Create Money – 6 Unique Ways

A close friend required $3200 to repair a corvette as well as acquire, for instance, as well as 2 full weeks eventually marketed it for $4200, getting our company $500 income each. Permitting your funds to carry out the job to create additional cash – is one of the finest means.

I possessed a broad selection of various other means and also unique projects to create an added loan when I was much younger. I incorporated handles created coming from recycled leather-made coats, so they set you back regarding Fifty pennies to create. You might likewise really want to create a leisure activity into a technique to create funds, however, there aren’t as well a lot of loans included many opportunities.

I was youthful and also really wanted some means to create added loans – one thing various other than yet another prompt meals project. The proprietor chose to obtain into the company of procedure providing, and also I administered for the project.

Permitting your amount of money to perform the job to create an additional loan – is one of the ideal methods.

I possessed respectable lessees, as well as I, had constructed a productivity condo on the spine of the area for personal privacy for my better half as well as I. Easy means like this are my favored techniques to create an additional amount of money. 바이비트

I possessed a vast assortment of various other means as well as unique projects to create the added amount of money when I was more youthful. Resting below remembering at the computer keyboard may be thought about as a unique means to create a loan also, yet hey, it operates. Do not count on to create as well a lot amount of money performing this, however, unless you stay in the best location.

At one factor I possessed nearly $10,000 every year arriving in coming from leasing the spaces in my residence. I kept suitable lessees, and also I had actually constructed a productivity flat on the spine of the area for personal privacy for my better half and also me. Easy means like this are my special techniques to create additional loans.

They lost the suggestion for the brand new solution and also lost my project along with it. Considerably for receiving ahead of time through carrying out a really good project.

I included handles created coming from recycled natural leather coats, so they set you back concerning Fifty pennies to create. You might additionally prefer to create a pastime into a method to create cash, yet there aren’t also a lot of loans entailed many the opportunity.

It was a lot more intriguing than many of the tasks I possessed. After utilizing my absolute best phone pretenses to receive info coming from the household, and also performing a little bit of exploring regionally, I located all of them each functioning in the very same spot.

Personal Debt Problems

Personal Debt Problems

Personal Debt Problems Will Be Easily Solved If You Use the Right Knowledge

Personal Debt Problems
When are personal debt problems on account of money?

This may seem like an obvious question to ask, but there is no doubt that using the right knowledge is important when it comes to the professional there able to negotiate with any individual that will be experiencing such particular problems. It is important to first of all stress the fact that knowing how to negotiate properly is one of the key factors on the way to the negotiation procedure and in larger circumstances can be the best method of success. 개인회생 단점

For example the negotiation of card debt can be one of the most effective ways of affording the use of most of the equity in home that the individual may have. In order to be able to successfully argue for such an option it is critical that the individuals is aware of the rights that they have as far as making a claim and the legal obligations that they are required to adhere to. Furthermore, it is essential in order to be able to win in a manner of speaking that the individual is aware that the cards will be placed on some form of informal DS for defaulting going forward.

The proper selection of an agency or credit counsellor is really the key to successfully negotiating, as getting the most suitable company  or agent then requires some time and most individuals wont have access to this in quite a while. It may be wise to have second opinions from a number of different agencies to ensure that the process is carried out in the most competent manner. An excellent way of determining the best agent or agency to use is to simply ask for a list of the most renowned and reputable ones, such as:

First enough, before you even think about enlisting the services of some firm or agent to negotiate on your behalf, it may be a good idea to try and get in touch with individuals that have got some experience in these sorts of matters in as much as the estate lawyer or estate planning attorney that are highly valued and experienced with such matters or the strategies that can be used in order to achieve the most effective results.

As keen as you may be to get an agent to negotiate on your behalf, it is really crucial to understand that the person that is going to do everything for you is guaranteed to be the actual person that you will have to contend with. Depending on how big your problem is, meaning that it may be the fault of a corporation or even government agencies, sometimes the representatives or the negotiators that are employed specifically for that Asians issues Likewise, sometimes reversals previous or current garnishments. Paying off credit cards and repairing the financial status of the past could be a great way of acquiring the initiative to work on the credit status of the present as well.

As individual, getting the right knowledge can be taken by you, means that it is going to be a priority for you to strive to learn about it. The more you know about it, then the easier it will be to sort the issue out and to get started. Your agent will provide you with with the best solutions, but at the end of the day you will still be accountable for the information that they provide you with as it is an important area for them to provide.

A series of simple steps that you can take in order to fix your credit problems.

