There’s this book of poetry I take with me to every single poetry workshop I run. It’s Steven Herrick’s young adult poetry novella, A place like this. My mum used to buy me books sometimes – she’d give them to me after school in the car. This was one of those books. A place like this was published in 1999 by Queensland University Press. It’s the companion volume to Herrick’s other YA verse novel, Love, ghosts and nose hair, but you don’t need to know that to enjoy its story. The cover is so reminiscent of the 90’s I almost expect The Ferals were occupying the space beneath that sepia corrugated iron backdrop.

As a high school student, there where times when felt like I couldn’t write poetry because I limited myself to thinking poetry was only the rhyme and rhythm available to read and dissect in the classroom. In senior years were asked to pull apart poetry until it didn’t mean what you thought it meant anymore – until it was only techniques and metaphors you argued in essays. By year 12 I could differentiate between the poetry I was asked to practice my thinking on in the classroom, and the poetry of my home-life. Home-life poetry was the stuff I could imagine to, relate to, and marvel at the music of, because there weren’t guidelines or rubrics instructing me otherwise. Two things made this happen for me: growing up, my mum used to play Pablo Neruda’s poetry, read by celebrities including, but not limited to, Julia Roberts, Glenn Close and Madonna, on a CD on repeat in the car everywhere, all the time. It only competed with Vonda Shepherd in her basement bar with its brooding lawyers on the Ally McBeal soundtrack, and Eva Cassidy’s Songbird. By year 12, when I didn’t understand a poem, the Neruda CD taught me to read work aloud and listen to my own words. I learnt to love Margaret Atwoods Journey to the Interior – an old HSC ‘journeys’ text, that way. Also, my Mum bought me A place like this, and the book switched something on for me. Now I use it to teach students to read poetry. I work in student equity. My job is to run workshops in public high schools around New South Wales. There’s Will, who offers poetry slamming, and there’s me. The schools we visit are largely under-resourced, and relatively isolated compared to most of the educational institutes in cities. A month before I pull up in front of a school in the kind of work car I could never afford, my offices offer to English teachers at the school a list of workshops I’m able to run. There are two workshops that find themselves in the highest demand, no matter the school I visit. The first is a fiction writing workshop for year 12 students shitting themselves because, for the first time in their entire educations, its assumed they’ve been writing short stories in forty minute bursts their whole high-school career, and now it’s time to perform that skill in an exam. The other most-requested workshop is about reading poetry. I put it together when I discovered how hesitant teachers were to run poetry writing workshops with large groups, because they felt their students would disengage. I think I’m not the only student to ever struggle through the prescribed deconstruction of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

A place like this is about two teenagers, Jack and Annabel, deciding to take a year off after high school. On their drive to anywhere, their car breaks down and the young couple find themselves picking apples in a farmer’s – George’s – orchard. It’s when we meet George’s family: his children Emma, Beck and Craig, and we learn of their runaway mother – that Herrick begins to craft a beautiful and intense story. He invents and threads six unique voices together to create a complex poetic narrative.

Giving a group of students a poem and asking them not to think about it beyond its words and initial impressions elicits a varied reaction. Sometimes, though, pencils and highlighters drop, and there’s a groan. The groan means ‘Reading a fucking poem sounds like a terrible idea because I don’t know how to do this, and poetry sucks, and I don’t want to read more of it.’ I tell them to take their time with the poem: read it twice. Read it once at the pace they usually read, and then go back and take the writing in slowly. Sometimes I read it aloud. Sometimes, after they’ve read it silently, one of them will read it aloud.

I photocopy specific pages – confronting pages – for the students to read. The first time I read Jack and Annabel having loud sex on hay bales in a shed, it made me squirm in an awesome way. You can do this in poetry – you can make teenage shed sex sweaty and prickly and drunk and loud in a bunch of lines. This is awesome. And it is. Sometimes I don’t give students a poem about sex, though. I print a poem about Emma, a now-pregnant 16 year-old, remembering the moments after she roused from being passed out in a bed at a house party, naked, hung over, unsure and suspicious. On other occasions I’ll print a poem where she aspires to return to school after she’s had her baby. On the other side of the paper I print a monologue from Emma’s little brother, Craig, who speaks about the night his mother left the family after she had prepared dinner and Craig’s other sister, Beck, vomited all over it. I print the poems about escape, humiliation, struggle and tender underbellies – in A place like this, it’s not hard to find these poems. They bind the story of Jack and Annabel together. They make Jack and Annabel’s own euphoric hopefulness for their lives and relationship a little less real for the reader, but we also cling to it more fiercely.

Snakes are slayed, plans take detours, dads and children and strangers tell you secrets and stories and sensations, apples are picked, people get drunk. Still, despite the fleetingness of these poems, there’s this reflectiveness and intimacy the reader experiences each time a different voice emerges and lingers for a page or two. Herrick makes you forget you’re reading poetry. His short narratives – all linked by broader activity and scenario on the apple orchard – almost distract the reader from even possibly feeling uncomfortable about reading poetry. The readability and authenticity of voice in A place like this means young eyes find the rawness of those stories that make up the whole more uncomfortable. The poetry becomes a code that guides the pace and imagined voices for the reader: it becomes necessary. I like A place like this because it shows young readers what poetry can be: it can be relatable,  and readable, and powerful, and seemingly simple. Poetry can speak to some quiet part of us, in some quiet way, and the fact that poetry is Herrick’s medium becomes both imaginatively peripheral and aesthetically vital.

Students sometimes initially react with, ‘I didn’t  know you could do this in poetry. Is this poetry?’ Sometimes they say, ‘Ohmigod, that’s disgusting.’ Sometimes they say, ‘Why don’t we learn this in school?’ I have never had a student say, ‘This is boring’ or ‘I don’t understand.’ Watching and listening to students’ respond after reading Herrick always makes me wonder why the New South Wales English syllabus is used to help people learn to think, but not necessarily help people learn to love writing or reading or inspire people to seek out more writing by Australian authors, or authors more broadly. Herrick and his engagement with contemporary voices is an excellent example of how people can become captivated by, and learn from, relevant and engaging writing. Sex in a shed in an orchard is possibly the best sex those students will ever read, because it’s teaching each tired or shy eye to engage with poetry – to level with it, imagine it and hear it. A place like this isn’t just exceptional because of the sex, or the drinking, or the teen pregnancy. It’s exceptional because of how Herrick wrote it, and what that writing does for those who were yet to discover what poetry could be. Also, I’ve gotta say, sex in a shed in an orchard is great for classroom productivity.

