On the middle day we saw them,
As if we had to be evenly distant
From everything made by man—
Both approaching and leaving known
Worlds. Purple, blue, yellow
By the uncounted gross across a tide
So low it shivered, bruised by coastal rocks.
A day, a night, half a day more and there
We found ourselves, racing the rising waves
Around a headland crag, rough sky
Heavy as the gear lashed to our backs,
Its weight with us gouging holes
Across the slate sands. Until stillness.
And in the muffled, moving gray above,
A wing beat slight in turning, ravens' calls
Muted, a sound of feathers turning
Down the cliffs.
It was then we found ourselves, resting,
Surrounded by a concentration of them,
All fingers, clinging, climbing to nowhere
As kelp would, if it might, deathly
In their stony dreams, sure, secure even,
And it made no sense, our joy
At such unexpected colors—violet, turquoise,
Amber—at such immutable light that hung,
Pure and unknowing and unchanged.
Publishing Into That Mystery: An Interview with Eileen Myles
A conversation with Eileen Myles, eminent poet, novelist, performer, art journalist, and artist, about their exhibition poems, on view at Bridget Donahue through January 13, 2019, concurrent with the publication of their new collection of poems Evolution (Grove Press, 2018).Read Article
American Lit: An Interview with Jacob Minasian
In the case of this collection, it was very much about trying to process the complexities of our decisions as a society during and after the 2016 election. My first attempts at writing after the election felt obvious, overt, like I was yelling what everyone else was yelling in almost the exact same way. I knew I had to approach the situation with a more subtle, more effective tone.Read Article