The University of Arizona Poetry Center Oct 7, 2014- Submissions are now open for Summer Residency Program 2015 at the Poetry Center & Stephen Willey’s ECSTATIC STATIC
Submissions are now open for the Poetry Center’s 2015
Summer Residency Program. The winner, as selected by Eduardo C. Corral, will be awarded a two week stay in our Tucson, Arizona studio apartment (just a few paces away from our renowned library) and a $500 stipend. You can read more about the submission process and general residency information on our website.
2015 Submissions Now Open
2014: Stephen Willey
2013: Anne Shaw (poetry)
& Polly Rosenwaike (fiction)
2012: Genine Lentine (poetry)
& Harrison Candelaria Fletcher (non-fiction)
2011: Harmony Holiday (poetry)
& Mary Jones (fiction)
2010: Sean Bernard
2009: James Allen Hall
2008: Shashi Baat
2007: Anna Green
2006: Cody Walker
2005: Eric Abbott
2004: Naomi Alderman
2003: Esther Lee
2002: Rebecca Davidson
2001: Joshua Poteat
2000: Jonathon Keats
1999: Beth Ann Fennelly
1998: Martha Silano
1997: Caroline Langston
1996: Lise Goett
1995: Kymberly Taylor
1994: Mark Wunderlich
Stephen Willey, our 2014 Summer Resident, recently wrote about his stay this summer at the Poetry Center, through a meditative commentary on six snapshots he took while in Tucson. ECSTATIC STATIC reveals one resident’s experience of the program, the impact it can have not only on craft, but also on a poet’s awareness and sense of community.
One Month of Poetry in Tucson in Six Snapshots
Midnight Phoenix airport. It’s two hours from Tucson. There I will clamber on a leather sofa to read out loud, at 2am, a signed 1967 framed copy of Ferlinghetti’s ‘Moscow In The Wilderness, Segovia In The Snow’. I am so happy.
I am tired as an ancient armadillo locked in the basement of the Kremlin, and this is what I read when I arrive in the Poet’s Cottage, my home for the next month. In the mornings I listen to Ed Dorn until the sun sinks my eyes.
The sound of The Grateful Dead still rasping in my ears, there’s gonna be a revolution, the taxi driver said, pulling another CD out from his swerve across the road.
There’s lightening in the air, someone says, but it’s neither him nor me.
These are my feet. These are inappropriate shoes for climbing.
These are inappropriate shoes for climbing up Mount Lemmon, Tucson.
8,000 meters high. Sky island.
I don’t climb. I drive. These are good driving shoes. I am at the end of my stay. I look out over Tucson.
I have seen Nogales, crossed the border into Mexico, had a whisky in Tombstone, travelled to the old mining town of Bisbee (now part hippy commune), travelled the scenic route via Sonoita and Patagonia, read to just over 100 people with Brian Blanchfield and Karen Brennan, participated in a short poem workshop led by Zachary Schomburg, bought books by Spork Press, witnessed the bureaucratic barbarity of Operation Streamline, witnessed the barbarous emojis of Isaiah Toothtaker, joined with a street protest, eaten barrows of Mexican food, rowed in Biosphere 2, dreamt in Biosphere 1, swam in Farid Matuk’s pool, watched scorpions climb over poems at night, seen MJ battle Prince, assembled a magazine, seen a desert burst with green, and sat on this stone.
I made this on the kitchen counter from a copy of Newsweek bought at the airport on arrival.
The kitchen counter was smooth and black. It brooked no stains. The number four is listening to you.
I think its cool that if you travel to Tucson, to the University of Arizona Poetry Center, as a resident poet, that it is possible, with a short drive, to take this picture. However, I am from London, where the police just beat people with metal sticks cause it kind of takes longer. Perhaps it’s nostalgia.
Tyler Meier (left), Executive Director of the Arizona Poetry Center, and me,
Steve Willey (right), Resident Poet.
We appeared on radio the day after my reading for the purposes of poetry.
Tyler is endlessly helpful and enthusiastic, as are all the staff and Docents at the Poetry Center. It’s a great place to be, to think, and to write.
Down the road there is a great place for pizza and craft beer. I read poems about David Bowie there.
Writing two weeks after my stay, I miss the people and the place deeply. There are no lizards in London. I miss the way they dart and lurk.
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