Bowel problems In Kid

Children, specifically those that are breastfed, carry out certainly do not experience bowel irregularity given that the child soaks up almost all of the dairy as well as there are a few deposits left behind. This need to certainly not panic moms and dads however since it is ordinary as the infant’s rectum might still be a little bit tight as well as needs to have a lot more flexing just before the feces can easily be launched.

It is a various tale though for formula-fed children that can easily receive constipation because of the dairy deposits in the bowel. When these children come to be young and also provided an even more sound diet regimen in the future, after that they may be even more susceptible to obtaining irregular bowel movements.

A little one might possess bowel problems if he possesses challenging as well as extremely completely dry chairs. When the digestive tract is certainly not performing properly, it might eliminate very a lot of the water in the feces leading to difficulty as well as quite drying out feces, therefore leading to irregularity.

A kid might possess irregularity if he possesses tough and also quite completely dry chairs. When the bowel is certainly not performing properly, it might take out very a lot of the water in the feces leading to tough as well as extremely completely dry chairs, consequently leading to irregular bowel movements.

For infants along with truly limited rectum as well as those that consistently experience pain when passing a chair, it is ideal to possess an anal exam through a relied-on physician to be sure there is no obstacle in the rectum.

In basic expressions, irregular bowel movements happen when the physical body’s strong rubbish visits the digestive tract, thus drawing out additional undigested chairs than what is needed. Little ones, particularly those that are breastfed, perform certainly do not actually experience bowel irregularity given that the little one takes in almost all of the dairy, and also there are a few remains left behind.

Constantly find your doctor’s tips.

You far better presume once again if you presume your child possesses bowel problems simply because he possesses seldom feces. Possessing occasional feces carries out certainly does not suggest bowel problems although this ailment is defined through irregular defecation. 아기 유산균 추천

Exactly how are bowel problems in youngsters managed? One means of addressing and also staying away from little one bowel problems is actually to enhance his diet regimen.

In basic expressions, bowel problems develop when the physical body’s sound refuses to keep in the digestive tract, thus drawing out additional undigested chairs than what is important. When an individual’s bowel possesses minimal action as an outcome of a diet plan that performs certainly does not correctly boost the digestive tract to perform its regular functionality, this occurs. When there is a barricade in the GI system as when there are issues along with a cyst or even the rectum clog, bowel irregularity likewise takes place.

Irregularity is a result of an inappropriate as well as lacking diet regimen, poor consumption of liquids, or even a challenging digestive tract. Little ones that consume excessive enhanced meals may be prospects for irregularity.

Where To Seek Massage Therapy Education And Learning

If you want to learn how to give a massage then you will require massage treatment education and learning. There are schools around the nation that can make you right into a qualified massage specialist. It is something that you need to attend, much like university or taking trade courses to be licensed and also to be able to exercise the art of offering a massage. There are lots of locations that only operate in the teachings of exactly how to appropriately make use of massage treatment whereas some traditional colleges and universities also show the skill as well as the art of the massage. It is expanding in appeal as a discipline and as an occupation for this reason causing more schools and more of a demand for massage therapy specialists.

Many of these colleges also supply mentors in other recovery arts as well. A few of these vary from acupuncture to natural remedies. These institutions make the effort to teach and license their pupils in the capacity to end up being specialist massage therapy specialists as well as with the high levels of anxiety that there are in the globe today, an increasing number of people are locating themselves in the requirement of a restorative massage. 청라 스웨디시

Massages can be terrific points if they are done appropriately as well as by a person that is certified in the area. Not everyone has the capability or the recognition of exactly how to accomplish this feat, however with some training and concerning 6 months’ worth of school you might be a certified massage therapist. This is not a joke, this is a real acknowledged career in which many people can make huge quantities of money if they do properly as well as meet their client’s requirements.

There are several styles as well as types of massage treatment education places that you can pick from. Many of these are certified institutions of higher learning that provide programs in the area of massage treatment. Many others do not fall into this classification. These would be colleges that are focused on the art of massage treatment or they are schools that practice the idea of healing practices. A few of these colleges are popular as well as have produced some qualified massage therapists; others are schools that are just seeking to discover people who want to pay to find out massage therapy as well as are not concerned about pupil success. Most of the time it is best to check with the Bbb to find out if any complaints have been filed against the school that you are considering to make sure that you will certainly not wind up coming out vacant-handed in the long run.

Altogether consider if this is an area that you would love to enter into as well as whether it is something that you believe that you will be able to do. When you have established that this is the life that you would love to live then you need to pick a school as well as obtain your certification so that you will certainly have the ability to go out and also supply the massage therapy that so many people need today.


