There is a good deal of
darkness in Jeff Holt's poems, yet his sprightliness of language and his gift
for form can make them an invigorating experience for the reader.
--Richard Wilbur
In this collection of startling and
superb poems, Jeff Holt has succeeded in
speaking for a multitude of the silent, those who can least speak for
themselves in this or any society. And he's done it in such authentic terms
that the reader is at once spellbound, repelled, compelled and wholly
persuaded.
Whether these poems--many of them flawless examples of strict
forms--convey the voices of the abused or the abuser, betrayed or betrayer, wily
plotter or bewildered survivor, each invites the reader into a
situation--a life--that Holt understands intimately, thanks to his years of
work with the people he portrays. More important still, his words bequeath to the
reader his own compassionate, hard-won and frustrated concern for those we seldom
see or hear, as only genuine poetry can.
Read this book. Once the shock passes, you'll be profoundly grateful you did.
--Rhina P. Espaillat
Jeff Holt's poems are strongly crafted
examinations of usually grim subjects, many of them apparently drawn from his
work as a Mental Health professional. The candor and focus of his language
together with the unobtrusive dexterity of his technical control make for poems
of stark, almost brutal forcefulness. His is a very distinctive voice, drawn to
dark subjects, which he examines with a rare combination of honesty and
hard-won art.
--Dick Davis
*Read a review of The Harvest by award winning poet Deborah Warren in Angle 2, p, 47, at the following link:
http://anglepoetry.yolasite.com/resources/Angle%20Issue%202.pdf
Read a more recent review by well-published poet and critic Marybeth Rau-Larsen in Verse Wisconsin at the following link:
http://www.versewisconsin.org/Issue112/reviews/holt.html
If you are interested in purchasing a copy of "The Harvest," which I will sign--and I will also include, as an extra, the CD "Selections from the Harvest" described below--please simply click the "Buy Now" button above and follow the instructions. Also, please note that if you run into ANY problems with this method, you can still buy a copy through Paypal simply by sending $12.00 to [email protected]. Finally, you may also pay by personal check or money order. If you prefer this method, however, please email me at jholt71@hotmail.com so that I can provide you with the address of where to send your payment.
Nov 5, 2013: an update on the CDr "Selections from the Harvest": I have 5 copies left, and I don't plan to record anymore. After these are gone, you will still receive a signed copy of the book. But if you are thinking of buying, I encourage you to buy now, as I believe the CDr turned out well. If you would like an approximate sample of what it sounds like, please click on the link for "Silence" below. It is straight reading, like any poetry reading; no instrumentation, no effects, and I created it on my computer at home, with some excellent software, not in a studio. The CD contains 11 of my favorite poems to read aloud, along with 4 other poems that were not contained in the book form of "The Harvest" but were written and published during the same time period. I have hand numbered and signed each copy for the sake of entertainment, though I don't take myself so seriously that I think that this is going to increase their value much beyond that of the CDrs themselves!
*************March 23, 2013: R.I.P. and thank you, Paul Christian Stevens, for creating adventurous journals such as The Shit Creek Review, The Flea, and others that provided alternative venues for poetry that were sorely needed. More than this--and others knew you far better than I did--you were a great friend to many, and will be missed.*******************
POEMS, VIDEOS, AND AUDIO
****I want to start out by giving thanks to the editors who not only accepted my poems, but asked me to make videos or audio recordings of them. Most especially I would like to thank Alex Pepple of Able Muse and Rose Kelleher of The Shit Creek Review for their tips and, at times, patience bordering on the saintly as I figured out how to record my work using computer software.****
For Able Muse's video of me reading this poem, please click the link below:
http://www.ablemuse.com/v9/poetry/jeff-holt/continuity
Continuity (non-Harvest)
“Most things may never happen; this one will”—Philip Larkin
I know the truth about my death:
I will not live beyond this place.
I have no soul apart from flesh
To writhe in flames, or kneel in grace.
My parents passed along the lies
Their parents told them way back when.
And so I learned to carry on
The wishful thinking of dead men.
Our conscious minds push back at death
Fearing that nothingness will sting,
Still clinging to self-consciousness,
Insisting we’ll be there to cling.
Death could be simple, but we’re taught
To make it monstrous by denying
That our self-consciousness will cease,
As if we’re never really dying.
And yet, each moment brings the end
Of all I’ve ever known as “me.”
But since it’s always happening,
Dying is continuity.
Silence
(first published inThe Shit Creek Review Issue 13, The Random Issue)
http://shitcreek.auszine.com/issue13/issue13index/silence/
(please click the above link to hear a spoken word version of this sestina)
Home wasn’t safe. I learned to freeze my tears
Before they spilled, and stow my fears away
Behind half-lidded eyes. I lived in darkness,
Accepting that when Dad demanded silence
I would stay still. You chose a different road.