I’d like to say that at that moment I thought of the donor of a small prize I’d won earlier. She was a little old lady who wished to remain anonymous but the faculty made sure I got to meet her. She told me about how she’d met Robert Frost when she was an undergraduate, that she had picked him up at the airport for a reading at the school, and how kind and gracious he had been to her. That was one of her main reasons for funding the award. I was very grateful to her (and to Robert Frost for being so civil, so unlike the more common model for poets). The prize allowed me to buy a printer and some books, all of which I still have and rely upon.

But I didn’t think of that. I based my decision largely upon the fact that the Prestigious Program wouldn’t allow me to take poetry workshops while I was there but the new program was happy to let me continue working in both. Now I think about that moment pretty often, particularly when I think about how poets and poetry can survive in a market economy.

One of my good friends confessed me to recently that until she’d met me she thought poetry was dead (not that I’m convincing evidence for liveliness, but I refer from time to time to a culture of poetry). This neighbor is a reader, and a reader of literary books, so her assessment made me feel glum. Of course the body of poetry has been pronounced dead many times by many different people, but eventually belief can cause a thing to be true, can’t it?

I just finished reading The Gift by Lewis Hyde, a book originally published over thirty years ago. In it, Hyde talks about the importance of gift economies—how a gift circulates and is meant to keep circulating in a group, and how artists fit into the gift economy (we think of artists as “gifted” and in turn when their work survives, attains the stature of real (vs. commercial) art, it seems like a gift; in other words, it begins to seem like something that would be nearly impossible to consider as a simple commodity). But the trouble is, of course, that we don’t live in a gift economy—that we must pay for housing and food and health care and clothes—and so if we spend our time creating “gifts,” how are we to survive?

Right now it seems that there are four answers to this question and that most poets use one or all three to make ends (more or less) meet:

1. Teach. Academia offers regular pay and usually health care. The problem is that the really good jobs, the ones with manageable course loads and are located in places you would truly enjoy living, are rare and becoming more so. I can only speak to the situation in America, but here it is getting more grim by the day. Cuts have been made to higher education in every state save two and the emphasis has switched from education (read “critical thinking”) to instruction (read “skills industry is seeking”). Poetry has long been an uneasy guest in the classroom, and perhaps escaping from it will have some beneficial effects in the long term. In the short term, desperate poets grow more desperate.
2. Win awards. There are a number of them available, but never enough to go around, of course. In The Gift, Hyde talks about Ezra Pound, an odious man but important poet, and how the only money he made from poetry was a pittance in royalties and a prize of $2000. It’s hard not to think of how unfair this system is—that a poet becomes valued after death and that so many poems were not written because poets were so busy pulling ends as hard as they could.
3. Make money from your books. Okay, stop laughing.
4. Work an unrelated job or two and write in your “spare time.”

I think we should try to save our educational system (for reasons mostly unrelated to poetry) and to fund it as vigorously as we can. I also believe in awards, from the government, foundations, and philanthropists. These awards offer not only material support, but an affirmation of the work that can keep the poet working (and giving). I also believe that working a job outside of the field of poetry can be wonderful—and for many people it makes a lot of sense.

But all of this looks at the question from perhaps the wrong way round: after all, the question isn’t really how should poets be paid, but rather how we should pay for poetry. And I believe a really important aspect of that is that “we” should do it—not that we should convince an agency or a foundation or a wealthy patron to do it, but that we should each begin to take on this responsibility, so that we as people can begin to believe in poetry again and to help it live, and so it can help us live.

We could do this by creating awards (if we have the money) or by buying as many poetry books as we can. The problem with the first is that most awards involve, by necessity, a formal process that takes considerable time both on the part of the grantor and the potential grantees (only one or a handful of which will realize any return for that effort). The problem with the second is that we are often buying something before we can be convinced of its value. Perhaps you have seen the poet read and liked her work and so bought the book, in which case you are making an informed (and fairly rare) purchase. And another problem is that many of the people who attend readings are either students or poets, both with notoriously small disposable incomes.

But what if poets had a way to get paid for individual poems? And the payment could happen after a reader has read the work and been able to quantify its worth to them (in relation to their ability to pay, of course)? What if poets began setting up bitcoin or Paypal accounts (or some other alternative) and that readers knew they could send a couple of dollars when the spirit so moved them? This would enable poets to avoid the book hurdle that keeps them from getting support (for the most part) from at least two of the support options mentioned above. This would enable readers to connect directly with poets and provide poets with a greater sense of the response their work is getting. The money from such endeavors might be miniscule, and for most might be non-existent (after all, readers still have to come across your work somehow) but could it really be much less than poets receive now?

Most importantly it would empower everyone with the ability to support work that matters to them, to make it clear that poetry is alive and is for everyone. Even if you couldn’t afford to send anything, you might be moved (and feel you had permission) to contact the poet with a few kind words.

Really, what have we got to lose?

Rita Mae Reese has received a Paumanok Poetry Prize, a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers’ Award, a Stegner fellowship, and a “Discovery”/The Nation award. Her poems and stories have appeared in dozens of journals. Her first book, The Alphabet Conspiracy, was published by Arktoi Books/Red Hen Press. She is currently working on a book of poetry about Flannery O’Connor entitled The Book of Hulga. You can visit her online at www.ritamaereese.com.

Milkweed Editions, October 2010.

For the most part, I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t mean with poetry, or with prose, but with life. Most days, there’s a devilish beast at the bottom of my spine telling me I’ve got it all wrong. What have you done with your life? Little selfish word-eater, time-waster, navel gazing narcissist. Get a real job. Help someone. Do something. Solve problems. Grow up. But other days, especially when I’m on the road and sharing poems with strangers, I think it’s all going to work out, and that in some ways I am helping, even if just by pointing at the pain and the joy and saying “Yeah, me too. I see it, too.”

The most recent poetry tour was 1335 miles, 11 events in 8 days, and 9 total days of car travel. When traveling with 2 dear friends and poets, Adam Clay and Michael Robins, and writing a poem every day for National Poetry Month, and meeting up with other knee-deep poetry makers on the road, it does begin to feel like, well, like dropping acid. Everything feels a bit more psychedelic and nothing’s not moving or breathing or shoving itself into a poem. No abandoned cow, no unsung greasy grackle, no roadside attraction unworthy of more words. How good it is to leave your small safe room where the majority of the work gets done in quiet reflection, risk the unknown city’s welcome, risk the bloat and glutting of road-miles, and go Willy Loman some poems.

Suitcase packed with SHARKS IN THE RIVERS.

