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Shimmer, steam, somatic, sciatica
A happy thing that happened a week ago Monday, the day before my Personal Pinched-Nerve Apocalypse (more on that soon). Adroit published my short essay “Mycelial Mind.” As far as maintaining the mental habits the essay describes: well, I’m still a seeker, and I guess that’s the point. The past week and a half brought…
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Role model, mycelium
Spring’s little revolutions are flaring in small-town Virginia. It’s been unseasonably warm, so on the streets around my house, the daffodils’ signage was rapidly outshouted by tulips, azaleas, and lilacs. We took a couple of walks in the woods, one at Brushy Hill where redbuds headlined, the other on back campus, where the news included…
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Rustle like old women’s laughter
This week, in my “Modern Poetry’s Media” course, I told my undergrads about poet Helene Johnson‘s success during the Harlem Renaissance, subsequent disappearance from the literary scene, and rediscovery late in the 20th century. “Rediscovery” is a funny term, of course–she knew where she was the whole time, although other poets and the critics weren’t…
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Mycocosmic is in the field
My book-spore have been released! Like all wild things, they’re not as calendar-driven in their dispersal as an author might pretend. Tupelo people and I agreed that the official launch date would be March 4th because Tuesdays are traditional in the industry and “march forth” sounds cute–that’s when the local party happens (Downtown Books, Lexington…
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In which I deploy a questionable surfing metaphor
I’m a melodramatic soul, but I suspect myself of particularly flamboyant hyperbole when I find myself wondering if this is one of the most important seasons of my life, career-wise. (I’d put, for example, becoming a parent ahead of it on the Actual Major Life Change list). Lightning has struck before, for example through a…
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Myco-local
Two weeks till Mycocosmic launches! In the meantime, I snuck in a four-hour Sunday workshop run by two mycocologists and foragers about an hour away in Churchville, Virginia. They stuffed my head full of information and my body full of mushroom soup, mushroom hand pies, and pieces of shiitake, maitake, and lion’s mane sauteed in…
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Best American, lit mags, and the merry-go-round
I’m now allowed to announce that my poem “Sex Talk” will appear in Best American Poetry 2025, chosen by Terence Winch. I had absolutely no idea it was under consideration and have never been in one of these anthologies before–didn’t think I ever would be. The December email from Mark Bibbins was a bolt out…
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Fruiting the substrate
Publishing a poetry book involves nourishing your work in what may feel like darkness, growing networks. It can take a long time until the mushroom-poems themselves burst into the light. And who knows if people will find them, devour them, and find them tasty. Am I taking this metaphor a little far for you? Too…
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2024 in reading
Pictured above are four strong new poetry books I read during the time-out-of-time between Christmas and New Year’s. Television Fathers by Sylvia Jones, a former Shenandoah Editorial Fellow, stretches the boundaries of the poetic in surreal and striking ways, often by deploying ekphrasis. In Rough, there’s lots of powerful ekphrasis too, but what stays with…
LESLEY WHEELER 