Myrrh, Mothwing, Smoke: Erotic Poems
by Marie Gauthier & Jeffrey Levine (editors)
$11.95
The Winter 2012 edition of the Poetry Project celebrated Valentine’s Day with a simple challenge: write a stunningly good erotic poem. Be bad. Be good and bad. To our delight, that challenge was met and then some. Sensual, witty, cerebral—the results are this anthology, modest in size only, which includes the winners, plus our favorites of the submissions.
Format: paperback
Out of stock
In 2007, the Tupelo Press Poetry Project was established to provide poets and creative writing teachers with engaging, challenging prompts or provocations for writing new poems.
Contributors include Cynthia Rausch Allar, Michelle Bitting, Lisa Coffman, Amy Dryansky, Li Yun Alvarado, Paula Brancato, Gillian Cummings, Darla Himeles, Joel F. Johnson, Christopher Cokinos, Amy MacLennan, Stephen Massimilla, Barbara Mossberg, Susanna Rich, Aubrey Ryan, Anna Claire Hodge, Janet R. Kirchheimer, Conley Lowrance, Lea Marshall, Mary Ann Mayer, Steven Paschall, Liz Robbins, Jo Anne Valentine Simson, Jeneva Stone, Molly Spencer, Judith Terzi, Gail Thomas, Kim Triedman, Bruce Willard, P. Ivan Young
Jeffrey Levine is the editor-in-chief and publisher of Tupelo Press and author of two prize-winning books of poems, Rumor of Cortez and Mortal, Everlasting.
Marie Gauthier, Director of Sales & Marketing of Tupelo Press, is the author of a chapbook, Hunger All Inside (Finishing Line Press, 2009). Recent poems can be read or are forthcoming in The Common, Cave Wall, Salamander, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. She won a 2008 Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Prize in addition to Honorable Mention in 2010.
Additional information
| Weight | .4 lbs |
|---|---|
| Dimensions | 6 × .5 × 9 in |
“Dialogue with Gaps”
by Jeneva Stone
These meadows themselves open, brush the horizon
and was the—
yes
it were she says
it were what
she says he’s sorry
same old
he says she’s right
damn straight
she says she arrives
and why not
Some meadows flayed by wind, pinned by trees
she says she remembers
sorry
she says she liked it
right
she says what of it
Arrive then, riding between trees, legs clasped
what he says
don’t
the matter was her
These trees in these meadows green at the tips
her nipples were
her eyes were
her hair was
her mouth formed
her thighs opened
That grass coarse against which some lay back
his hair black
his hands spread
his lips hard
his eyes closed
his mouth wide
Among trees overhead leaves curl like hair
observe she says
catch me
what he says
can’t
where he is
disappeared
matter she says
and he rides on
A meadow, distant now, each line of grass arrayed against another
her green fingers reach
he rides
she reaches further
he rides
Jeneva Stone’s poems and nonfiction have appeared in Beloit Poetry Journal, Colorado Review, The Collagist, RHINO, and many others. She is the recipient of 2012 fellowships from the MacDowell and Millay Colonies for her memoir about her disabled son’s undiagnosed illness. She most hopes, though, you will respect her in the morning.
“O Honey, Won’t You Rock My World Up North”
by Aubrey Ryan
The snow will go for days, our road
keep trackless, and the lamplight
spill then stay. You’re gold
in wool and overalls; you’re a sight
to see: my man. One pear, one pound
of chestnuts in a paper bag, one kettle set
to burst. I’m smooth and round;
I’m a shallow bowl of oil: so sweet
for flame. Bring shovel, bring
salt and light a match to me—my bones
will melt. Honey, ring me
in garland: I’m a festival. Our home
is in the branches of jack pine. Our bedposts hum
like hives. Take this body. We’ll make a wet thaw come.
Aubrey Ryan’s work has appeared recently or is soon-to-be in Best New Poets 2011, Quarterly West, Booth, Squat Birth Journal and Cellpoems. Aubrey lives in Iowa with her husband and their son, who is the best muse of all.
“Hypothesis, Proof”
by Amy Dryansky
A week of nonnegotiable fantasy, days
of unmovable image—in a locked room,
against a door, in front of the window.
I, of course, am wearing a skirt, stockings
holding onto my thighs. You look
and then look down. You think
what you think. There’s only this table
between us – a slight expanse
of wood and steel, file cabinets,
note-taking. You rely on me and I you, not to. But I’m undependable
with the right kind of pressure.
I look outside at the land you love
clearing its throat, preparation
for singing. We have an understanding.
A bridge arches over the river, river
rises to meet it, pigeons fly out
from the dark underneath, and starlings
rise and fall in parabolic sweeps, glissandos
drawn from architecture and math, music
almost impossible to play.
Amy Dryansky’s first book, How I Got Lost So Close To Home, was published by Alice James Books and her second, Grass Whistle, is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry in 2013. She teaches at Hampshire College and writes about the territory of mother/poet at her blog, Pokey Mama.
