The Blue Pitcher

that which may be filled and emptied

Where did I go?

Hmm…where did I go? Not sure. But today, I’m here. (Hi.)

So, my goal for 2018 was to get 100 rejections. It wasn’t my only goal, of course, but it was a BIG goal, and well, I did it. I actually got 108. 108 people read my work and found that it wasn’t a fit for whatever they were fitting. Also: there are nine days left in the year, so I’ll probably reach 110.

BUT: with rejection comes acceptance. So, I’m not here to moon about my rejections, but to say: I have a NOVELLA that will be published next year (!!!), and I also have been accepted by so many dreamy places: Tin House, Copper Nickel, Sugar House, The Academy of American Poets. AND, I read in Miami, AND I read in Abu Dhabi, AND AND AND. So, life is good.

I’m also (always) making new things. Zoe Ryder White, my dear friend, who I collaborated with for “A Study in Spring” just finished our new book-length collaboration called “Elsewhere.” Also, I think I’m going to write a play in January. Maybe, too, I’ll come back to this old blog and tell some stories.

So, here’s to 2018 flashing in the rear view mirror, and to 2019 glowing on the horizon. Happy almost new year. And hi, mom. I think you’re my only reader, but you’ve always been my best.

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Four True Stories w/ Birds

I have four new poems up at Entropy.

Read them here.

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Poets Reading the News

So much laundry; so much terrible news.

Here’s a poem I wrote about these things.

Aging, the Movie

To celebrate my new chapbook, I asked forty girls and women to read from it, and I made a movie. The creative process was amazing. I loved the reminder that although poems often begin as small, quiet things, they grow. I call this meditation-turned-celebration. I hope you like it.

Aging from Nicole Hefner Callihan on Vimeo.

A Drink with Estha

In Turtle Bay, we share dark beer
in slender glasses and toast the dead—

a fedora on a stool, spiked tickets,
a menu with yesterday’s specials.

Bodies and the ghosts of bodies shake
their umbrellas dry in the entryway,

and though the bartender yells,
the door never closes. Anyone

is bound to walk in. A bell rings.
Your face fades, blurs, as if in a photo.

Even as we raise our glasses,
I am already remembering you.
 

 

Ecology of Grief

On watching the dismantling of Spencer Finch’s “Lost Man Creek”

 

[insert sad poem about art here]

Marriage

A love poem now up at Academy of American Poets:

read it here.

The Women Compensate for Movements in Man

The subject’s body rotates
around a particular axis.

threshold

to ward off winter
Cody presses

a blanket flush
against the jamb

all the poems
not about spring

are about
wanting spring

aren’t they?

The Women

 

The third kept an egg in her pocket.