Dale Winslow has been an interpretive naturalist, wildlife and fisheries biologist, teacher, editor, publisher, writer, photographer and painter. She resides with her family on Vancouver Island, British Columbia and continues to be interested in pretty much everything.
She hopes one day to have her own microscope.
Tinderbox by Dale Winslow
"Dale Winslow's Tinderbox shows a sure, mature touch with words, and styles. Many of the poems herein blend symbolist style with contemporary rap: a rap without the theatrical ranting and bling. And from time to time one can hear or glimpse in the background an e e cummings, a John Skelton. Entertaining and thought-provoking.”
Eric McLuhan, author of Electric Language,The Role of Thunder in Finnegans Wake, and co-author with Marshall McLuhan of Laws of Media, and Media and Formal Cause.
Available in Hardcover and Paperback
ISBN 978-0-9892018-2-7 202 pages $24.95 5.5"x8.5" hardcover
I ignite, like the drunkard’s match, in exhausted alleyway at 2 a.m. Ignite. Burn my fingers on this fire that strikes in hours deaf and blind.
I ignite, like winter kindling, quickly and brightly as heavy scented cedar. Ignite. Rush of sap to open air, needle-rich, heady release of earth and breath.
I burn, like birch bark, written with welted words, living pages of white set to flame, these lines, smoke-signal reflections. I burn, and all that was, dissipates.
I burn, like ancient, peat bog fires, memory, coiling and uncoiling, a cryptic dance over moors. I burn, covering the moon with smoldering fingers.
I ignite. I burn. I ignite.
white noise from bukowski’s empty glass
begging in deviant pinned alleyways the broken pastor weeps for another hit palms bleeding licks sneers from passing sheep backway motel hell an overflowing ashtray the model of past persuasion oleander promises traffic pale running across the window your eyes fixed on the hollow left in the pillow a holy ill-fated impression of love’s forgotten scent memory of taxi brakes and jammed headlights, adulation poor patron of abandoned breath there are no miracles to wake the day in the night, bread is broken like the bones of a woman’s face bruised blessings kissed from a clenched fist a religion that always brings them to their knees in tears in sweat in tongue in cum in blood and splintered dreams laughing Buddha embraces the herds of dawn and the world slouches carelessly into forgotten corner bars
“Dale Winslow’s Tinderbox will
ignite you. Her sensuous poems
explode in an orgiastic word feast which communicates a waking dream
convergence between women, nature, and truth. Winslow’s words hook you; you
“reel them in real in them until you say O.”
She conjures many varieties of “O”
and “Oh” which encircle you within poetic sheer delight. Really!”
Marleen S. Barr, author of Genre Fission, Lost in Space,
Feminist Fabulation, and the novel, Oy Pioneer!
"These poems track truth as though it
were some constantly morphing mythical creature leaping from one disguise to
another until it is caught and stilled in its final form—wisdom. They are
euphonious, sensual, full of surprises and highly engaging. They present the
reader with ample opportunities to “commit pleasure crimes against the dying
Robert Priest, poet, novelist, playwright, songwriter, performer. poempainter.com
late evening's snifter of words - surprisingly ancient and very modern at the
same time, personal and cosmic, even the typography dances - that gets to the
deepest centers of your brain. Winslow is a welcome, major talent."
Levinson, author of The Plot to Save Socrates and Unburning
"No container of flammable miniatures but rather a smoldering
verbal inferno, blazing with the heat & light of Dale Winslow’s unflinching
yet passionate gaze on all things great and small, “Tinderbox” addresses the
most profound preoccupations of consciousness: love & loss, the natural
& unnatural worlds (“broken temples of man”), &, most exquisitely
perhaps, death (“the endangered void”). It should be no surprise, then, that to
enter the world of “Tinderbox” is to enter the world itself in all of its felt
drama -- illuminated, lamented, & celebrated by the voice of this “white
noise Orpheus,” a voice both incendiary & generative, “curling/coiling/as a