Some economists mention that being involved in an extra difficult however rewarding realm like financial investments are certainly not specially created for the pale-hearted.

Along with the economic situation using on a roller-coaster trip, attaching the correct equity seems to become inconceivable. Along with the development of info modern technology, individuals coming from all over the planet go outrageous over share market financial investments. Considering that the comfort of details modern technology had located its spot in the globe of financial investments as well as processing, it is actually.

Today, stock exchange assets are marketing like hot cakes. It seems to be that it has constantly been the centerpiece of every real estate investor to obtain an inventory regardless of what.

For those that will want to obtain the absolute best share market assets they must appear in the adhering to for assistance:

1. The securities market is in danger

The finest advice for folks to acquire the absolute best assets market assets, it is ideal certainly not to wager everything that they possess on it, specifically if they do not possess an excellent understanding of just how it functions. It is much better to lose a little bit off that loosened huge. 퍼미션 디비

Typically, a lot of individuals feel that purchasing inventories is as simple as 1-2-3. As well as that is actually, in its own biggest feeling, the cardiovascular system of the supply market.

2. The “routing quit approach.”

A lot of specialists integrate this when receiving sales. What they generally carry out is actually to “use” their inventories higher, as well as sustain a departure technique in the occasion that traits obtain out of palm.

3. Put in merely in what you fit along with.

A lot of professionals integrate this when acquiring inventories. What they commonly perform is actually to “use” their sales higher, as well as sustain a departure tactic in the occasion that factors receive out of palm.

Regardless of whether a specific expenditure chance, such mention, or a thrilling IPO of a major provider, appears extremely desirable, it is a need for every single entrepreneur certainly not to buy it if they are certainly not prepped to jeopardize shedding their cash on it. By doing this, folks are going to have the capacity to receive the greatest stock exchange expenditure through observing this extremely significant advice.

The majority of share professionals advise today that folks that want to acquire the greatest share market financial investment need to utilize the every time expenses in the assets market financial investment tactic. If capitalists would certainly constantly bring a useful personal digital assistant along with all of them, it will be much better.

The absolute most crucial aspect of stock exchange financial investment is certainly not a great deal to choose the greatest however to prevent the loss.

Along with the development of relevant information and modern technology, folks coming from all over the planet go outrageous over equity market financial investments. Normally, many folks strongly believe that getting inventories are as very easy as 1-2-3. As well as that is actually, in its ultimate feeling, the cardiovascular system of the inventory market.

Overseas Mortgage Advisors

Before you think about getting a home loan, you require to have a variety of things in place: a ready seller (supplier), a willing customer (purchaser), a concurred price, and also a collection of 2 lawyers standing for each of the event involved in the sale. Presuming all those are in the area, how long should things take? The conveyancing which is the legal term for a residential or commercial property transaction needs to take between 6-8 weeks. The fact is that with so many forms and also little bits of paper involved; hold-ups practically become an inevitable component of the procedure. The Government has suggested reforming the conveyancing legislation to ensure that this must ultimately result in less paper and more ‘switch pushing’. The process of acquiring an abroad mortgage can be described better by abroad mortgage experts.

About you experience 6 crucial stages, such as:
1. You Search first
2. Check up all files
3. The various home mortgage provides available to you
4. Completion of the contract
5. Exchange your contracts
6. Conclusion

Constantly watch out for re-mortgage setup costs while you are shopping for remortgage around for a new home loan. These charges are typically related to your new car loan to spend for legal costs and also assessment of your current residential property. Nevertheless, with the competition for re-mortgage business so tough these days, you have bound ahead throughout a couple of areas that will certainly forgo these arrangement costs and also foot the bill for you. 홈페이지 바로가기

You can select to acquire your residence by paying the complete purchase price with price cuts relying on the number of years you have invested as a public sector renter. The discount additionally relies on the optimum price cut restriction for the area in which you live.

For the instance of houses, the discount rate after two years is 32% with an extra 1% for every year after 2 years as much as a maximum of 60%. With flats, the discount rate after 2 years is 44% with an added 2% for every year approximately a maximum of 70%.

Existing credit/income difficulties are not an issue. Your Abroad home mortgage consultants will certainly assist you to combat all financial probabilities as well as elevating above your credit score obstacles.

Whatever you are dealing with:

  • Bad/No debt?
  • CCJ’s?
  • Mortgage debts?
  • Self-used and also no pay slides?

You’ll find services from Overseas mortgage experts’ recommendations and also obtain the best quote for your needs.

