Some Places Have No Name, by Alan Abrams

Poetry, chapbook, 36 pages, from Bottlecap Features. When viewed as a whole, these poems are about the connection between the world of nature and the world of humankind. But what is truly natural anymore? Hiking in the wilderness, one’s boot will still find an empty Coors can, or a spent rifle cartridge; looking up through the tree canopy, one will still see a sky severed by a vapor trail, or yellowed by some distant industry. Then again, how is humankind any less natural than a rock or a cloud, or a hawk or a sycamore? A sculpted hummingbird nest, a towering termite mound, a lacey spiderweb–how are these perfectly engineered structures so different from our own homes, buildings, and bridges? They differ only in scale and complexity but not in character. And what of poetry itself? How then do our verses differ from the roars and howls, and tweets and twittering of the natural world? Again, it is only a matter of scale and complexity that distinguishes our words from the utterings of beasts and birds. Alan Abrams b. 1949, Washington, DC After dropping out of art school, he wandered across the country, picking up work as a motorcycle mechanic, a carpenter, and construction jack-of-all-trades. His own heart was broken as often as he broke others. Later in life he was a builder, developer, and building designer. His stories and poems have been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies in the US, UK, and Ireland. He now lives a tame and contemplative life with his wife, a retired librarian, and far too many books.