The Squid Returns

painting by Katie Schuler

My old squid poem "Watasenia Scintillans Addresses the New Graduates" is up today at The Last Word on Nothing. Don't miss the audio, with wonderful music and sound design by Grant Balfour. You can read and listen here. 

A New-Old Poem at LWON

 

Cristian Palmer on Unsplash

A new version of my old poem "The Death of the Lobster" is up today at The Last Word on Nothing. 

You can read it here. 

Two Lost Poems in Doubleback Review

My poems "Amaryllis" and "The Death of the Lobster" were both first published a few years ago. Then the magazines in which they appeared went under, and the poems disappeared.

I am very happy to report that both poems have been excavated and republished by the brand-new Doubleback Review, which specializes in doing precisely this thing.

Read the poems here.

Two New Poems in SIREN

photo: Daniel Tong

Many, many years ago, Ashdown Forest in Sussex inspired Winnie the Pooh's Hundred Acre Woods. Earlier this year, the forest caught fire.

I wrote about this wildfire—and some other feelings—for SIREN magazine's "Sanctuary" issue.

Read the poems here.

Another Bird Poem, If You Can Believe That

I'm honored to be a part of Monstering magazine's inaugural issue.

You can read my poem "Ketoconazole" here. It even comes with its own soundtrack.

A Zootopia Poem

image: YouTube // Googlemovietrailers

In March, I went to see Zootopia. 

I came home with visions of oil and water dancing behind my eyes. 

I thought about patterns, and the way we consider some dysfunctional behaviors strong or noble while others are viewed as weaknesses. I thought about grasping rabbits and flight-risk foxes I have known. I wrote a poem.

All that is to say:

"sly fox / dumb bunny" is up today at Quail Bell Magazine.

Save (Me From) the Whales

"Cetaphobia" by June Park

Some people are afraid of heights, or airplane travel, or public speaking, or spiders. I am not afraid of any of these things--in fact, I like them all--but, as some of you may remember, I am afraid of whales.

Read the essay at The Atlantic.

New Music from Squid Pro Crow: At Sundown, When I Am Busy

Here's the latest from Squid Pro Crow.
Words by me, music by Grant.


At Sundown, When I Am Busy
Remind me: 

mourning doves. Remind me always 
to live where they are. Remind me: 
that sound. 
That sound. Remind me. 
Mourning doves: that sound:

Remind me.

At Sundown, When I Am Busy

Remind me: 

mourning doves. Remind me always 
to live where they are. Remind me: 
that sound. 
That sound. Remind me. 
Mourning doves: that sound:

Remind me.


Listen here. Mourning dove drawing by Kathy Walker. 

America's Weirdest State Symbols

The bald eagle. The Lincoln Memorial. The Stars and Stripes. Symbols matter in the United States.

But regional pride is important, too, and every state in the union has its own heritage to celebrate—sometimes in odd ways.

As children, we all learned about our state flags and state birds—but who can name their official state soil? How about their state crustacean?

Read more at National Geographic.

Save (Me From) the Whales

Goodness gracious me. My essay about confronting my whale phobia—remember that one?—is finally in print. And oh, look...it's the cover story!

The folks at Open Minds Quarterly are lovely, and I highly encourage sending them your money in exchange for copies of the magazine.

Read more here.

How Do You Poop in the Galapagos Islands?

Darwin’s research transformed the Galapagos Islands into an object of scientific and cultural fascination, as well as a bucket-list destination. In 1978, UNESCO honored the archipelago and its living treasures by naming it the first-ever World Heritage site. 97% of the islands’ area was designated a national park; the remaining 3% was set aside for human habitation. The parklands and their inhabitants are truly wild, offering no shelter, no Internet access, and no bathrooms.

So...How do you poop in the Galapagos Islands?

Click here to read the article on mental_floss.


(excruciatingly cute sea lion pup photo by dagspeak)

More News!

Hooray! Another in National Geographic Daily News! Hooray!

"Birds do it. Bees do it. But genetically modified fruit flies just aren't in the mood."

Read the whole article here.

Huge News!

photo: Alex Blājan via Unsplash

My very first article for National Geographic News was published this week! Please enjoy.

Well, It's Not Poetry, But It Is a Thing, Written Down

Remember the blue whale on the ceiling? I went back. A miniature version of the article I wrote about that visit was published this weekend in the Washington Post. You can read it on page 9 of the magazine, or online here. With luck, I can publish the full-length article soon, too.

Good News, Everyone!

Big news, too: in collaboration with Grant of the Guild of Scientific Troubadours, I've set some of my poetry to music, and may even be dabbling in songwriting. Our first team effort is a spoken-word version of "Watasenia Scintillans Addresses the New Graduates."



Watasenia Scintillans Addresses the New Graduates
She clutches the podium with translucent arms.
She is older than her picture.
She closes her eyes slowly.
We all lean in.
"Life…" she says, tasting each costly letter,

"Life is short. Light your whole self up
every chance you get."



You can download the track over at Bandcamp if you're so inclined. Grant and I (collectively now known as Squid Pro Crow) have all sorts of good stuff in the works, so do stay tuned.

Approach

He is loose-fingered, cautious,
unbreathing yet. To him she is
a butterfly, only just
touched down.

But he is neither the collector
nor the net: to her he is
the full flower her tired feet
have found.







illustration by Martin Johnson Heade

Tuesday

Walking past the preschool
before Tuesday begins,
movement in the window.
The class rabbit (fat, white,
smug as a magician) has
escaped his cage. He sits,
preening on the play table,
watching the city sun rise.



photograph by Milena Agnieszka

Interlude: Other People's Poetry

Straight Talk from Fox by Mary Oliver

Listen says fox it is music to run
over the hills to lick
dew from the leaves to nose along
the edges of the ponds to smell the fat
ducks in their bright feathers but
far out, safe in their rafts of
sleep. It is like
music to visit the orchard, to find
the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the
rabbit with his fast-beating heart. Death itself
is a music. Nobody has ever come close to
writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot
be told. It is flesh and bones
changing shape and with good cause, mercy
is a little child beside such an invention. It is
music to wander the black back roads
outside of town no one awake or wondering
if anything miraculous is ever going to
happen, totally dumb to the fact of ever
moment’s miracle. Don’t think I haven’t
peeked into windows. I see you in all your seasons
making love, arguing, talking about God
as if he were an idea instead of the grass,
instead of the stars, the rabbit caught
in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought
home to the den. What I am, and I know it, is
responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not
give my life for a thousand of yours.


photograph by Nathaniel Atakora Martin

The Grasshopper in Winter

The grasshopper on the ground is dead--
not by boot, or hooting bird,
or by sultry spider--
but dead
as the grass, passed away,
and the hop that ceased.

His armor is accounted for,
though curled in the afterlife
into some aquatic thing.
The hop is gone,
but perhaps in that small beyond,
he swims.




art: "The Warrior in Winter," by Julia Jeffrey