PageBoy Magazine publishes both literary and visual art. If you would like to submit work, join the mailing list, or other, please write to pageboymagazine@hotmail.com
PageBoy Issue II10 is in its proof stages. There will be proof soon (of errors and oars and the airy outdoors)! In the meantime, here is a word for you:
Langrage - n. A type of shot consisting of scrap iron loaded into a case and formerly used in naval warfare to damage sails and rigging.
You have to admit, there is an attraction to misread that. To invent a langrage language that might shoot a load of scrap into the sails and rigging of, say, language itself, or maybe into a more general cultural fabric. Not to destroy, but certainly to alter dramatically. DADA, Gertrude Stein, Joyce come to mind. It's an old aspiration, whose perfection lies in its very impossibility of achievement. That is the odd thing about poets. It's not that they don't achieve, but that they can't, yet continue on nonetheless.
This is why, in the early 20th century, when Picabia is asked, "Why would you choose painting, when everyone accepts the fact that photography has brought about the death of painting?" he responds: The death of painting is precisely why I've chosen to paint.
"The only inspiration worth having is an inspiration that clarifies the form of what's being written, and that's more likely to come from something that already has a literary form."
-Northrop Frye (The Educated Imagination)
One day, while traveling in Taiwan, I visited the home of an old Taiwanese poet. He spoke very little English, and I practically no Chinese. We sipped tea and read each other poems from our notebooks. Neither of us understood the other, though we both nodded enthusiastically on hearing the music of a foreign language used poetically. After each poem, we would discuss in English the nature of that poem's meaning. There was a big window in the living room overlooking what seemed like endless rice fields.
After I read him several poems, Li Pa asked me quite matter-of-factly, "what do you write about?"
"Many things," I replied, in the simplest English I could manage. "These poems are all written about words I found in the dictionary."
He thought about this for a few seconds, then seemed to understand: "You cannot write good poems about words in the dictionary. Good poems are about life." He gestured toward the rice fields outside. "Good poems are out there."
This conversation has haunted me ever since. Indeed, it haunted me before I even had it. I decided Li Pa was right, and I decided he was wrong. That there is no source for good poetry, it's all source.
PageBoy issue II 10 will be out shortly! with poems by Amalio Madueno, Paul Nelson, Emily Beyer, and Collin Tracy, artwork by Natalie Phillips, and an essay on the nature of (non)fiction by Erik Anderson. Until then, here's more elevator music:
Spring Walk
part of a living body may decay
and may aster or wounded pride
rectangular in an irrigable field
where moss and grass and vetch and stone
or the old beheaded cherub statuary
lay in semi-ruinous perfection
it's always something else that's perfect
and the appetites of self-denial
walking there, touching this, touching that
like a child who touches, who sees
first with its skin, birthed into
this inferno of light and gravity
screaming its head off all the while
"...now there were things about this painting i didn't understand in some sense it looked very low pressure the way a lot of painting looks in america that is it looked as if it was not urgent about anything painting is embarrassed to be about anything its been embarrassed for a long time theres a grave sense of embarrassment before the possibility of being about in painting which they call being literary and literary is a bad term for a painter because everyone knows that if you paint a painting of anything it shouldnt be about anything but painting..."
-from David Antin's "remembering recording representing" (1973)
This, said PageBoy Magazine, is one of the funniest and most pointed comments on not only painting, a certain kind of painting anyway, but much of what we all do these days, whether it's writing or painting or badmintoning. Navigating the world of contemporary art is difficult, to say the least, in any era, which volleys a shuttlecock over a high net by means of a light racket touche!
"All needed to be known for say is known. There is nothing but what is said. Beyond what is said there is nothing." - he said (I'm quoting him from nothing, though it's true, I am saying it in a way).
Elevator Music XI
Round spots forming a pattern poof! There it is, and we spent the rest of that hour fleeing from it, or trying to make sense of them (in our way).
The Venetian traveler seemed old simply because he was Venetian. I apologized, and told him it was an association I'd had since being young - that Venetian somehow meant antiquitous. My father referred to his steins as 'Venetian,' at least that's how I remember it, and though my father wasn't old then he seemed so to me and the steins certainly were the stuff of old age to a child interested only in running.
