Surprised and honored to receive my first CNF (creative non-fiction) piece nominated for a Pushcart prize for non-fiction from Variant Literature. Grateful to the editors and wish us all luck!

·
Surprised and honored to receive my first CNF (creative non-fiction) piece nominated for a Pushcart prize for non-fiction from Variant Literature. Grateful to the editors and wish us all luck!
·
Very grateful to Ariel K. Moniz and Terri Pinyerd for publishing my mystical poem about a cranial sacral session in their gorgeous zine, Hyacinth Review. This poem was originally published in Amethyst Review, but I’m glad it has a second incarnation in such a gorgeous magazine. Hyacinth Review features art, photography, poetry, and other writing, and, like Amethyst Review, they are open to publish work that explores the sacred. This is really unusual in the lit world, actually. Find the poem here, and also check out my previous post which includes links to other spiritual work published in Amethyst Review.
·
This article is broken into two parts: a preview of how to write list poetry and some examples of list poems. Incorporated into the text are offsite links to other people’s writing, but to read my list poems, feel free to scroll down the page. Yes, I know this is promoho, but these are why I’m able to talk about list poetry. *Hint: the last “vacation” one is the best. Writing list poems isn’t just for poets. Flash and CNF writers can use it as a way to generate ideas for mosaic flash or Hermit Crab essay writing — or to clear a block. It’s a powerful way to build material.
Writing list poetry is a great way to jumpstart your poetry writing. Use it to generate creative material or organize and refine it into finished works. Lists can be as short as a couple of words or extended into more descriptive passages or complete thoughts like a Zuihitsu. List poems, also called catalog or inventory poems, can be simple inventories of objects or events, or contained, tiny vignettes that refer to larger unshared stories. They may also spring from organic, subconscious connections you make as you write.
One of the powers inherent in list poem writing is in the disconnects that can happen between lines. When writing lined poetry, even in free verse, we tend to worry about transitions, flow, line breaks, structure, and narratives. Reducing the creative process to itemized lists frees the mind from these constraints, opening up a space for unexpected free associations or “barely connections.”
There are no hard rules for writing list poems, but setting your own constraints can help you ease into the writing process. Poet Rob Carney suggests limiting list poems to ten items as a workable constraint in his guest post on Trish Hopkin’s site. I too respond to this number, and it’s a good fit for the average attention span (think about the 10 Ways To blog posts), I’ve also written much longer list-type poems, including a vacation diary written over several days and an abecedarian list or Zuihitsuish-type poem (scroll down for examples). Note that the Carney article has some good suggestions for relating your list items.
Joe Brainard’s cult classic book, I Remember, while not strictly considered a “poem” is a short book of diary-like memory entries, each beginning with “I remember,” which is a powerful phrase for culling material from memory. I often use this when I’m feeling blocked and it produces some useful writing fodder.
Many writers have written list poems beginning with “because” which makes the poem an explanation for something. Major Jackson wrote a wonderful one, “Why I Write Poetry,” which explains just that. It was published in Ploughshares. Find it on Project Muse. Ellen Bass also published a list-type poem titled, simply, “Because” with more expanded “explanations” in which the “because” repetition is used to drive the poem. In “Soulwork,” Tracy K. Smith uses “one’s” in a restricted repetition bursting with tension from the variance of soul tasks in each line.
So using repetitive words to trigger memories or a poem purpose is one way to write a list poem, but restricting a list to an array of short descriptions of objects is another. What can an object refer to outside of itself and how might an object engage with time? Many writers have written about things/objects in grief, as those of us who go through it are usually confronted with the possessions of the departed. It’s powerful stuff.
One of my favorite list poems, which has been used as a springboard by many other poets, is by Ted Berrigan, “People Who Died.” It is a fairly straightforward list of people he knew, the dates they died, and the cause of death. Despite its simplicity, it packs a powerful punch.
List poems need not be limited to a single list. Multiple lists can converse with each other, or a list may be incorporated into a longer work or different form. I often use them to punctuate a poem or create offset stanzas or fragments, something akin to breaking into song. Feel free to be creative with them. Also, lists may be numbered, bulleted, or begin with emojis or scribbles, but how you choose to display them is as important as the words.
