A quick heads’ up for anyone living near Pelican Bay Books & Coffeehouse in Anacortes, Washington. I’m really excited (and honored) to have been invited to read for the Madrona Reading Series, no less alongside the great Michael Daley. Saturday, Feb. 28, 6 p.m.
Having a little difficulty pasting in the poster — I seem to need a webmaster (who is not me).
My Creative Retirement Institute class on Emily Dickinson’s fascicles wrapped up yesterday. The beauty (and the 
weirdness) of it was that focusing on the fascicles made it impossible for me to turn the class into “all of Bethany’s favorite E. D. poems.” In each class I asked, “What caught your eye? What do you want to bring to our attention?” As a result, we put a microscope to poems I’ve barely given a glance in the past. And everything we picked up gave us so much to talk about. It was ideal.
Today I’m having my writing group here, at my house. I’ll bake Emily’s Coconut Cake, and we’ll drink sparkling water, and read poems to one another. What could be better?
https://revolutionarypie.com/2015/01/14/emily-dickinsons-coconut-cake/
Celebrations are popping up everywhere on the Web, but here are two that made their way to my in-box:
Pádraig Ó Tuama’s On Being newsletter: https://poetryunbound.substack.com/p/you-cannot-extinguish (my only quibble with his post is that he says Dickinson bound her fascicles to send to correspondents, and though she mailed many poems with letters, I don’t believe there’s evidence for the fascicles being shared). He describes her poems and letters as a tribute and reminder of what “a deep pursuit of a vocation can do.” True!
And of course the Emily Dickinson Museum—visit this site today to see all the hoopla (including a virtual program, which you, too, can join via their registration link): https://www.emilydickinsonmuseum.org
And, do I have favorite Dickinson poems? Oh, so many!
I taste a liquor never brewed –
From Tankards scooped in Pearl –
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an Alcohol!Inebriate of air – am I –
And Debauchee of Dew –
Reeling – thro’ endless summer days –
From inns of molten Blue –When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door –
When Butterflies – renounce their “drams” –
I shall but drink the more!Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –
And Saints – to windows run –
To see the little Tippler
From Manzanilla come!(Fascicle 12, Sheet 1, c. early 1861, Miller p. 135)
Tomorrow evening, Dec. 11, 2025, at 6 p.m., I’m one of three featured readers at It’s About Time in Ballard. You can expect me to talk a bit about Dickinson (just try to stop me!), and to share a handful of my Dickinson-inspired poems.
I’m pleased to let you know that my review of Chris Dahl’s Not Now But Soon, winner of the 2025 Concrete Wolf Louis Award, is now posted at Escape Into Life. (Be sure to explore the links!) Chris is one of the mainstays of Olympia Poetry Network (OPN); no matter where you live, they welcome new members, and have terrific Zoom readings in addition to their in-person readings and workshops.
I wanted to share a full-length poem here, and as I happen to also be reading The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning, by Margareta Magnusson, this poem especially appealed to me. It’s perfect for this dark time of year (sunset today at 4:19 p.m.).
Aware of the Season’s Pivot
We come to the time of the year when we wake in the dark.
No shine appears on the water; the surface smothers
any reflection. We have lost our easy ways
of gauging depth.Some years, when I head south I have asked my mother
to take my orchids for the winter. They’re a gift—
she could keep them, but she always gives them back,
afraid they’ll die. When I return, I take them home
and immediately they bloom. If only she would wait
for the cycle to complete.Now, at her house, we talk in whispers. She’s already
organized her files and affairs, insistent
she can take care of things, even after she’s gone.
I’m all worn out with worry, she says. Now
I’m the one without faith
that the cycle will continue.Yesterday I took the wilted flowers from the funeral
bouquet and rearranged what was left. Amazing how
certain species go on delighting with their fragile beauty,
alstroemerias, and even some chrysanthemums,
challenging us to find the language
that describes the pull of time, its
relentless gravity.These are night thoughts, of course, but then
we have so much more night, now.—Chris Dahl
Photo by Hiếu Hoàng: https://www.pexels.com/photo/purple-and-pink-moth-orchids-closeup-photo-1038003/
It’s my pleasure today to share Sheila Bender’s Writing It Real substack. This week’s podcast features a trio of poets, Lillo Way, Lisa Ashley, and me.
https://sheilabender.substack.com
Sheila does a great job introducing us on the podcast, but if you don’t already know all about Sheila Bender, you should. She is the author of numerous books—poetry, nonfiction, and writing instruction that really gets down to the business of being a creator. A few years back, her Sorrow’s Words: Writing Exercises to Heal Grief played a crucial role for me in healing my own grief (and I think I need to reread it). I don’t have a copy of her newest poetry book, Since Then, but am happy to put in a recommendation for her Collected Poems, 1980-2013, Behind Us the Way Grows Wider. She teaches writing, including opportunities for writing abroad in 2026. I encourage you to take a look at her substack, or her Writing It Real archive, at https://writingitreal.com/#
Bethany