Trouble complimentary funding handling
Expert guidance for your needs
Cheapest interest rates
Repayment choices ideal for your needs

Internet Search Engine Optimization

In search engine optimization, it is a vital component to choose the appropriate keywords when optimizing a site. The evident reason is, that if you have search phrases without search quantity, you will certainly not get any traffic.

Secondly, if you have keyword phrases that are as well affordable, you will locate it very tough (practically difficult) to win high ranks. So exactly how do we discover the in-between equilibrium for both barriers? This is where keyword devices would enter into place, yet how accurate are they?

To begin, the primary keyword study devices that are found on the market today are Wordtracker, Advance Search Phrase Tool as well as Trellian Search Phrase Discovery. Now I wager most of you are drawing your hair out over which key phrases are mosting likely to be appropriate for optimization.

What makes it most likely even more stressful is the differing outcomes between the 3 various keyword devices i.e. one key words tool might show a specific key phrase to be excellent, while another device may suggest a whole different outcome for the same keyword phrase. Well, stop stressing now!

The reality is that we don’t really understand exactly how precise these keyword devices are and also we should only use their search volume numbers as a sign as to whether a keyword phrase is prominent amongst online search engine users.

Allow’s say a keyword phrase, “pet dog products”, has a search quantity of 5,000 searches per month on the Advance Key Words Device. To assume that “canine items” is a good key phrase for optimization, based ONLY on the Overture figure, would be a very poor presumption.

However, it provides us a rough idea of the search quantity for that particular keyword phrase. The next step would certainly be to make use of Wordtracker or Keyword phrase Exploration to see if a comparable quantity of search volume exists for “dog products” (keep in mind to convert look for each tool to a typical time frame i.e. regular monthly or day-to-day).

If we have an extremely reduced search quantity in BOTH Wordtracker and also Keyword Phrase Discovery, then I would certainly be very cynical concerning utilizing “canine items” for optimization.

The whole idea is to get at least two of the 3 keyword phrase devices to show affordable/ high search quantities before thinking about that keyword phrase to be ideal for optimization. If you have all 3 keywords devices returning practical/ high search volumes for “pet items”, after that the possibilities are that this keyword is sensible/ high in search quantity as well as certainly worth taking into consideration for optimization.

As soon as a good collection of keyword phrases has been set via making use of the key phrase devices, you must after focus on the keywords that have a low/ sensible quantity of completing a website. There is no factor attempting to contend for a keyword that has 1,000,000 websites in competition for it.

If you are proficient at search engine optimization then you could achieve high ranks for that key phrase, but it would require a great deal of time as well as an investment that might be invested in better things. The lower the competitors is, after that the much more opportunity of achieving seniority.

To summarize, there is no indicator to claim that key phrase devices are 100% exact. Whilst the reseller of the device might suggest or else, I highly question it. The outcomes need to be taken like a “grain of salt” as they are only helpful to give you a suggestion regarding what the search volume could be like for a certain keyword phrase (high, moderate, or low).

With each tool obtaining its results using different algorithms, in some cases, their results will not support each other. Supplied you utilize 2 of the search phrase tools to explore the search quantity for keywords, you ought to have the ability to make an excellent decision as to whether a search phrase may be worth optimizing for.

Keeping that in mind, it would also be a good idea to use your good sense to establish if a key phrase is one that YOU would make use of in a search. Or else, what would be the factor of optimization, to begin with?

Tips For Generating Cash On– The Essentials

You may choose up cost-free things on You may obtain cost-free home furniture, well-maintained as well as mend it. It is a wonderful means to create some additional funds.

Right here are some concepts for creating the amount of money on You can easily include a photo, style a summary or even create a simply use to any individual looking at the ad.

These are merely some of the concepts for creating the amount of money on It is difficult to drop the amount of money as the directories carry out certainly do not cost you everything. Along with everything that this website takes place to provide, exactly how can you go incorrect? is a technique to acquire even more consumers. At it is free of charge. 비트겟 레퍼럴

There are lots of concepts for bringing in an amount of money on Below are some concepts for bringing in cash on You may include a photo, style an explanation or even create a just provide to anybody seeing the ad.

Pick what you wish to submit; get in a label, a summary as well as settlement information. You’ll possess to pass the individual examination by getting into the clambered characters.

