I teach a class on Thursday nights, which meant that by the time I could make it up to AWP this weekend, most of the conference would have already been over. So I’m home, wishing I were visiting with my writing friends and mentors in a city that actually has snow.
Instead, a blog tribute to a handful of them, since I’m in on a Friday night and reading their poems:
Bridget Talone – ‘Once, in your hair, there was a hand. It was the best barrette. Knuckled. A wealth of sandwich swords & no one in stabbing range.’
Erica Wright – ‘Sharks, you say, and they don’t blink in their fish tanks. No need to cover carnage when prey presses its face to the glass.’
Matthew Pennock – ‘We’re all waiting for something, Charlie Brown. The Great Pumpkin visits only the sincerest of patches, and we have not a shred of hypocrisy here.’
Timothy Donnelly – ‘The clouds part revealing the advocates of clouds, believers in people, ideas and things, the workers of the united fields of clouds, supporters of the wars to keep clouds safe, the devotees of heartfelt phrase and belief you can change with water over time.’
David Yezzi – ‘The water off these rocks is green and cold. The sandless coast takes the tide in its mouth, as a wolf brings down a deer or lifts its child.’
Betsy Bonner – ‘Samos lay me down to sleep, thirty brown-stained fish in a yawning cove. Weary of waves, urchins and cigarette butts, the abandoned lighthouse couldn’t care less if we stay or go.’
Ricardo Maldonado – ‘On these ends, stout orioles corroded: skeletal tarps in a cardboard nocturama. Troupes congress and pound southward.’
Alexandra Wilder – ‘When we say aloud the word that destroys, that’s when you slow your old run-and-slump, hitch high your skirt like a bad apple in the hand.’
I have ignored – and therefore butchered – all the line breaks here, so you’ll just have to click through to get to what the poets actually intended.