by David Jarecki
 The Book of Men and Women, by David Biespiel “That’s what’s interesting to me. The state of being both lost and found.”
David Biespiel is widely recognized as one of the leading poets of his generation, a liberal commentator on national politics and also an expert in teaching writing. He has taught at every level of education, from a one-room schoolhouse to large university campuses, and has lectured and spoken to audiences throughout the United States. In 1999, looking to create an independent writing studio, Biespiel founded the Attic in Portland, Oregon’s historic Hawthorne district.
His publications include Shattering Air, Pilgrims & Beggars, Wild Civility, and most recently The Book of Men and Women, which was among the Poetry Foundation’s selections of top poetry of 2009. In addition, he has been honored with a Wallace Stegner Fellowship in Poetry, the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Award, a Lannan Fellowship, and a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in Literature.
In The Book of Men and Women, Biespiel addresses the times in which we live with a perspective that shifts from global to introspective with ease. Always eager and willing to find new layers of metaphor, Biespiel goes to one of our oldest knonw source documents — The Book of Genesis — to help get the collection started. When we met in January to discuss the book, one of the first things we talked about was what it’s like to “cover” Genesis, and whether or not it benefits the reader to brush up on the ancient script.
I recently heard you mention that the Bible, specifically the Old Testament, informed some of poems in the book. As it relates to your opening poem, “Genesis 12,” do you think someone needs to be knowledgeable of this particular chapter to appreciate the piece?
I wrote it under the assumption that a reader would google Genesis: 12.
Essentially I was trying to write my own version and interpretive dramatization of that particular chapter of the Bible. The word I use is covering. I cover Genesis: 12 like the band on the corner covers “House of the Rising Sun.”
The Biblical Genesis: 12 is the point where Abraham is leaving his homeland and headed to Canaan. That’s the transition. If he doesn’t leave Ur, or wherever he was from, and go to Canaan, a lot of things don’t happen. Essentially, Abraham is a fanatic; his trek is related to his fanaticism.
My view of fanatics is that they’re so far around the bend in their fanaticism, that they come right around to the edge of doubt. If you could flip them, you could do so easily, and they wouldn’t know what they’re doing. People who come out of fanaticism often say things like, “Wow, it was like a bad dream.” Or an addiction.
I wanted to tell my version of the story from this awareness. The poem ends with the sentence, “I’m certain I’ve lost my mind.” Of course that’s what the fanatic has done: he’s lost his old mind and taken on a new one.
In the end, the poem is trying to look at Abraham as a prophet who’s unsure. The whole experience isn’t that pleasurable for him.
What the poem doesn’t address is the larger question that relates to the transitional moment in Biblical history, regardless of whether it’s factual. Instead it addresses the emotional state. That’s what’s interesting to me. The state of being both lost and found. And that’s not a Jewish tradition, per se. It’s more of an Evangelical tradition I suppose.
Abraham knows what he’s doing, but he also knows that by doing it, he’s wandering. It initiates this type of wandering motif throughout the entire collection.
You can find out more about The Book of Men and Women, Biespiel’s sixth book, at the University of Washington Press. For more about David Biespiel and his work, visit his blog.
 Dave Jarecki writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction from his home in Portland, Ore. Read and listen to his work, as well as the work of guest writers, at DaveJarecki.com.
by Sarah J. Sloat
 Hotel Imperium, by Rachel Loden “Dan Rather rents by the month; everybody feels sorry for him, even the pimps.”
I usually avoid reading political poetry, the poor thing so often abused with polemic and righteousness, so I was skeptical when a friend first recommended Rachel Loden’s “Hotel Imperium.” Would I enjoy a collection largely preoccupied with Richard Nixon and the Soviet Union?
Luckily Loden is that rare bird who writes political poetry that’s both serious and entertaining. She recently published a new book called Dick of the Dead, which sent me back to my shelf to re-read “Hotel Imperium.” In her poems, she takes on politicians, it’s true, but also celebrity, sexuality, pop culture, power, money and revenge. A heady mix, and occasionally campy.
You can read a selection from “Hotel Imperium” here, but for a taste of Loden’s wit, here’s the beginning of “Blues for the Evil Empire:”
Consider the late Eurasian entity, how it lumbered
into the groggy arms of history where it was
buried. Which is more than you can say
for Lenin’s body, chilly like a mammoth
in an ice floe, if less hairy….
