New Photographs by Isabel Winson-Sagan

Elysian Fields

Jacob’s Ladder

Ark of the Fractures

Looks like 2017 is designated here in my world as the year of mother-daughter collaboration. I can’t wait! Isabel is setting up a dedicated studio space–large scale printer, diy print press. We’re working out our schedule and list of projects. In the past year we’ve had two wonderful residencies–Wildacres, NC and Herekeke, NM. Now we’re going to start to work together several days a week as a routine here in Santa Fe–God willing & the creek don’t rise.

3 Questions for Alison Carb Sussman

What is your personal/aesthetic relationship to the poetic line? How do you understand it? Use it?

My poems can be prose poems, or they can be in verse with rhythm and line breaks. When I break my poem into lines it is usually because I want the reader to read it slowly and to concentrate on each line as a separate unit. When I write a poem in block text I want the reader to concentrate on the poem as a whole. Which one I use, prose poem or verse, depends on what I hear when I begin writing. I usually know by hearing where a line is going to break. I try hard not to have too many end-stopped lines in a single poem because they can shut it down rhythmically but sometimes the poem just dictates what it wants to be. I like using enjambment because each line runs over to the next and creates a forward flowing rhythm which pushes the poem along but again that type of poem will often dictate itself. I follow where a poem takes me, kind of like a worm feeling its way along in the dirt.

Do you find a relationship between words and writing and the human body? Or between your writing and your body?

I notice that in my writing body parts always appear. They either appear as the central focus of the poem or are mentioned in it. Bodies seem to dance through my poems, naked or clothed, bodies collide, run, faint, shake their heads. Large feet and toes do the foxtrot. Hands draw themselves. Shoulder blades sink, arms fold, and so on. Like some children I didn’t have a whole lot of control over my body, and I think using the body in my poetry is one way of taking back some of that control.

Is there anything you dislike about being a poet?

There’s really nothing I dislike about being a poet. I went into it with my eyes open. I knew I was going to be both ecstatic and miserable for the rest of my life.

Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 2016
After Patrick Kavanagh

To Them he would always be brown, never golden
brown skin and eyes and teeth,
to Them he would never be summer,
always winter,
his future, pore by anguished pore,
his hair, a thistle-wild grave,
to Them he was beneath soot,
less than rot,
hit for hampering the way,
a maturing shoot rising stifled
in Their spray—

Alison Carb Sussman’s poems “Acting Like a Woman” and “Reuniting With Mother at the Zoo” won the Abroad Writers’ Conference/Finishing Line Press Authors Poetry Contest. She was awarded a conference registration and stay at the Butlers Townhouse in Dublin from December 12th to 19th, 2015. Her poem “Anhedonia” was a finalist in the 49th Parallel Award for Poetry in Bellingham Review’s 2016 Literary Contests. Her chapbook, On the Edge, a semi-finalist in Finishing Line’s New Women’s Voices Chapbook Competition 2012, was published by Finishing Line in May 2013. Her poems have appeared in Gargoyle, Levure litteraire, Emory University’s Lullwater Review, The New York Times, and Southword Journal. Other poems are forthcoming in Atlanta Review and Rattle. Alison was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2015. She lives and writes in New York City.

Sea Urchin?


“Like a real Urchin, you can look at it, but it’s best not to touch it,” said director of the Masters of Architecture Program Prof. Caroline O’Donnell, on her new Arts Quad exhibit.
O’Donnell created the exhibit, “Urchin (Impossible Circus), with the help of Christopher Morse ’17 and John Lai ’17 as a part of the Cornell Council of the Arts’ 2016 Biennial celebration. The exhibit — installed on the arts quad this past weekend — attempts to transform 500 plastic lawn chairs into a living organism.
“The idea is that when you see it from afar, it seems like a designed object,” O’Donnell said. “As you get closer, at some point you realize that it’s just a plastic chair that you’ve already sat in 100 times. You have to resolve these two different perceptions in your mind.”

