Meanwhile meanwhile...
12.03.2026 14:41
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Meanwhile meanwhile...
"The dark tobacco sheaves bow
so low they fall
and are smoked."
Stone Circle #ThrowbackThursday poem : "Last Night of the Fair" by Zachary Daniel (@zdaniel.bsky.social) #TBT
stonecirclereview.com/last-night/
“Most of the Time, power has to do with dominance. But poetry is never about dominance. Poetry is powerful but it cannot even aspire to dominate anyone. It means making a connection. That’s what it means.”
-- June Jordan
Corinna Baprd Maedwe
A Dunnock’s Prayer
Enjoying time with @corinnaboard.bsky.social ‘s pamphlet this morning. My favourite at the moment is A dunnock’s prayer- which I had previously enjoyed in Carmen et Error and was
Commended in the Forward prize.
Recommend !
Schism Blue, published March 12, 2024 by Sublunary Editions. Full spread cover.
« Tu passes par l’amour et tu tombes dans la mort. » You pass through love and you fall into death, writes Hélène Cixous. Two years today since the publication of Schism Blue, my second novel, part of an ‘invention of life’ cycle, or perhaps of a phenomenology of lives not lived.
"Who to dial, what to ask for?
How to mend my fists and weather?"
'Again, Ithaca' – the 2nd of my poems that has landed at The Book Bag: Poetic Voices – March 2026🔥
Thank you @paulwritespoems.bsky.social for publishing this poem as part of my feature 🙏
paulwritespoems.com/2026/03/01/t...
Stone Circle Replay Wednesday poem: "Martha" by Eric Fisher Stone (@javelinasarecute.bsky.social)
stonecirclereview.com/martha/
“But human beings weren't meant to create without effort, without humility, without knowing that they can bring art and knowledge into the world only by striving and laboring after what's beautiful and true.”
-- Marly Youmans, Ingledove
Going through some poems to read for a talk, & while America's Next Top Model is still kind of in the Discourse, I feel like I should plug this ANTM (& Julia Margaret Cameron)-inspired poem I had come out a few months ago with @stonecirclereview.bsky.social
stonecirclereview.com/looking-at/
If you weren't able to snag a signed copy of There Is News Along The Ohio River at AWP & want one, hmu! Two readings & a signing last week & sweet messages from folx who’ve read it so far have been super positive. Thanks to those of you who've read, purchased, or said something nice about it or me.
Now that you're back from AWP or recovered from your AWP fomo, remember that we're open for submissions until the 15th! We would particularly love to see more visual art and non-fiction/essay work!
Thank you, @timothygreen.bsky.social. As your fan--and @rattlepoetry.bsky.social's fan--it meant the world to me to be the guest for episode 333 of Rattlecast.
If any of y'all are interested, link to the episode in the first comment:
“An enchantment has entered my eyes, a beautiful vision arose in my mind and made its way to my heart.”
-- Mirabai, "The Cry of the Heart" - Translated by Sushil Rao
“I slip and curse like a broken lobster, washcloth in one claw, plastic cup for rinsing in the other. I feel ridiculous and sad.”
ICYMI, my micro appeared recently in the Mardi Gras issue of Boudin/McNeese Review 🦞🥃
www.mcneese.edu/thereview/ba...
A flyer showing a photo of Alina Stefanescu, with long beautiful light borwn hair and a tan long-sleeved shirt. Also her book cover of My Heresies, and info about The Writer's Center Poetry Book Club. March 11th at 7PM online. Clickable link in the comments.
This Wednesday! Our first book club meeting with The Writer's Center! Link to register in the comments. Free, on Zoom.
Hear Alina Stefanescu read and ask her all your poetry questions! ❤
Cover the newest issue of Rattle, with cover art by Nicky O'Connell. In the image, a stone path through a gloomy forest (all trunks, no leaves) navigated by a school of gentle blue butterflies, each carrying a lantern.
Text of a poem called "Island of the Day Before" by Jane Zwart, too long to reproduce here.
Text of a poem called "Island of the Day Before" by Jane Zwart, too long to reproduce here.
Grateful to have a poem (with its title lifted from an Umberto Eco novel) in the newest issue of @rattlepoetry.bsky.social, a Magazine--and community--I've loved for a long, long time. Thank you, @timothygreen.bsky.social.
