We are so happy to be publishing Nathan Hauke’s full-length book Indian Summer Recycling in late summer/early fall 2019.
Nathan Hauke is also the author of Every Living One (Horse Less Press, 2015), In the Marble of Your Animal Eyes (Publication Studio, 2013), and four chapbooks. His poems have appeared widely in journals, including Denver Quarterly, New American Writing, Colorado Review, American Letters & Commentary, Interim, Typo, 4Ink7: An Unction from the Holy One, and Zen Monster. They have been anthologized in Hick Poetics (Lost Roads Press, 2015) and The Arcadia Project: North American Postmodern Pastoral (Ahsahta Press, 2012).
On Indian Summer Recycling and his recent practices and rituals, Nathan writes:
These days, I read and write early before it’s time to watch cartoons, sometimes again at night after I pack lunches and make a card for my son, Gus.
*Shout-out to Luke Pearson’s Hilda comics!
I walk around with notebooks for months that I’ll type up later and try not to lose.
Indian Summer Recycling is an investment in material transformation and the redemptive value of hands-on experience horsing around with stuff. I wrote a lot fast—in journals and on scraps of paper, like the back of an envelope from a friend I was using as a bookmark. I made cut-ups and started moving the pieces around in the dirt, layering them between slats of glass, tilting panels to catch leaves and blistered sunbursts; I sank these compositions in water, threw rocks, and dropped bricks from stacked pallets at an old gymnasium/salvage to honeycomb cut-ups layered against charred windows. Another project had just come to an end, and I wanted to make way for something to happen. Sometimes rain made a window to type things up, creating additional sedimentary layers. Mostly, I just kept moving. I’d cross things out and the ink would wash away in the creek, bringing words and lines back into play. It was an immersive and estranging call to presence.
I continue to find composting is full of heat and feedback; trace and intention glint at the edge of wet ruts in the wake of a truck, but little country cemeteries will, sure as shit, teach you that family names are worn off the stones.
Here’s a link to “Midnight Orchard,” a short essay that attempts to track the origin of “A dog wrings the neck for gladness,” the poem that titles the collection.
A dog wrings the neck for gladness
INDIAN SUMMER RECYCLING
STALLION BELT BUCKLE
Dry leaves in grainy heat startled like a toy duck with a shredded orange bill
Time abandoned to eternity a knot unraveling
Melody that disintegrates through the same old fucked speaker