Category: poetry

Surprised & embarrassed

You can imagine how surprised I was this morning when I opened the November-December 2005 issue of Small Press Review and read “Guest Editorial” by yours truly on page three. Surprised because it’s February 1st and I just received the issue yesterday, but also because I had submitted that piece over 10 months ago (more on that here and here and here and here). I am a bit embarrassed because in my haste to get that piece published, I posted an abridged version on 1000 Black Lines and later submitted it another editor who published it. Patience is still a virtue I need to practice.

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The Blotter publishes poem

The Blotter published my poem, “The Last American Chestnut Tree,” in the January issue.

The World’s Fastest Readings

Just got back from the world’s “second fastest reading” (according to Peter Turchi) at Malaprop’s. Twelve MFA faculty members from Warren Wilson College read from their published work. Each member was given roughly three and half minutes to read.

Last year I attended the first Warren Wilson MFA faculty reading [read here and here.]. This year they scaled it back a bit; from 18 to 12 readers.

WLOS had a camera crew filming portions of the event. I guess Asheville residents may see it on channel 13 tonight (I don’t own a television so I’ll check AshVegas’ blog to see if it was even aired).

Overall it was a good event. I must confess the first reader, whom I cannot recall, didn’t attract my attention and my adult ADD kicked in and I started writing stream of consciously in my notebook. Adria Bernardi read an excerpt from her novel which brought me back to the event and Justin Grotz delivered a fine reading of fiction as well as Peter Turchi.

Somehow the poets didn’t quite do it for me tonight. Maybe I’m overly critical of poets. Maybe the poets didn’t want to be there tonight. However, the second to the last reader, Steve Orlen, read a single poem that worked; and worked well.

After the event, I chatted with a gentleman who hosts Malaprop’s Blind Date with Poetry. He also happens to be one of the members of Eye For An Iris Press. With all the celebrated and award winning poets and writers gathered at Malaprop’s, I spent the most time conversing with this gentleman.

There’s something that has been preventing me from completing my application for the MFA program at Warren Wilson College. I thought it was simply intimidation, but I think it goes deeper than that. I can’t put my finger on it right now, but I intend to explore it later.

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Warren Wilson MFA faculty Public Readings

The MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College Public Schedule
Readings will begin at 8:15 pm in the Fellowship Hall behind the Chapel unless indicated otherwise.

READINGS – 8:15 pm
by MFA faculty and graduating students

Friday, January 6
Marianne Boruch, Peter Turchi, Mary Leader

Saturday, January 7
No readings on campus, but come to “The World’s Fastest Readings” by MFA faculty at Malaprop’s, 55 Haywood Street. Reception at 5:30 pm; readings start at 6:00 pm.

Sunday, January 8
Rick Barot, Wilton Barnhardt, Karen Brennan, Antonya Nelson, Eleanor Wilner

Monday, January 9
Brooks Haxton, C.J. Hribal, Martha Rhodes, Kevin Mcllvoy, Ellen Bryant Voigt

Tuesday, January 10
First night of graduating student readings: Scott Gould, Sandra Nadazdin, Tatjana Soli,
Rosalynde Vas Dias

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Rapid River publishes another poem


With all the holiday hub-bub, I almost forgot to mention that local arts magazine Rapid River published my poem, “Abstract Painting in Blue,” in the December issue. It’s a short poem in a series of poems I’ve been writing on the topic of art theory as explained through the life of an artist.

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Intellectual swimsuit contest

A number of poetry submissions were sent out this weekend.

The one thing I abhor about the whole process is the “write a brief bio” portion of the submission letter. I mean, shouldn’t my publicist do that (not that I have one).

It’s like an intellectual swimsuit contest for a literary pageant. How do you look in a two-piece swimsuit with a tiara on your head? If you fit the definition of intellectual beauty and you’ve been published by notable literary magazines than you avoid the slush pile. If not, try finding another line of work.

So, here’s a new bio I wrote to accompany my latest submissions. It’s me in a red thong with a bright yellow Wisconsin cheese wedge on my head.

Bio: I am a cultural creative theory slut from Asheville, NC who is considered by some a true postmodernist. I collect hard cover books in foreign languages, eat critical theory articles for breakfast, bath in Icelandic and mythology and digest ancient manuscripts for light reading.

Do you think it’s too over the top?