For “Just One Thing” I asked Loden this burning question,
Can you tell me a little about the clientele at the Hotel Imperium?
Well, let me say first that it was once a very grand hotel, but it has seen cheerier days. The lobby is trending toward seedy, like the clientele; both smell of ancient cigarettes and alcohol. Gathered in it, at any point: revolutionists, opportunists, adventurers, ladies of the night and fading men of the hour.
Various central bankers, corporate Sturmführers and other financial desperados turn up for assignations they might prefer to keep out of the Wall Street Journal.
A celebrated wealth manager (and Ponzi schemer) is reluctant to give up his usual lunch table in the restaurant, where he politely ignores the entreaties of a long line of potential marks. The more he rebuffs them, the more frantically they press him with cash.
Other regulars: General Dzhokhar Dudayev of the Chechen Republic, eluding the laser-guided missile that has his name on it; J. Edgar Hoover in a short black cocktail sheath, drinking a mint julep; and Felix Dzerzhinsky, founder of the Bolshevik secret police, jollier company for J. Edgar since statues of him started going back up in Moscow and Minsk.
D-list pop stars. Card sharks. A girl who looks alarmingly like Little Bo Peep (but why are her petticoats in tatters?).
Dan Rather rents by the month; everybody feels sorry for him, even the pimps.
Tricia Nixon Cox and Julie Nixon Eisenhower wouldn’t be caught dead there, but rumor is that they rent a room once a year and fill it with flowers. Nobody seems to know why.
Svetlana Stalin; Woody Allen; Jayne Mansfield (without her platinum-blonde scalp, left tangled in a windshield near Biloxi); James Brown.
Retired ambulance drivers, driven mad by the things they’ve seen.
Some cinder-boy, who sleeps in the fireplace. A guy named Bluto. An ancient bellman, stooped and halting, cursing the elevator which is, as always, broken.
Odd duos: Bebe Rebozo and Johnny Stompanato; Osip Mandelstam and Madonna Ciccone.
A mathematician nurses his whiskey at the bar, realizing that the tools available to him, such as logic, can’t explain what’s going on.
He gives up and picks a fight with a poet, whom he accuses of necrophiliac designs on the corpse of Ludwig Wittgenstein.
Other poets debate fine points of literary taxonomy to the point of fisticuffs. Adjunct professors panhandle at the door.
Pets are strictly verboten, but some say that on certain nights in the threadbare hallways, the spirit of a plucky little dog named Checkers surrenders to the moon.
Find out more about “Hotel Imperium” here and about Loden at her website.
 Sarah J. Sloat lives in Germany, where she works in news. Sarah likes red wine, olives and stinky cheese, rather like Marlon Brando in The Godfather. Her chapbook “In the Voice of a Minor Saint” was published by Tilt Press in 2009. She writes at The Rain in My Purse.
by Nathan Moore
 Most Wanted, by Jeff Encke “Most Wanted is a multifaceted animal. It has many heads. It wears many hats.”
For this installment of Just One Thing, I asked Jeff Encke about his collection Most Wanted: A Gamble in Verse, which I find both intriguing and beautiful. The work opens up so many questions about the nature of a collection of poetry and about chance and reading.
Most Wanted is not your typical collection but instead one presented as a deck of cards. As such, word and image are married in a unique way. Why did you decide to present the collection in this manner, and what are your thoughts about how the reader might approach the work, what reading process they might employ?
Spinal Liberation: A Manifesto for Chance Operation
80,658,175,170,943,878,571,660,636,856,403,766,975,289,505,440,883,277,824,000,000,000,000
Every poet who compiles a book-length collection faces a figure of this magnitude. Most Wanted consists of 52 poems. One can order 52 poems in exactly 8.0658 x 1067 ways — the factorial of 52, or 1 x 2 x 3 x 4 … 52. A group of 104 poems presents an even less imaginable total of 6.5044 x 10135 permutations. If each distinct arrangement represents a different possible book, then the work the poet would have to do to identify the best book from a group of 52 poems (assuming such a thing exists) is equally inconceivable. If the überpoet in question had the manuscripts printed and arranged ahead of time and could read one per minute, the task would still take 1.5346 x 1062 years. It’s probably safe to assume that our überpoet wouldn’t live that long. Even if Knopf published the collection.
