Words traveling on the wind.

Spindle is officially published (by the duplications department in the basement of Hampshire's campus library) and I am so proud. There are copies floating around all over at this point--a few in Boston (of course), Iowa, California, Mexico, Seoul, and soon maybe even Canada and Paris. The most appropriate way for me to respond to this phenomenon is with the first epigraph from the book:

I am not worried that poems reach relatively few people. As it is, they go surprisingly far--among strangers, around the world, even. Farther than the words of a classroom teacher or the prescription of a doctor; if they are very lucky, father than a lifetime.

From the mouth of Sylvia Plath, who graces the cover of the chapbook with her typewriter. The book contains the following poems; the titles followed by asterisks have been read either in draft or current form in open mics or slams in the past few months (not counting what's been read at Hampshire). I am proud to say that the entire book comes from poems I've written for the 365 project, in collaboration with all of the academic things I've done this semester. It's nice to know that the two largest arenas of my life have finally intersected in a way I want to share with anyone and everyone who will listen.

Contents:

Smith-Corona, a love poem
The Plaths, of Winthrop
Emily Dickinson, to the town of Amherst
"I'll never speak to God again."
The Church of Tchaikovsky*
Insider Information
Running With the Downcity Furnace*
The Train From Wellesley, June 1953
EBB, to Robert*
On Hugs Between Friends
Mary Oliver Breaks From Writing A Poetry Handbook
Yes, Virginia
Eyelashes*
Books Don't Read Me
Viral Pneumonia
Conquest*
Ted Hughes Bakes a Cake
Master of None
Lost and Found
rescued