H_NGM_N Publishes Poem

Just received an email from the editor of H_NGM_N that the latest issue (#4) is available online. H_NGM_N published my poem “Last Bus” in this issue. I’m still reading through it myself and really enjoy the company… especially, Tim Bradford’s “Scope.” H_NGM_N also offers merchandise (T-shirts, coffee mugs, bumperstickers and journal notebooks) which is just in time for the holidays.

Oh, Look What the Postman Delivered

Yesterday afternoon, I received my first royalty check from my publisher. I thought about celebrating, but then I looked at the amount… it should cover this week’s bus fare. I didn’t expect a big fat royalty check; after all it is a small poetry book by a virtually unknown character. I do find it curious that it’s delivery coincided with the birthday of American poet Emily Dickinson (she only had seven poems published in her lifetime).

Most (if not all) the books were sold through online retailers, and almost half the books were purchased in the last three months.

So, thanks to those who purchased Late Night Writing. The sophomore book cometh soon.

For those who haven’t purchased Late Night Writing… it makes a great gift. Or as my brother put it: “I have it displayed in the most predominant room in the house, the bathroom. I can’t tell you how many times I have enjoyed reading through this quality reading product. But a rough guess is at least once a day.” No, I didn’t pay him to write that.

So, next time you pick up a roll of toilet paper, remember to purchase a copy of Late Night Writing for that special room in your home. Here’s a list of places where you can find Late Night Writing. It is also available at Amazon.com, Abebooks.com, Alibris, Powell’s Books and Barnes & Noble.

One reviewer wrote: “Late Night Writing is easy, feeling-good reading, almost like a Rimbaud sobering up with Miles Davis over tequila sunrises at Venice Beach on a windy September late afternoon.”

Another reviewer wrote: “[T]hese poems are for & of the quiet moments we mostly overlook & are doomed to lose, snapshots of what’s been lost. This collection provides a kind of recollection & understanding,… in that space where we are alone with memory & desire.”

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Rapid River, Publishes Poem


Local arts magazine Rapid River published my poem “Narrative Kernel” in the November issue. Rapid River is published monthly in over 250 high traffic locations in Asheville and Buncombe County. Request a free copy:

Rapid River Art Magazine
70 Woodfin Pl. Ste 212
Asheville, NC 28801

(828) 258-3752

Earlier this week I received letters of rejection regarding a collection of poems and a short story from two publications. I guess the publiscation of “Narrative Kernel” makes up it.

Another Published Poem


Local arts and culture magazine Rapid River published another one of my poems in the October issue. Rapid River is a free monthly magazine published in Asheville with a monthly readership of over 30,000 readers. You can find a Rapid River magazine rack pretty much any where downtown. I got my copy at Indigenous Teahouse & Juice Bar. So, go grab a copy and see what you think of my poem, “Reading ‘My American Body’ by W. K. Buckley.”

Poetry, painting and other thoughts

Fragile

Last year, about this time, I contributed to “Resonance” Art Opening/Multimedia Performance. The Grey Eagle Tavern and Music Hall hosted the event. I read some of my new poems at the time and then Philip (guitarist) and Julie (rock vocalist) joined me with a music/performance set based on my book Late Night Writing. Julie contributed an original song to the set while Philip added an original soundtrack. The collaboration between the three of us was inspiring (to me at least). It was kind of weird hearing Julie sing my poems “Fragile” and “Driftwood” back to me and to the audience. In a way it was a relief to hear someone else claim them, own the words, project the ideas. I miss that. There are a few live bootleg recordings of the three or four gigs we did together. Maybe when I find some server space, I’ll offer them as free downloads.

Three paintings represented me at “Resonance” Art Opening/Multimedia Performance. “Fragile,” named after the poem I wrote, was painted last summer. Previously, I had done a series of four paintings inspired by the poet Kahlil Gibran (which was part of the 2003 “Resonance” art show) with bright, dramatic abstractions using a simple palette of red, yellow and black. With “Fragile,” the colors deepened in order to create a stark, lyrical image. A young poet from South Carolina once confessed he didn’t particularly get into modern art, but he liked “Fragile” because it seemed like a place he would like to visit. The poem I wrote that inspires this work includes these lines: “I am naked/ When truth strips me/ Of a lie.” And later: “I am reborn/ When the old shattered remains/ swept away, replaced with/ a new vessel to contain my soul.”