On this trip, we heard about the bombings in Boston and the explosion in West, Texas. The car was quiet and it seemed like such a messed up way to start a trip to read poems to students, and poetry fans, and the unwitting drop-ins. We texted our friends to make sure everyone was okay, and we stared out the window at the clouded-over sky. Poetry never feels like the sharpest tool. It’s not the knife, or the needle, but at some point it does open us, when we’re ready, when the world wants back in. Slowly all the words wiggled back into our chests like helpful road signs after miles of nothing, but skyline.

Somewhere between Kansas and Oklahoma.

Choosing poetry sometimes feels like having joined the circus. I eat fire. They eat swords. Together we make a few dollars for gas and laugh a lot with the small, but rowdy crowd. Just recently, on our poetry tour through the American South, I said to Adam Clay and Michael Robins, “Do you ever feel like you’re wearing less of an outfit and more of a costume?” Which was true that day. We were in Oklahoma and I was wearing gingham and things started to feel weird. That day, our waiter looked exactly like my Grandpa Frank (Francisco before he changed it) and I could hardly stop staring at him for how remarkable the resemblance was. Time shifted. Strange movie with a good director. Nothing was not the world talking directly to us.

People like to tell stories about writers, especially the ones who were, or are, particularly nuts. On the road, you hear about a short story writer who once played Russian Roulette with his workshop students, the poet that required a 6-pack of beer at the podium whenever he read, the glory, glory, and the gory of how messed up we all are, how ill-suited for the world. We aren’t famous writers, by any means, but we’re working writers so people like to know about our lives. It’s hard to explain to someone that you like to have quiet nights in, make a nice cheap dinner, hold hands, work out a little, watch some TV, pet the dog. When what you’re saying is that an amazing life can be a quiet one, a balanced one, a live-able one, it sounds made up, like the moon landing. It should all look more impossible.

On the road, people want to ask you about making a living. There’s talk about teaching and how to scrape by. That’s the hard part about it, no one’s getting rich on poetry, but maybe that’s the awesome part, too? It’s an incredibly honest art. To quote Gregory Orr: “How lucky we are/that you can’t sell/ a poem, that it has/ no value, might/ as well/ give it away./ That poem you love./ That saved your life. /Wasn’t it given to you?” In Austin, Texas an Eighth Grader asked, “Then why do you do it? If it’s not for money or fame?” And I said, “We do it because we want to deeply connect with other people, people like you.” She told us she liked the love poems the most. Then, we hit the road again.

Visiting a school in Austin, TX.

Writing can be so lonely. And it can feel at times very selfish, or even foolish. It’s not that you have to feel important to write, but you have to value yourself enough, even for the brief moment of composition, to believe that time dedicated to poetry is not wasted time. Overcoming that hurdle, that pinch at the back of the throat that’s telling you to do something else of more social or monetary value, is an essential part of the writing process. When we’re on tour, all of that becomes even clearer. We see our work connecting. The young woman who came up to me and told me how important it was to hear Spanish in a poem, how as a Mexican American in the middle of Kansas, that somehow felt really significant. No other world than this one. No way to live if not by living.

Road weary me with Michael Robins.

By the end of the tour, eyes puffy from lack of sleep and late nights, I almost didn’t want it to end. As much as I missed my dog and my man, it seemed like the road had become another way of binding us all together. After meeting so many people and hearing their stories about writing and getting by, it felt like maybe something had shifted. Sometimes, as a writer, as a human, you need to know that everyone feels plagued by their own particular past, or guilty over old mistakes, or wounded by the world, and that everyone has some odd heartbreak stuck in a shoebox at the bottom of the closet, and a stinging needle of desire somewhere in the veins. All these towns are full of strangers swinging in the sticky wonder of America and it’s okay to love every suffering and surrendering part of them.

Very road weary me with Adam Clay.

Two days ago, I was at the nail salon and the woman next to me heard me explain to someone that I was a writer. She asked what I wrote about. I shrugged and said, “The usual: Death, Love, Grief, Terrible Wonderful Life.” She was a nurse and she seemed to understand that. Then, she talked a lot about the book she was reading about Heaven and how it was real. All the women in the room perked up. They had all read this book about Heaven. They loved it. They were smiling now and excited. They wanted to know if I wrote about God. I am an atheist, so I don’t really. But I thought we could talk about love. We talked about a friend’s heartbreak and all the women nodded and we got our nails done, spoke about the heart and all its ways of getting messed up and wrecked and then right again, and felt really close for a brief second. “You should write about this,” the woman said. “About how we all understand the hurt.” I said I would. I said, “That’s the part that helps.”

Ada Limón

Ada Limón is the author of three collections of poetry, SHARKS IN THE RIVERS, THIS BIG FAKE WORLD, and LUCKY WRECK. She has received fellowships from the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center, the New York Foundation for the Arts, and won the Chicago Literary Award for Poetry. She is currently finishing her first novel, a book of essays, and a fourth collection of poems. She works as a writer and lives in Kentucky and California.

Now and again, I find myself in a rut. I recognize it in my prose, where I write long sentences with semi-colons and similar syntactical patterns on either side. I recognize it in my poetry, where I realize that the pacing of one poem basically overlaps with the one I wrote the previous week, and I could substitute lines and barely recognize the change.

When ruts hit, I turn to improv.

Jodi with her kids, having a yes moment. Photo by Jote Khalsa.

I’ve been performing improv since I was a teenager, but it became an essential part of my daily life while I was in the thick of graduate school. I’d plod away at my dissertation in the daytime, then perform on stages around Austin, Texas in the evenings. It took me longer than I’d care to admit to realize that the principles I so passionately espoused about the power of improv were also pretty ideal tools to revitalize my academic writing.

The number one rule of improv is to say “Yes.” The truth is, it’s usually vastly easier to say no. Toddlers find their strength in “No!” Teenagers find a different strength in “No.” “No” seems powerful, but eventually “No” leads to stagnation, to stasis. It’s safe, and nothing will change. But…nothing will change. Say “yes”—on stage, in your life, in your writing—and you’ll find yourself being surprised, taking risks, and having adventures.

Safe is fine. Risky is fun. And scary. And powerful. And surprising.

When we say yes to taking risks, we let our guard down. We let in ideas, thoughts, words, and stories that challenge us, that could be scary, that go beyond what we believe we “should” do or think or say.

Doing risky creative work involves talking to strangers, climbing on ledges, and challenging the authoritative voices of teachers and doctors and judges.

When you’re performing improv, you can’t decide on your own where the scene will go. You might think you’re holding a baseball bat in your hand when you walk on stage, but if your partner sees you and says “That squid needs to be underwater, STAT!” you have two choices:

You can say “No, this isn’t a squid, it’s a baseball bat!” And suddenly the momentum is shot, the reality of the scene is confused, and no one in the audience knows who to trust.

