I’m after an experience. Not a recounting of an experience, but an exploration that just isn’t possible when I’m my clumsy mortal self stumbling around being an asshole (we’re all assholes), never having the right words.
When I find a phrase, an image or line that shows me something new, I believe in transformation — of the moment, of the object, of the self. And when I put them together into a finished poem, the whole world starts to make sense.
I wake up and make oatmeal. I take my Subaru for its oil change. I go with my boyfriend to Bennington on an unseasonably warm February Saturday. We browse galleries and bookstores. We eat and drink at a local brewery where Marilyn Monroe watches us sideways from her perch atop an old upright piano. Things are perfectly normal.
Do this, this act of creating, fully and passionately. Find the raw edges. And please — please! — point us to them. I may be biased, but poets (and writers and other artists) are some of the best guides we have.
I was thrilled to see D.A. Powell tweet about an MFA being impractical: OK, yes: in fairness, he labels his
Since I haven’t been blogging, I haven’t talked here about my most recent move: in August, I left Lark Street