My own tiny Jackson Pollock by Miriam Sagan

green dripped
down the page
my own tiny
Jackson Pollock,
I threw acrylic
on water
in the dusk and incipient
rain storm,
pink startled me
on the surface
of vision
hollyhock, polka dot, a shade of color
born in the 1960’s
when I emerged
from a girl
dressed in my mother’s plaids and navy
into purple paisley and magenta madras.

to print
is to know
I’ve lived,
my body
leaves an indent
in the bed
and will the grave,
I drop gobs of yellow
drizzle argentine
spotted red and orange
pull pages
of color
from the water’s surface
Venus on the horizon,
your salt and pepper hair,
my best
my worst
there are no words
on this speechless paper,
red finches, and gray clouds
rising out of the mountain
to disturb the suminagashi basin
with rain.





Suminagashi Around the Equinox


Almost a year since I learned to do this from Isabel Winson-Sagan. And probably less than two months since I started worked more consistently. Still using the outdoor set-up, even though it is getting cold. I hope to work straight through the winter outdoors if I can.



Have been experimenting. There is acrylic ink from Japan that is for marbling, but it acts more like a monoprint at times.



I love it, but the medium is difficult to manipulate, I’ve lost the tiny bit of control I had with the more traditional ink.



They say a suminagashi master has 5% or maybe 2% control. I’m down below that!


Against Creativity by Miriam Sagan

Against Creativity

I’ve been writing seriously since I was 16—and I’m now 62. Most of my professional life, in different settings, has been based on encouraging creativity in others. And yet I find myself today, on the autumn equinox, with some thoughts counter to the norm. I’ve just put up two jars of refrigerator pickles—my newest love—and am roasting an eggplant. And am going to work in about an hour. There are no small children living under my roof—although the neighborhood skunks have been out all night. I’m going to view the issues of creativity in my own first world context, funky though it may be. So, here goes:

Creativity is not more important than anything else. It really isn’t. It isn’t special, or more sacred than the mundane.The hard truth, though, is that it is very difficult to carve an artist’s life out of a materialistic bourgeois one. I don’t believe that family and making a living are opposed to creativity—for women they really can’t be. Everyone has to do dishes and pay bills. It’s how you do it. My advice is to not live high on the hog and then desperately scrabble for a week’s retreat. This continues the division between art and life. Nor do I suggest you create the most gorgeous work space ever. Instead, go for low maintenance. Conversely, a terrible low paying job that drains you most certainly isn’t going to work either. An affordable standard of living, work that makes sense to you, and about 15-20% less investment in buying things, the internet, and other distractions, should work nicely.
The problem is, we don’t want to try this. We want to say—it’s either a hermit’s cabin in the woods for me or working for the man. But that is false dualism. You are creative, right? Make it work for you.

Time is not your problem. The sad truth, which I’ve observed over decades of teaching, is that if you don’t have time now, you probably never will. I know you don’t want to hear this—but explore the idea. Treat your creative pursuit professionally. You are busy, yes. You will probably always be busy. You have to prioritize your writing or painting—not the first thing all the time but very high the majority of the time. You like to read the paper and drink coffee quietly and go for a walk in the morning? Fine. You are a person having a pleasant morning, not an artist. Here again, it isn’t all or nothing. Give that first hour to art five days a week. Take a day off. Details aren’t important part. The central thing to remember is that a relationship with creativity is like that with a person—you have to give to it, continuously.

Art is the pursuit of intimacy with form, subject, and audience. Saying you want to be a writer and then not devoting yourself to it is like getting a partner and then leaving him or her to fend for themselves. That partner is not going to stick around. Be a good spouse to art. Treat art as if it is no more but no less special than anyone you love. The Muse will reward you for it.

Japanese cucumbers, pickling cucumbers, green tomatoes, vinegar, salt, sugar. Leave in refrigerator for two days. Eat.

3 Questions for W. D. Ehrhart

1. What is your personal/aesthetic relationship to the poetic line? That is, how do you understand it, use it, etc.
Wow, when Miriam Sagan asked me if I’d be interested in being interviewed, I had expected something—I don’t know—more traditional?  When did you start writing?  What poets influenced you?  At least a few warm-up questions before we got to the more esoteric questions.  But what the heck; I opened the door, so now I can’t very well say, “Forget it, go away”

