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A tree I don't recognize flutters with heart-shaped leaves not shaped like actual hearts, In First Chamber, Clayton Adam Clark crafts a poetic landscape where time bends, bodies bear history, and nature hums with quiet, insistent rhythms. Moving through the haunted corridors of memory, industry, and the elemental forces that shape our lives, these poems trace an intricate map of loss, resilience, and transformation. From the quiet tremors of a leap-second vigil to the spectral presence of a shuttered auto plant, Clark's work meditates on what lingers-beneath the skin, beneath the leaves, benea...
A tree I don't recognize flutters with heart-shaped leaves not shaped like actual hearts, In First Chamber, Clayton Adam Clark crafts a poetic landscape where time bends, bodies bear history, and nature hums with quiet, insistent rhythms. Moving through the haunted corridors of memory, industry, and the elemental forces that shape our lives, these poems trace an intricate map of loss, resilience, and transformation. From the quiet tremors of a leap-second vigil to the spectral presence of a shuttered auto plant, Clark's work meditates on what lingers-beneath the skin, beneath the leaves, beneath the earth itself. Rooted in the Midwest but reaching beyond, First Chamber pulses with the weight of place and the urgency of movement. Whether capturing the reverberations of tornado sirens, the slow attrition of time, or the intimate architecture of the body, these poems ask how we hold onto what is fleeting. Clark's language is at once precise and expansive, a lyrical excavation of the seen and unseen, the personal and the collective. With selections previously appearing in Asheville Poetry Review, The Los Angeles Review, The Greensboro Review, and more, First Chamber establishes Clayton Adam Clark as a vital voice attuned to the echoes of the past and the tremors of the present.
