Martha’s Vineyard
Haven’t been updating this as much as I’d intended. But immersed in apocalyptic poetry, weather, and Influenza A. Here’s a piece in development for a collaboration with Heather Patterson, an amazing artist.
Owl’s Head, Maine
Chilled rain on the Maine coast finally gave way to a cold sun. Owl in the spruce. Moss underfoot. Coffee. The ocean crashing on rocks beyond the trees. And these two books by Rebecca Gayle Howell—if Cormac McCarthy wrote poetry it would be something like this. We are all killers, verbs doing things you don’t want them to do. Read these. Now.
Apocalypse Sabbatical
Virginia Woolf said that women need a room of their own to write. They also need a support network of friends and partners to manage things while they’re away and to offer them that room. I’m so incredibly lucky to have been offered space by four friends on the east coast, and to have a partner who will love our five pets while I’m gone.
At almost 50, I find myself with a paid sabbatical with which to co-edit an anthology of contemporary apocalypse poetry (with Juan Morales of CSU Pueblo), and to work on several of my own creative projects. This is a gift and a challenge. It feels like going to graduate school all over again.
I’m going to try to post here daily, reflecting on Maine coastal weather, the state of Apocalype poetry, fragments of poems about baseball and sleeping with dogs… and if I can figure out this app, will post photos too. Join me!
