Saturday, July 17, 2010
A message from: Matthew Cariello
One of the things I look for in poetry is a sense of context, of the life that surrounds the poem. Whether or not this particular piece is autobiographical, it resonates in ways that go beyond the moment of the poem, out toward the politics of daily life, history and on to the moments when the outer and inner world collide. While the commitment to the “triggering constraint” has been maintained, it’s also been transcended in ways that suggest a subtle and sensitive mind. The bold subject matter, the strong images, the consistent rhythm of the quintain (broken with a sestet at a crucial moment) all suggest a writer with both natural ability and great potential. Well done, and buona fortuna!
WINNER, Summer 2010: Hell's Kitchen - Ryan Roskilly
There is a demon at my kitchen table,
The father of my children,
Red and fuming with his half-empty bottle of black liquor.
I don’t dare speak; silence is his language,
Silence is my language.
I hear my children’s footsteps lightly drumming
On the hard-wood floors.
They peek their heads around the corner
To see what mood He’s in.
The bottle says it all.
The words “Get in here!” roared, as if culminated
In hell itself, rattling and cracking the windows.
It was enough to loosen my grip
On the pan I was bringing to the table.
His steak, as if in slow motion, fell to the ground.
He rose from his seat, slow and menacing;
I’d just triggered my own agony.
I drop to my knees, scrambling to salvage his patience,
But he soon towered over me,
Fingers clenched.
He waited for me to rise, to look him in the eye,
Before he cocked back and
Crushed my jaw with his hammer-like fist.
I fell to the ground, blood and teeth on my tongue.
My children look, horrified, at their mangled mother.
He looks down at me for just a second, marveling
At his work, then steps over me toward the children, whiskey in hand.
They both back against the wall
Out of reach from the monster, their father.
Good boys.
They hurry in to bring mommy to her feet,
Tears now streaming down their soft, pale cheeks.
They sit me in a chair before running
To collect towels and ice.
A glimmer of light guides my eye to his revolver on the counter.
I stand up while my little boys search,
I wander toward the pistol.
The silver metal, gleaming bright,
Tells me why he loves this gun.
My children are now watching me, looks of terrified approval;
They’ll never see my blood again.
The weight of the gun in my hand
Pulls me toward the living room,
Where the demon now sits.
I smell the liquor, his fiery rage,
Filling my lungs with flame.
I stand tall before his throne of black leather,
The shining pistol between his horns.
I look him in the eye again, this time I am strong.
My finger lays upon the trigger,
My trigger.
The father of my children,
Red and fuming with his half-empty bottle of black liquor.
I don’t dare speak; silence is his language,
Silence is my language.
I hear my children’s footsteps lightly drumming
On the hard-wood floors.
They peek their heads around the corner
To see what mood He’s in.
The bottle says it all.
The words “Get in here!” roared, as if culminated
In hell itself, rattling and cracking the windows.
It was enough to loosen my grip
On the pan I was bringing to the table.
His steak, as if in slow motion, fell to the ground.
He rose from his seat, slow and menacing;
I’d just triggered my own agony.
I drop to my knees, scrambling to salvage his patience,
But he soon towered over me,
Fingers clenched.
He waited for me to rise, to look him in the eye,
Before he cocked back and
Crushed my jaw with his hammer-like fist.
I fell to the ground, blood and teeth on my tongue.
My children look, horrified, at their mangled mother.
He looks down at me for just a second, marveling
At his work, then steps over me toward the children, whiskey in hand.
They both back against the wall
Out of reach from the monster, their father.
Good boys.
They hurry in to bring mommy to her feet,
Tears now streaming down their soft, pale cheeks.
They sit me in a chair before running
To collect towels and ice.
A glimmer of light guides my eye to his revolver on the counter.
I stand up while my little boys search,
I wander toward the pistol.
The silver metal, gleaming bright,
Tells me why he loves this gun.
My children are now watching me, looks of terrified approval;
They’ll never see my blood again.
The weight of the gun in my hand
Pulls me toward the living room,
Where the demon now sits.
I smell the liquor, his fiery rage,
Filling my lungs with flame.
I stand tall before his throne of black leather,
The shining pistol between his horns.
I look him in the eye again, this time I am strong.
My finger lays upon the trigger,
My trigger.
