tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78427249714730693412024-03-08T05:04:06.389-08:00Untitled Country ReviewSome things in the world have not already happened.
Our job is keeping tabs on such things.UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.comBlogger153125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-82945409360557064532012-11-18T09:24:00.000-08:002015-11-27T07:30:50.883-08:00Front Door
Although Untitled Country Review is no longer publishing new works, the journal is still very much alive. We invite you to click on the Archives tab (to the right) and enjoy the back issues. Scot Siegel, Publisher, can be found here.
Everything is about to change.
Past issues are available here.
UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-28945527556599897462012-11-18T09:15:00.000-08:002012-11-23T10:31:16.693-08:00Final Issue - Fall-Winter 2012/2013
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{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-39295255106611971862012-11-18T08:00:00.000-08:002012-11-18T10:21:14.005-08:00UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-52410469491628671412012-05-01T08:24:00.000-07:002012-11-18T10:19:00.751-08:00UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-63455965237497137382012-04-28T16:01:00.004-07:002012-04-28T23:28:08.635-07:00Issue 7 - Lauren Camp
Rail Runner Express Crash On I-25 South of Santa Fe
One summer day, I witness the murder
of speed and money,
a train and armored car twined beneath a pockmarked sun.
I missed the tire squeal
but sat in the nervous framework of vehicles that bloomed
down the Interstate. An ambulance
had been dispatched. We all gawked
as an EMT tended the scrapes and whispers
flung UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-30999518627981124172012-04-28T16:01:00.003-07:002012-04-29T11:07:10.507-07:00Issue 7 - Lauren Camp
Fiesta, Santa Fe
The Dailiness
"...you cup your hands / And gulp from them the dailiness of life."
--Randall Jarrell
Taos,
May 2011
An arcUCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-81191373190421742732012-04-28T16:01:00.002-07:002012-04-28T23:29:32.465-07:00Issue 7 - Vanessa Frisinger
Lone Star Ranch, Aurora, OR
Shared Stories
“What stories can you tell?”
She wanted me to talk, to fill the still,
starry night with something less boring
than the porch swing.
Well, there was the day your uncle married me,
long before you were conceived;
the church festive, full of celebrants and well-wishers
and all the pretty little girls in frilled dresses
promise UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-30632868249852628252012-04-28T16:01:00.001-07:002012-04-29T11:43:09.829-07:00Issue 7 - Crystal Stuvland
On Resurrection Sunday
I unearth a book about
urban foraging, every
word
a prompt for lovers.
I nibble the yellowed
corners, the book’s
moldy
thighs, and I think,
through the hot
flashes of summer,
of the way your hands
will look
next year: darkening,
curled,
flowers in black dirt.
Maybe if we stay here
long enough
we’ll forget the
powdery forms
of our overcrowded
UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-11361657799748430722012-04-28T16:01:00.000-07:002012-05-01T12:53:24.920-07:00Issue 7 - Karla Linn Merrifield
Painting of Sagebrush (Green), Clouds (White), and Raven (Black) on Rice Paper with Wax
for
K. C. Tebbutt
UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-74058595254580380392012-04-28T16:00:00.013-07:002012-04-28T23:26:33.460-07:00Issue 7 - Lauren Camp
Ghost Ranch, NM
A Full Sentence of Paint
(“Pelvis IV” by Georgia O’Keeffe, 1944, oil on masonite)
On her way to the sun, she meets a
scavenger hawk
circling the leftover shadow of a lone hip.
A clock chimes inside the woman’s blue
season.
The canvas of sky stretches taut. One hand
folds
onto the left side of her bent body,
wrinkling into bone.
She paints the syntax of UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-63219407550187938082012-04-28T16:00:00.012-07:002012-04-29T11:29:40.138-07:00Issue 7 - Welcome
J. Robert Oppenheimer Sculpture,
Los Alamos, NM
Welcome
Here is the 2012 Spring-Summer
issue of Untitled Country Review. This issue features work from writers living
in, or hailing from and writing about, the Desert Southwest. It also contains work from those living outside the region, including writers from the San
Francisco Bay Area, the Pacific Northwest, Florida, and UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-22228592769313960892012-04-28T16:00:00.011-07:002012-04-29T11:35:18.830-07:00Issue 7 - One-Act - Lisa Atchison
Opening Night
Last
Friday I went to watch my dad & sister play. The familiar images that
canopy
the inside
--a winged man shooting for the stars; fish leaping through art deco waves;
nude
men & women on galloping horses draped in jungle foliage--coupled
with the
"ballsy"
(heavy on the brass!) instrumental, must have lulled my
subconscious back in
UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-4532781456351730522012-04-28T16:00:00.010-07:002012-04-29T17:17:22.090-07:00Issue 7 - Essay - Lauren Camp
Depot, Santa Fe
The Desert Has Come to Define Me
I am writing this in
what I consider New Mexico’s fifth season--wind. Not the easiest time (the
winds have been clocked at more than 50 miles per hour!), but the period of
each year in which we learn to cling to the ground--and the time to desire spring,
which emerges, teasingly, through the density of air.
I was born in New
York, and UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-84818939814742355182012-04-28T16:00:00.009-07:002012-05-01T12:55:08.767-07:00Issue 7 - Thomas Zimmerman
Raven Sculpture
Playa/Summer Lake, OR
Devolution
“Caw!” caws the crow, the smartest of the birds.
Black flag alighting on the land, it speaks
just like a Western man: “That that is, is.”
