Richard Skinner has published seven books of poetry. His most recent collections are Dream into Play (Poetry Salzburg, 2022), Cut Up (Vanguard Editions, 2023) & White Noise Machine (Salt, 2023).
About White Noise Machine
Where Richard Skinner’s previous pamphlets, Invisible Sun and Dream into Play, were primarily concerned with the play of light and playfulness respectively, White Noise Machine is mainly concerned with sound. A white noise machine is a device that produces a noise that calms the listener, which in many cases sounds like a rushing waterfall or wind blowing through trees, and other serene or nature-like sounds. Skinner has used this idea to try to create this effect in many of the poems.
You can read more about White Noise Machine on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two sample poems from the collection.
From White Noise Machine, by Richard Skinner
Amaryllis & the Iceman
for J
Your journey began in the Holocene
in Central Siberia. Your ancestors follow
desire lines through deep snow
to the warmer places,
swathes of rosebay and oleander.
Your sickle cells grow inch
by creeping inch,
forging Blaschko’s lines
to follow the amethyst S
of your upper spine.
Only in the UV can I see
the fluorescence
of roots in your face,
the yearning of melasma
to trace your forebears.
Mark it. Your body is a map.
The amaryllis flourishes
on your shoulder
& the hungry ghost of the iceman
roams through your head.
Hem
Objects are the bones of time, the stones just barely pink.
Depression is an inability to construct a future,
a game of fundamentals smuggled in anagrams,
but I am building a position to reach my small final.
Depression is an inability to construct a future,
a feathered directional arrow to an unanchored amnesia,
but I am building a position to reach my small final—
something to respect, but not love, like money.
A feathered directional arrow to an unanchored amnesia—
I remember everything so I limit what I see.
Something to respect, but not love, like money,
signposts vs weathervanes, watersheds & ridgelines.
I remember everything so I limit what I see.
A game of fundamentals smuggled in anagrams,
signposts vs weathervanes, watersheds & ridgelines—
objects are the bones of time, the stones just barely pink.
Your journey began in the Holocene
in Central Siberia. Your ancestors follow
desire lines through deep snow
to the warmer places,
swathes of rosebay and oleander.
Your sickle cells grow inch
by creeping inch,
forging Blaschko’s lines
to follow the amethyst S
of your upper spine.
Only in the UV can I see
the fluorescence
of roots in your face,
the yearning of melasma
to trace your forebears.
Mark it. Your body is a map.
The amaryllis flourishes
on your shoulder
& the hungry ghost of the iceman
roams through your head.
Hem
Objects are the bones of time, the stones just barely pink.
Depression is an inability to construct a future,
a game of fundamentals smuggled in anagrams,
but I am building a position to reach my small final.
Depression is an inability to construct a future,
a feathered directional arrow to an unanchored amnesia,
but I am building a position to reach my small final—
something to respect, but not love, like money.
A feathered directional arrow to an unanchored amnesia—
I remember everything so I limit what I see.
Something to respect, but not love, like money,
signposts vs weathervanes, watersheds & ridgelines.
I remember everything so I limit what I see.
A game of fundamentals smuggled in anagrams,
signposts vs weathervanes, watersheds & ridgelines—
objects are the bones of time, the stones just barely pink.
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