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In Memory of a Banyan Tree: Poems of the Outside World: 1985 to 2022
Three Wooden Trunks
The Country Where Everyone’s Name Is Fear: Selected Poems
Sunday with the Sound Turned Off  
  Andrea Werblin

ISBN 978-0-9911465-6-7     $18  /  $24 (Canada)     5.5 x 8.5       

68 pp      
PUB DATE: Sept 2014       Poetry



The through line of Sunday with the Sound Turned Off is Werblin’s voice that wavers not in its navigation of wavering states—of mind, location, and heart. Personal pronouns are not just protagonists here; they are also vehicles, allowing us to get from “I tell you these songs go only so far” to “you can majesty your ice-age excuses” to “his human capacity for rain.” Finally, it is a lyrical relation to the self in the world, and the self with other selves, that this book allows us to enter and to hold.

—Barbara Cully, author of Under the Hours, Desire Reclining & The New Intimacy

 This second book by Andrea Werblin is filled with wry, savvy poems embodying cautiously accepted psychic discoveries (“your better synaptic self”) that gesture toward careful self-unmaskings. “So much music was misunderstood,” the speaker muses in the first version of the title poem, like the youthful self-delusions to which we all must wise up—their “Lyric exhausted, impermeable to sun.” The lullaby for one fist of Werblin’s first book is muted here, but the speaker tells herself to accept what is, to “swear / it is nothing personal.” Although these current days of rest have the sound turned off, she knows she must “rehearse, rehearse” her human perseverance.

—Carolyne Wright, author of A Change of Maps and Seasons of Mangoes & Brainfire


About the Author

Andrea Werblin

Andrea Werblin is a manuscript reviewer at Kore Press and the author of one previous book of poems, Lullaby for One Fist (Wesleyan University Press, 2001). Her work has appeared in BOOG Reader, EOAGH: A Journal of the Arts, The Massachusetts Review, and Smartish Pace. She works as a freelance Copy Director, and writes about neuroplasticity, extreme landscapes, amateur pastry-chef adventures, and stretch pants.


Sunday with the Sound Turned Off (1)

On the Sabbath the lakes were full of boats.
The beaches crowded. Over impossible chasms of radio,
contentedness was wielded, which cancelled
each probable negative.

You’d be smarter if you could be. You’d be older.
More empathy, sympathy, inelegant mavericks
blistering open. Networks aping your spirit.

So much music was misunderstood.
Lyric exhausted, impermeable to sun.