Read&Write: Nick Thran

This kid can fly...

At this hour my hands are at least as good as wings.

...no, seriously - he plays basketball. I ain't ever seen him play, but I'm sure he can jump real high. Nick Thran might be second-last (pencil wise), but to me he's number one. I don't recall being quite so excited about a new book as I was when his first collection of poetry, Every Inadequate Name, came out. Perhaps this is because we were both working together at Book City when it was published - two youngish kids who cared way too much about their whatever jobs, each of us just waiting for bigger and better things to come along. And they did - he wrote a book, met Sue Sinclair, married Sue Sinclair, moved to New York to study at NYU, and is working on another collection! I sent a copy of Every Inadequate Name to my best friend Genevieve in Tokyo and after she read it she said, "he thinks just like us!" and I guess that's why I like his work so much. I want to share one of his poems here but it's almost impossible to choose just one. But since Nick's introduced me to some great music, I'll share this.

How Pop Sounds

You and a friend are listening to music.

Pop Music. You know what Pop Music is –

though you may not like it.

Forget you. This is about falling in love

with something dated.

About leaving, losing touch, then years

later hearing that same love skewed

in a new band’s blood. About turning

the volume up, and pressing repeat

until you’re touched again.

This is about wave, new wave, and new

new wave. How your first time lasted exactly

two minutes and thirteen seconds –

the perfect length, you thought.

Awkwardness, elation, guilt, and confusion

key to a verse/chorus,

rising and falling. Anywhere

and anytime. Over again

and again and again and again.

I’m sick of this song, your friend says.

This must be the worst music

ever invented. When was the last time

the sugar wore off? The last time

you looked him straight in the eye

and told him how you heard this same song

sung by a boy

at the edge of a candlelit dock

over the lake where his best friend drowned?

You don’t know shit, you want to say.

You don’t know how Pop sounds.

*My apologies for the shitty formatting. Blogspot's being a bitch right now and it's late at night and I want to go to bed and I can't fix it.