I’m left to mourn my stubborn older brother.
You swore you wished you’d never had a brother,
Screaming at me when Dad left you in tears.
Eventually I’d trail you down the road,
Kicking at pebbles, searching for a way
To win you back. I starved within your silence;
I needed you because you shared my darkness.
But you were not content to hide in darkness
And did not listen to your younger brother.
I hated that you wouldn’t heed Dad’s silence;
Your screams shook me, as did your storms of tears.
You swore so often that you’d run away
I feared you’d die, helpless, on a cold road.
I see you on your skateboard, how you rode
Heedless of gravity. You flew through darkness,
Leaping, often tumbling, dancing away
From rules and caution. You found cooler brothers,
Boys with skull rings, some with tattoos of tears,
Who mocked our dad’s suburban cave of silence.
For a brief time, with them, you broke your silence,
Flipping off cars as you flew down the road.
But then you came home bleeding, sick with tears,
And pummeled me, as if I were the darkness.
Dad heard me screaming at my older brother
And came for you. You didn’t turn away.
The night you took Mom’s keys and drove away,
I hated you for leaving me in silence.
I didn’t know that I would lose my brother
To rage and alcohol and a lake road
Where rain beat down like tears of the gods in darkness.
But here, tonight, as I stare through my tears,
I’m with you on that road that leads away
From icy tears, the path to final silence,
My brother, driving wildly in the darkness.
A Housewife, (The Harvest)
(nominated for a Pushcart Prize, 2012)
She cleans the tidy house when he's not there,
Restless as memories best left alone,
And tells herself he's learning how to care.
Dusting, she dreams he will caress her hair,
Stroking her curls, praising how long they’ve grown.
He is so sensitive when he's not there.
Once home, he sprawls out in his leather chair
And yells at her to get the telephone.
She does, thinking he's learning how to care,
He's just a man, and life is never fair.
Such phrases, muttered in Mom's monotone,
Pace through her mind like monks when he is there.
That night, beneath him, trembling like a hare,
She feels him penetrate her, hears him groan,
And tells herself he's learning how to care.
Her life with him is an unquestioned prayer
Chanted against an ominous unknown.
She cleans the tidy house when he's not there
And tells herself he's learning how to care.
The Worker (The Harvest)
(originally published in The Formalist)
He must endure work, for writing such
As his won't pay the bills. His stomach tight,
He forces through each day with dreams of night
Dancing like show girls just beyond his reach.
Then, when it's six o'clock, he feels cast out,
Unsure of what to do or whom to call
When anything he does is bound to fall
Away like pebbles from a bridge. He's sought
Escapes in alcohol, the fog of dope:
One summoned rage, the other panic spellls.
Without the fires from these familiar hells
He stumbles through the darkness, giving up
The hours like dying pets who've lost their voices.
He thinks he can remember having choices.
***Note: if you have just read/heard/watched one or more of the above poems and feel like reading a few comments about them, or even leaving a comment about said comments, you can now do so on the site's brand Blog. A big thank you to Quincy Lehr and Ed Shacklee for leaving feedback about The Harvest on Faceback and on amazon.com, respectively. In each case, the commentary is exceptional, and I have therefore quoted both writers in full. But please feel free to leave as brief or as long of a comment as you like; it is not a "blog" for me, but a place for readers to interact a little, if they like.
Jeff Holt, 07/05/13
Nov 5, 2013: an update on the CDr "Selections from the Harvest": I have 5 copies left, and I don't plan to record anymore. After these are gone, you will still receive a signed copy of the book. But if you are thinking of buying, I encourage you to buy now, as I believe the CDr turned out well. If you would like an approximate sample of what it sounds like, please click on the link for "Silence" below. It is straight reading, like any poetry reading; no instrumentation, no effects, and I created it on my computer at home, with some excellent software, not in a studio. The CD contains 11 of my favorite poems to read aloud, along with 4 other poems that were not contained in the book form of "The Harvest" but were written and published during the same time period. I have hand numbered and signed each copy for the sake of entertainment, though I don't take myself so seriously that I think that this is going to increase their value much beyond that of the CDrs themselves!
*************March 23, 2013: R.I.P. and thank you, Paul Christian Stevens, for creating adventurous journals such as The Shit Creek Review, The Flea, and others that provided alternative venues for poetry that were sorely needed. More than this--and others knew you far better than I did--you were a great friend to many, and will be missed.*******************
POEMS, VIDEOS, AND AUDIO
****I want to start out by giving thanks to the editors who not only accepted my poems, but asked me to make videos or audio recordings of them. Most especially I would like to thank Alex Pepple of Able Muse and Rose Kelleher of The Shit Creek Review for their tips and, at times, patience bordering on the saintly as I figured out how to record my work using computer software.****
For Able Muse's video of me reading this poem, please click the link below:
http://www.ablemuse.com/v9/poetry/jeff-holt/continuity
Continuity (non-Harvest)
“Most things may never happen; this one will”—Philip Larkin
I know the truth about my death:
I will not live beyond this place.