Or you can say yes to what’s offered to you, reimagine the baseball bat as a squid, and propel the scene forward: “I brought along two scuba suits, although be careful, because one of the tanks was leaky last week…” Suddenly you’ve got characters, a narrative, a goal, and even an obstacle.

When I teach writing workshops, I share tools and exercises inspired by improvisation games that force writers to surprise themselves. Most of my exercises work like an obstacle course, adding barriers, boundaries, and rules that force the writer to scramble, tumble, and reroute. There’s a freedom to writing with restrictions—you can’t think ahead, can’t plan where it’s going. You can’t really map it out. All you can do is say yes, and follow where it goes next.

When you find yourself in a rut, when you’re stuck on those same words, same phrases, same patterns…try putting arbitrary restrictions in place. Build yourself an obstacle course.

Try taking on a formal poem structure—haiku, blank verse, the sestina if you’re feeling really up for a challenge.

Or craft a prompt for yourself (or, better yet, for a fellow writer) that seems at the outset simply absurd: Write a poem where you begin with a chicken, end with a spaceship, and include the phrases “bear claw” and “yogurt breath” in the middle. Enjoy the process of writing within the parameters.

Here’s one writing exercise inspired by an improv game that I teach in my Word Play! Workshop, known in the improv world as “Blind Line.”

If we were on stage, we’d have the performers leave the room, and a host would solicit lines from the audience—lines of dialogue from movies, song lyrics, instructions you find on medicine bottles, pickup lines. The host writes each line down on a small slip of paper, and then folds these up and sprinkles them on the stage.

When the performers come back inside, they begin to act out a scene. Every few lines or so, one of them will reach down, pick up a slip of paper, and read the line aloud as if it’s exactly what she meant to say. She’ll then go further and justify that line, letting it guide the next moments in the scene. Here’s an example:

Jane: I will rule forever now that I have the golden sword of destiny!

Rob: The sword is yours! And now…you must slay the dragon that threatens our kingdom.

Jane (reading): “Do not take on an empty stomach”…for the dragon must be slain only with a full belly! Otherwise his firepower will overwhelm us and we shall all be roasted. Let us go and make a feast to tempt the dragon!

The line is incorporated into the dialogue, and it drives the movement of the scene. It’s funny, but it’s also powerful. The performers cannot decide in advance where they want the scene to go, because they’re at the mercy of the lines at their feet. It’s risky, and it’s fun, and it ends up often going in incredibly surprising directions, ones that none of the performers could possibly have imagined.

To use this as a solo poetry writing exercise, set yourself a three-minute timer. Begin to write, and when the timer sounds, finish the line you’re writing.

Then give yourself a line or phrase. You could open a book nearby and use the first phrase you spot. Or you could use a poster on the wall, a lyric from a song that’s playing, a friend’s Facebook status that you totally weren’t actually checking anyway.

Write that down as your next line, and then see what comes next. Sometimes those lines end up being just perfect. You’re writing about leaving to go off to college, and then you get the line “I’ll be back!” But sometimes it seems so random, such a non-sequitur, that you’re inclined to just brush past it, continue on where you were headed, and regard the line as just a quick deviation from the overall path.

Don’t let yourself do that—choose to shift the poem so that the line becomes part of it. Choose to break away from your plan, from where you want to go next, and follow the line. Allow yourself to write into a space that’s unfamiliar, not your style—surprise yourself.

Writing from a place of surprise will bring you deeper, will bring you farther, and will have you writing things that you didn’t know you had inside. Getting beyond what you plan to write can be amazingly powerful and freeing and inspiring.

Take the risk. Say yes.

Jodi Egerton offers workshops, editing, writing, and mentoring services as Write Good Consulting. Jodi has her Ph.D. in English from the University of Texas at Austin. During her years at UT and as an Assistant Professor of English Writing and Rhetoric at St. Edward’s University, Jodi taught classes focusing on writing strategies for small businesses, social media writing, magazine writing, and analyzing comedy. Jodi also works as a performer, and can be found on stages around Austin, Texas performing improv comedy and emceeing fundraisers for schools and non-profit organizations.

I was so thrilled to see ‘Darling’ find its first home in ‘PULP’. That issue was published a little while before my 25th birthday, so I was almost but not quite too old to be sending poems to Voiceworks! As for the process, Voiceworks is very hands on, and I so admire the time and energy the editors put into their writers’ work, especially young and emerging writers. On the other hand, I’m inclined to feel that work should be accepted or not accept as is; that there’s something sort of tricky about accepting a piece of writing conditionally, with suggested edits, especially where such edits are extensive or significant. I suppose this depends on the writer and their experiences, and whether they’re looking for feedback, or to workshop what they’ve written. And honestly, who doesn’t love a reader—someone who will read your work closely and offer a detailed response of some sort? That Voiceworks also offers feedback to both successful and unsuccessful contributors is something else I really appreciate.

Q: You’ve just released your debut collection Snowline with Whitmore Press, congratulations! What did you do when you realised you would be 2012′s feature poet?

Thank you! Although I wasn’t 2012’s ‘feature poet’ as such — I was actually joint winner of the manuscript prize with Queensland poet B. R. Dionysius, whose collection is Bowra.In 2012 Whitmore Press also put out a chapbook by Luke Beesley, Balance, which is just stunning (and not only for its bright, lime jelly-green cover, which is so ace in itself!)—as well as a new full-length collection, Available Light by Graeme Kinross-Smith.

As for winning the prize, I was so thrilled just to make the shortlist, especially alongside so many amazing (and often-widely published) poets, whose work I admire. The email announcing the joint-winners came through quite late, from memory, but happily my partner lives not far from a bottle-o that seems to be open all hours, so we walked there to pick up a late celebratory drink. Most likely a bottle of cheap red wine.

Q: How does publishing your first collection feel? Does it change the way you see your creative work now?

It feels pretty surreal. Seeing and holding the chapbook was the first strange thing, and then knowing that people were reading the poems was even stranger; I’d only recently—in the last couple of years—started to try and publish my writing in a few journals here and there, so I was still very nervous about the whole thing. For a long time I didn’t know the opportunities that were out there, but what I was writing then wasn’t really publishable anyway.

I’m not sure if it changes the way I see my creative work, really, because I’m always quite self-critical. I also tend to want to put the things I’ve done behind me and move on to the next thing. But on the other hand, yes, of course it does—the prize and publication of Snowline were of course so validating, and also, for me, kind of terrifying.

I also feel very fortunate that Snowline has been reviewed a few times, less than a year on; I don’t know how much attention a chapbook usually gets, by comparison to a full-length collection, but I guess I thought I’d be lucky if it got just one little mention somewhere. As far as I know, though, it’s up to three reviews, and possibly a fourth coming up online, a bit later in the year. The first was in Metre Maids, with another in the September issue of the Australian Book Review, and a ‘review short’ over at Cordite.

