Fudge

by Andrew Weatherhead

“There were other stories, but they aren’t right,” Andrew Weatherhead writes in Fudge, a collection of minimalist long poems that find holy the tedium and calamity that shapes our lives. Wandering around a hollowed city, looking for a lost feeling like a key that will unlock the secret of self, only to be put on hold while a coup unfolds on television—these poems make the strangeness of life feel valid, in all of its violent contradiction.

ADVANCE PRAISE
“Uncannily potent for how restrained. My favorite working poet.” —Sean Thor Conroe, author of Fuccboi

“Here are poems of dailiness, poems as dalliance, poems to remind you of the ways you’re waiting without claiming to be or even know that thing you’re waiting for. They’re perfect.” —Kyle Beachy, author of The Most Fun Thing

“Deft and giddy. Like light through a prism, Fudge renders life in splintering color. I wish I had a pair of glasses that outlines the details that Andrew Weatherhead sees.” —Nicolette Polek, author of Imaginary Museums

“Hey, what is attention? In Andrew Weatherhead’s work, attention blows the whistle on its own habit of gerrymandering what does and doesn’t escape notice. Attention might be able to attend to its own absence, might see its own shadow, and a lot of unreclaimed human truth blunders through in moments of distraction, boredom, clumsiness of mind. The poor customer service might actually be coming from inside the house! And for me, “Last Poem” might as well be everyone’s. Give it (this terse, funny, stupid, stupid-brilliant work) a go!” —Jon Woodward, author of Uncanny Valley, Rain, and Mister Goodbye Easter Island

Genres: Poetry

86 pages, Hardcover

Published October 31, 2023

Reviews

[Lori]

Very excited to be working with this title! Hit me up if you are interested in reviewing the book, interviewing Andrew, or other coverage!

[Rebecca · Rating 3 out of 5]

I read this over a chilled-out coffee at the Globe bar in Hay-on-Wye (how perfect, then, to come across the lines “I know the secret of life / Is to read good books”). Weatherhead mostly charts the rhythms of everyday existence in pandemic-era New York City, especially through a haiku sequence (“The blind cat asleep / On my lap—and coffee / Just out of reach” – a situation familiar to any cat owner). His style is matter-of-fact and casually funny, juxtaposing random observations about hipster-ish experiences. From “Things the Photoshop Instructor Said and Did”: “Someone gasped when he increased the contrast / I feel like everyone here is named Taylor.”

The central piece, “Poem While on Hold with NBA League Pass Customer Support Nov. 17, 2018,” descends into the absurd, but his four hours lost on the phone are reclaimed through his musings on a sport he once played (“I had begun to find meaning in art and music / I was always too cerebral a player anyways … That feeling—of perfect grace and equanimity— / must be what we’re all searching for in this life”) and on life in general. This is poetry that doesn’t feel like poetry, if that makes sense. I have a hunch that it might appeal to readers of David Foster Wallace.

Originally published on my blog, Bookish Beck.

[Aaron Esthelm · Rating 5 out of 5]

Really something. Those poems about being on hold hit me. So much meaning in there. Something so small in our everyday lives still is part of us. While harkening to time wasted on such an interesting way.

[Amanda Esthelm · Rating 5 out of 5]

I liked this a lot, particularly the NBA call waiting section. I thought that section was super strong and resonated

[Kevin · Rating 4 out of 5]

I think Andrew Weatherhead should be the poet laureate of nba.com or at least NBA Twitter. It would be great if he and Ross Gay collaborated on a poem cycle about the NBA playoffs.
This is another wonderful book by Weatherhead and the poem about the Photoshop instructor is my fave here.

[Caleb · Rating 4 out of 5]

Like Sam Pink meets How To With John Wilson. Understated, quirky, and probing minimalist poems.

[Michael G · Rating 3 out of 5]

Post modern, minimalist, Steven Wright-like poetry. Written by a friend’s husband. I bet he’s fun to talk with.