Apples

Rose Mary Prosen

Once again, the lack of a publisher on this chapbook sent alarm bells screaming off in my head. After I finished it, I thought, "that could have been a whole lot worse." Prosen seems to fall into that category of poets who aren't quite slick enough to break into the major academic press, but aren't so awful that they end up making a mint writing cards for Blue Mountain. As such, there's really nothing for them to do but self-publish. Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on self-publishers. After all, Richard Cronshey did it.

That said, Cronshey is one in a million. But perhaps there's a curve, and the turly awful are one in a million too, and there's more of this stuff out there. Don't go into it looking for the next Billy Blake, or even the next Richard Cronshey, but you may come away with a bit more than you expected.

Even today,
I still save jars,
mostly pickle and juice,
and their snug bright lids.

Out from the dishwaher,
onto a shelf,
as though
I were a pioneer,

Collecting what I could
against a long, cold winter,
as though
my land were more

Than a city plot
and I had to hire hands
for a bumper crop...