Nothing Very Sudden Happens Here, from Lynx House Press, September, 2013, is the newest collection of poems by Alan Basting.

Copies of the book are available from Lynx House Press at www.lynxhousepress.org , and distributed by the University of Washington Press at the folowing link:  http://www.washington.edu/uwpress/search/books/BASNOT.html
Copies are also available at Amazon.com.

Copies of the cover art, a painting by Evan Howell, titled simply, Table and Chairs, can be purchased by navigating to his website: http://www.evanhowellart.com  .

Evan Howell began drawing at age two.  Since, like other autistic people, Evan finds social situations difficult, he has made art his principal means of expressing himself and connecting with the world.  His original works are available at the website noted above.  Now in his early twenties, he lives in Spokane, Washington.



Here are a few poems from the book:

CAROLINA REVERIE

Motoring roads
Through palmetto,

Tobacco, and trucks
With terrible labels

Like: Technical
Animal Fat, the

Silhouette
Of a little old town

Cuckoos with church spires.
But the evening's light

Paints and calms;
Sheets of clouds

Flatten under its
Soothing hands.

A history of cock fights and
Smoldering crosses

Swallowed up
In the silken body

Of the planet, laid out
Like Marilyn.

"Nothing very sudden
happens here," she lies.


PARVO CHRISTMAS

Even though you say
You've done all that

You can, you know
Your heart

Where the vine grows up
Has lied.

You could've paid
Another hundred bucks

To see the disease
Run its course.

Instead you left
The terrier, the present

Your kids prized more
Than hope

In the vet's cage
At the back of the building,

Near the autopsy table.


DANCING WITH MY EYES CLOSED

An auger churns a hole through humus
From a distance, a river flows into the sky

Standing in the current, a priest raises
Both hands overhead, shaking imaginary stones

A snarl of crows swoops low in the smoke
Of a well-fueled bonfire.  Moths flutter like ashes

A pack of young hyenas breaks cover
Lopes away through crackling grass

Red-eyed, a ring-necked pheasant does the
Head-bob, head-bob.  A lecturer calls out in tongues

The key to his room hung on the hook
Of a saxophone, its soul a shriek of lightning.



 

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