New from Jeff Gundy

Rhapsody with Dark Matter (Huron, OH: Bottom Dog, 2000)
These vivid meditations call us to enter the whirl of our desires.  With wit and passion, Jeff Gundy investigates our deep roots of longing--for God and the other.  He offers an unforgettable ride.  In a voice both brave and tender he carries us through rain-streaked darkness and sun's glare towards love, towards those who call us to "bring  yourself home."
                                     -Jean Janzen

I donít know how long itís been since Iíve read a book in which the author seemed to be so constantly in motion, so restless in his insatiable curiosity. How very attractive I find that, especially when it comes borne on genuine humility and unaffected generosity. This is a remarkable collection.
                                    -Ted Kooser



To order go to the Bottom Dog Press catalogue or contact the author at  In the meantime, a couple of sample poems:
Rhapsody with Dark Matter

What's moving on the hills could be mist or rain 
the first long notes of the apocalypse

or just another load of thick summer dreams. 
What's coming won't be hurried or put off. 

Yes the stars are out there, blazing, and all 
the dark matter too.  A woman with two sons 

settles in beneath a bridge, smooths cardboard
with her dirty hand.  A man pours beer and brags 

of the tank he drove into the desert.  Two million bucks.
So much easier to blow things up than get them right, 

a marriage, a country, a small town forty miles 
from the nearest beer.  It isn't just this poem 

that's loose, gliding from scenery to disaster, 
floating through the gorgeous, deadly world. 

It's not just me.  Say what you will about the dark--
it won't leave you contented, or alone.  It saunters 

at its own pace down the long bluff, up the streets 
of the finest little town in Arkansas.  I'm trying 

to remember where the keys are, which road I'll take
out of town.  Remembering a voice: I'm tired, yes. 

The boys are fine.  Call Tuesday.  Bring yourself home.


The world is stony but large. 
It holds many quiet things. 
A tiny refuge, green or yellow, 

is enough.  A soul could hide 
in the corkscrew willow, 
in the yellow butterfly. 

A soul could hide 
in the wine-dark geranium 
or the space behind the cricket's leg 

if it knew how long, no, 
never mind how long, if it 
only knew some day for sure.