Kim Baker, Rhode Island
Nina Bennett, Delaware
Anne Champion, Massachusetts
Alfred Corn, Rhode Island
Jenny Yang Cropp, Oklahoma
Rebecca Foust, California
S.A. Griffin, California
Faleeha Hassan, New Jersey
Kimberly Johnson, Utah
Ami Kaye, Illinois
Joy Ladin, Massachusetts
Janice Lowe, New York
Robby M, Canada
Leslie McGrath, Connecticut
Corey Mesler, Tennessee
Jeannetta Calhoun Mish, New Mexico
Alice Osborn North Carolina
Jennifer Perrine, Iowa
Katie Riegel, Tennessee
Kayla Sargerson, Pennsylvania
Christine Stewart-Nunez, South Dakota
Feodor Swarovsky, Russia
Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie, New York
Pamela Uschuk, Arizona
Dana Yost, Iowa
St. Louis, Missouri
the way a name does, when its ours, all peacock and hiss, all vowel and cinnamon.
I can hear a kitty climbing the door behind my head like a tree and dangling from the window pane peeking in at me mewing. I turn and smile into her curious eyes. My little friend can't come in just yet because Mizu, the budgie, is perched on the top edge of the laptop screen preening and singing along to Saint-Saens.”
Cleveland, Ohio USA
There is no disharmony, only harmonies
to which our ears and our fears are unaccustomed.
(--from my tribute poem, “For Meena Kamal,” an assassinated Afghani political activist and feminist.)
Los Altos Hills, California
From this small corner of my world, I wake in the morning with the sun, and I write while my love ones stay sleeping. In the winter, the frost nips at the windowsill and it chills my fingers and bones as they chatter across the keyboard. Now, in the spring of another year, everything outside is budding and green, the promises of the naked trees are being kept to my wandering eyes.
This space is my vantage point of the world, my space to consider, to think. to question, to observe, to love, to miss, to want, to dream, to write, to write, to write. This space is the anchor by which the creative muses find their way to me.”
Kai Coggin’s brand new full-length poetry collection, Wingspan, published by Golden Dragonfly Press, will be available for purchase on April 22nd, Earth Day.
Image attributed to Jonah Dearmon
Image attributed to Jonah Dearmon
Image attributed to Jonah Dearmon
The magic is that window, though, and its view across the fields to the trees along the distant river banks. It smells of weather and sounds of nothing but bird-song and, more often than not, rain. After six years of visits to the goose-hut it feels like home, and something in me unlocks the minutes I push the door open. Fourteen of the poems in my next book have been written at that desk, and the goose-hut is now completely bound up with my sense of myself as a poet.”
The stiletto boots in the back of my closet
want to walk all over you..."
(from "Walk All Over You.")
Fancher’s books, How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen & other heart stab poems, and State of Grace: The Joshua Elegies are available on
and the “in due time” of our departing
with its mania for pinning down fluttering things.
This is the requisite wall within such minds / when troops of chickadees bivouac, worrying cats" smile emoticon
is it easier to be a stranger to a brother than to be brother to
wake up blood brother from your delusions
It is an exhilaration
It is a torrent of freedom
This is life
And nightly one of us (or you) paced the vacant halls.
"What I love most about my study is the quality
of light. Even in winter, two tall windows
overlooking the front lawn allow plenty of light to
brighten the room. Once I enter it, I am shut off
from the rest of the world, cocooned and cozy, a
space where I can suspend time and relax, yet
suddenly free to roam the wild and forbidden
places of my imagination, and create. I write at a
small white desk next to one of the windows, while
listening to music. Across from the windows is a
reading couch, which comes in handy when
having tea with a visitor. A large bookcase holds
an eclectic collection of poetry books and three
narrow shelves above the sofa display our latest
publications. The neutral colors are calming, and
the soft patina of the wood floor imparts a
natural warmth. In summer when I open the
windows I often smell roses and almond
blossoms, but most of the time, it is the scent of
books and magic that fills that air."
Enter the day with no limit save the one you set yourself;
freed of gravity your mind flies and becomes the wind.
to untie knots
Learn to love the awkward silence
You are going to be
(from "Survival Guide")
the world became a well – its water so deep,
there was nothing near enough to glisten
--(Notebook extract, poem not yet finished.)
only the owl watches the cold world wake.
Winston-Salem, North Carolina
..and I wait for her,
"For me, writing has two distinct phases: the "playing in my imagination" phase, in which I latch onto phrases and rhythms, not caring about meaning, and the "sitting down to write the poem" phase, in which I draw on my knowledge of poetic craft and tradition. I have a separate space for each of them, both in my circa 1800 house on a little street near the Connecticut River.