Before you may detail just about anything you need to have to possess a profile. You will require to enter your e-mail deal with and also at that point style in the clambered characters and also strike enter into. There is an alternative to maintain your e-mail personal and also to drop provides coming from others. is a means to receive additional consumers. These are merely some of the suggestions for bringing in loans on

I am certain you will certainly discover it on Acquire, offer, use companies, as well as ensure your service. has it all covered along with no expenses as well as no advertising and marketing.

The rudiments are obtaining your directory on the market, nevertheless, there is a bit additional to it than that. Allow’s find exactly how our team may construct out adds function effectively for our team by utilizing a handful of basic approaches.

Health facilities in Toronto- Shaving Company is prominent!

It is simply that the mind is certainly not the only location where you will possess hair. As it switches out, components of the body system like the upper arms as well as lower legs are the very most prominent among incredibly mindful individuals.

Does that perform the Waxing?

These are qualified skin layer experts that perform polishing for individuals. Essentially, the purpose of these skin layer professionals is actually to eliminate hair coming from components of the physical body that people carry out and certainly do not need.

Just how is polishing carried out?

Getting rid of hair can easily be mostly performed through 2 approaches– 1) Using a Razor and 2) Using wax. A unique wax is administered on the place which the hair requires to be eliminated as well as taken off however special polishing bit. allthewaxing

Carry out certainly not also take into consideration attempting these methods at the house only to spare some cash. In doing this, you can perform wreck to your skin layer. That is certainly not one thing that you will want away from shaving.

Why refrain from polishing by yourself?

Feel free to keep in mind that Waxing is a strong experienced strategy. It’s own certainly not a concern of using wax and also taking it off, there are a lot of parts, for instance, what path you use the wax, as well as just how you eliminate the wax. These all participate in a vital role in eliminating the hair appropriately.

It’s own certainly not an issue of administering wax and also taking it off, there are a lot of facets, for instance, what instructions you administer the wax, and also exactly how you get rid of the wax.

There are numerous sites in Toronto that provide Waxing Services to people. A lot of shops have trained workers that will certainly clear away the hair coming from a component of your body system. The objectives are very clear– conduct the polishing along with as little bit of irritability as feasible to the customer.”

These are skilled skin layer professionals that perform polishing for individuals. Clearing away hair may be mostly performed through 2 methods– 1) Using a Razor and 2) Using a wax.

The various other procedure entails the use of the wax on the component coming from where hair requires to be gotten rid of. A unique wax is used on the place where the hair requires to be eliminated as well as taken off yet a special polishing bit.

mukticheck A Casino Evening to keep in mind Birthday Party

Life is a gamble. What better method to celebrate that wager than by rolling the dice or playing cards all night? A fantastic casino night is certainly a lot of enjoyable to be had by all. You can select. Of course, you will certainly not be able to utilize actual money for this but can allow each guest their very own collection of chips or syndicate money to have fun with for the evening as well as have a good time rewards for the victors as well as amusing parting gifts for those who do not get on so well. The essential thing is that you are celebrating the wonderful gamble that life truly remains in the perfect style for doing so.

Whether you go for a grand James Bond Style Gambling enterprise occasion total with coats and a complete and also flowing bar or go with a much more exotic sort of laid-back gambling enterprise theme it is necessary that the music and also drinks flow openly and that everybody has the opportunity to have a good time. Great decorations for your online casino night will certainly differ according to the style of casino you are attempting to incorporate. Video gaming tables, a roulette wheel, and also lots of dice make certain to please your guests as excellent party décor. Or else select the sub-style of your celebration.

Make certain to let your guests know if there is an outfit code for the evening when sending invites. You might acquire your invitations online fairly easily or print your very own. Once again you will intend to go with the method that works finest with the motif of the Casino birthday celebration you are throwing. If it’s an over-the-hill kind of birthday event you might wish to make the invites humorous with some sort of recommendation to the truth that lighting the candles on the cake might be a gamble per se. Bear in mind to let your invitations begin the party motif as well as work from there to construct points up.

On the big night, you can invade your regional party supply store or an online celebration supply shop for all sorts of betting-related decors. From fuzzy dice to oversized cardboard cards and also hundreds of things in between, you can go as classy as you’d like with your casino site night birthday event or choose a few of the more ‘celebration-themed gambling establishments setups that you will find as well. You are just limited by your creative imagination and also individual preferences when it involves properly enhancing your gambling establishment’s birthday event. With that in mind, make the decors as fun or as stylish as you can stand.