C.A.R. - Kev Kage
One, two, points at you
Four, three, curled to me
Opposing digit starts to fidget
Tires of waiting patiently
Heard a sound, look around
Into night, out of sight
Swear that I just heard you there
Don’t run if you came to fight
Sneak attack, can’t turn back
Two best friends, thumb descends
Pow! Clang! Click! Bang!
See how this game always ends:
I got you first
No, I got YOU first
Four, three, curled to me
Opposing digit starts to fidget
Tires of waiting patiently
Heard a sound, look around
Into night, out of sight
Swear that I just heard you there
Don’t run if you came to fight
Sneak attack, can’t turn back
Two best friends, thumb descends
Pow! Clang! Click! Bang!
See how this game always ends:
I got you first
No, I got YOU first
Today it was breakfast - Sarah S.
Today it was breakfast.
Breakfast killed me today
half an avocado
pitted
shriveled
gray
which could have been delicious but looks instead
like a metaphor for
my decaying life. Malicious
mocking
fruit.
I am squeezed. Abruptly it begins:
that familiar fusion
of piss-warm tears
and sticky snot on my chin. This is absurd.
I’m losing my grip: avocados
are not adversaries.
But my emotions slip suddenly from beneath
like a slimy tub floor under
unsuspecting feet.
Boom.
“It’s the hormones,” I say
or
“It’s my job,” or
more
the strain of pretending
things are what they were
Before.
At dawn I am queen.
By breakfast, reduced
to a lunatic
weeping
at the sight of produce.
I have sense enough left to at least be
embarrassed. I shake my head
compose myself
wipe my nose on my sleeve.
I pour cereal instead.
Breakfast killed me today
half an avocado
pitted
shriveled
gray
which could have been delicious but looks instead
like a metaphor for
my decaying life. Malicious
mocking
fruit.
I am squeezed. Abruptly it begins:
that familiar fusion
of piss-warm tears
and sticky snot on my chin. This is absurd.
I’m losing my grip: avocados
are not adversaries.
But my emotions slip suddenly from beneath
like a slimy tub floor under
unsuspecting feet.
Boom.
“It’s the hormones,” I say
or
“It’s my job,” or
more
the strain of pretending
things are what they were
Before.
At dawn I am queen.
By breakfast, reduced
to a lunatic
weeping
at the sight of produce.
I have sense enough left to at least be
embarrassed. I shake my head
compose myself
wipe my nose on my sleeve.
I pour cereal instead.
Trigger - Mark NP
If you believe that you possess
an individual solution to save this planet,
I’ve got a poem to sell you where
I step on a flower and – through
a series of wild and incredible events –
trigger an alternate future
where butterfly wings
crash down buildings
and aliens father a new humanity,
all thanks to chaos theory.
Gee – it kinda feels good to pretend that I
actually have some remote control
over anything that happens out there,
and that I don’t live in a time & place where
I’m a wage-slave to debt and obligation
under the threat of some brutal alternative like poverty;
that instead I alone control the fate of everything.
At present, tidal wave
forces of history and economy
have condensed
life into one hopeless
vision of an ecologically unstable and
politically violent future.
Alone I am nothing. My life is nothing.
This truth is a contradiction that puts to shame
a fantasy where I am in any way
in charge of what happens to me.
One person does not stem History
and nothing about this life
will change except that
to which humanity itself wholly
and finally endeavors together.
an individual solution to save this planet,
I’ve got a poem to sell you where
I step on a flower and – through
a series of wild and incredible events –
trigger an alternate future
where butterfly wings
crash down buildings
and aliens father a new humanity,
all thanks to chaos theory.
Gee – it kinda feels good to pretend that I
actually have some remote control
over anything that happens out there,
and that I don’t live in a time & place where
I’m a wage-slave to debt and obligation
under the threat of some brutal alternative like poverty;
that instead I alone control the fate of everything.
At present, tidal wave
forces of history and economy
have condensed
life into one hopeless
vision of an ecologically unstable and
politically violent future.
Alone I am nothing. My life is nothing.
This truth is a contradiction that puts to shame
a fantasy where I am in any way
in charge of what happens to me.
One person does not stem History
and nothing about this life
will change except that
to which humanity itself wholly
and finally endeavors together.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Introducing: Matthew M. Cariello
The next Poetry Contest judge has been announced! We welcome Matt Cariello as our latest evaluator.
