22 things to add to a poem that acts "as if" it feels neglected.

  1. An unexpected acorn.

  2. The movements of a mother’s face as she repudiates longsuffering.

  3. A long-suffering velvet recliner.

  4. An unexpected metaphor or description of joy. I’m thinking of when Ross Gay wrote that something “truly filled my heart with flamingos.”

  5. A subversion of the word “rapacious”.

  6. A hex.

  7. A historic earthquake or volcanic eruption that family members have mentioned.

  8. A Xerox copy of something.

  9. An explicit reference to another poem in which you are referring to a poem by someone else. In the poem about colored pencils.

  10. A furry mammal you haven’t anthropomorphized for the purpose of the poem or pleasure.

  11. A tired O. The opposite of an ecstatic O. An O that generates suspense.

  12. A line from a poem by Mary Jo Bang.

  13. The word “syntax” in scare quotes. Possibly with reference to a body part.

  14. A sin tax dressed up like a poll tax.

  15. An I-statement that suffers from non-sequitur.

  16. What Ross Gay calls “an event illegible except for its unfathomable beauty”. Which may involve fireflies.

  17. An invented business establishment or office. Like the “Bureau of Sad Endings” that appears midway through a poem by David Berman.

  18. The word “busted”.

  19. A melting glacier. Or any effect of climate change that appears quietly, desperately, ominously in the background.

  20. A risk management heat map.

  21. A word from R. A. Villanueva’s “Sonnet 146”.

  22. Something he said to you and never took back.


The playlist poetry challenge: "You Being Boss of the Playlist."

It just sort of happened as I was doing small, mindless tasks in the house while listening to old playlists my hubcap made when we in some wild dalliance that wasn’t legit.

The thing is: this taught me to love Bruce Springsteen…. he sort of rug-burned Bruce into my skin and I never got over it. So here’s what I did.

I made a list of all Bruce’s songs and then wrote a poem that incorporated the titles on our old playlists. And then fiddled like a fresh-rain-licked fern with all the tiny pieces…

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The Playlist Poetry Challenge is so easy and fun—a perfect excuse to sit around and listen to nostalgia-inducing music on a muggy Saturday.

  1. Pick an old playlist (or just pick a favorite music artist) and make a list of song titles.

  2. Tell the song titles that you plan to use them as a word bank for a poem you will write. Don’t be sorry or apologetic. The songs want to be felt. You are doing those titles a favor.

  3. Write a poem that makes use of those titles. You can capitalize the titles (see above) to make it clear when you’re referencing the song. Alternately, you can putz around in italics. You can even use white space to draw lines in the sand between your words and what music makes of them.

  4. Title it with a name that hints at the artist or the playlist conceit.

  5. If the final result is HORRENDOUS, email it to family members who think you’re a terrible poet that is wasting their time in profit-less vocation. Make sure to preface the poem with a note saying something like: “OMG tonight I wrote this poem that was just SO INTENSE. I had to share it with you because I’m really proud of it and I hope it wins a prize. Maybe someone will read it on their talk show. Family, I think this is IT.”

Song and poem sandwich: Joan Osborne and Haryette Mullen.

Because music and poetry mine the same vein in me.

We’ve been together so long
I hope it wasn’t just the drugs
What happened to the energy we had
The morning glories and the rodeo hugs
And I know you like the back of my hand
With a stamp that says I paid to get in
And yes I am your television show
And you’re the nicest place I’ve ever been
— Joan Osborne, "Let's Just Get Naked"

Wipe That Smile Off Your Aphasia

by Haryette Mullen

as horses as for
as purple as we go
as heartbeat as if
as silverware as it were
as onion as I can
as cherries as feared
as combustion as want
as dog collar as expected
as oboes as anyone
as umbrella as catch can
as penmanship as it gets
as narcosis as could be
as hit parade as all that
as ice box as far as I know
as fax machine as one can imagine
as cyclones as hoped
as dictionary as you like
as shadow as promised
as drinking fountain as well
as grassfire as myself
as mirror as is
as never as this

(Poem source: Contemporary Poetry)

Chaconne for My Lover's Hands.

A chaconne is a composition in a series of varying sections in slow triple time, typically over a short repeated bass theme.

"On one stave, for a small instrument, the man writes a whole world of the deepest thoughts and most powerful feelings. If I imagined that I could have created, even conceived the piece, I am quite certain that the excess of excitement and earth-shattering experience would have driven me out of my mind."

