kevin mcpherson eckhoff
Biography
Most poets write their own bios and can aptly summarize their credentials and literary achievements in 100-200 words. kevin mcpherson eckhoff is not this kind of poet. It is not because his credentials and literary achievements transcend the bounds of summarization, but rather, it is because he is a dork. Please check out his pretend comedy album, Joke Killer, on Spotify or bandcamp.
Poetics Statement
“A child waving at strangers from a car window, the thrillful bliss of someone waving back, that’s all I want for my poems. ”
Sample of Poet's Work
NOVEMBER
So many
boats!
~ Moez Surani, “Barcelona Harbour”
I ran. I learnt that I won the Robin Blaser Award for
Poetry. I heard thrilling news about a friend, then later
repaired a rake and raked up all the horse chestnut leaves,
with very Wes Anderson-y thoughts inside my head. All I
want to do is play with Lego. I lifted some weights. I had a
weep while watching the boys stomp through puddles
because I couldn't get fully present, yet knew that I would
long for this exact moment profoundly and often starting
the day that they no longer care about stomping in
puddles. I binged on mojo potato wedges and heard that
Obama might seriously be considering relocating his
family to Canada. I ran. I applied for a $20000 line of
credit. A friend gave me an iPhone 5, and its battery is
basically eternal. I lifted some weights. I surfed up and
down and all along the couch cushions as Lego Hulk for
an hour while my 3-year-old did the same as Lego Batman.
I tried honey and mint labneh and liked it very much. We
hired the most insipid 14-year-old in all the North
Okanagan to watch the boys while we cleaned and
organized the shop with the hopes of finally transforming
it into a cozy livable/workable space, and as Laurel drove
her home, she said between coughs, "I sure hope my cold
isn't whooping cough... like my friend's whole family just
had." I scootered a lot. I bought a faucet. I was despondent
because I will likely never live in Chicago or Toronto or
Vancouver or NYC or LA. I popped balloons and served
cake to people in Hassen Arena. Laurel and I came home
to a house full of natural gas because someone had
bumped the nob on the stove while Nana was babysitting
and she can't smell anything, which is an early sign of
Alzheimer's. I washed my dog’s feet. I ran. I wondered
whether or not an ambivalence towards death implies a
trajectory that eventually ends with the desire for it. I ate
eggs Benedict and bacon and pancakes and chatted with
Catherine at the farm. I lifted some weights. I thought
about going back to boxing. I got a surprise call from a
stranger asking about happiness, thanks to Moez and his
poem. I cleaned up so much mouse shit.
from Circadia, Gaspereau Press, 2018
FULFILLMENT SONNET 6
Your mica, it writhes. Your flips blinkered fruit. How could
a gurney in lava be bad? Forever forging
weather, the pouty birdwatcher whiffs. I got a newton. Lifted, I spray for
a gingerly slicker. Your other island where you flossed our friends.
See sand? Mysterious sand. Heathen albatrosses looking
pallidly overt. I forget their youth. Fallow or chiasmic sand, what minerals!
I, asthmatic, compel atheism in the aftermath of that parity.
I, arithmetic, destroy brooms sewn with plates. Silver
floods and ticks inhale, writhing here, on the diode—
OUCH! And what is it that compels you to toilet apricots? Passé
justice? Like your toilet, pass their deaths aloof. Volcano fried
beach mystery. Lie within your other onion: fulfillment. I…
I end with waves, series of hanging afterimages
blithely biding the sky as fence, as astrogeodetic.
from dieting herb wit, above/ground, 2020