Matthew M. Cariello was born and raised in New Jersey. He currently lives in Columbus, Ohio, where he works in the English Department at the Ohio State University. His poems and haiku have been published in Poet Lore, Artful Dodge, The Journal of New Jersey Poets, The Evening Street Review, Frogpond, Heron’s Nest, Daily Haiku, and Modern Haiku. He has also published stories and reviews in The Long Story, The Indiana Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, The Cortland Review, and The Journal. His essay "The Contiguous Image: Mapping Metaphor in Haiku" will appear in the summer issue of Modern Haiku.
Matthew M. Cariello was born and raised in New Jersey. He currently lives in Columbus, Ohio, where he works in the English Department at the Ohio State University. His poems and haiku have been published in Poet Lore, Artful Dodge, The Journal of New Jersey Poets, The Evening Street Review, Frogpond, Heron’s Nest, Daily Haiku, and Modern Haiku. He has also published stories and reviews in The Long Story, The Indiana Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, The Cortland Review, and The Journal. His essay "The Contiguous Image: Mapping Metaphor in Haiku" will appear in the summer issue of Modern Haiku.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
New contest topic - TRIGGERED - deadline May 28
ANNOUNCING a new topic in our continuing quarterly poetry contest. The contest is $5 to play, open to anyone, and the WINNER TAKES ALL. Every entry is published on this website.
The topic this time around is TRIGGERED. The contest will be decided and winners posted on or around May 30.
The rules are as follows: create a 2 page MS Word document. On the first page, write a short poem or prose poem around the topic TRIGGERED. You can be as creative as you like with this in both form and content. On the second page, write the title of the poem, your name, your cell phone number, and your e-mail address.
Send $5 through PayPal and e-mail the document to neurohr.pierpaoli@gmail.com by 11:59PM on May 28, 2010. The PayPal link is in the right hand margin of this blog.
The entries will be evaluated by a qualified judge, yet to be determined and soon to be announced. Good luck!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
A message from: Mark NP
Thank you to everyone who participated in this round of the quarterly poetry contest! Please enjoy the excellent submissions for the competition below.
Not only do we appreciate your continuing efforts in keeping poetry relevant and fun, but the added impact of this month's contributions to the Haitian earthquake relief effort gave our work new, additional importance. I'm happy to announce that through several generous donations by our poets we were able to give more than the usual minimum contest fees to Doctors Without Borders.
Though our topic for this Valentine's Day was "Dumped!" we perhaps participated with more 'love' than we might have initially guessed. Congratulations to the winner and thank you to our judge, Sara Bauer.
Our regular contest will continue with a new theme next quarter.
Not only do we appreciate your continuing efforts in keeping poetry relevant and fun, but the added impact of this month's contributions to the Haitian earthquake relief effort gave our work new, additional importance. I'm happy to announce that through several generous donations by our poets we were able to give more than the usual minimum contest fees to Doctors Without Borders.
Though our topic for this Valentine's Day was "Dumped!" we perhaps participated with more 'love' than we might have initially guessed. Congratulations to the winner and thank you to our judge, Sara Bauer.
Our regular contest will continue with a new theme next quarter.
A message from: Sara Bauer
Thank you to everyone who submitted to this contest, as your poems were the basis of some lively discussion on Valentine's Day Eve.
"Indecision" maintained my interest because of its two-part structure and its reference to relationship foibles that made me think, I've been there. The scene with the menus and the perceived distance between the couple was interesting because the poet worked a metaphor to new advantage, I think, with the introduction of sushi. I always wonder at diners needing a sushi menu when they've been eating the stuff for years. For me, this hinted at indecision and disaster. I've also had some first-hand experience with a large vocabulary being a liability in a relationship.
"In Summer" combines technical merit with mature insight, and was the strongest of the submissions. This poem deserves the win because it addresses the theme and transcends it, opening the door to hopefulness and personal fulfillment, not simply revenge. It's difficult to be funny in a poem without the punchline threatening to undermine the entire piece. This author snuggles a hilarious Starbucks reference in the middle of the poem, and manages to build a poem that's much, much bigger than the joke. Though this poem seems to have been inspired by an abusive relationship, the poet makes those details quite powerful through subtle means. "In Summer," effectively addresses what I believe to be the silver lining of break-ups: the opportunity to examine one's own desires and preferences irrespective of a partner. The speaker in this poem re-claims her sense of fashion and her sense of self, which I found incredibly gratifying.
