Picture of the physical book


This is a book to be read amongst the ashes—high on Rachmaninov’s lilting symphonies, low on sung-out days.

Tarbard’s relish for words is tangible and his voice highly original. His imagery makes strange the raw materials of his everyday life, circumscribed though it is. Often spare, sometimes lush, these poems range from erotic to disturbing—they ripple with life, and twist into the surreal and dreamlike. ~ Angela Topping

These surreally-evoked mythologies are a tarot of loneliness, a polemical but uncannily comforting collection of poems which illuminate and obfuscate; a companion for the soul on its journey through the woods. ~ Lucy Furlong

Musical and satisfyingly wordsome, the poems roam from lilies to kidneys, sperm to sun, mulberry to cellophane, spud gun to sparrows. ~ Helen Ivory, reviewed in Ink Sweat & Tears

These [poems] exemplify the fleeting moments of beauty in the very chaos and mess that surrounds us on a daily basis… ~ Margaryta Golovchenko, reviewed in The Coil

What truly makes [Tarbard] stand out is his style and unique use of imagery that leave an impression on the reader long after they put the book down. ~ Mahlon Smoke, reviewed in At the Inkwell

Grant Tarbard’s poetry is not for those of a nervous disposition, but his blend of French symbolism, Tom Waits macabre and good old misanthropy will be a breath of intoxicating air for anyone who wishes that fewer poets played it safe. ~ Humphrey Astley, reviewed in Sabotage Reviews

# First edition, limited print run – $8.00


Go beyond My Withered Craft

Go beyond my withered craft and be a
sapling in the forest; push the excess
of my maddened art and be naked, be
unkempt, ratty, and howling with heartbeats.
Go beyond my withered craft and be
the boy who juggles clouds, keeping the sun as
a polished bulb held within a chest of trinkets
and popped seeds that boil down to a sigh.
Go beyond my withered craft and be the
boy with a question mark in his hair, hear
the rub of teardrop rooms ingesting rooms,
softly, in the wrinkled evening. Go
beyond my wither, feel the tickle of
a lover’s scent soaking the page’s musk.