POET BEN CARTWRIGHT By Karen Mobley
artwright
“ I feel whole in my writing life when I am working a little bit, most days, on something new, and when I am reading new things, and have a chance, at least once a week, to spend some time with other writers and artists. Thankfully, I live in a wonderful city for accomplishing all of that. I have been more prolific since moving back to Spokane than I have been in the five or six years prior. It’ s tempting to wax poetic and claim this is because of the river and the landscape, but the skeptic in me knows it’ s because of the people.”
Sound is important in Ben’ s work. When asked about engaging with other’ s writing, he said,“ I’ ve acquired a taste for listening to recorded poems. In Kansas, I started up an archive of poetry recordings called the Kansas Blotter, and some of my recordings of poets like Kenneth Irby, Lyn Hejinian, and Rachel Blau DuPlessis are now in the PennSound archive that Al Filreis maintains. While editing those sound files, I learned to appreciate the way recorded poems allow you to stop and pause— to really consider them— maybe only listening to one poem at a time, or a few lines. I love this. I enjoy the social experience of attending readings, but it can be difficult to absorb everything, hearing an hour’ s worth of poems in a row. Recorded poems allow you to hear the voice of the poet, and you can enjoy the poems in small increments.
I’ m very grateful for all of the people donating their time and energy to record poets reading their work. PennSound, Ubu- Web, the Poetry Foundation podcasts— all of the big, free archives are incredibly valuable. Locally, we have our own resources for listening to recorded poetry, for example, Zan Agzigian’ s wonderful Soundspace Music Share program on KPBX, and the Spokane Open Poetry Program hosted by Stephen Pitters on KYRS.
Winner of the Powder Horn Prize
AFTER OUR DEPARTURE
The cruel and the fallow( kudzu, ivy, milo) follow summer-made angles up a barn’ s red planks.
A roofless silo hides a sapling, until everyone living has given up.
The maple forks and bristles at the silo’ s lip, cups hands in waiting for an accident of rain.
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