November 14, 2013


The Saw Year Prophecies (sold out)by Brent House, April 2010
"When I read Brent House’s The Saw Year Prophecies, I am seeing the American South—a place I know well—for the first time. There is joy. There is mourning. There are lines: waterlines, bloodlines, lines of growth, but in the end we are left with the most important one: the poetic line. His voice is prophetic, doubting, declarative, and daring. A door seam breaks, but these poems ask us to “rejoice in the hinges.” House has created a new form—and a new sense of line—to explore a landscape that grows strange and beautiful through his augured eye.”—Adam Clay
"Brent House’s poems bristle with unlikely incongruities. While he inevitably trains on country life (and hardly a poem in here doesn’t reek of soil and worn wooden handles,) he simultaneously listens for the odd addition, the archaic lexicon, the strange, disinterred word like a relic. I don’t remembe the last time I read brephic, ventrine, reaved, or akerning in a poem, and I certainly don’t recall a poet who so seamlessly marries those oddities of the English tongue with rural terrain. In many ways, the prophecies of which these poems speak are not so much about some inevitable confluence of language and event (for it seems that’s what prophecy usually attempts) but rather the distance between the two, the awesome and final distance between signified and its signifiers, the worlds and words we have to describe it."—Chad Davidson

The Saw Year Prophecies (sold out)
by Brent House, April 2010

"When I read Brent House’s The Saw Year Prophecies, I am seeing the American South—a place I know well—for the first time. There is joy. There is mourning. There are lines: waterlines, bloodlines, lines of growth, but in the end we are left with the most important one: the poetic line. His voice is prophetic, doubting, declarative, and daring. A door seam breaks, but these poems ask us to “rejoice in the hinges.” House has created a new form—and a new sense of line—to explore a landscape that grows strange and beautiful through his augured eye.”
—Adam Clay

"Brent House’s poems bristle with unlikely incongruities. While he inevitably trains on country life (and hardly a poem in here doesn’t reek of soil and worn wooden handles,) he simultaneously listens for the odd addition, the archaic lexicon, the strange, disinterred word like a relic. I don’t remembe the last time I read brephic, ventrine, reaved, or akerning in a poem, and I certainly don’t recall a poet who so seamlessly marries those oddities of the English tongue with rural terrain. In many ways, the prophecies of which these poems speak are not so much about some inevitable confluence of language and event (for it seems that’s what prophecy usually attempts) but rather the distance between the two, the awesome and final distance between signified and its signifiers, the worlds and words we have to describe it."
—Chad Davidson


tags #chapbooks #brent house