August 28, 2017

Claudia F. Savage & Lauren Camp

Monday, August 28
7:00 pm

Passages Bookshop
1223 NE ML King Blvd.

$5 suggested donation for the readers (no one turned away for lack of funds)

Claudia F. Savage is one-half of the performance duo Thick in the Throat, Honey and co-runs the forthcoming music-poetry label Thrum Recordings. She's the author of Bruising Continents (Spuyten Duyvil, May 2017), The Last One Eaten: A Maligned Vegetable's History, and, with three other poets, The Hour of AnjaliHer collaboration reductions, about motherhood and ephemerality, with Detroit artist Jacklyn Brickman, will be exhibited November 2017 in Chicago. Other writings have been published, most recently, in Water-Stone Review, Nimrod, BOMBDenver Quarterly, Columbia, Forklift, Ohio, Cordella,and Drunken Boat/Anomaly, where she interviews Arab-American poets for her series, "Witness the Hour."  She's garnered awards from Jentel, Ucross, The Atlantic Center for the Arts, and RACC and lives and plays with her husband and daughter in Portland, OR. Find her at Claudia F. Savage.

Lauren Camp is the author of three books, including One Hundred Hungers, which won the Dorset Prize. Her poems have appeared in Boston Review, Split This Rock, Nashville Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, the Academy of American Poets' Poem-a-Dayand elsewhere. Other literary honors include the Margaret Randall Poetry Prize, the Anna Davidson Rosenberg Award, and a Black Earth Institute Fellowship. She teaches creative writing in northern New Mexico, and is the producer/host of "Audio Saucepan" on Santa Fe Public Radio, a program that interweaves music with contemporary poetry.

Into Snow

Make me a scarlet berry on a dormant tree.

No. Better. Make me a downed bird pierced by the branch
it called home. Widen the wound and wonder at my heart's color.

While there, eat my lungs. Lick my spine pale.
Till nothing weights my vertebrae.

I'll contrast air with air.

Snow is more lovely under night's wing. Lips
after pressure's kiss.

If you must. Clear-cut winter's trees.
Flood the remainder.

Claudia F. Savage

A Door in the Evening

This house that filled us with 13 varieties
of rice, brown boiled eggs, creases of language.

There was not a single sentence that was ordinary.
Tender lamb and copper pots;

a banquet every week, and we hovered.
The house was brick. Back door, side door.

Each of the reasons, the clutter of years.
I used to live here. I live here.

The beginning of forgetting comes quickly. 

Lauren Camp