The Collected Poems of Donald J. Trump



“I thought maybe I could turn the thing that has been weaponized into something beautiful,” says Gregory Woodman of Portland, the 29-year-old founder of the ad agency Weller Creative, who along with his business partner Ian Pratt have published The Collected Poems of Donald J. Trump.

The 373 page book compiles hundreds of Trump’s tweets and is arranged in chapters such as “Loathings,” “Free Verse” and “Introspective Musings.” 

Combining the measured contentiousness of Thoreau, the terse poignancy of Hemingway, and the incisive social commentary of Ta-Nehisi Coates and Toni Morrison, Donald J. Trump has emerged as one of the leading poets of his generation. Together with contemporaries such as Rupi Kaur and Haruki Murakami, Trump has helped bring about a revolution in twenty-first-century literary expression. Considered one of the most inventive poets in a digital world, Trump masterfully uses technology and the written word to reflect and shape the hearts and minds of his culture.

About 450 copies have been sold, “anecdotal evidence suggests a majority of sales are to conservatives” who see the book as “making fun of the art world and the liberal elite by using Donald Trump as the tool to wield against the art world.”

I trust Volume II  is coming soon.

Interview with Woodman about the project at Willamette Week

Book available here



Twitter & Verse

twitter verse

Welcome to Twitter & Verse our weekly roundup of our most popular tweets and a poem :


Must see – These Rolling Bookmobiles Are Cooler Than Your Local Libraries | @io9 

Is the future of ebooks about to be decided by a judge in East Texas? | @melvillehouse 

The first 24-hour library vending machine in the United States has arrived, it cost $200k and it lives in Oklahoma 

Mapping a Literary City – The folks at @Dorothy_______ create a map using the titiles of 600+ books of English Lit 

Building a book wall – Nova Scotia Sustainability Center Gives New Life to Library Discards | @LibraryJournal 

& Verse

Only in Things by W.S. Piero
Some days, who can stare at swathes of sky,

leafage and bad-complected whale-gray streets,

tailpipes and smokestacks orating sepia exhaust,

or the smaller enthusiasms of pistil and mailbox key,

and not weep for the world’s darks on lights, lights on darks,

how its halftones stay unchanged in their changings,

or how turning wheels and wind-trash and revolving doors

weave us into wakefulness or dump us into distraction?

This constant stream of qualia we feel in our stomachs.

The big-leafed plant lifts its wings to greet the planet’s chemistry,

the sun arrives on rooftops like a gentle stranger, rain rushes us

love to love, stop to stop, these veins of leaf, hand, storm and stream,

as if in pursuit of us and what we are becoming.




From Di Piero’s 2011 collection Nitro Nights, published by Copper Canyon Press.

Twitter & Verse

twitter verse



Welcome to Twitter & Verse, a new weekly offering featuring Book Patrol’s most popular tweets of the last week with a sprinkling of poetry.


‘Sadistic’ Amazon Treated Book Sellers ‘The Way A Cheetah Would Pursue A Sickly Gazelle’ | @businessinsider 

“There are few more exciting places to contemplate the evolution of library design than Seattle’s Central Library” 

How Amusing, Barnes & Noble Is Now Amazon’s Biggest Publishing Problem | @Forbes 

A bookman’s tour of California: 9 days, 14 stores – buys 20 books | @ivdailybulletin 

“Buy from bookstores or they’ll disappear!” Frustrated Japanese bookseller implores crowd on final day of business 


Haunted Houses

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

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