octopus books

The Father of the Arrow is the Thought

Christopher DeWeese

99 available
isbn: 9780985118297
75 pages

Christopher DeWeese

Christopher DeWeese is the author of The Black Forest (Octopus Books, 2012) and The Father of the Arrow is the Thought (Octopus Books, 2015) . His poems have appeared in Boston Review, jubilat, and Tin House. He is an assistant professor of poetry at Wright State University.

praise for The Father of the Arrow is the Thought

Christopher DeWeese’s second book, The Father of the Arrow is the Thought, re-says the human against the “fucked ecosystem” of the contemporary landscape. Locating themselves in a series of varied physiographic settings.


DeWeese’s poems, a unified collection of stand alone meditations, offer a new myth composed straight out of our 21st Century’s hideous beauty. The poems’ heroic chronicle epics our situation and offers us redeeming compassion. That we’re able to imagine our way through, across, over, above, beyond and around just about anything, tempts us, teases us, and lets us see what can’t be seen.

Dara Wier

The effect of this book reminds me of what we were told in physics class about approaching the speed of light. Fantastic and strange but somehow reasonable, these poems report from a velocity where the familiar seems verging on explosion with unexpected equipoise. Astronauts, here is our pilot!

Dean Young

excerpt from The Father of the Arrow is the Thought

The Hill

The cloud is trying
to hold itself together,
and I am trying
to hold up the cloud.
Heavy and tired, I look around.
I drag myself across the rainbow,
a quiet exhibit
immediately forgotten
in the question of distance,
how many miles it is
between here and anything,
the horizon a cliff
all jump and floating,
the miles just numbers
hidden between my breathing
and the real sun stumbling
its transparent limbs
through the window.
I want to grab the cloud
and juice it down,
cut it into smaller pieces
and then stuff it in the blender.
The cloud is boneless.
It’s getting closer,
a uvula vibrating
in the handsome wind.
I breathe evenly.
For a gangster,
I’m getting pretty good at this.
It’s as if breathing is a bank
I’ve robbed so often
I’ve been named its president.
The responsibility soothes me.
Orphans depend on my decisions.
I look out the window.
I walk into the white building.