Jason Olsen was born in Escondido, California before spending the bulk of his childhood in Los Angeles, California and his teen and undergraduate college years in Las Vegas, Nevada. He lived in Spokane, Washington (where he earned his MFA in Creative Writing—Poetry from Eastern Washington University) and Kalamazoo, Michigan (where he gained his Ph.D. in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing—Poetry) before moving to Price, Utah in 2008 to teach writing and literature at the College of Eastern Utah (now Utah State University Eastern).
He is currently an Associate Professor of English at Utah State University where he teaches a variety of writing classes including poetry, fiction, and the teaching of creative writing (in addition to composition and literature classes). He was awarded the 2015 Utah State University Eastern Faculty of the Year award and was a finalist for the University Shared Governance Award at Utah State University for his commitment to University Service.
His first book of poems, Parakeet, was published by BatCat Press in 2017. The book is inspired by “Choose Your Own Adventure” books—a series of children’s books in which, instead of being read straight through, the reader must make choices over the course of reading that will lead toward different narrative paths. Parakeet takes this concept and turns it into a book length collection of poems. In 2016, he was awarded the Utah Original Writing Award for best book-length poetry manuscript for his collection Fire Engine Descending a Staircase (as chosen by Lola Haskins). This manuscript has also been shortlisted as a finalist or semifinalist for over a dozen nation book awards. He won another Utah Original Writing Award, this time for best book-length collection of short fiction, two years earlier for his collection Robot Action Pinball (as chosen by Becky Bradway). This manuscript was a finalist for two national short fiction awards. He was also awarded an honorable mention in the Utah Original Writing Competition for a short collection of poems he submitted in 2016. He is currently under contract with McFarland Press for a manuscript that examines the work of writer Mark Gruenwald and specifically Gruenwald’s 1985-1995 run on Marvel Comic’s Captain America. Olsen’s poetry has appeared in a number of journals, including Beloit Poetry Journal, Missouri Review, North American Review, Pleiades, and Hanging Loose.
Works
Haircut
Haircut
I took a photograph of a handsome young man
with an interesting haircut to my stylist.
She looked at the picture, nodded,
agreed it would flatter me—a casual,
sort of accidental cool. She asked me
about the guy in the picture. I didn’t want to tell her
it was young Josef Stalin—
it made me uneasy that my hair inspiration
was responsible for 49 million deaths.
So, I went through my mental database
of 20th century history and estimated
my hairstylist’s knowledge—it’s Jonas Salk,
the guy who invented penicillin I lied.
I have no idea what Salk looked like, let alone his hair,
but neither did she and, most importantly, Salk
saved people, never genociding anybody.
But Stalin, by God, what a head of hair
on that deplorable man.
As I walk through town with my Stalin hair,
nobody asks about my inspiration,
nobody says anything except nice haircut.
Originally published in Beloit Poetry Journal
Hummingbird
Hummingbird
In Finland, the aurora borealis
is caused by foxes who brush their backs
against mountains,
tails of flame
painting the night with sparks.
But that’s Finland.
Where I live,
hummingbirds are made of fire
and there is one hummingbird
who lost his way and, in the desperation
of the moment, about to die of starvation
for the tenth time that day,
found pity from a sky that opened its arms
and said I cannot feed you
but I can light your way home.
Museum Field Trip
Museum Field Trip
“Photographic Images of Rock & Roll” Exhibit at the Kalamazoo Valley Museum
Hector, Kenyata, and Bobby,
three boys who never sit still,
never do the right thing
until it’s forced on them
look at Buddy Holly—
make fun of his glasses, his hair.
They listen to the music;
Bobby takes off the headphones,
pretends he’s throwing up.
They wander toward Bob Dylan.
I imagine they’ll stop
making fun when they see Dylan—
they’ll look at the photos where
he scorns the press and his fans—
they’ll hear the music
and do what I did when I got it—
stare at my uncle’s records,
shake my head, not believing
something this good
has been this close this long.
Those kids, they’ll stop laughing
because they’ll know
what music means.
But none of that happens.
Hector starts singing
some made-up song
he must think mocks Dylan.
I walk over to yell at them,
tell them to sit down,
as punishment, I’ll tell them,
for badmouthing Dylan.
But they’ve moved on and they’re quiet.
A photograph stares
back at them. No headphones,
no music—just this picture that says
sit down and listen kids—
I’m going to teach you how to rock & roll.
Kayata looks up at me and asks,
with all the gravity of the world
Who is this guy?
That’s Jimi. And that begins
to explain everything they need to know.
Originally published in Indiana Review
Overheard—French Couple Discussing an Ice Sculpture
Overheard—French Couple Discussing an Ice Sculpture
I catch the word “house” but not the context,
whether it’s wouldn’t this look good in our house
or this reminds me of the coldness of our house.
The sculpture itself is reaching its final hours,
its shape evolving into the pan beneath it, the mauve carpet.
The ice still holds the shape of a fawn;
the man points at its head, glassy and still alert.
The woman nods—flowers climb the spiral staircase
that divides and defines this hotel lobby.
I knew a friend for two years before he told me
he once found a species of butterfly
nearly unknown in the state of Utah and reintroduced it,
allowing a population surge
that brought the number of that species into the hundreds,
securing years, maybe decades, of survival.
There are these things about ourselves we hold on to,
unable to share, clinging to in even
our most vulnerable moments. We’re not supposed
to understand. Maybe it’s modesty, embarrassment
over the fact that what we love and have accomplished
will overshadow our very capacity to relate to someone else.
Maybe this man, speaking French to a woman I assume
is his wife, is explaining how he once built a house of ice
and watched it, over weeks, drip into nothing.
He’s talking about the pain
of watching something you love die slowly
and the woman holds his hand and tells him quietly
that she somehow always knew.
There are butterflies in Utah that aren’t supposed to be there.
A dying fawn melts its way home.
Originally published in Missouri Review
Bibliography
- Parakeet, BatCat Press, 2017.
