Amish Trivedi

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Where to Buy:

Direct from Coven Press

Amazon

Reviews, etc.

Carosi, Chris. The Lost Library: A Review of Sound/Chest. Entropy, April 2016.

Ray, Bonnie. Catalog/Cloud. Jacket2, January 2016.

Sound/Chest on Lit Hub's 30 Must-Read Poetry Debuts From 2015.

mclennan, rob. Sound/Chest. rob mclennan's blog, June 2015.

Coffey, Dan. Blurbs Taking Surroundings. Real Pants, May 2015.






Poems from Sound/Chest

In The Quotidian Bee: "Symbol/Attribution"
In Open Letters Monthly
In Pismire: "Truncated/Obvious 1713" and "1717"
In Poems & Poetics


On Sound/Chest

How many ways are there to break and be broken down? At the bottom of Sound/Chest, there's always one more: these poems fray, stick, starve, erode. They're sad poems braced for further sadness, small brinks, short falls, shorings up; they seek sustenance rather than certainty. To sound is to hear how deep something goes, to wait for an echo of touch to tell you, this is where the water stops. We don't call what's under the water "land," but we might call it knowledge; we might call it persistence; we might call it patience. At the bottom of Sound/Chest, the next thing we turn over might be the thing we need.
                    —Kate Schapira

In these poems, Amish Trivedi gives us the "surreal" as the new normal, all the mind’s dated catalogue awash in the rising waters of the present. In the barely off-stage catastrophe sending ripples through this book, what we cling to is as strange as what we seek to avoid.
                    —Rae Armantrout

The library is flooded, the words made "surplus." The slash in the title of Amish Trivedi’s Sound/Chest is also echoed in the sudden line-breaks that gives the otherwise conversational tone a jittery feeling. "There/was some talk/of electrical outlets and role playing": An amazing surrealist montage as failed stand-up joke or an occult dating show about Abu Ghraib? From the farcical to the sublime: these poems keep babbling until they’ve told us just about everything we did and did not want to know about ourselves.
                    —Johannes Göransson