Sunrise at the high noon Angels sent you to my side Doubts arising like the full moon As our hearts silently collide. The Gods must know the pla...
I put so much of myself online, for so long, that I woke up one day in 2011 with nothing left. I spent the year following as a couch cushion, a soft fixture of my own red velvet sectional and the leather davenports of too many trained professionals.
I met a homeless man once//who drew my picture in pencil on a subway// street people I have encountered//strangely have been the most peaceful people to me// this man who drew me// it was beautiful.
A few days ago my daughter's Instagram account was hacked and sold to a different owner in less than 15 minutes! A year and half of her work was erased completely.
One of the most gratifying pieces of feedback that I can receive is how much a reader can relate to my offerings, as if it was written just for them. I love hearing that, as I imagine other writers do as well. It keeps fueling the fire.
I am a believer in the "never say never" philosophy. I think it is important to stay open to possibility, and avoiding absolutes often saves a lot of "I told you so's."
Earlier this month, poet and contributing editor to Fogged Clarity Daniel DeVaughn interviewed the distinguished poet (and poetry editor of The Kenyon Review) David Baker about Robert Frost.
Where are we feeling stress the most in our bodies? Are we even aware of the gripping tension we hold? How can we let go? How can we transform worries...
The contemporary kid's dawn-to-dusk schedule runs over an unusual fact: The most crucial, the most fussed-about, the most prideful chunk of the long-ago kid's education is gone. Completely absent. One-hundred-percent missing in action.
Little, yet fierce. That's precisely how Emily Dickinson, a poet first appeared to me in the pages of an anthology when I was 11-years-old. She would appear again later when my life was splintering away in trauma due to divorce (and I felt like eleven again).
But don't the day's little moments make you want to laugh, cry, or sigh with relief? Doesn't it all add up to love, or something like it? And isn't that worth pausing to remember? A haiku is only seventeen syllables, after all.
If anyone could predict which books will sell, publishing wouldn't be the dumb business it really is. Publishers have always made their livings guessing, pretending we have fingers on the pulse of what readers want and need.
Contemplating the similarities and differences between British and American poetry, having steeped myself in both for some time now, I have been slicing my experiences as a reader along two axes: innovation and craft.
Can it ever be? I ask myself over and over. Can it ever be, new and alive like morning clover With dew drops a'glistening?
With apologies to T.S. Eliot, April is not the cruelest month. February is far more foreboding. Even as hope springs eternal, Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow. We're tempted to crawl back into our proverbial holes and, if we have no sweetheart, we may feel like staying there well past Valentine's Day.
After reading Timothy Liu's latest book of poetry, Don't Go Back to Sleep, I knew I had to interview him immediately. We met for soup in Chinatown and talked about poetry, coming out as a Mormon, and non-possessive love.