Sycamore•Oriole

Ken McCullough

McCullough’s poems are like songs—long, roving songs that wander the bitter cold slope of the eastern Rockies from the Crazies into the Wyoming Badlands. As Ed Folsom says in his introduction to the book, “McCollough’s dialect of ease and informality (working to de-form and re-form and in-form the shape of the poem)...neatly captures a cleaning out of a part of the self, turning the self lean, emptying the vowels, ridding the self of selfishness, a ritual of purgation.” From this ritual, McCullough’s work rises, easily, effortlessly, exploring everything from the smallest particle of dust to the self to the whole momentum of humanity.

A sample poem from the book

excerpted from Daysweat

“Only one who takes upon himself

the evils of the world

may be its king”

I, no king—a mere pretender

pseudo-Indian

slumped inside my own emotions

begin to weep—

sweat, snot

tears, toxins

flowing out of me

I clear my nose

backwoods fashion

Let what is broken, knit!

Make the two voices one!