Each one has been so positive and generous, which of course is validating again; and sort of surprising, too—part of me was so nervous somebody was going to say, ‘why’d they pick her?!’ So it’s been excitement filled with anxiety, but that’s probably not the worst thing. I tend to think self-doubt can often be quite useful.

Q: In reading Snowline there are continual motifs of returning, shifting from awake to asleep and landscapes that evoke nostalgia. What other concrete topics surface when writing? What are you naturally drawn to?

You know, I was only vaguely aware of these recurrences and patterns before, because to begin with I was writing the poems as individual pieces, without a collection in mind. I never thought I’d be putting together a manuscript—or not any time soon—but then when it came to choosing and ordering the poems for Snowline, I started to see the repetitions in another way, and started to think about them a bit more self-consciously. Maria Takolander, who launched the collection in May 2012, counted a few of them; I think human wrists appeared six times, for example.

So I suppose I’m naturally drawn to certain images, such as wrists and snow and glass and dreams, and also to memories made material and tangible. Having said that though, such memories aren’t necessarily personal autobiographical as such, especially not the later or more recent poems; I think it’s the image or the scene I’m drawn back to. Months after Snowline was published, it was a very warm spring; my neighbours’ magnolia trees were flowering like crazy, and I live close to Geelong’s Eastern Beach, but I was still writing poems about snow, about wintery Austrian landscapes. So perhaps that says something about nostalgia too, and the way that memories or remembered spaces resurface and repeat.

Q: Clue us in to what the editorial process with Whitmore Press was like?

It was really wonderful. Anthony Lynch (my Whitmore Press publisher) is great—I really respect him as a poet, short story writer and critic, as well as an editor, and really valued working with him on Snowline.

Q: The poems ‘Rabbit’ and ‘Garlic’ are side by side, was this intentional?

Well, yes, but not in any meat and garnish kind of sense, if that’s what you’re suggesting! The ordering of the manuscript was decided over loose sheets of paper, spread out over my floor at home and shuffled around, again and again. ‘Rabbit’ and ‘Garlic’ weren’t intended as a pair as such, but I guess at the time I thought they would make good neighbours.

Q: Which poem were you most attached and why?

The answer to this question is always changing. Sometimes the poems I think don’t really ‘fit’ the collection, or the ones I’m not as fond of, are those people mention to me, or the pieces reviewers have cited (in a positive way). I must be very impressionable, because then I feel quite proud of—or at least okay about—that particular poem again.

I’m sure every writer feels his or her work change and develop, and it’s not such much that I think this or that piece is completely terrible, but more that some of them feel quite long ago, even if they’re not. It’s a sort of distancing effect, and maybe a feeling of ‘I don’t think I really write like that anymore’.

Q: Currently, what collection or poet/poem has you under its spell? What do you think we should be reading?

With poetry—and in fact, probably with other genres of writing too—I tend to be reading a few different things at once. New work by Australian writers, in various journals and magazines, is usually what sends me looking for full collections. Claire Potter’s Swallow was released a little while ago now, but it’s one I’m often returning to, and I’ve been excited to find new poems of hers here and there.

At the moment I’m also making my way through a borrowed copy of a Roy Fisher collection, and especially love a prose poem sequence called ‘Metamorphoses’, which is full of such spare yet beautiful images.

I was given Veronica Forrest-Thomson’s Collected Poems for Christmas, which very much has me under its spell—I fall for a new poem of hers each time I revisit the collection, and most recently my favourites are ‘For the Spider who Frequents Our Bath’ and ‘A Reaction to Rings’.

Another gift, a kind of hand-me-down present actually, is a book Roy Fisher’s poems. There’s
a poem in that collection I love, which is short enough to cite in full (I have a bit of a thing for
short poems, and this one is a particular favourite):

A WHITE CITY

My thoughts turn south
a white city
we will wake in one another’s arms.
I wake
and hear the steam pipe knock
like a metal heart
and find it has snowed.

And then there are a few single poems I seek out in collections and anthologies, to read again and again. Barrett Reid’s ‘The Absent Heart’ is a beautiful and devastating poem, and one I go searching for quite often. It’s in a book called Making Country, which I should probably read in full, but each time I open it, ‘The Absent Heart’ is the poem I seek out.

Q: What’s your favourite space to write in?

I’m pretty pragmatic, and I write when and where I can, which is usually at home. I don’t have a desk, but there’s a round dining table by some big windows that let in a lot of sun and overlook the street, and that space usually does the job nicely. I love to read in the bath, too, but for writing it’s pretty impractical.

Q: Can you let us in on any secret projects, or not so secret things you’re up to?

I’m a bit hopeless at keeping my own secrets – and luckily, with writing at least, I don’t have many. My biggest project at the moment is my doctoral thesis, which I’m undertaking at Deakin University. Part of that involves working on a creative artefact, which for my project is a work of fiction. I’m not very good at talking about it yet; maybe ask me for a better description (or synopsis, even) once it’s finished. The dissertation, however, is looking at elegy, melancholia and representations of trauma in magical realist literature.

Q: Will we be seeing Jo Langdon stamped onto collections in the future?

I certainly hope so, but who knows?

Jo Langdon is the author of a chapbook of poems titled Snowline (Whitmore Press, 2012). She is currently a PhD candidate at Deakin University, where she also teaches literary studies and professional and creative writing.

Storywalk 2013. Photo courtesy of Poem City.

Montpelier, Vermont is a small town (smallest capital in the United States!), but has a huge community of creative types-particularly poets, writers and artists.

Every April downtown Montpelier is inundated with poetry by local poets for the entire month: children’s, well-knowns and unknowns. More than 200 poets are featured in a full text public display in the windows of local businesses.

PoemCity2013 is the main exhibit for the event and has been happening during the month of April for the past three years in celebration of National Poetry Month. They have support from the Kellogg-Hubbard Library , Vermont College of Fine Arts, MontpelierAlive! and several other local organizations.

One of the exhibits features Storywalk, an installation of the children’s book, “Mary Had a Little Lamp,” at the Kellogg-Hubbard Library. You can see pages from the book posted all around the outside of the library building, so you can read the story as you take a stroll. There are readings, workshops and poetry related events the entire month of April to keep you busy and inspired. A popular event is the Bear Pond Poetry reading. It’s been going on for fifteen years. I hadn’t realized it’s been around for so long! It doesn’t seem so at all! All events are open to the public and free of charge. Former Vermont Poet Laureate, Ellen Bryant Voight, kicked off the beginning of the event with a reading at the Vermont State House.

