucks that honked their horns were playing it hymns. My thighs were skin and tissue stretched out over the gray porch. My thighs were all mine. When the neighbor boys came out sweating from their jugulars with basketballs tucked under their arms like tiny planets, I considered the possibility that I am nice meat. For some reason, it didn’t matter that day at all.
The business major peered at me through shattered glasses. He was cool but he reminded me of a small animal. He belonged in the hundred-acre wood. He needed a Christopher Robin to love him. His breath was unreal. Continue reading

Introducing the First Online Issue of 2013

Welcome to the New Year we hear it will be life-changing and exciting and inspirational. Welcome to Friday (also often touted as exciting and life manipulating, at least temporarily). Welcome to the January Issue (8.1) of PANK.

Be sure to read: two poems from CJ Evans, Contributing Editor at Tin House.
In Lieu of Questions from Rae Gouirand may have you asking yourself some questions.
A first time published author, Brianna P. Stout wrote this poem and it’s awesome. Welcome.
Do not under any circumstances miss How to Date a Stalker: Declarative Verb Edition from Lisa Nikolidakis.
Two Poems, Tara Boswell.

Also: fiction from Lynne Beckenstein, Amanda Hart Miller, Gregg Murray, and Bridget Menasche and, we’ll admit to being a bit poetry centric this time around, not that we have any shame in that in fact we are quite excited so be sure to read these pieces from Sam Sax, Anis Shivani, Changming Yuan, and Stephen Massimilla: all of that is here. 

The Limits of Grotesque: A Conversation With Eric Raymond

Eric Raymond’s hilarious and trenchant first novel, Confessions from a Dark Wood, is now available from Ken Baumann’s Sator Press. Over the course of a month, I spoke with Eric via email about his new novel, the nature of satire and grotesquerie, ghosts, 9/11, and the branding of America.

PANK: In CONFESSIONS FROM A DARK WOOD, you play both the part of narrator and archivist. It’s a fairly traumatizing mix of outrageous satire with what appear to me to be aspects of your own biography. Can you tell me about the genesis of this book? Any global capital brand management experience lurking in your past? How did you pick up and begin this?

Eric Raymond: There’s always tension between fiction and biography. It’s interesting how many writers fight it. It’s true that my father died in 2007, and I did spend a couple of intense years flying around for business. I started the book in November of 2009 and it seemed disingenuous to try and deny what I wanted to write about by some artful dodge of encasing it in an extended metaphor or transposing it to a different industry. I’ve always worked in and around corporate environments – mostly marketing, advertising, and branding, unfortunately. It’s a naturally absurd world, but fundamentally uninteresting. To push the book towards what I was feeling, biography was sort of insufficient. I needed a corporate grotesque. When I followed that impulse, the writing moved quickly. Continue reading