“Samuel Amadon opens Each H, a rhythmically vibrant sequence of poems, with ‘Are we here he always has to ask.’ And each taut, linked section is engaged in a surprising, elliptical process of arrival and discovery.” —ARTHUR SZE


Each H published by Ugly Duckling Presse in 2009.

Hand-bound. 24 pp, 4.5 x 7 in.

$10 ($7 direct from UDP)

Purchase here.



Noun and verb, agent and act. Constantly searching and endlessly reiterative, Samuel Amadon’s Spy Poem is the “little gray man” embodied. Visible when it chooses and vanishing at will, this work is just fast enough to stay ahead of us but never risks capture. His is a poetics of clandestinity. With its beautifully staggered and seamless syllabics, the poem is a dissection of artifice within an artifice: how we shape what we leave, how we choose what we show, how we say what we say once we’ve made the choice to say it. Samuel Amadon is watching. Get in the car. — Thomas Hummel


Spy Poem published by Projective Industries, June 2008.

Hand-bound. 32 pp, 4.25 x 5.5 in.

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Goodnight Lung published by Octopus Books. Part of the Octopus #08 Chapbook Series, along with Julie Doxsee’s The Knife-Grasses, Jen Tynes and Erika Howsare’sThe Ohio System, Sueyen Juliette Lee’s Perfect Villagers, Eugene Ostashevsky’s Dj Spinoza’s Dozen, Joshua Marie Wilkinson’s The Book of Truants & Projectorlight, Genya Turovskaya’s The Tides, and Jonah Winter’s The Continuing Misadventures of Andrew, the Headless Talking Bear.

Staple-bound. 36 pp, 5.5 x 6.5 in.

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Flip/Chap #1 (with Dorothea Lasky’s Art) from h_ngm_n b__ks.

Staple-bound. 20 pp, 5.5 x 8.5.

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from PJ Gallo in COLDFRONT 

Samuel Amadon’s latest chapbook, Spy Poem, exudes a quality of overhearing.  Its jarring, syllabic headspace, informed by observations that are mightily susceptible to interruption and misinterpretation, impresses both the elusive hum of a single conversation in a noisy room and the open quiet that characterizes an erasure.  Such is the smartly executed oxymoron of Spy Poem: to communicate clearly the unclear.




from Nate Slawson in LUNA 

The poems read as interior monologues, conversing only with themselves. Questions are asked (“Heard nothing?” “Act ourselves?” “How do we find a thing which / isn’t concerned enough with us to hide?”), but rarely are they answered. Amadon’s conversations unfurl in precise abstraction, and the only clear answer is that the poems themselves are what’s happening again and again.


from Anne Heide in Pilot 

This is not the quiet resting in an undetermined self, but a striving for reason, a
questioning that begs for answers.  The poems do not revel in unreliability;
they are instead wary of it, and seek steadily for some answer, an answer that
seems to shape itself in the presence of the “you” to which the narrator speaks:
“you want me to know something”(14). But the “you” doesn’t answer, or at
least we are not privy to that answer. This is a call for reassurance, for
placement, that is never satisfied.