- Brahms on Bach's Chaconne in D-Minor For Left Hand in letter to Clara Schumann, 1877

Chaconne for My Lover’s Hands


Regret I wore raw

a silk dress, poured to follow
each fold & slouch of peridot flesh

that met the suede
touch of fingertips
nails nibbled down to nub

the unexpected flange
of a lover’s hands
conspiring to caress

or to crowbar me open
like neon, the unsettled buzz

of lust for ravish holds tempo


Terror I wore raw

into rooms without windows
the beauty of barbarism
being all ways it could have been

nothing binds us
to what is brutal
but a choice

lust for ravish shears
the safe silhouette, the story of luggage
packed to leave him

semiprecious plagiarism
of affections past
unsecured from a boat

useless life rafts


Regret I wore nothing

swore the image
of his hands on my hips
would not stab me

like the dry stems of flowers
tucked into boxes, the death of over-admired
objects hurts to touch

or be touched
by such familiar thunder
when rain bruises us with kisses
because it must

let us rust
into lust for ravish
or what rushes me into chapels

where Joan of Arc once knelt
in a village named after a flea
and the itch of this hairshirt

is just longing
for me

The Warm-Up Routine: I listened to this chaconne and picked three words that kept whispering somehow from the melody and particular measures. Then I wrote into those words and their associations. I do things like this every day as exercises to loosen images and clumped thoughts before getting started on writing. For the most part, I don’t keep or use or even revisit these many warm-up poemings (my notebooks are full of them), but I appreciate when other poets share their practice routines so I thought I’d share mine from yesterday. Which started with googling Trifonov performances and then discovering this fascinating thing called a chaconne, and then using it as a bridge into my warm-up exercise.

1979, with little steps forward.

Video made by my dad of my first year in Romania, just before my parents defected.

My dad made these video on film reels before defecting from Romania the following year. My parents left me in the care of the my grandparents, who also kept film reels safe.

The day before they ran, my parents invited family over for dinner and told them they were leaving early in the morning. There are no words for the fear they left on their loved ones’ faces. And no words for the fear they carried over borders when leaving their baby behind.

Maria Tanase remains.

To friends upset by disparagement of southern & red states as attacks on female bodies continue.

Me and mom in Bucuresti, circa 1979, in the month before they defected.

Me and mom in Bucuresti, circa 1979, in the month before they defected.

Writers Resist in Tuscaloosa, late 2016.

Writers Resist in Tuscaloosa, late 2016.

November, 2016.

November, 2016.

In Birmingham.

In Birmingham.


I was raised in a state that taught me to sing its praises—to strive for its debutante corsets and bend my body to worship its purist ideals.

I was raised in a state that made it clear from the start how my being “foreign” kept me from being able to contribute to discussions that mattered. Starting with history and ending with culture.

I was raised to pledge allegiance to flags, to football teams, to men who mastered the fine art of killing foreign bodies in countries we never learned to pronounce.

As I grew older, I met more progressive-minded Alabamians that encouraged me to think outside the please-accept-me immigrant box.

I relished the moments of safety inside nice, liberal bubbles that made the majority of my state’s citizens feel so far away—and harmless.

When I became a naturalized citizen, I began the long journey of loving a country without making excuses for its crimes and cruelty.

I learned to stop defending the indefensible.

I know the history that prides itself on excluding me is also the history for which I am responsible.

I know the price of not being likable and not playing “the game” is exclusion from polite circles where power is concentrated. This is true for any leftist, anti-imperialist female in the south.

This is how the stakes are drawn.

This is how we line up to angle for influence.

This is how we commodify dissent into “acceptable” forms that keep others feeling comfortable.

To the friends who condemn me for staying here, you talk a good game of privilege that assumes I’d abandon other women to the mess in which I (as a voting, tax-paying citizen) am complicit.

To the friends who tell me to go back to where I came from, I’m sorry my poster upsets you but I’m not here to offer peace of mind that my silence or disappearance would give you.

To the friends who want me to say Alabama is just like the rest of the country, I can’t do that without selling out countless of humans who live in the gagged regimen of polite southern silence where we go along to get along. Which is what makes all of this injustice possible.

Should I critique the deep misogyny of southern life in a way that makes it seem like only elected officials are responsible?

Should I make it easy to say the gregarious mega-churches are innocent?

Should I pretend that so many people I love don’t support Trump in this state—and don’t support misogyny so deeply that we barely avoided voting a child rapist into office?

Why do you get to decide what Alabama means for me?