"Indecision" maintained my interest because of its two-part structure and its reference to relationship foibles that made me think, I've been there. The scene with the menus and the perceived distance between the couple was interesting because the poet worked a metaphor to new advantage, I think, with the introduction of sushi. I always wonder at diners needing a sushi menu when they've been eating the stuff for years. For me, this hinted at indecision and disaster. I've also had some first-hand experience with a large vocabulary being a liability in a relationship.
"In Summer" combines technical merit with mature insight, and was the strongest of the submissions. This poem deserves the win because it addresses the theme and transcends it, opening the door to hopefulness and personal fulfillment, not simply revenge. It's difficult to be funny in a poem without the punchline threatening to undermine the entire piece. This author snuggles a hilarious Starbucks reference in the middle of the poem, and manages to build a poem that's much, much bigger than the joke. Though this poem seems to have been inspired by an abusive relationship, the poet makes those details quite powerful through subtle means. "In Summer," effectively addresses what I believe to be the silver lining of break-ups: the opportunity to examine one's own desires and preferences irrespective of a partner. The speaker in this poem re-claims her sense of fashion and her sense of self, which I found incredibly gratifying.
WINNER, February 2010: In Summer - Sarah S.
I am glad I am wearing my short skirt.
The really slutty one. The one that lived
balled up in back of the closet
as I slipped
into the dreary old lady costumes for which you praised me.
Even these, you found fault with
in our daily morning taunting ritual
in the bathroom. “Man, those pants
they fit you like a glove. Your shirt is so tight”
how you would sneer. All the khaki in the world
could not shield me from those hands.
Thick thighs bloom beneath
a twelve-inch patch of denim. I’m glad you can see them.
I am scurrying across Central
eating strawberry-habañero gelato.
Maria and I have just come
from paying for dessert, and flirting
with the man with the big teeth.
Me in my flip-flops, me in my short skirt, passing Starbucks.
I’ve said to Maria
that I cannot now pass here sans thoughts of us.
Maria advised I apply
for part-time employment
so to have worse memories of the place
than ones of you. And the man with the bicycle is you.
Not a ghost now, but you for real:
in the twilight, I am squinting to be sure.
Yes, you, and you are the one
who scooped up my kicking
screaming
170-pound self
and hurled it to the linoleum. You, who broke
My heart and my glasses.
You see me, and I
am wearing this short skirt. So I laugh. I bruise
so easily, but not today.
And then I flip my flops across the street to where Maria stands waiting.
Maybe you glance again. I hope you do
see that harlot you almost married
enjoying her freedom
under a darkening sky
in summer.
The really slutty one. The one that lived
balled up in back of the closet
as I slipped
into the dreary old lady costumes for which you praised me.
Even these, you found fault with
in our daily morning taunting ritual
in the bathroom. “Man, those pants
they fit you like a glove. Your shirt is so tight”
how you would sneer. All the khaki in the world
could not shield me from those hands.
Thick thighs bloom beneath
a twelve-inch patch of denim. I’m glad you can see them.
I am scurrying across Central
eating strawberry-habañero gelato.
Maria and I have just come
from paying for dessert, and flirting
with the man with the big teeth.
Me in my flip-flops, me in my short skirt, passing Starbucks.
I’ve said to Maria
that I cannot now pass here sans thoughts of us.
Maria advised I apply
for part-time employment
so to have worse memories of the place
than ones of you. And the man with the bicycle is you.
Not a ghost now, but you for real:
in the twilight, I am squinting to be sure.
Yes, you, and you are the one
who scooped up my kicking
screaming
170-pound self
and hurled it to the linoleum. You, who broke
My heart and my glasses.
You see me, and I
am wearing this short skirt. So I laugh. I bruise
so easily, but not today.
And then I flip my flops across the street to where Maria stands waiting.
Maybe you glance again. I hope you do
see that harlot you almost married
enjoying her freedom
under a darkening sky
in summer.
HONORABLE MENTION: Indecision - Allison C.
Part I
I look over the menu at him.
He’s looking down at it, deciding which rolls to get.
I inhale sharply to hide my hesitance and fear
of making him angry over the decision
between eel and tuna.
Eel.
Tuna.
The space between his menu and mine
should have been filled with laughter and analysis, wit and charm.
Instead, silence and indecision.
His unintentional tone cut through me,
not from its searing malice,
from its utter apathy.
He’s not in love with me.
“Let’s get the tuna,” he said.