The only thing is: I don’t really know how to respond to questions 1 & 2.  Let’s take #1, which is the more difficult of the two, for me at least.  I suppose I must have some kind of relationship to the poetic line.  I write poetic lines all the time, or try to, so there must be some kind of relationship.  But I’ve never really thought much about it, certainly not in these terms.  I do think about line lengths, and as I’ve gotten older, I notice that my line lengths—generally speaking—tend to be longer than they were 40 years ago (I’ve been writing a long time: 52 years); I think more in syllabics now, and often end up writing in rough tetrameter or pentameter lines.  But I can’t explain why that transition occurred.  I have always tried to shape lines that work, that do what I want, that say what I want.  As you can probably tell, I don’t really know what I’m saying.  So much of what I do—I suspect this is true of many other poets, though I can’t speak for them—I do intuitively, by “feel,” by some kind of instinct.  One might call it dumb luck or guesswork, though I think there is something more deliberate about it.  But what that is I can’t explain, have never tried to explain that I can recall, and as you can gather from this rambling response, we’re all probably better off if I don’t try to explain.  What matters to me is: does my poem work for you?  Does it speak to you?  Is it any good?  The older I get, the less I care to talk about poetry.  What I do is in my poems.  What I think is in my poems.  It’s there for you to see, to read, to make sense of, to come to your own conclusions about what my personal/aesthetic relationship to the poetic line might be. 

2. Do you find a relationship between words and writing and the human body? Or between your writing and your body?
Another question I don’t think I’ve ever given any thought to, and find myself wondering: of all the things one might ask me, why this?  The only part of my body that I have given any conscious thought to is that I have always composed poems by hand, hand-writing drafts until the poem is well along.  I can’t compose poetry on a keyboard.  There is something about connecting my brain to the paper by way of my arm and hand and pen that doesn’t translate to a keyboard, whether typewriter or computer.  Increasingly, as I’ve gotten older, when I’m writing prose, I tend to move back and forth between pen/paper and keyboard, more a function of laziness and hands that get tired quicker than they used to.  But poetry I still draft longhand until the poem is well along to completion, at least of a first draft.

3. Is there anything you dislike about being a poet?

Well, yeh, I don’t make any money writing poetry.  I wish more people would read poetry and actually buy poetry.  I wish I could fill Madison Square Garden with 20,000 paying fans screaming to hear my poetry.  I’m still working fulltime at the age of 68.  Being a poet has not put me in a position to buy a seaside home in Bermuda and enjoy the sunsets.
Other than that, though, I don’t really have any complaints.  I like being a poet.  I get a good feeling when I write a poem that I like.  I get an even better feeling when I write a poem somebody else likes.  One could do a whole lot worse in this world, and a lot of people do.
            The Amish Boys on Sunday
Amish country.  January
afternoon.  Crackling crisp and clear.
Families in their winter buggies:
boxes, black, on wheels, each buggy
with a single easygoing horse
unperturbed by cars, trucks, traffic
lights, the smell of gasoline exhaust.
A two-lane highway, buggies
on their way to worship, or,
service over, coming home,
in no particular hurry, the very
Amish attitude toward progress.
Around a bend and up ahead,
three Amish boys are walking
toward me on the shoulder.
Two maybe twelve, the other ten,
all dressed in Sunday best:
black pants and coats, white shirts
and broad-brimmed flat black hats.
I’m driving slow, and as I pass,
all three doff their hats in unison
and bow like gallant cavaliers,
grinning like they’ve got a secret
wouldn’t I like to know.

W. D. Ehrhart is author or editor of 21 books of prose and poetry, most recently The Bodies Beneath the Table (poetry) and Dead on a High Hill (essays). A Marine Corps veteran of the American War in Vietnam, he has received an Excellence in the Arts Award from Vietnam Veterans of America, the President’s Medal from Veterans for Peace, and a Pew Fellowship in the Arts. His work has appeared in hundreds of publications including American Poetry Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, North American Review, and the Washington Post Magazine. Ehrhart holds a Ph.D. from the University of Wales at Swansea, UK, and currently teaches English and history at the Haverford School, where he also coaches Winter Track and sponsors the Poetry Club.

Cano’s Castle—Beer Can House



Cano’s Castle—Beer Can House

From Atlas Obscura: Cano’s Castle is a set of four gleaming towers, built single-handedly by Donald “Cano” Espinoza, a Native American Vietnam vet.
Built largely out of beer cans and other metal refuse, for Espinoza the castle serves as a thanks for having his life spared during the Vietnam war.
Cano says his main influences for the Castle are “Vitamin Mary Jane” and Jesus.




On State Street between 10th and 11th Avenues in Antonito, Colorado. You can see it from Main Street-an amazing outsider art castle!