Saturday, May 10, 2014

Maryrose Larkin & Anne Shaw, 5/24, 6 p.m., Hazel Room

The Switch presents poets Maryrose Larkin and Anne Shaw.
 
When: Saturday, May 24, 6 p.m. FREE
Where: The Hazel Room, 3279 SE Hawthorne Blvd, Portland


Maryrose Larkin lives in Portland, where she works as a freelance researcher. She is the author of Inverse (nine muses books, 2006), Whimsy Daybook 2007 (FLASH+CARD, 2006), The Book of Ocean (i.e. press, 2007), DARC (FLASH+CARD, 2009) and The name of this intersection is frost (Shearsman Books, 2010) Marrowing (Airfoil, 2010) and The Identification of Ghosts (Chax, 2013). Maryrose was a founder of Spare Room, a Portland-based writing collective, and is co-editor, with Sarah Mangold, of FLASH+CARD, a chapbook and ephemera poetry press. Maryrose received her MFA from Bard College's Milton Avery Graduate School of Art. She keeps her friends close and her muses closer. 
 


Anne Shaw is the author of Dido in Winter (Persea 2014) and Undertow, winner of the Lexi Rudnitsky Poetry Prize (Persea 2007). Her poems and reviews have appeared in Harvard Review, Denver Quarterly, Crab Orchard Review, The Los Angeles Review, Barrow Street, and New American Writing. She has also been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and From the Fishouse. A graduate of Yale and George Mason University, Shaw is currently a student of sculpture at the School of the Art Institute in Chicago. She and her pit bull enjoy scaring small children and eating chicken bones from under picnic tables.


by Maryrose Larkin
from cure fraction

the stranger

in the margins
soft & rooted

her ideas
wandering

as is her habit

her house 
has eaten me
& kept me in awe



by Anne Shaw

New Architecture

 

& therefore the windows in which you must move

through hallways or rooms, their jittery

comeuppance, their glossy tabletops. What is a standard

 

occupation. No, really, define this. Is it self-

reliance? Conduit or spoon? That scrubbrush

ain’t done with its teething, its ache for, its hot

 

mess. I too have spent whole ages under the kitchen sink

erect with your comings and goings, my bristles tuned

to the latchkey & playing your favorite song. But this is how the body fails

 

its rest. In my eyes there are tiny funnels. In my ear

there’s a small, gross space. Meantime the grasses. Lakelight.

Creatures in the dirt-mounds. Small things. Burrowing, shining.

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