About Me
So I'm Liz, a poet and fiber artist living in the Hudson Valley Region of the US. My poems are informed by my paganism, bisexuality, response to world events, and (of course) grief. I'm getting back into the routine of readings, mostly on zoom, but I'm open to local events as well. You will not find me putting any of this on Instagram or Facebook, because I'm one of the cool kids right here on neocities! You're just going to have to bookmark me and periodically say hi to me on Bluesky.

Head home!

Creative Publications

Reading Schedule

  • February 20 2025 CAPS online reading: I start at 1hr 41 or so, but please give a watch to all of the fine poets!


  • March 20 2025 CAPS online reading
  • April 20 2025 CAPS online reading
  • May 20 2025 CAPS online reading

  • Academic Conferences/Publications

    Angry Walt Whitman
    Mary Oliver + E. E. Cummings

    And Let This Be A Blessing


    You have your grandmother's almond eyes.
    You have your mother's hands.
    You have the last thirteen years with me.
    And you will have the rest.
    (Like Leonard, a baffled poet tries to keep the meter,
    Composing as she goes)
    You took two baskets of magenta and purple
    Orange flames showing through,
    You hung them on the iron crook
    I wasn't strong enough to plant.
    The afternoon was warm, the sun bit my tender skin.
    I cried because I never thought I'd be here,
    Thirteen little years in.
    A dragonfly visited our garden, a tiny teal caterpillar
    Tickled my arm as you found a native bee.
    And let this be a blessing.
    (Incense smells like lilies to me,
    Oh, this sounds like praise to me).
    We have planted, we have lifted, we have disturbed the land
    But I think it accepts us.
    Let this be a blessing.
    Back to our garden, back to your dirty hands,
    Back to our round and full and bright and summer,
    Back to our rosemary, mint, our foxglove, our butterfly bushes,
    Back to our floribunda, our world.
    You were panting, hauling mulch,
    Then tenderly tucking honey suckle, pumpkins, berries.
    ''Did you ever think we'd be married,
    Working on our garden?''
    I choked up, unable to give a pat reply.
    I heard echoes of her hospital room,
    I was thrown back twenty years to an old grief
    Smeared with pollen and late sun.
    The last whiff of her perfume
    Still flickered in my brain.
    The dead are with me even here.
    The past is with me, even in life.
    The past is with me, even in happiness, even here.
    And that is a blessing.


    Cleaning the Kitchen, Waiting on Hold


    ''Your call is very important to us, please continue to hold.''
    This is it, this is the life. Cleaning out my fridge, my kitchen,
    Talking to myself about poetry, listening to a recording on my phone.
    This is me: cleaning, worrying, worrying about words,
    Waiting to dial the right extension,
    Waiting to talk to the right machine.
    Suspicious milk and queasy curds, furry avocados, meat gone limp and grey,
    Receipts and plastic bags, artifact and reticence,
    What is it that holds me back? How important is my call?
    They say you should never write an ars poetica,
    But I have to, I have to ask,
    I have to do the thing I can't.
    A dripping pipe, mysterious stickiness, the slime of old peels.
    Mummified potatoes, ragged onion skins, wist and deference.
    What's left? Who should I write for? How long can I hold?
    Who are my men and women?
    Who's my proud and broad,
    My spice and sundering sound?
    Carton and schedule, ticket and card. ''Please continue...''
    Days measured in papers and books, twist-ties and butchers' string.
    Kitchen table concerns. ''Your call is very important.'' Indeed.
    Who should I be talking to?
    How can I do the thing I shouldn't?
    How can do I the thing I can't?
    Where's my proud and broad, where's my spice and sex?
    Where's the brassy break and pulsing youth?
    Who should I be talking to? ''Please continue to hold.''
    How do you weave magic from this?
    How do you write from the forgotten appointments,
    Train windows, tissues, drafts, and measurements?
    Who should I be talking to? What should I be doing?
    ''Your call is very important to us, please continue to hold.''
    This may well be it. This may well be my life.
    Still, I can't resign myself completely to a bland program.
    The window is open. Spring is slapping through late winter's rot,
    And I'm still alive enough to do the thing I can't.



