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 don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve 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  gundyj@bluffton.edu.  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.

Shelter   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.