from The Rhythm of It—Poetry's Hidden Dance, by Anita Sullivan

Poetry rhythms ooze out of the ground as they have for as long as we can imagine, and the job of a poet is to regularly gather them up and match them with words.

— Anita Sullivan, The Rhythm of It—Poetry's Hidden Dance

from Still Point Arts Quarterly, essay by Florence Hazrat

Krzysztof Golik WC CC

With every stroke of my arms, the clamor drains out of my mind into the lake. The rest is silence and thoughts in all the lake’s greens. As I reach the bobbing buoy, I cling to it, relaxing my legs and breathing in the scenery. But I want to go further. I want to lose all touch with the land. I want to be the smallest, most insignificant dot in the vastness of the lake. Swallow me. Make me your own. One day, my hair will be flowing algae, my feet luminous stones, my tongue little blue fish, and my eyes the heart of the lake. I will be the lake and the lake will be me. I am water. I am wave. Green.

Florence Hazrat
“All the Names of Green: Days at Lake Geneva”  
Still Point Arts Quarterly, Summer 2019

from Oblique Music, by Elizabeth Bodien

in dim light now

we untangle ourselves

to this day's music

its unmet surprises

sorrows and blessings

— Elizabeth Bodien, Oblique Music