You're Allowed :: November 3rd

It feels like forever since we've done one of these, these, reading-things. Though it's only been a little over a month. But no matter, we've missed the hell out of you, my darlings (note the hint of Royal Tenenbaums).  So this month, in order to get back into the swing of things, we're coming back to Dionysus with a bang. We are proud to feature two great poets, Mike Young and Kendra Kopelke. And as always we'll cap the night off with an open mic.

See ya'll on the third floor.

-Mike Young is the author of Look! Look! Feathers (Word Riot Press 2010), a book of stories, and We Are All Good If They Try Hard Enough (Publishing Genius Press 2010), a book of poems. He co-edits NOÖ Journal and runs Magic Helicopter Press. He lives in Baltimore, MD.

You can read some of Mike's work here or here or here or here or here or here.

-Kendra Kopelke is a widely acclaimed poet and a fixture on the Baltimore literary scene. She directs the MFA in Creative Writing & Publishing Arts at the University of Baltimore. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and was named “Best Poet” by Baltimore Magazine in 2001. Kopelke’s poetry collections include: Eager Street; Carpe Diem, Ants (the link has nothing to do with the book, it just reminded me of the title); Bladderville; and Hopper’s Women. She is also included in the anthology, When Divas Dance. She is founding editor of Passager, a national literary journal.

DogDownDirty Halloween Party :: You're Allowed

DogDownDirty from Melissa Streat on Vimeo.

For the October reading we've decided to change things up a bit: we've dropped the pretense that anyone cares about words or literature* and for this month only we're just going to have a party, a gore-filled, rafter-swinging, dark, dirty, dance-crazy Halloween party. Why would we do this? Well, we decided to make the change from our normally scheduled reading series for two reasons: one, we just wanted to; and two, all the editors of Artichoke Haircut are themselves writers, and, as you probably know, there are a few things all writers love: one, masks (read persona), and two, carnivals, big debauchery filled carnivals, where every rule you've decided for whatever reason to follow is simply thrown out of consideration for really no reason at all. The whole of the world is one huge masquerade, and what other holiday in all of Christendom allows one the opportunity to have all these at the same time: Halloween (yeah, I know, I thought of Mardi Gras too, but this is Baltimore not New Orleans). So Halloween it is.

There will be drinks, Dj's, and prizes for the craziest costume – judged by us of course. Believe you me, you wanna dress up because you're going to want this prize. For now we can't tell you what it is, but all will be revealed on the 22nd. 

And for those of you who must have their reading in October, there is a solution. Earlier that very day ('round 6 or 6:30) Liam's is also going to host a reading, dubbed the "Hidden History Happy Hour," presented by Melville House. So one could think of the 22nd as a literary extravaganza, or just a reading and a party – whatever. But don't worry, next month we'll be back at Dionysus, and back with our readings and open mic, and all will be back in its rightful place.

So dress up, and we'll see you at Liam's on the 22nd.


*Just in case you didn't get it, this was a joke.

An Early October Cold :: from American Life in Poetry

Here we repost the weekly poetry column brought to you, free of charge, by American Life in Poetry – an organization supported by The Poetry Foundation, the Library of Congress, and the U.S. Poet Laureate from 2004-2006, Ted Koosner. This week is presented a windy-cold and haunting poem by Don Thompson:

October

I used to think the land

had something to say to us,

back when wildflowers

would come right up to your hand

as if they were tame.

Sooner or later, I thought,

the wind would begin to make sense

if I listened hard

and took notes religiously.

That was spring.

Now I’m not so sure:

the cloudless sky has a flat affect

and the fields plowed down after harvest

seem so expressionless,

keeping their own counsel.

This afternoon, nut tree leaves

blow across them

as if autumn had written us a long letter,

changed its mind,

and tore it into little scraps.