Few poets I know see their work in terms of set permutations and probabilities, but most are familiar with the agoraphobic anxiety of infinite possibility — that perilous angst the artist in John Ashbery’s sestina “The Painter” feels as he tries to get the sea to sit for a portrait. An intimate recognition of and respect for infinite possibility has defined the work of many modern poets, inspiring them in varying degrees to embrace the futility of authorial intention, abandon narrative and write what Ashbery once called “hymns to possibility.”
For most, though, the consequence of uncertainty is a struggle against continuous failure with respect to self-inflicted notions of mastery. When sitting down to arrange a manuscript, a poet typically assumes that there’s a right way to do it. Certain poems belong together. An inherent natural order should be respected. While we can argue endlessly about what the specific principles of arrangement entail, the ethic of aesthetic perfection persists. If it didn’t, institutions like peer-edited journals, MFA programs, poetry prizes, state laureateships and genius grants would cease to exist.
Certain arbitrary impositions of order simplify the poet’s task. A subset of poems may share some common characteristic. You may decide, for example, that six sonnets belong together, and since there are only six, you’ll probably overlook the 720 ways to arrange them. Or perhaps you’ll decide to frontload the manuscript with the 10 best poems; even the 3.6 million variations of this subset are less daunting than the alternative (8.0658 x 1067). After months of rearranging, when you’re certain you’ve exhausted all the possibilities, you ultimately close your eyes and take the plunge. It’s called trusting your gut. Toss a pinch of salt into the pot and call it done — you don’t count the grains. You taste the soup and, like a little god, decide it’s good.
One’s comfort level with that ineluctable moment of arbitrariness — that surrender to chance operation — is what defines poet. No matter how much formal, psychological or narrative control the poet attempts to exert, writing for an audience is always a gamble. Each poet defines the stakes. When I consider the risk of writing, and the concomitant reward of complete freedom, W.S. Merwin’s poem “Berryman” always comes to mind:
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can’t
you can’t you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don’t write
In their 1992 study “Trailing the Dovetail Shuffle to Its Lair” (appearing in the Annals of Applied Probability), mathematicians David Bayer and Persi Warren Diaconis famously averred that it takes seven riffle shuffles to randomize a deck of cards. On those rare occasions when I read Most Wanted straight through, I always begin by shuffling the deck seven times. I could do this for the rest of my life and probably never reproduce the same sequence.
I was recently invited to give a reading at a liberal arts college in Eastern Washington. When I came to Most Wanted, I decided to read from the freshly randomized deck continuously, as if it were a single poem. The natural symmetry and flow of the card order caught me by surprise, and I stumbled a few times as I read. I casted each card into a disheveled pile on the lectern, as if I were dealing a 52-card hand to eternity. During the post-reading Q&A session, a perceptive student asked me how I felt knowing that I would never read all the variations of Most Wanted. I answered that the thought was depressing, and the audience laughed, but I had meant it.
Most Wanted is a multifaceted animal. It has many heads. It wears many hats. Among other things, its form was meant to allude to the insurmountable distance between authors and readers (or lovers and beloveds), a distance that resides at the center of Merwin’s youthful self-doubt. My decision to print excerpts from the Most Wanted series on a deck of cards represented in some sense an attempt to free myself from the psychological strictures of literary production, throw off the shackles of the spine, and shift the anxiety of order to my readers. Together we — that is, all readers of Most Wanted — have a better chance, albeit an infinitesimal one, of discovering the best book. That may still be a hopeless cause, but at least the odds have improved.
The full-length version of Most Wanted is currently looking for a spine. Publishers may apply here: jeff (at) matlub (dot) net.
Jeff Encke’s poetry has appeared in American Poetry Review, Barrow Street, Black Warrior Review, Colorado Review, Fence, Kenyon Review Online, Salt Hill and others. He published Most Wanted: A Gamble in Verse in 2004, through his imprint, Last Tangos Editions, and has since sold almost 2,000 decks to poets, tarot readers, book artists, playing card collectors and special-collections libraries throughout the world. Until 2003, he taught writing and criticism at Columbia University, where was writer-in-residence for the Program in Narrative Medicine while completing his Ph.D. in English. He now lives in Seattle, where he edits for a large philanthropic organization and teaches literature on weekends at Richard Hugo House.
 Nathan Moore is community director and columnist for Read Write Poem. In his spare time, he plays with his children and with fire. Never at the same time. He blogs at Exhaust Fumes and French Fries.
by Dave Jarecki
 Moist Meridian, by Henry Hughes “If you write all the time, you’re going to get more of those “bonuses,” as Stafford calls them.”