    Mother Tongue


    Scholars will tell us
    Certain words have survived
    Since the dawn of human speech:
    Mother, fire, fish, and forest
    Worm and knot and sweat and string.
    (You've been here before.)
    (It's not holy, but we've been here before.)
    Knowing this, I try to tell the story,
    I try to trace the history, I try to wake the dead.
    I try to pronounce the primordial word
    Because it's still there.
    There is a mother tongue,
    There is a prayer,
    There is a meristem line
    Of thought, of feeling, descant and rhyme.
    Is the mother tongue still spoken?
    Does the harp string still sound?
    Does the prayer still reach that high?
    (How much of her can you hear through me?)
    (How much of her belongs to the dead?)
    Like the words, certain treasures have survived
    Since the dawn of human love:
    A baby's hand on your cheek, a path in the woods,
    A gray dawn coming through the teeth of the mountains.
    There is a story, there is a mother tongue.
    And I hear it now
    As the taste of the new storm coats the evening,
    The gravel on our street sends up dust.
    Rain is coming again,
    There is a path in the forest,
    There is a meristem line.
    We still know how to stitch these prayers.
    There is the mother tongue,
    There is the blessing of time.



    Poet, Sucker, Fool


    In the beginning, there was the word.
    The breath forced from the lungs, through the throat,
    Wet bellows inflated to feed the flame.
    In the sainted past, the poet and fool were power.
    The poet, alchemist, distilled symbol to song.
    The fool, seer, would say what could not be said.
    Between the two of them, the divine madness of language,
    The folie a deux, would spread.
    And here we are now. Good God, I'm a sucker.
    In the beginning, the word was sacred.
    We are people of the word.
    We are people of the water and the stone.
    We are people of the story.
    We are people of the poem.
    Oh, the word was the world, the world was the word.
    The word on the street is that this craft is empty.
    (And yet, don't small men kill the poets first?)
    I'm afraid a lot but my candle burns.
    I'm discouraged a lot, but my magic builds.
    Take my hand. I know this, my love.
    Be with me. I say this, my love.
    I sing this, I tell you this, my love:
    Fire is a process not an object.
    Poetry is a choice, not a gift.
    Meter is a map, enjambment a liminal space.
    The poet and the fool are alive and well.
    The poet and the fool are alive and well,
    Sailing the winedark currents
    (Here be monsters, here be critics).
    The poet and and the fool are alive and well,
    The poet and the fool are alive and well,
    Holy suckers both.
    We are alive and we are well.
    Holy suckers all.



    Never write an Ars Poetica


    I've crawled on my fat belly
    And I've smelled the black dirt.
    I've rolled like a snake in the Orange County mud.
    I've rolled like a snake in the 5 quilts on my bed,
    Dry eyes peeled at the stream and the feed, despairing.
    Lately, people have gone to great lengths to dissuade
    The human hand and the human mind
    Empathy is a sin now, unimpeded cancerous growth is a good.
    How in the hell do you write a poem in a time like this?
    I've licked that black dirt from my lips and
    I've peered between the roots, reading the augurs.
    And let me tell you,
    This will all decay one day,
    I will be a carcass and so will you.
    But as long as we have rot and ret,
    As long as babies swim into their mothers' arms,
    As long as a beast lays its body to yours,
    As long as we place a stone on a grave,
    As long as we close our eyes to music,
    As long as your hand falls over my hip,
    I'll have a job to do.