Among The Myrtle

“Among The Myrtle,” named after a passage from the book of Zechariah, was also painted last summer. Most people who view this painting don’t know the passage that inspires this work. The passage reads:
“In a vision during the night, I saw a man sitting on a red horse that was standing among some myrtle trees in a small valley… I asked the angel who was talking with me, ‘My lord, what are all those horses for?’ ‘I will show you,’ the angel replied. So the man standing among the myrtle trees explained, ‘They are the ones the LORD has sent out to patrol the earth.’ Then the other riders reported to the angel of the LORD, who was standing among the myrtle trees, ‘We have patrolled the earth, and the whole earth is at peace.’

Again, as with the painting “Fragile,” I attempt to present a sparse place for the eye and the mind to roam–a place someone would like to sit and rest and visit often. In a way, I was trying to create a sanctuary were “the whole earth is at peace.”

My son, who was two at the time, painted along side me. We would paint outside, on the front deck on Saturday mornings. It became a weekend ritual. At the time he merely enjoyed mixing the colors on an old canvas I had forsaken. He named one dinosaur and the next weekend he would paint over dinosaur and call it puppy. During the winter we stopped the outdoor painting sessions and he began working with pencil and paper. By springtime he graduated to markers. As spring gave way to summer he had developed a curious visual language that inspired me. He began drawing people with arms and legs that didn’t quite fit and dots and lines representing eyes. The smile became his creative signature–it sliced across the heads as if to say “it is what it is.”

One Saturday, after we resumed our painting ritual, I created “I’m Putting on My Socks” in honor of his drawings. Three other paintings were created that day (which I may post at a later date) and a series of twelve drawings. He told me I needed more gray. I told him gray was not a color I liked to use because it’s too bland. He insisted by adding a few strokes of his own. After moving him back to his canvas, I conceded. Gray became the visual language that supported the red, black, copper and white motifs.

I don’t know if there will be a “Resonance” Art Performance this year. Whether collaborating with adults or children, an artist needs support in order to grow. Hearing a poem or viewing a painting from another perspective opens up a world of opportunity. Irving Stone mused that “Art’s a staple. Like bread or wine or a warm coat in winter… Man’s spirit grows hungry for art in the same way his stomach growls for food.” For those who have supported my growling stomach, I thank you.

Rapid River published poem


Local arts and culture magazine Rapid River published one of my poems in the September issue. Rapid River is a free monthly magazine you can find almost anywhere downtown. So, walk (don’t run) to the closest Rapid River rack and grab a copy and see what you think of my poem, “A Tube of Wet Rage.” Funny thing about writing a poem in first person… an editor or reader assumes the main character in the poem is the actual poet. Maybe that’s part of the mystery of poetry.

I read that poem and others a Beanstreet’s open mic but I didn’t see either of this blog’s unofficial cheerleaders. Beanstreets Cafe was rather quiet last night. Actually, the whole downtown area seemed rather somber which lead to a rather sober open mic event. Real downer when trying to celebrate a published poem.

Poem Review: “Old Soldier” by Charles Simic

About four months ago I wrote a review of a poem by Charles Simic for an editor, but I have not received word as to its status. So, here’s an abbreviated form of the review.

A couple months ago, my son and I planted seven white pine saplings along the east side of the property. As a three-year old, he doesn’t really “plant” trees but rather roams the near vicinity in search of new wonders to discover. Each dandelion must be plucked and examined and each twig must be picked up and relocated. A chestnut branch, which had fallen during a recent storm, particularly interested his imagination. With chestnut branch in hand, my son defended the homestead from cardinals, squirrels and a trespassing cat.

As I recall my three-year son chasing a yellow rubber ball across the backyard and waving his chestnut branch over his head, I think of how new readers of poetry need to wade into the greater pool of literature by first enjoying what will get their feet wet. This doesn’t diminish the quality of Simic’s work but rather supports the notion that if a poet can speak to the children he will be able to guide them into a broader, deeper appreciation for poetry. The Academy of American Poets recently cited, in their 2003-2004 annual report, that 68% of their active members became interested in poetry before the age of 18.

