writer | teacher | artist
I wrote this poem in 2019, revised it last year, submitted it a few places with no luck, and then just kind of gave up on it. It's basically a play-by-play of the shortest day of the year in Alaska, but I think it's the longest poem I've ever written!
It’s not like I remember it, this planet. The blues and greens that painted me as a child have been replaced with browns and grays, the color of dry bones. Crouched here among these windowed walls, roofless with decay, I long for my youth. What winter could devastate me then, having known only a few silent snows, spectral with belonging?
People say "necessity is the mother of invention," but did I need to create a new poetic form?Maybe. In any case, I'd like to share with you a form I came up with called the "Jubilee."
Starting August 1st, I'll be starting my 30-day journey with Tupelo Press as part of the ongoing fundraiser to keep them in the business of publishing great poetry.
If you consider yourself a writer (or even if you don't, but you've ever had to write something for someone other than yourself), you've probably experienced writer's block, and read about ways to combat it. Still, I figure it's always beneficial to hear good advice more than once (especially if you're hard-headed like me).
What Connie Wanek does best in her third book, On Speaking Terms, is relate to her audience.
I'm not saying we can celebrate just yet, or that there won't continue to be unintended consequences of this quarantine. But it is imperative that we look for the silver linings.
When Kenny shot Charlie, no one was really sure how to react. It wasn't because it was all that surprising — Kenny had had it out for Charlie since day one — but we didn't know whether to rejoice at the end of a feud or dread whatever was coming next.
He was 26 and I was 18 when we met. I'm sure it took a few days for him to recognize me as a regular, since I rarely wear the same outfit or order the same drink twice at one establishment. But if he didn't remember me by the end of my first month at school, I'm sure he knew me by the time I showed up later that fall, soaked to the skin in my t-shirt and ill-fitting skinny jeans.
Caitlin M.S. Buxbaum 