    Second Floor Stacks


    The glass-eyed thief prowls the second floor stacks.
    Sequestered with the little tombs, the racks of forgotten names,
    And the tart appraisals, or dusty wreaths of praise
    That crown the remains of human labor,
    Safe from the gentle jealousy of Friday afternoon's late light,
    And the relentless, seductive signal of the street below,
    She is free to ignore the light and noise,
    Bowing and arching, tapping on her brain.
    She is free to disregard the moist and silky reminders
    Of spring trying to sneak in by the dull casements (cracked against rot),
    Grimed with decades, hung with abandoned webs, nests, and wings.
    She is free to feed on memories, to rest from the pressure of action.
    A lungful of old ink and must, she drinks a greedy breath,
    Capturing the scent of this place,
    Wanting something strange to take back to her rude and shouting shore.
    She carefully folds her prize away as
    The floor settles, with a arch remark, with a dry protest,
    Under her thick black boots
    And the warmth of her fallible skin.
    The glass-eyed, loving thief finds a path
    Through these genteel graves.
    She pats the titles, mouths the words
    On the carefully interred ribs.
    Every few steps, she pulls one from its shelf,
    Strokes the flaking skin, sniffs the trace of escaping chemicals,
    Half-expecting it to scream like a mandrake
    As she silently addresses its withered face.
    She fills her living, twitching lungs with time’s passage.
    The glass-eyed lover, as carefully as she can,
    Quietly as she dares,
    Courts the past contained.
    She hopes to coax a token, tiny word, some small sympathy,
    From the quiet printed dead.


    Recedere


    The darkness relents and comes to morning.
    My raging memory dies to salt, and I retreat
    From the sea that had possessed me.
    I return, shaken, holding my head,
    Still feeling hunted, still afraid.
    (try to be still try to be still)
    I try to pull a breath up through
    the lingering panic.
    I have to leave our bed,
    I know it was a dream, a midnight worry,
    But I am half convinced that
    Devils dance on my pillow.
    Hoofbeats still pounding in my veins,
    I make a padding circuit of the house,
    Checking locks and switches.
    Eventually, my mind relents,
    And through the shadowed glass of recollection,
    I reach for you.
    You roll and sigh as I return,
    Waxing and waning, climbing back to you.
    The hours grow smoother, and I grow calmer.
    Rain laces the window and I watch the sky become lighter.
    The last memory of fear dissolves
    With the release of a contented heart.
    Through the thickness of hours spent in fearful watch,
    I drift closer to our shores,
    I drift closer to you, trusting all is well.
    You reach for me, slightly out of sleep,
    Mostly out of habit.
    Somehow you know how I felt,
    Like I still did not belong,
    A gentle exile from time.
    You reach for me over the rippling lines of linen,
    You bring me back, rising against my tormenting will,
    Innocent now of my worry.
    You bring me back. In your wisdom, you bring me back,
    your love's hands on my storming head,
    Your lips pressed to mine.

    Straight Up Witchraft and Paganry
    Horny Oscar Wilde

    World's Bliss


    A greedy little creature!
    I'm basking in your luxury of blue,
    Then in the dark down on your belly,
    In the squared off width of your hands and your hips.
    A greedy little creature!
    I mount a soft siege: I twist and burrow,
    My face in your warm secret juncture,
    Solid and living as the crease of trunk and bough.
    A greedy little creature!
    I smile as I slide farther, ever deeper
    Into the wiry corners of your body
    Pawing at what I find, lapping at what I want,
    Pulling pleasure by the stalk.

    The Smell of Men


    This is a sign I know, this suffusion
    Rising from the skin, carried in the blood,
    This soft command, the smell of men.
    There are the other symbols I speak,
    There are the other things I crave,
    The fanning dark hair, squared hands,
    Bent knees, arcing ribs - gems -
    Surrendered in praise of my lust.
    But I rise and I run for this.
    For this I am a swelling river, a vein,
    Full in my fascinations; I run sap-heavy
    At the smell of men.
    I can taste the musky, rising heat,
    The deeply quivering insistence,
    And I'm something poured from a jar.
    I trap and bite, and dive on the sugar stamen,
    Sepal by sepal, seeking the willing tongue,
    the wave of sense, the thing I most need.
    I become a bird of paradise,
    Living on the smell of men.