What about your life, body, or career enables you to be the expert on my experience?

And isn’t that the point, finally? My job. My role as good immigrant and southern girl. My commitment in the effort to maintain a cherished ideal of southern life that is warm and welcoming and hospitable and no more racist or xenophobic or self-destructive than states where the majority votes against xenophobia, racism, and misogyny.

I’ve spoken about this before. I will speak about it again. As an American. As an Alabamian. As a woman. As a citizen of this warming planet.

I will hold my state accountable for lies we are asked to live. Daily. Constantly. Without mercy or reprieve.

My voice is NOT the problem. My criticisms of patriarchal life in the south are NOT the problem. The problem is a system so deeply rooted in allegiance and loyalty that even my liberal friends find themselves invested in its appearance.

As for those whose experience in the south is different from mine, believe me when I say that I am glad. This is a place where everyone should feel welcome and seen. This is a state with room enough for all kinds of humans beings with varying hopes and dreams.

If I didn’t believe goodness was possible, I wouldn’t fight to expose the seams where cruelty dwells, and nests, and breeds.

Gladness aside, I hope that we all hold our government and communities accountable for the laws and the culture that punishes humans for their birth.

I hope that our energies are focused not on rescuing the mythologies of “a good south” or a “liberal south” but on dealing with the reality of a merciless south where the institutions of justice and social aid are as complicit in racist, sexist outcomes as the laws that keep them that way.

I stand in the Customs Line with “nothing to declare” on my lips.

Inside that “nothing,” however, is a struggle between the need to belong and the need to tell the truth.

I hope you find it in your hearts to forgive me.


One Week Before Congress Voted That XX Bodies Were Intended as Vehicles for Male Stories

An activist broke her heart. The girl whose heart broke was not a feminist. She stayed away from politics and male-dominated tropes.

When asked to describe herself in a freshman essay, Heartbroke used the word traditional three times. Listed dreams that involved a good husband, a beloved wife, a safe suburban family likely situated in the suburbs of a thriving southern metropolis. She has pastel tshirts and bumper stickers and a B- minus in freshman composition to prove it.

Heartbroke can't help thinking her embrace of femininity has been held against her. As if any living human should sacrifice their dreams to a frat boy that bought her a drink at the Row Row Row Your Kappa Alpha Boat party.

And then left her in alley behind a warehouse.

On a street she didn’t recognize.

In the sprawl of a boy whose name she didn’t know.

Who isn't in the right frame of mind to be anyone’s loving Daddy.

She thinks the very nice church-lady understands. The church-lady promises that we are all sinners.

The church-lady clutches her hand and presses it to her chest while swearing that we are all sinners. There is no need for shame. Things happen. Satan attacks a man's mind and forces the man to attack a female.

Heartbroke carries tiny morsels of hope into this church. She becomes an official visitor. Her name appears on the prayer list. During prayers, she tongues the word sanctuary like a lozenge.

When Heartbroke gets distracted from the sermon, she imagines being saved, maybe marrying the blue-eyed fellow that places checks into the silver tray.

A few guys in a nearby pew turn their heads from her bloated belly.  

Rode hard and put up wet, she hears one guy whisper.

She can't erase the tandem drum-whirr of snickers.

She can’t stop wondering if she is. Or what she is. And who made her that way.

Heartbroke wonders how much more they will ride her to please a man they don’t know. She knows that to please any man requires effort and dedication.

How many more months of being ridden, and then—into motherhood, forever?

Near the restroom, Heartbroke sees the poster. It says no body is innocent. Not since that girl in the garden. No girl gets blamed without a cause. No man escapes losing his mind to lust every so often. The culture warns us. The man takes the fruit. The woman offered.


When she sees the kind church-lady at the clinic waving a sign, Heartbroke’s feet freeze into icicles or stalagmites or whatever those things that grow in caves up from the ground due to a single drip drip drip.

Has the church-lady seen her? Did the church-lady get her name from a list and then invite her to the church? Did the church lady hug her and introduce her to her husband, three sons, and single daughter for a reason that wasn’t casual?

“Emma!” The church lady shouts in a wrung-clean voice. “Jesus loves you! Don’t murder his baby!

A man to the left calls her “Jezebel”, his tongue forking into a hiss.

She thinks when a girl is pregnant her name must not matter. She is whatever a lousy fellow screams in a gravel parking lot.

She thinks about how the activist said her job was saving lives. There was money in saving lives. The activist received a paycheck for bringing God’s love into the world.