Among the featured poets is the current Vermont Poet Laureate, Sydnea Lea’s “Quicksilver Spring,” “Ritual,” and “My Wife’s Back,” displayed at the Vermont Arts Council. Peggy Sapphire’s “A Woman” and April Ossman’s “His Mother’s Hair” are displayed as well. If you are wondering, yes, I do have a poem hanging in the window at the gelato place in town- right on the main drag.

I’m curious to know how other cities-and you-celebrate National Poetry Month. Have you read or written anything so far you thought was the best thing ever? Do you find you have more inspiration during the month of April?

Kris Underwood.

Kris Underwood is the Social Media Editor at Hunger Mountain, the Vermont College of Fine Arts journal of the arts. Her poetry has appeared in Literary Mama, Poetry Midwest and The Barefoot Review. Other writing has been featured at the Hunger Mountain blog, the VCFA blog: 36 College St. and the Ploughshares blog. Visit her blog at http://krisunderwood.blogspot.com/

STACEY: Hi Lucy, thanks for agreeing to answer some q’s. You run an online lit journal called Shabby Doll House, do you want to tell us a little bit about that?

SHABBY DOLL HOUSE: Hi Stacey.

Shabby Doll House (est. 2012) is an online publication that I started in order to showcase work that I felt excited about, but that didn’t seem to have a home. We publish various forms of literature alongside original visual artworks made specifically to accompany the writing. We have published short stories, poetry, tweet compilations, gchats, watercolour paintings, .gifs, photographs, collages… It is kind of a mix of everything, but I think it has developed a particular style and sense of aesthetic.

I edit the website with Sarah Jean Alexander, and we aim to curate a cohesive collection of work every quarter. The general theme or aim, I think, is to distract or prevent people from feeling lonely.

S: Seems like a good thing for a online publication to want to achieve. What is the submission process like and roughly how many pieces would you get for every issue? Are there particular things you look for when selecting?

SDH: We received around 150 submissions for the last issue and published 17 of them, so we are able to be pretty selective, which is nice. I feel really good about all of the work we have published so far.

I don’t think I can articulate what we’re looking for exactly, other than to say I’m attracted to things that feel honest/funny/sad/new/comforting to me, maybe… Generally, I just seem to know straight away if something is a good match.

I’d recommend that people wanting to submit should read the site and then send whatever feels right/real/exciting to them. I’m interested in finding innovative ways to tell stories. Interested in not feeling bored. Interested in being shocked by the possibilities of poetry… I want what we’re doing to continue evolving. I want people to us send things that they feel nervous about.

S: Another thing I have noticed with regards to Shabby Doll House is the way you seem to ‘nurture’ your current and past contributors. If you look at your tumblr, Facebook or twitter, you are always re-posting things related to people involved with SDH, I guess in the same vein as Pop Serial. You also do a ‘news roundup’ type thing. Did you start doing this intuitively and do you think it makes your publication stronger in any way?

SBH: Nice. I’m happy that you think that. I think it’s intuitive to a certain point and then I try to go beyond that and to think of different ways that we can support people’s work. I definitely want there to be a sense of community about Shabby Doll House, and I want to be able to give our contributors a platform to find a larger or different audience for their work, once we’ve published them.

But also, I think it’s a cyclical thing, because every time we publish a new person, we are introduced to their circle of friends etc. Everybody is sort of helping each other. I’m just excited that all of these people are alive at the same time as me and that, thanks to the internet, we can now work together so easily. We’re incredibly lucky in that sense. It is easier than it ever has been to find other people who are like you.

S: What is your/Shabby Doll House’s relationship with “alt lit”?

SDH: Kind of feels like being associated with alt lit is like having a brother that you don’t really get along with, because everything he says seems insane and makes you feel embarrassed, but if anybody outside of your family insults him, you feel defensive and want to protect him because he’s still your family, or something…

S: I used to feel more negatively about alt lit than I do now. I feel more open to it, and think that there are good things happening within it, you just have to pick out what you like and leave the rest. More than anything I think that alt lit is a place for people to come together, like what you were saying about community, I think it is a nice thing to have that kind of support system as a writer. How do you think being a part of “alt lit” (is it okay that I am putting it in scare quotes?) affects your writing?

SDH: I appreciate the lack of pretense,  I like that people don’t feel the need to dress their emotions up in literary devices. I think that’s what I feel most excited about and affected by in relation to my writing.

I think there is more to it than that though. I feel very fortunate to be part of a group of writers who work hard and support each other, and I feel encouraged by the responses I get from them. I think I’m more productive because I’m part of something that’s bigger than just me. I feel like I’ve met people who want to do the same things that I want to do, for the first time in my life probably, so as much as it is easy to complain about a lot of things within ‘the community’, I think we’re all extremely lucky to have collided somehow.

When you look at how people’s closest friends are scattered around the whole world, you can understand the extent to which these people need each other. I think it’s going to be interesting to see what happens to ‘it’ and to everybody, as time goes on/things develop.

S: Yeah, I feel interested in that also. It’s nice to feel like you will always have an audience, particularly because that audience happen to be your friends. What does the future have in store for Shabby Doll House?

SDH: We will do three more issues this year, and there are going to be a bunch of readings in the summer time in the US and Canada. Also we’re going to be putting together a print book in the fall with new content from some of our past contributors, so that’s something I’m really looking forward to.

You can read past issues of Shabby Doll House here (http://shabbydollhouse.com/) and you can contribute by emailing shabbydollsubmissions@gmail.com

Stacey Teague’s fave types of nuts are almonds, pistachios and cashews. Least fave are brazil nuts and walnuts. Blogs at staceyteague.tumblr.com

In his 2001 poem “Challenges to Young Poets,” Lawrence Ferlinghetti (born 1919) says “To be a poet at sixteen is to be sixteen; to be a poet at forty is to be a poet.” (He’s probably referencing the 19th century artist Eugene Delacroix, who said something similar.)

Jessy Randall.

I disagree. I think to be a poet at sixteen is to be a poet, and to be a poet at forty is to be a poet. But I do agree that most teenage poets do not stay poets, and I lament that.

When I was in high school I knew many great poets. I was in class with them. I saw them every day. I read their poems every week. I knew they were much better than I was. I KNEW it, objectively. (In college I would argue against the idea of objective quality as hard as I argued for it in high school, but that’s another story.)

Everyone wrote poetry then. Some people hid it more than others, but I was an editor of the high school literary magazine and I’m telling you, EVERYONE wrote poetry. Even the people you would least suspect.

But then, somewhere along the line, they all stopped (except me). I wish they hadn’t. They were so good! I would like to read what they would have written, if they’d kept on writing.

