Mount Carmel & The Blood Of Parnassus / Anaïs Duplan

mount carmel front.jpg
Mount Carmel Full Covers Web (White Spine).jpg
MountCarmelInteriorSpread1.jpg
mount carmel front.jpg
Mount Carmel Full Covers Web (White Spine).jpg
MountCarmelInteriorSpread1.jpg

Mount Carmel & The Blood Of Parnassus / Anaïs Duplan

16.00

Published 1 September 2017

Poetry • Literature • Essay
MHP-026 • Perfect bound • Paperback
5.5 x 7.5 • 66 pages

All orders come with a poem sticker

Printed on 100% PCW recycled,
acid-free paper in the US ♾♽

ISBN-10 • 0-9860461-8-3
ISBN-13 • 978-0-9860461-8-6

Press Release


Distribution • SPD

Quantity:
Add To Cart
 
Reading Anaïs Duplan’s chapbook, you realize you are more than an assemblage of ideologies, a cellular plan, or even an estranged, familial relation possessing the accoutrements of a melancholic nation, but also, too, the glorious product of dense, self-referential layered texts that call to the surface your loneliness and feelings of kinship. Here are poems that revel in post-hybridity and borderless threnodies, and go straight to the stillness of the heart, to performances of language that are fierce and juicier than a papaya, and frankly, that one would only expect from a brilliant, young mind as theirs.

— Major Jackson

One function of the soul: its syntax, and Anaïs Duplan sends theirs sailing through the thin wall between writing and true life that we have to level to announce our presence in the house of language. Mount Carmel & the Blood of Parnassus is that action, a poem disguised as a notebook disguised as “an opera going full speed” through the mere veracity of familial love, personal history and betrayal. And why was that wall there in the first place? And what was its material? “I am limited by what my hand can do,” Duplan claims. Then they reach past that limit like it’s nothing and speak, with ecstatic gravity, into their reader’s life.

— Daniel Poppick

Anaïs Duplan’s Mount Carmel & the Blood of Parnassus is not an easy collection: it is not easy being the reader (who is rarely left unattended to and often called into question); it is not easy being the “you” on the other end of the writer’s address; nor, it seems, is it easy being the writer, who obsessively interrogates themselves—their desire to love, to fuck, to publish this chapbook, to recall and write history—at turns warped by self-consciousness, pained by self-awareness, and obliterated by self-effacement. “Keep this page as a record,” the writer repeats throughout the text, as if preparing for interpersonal, global, or archival destruction. By the end of the text — which doesn’t flow like a book, so much as a collection of images (selfies, portraits, family photos hidden in boxes) — the reader, “you,” and the writer are not distinct: “You hear how my voice always becomes yr voice. I think the truth is I’ve always wanted to hear you say it…” This is the trick, the spell, of Mount Carmel & the Blood of Parnassus. You have a role in all this; you play a part in it. 

— Grace Dunham


PRESS
 

The Public

Run & Tell That

The Coil

 

FROM THE BOOK
 

Two Poems
(Monster House)

Three Poems
(NY Tyrant)

[Let us enter this again]
(Academy of American Poets)

Seven Poems
(The Elephants)