Author Archives: Dalton Monk

Pandemic Operations

We hope you’re staying safe and doing well during these troubling times. Because of the current circumstances, our response times are a bit slowed,
but we will continue to read submissions for our annual prizes.
We have extended the prize submissions period to end on April 15th.
Please take care, physically and mentally.

West Branch Review, Number 92, Winter 2020

West Branch Review, No. 92, Winter 2020

West Branch Review, No. 92, Winter 2020

West Branch is published tri-annually by Bucknell University’s Stadler Center for Poetry & Literary Arts. The cover of their Winter 2020 issue features a piece titled Reckoning, by Cate White. In the foreground of the piece is a husky man dressed in cowboy apparel, accompanied by a sketchy pink horse. In the background, divided into four quadrants, are four distinct rural landscapes. The piece is colorful and striking and aesthetically complex. It reminds me of one of my favorite folk artists, S.L. Jones of West Virginia, who drew very primitive portraits of rural farmers and their animals. White’s work, however, is more refined and aptly hints at the eclectic nature of this issue. West Branch publishes poetry, fiction, nonfiction, translations, and book reviews. Here I will highlight pieces in three of those genres: poems by Anaïs Duplan; Leslie Jenkie’s essay “The Positioning Field,” and Hugh Sheehy’s short story “Uses of Enchantment.”

The untitled poems of Anaïs Duplan are some of the most striking things I’ve read in recent memory, at least in terms of poetry. Though they are clouded in ambiguity and anguish, there is an immediacy about them that never feels forced or phony, as exemplified by these opening lines: “A bougainvillea is another kind of flower. A snow / leopard an animal. A destroyed people / a historical occurrence. A boundary a matter / to work with…” I mean, how can you not finish reading a poem that opens this way? Duplan’s biggest strength, I think, is his refined, restrained language, tempered by the complexity and magnitude of his ideas. Read his poetry. You will connect more deeply with the mysteries of this world, and the mysteries within yourself.

In her lyric essay “The Positioning Field,” Leslie Jenkie takes the phrase thought-provoking to a new, elevated level. This meditative piece lives at the intersection of several subjects — pregnancy, the creative process, the cosmically dwarfing idea of infiniteness, and oh yes, the symbolic import of coyotes — the essay would be disorienting if Jenkie wasn’t such a passionate and keen observer. She is able to make sense from the chaos she presents to us, and her writing, similar to the output of her artist-subjects Yayoi Kusama and Joseph Beuys, is inventive and continually challenges the conventions of creative nonfiction. At one point, she reflects on a selfie she took while viewing Kusama’s renowned Infinity Mirrors exhibit: “It’s just like the thousands of selfies taken in the Infinity Dots Mirrored Room and posted to the internet. I will always be out there, somewhere, looking at myself in the phone, reflected by the mirrors, sneaking into strangers’ search engines, edging my way into newer territory just because someone, unknowingly, left the proverbial door open for me.” These lines will continue to stick with me long after this review is published, for their unadulterated insight into the limitless possibilities and forms of human life in our modern times.

Hugh Sheehy’s short story “Uses of Enchantment” follows a restaurant manager named Leon as he comes face to face with a family with whom he shares a complicated past. This serves as the impetus for Leon to reexamine his past experiences (namely, a car accident that killed a girlfriend and a stint spent at a place called the Center) and how they influenced his relationship with Iona, a daughter. Sheehy’s prose is precise and haunting and exquisitely handles tragedy and the pain of the past. Take, for example, these lines: “He couldn’t believe he was allowed to drive. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to have a girl with him. He couldn’t believe he’d brought her to life by saying yes. The world was disordered, wild, and packed with secrets.” This passage does something all great fiction ought to do: it looks beyond one character’s struggles and ponderings and taps into a universal truth. This is what makes Sheehy’s story an enchanting and memorable read.

All told, the Winter 2020 issue of West Branch is a charming, dynamic gathering, showing the promise of a diverse cast of outstanding writers and artists. I encourage writers to submit, and readers to subscribe at As this issue illustrates, West Branch is a venue for writers of all stripes and styles.

Reviewed by Caleb Bouchard.

Poetry from George Looney

On George Looney:

George Looney’s recent books include Meditations Before the Windows Fail, the book-length poem Structures the Wind Sings Through, Monks Beginning to Waltz, and A Short Bestiary of Love and Madness. His novel Report from a Place of Burning will be published fall of 2018. He founded the BFA in Creative Writing Program at Penn State Erie, where he is Distinguished Professor of Literature and Creative Writing and editor of the international literary journal Lake Effect. He is also translation editor of Mid-American Review, and co-founder of the Chautauqua Writers’ Festival.

It Isn’t Always Classical

It Isn’t Always Classical appeared in Issue 35

after Walker Evans’ New Orleans Houses, 1935

Waiting it out is what those who live here
would say they’re up to. Holding it in,
one woman who lives in a second-floor
apartment has put it. Others say
she used to be some kind of famous
ballerina, that classical music
can be heard from her room most nights.
The couple who live under her say
they can hear her feet touching the floor,

through their ceiling, in patterns so
perfectly aligned they can almost see
her dance, listening. It isn’t always
classical, they say. She dances some nights
to What a Little Moonlight Can Do.
Those nights it sounds like two people dancing,
they say. No one’s ever seen anyone
else going in her apartment. No one
talks to her enough to feel comfortable

asking. Rumor is those nights she dances
with the ghost of the man who used to live
where she does. He would stand almost naked
on the balcony now hers and holler
things that sounded Biblical till someone                                                                                            
would shout up to him to Go sleep it off.
Some nights in the midst of the archaic
languages folks would hear him shouting
about a flood coming. To wash away all
our sins, he’d shout. Those nights he’d go calm

and then start singing Billie Holliday
tunes in a sad but affecting voice,
pained to the core. Those who heard him sing
would dream the city underwater, all
the dead swimming up toward the light
as if resurrection were as simple
as breaking the surface. Tonight it’s My Blue
Heaven coming from her place and everyone
believes the ghost of a man is whispering
in her ear. You’re so light on your feet,
he says, the two of us could dance on water.