My imagination space is a very small sewing room, probably 8 by 8, off a front bedroom. It's warm and sunny during the day, a swaddling space at night when I turn the lamp on. There are two comfortable chairs and a needlepoint footstool. My two cats settle on one of the chairs and curl up with each other. There's an old rug I bought at a church thrift store, photos of my daughters and grandmother, and the kind of benign quiet that reminds me that I'm only the most recent of many women who have sat there to work, away from everything but our own thoughts.
I write in another small space off the living room. I type with one finger on a laptop. In this part of the house, the floor is so warped and tilted that I often have to grab a hold of the desk to prevent my desk chair from rolling away. I've surrounded myself with totems: family photos, my grandmother's diary, a few small toys, a piece of teak left over from one of my husband's boatbuilding projects. I like the familiar textures of these things. This space is next to the kitchen and I love the smell of a pot of broth on the stove or cinnamon cookies baking while I'm writing."
a winter impulse: work together to get through.
What if it had been that way with you?
“My very own bedroom which
Think of it as a shawl dance, think of smoke.
“My sacred space is a light-filled room ensconced in the foothills of Sandia Mountain.
The walls are covered with a thirty-year collection of framed posters and paintings. The ancient, soft perfume of a piñon tree and the earthy-sharp scent of a Russian sage, its glorious lavender-blue bloom-spikes above feathery silver-grey leaves, wafts through windows, accompanied by birdsong: the enthusiastic whistles, burrs, and mimicry of the curved-bill thrasher; the almost frog-like char of the cactus wren; the eerie screams of the zone-tailed hawk, the scratchy coos of palomas, their wings whistling as they fly by.
At night, the hoots of a great horned owl haunt the sky. The mountain is ever-present, sometimes red with alpenglow, sometimes white with snow.
I read poetry cradled by the velvety, garnet arms
to the uphill trail, following scent of
yarrow and yammering of jays.
Once a white boy fell in love with my aunt.
Slipped to the camps she never saw him again.
(from "My Son in Ninth Grade")
https://www.facebook.com/AliceOsborn Twitter: @alice_osborn
our family had a knack for forging masks to
quiet our voices and silence our hearts.
Silver Spring, Maryland and Washington D.C.
Ross wrote much his second book, Gospel of Dust, at that table in Rock Creek.
If Mamie Till was the mother
one of the ten commandments
would forbid whistling.
National Translation Month:
Collaboration blog: http://twoxism.com/
Rutherford, New Jersey
Desperate times call for
(From my new book "Nothing Important Happened Today" http://broadstonebooks.com/Claudia_Serea_Page.html))
Dr. Ram Sharma
I opened my eyes and found poetry before me.
I turned my back on it to face reality,
ever since I’m transformed into a river of songs!
Mary Imo Stike
Scott Depot, West Virginia, US
I always try to swim upstream with him,
“I write almost anywhere. My life dictates that I be able to do this. If I needed a specific space to get my work done, nothing would ever get written.
I write in my favorite restaurant where the chocolate cake is decadent and the air is heavy with rose incense and cinnamon. I write to the screeching soundtrack of metal on tracks on the F train. I write in bed while my two older daughters read books, dance, and argue. Or I write in the dining room where there is a tumble of books and papers and clothes and photography equipment strewn across the floor and the table. I slip my hands around a cup of warm tea and revise, revise, revise, and revise. And when I have a deadline, I can be sure that a flight will help me make it. I’ve written poems, blog pieces, essays, and fiction on airplanes and in airports. Most times on a plane, I am responsible for no one but myself and even then, in the air, the pilot has more responsibility for what happens to me than than I do. In the air, complete surrender. Quiet. Thoughts come quickly there.”
salt between thighs
(From "After The Ansel Adams Exhibit")
tried to mediate her boyfriend’s hands
stagger his tongue
Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie is the author of Dear Continuum: Letters to a Poet Crafting Liberation (Grand Concourse Press) and Karma’s Footsteps (flipped eye).
in half-blossom were stunted by summer storms.
my heart with its song alone, the wheeze
so plaintive, it charms the rain.
Julie Marie Wade,
I live in tourist country now, yet I am not a tourist. I am free to hang back, to blend in, to watch and linger on the outskirts of more frenetic activities. The sand swallows my feet. The pelicans graze the surface of the water, their bellies and wings barely touching each wave. Palm trees are always gently susurrating in the background, but sometimes they shake and wail. A palm tree in a storm can sound like a woman’s voice. This surprises me, too. Coconuts thump or thud, depending on the force of the wind. Salt laces my skin forming a white lattice and smells almost sweet after an hour in the sun. My elbows and knees are often decorated with salt as if with doilies. I probably taste like pretzels.”
Laura Madeline Wiseman
We are Appalachian. Privacy and independence are the way we show others we care, by protecting them as best we can and managing what we can alone. This form of respect stems from willingness to lend a hand when someone needs it no questions asked, knowing they would do the same for you and are beyond themselves. Now that I’m older, I realize this particular breed of person is akin to the Blue Ridge two-lined salamander and equally subject to the health of her surrounding habitat.
No one answers the question