John Sibley Williams is a published poet and book publicist residing in Portland, Oregon. In addition to his own writing, John’s passion is working with small presses to ensure they receive as much of the public’s attention as possible. In a world composed of corporations, he believes—and we at Three Muses agree!—that small presses are the heart of publishing, where the best new writings and ideas spring from and where innovation is still truly possible. Since early 2010, John has done outstanding work as a marketing consultant for Three Muses Press.

John has a previous MA in Writing and currently studies Book Publishing at Portland State University, where he serves as Acquisitions Manager of Ooligan Press. His poetry was nominated for the 2009 Pushcart Prize, and his debut chapbook, A Pure River, was released in August 2010 by The Last Automat Press. Over one hundred of his poems appeared or are forthcoming in: The Evansville Review, Ellipsis, Flint Hills Review, Euphony, Open Letters, Cadillac Cicatrix, Juked, The Journal, Hawaii Review, Cutthroat, The Furnace Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Aries, The Alembic, Clapboard House, and River Oak Review.

Links:
www.TheArtOfRaining.com
http://jswilliamspoetry.blogspot.com

For your reading pleasure, here is a sampling of John’s poetry. Enjoy!

Timepiece

Iron sky, grinding clouds,
piecemeal memories broad and porous
worked over again upon the loom.

Clockwork of sunset—
still my feet and still
edgeless night.
I am tomorrow’s rearview promise—
more canvas
more canvas more dreams
more time to listen to my song
misinterpreting each note.

I Say I Sing

You are the one
I’ve harbored in light.
You, arrived from another city,
Americanized in my dawn
and salt promises
that you are the one
of gold
I say I sang
decades to unearth,
real now together
under this flagless sky
I say I will sing
until the sadness spills
from this noiseless street
and rises, a new nation,
under both your gods
and mine.

Kansas

Forever and an hour my headlights swallow
figures not defined enough to wear “tree”
sprouting from a darkness that is not quite nothing.

Cross, How Comfortable You Are

Cross, how comfortable you are
buried in half-sun
alongside this uncommonly long road.

Psalm One

Everything hoisted distant into cloud and sun
and mythologized in the stars we harvest
must be alive
must be truth
must cast a little of ourselves
down upon us
so there will be something left of light
to recognize.

Crossing Over Sellwood Bridge

Frozen high above the river
in worn, arched stone: 1925

a monument still new to timelessness
as the water is to youth,

alive among things once perceived
should define it a single occurrence,

a digit lost in endless mathematics,
a bright song from anonymity,

where voice is harmless and unified,
where it reverberates, promises echo

through the ten thousand mysteries
of feet meeting earth, solid

and dead and not dead,
like memory, its pleasure

of being heard without announcing,
its escape into the vanity of self

without losing self
nor a single ripple

more
than itself.

A Pure River

Having escaped westward—
following the traditional headwinds—
finally I am resting,
eyes closed, upon the horizon,
exhausted from seeing
forever forward
resurrection
and the dream of resurrection.

Below me coils
mountain water clear
and silent
which I know
must one day diffuse
with a world disordered—
salt and ship.

But for now
clarity
as in transparency.
Silence
as in a perfect pitch.

May my hands forever be
a pure river
I do not recognize.
***

["A Pure River" and "Crossing Over Sellwood Bridge" previously published in a slightly different version in A Pure River (The Last Automat Press, 2010)]