29 January 2018: Several years ago now, a friend of mine from Colorado gave me a small palm-size pamphlet called Tree Climbing in Fort Collins: A Lyric Guide. It is just what it sounds like: a seventy-page guide chock-full of technique—some borrowed, some original—for climbing trees. Yes. Climbing trees. I couldn’t believe such a book existed. … Continue reading Climbing Trees →

22 January 2018: I like to read William Stafford first thing in the morning, half-asleep in the pre-dawn dark, half-conscious with a sort of groggy openness. I like to read old Bill this way because I feel I get a better idea of what he was doing, what he was after, what early morning state … Continue reading The Little Thread Leads Onward →

15 January 2018: You sit around tonight, reading Russel Rowland’s book, putting off trying to write. Putting off this feeling, this question: Are you the writer you thought you’d be? Looking back, be honest. You didn’t see this coming. You didn't see this sitting in Dr. Parrish’s class eight years ago, writing like a madman … Continue reading Talking to Yourself Again →

8 January 2018: I worked my way through various phases last year, different streets, different towns, sometimes different states entirely. I discovered new voices, new places, reading my way around here and there. Some books I sought out—some seemed to almost find me. I remember my mom asking me last Christmas, “How do you find … Continue reading Best of My 2017 Reading List →

1 January 2018: Dear Ada, Did you ever fall in love with Richard Hugo? I can tell you I did once. And aren't the initial run-ins always the best?—when a new-to-you poet picks you up off the ground and says hello, here is a poem. When a poet seems to say: Here’s what you’ve missed, … Continue reading A Letter to the Poet Ada Limón →

25 December 2017: I understand I live in an apartment, but I have always wanted a workshop away from the house. Not to handcraft floating shelves from 2x4s or beached logs, but a space from which to write out into the world. Something like Wendell Berry’s Kentucky woods or Stegner’s California. I want that silence … Continue reading A Writing Shack: A Christmas Wish in the Form of a Poem →

18 December 2017: I called him a loner, a mumbler, a legend in the making—the little, grey-headed man picking up beer and soda cans around my neighborhood, senior year of college. I first noticed him in September, early on in the semester. He pushed a grocery cart around, muttering things I never understood or ever … Continue reading The Can Man →

11 December 2017: From what I’ve read, the prairie was lost on Charles Dickens. When the old Englander was there (1841), he didn’t praise the tallgrass. He didn’t throw his hands up in adulation. He didn’t once stumble in his boots and mumble: My God. The prairie, to Charles Dickens, was not a scene to … Continue reading A Small Bone to Pick with Charles Dickens →

4 December 2017: Maybe he was right, the hope of roads goes on… —Richard Hugo, “Reconsidering the Madman” When I think of Richard Hugo, I think, of course, of roads, and Montana, and certain grey areas outside Seattle. I think of movement, the wandering mind and the imagination. For me, Richard Hugo is a particular … Continue reading My Friend, Richard Hugo →

27 November 2017: I have been working on a book for the past six years. (It is time—with a sigh—that I confess.) Slowly, in fits and starts, the poor thing has evolved into something I am calling: a memoir in bits and pieces. Snowballing since the winter I quit grad school, this memoir sits, fairly … Continue reading The Getting There →