Henry Hughes is a very hard working poet, and the evolution of his lines and style is a product of the amount of time he puts in. His second book, Moist Meridian (2009, Mammoth Books), has amazing sea legs as it crosses through some of life’s more interesting passages. During an interview, I asked Hughes about a specific line in one of his more aerial poems, “Flight,” in which he details the fatalistic musings of a traveler aboard an airline. I wanted to find out about his choice to be playful in that moment.
There’s a line in the second-to-last stanza that reads: “The invisible captain speaks of seat belts, / weather and time — and that’s fine if we’re coming back to earth.” You could have started that in so many different ways, but you wrote, “Invisible captain.” Was that phrase ever anything other than “Invisible captain,” and how do you as a teacher get your students to be playful in their writing?
I don’t think the line was ever anything else but “Invisible captain.” Plenty of lines get changed quite a bit, as you well know. Sometimes they even get better.
Just the way it’s there in the sentence structurally, it sounds like the kind of thing I do a lot, especially in my first drafts. If I’m going to modify something, I’ll do it kind of crazily. If I get one out of 10 of them to work, then it’s worth it.
Rereading it, the line feels like it was probably that way since the first draft. Lots of other things in this poem were probably revised, however.
The poem is about religion and God, and the indifference of the universe when you’re up there in a plane. You’re at the mercy of this crazy craft and crew. “Invisible captain” works nicely as a God-thing. And I was just being playful. And I got lucky.
Stafford talked a lot about luck, but I like the Arnold Palmer quote that you’ll find in writing books here and there. He makes this incredible shot, some sort of sand-trap-to-green thing. Someone says, “Lucky shot, Arnold.” And Palmer says, “Yeah, the more I practice the luckier I get.”
If you write all the time, you’re going to get more of those “bonuses,” as Stafford calls them. You’ll pick up extra points here and there.
In terms of getting students to be more playful, I’ve talked with plenty of art professors about this. You can encourage playfulness, you can lighten up on kids a little bit, and you can be conscious about not making them write like you write.
A lot of writing teachers and artists admit to the fact that, unconsciously, we want our students to write like us. We know it’s bad, but unconsciously we do it. We encourage a kind of aesthetic that we love.
One thing you can do is be better about lightening up on your students, letting them do more of whatever the hell they want to do without being careless and stupid. Of course they still need some guidance.
I do think a lot depends on the way we grow up, and who we are, and the way our minds form. There are a million reasons why some people are good at math, or music, or good at finding their way through a crowded city, for instance.
There are also those students that don’t need play. Maybe they need structure. I have some students who just absolutely gush — they bring in five-page poems that are just wild sprawls. I say, “Man, there’s a lot of really neat stuff here, but there’s no form, there’s no care.”
It’s always a paradox. You want to be free and original and organic, but you also want to be artistic and controlled.
Order Moist Meridian from Amazon. Find out more about Hughes’ work at his website.
Dave Jarecki writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction from his home in Portland, Ore. Read and listen to his work, as well as the work of guest writers, at DaveJarecki.com.
by Nathan Moore
 Make Believe, by Thom Donovan “All poetry is about seeing and, more accurately, a discourse of the senses in which seeing is just one faculty.”
For this installment of Just One Thing, I have asked poet Thom Donovan a single question about his new e-chapbook, Make Believe.
Many moments in Make Believe are concerned with vision. These poems, among other things, explore vision in various modes, from the spectacle of cable news to the very formation of subjectivity. Do you think of your work as constructing what might be called a poetics of seeing?
Many of the poets I have grown up reading closely tend to be poets associated with “seeing.” George Oppen, Louis Zukofsky … an Objectivist continuum. Then again, any poetry worth its mettle tends to be preoccupied with vision, whether vision in its literal fact (optics, phenomenology, spectacle) or ‘inward’ states (memory, imagination, hallucination, eidetics).
Vision is also of course very much meditated by language. There is no “pure” seeing in poetry without the literal word — the fact that words are printed or heard, that they are likewise seen in the air as Hannah Weiner’s “clairvoyance” demonstrates. So I want to say that Make Believe puts forward a “poetics of seeing,” but first qualify that all poetry is about “seeing” and, more accurately, a discourse of the senses in which seeing is just one faculty.
