STILL IN THE GAME BY ANDREW HUBBARD NOW AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE NOW: STILL IN THE GAME by Andrew Hubbard. We have been fans of Hubbard’s verse for quite some time. We are happy to present a new clutch of poems from a poet with a Brown County touch. We start in the woods and end in the woods with some human concerns drifting in between.

Still In the Game ~ Andrew Hubbard ~ $6.00

This chapbook contains 13 poems and 4 drawings

3 3/8ths inches by 5 inches

Free Shipping on all US orders:btn_buynow_SM

Andrew Hubbard was born and raised in a coastal Maine fishing village. He earned degrees in English and Creative Writing from Dartmouth College and Columbia University, respectively. For most of his career he has worked as Director of Training for major financial institutions, creating and delivering Sales, Management, and Technical training for user groups of up to 4,000. He has had four prose books published, and his most recent books, collections of poetry, were published in 2014, 2016, and 2018. He is a casual student of cooking and wine, a former martial arts instructor and competitive weight lifter, a collector of edged weapons, and a licensed handgun instructor. He lives in rural Indiana with his son, his wife, a giant, black German Shepard, and a gaggle of semi-tame deer.

One comment

  1. […] Everyday Things We’re still getting used to the new house: How the blinds work Whether the couch belongs where we put it How to set the thermostat Where the good dishes go (In a marriage-defining moment My wife said, “I want guests To see them, but I don’t want it To look like we put them there So guests would see them.”) And there is a new-normal panoply Of sights and sounds: The neighbor with the motorcycle The dawn light on the bedroom wall The other neighbor who weed eats At seven AM on Sunday. Weekday mornings I sit in the breakfast nook With my quintessentially American Orange juice-coffee-and cereal. I reflect that my grandfather in Bombay (He refuses to call it Mumbai) Has never seen a cereal box An orange or a coffee machine. But he plays chess every day With his twin brother—without a board. The board is in their heads. They tell each other their moves And rest their teacups On the ornate tabletop Their grandfather carved During the British Raj. My grandfather can tell you Every move of games he played fifty years ago. And when I compare my life to his I end with nothing but questions. I digress. Over the lip of my coffee cup I see our yard and then the subdivision pond With its neat jogging track. There’s a man—some distant neighbor I suppose— Who runs the track Sunday through Wednesday At 7:30 to the minute. He’s a very good runner Trim-waisted and muscular And always accompanied by his black Lab. The dog lopes with his master’s effortless efficiency And a dog’s visible pride In doing an exemplary job Of doing his job. I imagine the guy travels for business Thursday and Friday. On those days At 7:30 to the minute, the Lab appears alone And takes his master’s laps for thirty minutes. At first I thought it was funny Now I think it is most admirable. I love that dog And I think grandfather would too. There’s something profound In his devotion to a ritual That can’t possibly make sense to him. If he were a guru, and not a dog, He might say, “Sometimes Freedom is an obligation To give up some freedom And run the prescribed laps Simply for the sake of love and duty.” APRIL 2021 ~ Check out Andrew's recent Grandma Moses Chapbook here. […]

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