Black Lawrence Press
June 17, 2016

Welcome, Christine Gardiner!

This month we are featuring the poets and writers who have signed with us since last summer—all writers who submitted work during one of our two annual open reading periods.

Today we bring you Christine Gardiner, whose debut poetry collection My Sister’s Father is due out next fall.

The AuthorGardiner Author Photo

Christine Gardiner holds a BA and MFA from Brown University and a PhD from the University of Denver. She lives in Brooklyn and is Assistant Professor of the Liberal Arts at the College of New Rochelle, School of New Resources, where she is edified by her students and their stories.

 

 

 

The Book

Where did you write the book?

The book was written in Providence and Denver. But it was more literally written in the space between the memory and foresight of what the mind deems unspeakable. I knew the future because of the past. I wrote to understand.

 

What is your favorite memory from working on this manuscript?

After my thesis reading, CD Wright looked at me as if to say I had accomplished what I had set out to accomplish. This look gave me a deep sense of achievement being that it came from a poet who never gave a false compliment or insincere look.

 

How did you know that the book was done and ready to send out?

I wrote the last poem on my 28th birthday. It was a gift to myself, the permission I needed to return to the world, to live.

 

What’s on your reading list for this summer?

This summer I would like to explore The Mahābhārata.

 

Excerpt

 

Clouded eyes the color

of a cloud. Hands so cold,

if he touched her eyes,

her eyes would snow.

 

To hear the sea, press

your ear to the shell

of a spiritual man.

 

Finished the story but lost in the midst of it.

A lonely child, wandering the cosmos.

Past the eyes of the aspen.

Through sibilant pines.

The gold horizon.

Our only parameter.

A wall—passive—upholding its purpose.

In a cold house full of things.

Fear pacing the room like an animal.

Illegible gestures.

Shadows flashing through the attic.

A gunshot.

The scream of a train.

Writing the inevitable in order to prevent

The next page blank with darkness.

 

 

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