Make Believe responds to images from various films, videos and other media noted on the last page of the book, including Guy Ben-Ner’s Berkeley Island, Alfonso Cuaron’s Children of Men (2006), videos by Harun Farocki, Terry Cuddy’s video essays about Harriet Tubman, as well as Victor Erice’s The Spirit of the Beehive (1972). “Berkeley Island” begins from some research I was doing about Ben-Ner’s work in relation to solipsistic philosophy and the political situation in the Middle-East — namely the conflict between Israel and Palestine. Ben-Ner is Israeli, so I was thinking about how much his work is concerned with his position as an Israeli citizen. That “Berkeley Island” stages Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe within the home of the artist — where the artist uses his children as actors — dramatizes a situation of interiority.
At a micro-level, the set of “Berkeley Island” as well as the video’s content represent the ego, nuclear family, patriarchy (the “law of the father”); at a macro level, we can read these same boundaries existing among states internationally. For Ben-Ner to take on Defoe’s work in the ways he does I cannot help but read through a micro and macro politics of what Lévinas calls “the face of the other” (that which makes a radical ethical demand upon subjects). Ben-Ner “acts out” the problem of his biographical interiority if only so that something will break through to the other side of the aesthetic glass where political and ethical decisions are made. Where I write “acting out,” I mean it in the psychological sense of a subject learning to manage their traumas, but also in the sense that one becomes abandoned. One plays to have control, and to learn how to give control up. That Ben-Ner plays with his children in most of his videos seems essential to the political and ethical dimensions of his project.
While I am saying all of this, I wonder how much any of what I’m saying is conveyed by the poem itself. The poem leads, as David Wolach points out, with its ear, but often the senses become cross-wired — confused and ruinous. I dedicated the poem to my friend Gregg Biglieri who is a master of the pun, and of what he calls “negative synaesthesia” after Zukofsky’s Bottom. Flights into nonsense — into language play — seem necessary for the brain and the senses to sync themselves. So in “Berkeley Island” “when dissolves to wind” and a lens “points and chutes” as though to conflate photography with branching. Nonsense, of which poetry obviously has a lot, is meta-political in that it refuses to reduce language use to a representation (whether for a vulgarly conceived common sense or for the sake of communication).
Revolutionary moments and moments of insurrection prove this time and time again. There is also a sense for me after Biglieri’s work that the ear (rather than the eye) is the direct line to others. The lines “One’s ears for others / look into their own” (paraphrased from one of Zukofky’s shorter poems) alludes to this ethical dimension of listening/hearing. By giving ourselves to the ear, by letting the ear guide us and the eyes take a back seat, we perhaps open to something more ethical than the logical, rational, purposeful eye will permit. This link between ethics and aurality is definitely one of the major ones made by French Phenomenology from Sartre through Merleau-Ponty and Levinas. But it is also an idea reiterated by poets throughout history, especially “visionary” ones. Blake, Dickinson, Oppen are all important reference points for my own poetics in this regard.
Throughout Make Believe, the “Imaginary” (in Lacan’s senses of this term) takes precedence. In “Berkeley Island,” we are at the “mirror stage” — the point where an ego begins to recognize itself through a projection of (its own) otherness. The home is the site of the imaginary, being “at home” where relations between different egos issue from. In “Surveillance Says” (the second poem), I was thinking of the problems of the other’s gaze as a gaze of surveillance and interpellation — all of these ways of identifying and registering the “self” which Foucault originally historicized and the artist Haroun Farocki (whose videos the poem are directly responding to) has made much of his art about. “Children of Men” (the third poem) is a preliminary meditation on Alain Badiou’s philosophy, and specifically the term “grace” as it is used in Badiou’s book on St. Paul, The Foundation of Universalism. Looking back on the film Children of Men, the film seems a bit cheesy, and yet I dwell on its messianic tropes as they relate to the structure of social revolutions. I have been preoccupied by forms of messianism for a long time, so this poem channels some of that thinking. Aren’t all revolutionary moments moments of return to the imaginary, as if to say “this isn’t working,” or to ask “what if there were another image (of what we are) instead of this one?”
In Lacanian psychoanalysis the procession from the Imaginary to the Real leads to nothing less than a psychotic break from which subjectivity must be reconstituted, made-up again. The radical subject formation articulated by Badiou’s notion of Truth — by which the subject is subtracted from (revolutionary) events — is an idea I continue to come back to as a way of thinking through subjectivity non-representationally — as a process rather than a telos of social reality.