She thinks the lives saved by the activist do not include her own.


Child of Satan.

She forgives the rapist, a nice middle-class boy, driven by the sudden urge to have her. She remembers how his eyes gleamed when she cried, when she said it hurts. He liked it. She forgives him for the terror. But she will never forgive the activist who breaks her heart. She will never forgive the woman who knew her name in that clinic parking lot and said nothing, nothing, nothing.

Writing prompt from a Galway Kinnell poem.

Or really, writing prompt from a poem you can’t stop reading, loving, admiring, and needing to engage. I’ve been challenging myself to write a poem in response to a poem that haunts me. It’s a challenge that frames my morning and ruins my placid coffee-guzzling routine.

I learn so much from the prompts and possibilities posted by fellow writers, so I’m going to share this Wait/Don’t Wait experiment in full knowledge that nothing I write in a morning compares with Galway Kinnell’s poems. This statement is both particular and general in its scope. This poem will never be submitted, published, collected, or read. It is a poem for the compost. It is critical to produce a steady stream of poems one is willing to bury. A poet’s task is to feed the flowers, which includes grinding old bones into soil.

Because I love Galway Kinnell’s “Wait”—from the way he touched depression to the way he wove a melody to free it. Kinnell wrote this poem for a student who wanted to die after a love relationship went wrong. Because it is one of my favorite poems and yet—I feel a hollow space in its promise, a sort of positivity that promises we will learn from the suffering of life. I’m not sure I believe this anymore. I’m not sure I need to believe this in order to love living—or to bear the implacable parts.

The Rub: Subvert Your Idol

Pick a poem that you adore, a poem by a famous poet, a poet you admire and emulate. You should have a fear of profaning their poems. This fear is important—it’s where the poem gets its energy.

Start by playing with the title, reading it, feeling its relationship to what the poet wants from the poem. Then subvert it. Flip it. And write into what happens.

(My example in response to Kinnell’s “Wait” is below.)


It’s worth watching the poet read this beautiful poem aloud—because watching adds layers to listening, and layers thicken the bed, broaden the available brushstrokes.

And what’s funny to me about this poem is I went in thinking I wanted to argue with Kinnell about whether we “recover” from broken hearts in the context of romantic love. As I wrote into the titular subversion, I discovered my mother—and how I needed to think about love and loss in general, how the intensity of love can attach to unromantic relationships, including parental ones.

The point of this post—the point of my daily subversions—is to schedule time for failure. To slot in a space where I write to fail, and then feel through that failure to new subjects. So I wrote the poem above (which is compost) and then discovered the poem I needed to write (which is not compost and not shared here but hopefully appears somewhere someday, ptuie ptuie).

In this way, writing “Don’t Wait” led me to a tension that I probe in a poem I do not plan to compost. But I’m not sure I would have resolved to write into the uncertainty of this space if I hadn’t first discovered its parameters through this writing exercise.

And that, friends, is the risk I need to bring to the page. Alongside the reminder that, if we are writing, then we are producing reams of nonsense alongside a few moonflower vines. And producing those reams is a good thing. A shameless thing. A facet of practice and commitment. Don’t wait.

Dicktat and the dick-tater-tot.

A few years ago, Mount Analogue (a small press in Seattle) ran a submissions call for political pamphlets. My brain was one big list of events, marches, protests, direct actions, and possible pamphlets. I was thrilled when MA decided to publish this precious little fellow named dicktat (which you can download for free below).

The title was a word that came to mind which described the Trump POTUS scenario, namely the etat of dick. Or the dick-state. Or the dicktatertot.

I’m grateful to Mount Analogue and Paper Press Punch for producing political pamphlets in a historical tradition that reaches into what is best about the printing press, namely, its use as a engine for dissent. And I’d love to learn more about how to support these efforts locally in Birmingham, Alabama.

For more from Mount Analogue, see their Instagram at @themountanalogue.

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How I Am Not Like Donald Trump

In response to a poem that unsettled me.

Yesterday, I kept quiet
as a mouse inched

careful pink claws across
our kitchen floor.

I did not speak
or say Grand Canyon things

that forced doors open
into postcards. I left

gluttons of the grotesque
to the business of making noise,

peddling majesty.
And as the mouse came so close

to my toe, I did not lay
her small wonder at the hem

of a G-d or a nation.
Instead, I watched the fur

on her flanks pulse fast.
And sped my breath

to meet the terror
of the tiniest.