* Claire Skinner *
I’m lying on the bed reading Bob Hicok. Have you read him? He’s a loquacious, lively poet who takes me by the hand and says, “Let’s talk about French kissing and grammar and death in the span of a couple dozen lines, okay?”
Bob Hicok’s “Duh” Read More »
* Claire Skinner *
Three miles up the canyon, I see a bear. We’re standing on a small cliff overlooking McGee Creek. Like many Sierra Nevada streams, McGee is lush: willows, wild rose, wildflowers, and quaking aspen, their bark white as milk.
Get Their Good Tidings Read More »
* Claire Skinner *
One day last week, after dropping my dad off at the airport for a flight back east, I found myself with seven empty hours to spare in Las Vegas. Only May, but already hot–101 degrees. And with the dry wind blowing down from the mountains, it felt even hotter
At Loose Ends in Las Vegas Read More »
* Claire Skinner *
If you’re a poet (or anyone with a sensitive personality prone to changeable moods), Spring can pose some emotional challenges. It can be grating–cruel, even–when the beauty of the outside world (daffodils! baby robins! teens in love!) seems at odds with whatever’s going on in the hidden cupboards of the self.
* Claire Skinner *
This is the first installment in what I hope will be a long and fruitful set of discussions with writers who are are engaged in the wonderful yet daunting process of writing their first books. My first interviewee is Gina Balibrera, a writer of fiction and nonfiction, who is at work on her first novel, The Volcano-Daughters.
In-Process: A Conversation with Gina Balibrera Read More »
* Claire Skinner *
Driving from Las Vegas at night, the first glimpse is from Spirit Mountain, almost five thousand feet above Laughlin. Darkness below, darkness above, and at the very center: a line of light—red, white, turquoise, yellow, pink. Casinos. The blaze of them all the more startling because for an hour we’ve been driving through nothingness. Or what appears to be nothingness: the dark desert mountains and the dark desert valleys with the occasional blip of civilization (signs for Girls! Girls! Girls! Steak & Eggs only 5.99! Endless Slots!), then–blink, blink–gone.
One Day and One Night in Laughlin, Nevada Read More »
* Claire Skinner *
When I find myself in a confused mood such as this, which I would describe as classically ambivalent — that is, literally of two minds — I know I need a poem that will buoy and bolster my spirits, a poem that will remind me that my miniature psychodramas are simply part and parcel of this wonderful/terrible project we’re all engaged in. It’s called Daily Life.
A Poem for the New Year: Noelle Kocot’s “This Is The Day” Read More »
* Claire Skinner *
I’m a poet. Occasionally, however, I hate poetry. Usually these feelings occur during periods when I can’t seem to write any of it, when anything I do manage to force on to the page sounds (to my ear) stilted and awkward and pitifully dumb.
On Writer’s Block and Suzanne Buffam’s Glinting Wings Read More »
* Claire Skinner *
How can we reconcile the body’s desires with the rationale of the brain?
Rereading Lady Chatterley’s Lover Read More »
* Claire Skinner *
I admit that I’m fifteen years late to the Jo Ann Beard party. Her first book, The Boys of My Youth, was published in 1998 to considerable fanfare. However, I’ve always been a firm believer in serendipity: books show up in a life at the right time and the right place. Maggie Nelson has written that “the truly important, original, and strange work does get recognized, does get found, by those who need to recognize it and find it.” (Even if it takes a while, I might add.)
In Praise of Jo Ann Beard Read More »