I ran on and on and the traveler, whose name was Charles, listened politely, pulling on his cigarette and straining to comprehend what I said. We paid our bill and left. He the one way and then we and then I.
ah my young friend this sack if you had seen it I could hardly drag it and now look my vertex touches the bottom
I could hardly drag my vertex and now look my young friend this sack it touches the bottom if you had seen it ah
tom I could hardly sack this friend now look my ahbot had drag and vertex it touches if you seen my young it
Samuel Beckett on Finnegans Wake:
"Here form IS content, content IS form. You complain that this stuff is not written in English. It is not written at all. It is not to read - or rather it is not only to be read. It is to be looked at and listened to. Joyce's writing is not about something; it is that something itself... Here is a savage economy of hieroglyphs. Here words are not the polite contortions of 20th century printer's ink. They are alive. They elbow their way on to the page, and glow and blaze and fade and disappear."
It strikes me that this was written in 1929. To think that the overwhelming majority of work that is being published now (in both microzines and macrozines), 80 years after a comment like this and a book like FW, is still not much more than "printer's ink," is baffling. Our need for comfort, for familiarity, to vacation where others have vacationed, to go to the same restaurants, cafes, to write the same books and movies, story and syntax is strong indeed. Every one of these works is disposable. Every era is, of course, inundated with mediocrity, so strong is our need to communicate and be understood. The degree to which we repeat ourselves is nauseating.
Grahm Greene has said that "when we are not sure, we are alive." To be unsure is the way, I'm sure of it.
In an essay entitled "Melody as Death," the philosopher Raymond Geuss writes that, at the age of eleven, he sat on the floor at his friend's house listening to Richard Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries." He goes on to say this of his experience:
"I distinctly recall two impressions I had in quick succession that are among the most vivid I have ever received. The first was that of simply being overwhelmed by the richness and complexity of the sound, and the electricity of those crisply executed initial upward reaching flourishes (in B minor, as I now have learned to call it) in the first four bars. More indescribable flourishes on the horns and bassoons followed, and then the alternation of the ascending motif with descending slurred quintuplets in the violins.
"The second impression I recall is my disappointment, in fact complete and utter dejection, when the horns and bass trumpet entered forte at bar 13, and an easily discernible motif emerged very clearly as an individual theme from the general whirl of sound. I remember thinking, 'Oh no! There is a tune in this after all.'"
Understanding is perhaps more fatal than anything else.
PageBoy has returned from Mexico and is gearing up for the next issue, which is due out this summer. Send work now! or forever Reverdy, Heather.*
Having studied the literature and language (yempenadas rajas con queso) of Mexico, we feel that we editors here at PageBoy Magazine have sufficiently lost our language (y nos linea), and are now thoroughly confused by various spellings and capitalizations, word genders and syntactic differences between Spanish and english so that you can rest assured there will be many typos in the next issue hurray! Don't fret, however, it's only language, which is, as you know, both a comma splice and everything else(,).
W de GDL
your smiling was waiting, it flew off
to roost near perch, the ranch
on the road west of Guadalajara
was blue with agave and old tractors
rolling into us as we rode and
turned into dust, slow as fermentation
slow as swallows, as owls slow
leaving the filthy catholic afternoons
for the pagan sea hungry to touch our
every inch without shame
Inside the church the people sit or kneel in silence, or make the sign of the cross in the air before them, in the direction of the altar, which supposedly is built over a tomb containing the remains of former clergymen, including "the mummified heart of renowned Bishop Cabanas."
I am silent as well, and filled with sadness. The ceiling is impossibly high, the art work overwhelming, everything is garish and holier than thou. I am disgusted, in awe, tearful, respectful, dwarfed. I watch as the devout file through at their leisure, asking of their god...what? I don't want to know.
In the chapel next to the main church is the "Virgin of Innocence." I go to her, but find only her bones in a glass case. She was 12 years old. She is now nearly 2000. 2000 years in this glass case. I wonder if, like snow white, I might kiss her and wake her and wander the streets of Guadalajara with her on my arm. Through the plazas, the arches, the endless barrios, and out eventually into the hills. But then I think, what do the hills offer us that is more or less than the church she now rests in? What does life offer that is more than death? What could I do besides hold her in my arms as the wind slowly wore away at her, and left me by morning alone.
