A. Anupama
When it is cold and windy at night, the morning often reveals many deer lying in the garden, sheltering in the downslope under dogwood and forsythia. Here, they find a break from the breath of December on their not-quite-winter coats. The rest of the yellow leaves from the maple fell last night, making golden beds.…
Just a reminder if you’re shopping this weekend that poetry books make beautiful gifts. Some nice sales, some good reasons…
The curve of each line of each branch in each tree smiles at us. Clear, dark skies keep pouring heaps of stars into the lines. Silhouetted in the shrubs next to the road, several deer watch us pass by. Gratitude moves in all directions. I wish all poems were like this. It might take me…
Making art is a good way to get to know yourself and others, and it usually feels good. Sometimes not. Sometimes you can get in trouble, as my daughter did in her art class the other day when she was being less-than-cautious with scissors. She's in high school now and definitely knows better, but when…
My favorite word is “or,” a hinge on which possibilities can open and close securely, which is an obvious necessity when using prose. But it’s more than that to me. Ask a question using “or,” and you will understand. It requires you to imagine what might be. If you really wish to complete the thought…
Landscapes fade to gold around here. Gold is their resting state, revealed only just before the dark. Whole hillsides melt into caramel. Sunrise seems to last all day long, but the light dissolves a little more week by week. Light a candle before you read a poem at night. To make anything with this landscape,…
Perfect for a Diwali mood, I’m listening to the live broadcast of the Ragas Live Festival, a 24-hour cycle of ragas and raga-inspired world music at Pioneer Works in Brooklyn, 8pm 10/22 until 8pm 10/23. Listening in on WKCR is an annual tradition for me. A transcendent night, just begun. Already at 9pm, a pair…
At least it’s an affordable luxury, this craft of poetry. Catch a phrase loitering around the alley of your mind, and find a place to keep it. Pretty phrases are as plentiful as the red-gold leaves turning the road into a bed of glowing embers. I'm pretty sure I spend more on my poetry practice…
We should sing ourselves awake. While I don't think poetry is exactly the opposite of a lullaby, I think it can rouse and invigorate us. Poetry is both a way of admitting that we often sleepwalk through life and a way to call upon a certain, deeper self to advise. Since this is about ourselves…
Poets are monster slayers. I have always thought so, but I don't picture a pen as the weapon. A pen is a pretty wimpy object, if you really look at one. And I don't think our weapon is some mystical effect arising from poets' voices, which aren't any more shatteringly shrill than anyone else's. Poets…
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