$13.99
“Stephen Benz’s poems, rich in sense of place, take us on a compelling journey. The layers of stories in these poems are simultaneously personal and universal in the way they tap into human experience—from family story to travels of great distance. Benz evokes the spirits of ancient poets, like Bashō, and draws connections to the contemporary road. His poems explore various crossroads and take us across the Great Divide, even as they deftly challenge physical and spiritual divides.”
–Diane Thiel
Whirlwind, Thorn Tree, Tumbleweed
by Stephen Benz
$13.99, paper
978-1-64662-070-8
2019
Stephen Benz is the author of several books of travel essays, including Guatemalan Journey and Topographies. His writing has appeared in various journals and in Best American Travel Writing. Benz lives in Albuquerque, where he teaches at the University of New Mexico.
Stephen Benz –
A note from the author:
Along with two books of travel essays—Guatemalan Journey (University of Texas Press) and Green Dreams: Travels in Central America (Lonely Planet)—I have published essays in Creative Nonfiction, River Teeth, TriQuarterly, New England Review, and other journals. My poems have appeared in journals such as Nimrod, Shenandoah, Tar River Poetry, and Confrontation. A new collection of essays, Topographies, has just been published by Etruscan Press. Formerly a writer for Tropic, the Sunday magazine of the Miami Herald, I now teach professional writing at the University of New Mexico.
As a poet and essayist, I take an interest in the forgotten, overlooked, or misunderstood stories that landscapes have to tell, particularly the landscapes of the American West. According to scholar William Cronon, “Each landscape has endless has endless stories to tell if only we understand the codes that render the details … legible.” My poems and essays attempt to recognize and interpret these stories. In some cases, the stories are nostalgic, while others reflect on harsher realities. In all cases, my poems look for beauty and lyricism even in the starkest and loneliest provinces. Here is an example of a nostalgic story:
Hopi House
There’s nothing left of Hopi House,
rest stop for the road-weary,
ten miles west of Winslow on old Route 66.
The diner served up hotcakes and sausage links.
Cowboy music played on a radiant jukebox.
My brother colored the paper placemat.
Outside, snow flurries rode the winter wind.
There’s nothing left of the filling station, the motel,
the adobe façade painted with kachinas and thunderbirds,
Hopi women working looms and carrying pots on their heads.
My father waited with the car at the Texaco pumps
while a gas jockey in cap and bow tie checked oil, air, and water.
There’s nothing left of the trading post, the curiosities
and wonders within—Navajo rugs, mineral rocks,
petrified wood, a chance to see rattlesnakes under glass.
My mother searched her purse for coins
and let us choose one souvenir each.
Whatever happened to that old arrowhead?
There’s nothing left of Hopi House, nothing at all.
I stood at the crossroads where it used to be.
The wind blew hard, a chill in the high desert air.
The sacred mountain wavered in a gritty haze.
Tumbleweeds skittered across the highway.
A raven lit on a rock to let me know:
there’s nothing left, nothing left, nothing at all.
For more info, please visit my website: https://www.stephenconnelybenz.com