I wonder instead if she should not kiss me, and bring me into the glass case with her, to watch as thousands of years of faces and prayers fail to move us.
PageBoy will be gathering material in Mexico for most of this month. While we continue doing so, please enjoy some music from the suave sounds of La Banda Oficial de Zapopan. Es muy rico!
Domingo En la Gloriata Chapalita
in the park La Banda Oficial de Zapopan, all thirty some-odd
wind instruments under palms and
baroque gazebo, within the
lazing throngs of dressed up señores y señoras, abuelos y abuelas,
across whom is pushed a refreshing
breeze by the storm north of town
(lie still dry hills, bosque del pino triste) en camisas blancas y pantalones negros,
around whom waltz women in
four inch heels with spinning girls
hanging on or laughing chased by sus hermanos traviosos,
eating ice cream or drinking jugo de caña or simply spilling both, este Banda Oficial de Zapopan plays
(Frank Sinatra's Nuevo York Nuevo York!)
and I catch the old woman
sitting on the bench beside me
mouthing the words that are somewhere
in her youth, somewhere in her
dreams, somewhere once where
anything was possible
before she found herself here beside me
alone on the bench, seeing me
seeing her
she stops singing
and I am one more man who's
caused to end her lovely dreams
Twenty things I've realized while discussing language, translation, and poetics with Mexican poet and translator Alejandro Carrillo Etienne on his terazza in Guadalajara, Jalisco evenings:
1) the more sources the better.
2) beware of those who subscribe to a single poetics.
3) the parrots in Guadalajara are very big and mostly green.
4) Ashbery's comment on Gertrude Stein's Stanzas in Meditation that they are a "hymn to possibility" somehow ceases neither to be beautiful, nor haunting.
5) double negatives are confusing in Spanish and in English, and generally not a good idea.
6) do not cross the street in Guadalajara with out looking both ways twice.
7) Mexican poetry is unfairly invisible to most estadounidenses.
8) languages create false borders.
9) Mexican beer is shit but it's better to drink than Mexican water.
10) write.
11) any style (form) is a style (form) of possibility.
12) content is not important.
13) form is not important.
14) citrus flowers in the evening can be overwhelming, it's okay.
15) form and content are everything.
16) chilis are a sacred fruit.
17) you know the music is there and that it will come to you, but you have to be ready for it, you have to do the work. (Philip Glass)
18) all schools in the americas should be bilingual, north and south, except in Portugal where they should be trilingual.
19) the more you read, the more you can draw from.
20) the moon is bigger and fuller in Mexico than it is in the U.S. - that's just true.
"People who look for symbolic meanings fail to grasp the inherent poetry and mystery of the image. No doubt they sense this mystery, but they wish to get rid of it. They are afraid. By asking, 'what does this mean?' they express a wish that everything is understandable. But if one does not reject the mystery, one has quite a different response. One asks other things."
-Rene Magritte
PageBoy Magazine promises not to ask. We will only ask other things. Such as:
What is that little black square next to the mirror?; and,
Ceci n'est pas une pipe
ceci n'est pas une pipe
ceci n'est pas
ceci n'est pas
ceci n'est pas une
pipe?
"an oscillation between representational reference and compositional game"
-Marjorie Perloff in The Poetics of Indeterminacy
Striking this balance seems to me to be what, ahem, great poetry is all about. At least from the half of the world (read: the world) represented by a statement such as "In the reaction of Rimbaud to Baudelaire, lies the germ of half the subsequent history of French poetry [read: all poetry]." (Charles Tomlinson)
That's why Pageboy Magazine only publishes great poetry... duh?
My Life (with haiku), She Said
they cannot kill large barnyard fowl
but you can, you can kill us
and if you can kill us
then you can kill a Jupiter or several
I'm then there was her
oh shit! what do we do now?
