I wrote most of this post just before Craig posted his lament for the bloggers. But I was too busy starting up my own new blog, American Witch, to post it until now. Though it may feel to Craig and others (primarily men?) that the great age of blogging is over, it sure doesn’t feel like that to someone who is so excited about having created her blog at last. I’m grateful to everyone at Harriet–from the staff to all those lively readers who kept things interesting–for my experience as a blogger here last spring, which helped give me the momentum to start American Witch. Thanks for the memories, happy new year, and please come visit at American Witch!—Annie
Dear Harrieteers, I never thought I’d say this here, but I’ve just posted the first few posts on my very own blog, American Witch. It’s something I’ve been thinking about doing for many years—and then everything suddenly and smoothly clicked.
Alexs Pate, David Mura, Maxine Kumin, Annie Finch
Stonecoast 2009, photo by Suzy Colt
Bowdoin college campus. Cool perfect Maine summer night. The warm wake of a great reading—a strong and vivid event, Maxine Kumin and David Mura, each introduced with heart and thought by a Stonecoast student, and each reaching a powerful and somehow a shared place. Everyone else finally gone from the hall after the signings and the hugs

For my last post as a Harriet blogger, I wanted to give a shout-out to what makes it work for me. I could say the earth, spirit, guidance, love, chi, or justice—
I have only one day left on Harriet (though they have asked we who are leaving to keep posting occasionally, and I will look forward to that). I’ve been rationing posts, but I’ve nearly run out. There were a lot gestating. One about food poetry. One about finishing

Roy Finch at Sarah Lawrence College, mid 1960’s
Father’s day came and went, and I’ve been wanting to say something about my dad, and all my poetic fathers,
Last year I happened to be sitting next to the young poet Jericho Brown at a reading in Los Angeles. Jericho noticed me counting on my fingers and scribbling down some marks on a piece of paper. He nearly leaped out of his seat

Labor Day march across the Mackinac Bridge

My Sister-in-Law, Sister, Niece, and Me in My Mother’s Kitchen
Anna Leahy reminds us, in her recent essay “Is Women’s Poetry Passé?” in Legacy, that “in the January 2006 issue of Poetry, the three female poets who had been asked to comment on “women’s poetry” (Meghan O’Rourke, J. Allyn Rosser, and Eleanor Wilner) asserted, “we all concur that we ought to abolish the unpleasant term ‘women’s poetry.” And in the ensuing few years, consensus on this point seems, if anything, to have become wider. Even I, who claimed for myself the name of “poetess” in a 2002 essay, found myself beginning a paragraph in my recent Women’s Work post on Harriet with the caveat that “there may not be such a thing as women’s poetry. . .”
But the more I have thought about it since writing that post, the more I have decided that, whether or not women’s poetry exists, I am a woman poet, for three reasons:
“Welcome to the largest conference in the country devoted to poetry.”
“Go ahead, tell us about the dactyls and the anapests, we can handle it.”

Forugh Farrokhzād
Travis’s post and recent events call me to describe something I’ve been wanting to post about for a while. One of the most moving evenings I’ve had as an American poet occurred in Farsi.
Thom Donovan
Bhanu Kapil
Fred Moten
Craig Santos Perez
Sina Queyras
Sotère Torregian
Cathy Halley
Michael Marcinkowski
Travis Nichols
Fred Sasaki
Don Share
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