I don’t usually try to defend poetry or say that it helps the world. I’m usually not certain that poetry does anything except make me (and some other people) occasionally happy or sad or some other emotion. This week, however, I read a poem that made me think poetry might serve a larger function.

After the bombs went off at the Boston Marathon, everyone around me (physically and virtually) was upset and didn’t know what to say or do. We mostly threw up our hands. Maybe we reached out to each other a little bit, but mostly we threw up our hands, as we do after school shootings (see this article in The Onion).

Poet Scott Poole, however, wrote a poem. I know Scott a little bit. We read together last year in Spokane, Washington. I’m a huge fan. He is hilarious. Not this time, though. Here’s the poem he shared on Facebook:

To Run, a prayer for Boston

To run
is to rise above the weak spirit
is to take on pain
is to push pain in the chest
with both palms

stumbling over garbage,
gravel, fragments of life,

is to say I will take you
on in the street.
Every breath of mine
is a battering ram,

shoving, crushing,
swinging a hammer of air.

I am a body of fast moving blood
inhaling you
taking you in like a tank.
I will consume your hate.

I will run straight into you
as if you were a finish line of joy,
picking up the fallen along the way
and you will never stop me,
you will never
stop me.

Soon I was receiving this poem from other friends, friends with no personal connection to Scott. I received it maybe four times this way. Then, somewhere along the line, someone turned the poem into a more-easily-shareable image. I received the image perhaps six times. Then the poem appeared in a literary magazine and on Boston’s NPR station. It’s on many other sites now.

So maybe we actually do get something out of poems, sometimes. All of us. Hope, and comfort, and a feeling of shared humanity, which we always need, but sometimes need very much.

In his poem “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower,” William Carlos Williams wrote “It is difficult / to get the news from poems / yet men die miserably every day / for lack / of what is found there.” Is that really true? Poet Aaron Anstett doubts it. Aaron once told me that he doesn’t think anyone ever died from lack of poetry. We laughed. Upon reflection, though, I’m not so sure.

Aaron also says that poetry isn’t a way to make a living, but it is a way to live your life. Teenagers, and others, please keep writing poems. I’m going to need things to read when I am old. Thank you.

Red Hen Press, September 2012.

Jessy Randall’s poems, poetry comics, and other things have appeared in Asimov’s, McSweeney’s, Painted Bride Quarterly, and Rattle. They have also been hung from trees, stuffed into birdhouses, and sold in gumball machines. Her latest book is INJECTING DREAMS INTO COWS (Red Hen, 2012); her website is http://personalwebs.coloradocollege.edu/~jrandall/ ; and she blogs about library shenanigans at http://libraryshenanigans.wordpress.com/. Sometimes her friends make devil horns behind her in photographs.

Sugar On a Rope:

He told me potatoes were complicated. I know this is true because I wrote it on a scrap of paper and saved it in my back pocket. Some conversations later, I retrieved the scrap of paper from the lint trap in my dryer. Apparently I had laundered the words when I washed my jeans. The scrap of paper looked a bit like a former leaf, except I could see these words in faded ink: potatoes are complicated and some poems are born in badness. The trouble is I cannot remember the conversation that produced these quotes. I don’t remember anymore where these words came from.

I don’t always know what to keep and what to let go. I’m not the sort to let anything go. There are scraps of paper all over my house. For example, these are the words next to my kitchen sink: We don’t even need to talk about houses on the hill. As writers we deal with the hanging on and the not knowing when to let go.

When he talks to me, he uses panoramic strokes, coaxing me to see the big picture. And for a bit of time, I am right there with him, seeing the big picture. And in fact, I am enjoying the wide view his words offer . . . but then something happens as we keep talking. It is as though we go around a bend, chattering and laughing.

But the poetry-gene activates and the next thing I know I am on my knees, examining something minute, something telescopic.

Later, I will find more random words on scraps of paper:

sugar on a rope, failed harbor

What does it mean to want to be heard?

Little men lined up like starfish on the edge of a tidal pool

Did anything happen in 1882?

Some of these words will find homes in my poems. Some of these words will end as lint in my dryer. And (I am sorry to admit) I am not likely to remember the walk along the river, the wide blue sky, the way back to my car. I won’t remember taking these photos.

*

When Someone Picks You Wheat:  

Comes a time we have known before, when we feel a bit out of sorts. Maybe the rain gutters on your house are threatening to rip off your eaves? Probably you are reluctant to climb the ladder and address the problem? Maybe you are feeling like Cali’s new black tire (what happened to the pink one?!) lost between the storm and the front door and no one has noticed you are missing? It may be I am not speaking about gutters and eaves, doors and tires. In an antique aqua blue vase next to my bed is a bouquet of wheat stalks. A few years ago someone read a short story I had written about wheat fields. And then a few went for a drive along the Hi-Line, thinking to take a photo of the crop and send me the photo. Others thought to stop and pick some stalks. Someone parted with a favorite vase. When I realize I am feeling invisible, or under-powered and not willing to climb ladders to save my eaves, the wheat stalks cheer me on. And when I say wheat stalks, I mean to say wheat pickers.

Trailing
First published by Free Fall Magazine in Calgary, Alberta.

He told me once that wheat was patient. If I needed
help with waiting, I should come to this farm field. Between

these stalks of sway and pause, and the horizoned Little Belts,
white pelicans flash and fish the river breaks. I trail the red rock

bank on Jeep, a buckskin mare. We climb dried-up gulches, thread
through bursts of orange paintbrush and bitterroot blooms

of baby-girl-pink. The sky is lonely when it is solid blue- this is why
it follows you. He called it the tag-along shadow. Two strips

of jerky, half of a water canteen. Three ravines to the backside
of Crow Pond. Jeep chomps along the edges of the field, I slip

the red blanket from her sweaty back. The west wind hushes shhhh,
think softly. Gray green yucca, white cottoned milk pods tickle

my bare legs. The more earth touches you when you are young,
the stronger you stand when you are ancient. I circle the rings of teepee

rock, spread the blanket down. Many palms have smoothed
this woven fabric. Jeep swishes her tail once. She’s not my horse-

this is not my dream. He told me once he knew where ghosts come
from. I take in his breath when he exhales. He’s been here forever.

*

 Trespass 

One year my Christmas tree stayed in its stand until March before I hauled it outside to the curb. Twisted girl that I am, there are fluctuating moments in my life when I recall that year fondly. Maybe what I mean is painfully. That year I thought life had trespassed me. My brother talked me through those times. Told me when we learn everything we need, fits inside one Wal-Mart bag, then we’ve learned a liberating lesson. And now, some years later, we re-talked this in the cab of his 1960 Dodge.  Brother, daughter, dog and me. This is the brother who is good at restoring things. Once this pickup gets back to what it was originally meant to be, he will start on something else.