No, I don't love you
that pretty much is the all of it
so far (lot tea dough)
PageBoy sent emissaries to the Ed Skoog reading last Saturday night. The reading, evidently, was exceptional for two things: a wine glass that was kicked across the tile floor without breaking. and the development of a new word, 'skoog.' skoogn. 1. one who is self-deprecating or undervalues their work almost to the point of obsessiveness. 2. a very large man who makes up words and may be prone to soiling his underwear and discussing it in public. 3.v. enbourgeois. - adj. skoogy.
Usage: The speech was good, but the speaker was such a skoog that it was difficult to take her seriously.
We are gathering speed, moving toward our next issue. Studying Charles Bernstein (all that I am is my work), Gilbert Sorrentino (those lovely girls dreamt leaning on our arms), Juliana Spahr (Fuck you aloha I love you), and Gertrude Stein - always Gertrude Stein, who increasingly seems to be the mother of us all, in the way Dostoevsky said we all come from Gogol's overcoat(bet it's stinky under there.) The next issue of PageBoy is due out this June. Send us your work if you have it, send us your have it if you work. Until then here's more elevator music:
something drapes the walls
and I must watch it
as if it were drip, or droop
the way it moves
to keep from thinking of it
aplomb in the midst of chaos
the broken sky, the fissured child
the pear trees about to shoot
I'm anxious for spring this year
not as I usually am
but this year to see
if it too will pull off its blossoms
and say no! I'm not happy
I need to leave this leaving
and whether I will object
arguing for its worth, for its beauty
the essence of which crawls between us
or if I will watch quietly
in disbelief
as it gathers its shoots
its daffodils and rain
and walks out
closing the door with a click
that is as cold and insufferable
as any winter ever was
So not all the readings one goes to will be as stimulating as the Madueno reading mentioned below. Case in point:
Tuuli and I went to see what turned out to be a very Byron affair (as in Cape rather than Lord), complete with interpretive Butoh dancers, a Buddha gong, and conga drums. Tuuli (she's 4) loved it!
Tuuli's favorite parts: the dancers and the San Pellegrino Limonata.
My favorite parts: watching Tuuli with her 'smart face' on (wide eyes, open mouth) as she watched the dancers, and the harpist's harp song drowned out irreverently by an amateur gong gonger's exceedingly ambitious improvisations.
Still, walking home through the park, Tuuli and I sang harp song, harp song / little bitty Buddha gong endlessly, and that, I guess, was worth it.
Pageboy Magazine has made a resolution to go to as many readings as we possibly can. One that recently stood out was Amalio Madueno, who is a lovely mix of formal and free, Spanish and English, Native and American, comedy and tragedy. A self-proclaimed descendant of the black mountain school, his work seems to extend those boundaries, all boundaries in fact - border poetics at its best.
We are currently courting him for the next issue of PageBoy. In the mean time, check him out.
PageBoy is now cataloged in the library at The Evergreen State College, where, due to the special non-biodegradable fibers I had the printer impress into the cover stock, it will remain for the next 5,000 years or until 2012 when the Mayan calendar ends, whichever comes first. Until one of those things occurs, here is some more elevator music:
from Toward A Poetics
that fire hydrant hasn't moved in months
I've been watching it
waiting for it, resisting it
for in resolve endures
happy yellow deistic rain
and nut trees
I'm trying to say something here that I love you
as Groucho Marx loved
all oblong and obfuscated
awkwardly truncated of a leg-like evening
and then
suddenly
with resolve I love you! can't you see that I love you!
clear as a moustache
gushing forth in platitudes
and fine hyperbole, irreverent cliche
I want to give you
all the things
I'm not supposed to give
morning summers and hands
beach shaped boxes and hearts
I want to lay a head cheese in your lap
and put my tongue in it
my feet, my hog
all of my boiled parts and jelly
Don often needs this: four ogling residents getting everything testy.
Perhaps Anne gets enemas, but only yearly. Rarely even at dinner, if nobody guesses.
1/28/10 7pm @
Terrible horrible Ethan wearing all yellow, pushing over Sarah's trashcans.
Language is never in a state of rest, it's Bill dripping. We'll wake one day, inevitably, to wish we'd been awake.