In “Unsalvageable in Auburn,” I began to think more radically about the lyrical line, and especially forms of caesura (movement within the line itself). All the poems of this section of the book, for me, are trying to get to this line that is constantly moving (yet interruptive and polyvocal) through a concatenated syntax and certain affective forms of address. This problem has been with me for some time since the composition of those poems in spring 2007. “Unsalvageable in Auburn” also starts to think about the problem of salvageability as an extension of community, activism and love. What happens when what we share is what is ruined, thus not always there for the sharing — occulted, destroyed, lost or displaced? This is a question I started to ask myself in the spring of 2007 that has informed my poetics ever since.
The last poem of the book, “The Spirit of the Beehive,” is a meditation on Vince Erice’s film by the same name. In one of the opening scenes of the film we see an audience of children watching James Whale’s Frankenstein. Throughout the film, the protagonist — a girl of about 6 or 7 played by Isabel Telleria — continually hallucinates the Frankenstein monster. Eventually she meets with a Republican solider who has taken refuge in an abandoned stable near the girl’s house. She brings him food and comforts him. When the soldier disappears one day (he is presumably executed by the people of the girl’s town), the girl suffers a psychotic break. As in “Berkeley Island” and “Children of Men,” “The Spirit of the Beehive” envisions an allegory.
At the level of form it would like to draw out this allegory through a kind of ekphrasis by which certain aesthetic facts are not only described but elevated to propositions about the imaginary and the terrible turn the social imagination must take in order for a society to become fascist. The form of “The Spirit of the Beehive” is very similar to “Berkeley Island,” perhaps because the poems are dealing with inverse problems. How, on the one hand, does one rescue the ego from the solipsistic disregard of others? How, on the other, does the subsumption of the ego by what Lacan calls the “big other” (the other of fascist “fatherland” and democratic multitude alike) risk something equally painful and destructive?
View Make Believe at Wheelhouse Press.
Thom Donovan lives in New York City where he edits Wild Horses of Fire and co-edits ON Contemporary Practice. He is co-curating SEGUE series this December/January and is an active participant in the Nonsite Collective. His critical work and poetry have appeared widely and most recently in ECOPOETICS6/7, War and Peace vol. 4, PAJ, The Brooklyn Rail and with The Fanzine. He is currently working on a collection of critical texts titled Critical Objects 2005-2010, as well as a book on cross-cultural translation after disaster, and a manuscript of poetry titled The Hole. He teaches at Bard College, School of Visual Arts and Baruch College.
Nathan Moore is community director and columnist for Read Write Poem. In his spare time, he plays with his children and with fire. Never at the same time. He blogs at Exhaust Fumes and French Fries.
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read write poem news- read write poem napowrimo anthology
June 20, 2010 | 1:36 pmThe Read Write Poem NaPoWriMo Anthology is still in production. Selection, placement, layout and copyediting are taking longer than anticipated. Thank you for your patience. I hope to have the piece completed in July. For those who have emailed asking if they can be included, the May 7 deadline for submission of work stands. Those who met that deadline will be included. Please check the post on this site listing who I received submissions from by that date. If you submitted your work by the May 7 deadline in accordance with our guidelines and your name is not listed, send an email to info (at) readwritepoem (dot) org.
- read write poem napowrimo anthology
May 5, 2010 | 3:09 pmRemember that Friday* is the deadline for submitting work to the Read Write Poem NaPoWriMo Anthology. Check out the guidelines for submission in the main column (to the left). On May 8, we’ll post a news item listing everyone we’ve received work from. If you submitted work and your name is not on that list, please let us know. Thanks!
*I initially said “tomorrow,” but I meant to say “Friday.”
- napowrimo congratulations, and a reminder
April 24, 2010 | 12:05 pmIt’s the final week of the Read Write Poem NaPoWriMo Challenge! Just 7 days left. With that, a reminder that Read Write Poem will culminate with the anthology featuring work from those who complete the challenge. A post with details for submitting to the anthology will be published May 1. Be sure you remove any information from the site that you want preserved — such as group content and personal messages. Those elements of the site will be removed May 1 as well. The main site will remain up as an archive.
- ‘underlife’ tour at january gill o’neil’s blog
April 20, 2010 | 8:11 pmJanuary Gill O’Neil’s virtual book tour has moved to her site and is underway now. Check out the lineup at Poet Mom.
 Archive for read write poem news »
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thank you and farewell As of May 1, 2010, Read Write Poem is no longer active.
In late May, an anthology featuring work from those who completed the Read Write Poem NaPoWriMo Challenge will be published here and on issuu.com.
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