We were on our way to walking his latest dog along the river. This one had been rescued hours shy of being put down at the shelter. Eight months of constant care, she was a new and different dog. How far could I walk, he asked.  Five miles? Eight? He had things to show us. He stood along the river bank, pointing downstream. From here to there and back?

Yes. Sometimes the best path means losing sight of the river for awhile, a bit of trespass might be involved, he said.

Slow talk, long walk –we watched his dog chase gophers. This is the brother with some of the best story-telling ways. It’s all about pacing with a few teasing touches, he explained to my daughter. The longer we walked, the more she grinned – she knew where we were going. No matter which part of my family we spend time with when we visit Back Home, she’s discovered we end up way, way downstream looking down and across the water to where we (not she) grew up.

We aren’t allowed access to the other side anymore. The power camp is gone, but if you squint just right you can see the water fountain and the apple orchard and the birch tree we used as second base. The first canyon where we ice-skated on the ponds, and the second hill where we flew kites. People from town drive out to this point, sit in their cars and take in the sight. Unless they get out of their cars and step across the barrier fencing they miss what the river is about. One hundred yards beyond the no-trespass sign is when you start to feel the power of water falling.

*

Don’t look directly at the shadow:

A day after Robb arrived for her annual visit, they piled into Dad’s pickup – Mom in the middle with my dad driving and Robb to my mother’s right. In the back, no doubt, was Roadey, my mother’s one-hundred-pound dog and a cooler with water and juices, carrot and celery sticks. Maybe even some of my mother’s cupcakes. Road trips without Mom’s food in a cooler haven’t happened yet.

Robb has made the annual Trip Back To Montana for at last fifty years. She is my mother’s best friend. By now, this threesome must have driven every back road and seen all there is to see Out Here. For those of you who have been reading this blog for a few months, you may have noticed how many times my dad’s landscape photos have shown up in here. He never tires of our vast landscape nor of  taking photos of the same plateaus, buttes, rock formations and faint wagon trails he visits on these drives.

This trip, however, Robb asked my dad to stop in the middle of the gravel road. Take a picture of the praying hands she suggested in her back-easternly way. At first Dad couldn’t see what she was referring to-on account of the shadows along the ridge. Then he realized because of the shadows, the praying hands were possible to be seen.

At 12:51 A. M. this morning my BlackBerry buzzed on my nightstand. I rolled over in bed, knowing I had a new message from my dad (he doesn’t sleep at night). He had sent me the above photo and a quick note about what he’d learned. When we let shadows do what they do best, we see what they suggest.

What I like best about good poetry are the shadows between the words. Often the poem that vibrates inside me is the one which only suggests what might be revealed. I live for the gradual realization we experience when we let shadows work their tricks on us.

Sherry O’Keefe, a descendant of Montana pioneers, grew up in a power camp on the Missouri River. Residing now near the Yellowstone River, she is a poetry editor for IthacaLit and an assistant editor for Fifth Wednesday Journal. Her work can be found in Camas: The Nature of the West, Terrain.org, Art & Document  and many other journals. Her most recent collection of poetry, Cracking Geodes Open, was released by Aldrich Press in 2012. Visit her: http://toomuchaugust.wordpress.com.

My thought is to show some of the process. I write poems and longer prose things. I read them, too. I find myself sometimes overwhelmed by the completeness of the world. Meaning, first, everything seems already to have been done, and second, that everyone else working now seems already to have finished their work while mine feels perpetually just-begun.

I think this is in part because what I privately (and not very usefully to my writing sometimes) think of as capital-L-Literature is what is finished, vetted, authorized, paid-for. And most of what I make is not these things. So for my post here for Poetry Month, what I offer is a selection, both transcribed and photographed, of pages and fragments from my notebooks. These are where my writing comes from. Which isn’t to say what gets written here becomes the writing. I write things down, glue things in these notebooks. Later, sometimes, I come back to them like I would to notes for a paper or an exam.

(I was reading a friend’s manuscript to offer a critique. Those notes are on the top left side: “Sarah’s poems: caves/depth/rot-softness-not necessarily a positive attribute/ears, disjointed body/insides of things/dankness/mineral/telephone/[illegible]/animal”. Below that, a to-do list and “now we are/ old enough/we know/we can die”. On the right-hand side of the page, some drawings and to-do lists.)

(From a very recent notebook. The far left page: part of the novel I am working on [“Approaching Naples in a...]. The page that is vertical looks like reading notes of some kind. On the right-hand page, working out plot or connections between elements in the novel. Middle of the page: “socialization for subservience | 1619” [I am not sure any more what that date means there] and then below that “getting to know dates the way/some writers know characters/ the century”.)

(From a notebook from February 2010, some to-do lists. In the middle of the page, “START WHERE/YOU ARE//USE WHAT/YOU HAVE” and a fragment of a poem, “we wanted both honeybees/and cheap, instant/connection to home//we wanted to migrate/with no pain”. Bottom left, “Who appointed you arbitrator of what I (can) know?”.) Background = my current notebook.

(A page from the notebook I used up until we left England to live in Belgium, where I collected pieces of plants I saw daily. I wanted to remember the English landscape I lived in very precisely. At top left, with arrow: “First snowdrop, 2012, Jan. 9”.)

(The notebook I am using now. I sometimes find the squares hard to write on, somehow constricting. This is me working out where things might go in the novel I am working on. From top down: “APRIL—STILL//[Public Record] 3480// [Film Stills/inside tsunami] 823// [FIRST THINGS FIRST] 536//[LiST of SURViVoRS] 1819// [SNOW] 1492 // [AFTER QUAKE/ON ROAD] // [Blandinsky?] 3097 // [MODES OF COUNTING] 2231 // [SHe sees HIM] 189 // [DEATH CERTIFICATES] 1191 // [B'sky?] // [Book of Beginnings] 3778 // [RAIN] 842// [Dictionary]”.)

Éireann Lorsung

Éireann Lorsung is an American writer (two books of poems, MUSIC FOR LANDING PLANES BY, Milkweed Editions 2007 and HER BOOK, Milkweed 2013; prose published in DIAGRAM, The Collagist, and Bluestem; poems in many journals). After doing her BAs and MFA in the city of her birth, she went to France to work—then to England to study some more. She now lives in Belgium, where she runs a small press and edits a magazine. She likes talking to people about writing, art, and ideas. She also likes spicy food, Singlish, cushions that look like biscuits, and the word ‘turpentine’.