PageBoy, in collaboration with the Smorg Reading Series, will be holding a reading to launch/celebrate its inaugural issue at 7pm on Jan.28 at The Waypost in Portland OR. Readers will include Ryan Newton, Jesse Morse and Thomas Walton. Ethan Morse will be playing ukulele wearing a thong and several black cockatoos...surprise!
Please visit www.thewaypost.com for more details. They have beer.
Here are some thoughts on poetics my four year old daughter and I were discussing the other day. I took these notes:
So much of poetry today seems like young adult fiction, meant for a readership who can’t sit still for more than five minutes, and certainly not if they are confused. This is my favorite kind of poetry.
Listening to the story, I exercise my will to believe. Looking at the painting, I make a story of it, and find it beautiful. Waking in the morning, I find her fresh, new, and choose to be in love with her. We may be the happiest or the most miserable people in the world, it is up to us to a large degree. A broad black butterfly is white with this.
There is, of course, inherent meaning in every work of art. The most abstract painting still says at least “white paint,” or “orange line,” “shape,” or “I am an abstract painting painted by someone who chose to put this here, that there, etc.” At some point in the painting’s narrative we pick up the meaning and run with it, and may take it wherever we want. There is no one to say whether we are right or not, whether our reading is the correct one. There is no correct reading of any painting or any poem. An artist who implies that there is, is making porridge rather than art, and should stay out of it besides.
I will not print any porridge in any issue of PageBoy.
Poisoning by spraying of DDT for Dutch elm disease in the 1950s was instrumental in generating concern over the potential for a “Silent Spring.” The concern was this: that the DDT-coated elm leaves would be processed by earthworms, which would then be eaten by robins. The robins would die and no song would fill suburban mornings or either evening cul-de-sacs. This is the joy of art and poetry and living.
Real art has the capacity to make us nervous. I do not propose any attempt to “figure out” a painting, or a marriage, but to sit before it, to let it speak all the things it seems to speak and might be speaking. To allow these possibilities to also be the painting. Obfuscation can be a rich porridge indeed.
I will print only porridge in every issue of PageBoy.
Misunderstanding is one means of understanding a work of art. To allow for misunderstandings is a device as valid and as useful as metaphor or meter.
The question to me seems to be this: Is misery real, or is it narrative poetry that makes us miserable? That dresses us in sweatpants and sits us in front of our televisions. That takes us to the mall on Sundays, and to Applebee’s after. Don’t tell me who I am or who you are either I really don’t care unless of course you are unknowable or at least seem unknowable then yes I would love to have sex with you later on if the weather’s nice. It is why I see when I look out at it.
Of course, no marriage lasts forever happily along. Even a block of wood gets bored, and a lightpost will die if you let it. This is why we have museums.
PageBoy is more a mausoleum or a geranium, yum.
The organ that birds use to produce vocalizations (songs and calls) is very different in location and structure from that of a poet. The vocal organ of birds is a unique bony structure called a syrinx, which lies at the lower end of the trachea, is surrounded by an air sac, and may be deep in the breast cavity. The vocal organ of a poet, in contrast, is a linear structure called a syntax, which may take any shape at all depending on mood or temperament, and is most often surrounded by a wine sac. Like a songbird, the poet’s organ may be deep in the breast cavity, but also may be found in other locales, so long as it is deep.
You don’t become the world’s casual dining leader by serving up tampon spondee or blonde fondue. Her wings are a different matter.
The initial step is a gesture, a word if you will but usually, for me, a phrase. If you need the world to be put together for you, then you most probably don’t belong in the world. The world is a series of fragments, each as important as the other. Peach as important as a feather. Of course I’m wrong about this, you can’t fly with an arm stabbed by peaches.
Everything rhymes with everything, it’s only the other things that don’t.
Finally, Mary Oliver writes in A Poetry Handbook, “A reader beginning a poem is like someone stepping into a rowboat with a stranger at the oars; the first few draws on the long oars through the deep water tell a lot – is one safe, or is one apt to be soon drowned? A poem is that real a journey. Its felt, reliable rhythms can invite, or can dissuade. A meaningful rhythm will invite. A meaningless rhythm will dissuade.”