When it comes to the food, what sort of self-respecting casino wouldn’t have a grand buffet prepared. Show your food buffet style as well as when possible have a catering team flowing with beverages throughout the room. For your online casino night birthday, party finger foods are the best. Shrimp alcoholic drink, crab puffs, petit fours, mixed drink sausages, meatballs, sausage rolls, pigs in blankets, dips with proper bread and crackers, finger sandwiches, as well as any other great finger food you can consider. An additional fantastic enhancement to your buffet table would be a chocolate fountain with plenty of marshmallows, crackers, as well as fruits to cover.

You will wish to make sure to have proper gambling establishment sound results. While it isn’t possible to have a wall surface loaded with fruit machines, a minimum of not in my neck of the timber, you can get the slot machine audio result for a more realistic feeling in your gambling establishment or you could skip the slots and also maintain this table video games only section with great songs overhead. The selection is yours and the skies are the limit.

Make sure to take plenty of photographs to produce a scrapbook of the grand event. Not just will this help protect your memories of the evening yet it also makes a wonderful present for the visitors that have shared minutes in your life and make the wager worthwhile.


Use Computers

How to Effectively Use Computers

Use Computers
Computers are constantly changing and presenting innovative features. Since computers are at the center of almost everything, learning to handle them effectively isijk important. It may not be difficult to learn computers if you know the basics. This article explains a few fundamental concepts about computers and how to effectively use them. 신경 치료 방법

The components of computers are:• CPU (central processing unit);• RAM (random access memory);• HARD DISK (hard disk drive);• CANADA cooler;• Two ports for connection to devices such as a printer and a scanner;• Multimedia and gaming peripherals.

A computer has several main buses: the ALU (aluminum expansion bus), the PCI (peripheral bus) and the AGP (resistive digital input/output) ports. These provide expansion or input to the computer. The maximum bus length is 16 bits.

CISC stands for Computer Integrated Circuit. These are small microprocessors that are used in computers. They are used in all-on-one desktops, notebooks, as well as laptop.

CPU stands for Central Processing Unit. It is the microprocessor, which is the central processing unit of the computer. On the other hand, RAM stands for random access memory. Random access memory or RAM is used to store information while CPU is used to process information.

HARD DISK represent the main storage part of the computer. The hard disk space is used to save all the applications and data which are no longer used. The FAT or FAT32 file system is used to store data in the computer.

CANADA cooler stores excess heat by using fans in the computer. It can be used in computers that run on Windows 95, Windows 98, Windows NT, Windows 2000, Windows XP, Windows Server, and Windows Sereno.

Windows 95, Windows 98, Windows NT, Windows 2000, Windows XP, Windows Server, and Windows Sereno come with Microsoft Windows Tools pre-installed. These tools will assist you in adjusting the appearance and the functionality of your computer.

The Blue Screen of Death is effect used to replace the blue screen which appears due to various reasons. It is normally caused by a virus. In order to eliminate blue screen error, you must update your antivirus software and then fix your system by installing patching program. You can download these files from the Internet or from the Microsoft website.

These error codes are commonly referred to as BSOD or STOP error. This term is also used to identify a STOP error on Windows 95, Windows 98, Windows NT, Windows 2000, Windows XP, Windows Server, and Windows Server 2008.

The blue screen of death is brought about by a hardware problem with your computer system. The important thing to do is to update your antivirus software and then try to fix the problem.

An error in window registry may also cause the BSOD. You can do a search on the Internet to find a good registry cleaner. Corrupted files in the windows registry can cause the BSOD.

It is a good idea to perform a scan of the whole system with a registry cleaner to detect and eliminate any unnecessary files so that you can safely identify the cause of the error. Start your scan now!

What is “BSOD”?

BSOD or a Blue Screen of Death is the most common error on Windows computers. It is most commonly seen on the Windows 95, Windows 98, Windows NT, Windows 2000, Windows XP, Windows Server, and Windows 2008 computers.

The BSOD is brought about by conflicting system entries. It can bring about by incompatibility between software and hardware, overheating, spyware or viruses, improper installation, and improper shutdown.

Most people think that a computer will stop working if it gets a BSOD. It is important to realize that a BSOD can continue to pop up even after you have deleted all the errors. If you only remove the errors, the computer will continue to pop up but it will not be as common as it is now.

The American Water Spaniel

The American Water Spaniel – Facts You Must Know Before Adopting The American Water Spaniel

The American Water Spaniel has a hardy, muscular build. They have long, broad skull features with a square-cut muzzle. They weigh 25-45 pounds, and 15-18 inches tall.

The American Water Spaniel


The coat of an American Water spaniel is double with an oily, harsh feeling outer coat that is curled to a tight curl, and a thick, soft, oily inner coat that is more than 3-4 inches long. The hair on the chest, legs, ears, and tail are a little lengthy and more fringed, yet still wavy and curly. May not be uniformly curly, the coat across the back is straighter than the hair on the rump or chest area.