Part II
He said he doesn't like the way I speak sometimes.
He said he doesn't like the words I use.
He said I use vocabulary to try and assert my intelligence, to prove something.
I didn't know how to respond.
I stared at him. With consternation.
I didn't say the word 'consternation' because he doesn't know what it means.
(An example of the caustic sarcasm that permeated our argument last night).
He couldn't follow the logical progression of my analysis of our relationship.
...analysis being some unnecessary scientific word…
As if emotions and insecurity can be expressed in such diagnostic terms.
However, the distance and detachment that I feel from myself
In the course of this relationship can be accurately conveyed in the clinical quality of the word
Analysis.
I see the end in sight.
In a few weeks, I'll tell him we need to stop seeing each other.
In a few weeks, the full severity of his words will sink in,
If they haven't already: he is not in love with me.
I look over the menu at him.
He’s looking down at it, deciding which rolls to get.
I inhale sharply to hide my hesitance and fear
of making him angry over the decision
between eel and tuna.
Eel.
Tuna.
The space between his menu and mine
should have been filled with laughter and analysis, wit and charm.
Instead, silence and indecision.
His unintentional tone cut through me,
not from its searing malice,
from its utter apathy.
He’s not in love with me.
“Let’s get the tuna,” he said.
Part II
He said he doesn't like the way I speak sometimes.
He said he doesn't like the words I use.
He said I use vocabulary to try and assert my intelligence, to prove something.
I didn't know how to respond.
I stared at him. With consternation.
I didn't say the word 'consternation' because he doesn't know what it means.
(An example of the caustic sarcasm that permeated our argument last night).
He couldn't follow the logical progression of my analysis of our relationship.
...analysis being some unnecessary scientific word…
As if emotions and insecurity can be expressed in such diagnostic terms.
However, the distance and detachment that I feel from myself
In the course of this relationship can be accurately conveyed in the clinical quality of the word
Analysis.
I see the end in sight.
In a few weeks, I'll tell him we need to stop seeing each other.
In a few weeks, the full severity of his words will sink in,
If they haven't already: he is not in love with me.
Dumped - Caroline Frank
Sometime around five they screeched to a stop,
And a charming young doll with blues eyes got on.
The group fell silent - in fact, they were stumped:
How did someone as handsome as him get dumped?
“She thought I was perfect when she stood in the aisle,
She held me tightly beneath her beautiful smile.
But then she took me home and we got down to living,
I guess she got bored or maybe Barbie said something.
Needless to say when this new guy showed up,
He moved in the mansion and I’m in the dump.”
“I understand what it’s like to feel cheated,
Because I gave that bastard all he ever needed.
He used me for everything! From his lunch to his car,
But like everything else he just took it too far.
And then he blamed me for the mistakes that he made -
He cut me to pieces and threw me away.”
“What happened to me was not nearly as violent,
He just moved on and for years left me silent.
And if there is one feeling I’ll never forget,
It’s the touch of his fingertips grazing my neck.
He blamed himself, said I’d done nothing wrong,
His mind was made up, but, we played one last song.”
“I hate to crash this pity party,
But when you’re all done feeling sorry,
I think that you should heed my warning:
This truck is headed for the quarry
So this guy can dump this dead girl’s body.”
“What are you saying?!”
“How can this happen?
“We’re all gonna drown! We have to stop him!”
“Are you really that crazy? What do you plan to do?
He felt no mercy for her, he feels nothing for you.”
“God dammit! Could this day get any worse?!
Is it not bad enough we were dumped by the curb?”
“Not when you can’t stop the one driving your hearse.”
And a charming young doll with blues eyes got on.
The group fell silent - in fact, they were stumped:
How did someone as handsome as him get dumped?
“She thought I was perfect when she stood in the aisle,
She held me tightly beneath her beautiful smile.
But then she took me home and we got down to living,
I guess she got bored or maybe Barbie said something.
Needless to say when this new guy showed up,
He moved in the mansion and I’m in the dump.”
“I understand what it’s like to feel cheated,
Because I gave that bastard all he ever needed.
He used me for everything! From his lunch to his car,
But like everything else he just took it too far.
And then he blamed me for the mistakes that he made -
He cut me to pieces and threw me away.”
“What happened to me was not nearly as violent,
He just moved on and for years left me silent.
And if there is one feeling I’ll never forget,
It’s the touch of his fingertips grazing my neck.
