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MATTHEW ZAPRUDER , POET

“Matthew Zapruder is a dangerous poet; his poems implicate us in demonstrations of lift-off and escape velocity while also proving the calamity of gravity.”
—Dean Young.

Born in 1967 in Washington, D.C., Matthew Zapruder is a widely published poet and translator, as well as the founder and Editor in Chief of the acclaimed poetry publishing house Verse Press (now Wave Books). His first book of poetry, American Linden, was the winner of the Tupelo Press Editors' Prize, and came out in 2002. His second collection, The Pajamaist, was released by Copper Canyon in 2006. His book of translations from the Romanian, Secret Weapon: The Late Poems of Eugen Jebeleanu, will be published by Coffee House in 2007.

Zapruder teaches creative writing in the MFA Writing Program at the New School in New York City, where he is the co-curator of the KGB Monday Night Poetry Reading Series. He also teaches as a member of the permanent faculty of the Juniper Summer Writing Institute at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst. In May/June of 2007 he was be a Lannan Literary Fellow in Marfa, TX.

About American Linden, Dara Wier writes, "There is an assumption that we share an intelligent, intimate and necessary understanding. And that is shocking. It cuts to the core. If I were to look for someone to tell my troubles to, or to celebrate what bears celebration, I'd go find the poet who wrote this book." Publishers Weekly noted the book was, “sure to receive cognoscenti attention....Zapruder's hip lyricism offers both the slippery comedy and a surprisingly grave, ultimately winning, commitment to real people, emotions, locales: ‘My lack of compassion astounds me,’ Zapruder explains, ‘and must not come to know itself’; another poem ends as the poet himself is admonished, ‘Come back when you have something/ less riveting to say.’

ABOUT Secret Weapon: Selected Late Poems of Eugen Jebeleanu (Coffee House)
These spare and allegorical later poems of Romania’s great poet, Eugen Jebeleanu (1911–1991), are deeply moving expressions of collective and personal guilt from an artist whose early participation in and later disillusionment with the regime lend his work a particular, searing authenticity. Appearing in English for the first time, these profoundly unsentimental poems are politically and artistically significant lyric testimonies.

ABOUT THE PAJAMAIST (Copper Canyon Press, 2006)
The Pajamaist pursues with confidence, directness, and expansiveness, the stylistic and emotional concerns of the familiar subjects of contemporary lyric poetry – love, loss, and mortality. Zapruder’s poems do this with humor, clarity and linguistic inventiveness, and with a welcome and timely concern for social and political issues (albeit idiosyncratically). The title piece, a prose synopsis for an unwritten novel, describes a futuristic world in which suffering can be transferred “to professional sufferers, and examines the nature of suffering: is it necessary or inevitable, and what sort of responsibility do we have for the suffering of others as well as our own?” Two long, formally innovative poems anchor the manuscript: in “Water Street” (an homage to the late poet James Merrill, in whose Stonington, Connecticut apartment Zapruder lived as the Merrill Writer in Residence) and “Brooklyn With a New Beginning,” narrators in moments of great change meditate with humor and tenderness on their respective personal pasts, aesthetic values and what lies ahead.

REVIEW of The Pajamaist by Publishers Weekly
Charming, melancholy, hip and at times hopeful, the 21 poems of Zapruder's second collection take on personal subjects and meditate on life in cities and towns, friendship, love and the nature of poetry itself. In surprising, often lengthy narratives, Zapruder (founding editor of Verse Press, now Wave Books, and author of American Linden , 2002) makes huge associative jumps, interjects playful imagery ("I love / baseball, it makes me angry / and hopeful for justice") and offers unlikely characterizations of places and ideas: "Go, Jerry, soon you will be / in Canada where / Neil Young was born." "There Is a Light" pays tribute to the venerable institution of the New York City bodega ("in silence you have been here / forever since 1993"), and the sequence "Twenty Poems for Noelle" attempts to console a grieving friend. The title poem, a several-page piece in prose, outlines an imaginary novel about a pajama-wearing man who takes other people's suffering on in their stead. "Water Street" recounts the experience of being the poet-in-residence at the home of the late Ouija board-wielding poet James Merrill. Most moving is a longish poem that portrays Zapruder's hometown of Brooklyn, with its "row of dented Sundays." (Sept.)

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Matthew Zapruder

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CANADA

By Canada I have always been fascinated.
All that snow and acquiescing.
All that emptiness, all those butterflies
marshalled into an army of peace.
Moving north away from me
Canada has no border, away
like the state its northern border
withers into the skydome. In a world
full of mistrust and self-medication
I have always hated Canada.
It makes me feel like I’m shouting
at a child for letting a handful
of pine needles run through his fist.
Canada gets along with everyone
while I hang, a dark cloud
above the schoolyard. I know
we need war, all the skirmishes
to keep our borders where
we have placed them, all
the migration, all the difference.
Just like Canada the Dalai Lama
is now in Canada, and everyone
is fascinated. When they come
to visit me, no one ever leaves me
saying, the most touching thing
about him is he’s so human.
Or, I was really glad to hear
so many positive ideas regardless
of the consequences expressed.
Or I could drink a case of you.
No one has ever pedaled
every inch of thousands of roads
through me to raise awareness
for my struggle for autonomy.
I have pity but no respect for others,
which according to certain religious leaders
is not compassion, just ordinary
love based on attitudes towards myself.
I wonder how long I can endure.
In Canada the leaves are falling.
When they do each one rustles
maybe to the white tailed deer
of sadness, and it’s clear
that whole country does not exist
to make me feel crappy
like a candelabra hanging
above the prison world,
condemned to freely glow.

— from The Pajamaist

AMERICAN LINDEN

When you'd like to remember the notion of days,
turn to the barn

asleep on its hill,
a red shoulder holding the weight of clouds.

You could stand still for so many moments.
So little is over and over required,

letting the wind brush your crown.
The lathes of tobacco swing into autumn.

Swallows already discuss the winter.
I know you are tired of imagination.

All that clumsily grasping the sunlight.
Aren't you tired of bodies too?

Whenever it rains, they fall from the sky
and darken your window.

Clutching each other they call out names
while you sit in the circle thrown by a lamp

and pretend they are leaves.
The potatoes cringe and bury their heads.

Do you see them?
They know where to return when hoofbeats come.

Like you they were not born with pride,
they were born with skins made of earth.

Their eyes are black, and they sing out of tune,
quietly, under the snow.

—from American Linden