The coat of the American Water Spaniel is chocolate or liver in color may or may not have white patches on the chest area, extending all the way down to the elbows, on the back, and on the legs.


Requiring a lot of exercise, the American Water Spaniel is not choosy on what type of activity they are doing, as long as they spend their pent up energy. They love playing with their families, and are happiest when they are allowed to run freely in a securely fenced area.


The American Water Spaniel is very loyal, vigilant, committed, and intelligent. Although usually reserved for strangers, they are not known to display any signs of aggression, spite, timid, frightened, or nervous. They are very eager to please, and although they are cautious of strangers, they are still kind to children and other animals.


The American Water Spaniel is a highly devoted family pet; energetic, alert, and balanced. Although they are obedient and easy to train, this breed is a little different from other retrievers, and they love playing with toys.


Recognized to have an oily coat, the American Water Spaniel requires a thorough brushing twice a week. They are a medium shedder, and consider brushing a part of their lifestyle. Brushing should be done excessively, and regularly, or else new hairs may appear in untangling.

During summer, American Water Spaniels need to be given plenty of water, and more often than not, a lot of exercise. They will do best with either an active family, or if very active, a securely fenced area, or else a lot of dog toys.


The American Water Spaniel is a highly intelligent breed, and will be willing to respond to training. They are excellent with positive reinforcement, gentle, without discouraging or harsh methods.

Early socialization for American Water Spaniels is advised, as this will help them to be more tolerant of other animals and children they may encounter.


The American Water Spaniel is a very loyal, obedient, easy-going, and placid dog. They are reputed to be constantly full of energy, and are always ready to play. Although they are usually used as working and hunting dogs, they will also happily become the companion. This breed is exceptional in its ability to learn, and exceptional in its willingness to please, making themaming, and very responsive to training. They are very placid, and will happily play with children and pets, oftenratting them over the fence. Aside from swimming, they love nothing more than to swim. This versatile breed has exceptional stamina, and has the ability to hunt or swim in cold waters or ice.

thirteen ways of looking at a pelican (4 – 5)

by shaindel beers


The young man and his friends float the river
the Fourth of July
		                 Downstream are parade
sounds    neighing of horses     marching bands 
salvos of gunfire
Here, there is only the river	soft lap of water
against the inner tube

			            The peace only occasionally
interrupted by an Oh shit! when a raft scuffs a rock
gets hung up on a branch

	     Miraculously, the pelicans sit still on the rocks
inspecting from ice blue eyes on either side of long beaks

		        Their heads tilt this way and that
but otherwise they are unmoved by these creatures

the only ones larger than they who float downstream
	    The young man has the odd feeling he has never
been so close to another breathing thing

He looks into the ice blue of the pelican’s eye as he floats
	    by     thinks of the day his eye drew this much
		        attention	      Hiding under the bill of his cap

eye surrounded by magenta bruise, fidgeting to the rhythm
of fluorescent light flicker 	the professor asking

	   My God, what happened?

He recalls the feel of the lie slipping out of his mouth

	    A baseball I didn’t catch


We come home with the groceries, and I see
the slow V of pelicans floating over the neighborhood
try to tell if they are tracing the river.

I’ve heard they are one of the few bird species
that fly “for fun.” I wonder what that means,
try to imagine what it must feel like

to soar on thermals for up to fifteen miles
without flapping a wing, to climb the pillows
of hot air, drop down into coolness

to gain speed. This is called dynamic soaring.
I didn’t used to be so fascinated by anything
but now, I pull out my phone, try to record them.

They are immortalized as radar blips over
my neighbors’ chimney; in the background
my dog barks, my son is excited to be allowed

to run to the porch by himself. How could anything
be so effortless? I wonder what I might miss
if I were afforded their abilities, their innate sense

of measuring air temperature through their nostrils,
of spotting a single fish from sixty feet above water—
All I can imagine missing is the grey house

with its hot pink door which I drive by every day.

thirteen ways of looking at a pelican (1 – 3)

by shaindel beers


The lone pelican in the reeds
of river’s edge seemed odd.
I stopped—watched—
did nothing.

Later in the paper the story
of its broken wing,
likely caused
by flying into a wire.

That it would probably be
euthanized. When you see
a pelican alone, it usually
means something is wrong
said the wildlife expert.

