Forgotten Frequencies by Brendan Stermer
$15.00

“The fundamental frequencies of this rural prairie music are beginnings, bewilderment, the necessity of breaking free, death and its mystery, and above all, love. These poems sing and sing back and will continue singing in your ear and heart long after you put this necessary book down.” – Athena Kildegaard, author of Prairie Midden

Forgotten Frequencies begins with ‘a grumbling / in the belly of this city’ and never lets up in its deep explorations of the ecology, history, persona and dynamic of the place it emerges from." – Brett Salsbury, author of Surrender Dorothy

Signed, letterpress-printed chapbook. 32 pages. Printed in a hand-numbered edition of 280. Winner of the 2023 Poetry of the Plains & Prairies Award. Published by North Dakota State University Press in December 2023.

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From the author:

I began writing Forgotten Frequencies while working as a country radio broadcaster in my hometown of Montevideo, Minnesota. During this time, I began to conceive of the poetic imagination as a kind of underground radio station of the soul, hosted by the muses. When I am lucky enough to catch the signal, I hear hymns and folk songs and sonnets, sounds of ancient glacial rivers, messages from fields, and voices from this region’s past. This book is a record of my attempts to transcribe this staticky inner music.


Listen to three poems from the book:


There’s a grumbling / in the belly of this city. / You can hear it at the bottom / of the swimming pool in summer. / Some say it sounds like static / from an old TV, but slow— / which is like the sound / of the snow falling / on all sides of my car, / parked by the edge of a stubble field / in January. / It is dusk . . .

There’s a grumbling / in the belly of this city. / You can hear it at the bottom / of the swimming pool in summer. / Some say it sounds like static / from an old TV, but slow— / which is like the sound / of the snow falling / on all sides of my car, / parked by the edge of a stubble field / in January. / It is dusk . . .