    17 Mine


    Months ago, we stayed up late,
    Too tired to sleep, too tired
    For the warmth of your bed.
    It was too warm for late winter.
    You opened the window onto Mine street.
    The city pressed against the glass,
    A soft companion to the apartment’s light
    Falling over your bare back.
    You moved and love's constellations,
    The sweetest wounds,
    Moved with you.
    I paused, I paused in love for you,
    Drinking you like David,
    Memorizing every span and arch.
    The glass rose and sirens and taxis
    And laughter poured in through the screen.
    You stopped to watch, holding the frame.
    Your hands, so loved, could have just as well
    Been marble as flesh.
    You moved as you watched, contrapposto
    From an old master.
    You moved as you scented the night,
    Hinting at spring. I watched as the fire came
    To my head, the little light of poetry,
    The little light of love.
    I fed the flame to make sure I'd always remember this,
    You, half-naked and beautiful,
    You were saying something but I confess I didn't hear,
    Burning as I was.
    The city poured in, from dark to light, a gentle mess.
    I paused, in love, to hold you
    To write you,
    To wrap you in the tendrils of a never-ending spring.

    Banquet Piece


    An emerging slice of sun
    (that you said I brought with me)
    Has gilded this corner of the park.
    The detritus of late spring
    Would make any Old Master's table look winter-lean:
    Overturned cups, abandoned sandals,
    Soccer balls, scraps of paper, rumpled blankets.
    The fountain shines, the running children,
    The traffic pulsing along Columbus circle
    Become a tapestry behind us.
    This afternoon is a fortune too great.
    Everything is rendered as if from a lowland brush.
    Crumbs on the basket, trailed sentences,
    The glint of gold by your throat,
    The stitches on my skirt - these small details we pore over,
    Each unwilling to leave the other unwarmed by hands and breath
    (Lovers leave nothing unturned, unread, untasted.
    I spill my coke and as it sizzles into the ground,
    We laugh and you collapse the space left between us.
    You gather me up again.
    Covered in sugar, sweat and earth,
    Honey flows from me.

    Impossible Island

    I crest and flow,
    I send my ship, myself
    Riding currents carved in stone.
    I crest and flow, searching in every direction
    For the scent of sandalwood,
    For the glow of sea glass in her eyes.
    I search with every inch of skin
    For the landlocked woman
    Who gives me thoughts of the ocean -
    For the city girl that turns me again to the sea.
    (Search my beating heart,
    Search it now,
    Or a hundred days later -
    You won't find what they say you should.
    You will find no guilt,
    No pose of reticence.
    Search me and all you will find is the wild,
    The wind and the sea.)
    When I find myself there,
    On the impossible island once again,
    In that borrowed bed,
    I reach out beyond the borders,
    And by instinct I feel the endless battle of waves,
    Far beyond the frame of marble and glass where she lives.
    In me, in my body, the Atlantic's wild heart pounds.
    Its gray-green thunder pours through the arms
    That surround this island,
    And the staggering joy, the simplicity of desire
    Pours through her arms around me.

    Oh, Well.


    I set a lovely table, I offered you my finest wine,
    But now you have another lover,
    So you let the cup run dry.
    You could have stayed with me, my dear,
    And I could have called you mine.
    But you chose to chase another,
    So you let the cup run dry.
    I was art, you said - you wanted me -
    I wanted to call you mine.
    But you chose another lover,
    And so you've let the cup run dry.
    You said you wanted to swim forever
    In my warm and languid seas.
    You could have washed ashore and lingered
    And tangled yourself in me.
    You could have held my books and learned my rites
    But now I set you free-
    You said you were my lover,
    But now you walk away from me.
    When you were new there was a different tune,
    But now the note has lost its grace.
    I was cypress and I was acacia,
    I was a sacred, thrilling place;
    Every poet's mad and secret dream,
    I was every lover's face.
    I was the moon wheeling in her majesty
    Above the sun's wasted, empty rind.
    There was incense on my name,
    Figs and honey in my thighs,
    But now you want a lesser lover,
    So you let the cup run dry.

