Youmans (pronounced like 'yeoman' with an 's' added) is the best-kept secret among contemporary American writers. --John Wilson, editor, Books and Culture

Friday, September 03, 2010

Poems in Mezzo Cammin


In the flurry of summer events, I forgot to mention my latest Mezzo Cammin poems--remiss of me, since the magazine has been good to me. And I love being asked for work because most of the time I am entirely too lazy (the charitable make call it "too busy") to send out poems. It is something that I've always disliked doing, and one great thing about the internet is the abolition of business envelopes and stamps and copies to carry on submissions.

So the newish poems are "The Buried Girl" and "The Bottle Tree." I also have a good many poems in the archives, if you're inclined toward digging.

Editor and poet Kim Bridgford has a new job--she has moved from her teaching position at Fairfield University and now directs the West Chester Poetry Center.

4 comments:

  1. at first I thought you had put out a cooking book with poetry when I saw the pic!

    I am really interested in seeing what you have to say about Bottle Trees. I did a post once about it and a man in Austraillia had the word google flagged. His name is Bottle tree Doug and he has a bottle tree plantation in Australia. He sent me some tree seeds.

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  2. You'll find they aren't "Australian Bottle Trees" but Southern ones with real bottles...

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  3. I enjoyed 'The Buried Girl.' It conveys a powerful sense of struggle (and I have a weakness for any mention of clay). It so happens that I'm wrestling with a small 'demon root.' Neither it nor an oil twin has shattered into any kind of green, but there is hope for autumn's strange influence on the miserable little thing.

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  4. Amanda,

    Glad to hear that you're working in oils. And sculpting in . . . something. Hope the twins flower soon! I must go and see how you are doing...

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Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.