Gratitude lists, which are wonderful to write when you’re feeling depressed, angry, or frustrated, can also be made into list poems (see the examples below).
Using found lists and altering them is yet another fun way to incorporate lists into your writing. Don’t be afraid to get experimental with this. And if you are able to produce a good poem from an actual food or chore list, kudos to you! Actions, objects, inventories, chronologies, grievances, no matter what you start with, list poetry is a fun and differently angled approach to writing.
While I’ve given links to some poems above, I’ll share some of the work I’ve published below. #CW there may be abuse, grief or suicide triggers in these.
Thursday Gratitude
deep morning sleep in the black nest
today’s cooler wind singing
grilled onions on a vegetable patty
someone’s prayer-like poems. published
silence. silence. silence. its sound.
someone who loved me for a moment
the dream about the bear across the woods
how congested things eventually crystallize
forgiveness when it comes
Ama’s crinkled fingers
the wind. the wind. the wind.
Wednesday Gratitude
birds at dawn. they know things.
dark chocolate almond bark breakfast
the beginnings and endings
my booklist i can soon indulge in
the off button
adventures i had in my previous life
adventures before me
the accountant’s ancient horse who cares nothing
the way some things get easier
each passage
the word no and its mastery
letting the weather
Arcing over geography and a sea I can no longer bear: the abject abstraction of loss. A body aches.
Beautiful things of spring: touch a dark cord: blessings tethered just below the frost line and its filmy iris.
Counting anniversaries: forgetting eleven each month. The body slows, slumbers towards the next shock.
Deep below the crust, magnetic poles torque us like puppets. Humans flicker like ice flames along the planes.
Earth has its own plan: we are its moments. It bursts on with or without our grieving. A red-winged blackbird lies dead beneath the pine. A truck trailer bangs along the road: everything a roaring motion.
Fire too, tangos with air in a bedazzling splendor, then fizzles to ash, returning to air for a final dance.
Grief, like Earth and planets, has its own course, sifting through the body, a bitter lung-clog, it slogs through the body’s bramble.
Hours, not ours, mark each failure, not a forward motion, but synthetic stops in Akasha. Another form of human waste. Insert the battery. Press the start. Run ‘til you can’t.
Intimacy, incremental or instantaneous: also immeasurable. Star bursts along a thin-edged continuum.
Jagged lifeline / worn off my palm? The fortune-teller held the back of my hand for a moment. Said she couldn’t find it. Another medium said I’d live to be really old. I’ll take an average.
Katzenjammer Kidz, one with the sky for a forehead, race across a cartoon landscape, filled with four-color, moiré-esque hope. What did Grandma’s child-mind find there?
Love is a phantasm. A conjuring. A written thing. A memory. A once-burning. A retina receives through its cones. We are moving particulates floating in the vitreum. Between here and there.
Managing life in pandemic: Alone. Jobless. Without you. The deer ate my garden. Every tomato plant. I wander in dirt-stained socks. You should be building fences and mowing the yard. Each cold night is a new marker. Each hot one, a British memory-ache. I don’t miss your pigeons one bit, incidentally.
Nothing is the place we met. Companions in the abyss. Nothing was your God on a shitty day. A clean, well-lit nothing, Hemingway wrote. Nada-nada in chorus. His nothing has stayed with me like a tick.
Open your throat, your Gemini heart, your windows. Let out the burning and I’ll watch. Keep my mouth shut. Do something right. Take something back. Stop fucking up. You’ll be alive.
Pioneers of grief. Each of us, in turn. If we miss this passage, we might be lucky fucks.
Queer grief has its own rainbow flavors. When suicide. Curtains rain down. Doors close. The phone does not ring. No blips on the cell. Three brass monkeys cover their orifices in turn. Grateful for this nothing space in which I self-actuate, like in those self-help books. Amazing Gays: a popular gospel we sing.