The creeks and streams that vein the earth; the curds
that nourish, clumping over roots; the peaks
new-old with snow; four clear horizons; fizz
and twitter low and high in trees; and some-
UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-31061710174735840392012-04-28T16:00:00.008-07:002012-04-29T13:23:13.215-07:00Issue 7 - Ruth Gooley
Anniversary Gift
Waterfall mute,
striders pulled up
short,
wings as still as
airless kites,
our toes tickled
by the drought-worn
stream.
But
blessings blossom
here. The petal of your
kiss,
the wind’s comb
tangling the brown hair
of the forest floor,
the latticework of our
hands.
--Ruth Gooley
UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-61976866960638455162012-04-28T16:00:00.007-07:002012-04-29T11:40:00.905-07:00Issue 7 - Melissa Madenski
Conference
In a
room with big windows,
heavy,
brown drapes
pull
tight across glass,
glow at
the edges
where
light strains to enter.
The
speaker sways as if holding
a baby
he wants to soothe
while
my mind is in Canada
at a
park with my late husband,
watching
him push our daughter
in a
swing for babies.
Our son
runs back and forth
between
the big boy
swing
and hersUCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-54562635120013689482012-04-28T16:00:00.006-07:002012-04-29T13:15:14.016-07:00Issue 7 - Featured Poet - Lauren Camp
Featured Poet – Lauren Camp
I am pleased introduce Lauren Camp, our featured artist for
Issue #7. I became acquainted with Lauren’s writing when she submitted
poems to the journal for Issue #3, though her work is widely published. Her
poems appear in Beloit Poetry Journal, Cave
Wall, Rhino, and Hotel Amerika, among
others. In her essay, “The desert has come to define me,” which appears UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-35473812997175356942012-04-28T16:00:00.005-07:002012-04-28T23:24:14.536-07:00Issue 7 - Lauren Camp
Settling Under A Yellowwood Tree
Her withered tissue and gaunt frame move
through the emerald meadow of her yard.
She takes small steps that pinch the earth.
It’s a strange sort of knowledge, watching
a stranger getting close to the privacy
of ground. She stands in a faded jacket
under long branches of her yellowwood tree,
facing west into the rim of sun.
Hunched in UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-8443131560116706482012-04-28T16:00:00.004-07:002012-05-01T12:53:01.715-07:00Issue 7 - Karla Linn Merrifield
Entering the San Juan below Montezuma Creek
No
preliminaries, I simply zip open this river,
unfasten
her rustling current to her bare muddied breast
of mute
sandstone, hissing silt.
My
fingers seek her swirling pulse.
She
parts green-trimmed skirts of Earth,
lies
down along cottonwoods
and
bids me enter the glistening flow,
to know
her naked urgency for gravity.
--Karla
LinnUCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-33694717290427167812012-04-28T16:00:00.003-07:002012-04-28T23:32:58.296-07:00Issue 7 - Debra Shirley
Promised Land
She was born on the prairie in 1935,
some place east of Oklahoma City,
a town that no longer exists.
Her Daddy dragged her and her mother,
raggedy as dustbowl lungs,
all over Colorado that first year.
West Slope fruit farms to
silver claims in Cripple Creek,
ten stakes in twelve months.
They finally lit
on the farm fields of rural Illinois,
where she UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-6771101560558489212012-04-28T16:00:00.002-07:002012-04-29T11:44:26.055-07:00Issue 7 - Sara Clancy
Four Rooms
I had a room
made of lilac sprays,
fireflies, bed ruffles
and rows of eyes
that fastened
me to my
future.
I had a room
made of pond water,
where duckweed leaned
above me like a fort
and on the surface
possum nails clicked
the sandstone path
like falling jacks.
I had a room
made of lyrics
scrawled on the slanted eaves
of my adolescence
and UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-46961676909627233682012-04-28T16:00:00.000-07:002012-04-29T11:46:03.467-07:00Issue 7 - George Ovitt
Here's How We Did It
Quemaremos todas las naves!/Quemaremos la última esencia! --Vallejo
Here’s how we did it: first we set
out the tools,
Ax and hammers, crowbar and awl, a
book of
Vallejo’s poems and a bucket of blood-red
paint.
The house listed in the wind like a
broken tree—
We broke apart the roof and let the
slate tiles
Shatter on the floors below us, we
smashedUCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-36626631719389128602012-04-28T15:59:00.002-07:002012-04-29T11:46:36.872-07:00Issue 7 - George Ovitt
Luck
There’s
the dodging a bullet kind,
As
when you swerve to miss the dog
And
do—and the luck encoded in you,
Limbs
properly attached, brain functioning,
Ten
thousand congenital diseases dodged
For
now—then there’s moral luck of the
Sort
that guides you home when the weather
Gets
dicey—as when you could have cheated
On
your wife or taken the cash or spoken the lie
And
didn’t—UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-34824254844280607842012-04-28T15:59:00.000-07:002012-04-29T11:47:23.016-07:00Issue 7 - Changming Yuan
Steeper See-Saws: A Parallel Poem
The
higher the income, the lower the morals
The
taller the building, the shorter the attention span
The
bigger the house, the smaller the family
The
more wealth, the less joy
The
more conveniences, the less leisure
The
more knowledge, the less judgment
The
more medicine, the less health
The
more UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7842724971473069341.post-24629104909254098802012-04-28T11:53:00.002-07:002012-11-18T08:23:36.780-08:00UCRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02352864767470381427noreply@blogger.com0