He blamed himself, said I’d done nothing wrong,
His mind was made up, but, we played one last song.”
“I hate to crash this pity party,
But when you’re all done feeling sorry,
I think that you should heed my warning:
This truck is headed for the quarry
So this guy can dump this dead girl’s body.”
“What are you saying?!”
“How can this happen?
“We’re all gonna drown! We have to stop him!”
“Are you really that crazy? What do you plan to do?
He felt no mercy for her, he feels nothing for you.”
“God dammit! Could this day get any worse?!
Is it not bad enough we were dumped by the curb?”
“Not when you can’t stop the one driving your hearse.”
Playing Games - Michael Pietrasz
Boom! Marissa sunk my Battleship
again and again and again
my heart fell, Scattergories
like a drunk playing Jenga
it was game night
no Chess or Checkers
only games with three people
Marissa invited him and me
a triangle of love
I played the puppy
while he was the racecar
A cop in theory
he called it law enforcement
trying to get a triple word score
yet I had no Clue
I just wanted to Go Go Go
while those two
were trying to Connect Four
what a game of Risk
waiting for the last Uno card
in the Battle of the Sexes
it Boggled my mind
how I made the same Sorry! mistake
over and over and over again
thinking I could somehow, Backgammon
I left their Candy Land
let them scream Yahtzee!
all night long
I was stuck
in my own Trivial Pursuits
but I guess that’s why it’s called
The Game of Life.
again and again and again
my heart fell, Scattergories
like a drunk playing Jenga
it was game night
no Chess or Checkers
only games with three people
Marissa invited him and me
a triangle of love
I played the puppy
while he was the racecar
A cop in theory
he called it law enforcement
trying to get a triple word score
yet I had no Clue
I just wanted to Go Go Go
while those two
were trying to Connect Four
what a game of Risk
waiting for the last Uno card
in the Battle of the Sexes
it Boggled my mind
how I made the same Sorry! mistake
over and over and over again
thinking I could somehow, Backgammon
I left their Candy Land
let them scream Yahtzee!
all night long
I was stuck
in my own Trivial Pursuits
but I guess that’s why it’s called
The Game of Life.
Monday, January 25, 2010
No Cash Prize This Contest: Haiti Donations Now Accepted
Please read this carefully. Each quarter we accept $5 entry fees along with your poetry submissions. Our judge announces his or her selection and, usually, all of the money collected is awarded to the winner.
At this time, however, due to recent tragedy, we think it is a better use of the funds to support those affected by the earthquake in Haiti.
Therefore, we are still accepting poetry for competition but please be aware there is no cash prize for the winner. If you would like to contribute more than the $5 entry fee please feel free. All money collected will be donated to Doctors Without Borders.
Every bit helps. Thank you for supporting this change.
At this time, however, due to recent tragedy, we think it is a better use of the funds to support those affected by the earthquake in Haiti.
Therefore, we are still accepting poetry for competition but please be aware there is no cash prize for the winner. If you would like to contribute more than the $5 entry fee please feel free. All money collected will be donated to Doctors Without Borders.
Every bit helps. Thank you for supporting this change.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Introducing: Sara Bauer
We are excited to announce the poetry contest judge for February 2010!
Sara Bauer has been writing and teaching in NJ public schools since 1998. In 2002, she joined the National Writing Project at Rutgers University, where she now serves as Co-director of Internal Relations. She also works as an adjunct for the Graduate School of Education at Rutgers. Sara earned her BA and MA at Centenary College, and completed an MFA in Poetry at Fairleigh Dickinson University in 2006. She has delivered several presentations about the teaching of writing, at ASCD and NCTE conventions. Her writing has been published in the NJEA Review, Sow's Ear poetry journal, Whiskey Island magazine and the online journal of The National Writing Project.
Sara Bauer has been writing and teaching in NJ public schools since 1998. In 2002, she joined the National Writing Project at Rutgers University, where she now serves as Co-director of Internal Relations. She also works as an adjunct for the Graduate School of Education at Rutgers. Sara earned her BA and MA at Centenary College, and completed an MFA in Poetry at Fairleigh Dickinson University in 2006. She has delivered several presentations about the teaching of writing, at ASCD and NCTE conventions. Her writing has been published in the NJEA Review, Sow's Ear poetry journal, Whiskey Island magazine and the online journal of The National Writing Project.
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