Ribs: Adam, insecure, pretended to birth Eve. Male persuasion. Denial. Suspended disbelief. And just ouch! Who penned this one? Pandemic: another what-the-fuck moment. Your mask is infringing on my rights, said the Adam to the blues. Who owns the air, by the way? Is this negotiable? “Creation” is political, as are N95s. I know you, Max, would’ve masked. You were so sensical, except when you weren’t. Our births, too, were political acts we owned. We birthed ourselves, didn’t we? As if we could write our own stories. Then you took yourself out. Like you knew.
Shiver, lilies, like your first morning has come: planted for Grandma near a porch long gone. You know how short a day is. Yet you return every year, even without my love, an encore to the drooping peonies, whose fragrance still overwhelms me. The deer didn’t eat you.
Tell me something I don’t know. Anything.
Undergarments: I should have stolen yours, but only took what was given. Thank you for washing our clothes. They hung on wood racks in your home like tired ghosts when you died.
Vixen and a contradiction. Fishnets. Birkenstocks. Nihilist. Catholic. Hitchhiking to your own twin cosmos. I love you, Max. I miss every bit of you.
Wuthering Heights, your gift to me, lies pristine next to my bed. I finger your inscription and feel you near. Your favorite book. I bought a used one and tore out each page, one by one.
X-rayed hares with wounded hearts spilled from your pen onto Bronte’s mess. What might we understand in the inking and movements of our hands, where we conjure our gods through our wounds? I’m sorry, but I cannot like this book.
Yarrow grows wild along the road: tea for grief or skin treatments. If I could only distinguish it from Queen Anne’s lace. You used to listen to the music on a skincare YouTube to go to sleep. You were so funny, Max. Happy about people improving their complexions. Tomorrow I will find some yarrow and steep tea and drink you. There’s much to be lost and found in the ditches and weeds.
Z—do you count the protons in a single nucleus? Or just let them be? Can you hear the small sound in its spinning?
Day 1
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5 What Remains?
·
White Van is an important, intense, must-read hybrid book by Meg Tuite. Part of me wants to dub it expressionistic, but the bones of me know it is really a stark, unflinching, representation of what is. Not an exaggeration by any means. Buy White Van here.
In White Van, Tuite creates her own genre of darkness, of inescapable trauma drawn in vignettes that smear into a miasma of despair. Point of view shifts and blurs, creating a disembodied, dissociative vibe. The victim might be the writer/speaker, the girl living in the van with her dad, or a lone urban teenager. The perp might be an ambivalent writer god casting his eyes on horror with no inclination toward moral intervention. And without intervention, you the reader/god will behold in dis-ease, for this is no easy read, nor should any important book be “easy.” You, yourself could be both victim and perpetrator, enmeshed in the text which masterfully induces dislocation.
Sometimes Tuite’s writing resembles poetry, and sometimes prose-verging-on-story, but then it coagulates into an oppressive, immersive victim-feel experience. Don’t expect heroes, justice, or resolutions in this book, this is dark realism served with no apologies. The works read together more like a “state” than “chapters” or a “collection,” a state that shines a mirror on the vile misogyny and perversion of a sick society. An important, confrontational book by a complex, gifted mind not afraid to descend into the blackest recesses of female victim-ness while inventing her own mode of expression.
And in all the beautifully rendered Cimmerian shades, Tuite, at times, startles with some dark comic relief, such as “You have three kids, a husband, and an open-coffin vagina. Sister says it dies when you are eight.” If these lines don’t entice you to read White Van, nothing will.
·
Petrichor Issue 21 is full of interesting writing and includes a number of great visual art pieces. My work is an ekphrastic poem about Joan Mitchell’s “The Hudson” painting from the 50s, called “The Hudson Looks Different.” Also included is an asemic art or writing piece, made from old journals and sketchbooks, a palimpsest of sorts. I love the range of experimental work in Petrichor and am grateful to Seth Copeland and the other editors for these publications. Find my work here.
·
Honored to have cover art and flash in Gone Lawn Issue 46. The artwork is hand drawn, then enhanced digitally. The flash, “The Dictations of Cabbages,” is, I think, a COVID persona piece written in the voice of a carrot on the moon. Okay, I hope I didn’t spoil it. It’s unlike anything I’ve written. Enjoy.