Aimee Nezhukumatathil - How A Poem Happens

Aimee Nezhukumatathil is featured on How A Poem Happens today. Check it out here!

Aimee is the author of Miracle Fruit and At the Drive-In Volcano.  I've read Miracle Fruit and I’ve witnessed one of her readings in person. Aimee is brilliantly funny and her work commands attention when read aloud or to yourself from a page. What she does with food in words could challenge an Iron Chef.


At the Drive-In Volcano

Miracle Fruit

Fishbone

Birthday Book

 Arriving in the mail today.... Edgar Allen Poe and the Juke-Box - Uncollected Poems, Drafts, Fragments. I've been interested in this book for some time. It's a collection of previously unpublished works of Elizabeth Bishop. I've never read a lot of Bishop but I was interested in this when it first came out. Elizabeth Bishop had a reputation for being a real stickler about her work. Many have theorized that she would not have been happy to see this material in print, but I'm a sucker for things about poets that shed more insight into who they are and what impacts their work. Hence I've taken an interest in to books like Plath's Letters Home, Plath's Journals, Ted Hughes's letters, Anne Sexton's letters, to name a few. Anyway, this was a birthday present that arrived today and I'm anxious to start reading it.


On another note, tonight I saw Gretchen Rubin at the Plaza Library where she talked about The Happiness Project. An overflow crowd. Fascinating woman and story. More on this in the near future.


The Happiness Project: Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to Sing in the Morning, Clean My Closets, Fight Right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun

Poetic Vacuum

I’m in London, or so it would seem. The fog here has settled in this past week like an occupying army. It was cool at first, but the bullet gray is growing old and is quite depressing.

Yesterday I was certain I was coming down with something. Motivation was gone after work last night. Felt better this morning but not exactly great.

It was also yesterday that I felt there was no poetic dialogue going on. I don’t just mean that I felt a lack of connection with any other poets – but I felt there was no internal poetry dialogue with myself. I don’t especially like it when I feel there is a poetic vacuum. Do you know what I mean? Anyone else ever feel this way?

Where's the humanity?

I feel a deafening poetic silence about me this morning.