“Old Soldier” opens with a list of credentials and a storyteller’s wink of wit. The image of this warrior wanting to impishly pull the tail of “a cat lying in the grass” suggests a mischievous tone for Simic’s 22-line poem. The mother figure introduces a contrast of gentleness and the serene garden solitude against the “flying cinders” of aerial bombardment. What’s interesting about the mother figure is that she doesn’t leave the soldier alone but takes him “by the hand.” It’s tempting to wonder if this is a historical account or merely a narrative. Vernon Young, a contributor to the Hudson Review, suggests that Simic writes “by the fable; his method is to transpose historical actuality into a surreal key.“

Simic tells that the soldier’s sword was cardboard and only lacked a horse–particularly a horse which pulled “a hearse/With a merry wave of his tail.” The last lines are striking in that they suggest a ten-year old boy who chooses a funeral horse for his military campaigns instead of a warhorse. Ripe imagery presents numerous literary interpretations.

Malaprop’s Gig Tomorrow Night!

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I was downtown tonight working on the final touches of a poetry reading manuscript and I thought it was pretty cool to see where Malaprop’s hung the event poster–next to the “featured artist” exhibit. Usually posters compete for space on the double glass doors entering the bookstore, but they placed it alone–minimum visual competition (outside of gazing past it to the rows of books and posted art).

The gig starts at 7 PM. I open the event. If you want to hear me read, then don’t show up at 7:30 PM (I’ll be done by then). For those of you coming from out of town–parking is a bit tricky, so come early in order to secure a good space. If you’re late, please stick around and listen to Kimberly, Vanessa and Pasckie or enjoy a cup of java, chai or a good book.

Poetry, a gift

Tonight I was discouraged to recieve yet another rejection letter. Maybe I should have sent him an invitation to Thursday night’s gig at Malaprop’s instead of six poems.

“Chin up,” I say to myself. “Review the poems,” I tell myself. “Make sure they are a gift to the people who will attend.”

A poetry reading is like an art gallery portfolio review. You want to pick your best 12 to 15 pieces and include a couple talking points per painting. This enables the audience/curator to understand the piece in context. It also allows room for conversation after the reading/viewing.

I read today that it’s the poet Philip Larkin’s birthday. It is reported that it took him three years to complete his 50-line masterpiece “Aubade.” His literary legacy can be found in 4 small books (consisting of 117 poems).

This encourages me, for I have been working on a poem for almost four years. Many poems have been created in that period and maybe they will be collected in four or five small books.

Small books often capture my attention. I guess that’s why I like graphic novels and small books of poetry like Simic’s Wedding in Hell or Flynn’s The Lost Sea.

I also read that Thoreau published Walden on this day. It took him five years to get rid of all 2000 copies. I thought of how I’d like each book I create/publish to be a gift. If it takes three years to compose a poem and five more years to circulate copies, it will still be a rewarding gift.

Unfortunately, an editor did not know he received a gift. Instead, he rejected the gift I sent him–finding no room in his poetry review for it. His lose really–not mine.

Poetry Performance–Be Prepared

Malaprop’s Gig in 3 days!

It’s odd to think that I’ve spent the last four weeks preparing for a short block of time –20 minutes. That seems to be the nature of poetry. I’m sure there are some poets who perform public readings that don’t plan what they will say or read. I find that approach insulting to people who come to hear good poetry.

It is the responsibility of a poet to respect the audience by preparing himself/herself for each performance. So, I carefully select a series of poems–a performance manuscript. Some of the poems have been published. Other’s have not. I read the series outloud to hear how it sounds–how it flows. I make further adjustments. And more adjustments.

All the while, I watch the countdown to Thursday night… 7PM… Malaprop’s Cafe.

Density of Poetry

Malaprop’s Gig in 4 days!

At supper tonight, a friend was telling me that she is looking forward to attending Thursday night’s poetry/music gig. But she couldn’t understand why I chose to read/write poetry.

“Why not stories?” she asked.

I told her that I do write in other genres but I chose poetry as my concentration because it required deep thought to write and read. Not that prose is easy to write, but poetry buries textured truths in metaphor which require those who seek it to search deliberately. What may be investigated in a novel is compressed in 32 lines of a poem.

The German word for poetry is Gedichte or Dichtung. The definition of poetry in German encompasses the idea of compression or density–to condense a thought or theme. The English understanding of poetry embraces beauty and harmony–graceful elegance.

My hope is that in four days I present condensed ideas in a lyrical framework.

Poetry Vibes Coming Soon

Just got an emailed press release:

FRI (3/4), 8-11pm. — The Traveling Bonfires’ “Vagrant Wind 2005 Road Journey” kicks off in Asheville, featuring the poetry of Nina Marie Collins, Matthew Mulder, Pasckie Pascua, Riley Schilling, and the music of Dashvara and Tim McGill. Bearly Edible Cafe, 15 Eagle St., downtown Asheville. FREE.