    No Hay Miel


    He's gone, he's gone.
    The imago of my desire is gone.
    I am left reeling, bleeding,
    I taste only the stinging slap of the void.
    He has left me, he has left me.
    I have only a pile of bones,
    I have only the faintest memories to pluck,
    The rest to bleach in the merciless gaze.
    I have no love story, no familiar skin.
    I have nothing to satisfy the innocent and kind.
    His wings spread wide, he has left me.
    I run plain and dry, empty as the flame.
    I am a ruined place; I am only dust,
    Nothing even left to swell and rot in the sun.
    I tell myself, by way of cheap consolation,
    Cheap and tattered comforts,
    That it is better to be empty than haunted;
    Better to burn coldly than rage at the faint taste of bliss.
    Do I now live by my lie?
    There is nothing lovely here.
    I have no enchanting memory
    To satisfy the innocent and kind.
    He has gone, he has gone. I am a lonely servant.
    Where do I turn now? There will be no relief,
    There is no honey in this stone.
    I will bear only the strange symptom of my need.
    I have nothing to tell you, no wisdom to impart
    From a heart sadder, but sweeter. Mine only howls.
    I have nothing for you, the innocent and kind.
    Come and see my empty vigil, see the keystone of a hungry arch.
    Pay good money and gorge your veined eyes on me,
    I give nothing; sucking on my own heart,
    Singing in my own space.
    No honey in this stone, nothing for me. I am a shadow now.
    I will spare no foolish sentiment,
    I will not satisfy the innocent and kind.
    Do not offer me your mercies, your prayers.
    Do not waste your tenderness on me.
    I am traveling far and farther into exile,
    I am beyond hope, beyond flesh, beyond sense.
    I will stay out here, far from the innocent and kind.
    There will be no honey from this stone,
    Only my wasted life.
    But it is mine to lose.
    It is done: I will burn on this pillar for him.
    I will strike into my own heart, let it shrivel,
    Let it dry to stone.
    Forget the innocent, let them learn.
    Lash me to this pillar,
    I will burn until my savage saint comes home.

    Sea of Ice


    Bleeding and exhausted, I wandered further than I should.
    I came here alone and I'm dying
    And I disturbed her peace. I paint the marble with my blood
    My finite life is a crude joke in the face of centuries.
    My suffering is nothing in this splendor, this searing cold.
    Shards of late orange light fall around me
    The approaching twilight howls, the early stars glide over the horizon.
    Patterns unknown to me appear, bones of thought, forgotten stories wheel over my head.
    They watch me crawl - they know how it will end.
    I continue to fight, just long enough to give her my last offering.
    She gets up - in her own time - to receive.
    Queen of the piercing night,
    She caresses and folds, tooth over bone,
    Every word pierces through the skeletal grin.
    Finally I am no more, I give everything to her majesty,
    Her skin the ice of eons,
    Her crown the lipless wind.

    Still Life


    I am too young to live without desire,
    Too young art thou to waste this summer night
    Asking those idle questions which of old
    Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told
    Oscar Wilde, '''Panthea'''


    The old masters
    Would layer their painted tables
    With plates and goblets,
    With succulent things-
    Fruits bursting with nectar,
    Jewels burning still after the breath of centuries.
    Useless, beautiful things from exotic shores.
    They would not hesitate to interrupt the riot
    Of rendered linen, of silver's gleam, of ripe peaches,
    With the brute grace of a skull.
    Look into the quiet of those empty sockets and find the will
    To press that grape to your palate -
    Will that muscat go sour on your tongue?
    ''All this will end,'' they said, ''All is vanity,''
    As if to convince our living eyes,
    As if to deter our flesh from being in love with flesh.
    As if pleasure should ever kneel to piety.
    ''This is vanity,'' some still say.
    As if to chase me away from my lover.
    I have heard this from every old master,
    Every one - I now ignore.
    Why waste pleasure?
    This is all we'll ever have.
    Why attempt to please something that's not there?
    Why send your love into emptiness?
    Why pray to unending silence?
    Why try to love a man that doesn't see you?
    Why waste your life on the specter of a marble god
    And try to please his dead, dead eye?
    The old masters groaned heavily onto the joy of so many,
    But they never counted on a woman like me.

    Poems about Grief