January Machine is a book-length poem comprised of sonnets and sonnet sequences interrupted by static. Rooted in the modern American moment, this poem seeks to understand the intersection of Whitman's plurality and Oppen's "shipwreck of the singular." In the midst of geographic dislocation, the lyric "I" becomes a place; "I am the I undone, immersed / in perspective," Schlegel writes. "I am an American sigh, a limit / of language, a limit of privilege, / in this excess, a thousand exits."
Rob Schlegel serves as co-editor of The Catenary Press, which is dedicated to publishing long poems. His writing has appeared in Boston Review, Columbia Poetry Review, Jacket2, New American Writing, The Volta, and elsewhere. Born in Portland, Oregon, he has lived most recently in Iowa, Montana, and Washington.
Smart phones, their bird-call ring tones, their cameras, their silent vibes; and Facebook or Twitter re-posted updates; and apps for translating the language of war, and drone software programs, and also hearing aids, radios, earbuds, jumbo-cams, digital music, Wall Street's scrolling tickers, and "heads talking past each other / in the January machine" (page 29) -- all these sources of static, plus many more, deliver an alternate State of the Union in this extremely fine book of poetry. With beautiful tones, content balance, and imagery compression, the poet's lines float upon the reader's own virtual thinking and feeling, that "panic" which "flows so quietly" (page 52).