PageBoy Magazine can now be found in Olympia WA at Orca Books AND Last Word Books (both on 4th Ave.) and in Portland at Powell's Books on Hawthorne, ...(information error 78291938: we regret to inform you that www.pageboymagazine.blogspot.com is currently under repair. this blogpost will be updated as soon as we can render the reindeer readier, as of 5:04 p.m. it is not ready enough. Thanks for your patience in this regard. I.T.)
PageBoy arrives in Portland today. You can find it at... I'll let you know tomorrow. In the meantime, here's more elevator music:
there's little that occurs in a night
that will render our next days obsolete
though we wish it
and cling to the hope that
this time
this night
this place
will be different
so postponing the proverbial Monday morning
we look beyond in the frontispiece of our skulls
of course, there are glimpses
whispers
and even real successes along the way
but these only work to perpetuate the myth
we are liars if we believe them
cowards if we don't
this, then, is for you:
a bucket, a rope, a well
a hill and hawthorn trees
beyond them a field of fireweed
sloping down in the orange evening light
to a small sandstone village
roofed with red tile made more red
by dusk and bats and laughter
which we can hear now, and join in
if you want, and disappear forever
Here is a lovely quote from Lyn Hejinian's essay "Two Stein Talks" as printed in The Language of Inquiry:
"...perhaps it was the discovery that language is an order of reality itself and not a mere mediating medium - that it is possible and even likely that one can have a confrontation with a phrase that is as significant as a confrontation with a tree, chair, cone, dog, bishop, piano, vineyard, door, or penny - that replaced her [Gertrude Stein's] commitment to a medical career with a commitment to a literary career."
It's interesting to imagine the phrase with which she might have had that confrontation: from the waiter at Chez Max: "more creme broulee Ms. Stein?"; or Hemingway arriving early with sparring gloves: "how about a few rounds with old Papa!"; or maybe Alice: "have you tried the bisque moules at Miss Kitty's Parlour... Oh!"
It's the penny that's most beautiful in the quote above, and most confrontational.
The following poem, "Helianthus Annus," was misprinted in PageBoy I 09. Please read it in its entirety below. Our apologies to its author, Joe Balay.
Helianthus Annus
Do you see that sunflower Looking in the bedroom window? It stares in my room all day. I feel uncomfortable undressing, Drinking a glass of water, My god, my husband Has seen less of me.
Do you see that sunflower? It has been looking in As long as I can remember. Although I cannot remember When it first looked in, Certainly before I lived here, Before August, and the children, Before the advent of other flowers.
Do you see that sunflower at the window? In the summer it was as yellow as god. In the winter it was numb as a limb. I asked someone to prune it, And it grew taller.
When nobody is home It has seen the cracks open in the wall, The carpet grow like grass, It has seen the light coruscate On braziers, Fevers, And lovemaking, It has seen one perfect ghost appear And then, rethinking, disappear.
Do you see that sunflower, Planted outside my window, Stuck in the ground like a flag, Like a first attempt To take stock of this world, This room, The man and woman who live here, Light separating from shadow, As if it could, As if it were meant to?
So if you REALLY don't want to buy direct from we here at PageBoy and would feel more comfortable perusing first, purchasing second, I suppose we understand. The list of stores carrying PageBoy is growing daily. Here's what we have so far: in Seattle you can get your PageBoy at University Bookstore, Revenna Third Place Books, Broadway News, Elliot Bay Bookstore, and Bulldog News; in Olympia WA you can find PageBoy at Orca Books.
PageBoy is coming soon to Boulder CO, Portland OR, and SFCA... Don't step in it!
In the meantime, consider this a bit of elevator music (in the 'Satiesian' sense):
The Hordes Swarm
around the vacillating mobiles
Alexander Calder, now dead
once hung, now hung
in the coruscant light
of their own making
here, on the fourth floor
on huge turn buckles
on display onerously suspended
we'll make it here this time
with help from these spinning constellations
to some otherworld, far above
the traffic lights and tourists
I love the traffic lights and tourists
love the pressure of cities
their hardness and ability
to reflect themselves again and again
in taxis, rain and leather
to overwhelm with noise
and to hide little oases like this:
a
single
mobile gently swaying
above an
awed field of murmers
the residual beauty of
a man gone
whose hands still
somehow
can be seen
tying wire
and
bending steel
Just gathered PageBoy I 09 from the printer. It looks great! An interview with and reproductions of paintings by Louisville artist Douglas Miller, translation of Hernan Zavala's Hunting Iguanas, and poetry by Erik Anderson, Joe Balay, Richard Froude, Jesse Morse, Ryan Newton, and Will Skinker.
