The Story

"'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy,
To-morrow or to-day."

-W.H. Auden, As I Walked Out One Evening

This is a blog for poet, Senia Hardwick. I have some listings for upcoming readings, and events where you can hear my work, as well as places I can be read. I also have some sample poems and analysis and reviews of other writers.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Sample: Skyline



Now featured on Best American Poetry!

Skyline

A crooked sky on a Wednesday morning,
Still half drunk with fog
The sun burnt clouds, and reaching light
Are all I need of god.



Sample from Queerness is... (A New Poem)

I'm tking some ourses write now and here's a sample of what I've been working on.

Selected Stanza's from Queerness is...

It is both absolute and subjective,
Full of laughter,
Not just of sight and sound, but of mind as well.
It is wishing you knew Rod Serling.
It is wishing Rod Serling was a woman.
It is wishing you knew Rod Serling as a woman. Biblically.

A rainbow shade of grey,
It is an opaque prism.

It is the space between to faces,
A woman both old and young.
It is the air around a vase.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

New Short Story

I'm working on a new short story, Gauze Doll, a noir tale about dreams, cinema, and the bond between them.

It comes based on a nightmare I had a few days ago, and modified to make a more coherent story. I awoke startled and bothered by what I had seen, and spent some time dwelling on it.

Once I have some sample paragraphs from the first draft I will post exerts.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Upcoming Publication: Collective Fallout



This morning I was just informed that my flash fiction/short story, Bodhisattva, is going to be featured in an upcoming issue of Collective Fallout, a queer speculative fiction magazine. I am double checking what issue number it will be in (January or July), but I suspect it is the July one (I'll post once I know).

Bodhisattva is a short story about death, second chances, and the crazy things people do when they are in love. It is an exploration of the most extreme versions of our own being. There are also lesbian bank robbers. If this doesn't make you want to read it I don't know what will.

Thanks to everyone who encouraged and supported me, especially Pat Smith of Not In The News Today, who helped me get the submission ball rolling.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Home and Heart are Actually a Venn Diagram

Heavy eyelids,
Like an evening snowstorm.
Slow breath,
Pain in my chest.

In a landslide,
The snow rumbled down.
Lost my progress,
On the icy mountain.

My ropes are frayed,
As are my nerves.
There's a crack running deep
In my looking glass.

Friday, August 31, 2012

Triangles

traingles

when I was young,
we built a house in the woods.

lets cover it in string cheese!

when I was young,
we built a house.
it was in the woods.
it was somewhere in Maine.

the Weasel-Man is outside.

we built a house.
it was somewhere in Maine.
I was on vacation.

look at all the triangles!

I was on vacation in Maine.
we built a house in the woods.
it was made of whatever we could find,
birch bark, dead moss, pine leaves, big rocks.
we also made thousands of triangles.

the Triangles were made by carefully folding long strips of paper,
over and over until they were small, tightly packed, and perfect.
we started to count how many we made.
there were triangles everywhere.
in the beds, over the fire place,
in the cupboard, in our clothes, on the statue of a fisherman we had adopted as a totem.

it had all started with the fisherman, also known more reverently as The Party Man.
we lavished him with decorations.
there were streamers and pebbles and candles and oak leaves,
and drawing, and photographs, and little pieces of string,
but then, most importantly of all were his triangles.

in many ways, triangles became the emblem of the Party Man.
party hats, cake slices, pizza pies, and paper airplanes,
are all of the signs of a party.
when our parents threw them out,
the seals had been broken.

the leviathan shot forth,
the water levels rose,
and the Weasel Man was free.

Friday, July 13, 2012

Women, War, and Darkness: A Brief Review of the Grove Behind by Andrea Scarpino



The Grove Behind is a poetry collection by Andrea Scarpino. I looked for a quote from the back of the collection to cite, but honestly none of them contained the same ideas that I wanted to convey. As they are quotes from the summary of a collection, they are a bit verbose and almost an advertisement for the text itself. What I appreciate about Scarpino's collection is the way war, destruction and despair (things generally associated with chaos) are juxtaposed with the way they are presented (frequently in couplets or a very structured style).

While reading poems on Hiroshima and a group of Jews being held in Auschwitz (this is the poem the collection is named for), two topics that are incredibly emotionally compelling and upsetting, my mind is still being forced to break these ideas into structured forms. In some ways it can be seen as how American and (large portions of) Western culture and psychology, try to deal with emtionally and culturally traumatic events. We take these evens and feelings and place them into structured systems in order to comprehend them. Poetry (even chaotic, non structured) poetry does this to ideas in general. Language allows us to transform feelings and events into more manageable forms, even if they are inescapably chaotic.

On a less cognitive and abstract level and just more technically, Scarpino has an impressive diction and range of words. The poems are thematically very similar (pertaining often to violence and war), while not feeling repetitive.

Arrival, Which I Did and Jerusalem, AD 70 are three(VERY DIFFERENT) poems about motherhood and sacrifice. One is a narrative about Mary Magdalen killing and eating Jesus and people coming to her to eat (Jerusalem, AD 70). Which I Did is about a mother sleeping with soldiers so her son is returned to her unharmed. Arrival is about an older woman leading children somewhere and watching the number drop as they die. Each of these poems convey an exhausted woman (often driven to do something incredibly difficult), two of the three contain language related to fire and burning, despite this I did not find descriptive words in common aside from things like child, boy, and woman (Gender is descriptive because it's performative. Blargh.). That is a talent.

Overall, I would say the text as a whole is a great collection and well put together. It's a  little outside of my normal tastes, but is a good read.

If you're interested in the collection or Andrea Scarpino here is  Andrea Scarpino's Page on The Grove Behind and the general site