I have no soul apart from flesh
To writhe in flames, or kneel in grace.
My parents passed along the lies
Their parents told them way back when.
And so I learned to carry on
The wishful thinking of dead men.
Our conscious minds push back at death
Fearing that nothingness will sting,
Still clinging to self-consciousness,
Insisting we’ll be there to cling.
Death could be simple, but we’re taught
To make it monstrous by denying
That our self-consciousness will cease,
As if we’re never really dying.
And yet, each moment brings the end
Of all I’ve ever known as “me.”
But since it’s always happening,
Dying is continuity.
Silence
(first published inThe Shit Creek Review Issue 13, The Random Issue)
http://shitcreek.auszine.com/issue13/issue13index/silence/
(please click the above link to hear a spoken word version of this sestina)
Home wasn’t safe. I learned to freeze my tears
Before they spilled, and stow my fears away
Behind half-lidded eyes. I lived in darkness,
Accepting that when Dad demanded silence
I would stay still. You chose a different road.
I’m left to mourn my stubborn older brother.
You swore you wished you’d never had a brother,
Screaming at me when Dad left you in tears.
Eventually I’d trail you down the road,
Kicking at pebbles, searching for a way
To win you back. I starved within your silence;
I needed you because you shared my darkness.
But you were not content to hide in darkness
And did not listen to your younger brother.
I hated that you wouldn’t heed Dad’s silence;
Your screams shook me, as did your storms of tears.
You swore so often that you’d run away
I feared you’d die, helpless, on a cold road.
I see you on your skateboard, how you rode
Heedless of gravity. You flew through darkness,
Leaping, often tumbling, dancing away
From rules and caution. You found cooler brothers,
Boys with skull rings, some with tattoos of tears,
Who mocked our dad’s suburban cave of silence.
For a brief time, with them, you broke your silence,
Flipping off cars as you flew down the road.
But then you came home bleeding, sick with tears,
And pummeled me, as if I were the darkness.
Dad heard me screaming at my older brother
And came for you. You didn’t turn away.
The night you took Mom’s keys and drove away,
I hated you for leaving me in silence.
I didn’t know that I would lose my brother
To rage and alcohol and a lake road
Where rain beat down like tears of the gods in darkness.
But here, tonight, as I stare through my tears,
I’m with you on that road that leads away
From icy tears, the path to final silence,
My brother, driving wildly in the darkness.
A Housewife, (The Harvest)
(nominated for a Pushcart Prize, 2012)
She cleans the tidy house when he's not there,
Restless as memories best left alone,
And tells herself he's learning how to care.
Dusting, she dreams he will caress her hair,
Stroking her curls, praising how long they’ve grown.
He is so sensitive when he's not there.
Once home, he sprawls out in his leather chair
And yells at her to get the telephone.
She does, thinking he's learning how to care,
He's just a man, and life is never fair.
Such phrases, muttered in Mom's monotone,
Pace through her mind like monks when he is there.
That night, beneath him, trembling like a hare,
She feels him penetrate her, hears him groan,
And tells herself he's learning how to care.
Her life with him is an unquestioned prayer
Chanted against an ominous unknown.
She cleans the tidy house when he's not there
And tells herself he's learning how to care.
The Worker (The Harvest)
(originally published in The Formalist)
He must endure work, for writing such
As his won't pay the bills. His stomach tight,
He forces through each day with dreams of night
Dancing like show girls just beyond his reach.
Then, when it's six o'clock, he feels cast out,
Unsure of what to do or whom to call
When anything he does is bound to fall
Away like pebbles from a bridge. He's sought
Escapes in alcohol, the fog of dope:
One summoned rage, the other panic spellls.
Without the fires from these familiar hells
He stumbles through the darkness, giving up
The hours like dying pets who've lost their voices.
He thinks he can remember having choices.
***Note: if you have just read/heard/watched one or more of the above poems and feel like reading a few comments about them, or even leaving a comment about said comments, you can now do so on the site's brand Blog. A big thank you to Quincy Lehr and Ed Shacklee for leaving feedback about The Harvest on Faceback and on amazon.com, respectively. In each case, the commentary is exceptional, and I have therefore quoted both writers in full. But please feel free to leave as brief or as long of a comment as you like; it is not a "blog" for me, but a place for readers to interact a little, if they like.
Jeff Holt, 07/05/13
Stay tuned to this site for new info, poetry samples, and more...,