Positioning Poetry

A few days ago I talked with my publisher about the state of affairs with my first book. Needless to say, sales are dismal for poetry books (especially for an unknown writer like myself). However, that first book was devised to be a quiet release.

The intent of the book was to collect some published and previously unpublished poems to give to gatekeepers and other influential people. It was dedicated to family and friends and tended to represent more of my personal verse poetry (i.e. autobiographical). But I also added a few free verse poems, which incorporated universal themes. This was to position my poetry the way a cover letter and resume position a prospective employee. More on that later.

RE: Open Letter to POETRY Magazine

Sunday evening I came across this Open Letter to POETRY magazine from Charles Ries.

A few years ago I felt it was my duty to subscribe to POETRY. I was curious. I wanted to see the top of the mountain. I wanted to see what the best writers wrote. And for two years I read most or all of the issues you sent me. I looked into their pages and asked, “What makes this poem great?” “What makes this writer unique–exquisite?”

That said; I struggle to feel engaged with most of the work you publish.

I have mixed thoughts and emotions about what he wrote in his open letter. My initial thought was kinship in regards to feeling engaged with some of the content POETRY publishes. However, after reading the October 2004 issue (which I purchased from a local retailer), I decided it was time to subscribe to one of the flaghips of academic poetry. Frank Bidart’s poem “The Third Hour of the Night” captured my attention (and my few remaining dollars). I guess I agree with Mr. Ries in that POETRY is a journal for the academic writers and their readers. But isn’t that the point? If you were looking for well written non-academic poetry there are plenty of small press poetry magazines you can find and enjoy.

I suspect the real issue is high art versus subculture. By no means is poetry considered part of the American mainstream. However, it’s more likely the subculture of small press poetry will be less than a footnote in American literature. Whereas the subculture of POETRY magazine will provide notable poets like Hecht and Gluck. The reason the American consciousness remembers Robert Frost and Carl Sandburg is because they devoted most of their life to the high art of letters. Equally passionate are the small press poets who bleed their life into their noteable yet mostly unrecognized works.

For better or worse, I am part of the second category. Yet I struggle to be challenged by the work of most small press poets. That’s why I decided to subscribe to POETRY. I consider it part of my ongoing education in crafting poetry. That’s why I read the academic writings of American poets like the late Anthony Hecht. In his last published book The Darkness and The Light, he wrote:

Nothing designed by Italian artisans
Would match this evening’s perfection.
The puddled oil was a miracle of colors.
“The Onslaught of Love,” pg 4

William Matthews on Money

Finished Time and Money last night. A line that keeps rolling around my head is from his poem “Money”:

What’s wrong with money is what’s wrong with love:

it spurns those who need it most for someone
already rolling in it.

On the bus to work this morning I thought about that as I read today’s Times. And again as I waited for a transfer at the bus station. Most people were there to make money—going to work. A peculiar exchange I watched as I read the paper. A man walked up to a seated woman and handed her a folded note and motioned away from the station. She waited until he left her and then she unfolded the note, read it and then lit a cigarette. Over her shoulder, I read a name and a phone number. He held the bus he was waiting for until he realized she wouldn’t follow him. Then bus 20 arrived and she boarded.

Things don’t always follow the path I might have imagined. Like the poem I wrote during Monday night’s writers group. I thought about posting it but it turned out a bit darker than I planned. It was a simple exercise: write about an empty glass.

Even this post didn’t follow the path I intended…

Notes from “World’s Fastest Readings”

A review of the “World’s Fastest Readings” featuring faculty of the Warren Wilson MFA program. Jane has been diligently requesting a review the event. I’ve been telling her to wait because I’m waiting to hear from a very nice, overworked editor if his magazine would like to publish my review/commentary of the event.

It hasn’t been two weeks yet and I’m getting impatient or obsessive. Every five to ten minutes (okay, maybe it’s not that bad) I catch myself clicking the “mail” tab on my Hotmail account hoping to see something beside a “JC Penny Winter White Sale” web banner and a “Meet Sexy People on Passion.com” web ad.