Hey Lancaster PA folks, this Sunday @mgarrigan.bsky.social and I will be reading from our new books at Nooks Gallery & Bookstore.
Thank you for sharing your work with Stone Circle, LJ!
I am honoured to have a poem published in The Stone Circle Review. It is called 'The birds of the Haworth dead', available to read here: stonecirclereview.com/the-birds/ @stonecirclereview.bsky.social
“A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the—not always greatly hopeful—belief that somewhere and sometime it could wash up on land, on heartland perhaps.”
-- Paul Celan
In case you missed it this morning...
In case you're wondering about the "wurst", our apartment was over a deli/cheesesteak place called The Wurst House. It's now a bougie pizzeria.
It's the 40th anniversary of the night I met my wonderful wife. How do I know that, after all these years, you might ask?
#HowIMetYourMother
"MY HAND FEELS TOUCHED AS WELL AS IT TOUCHES" ON THE REALITY OF THINGS "It is not consciousness that touches or feels," writes Maurice Merleau-Ponty, "but the hand." The hand wants to see, we know from Goethe. The hand opens to the word, says Edmond Jabès. "Sometimes I'd like nothing better than to get away and come to Paris, to feel you touch my hand," writes Ingeborg Bachmann to Paul Celan. Throughout philosophy, throughout literature, throughout epistolary togetherness, throughout the whole of Time the Hand.
Taking refuge for a brief moment in the cemetery of forgotten drafts—
P.S. I PRACTISED THE ÉTUDE TODAY Today, the feature wall bears a different motif, the way light refracts against Mother's vintage chinaware casting apologies back to a sender — for absence. By evening, I’ve only practised the etúde once, my execution poor, like that exam with an unexpected Distinction, the day she waited two hours at Kensington. Outside, snow drifts accentuating the chords I always found hard to reach. Self-study is not my discipline—except when she stirs soup counter-clockwise, time miraculously slowing above the frozen lake, two swans briefly coming into focus. Today, I cooked the last tomatoes from her garden and shook out the sheets in autumn mist. This is a woman's sorrow no man can carry, save for replying sparsely on paper: Dear stranger, from here, the poplars mother me like votive candles —their wicks steadily lit, one-by-one under a rose-gold dusk. When doves coo in the atrium, my faith returns soft-winged and sudden. They linger, peck at the fallen grain — long enough for me to sign off as someone you'd bring home. Two bodies hungry for quiet miracles. She would have loved your paintings, your books—your comfortable silence —like a long refrain, whenever we were too far away to hear the music.
"Self-study is not my discipline—except when she stirs soup counter-clockwise"
— Vikki C., 'P.S. I PRACTISED THE ÉTUDE TODAY' from Through The Looking Glass: An International Portraiture of Mothers (@ballerinibookpress.bsky.social)
#InternationalWomensDay💐
#poetrycommunity #writingcommunity
Zombie Extras Visit 7-11 Every night they return, tripping down the hill in tattered t-shirts, hospital gowns flapping, glucose syrup glistening red across their chins and throats. They seem tired of this death as they pour hazelnut coffees and buy boxes of Sour Patch Kids and chat about what they’ll do once they get back to living: exfoliate the earth off their arms, maybe hold their baby niece, or gnaw a porterhouse steak to the bone. They talk about the way they died today: crossbow bolt, gatling gun. One shows off the tread marks on his blazer where he was flattened by a tank.
And when one of the dead gets a text, she winces at her phone's bright light— “They started filming again,” she groans. “This is why,” one says, “we call the dead ‘late’.” It’s a steep climb, going back. The dead hold onto each other in case one of them slips.
here's my poem "Zombie Extras Visit 7-11," one of three new ones just out from the new journal @bulbregion.bsky.social!
"They seem tired of this death
as they pour hazelnut coffees
and buy boxes of Sour Patch Kids..."
POEM 316: "The birds of the Haworth dead " by LJ Ireton (@literaryvegan.bsky.social)
"Every minute they cry,
so that you look up,
up -
the sky of the sleepers
is screaming alive;
raucous with cemetery rooks
discordant, glorious
blurring"
stonecirclereview.com/the-birds/
#Poem #Poetry
In case you missed it this morning...