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Candlefish

Poems by Elizabeth Biller Chapman

Candlefish is part of the University of Arkansas Press Poetry Series, edited by Enid Shomer.

Read an excerpt . . .


Elizabeth Biller Chapman’s work has appeared in Poetry, Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Blueline, and Yankee. Her poem “On the Screened Porch” was included in Best American Poetry, 2002. Creekwalker, her 1995 chapbook, won the (M)other Tongue Press international competition, and her debut collection, First Orchard, was published in 1999 by Bellowing Ark Press.


“If your bookshelves are crowded, it’s time to clean house and make room for Elizabeth Biller Chapman’s Candlefish. Find a place for it between Elizabeth Bishop and Amy Clampitt. You’ll soon discover that these moving poems hold their own in erudite and insightful company.”

—Francis Murphy, professor emeritus of English at Smith College and
co-editor of The Norton Anthology of American Literature

“This collection is the expression of exceptional vision, in every sense of the word; the wounded, lovely voice that sings the transient beauty of the world makes these poems unforgettable.”

—Neal Bowers, professor of English at Iowa State University and author of
Out of the South, Loose Ends

and Words for the Taking: The Hunt for a Plagiarist

“In Candlefish, Elizabeth Biller Chapman invites us to witness the astonishing diversity of plant and animal life that shares our existence, but on its own terms. In palpable, richly textured language, here are poems of love and loss, acute perception and grief, and the pleasure of finding our place in the profusion of the natural world.”

—George Keithley, author of The Starry Messenger and The Donner Party


2004
5 1/2” x 8 1/2”
96 pages
$16.00, paper
1-55728-767-8
Poetry


From the title poem:

Connecting, we ignite: a shift of the tide, a balm.
  Look down, my lovely daughter, can you see?
    The floor of our house is glass, and the candlefish are swimming there.
      Over and over it happens—

The day draws on; the apples ripen
  toward the Angelus hour. Tired out,
    his face shaded by an old cap,
     my father naps on a hammock in the garden.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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