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Douglas Spangle was born in Roanoke, Virginia and raised in a Park Service family, living in various western states in childhood. In 1966 his family moved overseas and he spent the latter two of his high school years in Ankara, Turkey. He attended the University of Maryland's Munich Campus from 1968 to 1971. For the following four years he worked as a stagehand at the Münchener Kammerspiele Schauspielhaus. For many years he studied and translated the poems of Peter Huchel; he is currently translating the Swiss-German poems of Clemens Umbricht and Florian Vetsch. His own poems are built on his lifelong habit of precise observation of the natural world - the actions and habits of its inhabitants, the light in still life that becomes transcendent. He deals with its traffic: transitions, collisions, time, love and death. His gifts of observation and expression give him a singular voice; he reminds us that landscape is always more than land. His gifts of rhythm, quiet perception and penetrating feeling are beautifully displayed in a visionary analog of Guns, Germs, and Steel, "Spark in the Stalk", the poem that ends this selection.A White Concrete Day contains these 45 poems: Gasket / The Tree Horse / A Thing About Bridges / The Jawbone / Wooden Eagles / West of Brawley / Cardston, Alberta / Isle Royale: Mt. Franklin / Jennings / Alfred Hitchcock / The Big Fire / The Magi / Cutting / Kindling / Pallet Factory Song / Walking in Thaw / The Yearling / The Gap / Inflight Notes / The Last Drugstore Lunch Counter / The Rising of the Moon / The Assassination of Arthur Fiedler - a recreation / White Wind / Supernova Tycho, 1572 / Elegy and Epitaph for Willis Eberman / Man in the Moon / Quarter Minus / 21st. & Powell / Notes on St. Johns Bridge / Flying Ants / Orchestra / Old Men's Voices / Mr. Chang Composes a Letter / Scene from a / Famous Battle / View / Parting Scene / A Few things / The Printer's Hair / Radio Tirana / About / That Ice Storm / Her Camera / Villanoid / The Birches / August - 1959-1979 / Mullein / Spark in the Stalk.

These poems are about poverty, family, loss, the vast significance of the everyday, the wisdom of eating when you are hungry.But mostly about love. Here's a poem:I AM A KNOWN BREAKER OF BROKEN THINGS:I am a known breaker of broken things. / I can guarantee the permanent dismantling / of anything even moderately salvageable. / While gluing the handle back on your / favorite mug? / I will undoubtedly manage to chip the rim. / Patching your jeans I'll blow a seam / rendering them unwearable. // Listen. // Next time you're on your hands and knees / digging through dust bunnies for those lost batteries. / You. Will. Regret. The day / I offered to fix the remote control / because I inevitably manage to crack / the plastic snap off the back, / that delicate tab meant to / hold everything together. // I'm not the best at keeping it together. // See, my dad was the guy who'd give you / a reason to cry if you couldn't supply / a full alibi for every. Single. Tear. /Complaining about scraped knees or bee / stings earned a two-fold return in the currency / of pain, teaching a younger me / the most efficient means / to overcome one agony / is replacing it with another. / I don't mean to be blunt / but the force of trauma was the only lesson / I ever learned from love. / I will be a kick in the ribs / when what you needed was someone / to kiss it better. // Darling, I can see the seams / where your delicate dreams are knitting themselves / back together. // So please. // Don't offer me those parallel lines, / scar tissue rungs strung / across your upper thighs, / the ladder you climb to escape / each personal hell. // Don't tell me the history of your body. / Describe the trajectory and delicacy / of stick-thin child limbs, / plaster walls elastically / absorbing the full weight of you / after mom had one-too-many gin nightmares. // You are porcelain / and these hands were tempered in concrete. / Your wings might be a bit bent (testament / to the turbulence they underwent) but / they are healing. // Don't tempt me to fix you. / I am a known breaker of broken things.

"I can't do this from a physical level anymore... but I will always be with you." And the music is always with us, resurrecting, inexplicably present in distant earphones, as the universe arriving between piano notes. A pocket passport, with parallel texts in English, German, Croatian, Lithuanian, Bengali, Spanish, Russian.

Darlinghurst Funeral Rites concerns Newcastle-born Mordue in his 20s, from his arrival in Sydney in 1981 to the middle of that decade.The Australian culture of the time derided tenderness in men. Mordue’s vulnerability, receptivity to art and social injustice marked him as an outsider, and the resulting sense of otherness has always informed his work.Mordue is familiar with profound and contained suffering. In this respect he is, perhaps, one of Australia’s truest beat poets, shaped not only by Walt Whitman, John Keats and WH Auden but also by Bob Dylan, Marc Bolan and the Jam, and with everything that entails.There is an integrity to the looseness [of his poems], a quality of space through which his yearning for love – can be sensed.-- fr. Antonella Gambotto-Burke, The Australian, reviewed 21 Oct., 2017

Three Oregon authors and combat veterans, Sean Davis, Matthew Robinson and Jacob Meeks, drawing on their experiences in Iraq, Afghanistan, Haiti, Africa and the Middle East, offer anatomies of war and of peace.

When M. Miller, librarian @ a Seatac stock photo agency, falls asleep @ a cinema 1 rainy night, the dead invade her dreams, a mystery man talks about her past, & her job takes on strange, suspicious dimensions. With help of K. Cobain, F. Villon, & Leather Boys, she slips past the Space Needle to face love, death, resurrection, & globalization.