
I’m in my tent. I woke up hearing peepers and a big bullfrog. I can’t believe there is wireless in this campground. It’s a KOA in Woodstock, New York. I’m here with my

My poetry trip to the U.K. this winter was marked, among many wonderful experiences, by something more sobering: a string of stories poured out to me by women poets about gender imbalance and discrimination in prizes and book and journal publishing at the top levels of the British poetry world. While I am a natural idealist and would prefer
I woke up the morning after the college reunion reading not only slightly hungover on cucumber vodka, but also satisfied and addicted. These few hundred folks might well be the largest audience I’ve ever read to that didn’t consist primarily of poets, writers, and poetry and writing teachers. I had had the rare experience of reading for a general audience—and I admit I wanted more.
I’m posting this from a dorm room in Timothy Dwight College at Yale, where I am beng housed before giving a poetry reading tomorrow as part of the 30th reunion of the class

A life centered on poetry has allowed me many emotions that I never feel except in relation to poetry. There’s the thrill of gratitude when a poem is conceived, the anxiety of waiting for a word, the warm breakthrough of the right one at last, the dryness and frustration of the blind alley. There’s the glorious triumph of speaking the remembered words of a beloved poem to another person who really wants to hear them. There’s the savoring greed before opening the covers

News flash: an important trans-Atlantic poetry publisher put out an S.O.S. this week. Here’s yesterday’s update on the Salt Publishing situation from the U.K. bookseller Catherine Neilan:
I should be packing right now. I’m just about to get on an early plane to NYC with my daughter who, thanks to a great Jetblue deal, I am bringing to the Museum of Natural History and then the Dusie kollektiv reading and performance tonight at ACA Gallery. So, yes, I should be packing. But someone sent me a link to a Facebook events page for the reading—

.
Today I went to visit my mother, Margaret Rockwell Finch, who turned 88 a few weeks ago. As always lately, she showed me a new poem. Maggie was my first model of a

Margaret Rockwell Finch, 1961
Anselm Berrigan
Abigail Deutsch
Tonya Foster
Melissa Friedling
John S. O'Connor
Barbara Jane Reyes
Amber Tamblyn
Edwin Torres
Cathy Halley
Michael Marcinkowski
Travis Nichols
Fred Sasaki
Don Share
Señor Smith to you. (1)
Vladimir, Ron, and Gregori (4)
dubious poetry: the palin comparison (3)
To Vaya in the Viva of Time (2)
Indie Publishing: Two Questions, Many More... (5)
Copyright © 2009 Poetry Foundation Contact: mail@poetryfoundation.org Privacy Policy / Terms of Use
Poetryfoundation.org article RSS.
Magazine RSS.
Blog RSS.