Interview with Melanie Hawthorne
Jun 11
Poet Renée Vivien, wild child of the Belle Epoque, turns 143 in time for Pride Month. In homage: a new cocktail club to get you through the empty-handed hour.
Waking Up French
Jun 11
Waking Up French Ren ée Vivien (1877-1909) and the French language Revival in Maine June 11 is the birthday of the French Symbolist poet Renée Vivien, who wasn’t really French at all. Nor was she called Renée–at least not by those who loved her, like Violet Shiletto, Eva Palmer, Natalie Barney, Romaine Brooks or Hélène de
Poem: Proof (6:11)
Apr 23
NOBLE SPIRITS Cognac’s Golden Ratio April 23 is the birthday of Epicurean author, sculptor and political activist Elisabeth de Gramont (1875-1954), who made the first French translations of poems by John Keats. Somebody once asked Lily de Gramont how to translate literature. She said that the artistry’s in imagining how the author would express herself,
Poem: Early April
Apr 1
Snow on cherry blossom. The snake eludes the young hawk. The light flurries drift in powder clouds like glittering smoke from wood fires. A lone cello in the music room. The season balks; the teacher practices. Real spring–when will it come? © 2014 SUZANNE STROH ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Poem: Your Mother and I
Mar 31
Death Valley Your Mother and I Your mother and I keep spaces between us. We travel together on separate schedules. Our love is like a Roman goddess. She’s elusive in Latin and yet she endures. One way we know our love is how we miss you equally. It comes in waves
Gorgeous Writing Room
Feb 3
the writing life From the desk of… Part two Another dream writing room, posted January 28, 2014 on Reverb’s Facebook page. At the risk of being too busy (my room is visually quiet, barer), love how the floor planks “talk” to the book spines above. I’d want to enter through tall French doors, or else
Poem: Scent the Page
Oct 31
Scent the Page Our Sapphist great grannies never scented the page. Their epics were the slim volumes they branded modern with strong firm hands. When I close my eyes to remember those fragrant afternoons stroked by their pens, when you and I were vaguely imagined, barely glints in their eyes on the jasmine path