Also: NUDE PHOTOS of BRAD PITT, GAEL GARCIA BERNAL, SARAH PALIN, WOODY ALLEN and SOME LADY I MET ON THE BUS THE OTHER DAY!!!
To order copies please write to pageboymagazine@hotmail.com.
Yes now there's proof that indeed, we've been working on a magazine for the last couple years. I received the proof today and it looks great (except for the table of contents being off by a few pages...).
PageBoy will be out as soon as the printers print, that's what they do.
If you want to purchase advanced copies email me at the address on this site. Beginning in January PageBoy will be available in book/magazine shops and libraries in Seattle, Portland, SF/LA CA, Happy Valley PA(?), Denver/Boulder CO(?), etc.*
Here's a list of authors/artists in the inaugural issue of PageBoy Magazine:
Richard Froude was born in London and raised in the Westcountry. He has lived in the US since 2002, currently in Denver, Colorado. Most recently, he is the author of The History of Zero (2008). Other writing can be found in various print and web journals including Word for Word, The Diagram and Tarpaulin Sky.
Ryan Newton is thrilled to be published in Page Boy. He lives in Portland OR and likes chocolate glazed.
Joe Balay currently resides in Pennsylvania where he is pursuing a PhD in Philosophy at Penn State University. He has published poems and fiction in several anthologies.
J. Alejandro Carrillo Etienne was born in Xalapa, Mexico and studied biology in secondary school. He lived in Seattle from 2003-2009. He is currently in Guadalajara pursuing a Masters in Translation and Interpreting. His interests are: literature, history and plants.
Erik Anderson’s work has appeared in The Recluse, Fou, Sleeping Fish, Trickhouse, Dear Camera, The Collagist, and others. He lives in Colorado, shops infrequently, and co-edits the mail-art magazine Thuggery & Grace.
Jesse Morse lives alone in Portland OR and runs the Smorg reading series there. More of these sonnets have appeared online at Hobart, in print at Peaches and Bats and Vanitas. Contact him at poetmorse@yahoo.com
Will Skinker lives in San Francisco and listens to metal through headphones. His small book Mascara was recently published by Auguste Press.
Douglas Miller lives and works in Louisville KY. You can find his work at douglasmillerart.blogspot.com
Yes, it's true. Nearly two years after the initial call to arms we've finally gone to print... again. After sending the finished copy to the first printer they decided to raise the price $250. No thanks. So here we go again. If all works out PageBoy will be in your hands before the year ends (fingers crossed). I'll post here as well as let everyone on the mailing list know when it does, in fact arrive. If you want to join the mailing list, send an email saying "put me on the mailing list" to pageboymagazine@hotmail.com.
Found a copy of Diane di Prima's very 1960's book Memoirs of a Beatnik recently for a dollar. It's a quiet little pornographic masterpiece. Find it.
PageBoy accepts all genres of creative work so long as it does, indeed, work. Please limit to a sensible length, given the nature of a small magazine. We will print works up to ten pages so long as they merit the space - even longer if they simply demand the space. Buying a copy is of course the best way to familiarize yourself with the magazine and its tendencies (!).
Critical Work
PageBoy is also seeking essays on subjects relative to contemporary work and workers (writers/artists). Send essays or queries for subjects. Essays should be no longer than ten double-spaced pages.
Visual
We do publish one visual artist per issue. All visual art should be sent as a jpeg attachment. Each feature artist gets the cover, a 4-8 page color spread in the magazine, and an in-depth interview.
Other
All work should be sent as a word.doc or docx attachment to pageboymagazine@hotmail.com. Please include the poem/essay's title and the word "submit" in the subject heading. PageBoy will respond as soon as possible 1-6 months to your work. NO SIMULTANEOUS SUBMISSIONS please.
