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@michelledetorie-blog
HOLD: Issue One The theme for our inaugural issue is MAGIC. MAGIC? The strange, the everyday, the deep sea, outer space, witches, spells, the moon, sunsets, the unknown, science, mysteries, getting...
Several SPD authors (and future SPD authors?) in this new journal, and SPD staffer Zoe Tuck is part of the poetry team. Plus, it’s a beauty!
Contributors include: Eileen Myles, Anne Boyer, Michelle Detorie, Emerson Whitney, Emily Abendroth, and more!
24 Hours Of Halloween: Poems By Michelle Detorie
FABLE
Grief machines were called angels But we’re thieves. I’m cataloging the weather Of invented clouds. Pink ash in a puff. Pretty half-truths so pale in patterns They filigree the sunshine I should feel Moving over my skins. Lick me In my blind spot. Envy with a tail. Taking mirrors like little tablets. She Pushed her sister down the stairs. But they never called her ugly, only mean.
ACULTOMANCY
(divination using needles)
Those that were your eyes in winter, always in line where the snow pile met the wall of the shed, where the ice loosed its needle-teeth
from the rafters. An arrow dart in the center of a bright red heart. My pin-cushion lover when summer bloomed, all hydrangea yellow
and pink. And the compass dial winking at the horizon line where a colt and his mother smudge the sky, and below them the beach
and the lapping tide. Grass bent like a brush meeting the ink, and then the hairs loosed in the scene washed with blue and filled
with wraiths. The air hung with breath pierced by your eyes, always empty in their contradictions of hide and seek.
WITCH DOG
Don’t forget about me. I am your good girl. I’ve only been dead all summer. I only sleep when the sunlight weighs more than the skin of every living thing. The doorlight knocks, breaks open the clock-light clicking apart broken things, a tumble of stairs flowing down into a chamber. My brain’s awide yawning. The fog comes feral like a soft heart into my rib-brain. I call it a net. I am a good girl. Now you be a good hunter.
Michelle Detorie is the author of the full-length collection After-Cave (Ahsahta Press), and numerous chapbooks, including Fur Birds (Insert Press), How Hate Got Hand (eohippus labs), and Bellum Letters (Dusie). She also makes visual poems, poetry objects, and time-based poetry. In 2007, Michelle was awarded a National Endowment for the Arts literature fellowship, and in 2010 she won a direct-to-artist grant from the Santa Barbara Arts Collaborative for her public art project, The Poetry Booth. She recently completed The Sin in Wilderness, a book-length erasure about love, animals, and affective geography. Her current project is a series of swamp poems narrated by dragons and bitchy ghosts. She lives in Santa Barbara, CA, where she edits Hex Presse and coordinates the Writing Center at Santa Barbara City College. She is also the poetry editor for Entropy.
Curated by: Lisa A. Flowers (Film Critic/Columnist) is a poet, critic, vocalist, the founding editor of Vulgar Marsala Press, and the author of diatomhero: religious poems. Her work has appeared in The Cortland Review, elimae, Tarpaulin Sky, The Collagist, and other magazines and online journals. Raised in Los Angeles and Portland, OR, she now resides in the rugged terrain above Boulder, Colorado. Visit her here or here.
Michelle Detorie, from After-Cave #nationalpoetryday
The thirty-eighth installment is presented this week by Michelle Detorie.
XXXVIII.
I went underground and never wanted to come up. But then one November every sky was apocalypse pink and purple and orange like nuclear honey poured into the atmosphere drunk and soft and sweeping round us. And I strode with my dog to the top of the hill and looked down to the place where there was once an ocean but was now nothing more than poured mud stretched upon rocks and reaching out out out towards the islands. We could walk there. Mirage trouble a bridge spread under the wefty exhaust of hot comets.
I understood the weather as a thing that could be read but it was a type of reading without letters and barely any shapes. Blue clouds turning purple against the troubled populations of corporeal glyphs riveted out from the earth, the tangled roots thin as a thread of lived wages — never enough and tenuous, but clotted and tough.
I held what I could in my mouth and for as long as was tolerable. I tried to steady my mind around what my tongue knew but could barely remember to me. This feeling is made of houses. A darkening afternoon — daylight never enough to reach. But each night the lovers rise from the grave to meet each other in the domestic atmospheres of spent mechanics. The silent speech of semaphore and shadow.
It was important not to talk or listen to too many human voices which became so much like paper. They papered over the places where we’d printed our paws. The air misted with a lilac alphabet we’d exhaled. Ticking like seconds. Invented insects (texts). Star-spackle and drift.
And then there was the day you’d ask me where my baby was. But there is no baby. The baby is rather a dog who has gone next door to sniff through the ruins of the neighbor’s house — loose shingles and hanging slats of plastic siding. Her fur a web spun from shell-bones. She unspooled from my hips.
All we do is feel like houses.
I call the dog letting the words stay loose and edgeless, low and rumbled in my throat, and her ears prick at the sound. She comes back to me, limping up the eroding hills lit up like phosphorescent transcripts feral with data, reckoning.
For now we gather what we can from the landscape, and we are fucking wealthy.
Textual Environments: Site and Permeability panel at ASLE
the poem is a site where wildness collapses distinctions between inside and outside/ self and other(s)
Had an amazing and inspiring time at the ASLE conference in Moscow, ID last week! Here are some picks of the “Textual Environments: Site and Permeability” panel that Michelle Detoire, Brenda Sieczkowski, Megan Kaminski, and I were on together.
Sink Review's Essays & Reviews
Michelle Detorie wrecking my heart, building it up new
Reading at What's New in Poetry!
See the whole episode here!
The students in my Introduction to Creative Writing (#ENG130) class at Wheelock College have been reading After-Cave by Michelle Detorie for the past three weeks. This afternoon a student in the class emailed me a question about the homework due on Monday, and at the end of the email, he...
Students taking ENG 130/Introduction to Creative Writing this semester have been reading After-Cave by Michelle Detorie, which will soon be available at the Wheelock College library.
Read reviews of this poetry collection from Publisher’s Weekly, Galatea Resurrects (1), Galatea Resurrects (2), and Rob McLennan.
Read individual poems from After-Cave here, here, here, and here.
You can listen to the author reading from this book here.
Excerpt from Michelle Detorie’s After-Cave from ahsahtapress
Heidi Lynn Staples reading from “Noise Event” and “Trail” and Michelle Detorie reading from “After-Cave,” 1 December 2014 at Indian Springs School
Exactly what might our narrator be describing, one might wonder, or do we simply take her at her word? The way the accumulation of short pieces stitch into each other to create a larger construction is quite impressive, and her section-fragments shift and shimmy between abstract considerations, pure description, articulations of shelter, displays of animalistic tendencies, and talk of social interactions, shifting between a narrator who claims to have left the world long behind (in the ‘mad hermit in the woods’ sense), to someone who has merely stepped away for a moment.
from “Fur Birds” two dead things when did you become so lonely? one thing could fit inside the other: mouse, bird- wing. glossy black tail to feather because I am afraid of breaking things wick quick to flame everywhere there is water water a body in the hand (seed spread through secret channels) every time someone is kind to me I feel like breaking
from After- Cave by Michelle Detorie (via ahsahtapress)
