Poetry and shameless self-promotion
Poetry is still happening.
Fall is poetry season because it's beautiful and sensual and romantic and melancholy all at once, a slice from the Tale of Genji. It's a time to walk on deserted beaches and in brightly colored, dying woods, to wander in old cemeteries and invent stories for the forgotten lives and enigmatic epitaphs. A time when the colors are poignantly vivid, sharper than they have been under summer's hazy heat, before everything turns gray and muddy and snow-covered. A time to eat sharp, sweet Concord grapes that taste like home and tart, biting Cortland apples that are actually named for home, or at least one of my homes, to enjoy the fruits of the past summer and the fruits of the coming winter all at once--tomatoes and winter squash, stews and salads. A time to start baking again, and making stews and soups and other luscious comfort food. A time to snuggle with one's lovers after a long summer of being just too damn hot and sticky to think of it, to rediscover each other's bodies unmediated by sweat. A time to contemplate woodstoves and fireplaces and cashmere sweaters. A time of memory and magic and loss, a time when, for Celtic-path pagans at least, the year turns and the dead come, briefly, to pay a visit. This time of year always makes me think of those I've lost, although only my grandmother actually died in fall, and to cling to those I love.
A time for reflection and thus a time for poetry.
And now for a little more bragging.
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (featuring Teresa Noelle Roberts and Sophie Mouette) is in! Look for it on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, or your bookseller of choice.
And I have a poem, speaking of poetry, appearing online shortly--details to come when it's posted.