When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing... Turns out, of the four-and-twenty blackbirds, 20 were men and only 4 were women! I know I promised to post the next installment of PM's journey, but an interesting conversation is bubbling up around a piece published by VIDA, Women in the Literary Arts, and I just … Continue reading pie, publishing & swagger
In which Pokey becomes a Master of Regret and encounters Temporary Blindness. My friend Maya describes how she recently came across a photograph of herself at a party when her daughter was an infant. “I was wearing red pants! Red pants! What was I thinking? Who does that?” This, dear reader, is the question of … Continue reading the birth of pokey, part II
click.click.click. In the poetry workshop I taught this fall we talked a lot about repetition and variation. We agreed that repetition can be a good thing in a poem, like an engine moving you forward when you think you might be stuck. It worked for Dorothy: there’s no place like home, there’s no place like … Continue reading no place like home
When I first imagined Pokey Mama, I didn’t see her as a blog, per se, at least in the sense of daily/frequent musings, updates, etc. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I had a clear vision of telling a kind of serialized story: my journey through pregnancy into motherhood followed by the chaos … Continue reading the pokey pledge
In regard to posting a full-length essay with accoutrements on a weekly basis Pokey has given herself the green light to forgo the self-flagellation and instead allow for occasional blathering and newsy news in between the fabulousness of the longer posts, hence, the following items that may be of interest: Pokey Reads! Words will be … Continue reading Red Light, Green Light
So sad I’ve been not to be here at Pokey Mama that I couldn’t stand to look at the little tab on my Favorites bar with the mini PM staring forlornly at me from way out in cyberspace. If not now, when? she asks plaintively, or sometimes, when feeling bullish (in the Hemingway sense of … Continue reading And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Of course I love them, they are my children. This is my daughter and this my son. And this is my life I give them to please them. It has never been used. Keep it safe. Pass it on. The Mother, Anne Stevenson I subscribe to a women’s poetry list serv, and this poem was … Continue reading bear, not tree