As you may have heard, I’ve started a new prompt-site/poetry journal, and I’m planning (when possible) to write along with
photos of the loch ness monster, revisited go back and back to a single grainy image: a man’s outline in
as a runner, i am particularly saddened by the choice of this setting for any kind of violence. as a resident of albany, ny, i wonder how much longer we can be safe (incidents in manhattan just to our south, boston a similar distance to our west). as a poet, i only wish words could be larger…
a draft of something inspired the ABBA poems by denise duhamel & amy lemmon … in which i also joke (sort of) about online dating and follow the ABBA rhyme scheme. yes, a rhyme scheme from a poet who typically can’t manage rhyme without going all green eggs & ham. but this time, with the exception of “something” and “humping,” i think i avoided the dr. seuss effect. i’ve also managed to be light and a little bit funny — two other traits not ordinarily in my poetry wheelhouse.
as you know, i’ve been contemplating the light and romance and poetry mojo. they are three of my obsessions. how they ebb and flow. most recently, how they dwindle. i would be hard-pressed to tell you which absence is most disheartening. but i can say that i’ve lived long enough to know that neither light nor poetry really disappear. romance, however? i have little evidence that it persists.
as one of the “women poets of willett street,” i featured at poets in the park last night. this 4- or 5-part series (saturdays in july) is one of my favorite local poetry events. and now, since i live on washington park, it’s a few steps from my door. though i read other work, i focused my reading on poems set in downtown albany, including a couple new ones, like the one below. i wrote it after the boys and i decided to be tourists in our own city, and so we booked a tour with the albany aquaducks on the company’s final weekend of doing business locally.
lean into as many first kisses as it takes: / the stoop where lips meet at 2 a.m. belongs to you, / as does the empty sidewalk and the soft orange / halo around the street lamp. the quiet is yours, / as well, along with the strange shadow / of a tree on your neighbor’s front door