I don’t think it will hurt possible freelance efforts if I post some of my notes from the “World’s Fastest Readings.” Here ya go:

– Malaprop’s cafe very full, people standing outside café area
– sitting mid-section near condiments counter
– Malaprop’s staff member reads last lines of each writer’s book as a tribute
– Pete Turchi – dark blazer, red button down shirt, glasses, salt and pepper goatee
– 20 writers reading for two minutes from their work
– Rick Barot began with his poem “study”
– Kevin McIlvoy read “the complete history of new mexico”
– Steve Orlen reads his poem “blind date”

Malaprop’s Music/Poetry Gig Meditations

It’s a rare Friday night when I can find a parking spot within a block of Malaprop’s, but tonight there was a parking space available in front of the bookstore/cafe. The drum circle occupying Pritchard Park could be heard two blocks away as I entered the store to verify the show time. Later, the drumming souls would triple in size and volume and invite the fire dancers to contribute to the urban tribe.

The sun had not set yet and the autumn twilight air was cool and comfortable. I waited outside for Philip, a friend and fellow performer, who would be supplying the sound equipment for tonight’s event. I hadn’t eaten since lunch and the Malaprop’s cafe was closed because an author was reading excerpts from his book. Twenty minutes later the shadows from the building opposite the bookstore engulfed the street and cars began to turn on their headlamps.

I was a little frazzled because I had been asked to emcee the event, which makes me a bit nervous. Focusing on reading/performing poetry is one thing, but adding the responsibility of emceeing a show is an added dimension. A common misconception is that an emcee just announces who’s up next. There’s more to it than that. An emcee helps coordinate artists with venue management about restroom facilities, store policy concerning discount for performing artists at the cafe, technical sound equipment needs, time slots and in general making the artist feel at home in a foreign place. So, I had a lot on my mind this evening.

Shortly before 8PM I found myself placing mic stands in the cafe and discussing time slots with Vanessa Boyd, a mild-mannered musician with the hint of Texas in her laconic communication. After the author and his fans dispersed, Philip and I began setting up the speakers and microphones. Vanessa was off to the side tuning her guitar as I casually sought information from her, which I planned to use to introduce her. She had traveled from Tennessee to perform and had brought her friend Steve. He was equally laconic, like her silent guardian. The set-up of sound equipment took maybe ten minutes. To my surprise, Vanessa finished her preparations, plugged in, slouched into a cafe chair before a microphone, played a few chords and announced herself relieving me of the burden of introductions.

For the first time that evening I was able to grab a cup of organic coffee, find a stool at the cafe bar and prepare myself for the read. I had almost forgot that two friends had joined me to perform along side my poetry performance. A prose piece (thanks Joy) was recently added to the Late Night Poetry portion of my performance. I quickly fished out the performance script and handed it to Julie who would be reading one poem and singing two other poems. Philip would play the performance soundtrack on acoustic guitar and I had to give him instructions on when to start the musical soundscape.

Wearing an earth-tone wardrobe and playing Americana/folk-style songs, Vanessa Boyd provided me almost twenty minutes of uninterrupted meditation with her rich, strong vocals. Wavy chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail, she sat on a chair hunched over her red acoustic guitar, hazel-green eyes searching the modest assembly, as she sang songs from her many travels.

The show organizer showed up about half way through her set. He had just come off a 14-hour bus trip from Baltimore and hadn’t been expected to be present. We chatted a bit about his trip and a few other topics until 9PM when Vanessa concluded her set.

Double-checking my notes and poem folder, I approached the “stage.” I placed the music stand near the microphone stand and began my introduction including thanks to Vanessa, Malaprop’s and The Traveling Bonfires (who organized the event). The mic stand was competing with the music stand and I held the mic as I read a Billy Collins poems to get things started. I continued to hold the mic as I read through my solo set including a poem by Keith Flynn, a collection of poems from my forth coming project, a pseudo-political piece (with apologies to Uncle Walt) and prose piece by another writer which acted as transition to group performance.

The group piece featured Julie singing three selections (including one she wrote) and reading one and Philip playing his haunting theme as I read through a half dozen poems from Late Night Writing. It continues to amaze me how supportive they are of my work. I often look at the words I have written and wonder if anyone is touched by these poems. Sometimes I helplessly observe someone moved to tears at words I’ve written and wonder why those lyrics don’t move me the same way.

Now I am home in a forest guarded by red cardinals and black salamanders and I am eating chicken, drinking chai tea latte (rooibos tea with honey vanilla & spices), burning incense (sage and smoke) and wondering what lines and poems these hands will transcribe.