My self-doubt that kept me
from calling. Did I cause that pelican
more hours of suffering
or gift it a few more hours
of floating in the reeds,
a little while longer to bob
in the gentle current,
the coolness of water over webbed feet?

Forgive me, pelican. I also, am always alone,
also fly too recklessly for my own good.


When I told you about the pelican—
that I thought I should have called someone.

You said, That’s your problem. You always
doubt your instincts

As a woman, I’ve been taught to ignore
connections. The ones between myself

and the moon, the tides
internal and external.

The way the pelican and I
for an instant

were one.


The pelicans sit on the rocks preening,
a section of concert violinists bowing

apricot bills against snow velvet down
of breast. I wonder if they can hear

the friction of their surfaces one against
the other. If there is a making of music

out of their bodies. I remember them
later when the photographer says,

When you touch yourself,
when your fingers skim

the hollow between throat and clavicle
you are telling the viewer, Oh, my skin

is so soft, don’t you wish you could
touch it?

the three-body problem

by diane raptosh

               Solutions to the three-body problem may be of an arbitrary
complexity and are very far from being completely understood.  –Scholarpedia

i) Periodic Systems of Astronomical Interest

Like some Carica papayas, George Washington had the XXY condition. He
pointed out that he was statuesque, had no kids but rather broad hips,
a size 13 boot, and a fondness for swatches of calico. He liked to rub
and compare them, to watch them through moon-mote, to flutter and twirl
them in horseshoe orbits. He powdered his red-brown hair and tied it in
a braid down his back like a small mane. When George was elected, a
czarina reigned in Russia, a shogun lorded over Japan. Only the office
of President endures. In this case we can ignore the influence of the
light body on the other spheres. For assurance, Washington carried a
pocket sundial wherever he went. He bred hound dogs he named Tarter,
True Love, and Sweet Lips. He would spell words like blue as
blew, oil as oyl, and eie for an eye. The six white horses in Washington's
stables had their teeth brushed every morning. Washington's orders. As
can be seen, the three-body problem—its four degrees of freedom—offers
myriad options for public service.

ii) Without Loss of Generality, We Consider the Three-Body Problem on a Plane

                                                                         Three healthy male volunteers
in their 20s were placed bare-chested in front of cameras in light-tight rooms
for 20 minutes every three hours from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. for three days.
Researchers watched body-gleam spool through the dark. “If you see the
sheen from the surface of three bodies, you can see the whole body condition,"
states researcher Etsuko Kobayashi from Kyoto U.

iii) Three Bodies of Equal Mass Follow Each Other at Uniform Spacing

If there was a drowning in the River Rappahannock, her mother would

note how that was the third in a series, even if it was not, or how there

would be a third drowning if two had taken place within the past six years.

iv) Celestial Mechanics

Her boyfriend is the mother of her child.

v) Two Bodies Move Closely Round Each Other and Around a Third Body Far Away

The oil-black aril-covered seeds in the papaya’s core, which smack 
of nasturtiums, have contraceptive effects in adult male langur monkeys

and handpicked blue-green eyed persons . . . .


“The Three-Body Problem” was first published in The Prose Poem Project, Fall 2010

rugged western individualism

by diane raptosh

A man who is his own wife gives birth to his identical twin through his belly button. For months, he thinks it’s a cyst. Fistula. Ingrown hair. A fir tree germinating in his spleen. He father-mothers this shriven boy, fine and tiny as walnut lung. With equal parts sweetmeats and a firm touch, he bathes this baby in a small green bowl—that wee, webbed blood of living kin. Nights, the man daubs his chafed nipples with tea bags and lays a wet cloth on his eyes. He tugs at the far left swirl of his mustache. He sometimes wonders out loud: Am I famished? Is this fullness? When he kisses his own hand, his wife strokes his cheek.


“Rugged Western Individualism” was first published in The Untidy Season: An Anthology of Nebraska Women Poets (2013)

survey crew

by lesley-anne evans

Shock was not
canvas tents strung along
the shore of Lake Superior rather than sleazy
shag-carpeted motel rooms south of Marathon

Shock was not flying clear dome bell chopper
black fly and bear territory
land-on-a-dime river side
in the middle of the God-forsaken-wilderness
or God’s country depending on how you look at it

Shock was not watching Roy walk pissed off
straight into the bush for a three hour no map
bush-whack straight back to camp
to roll cigarettes
and hork into a smoldering fire

Not night sky infinity
pin pricks bleeding out heaven
not silent adrenaline
pregnant pause voids
not hard luck off rez boys
drunk fireside fights

Shock was
axe clean cut through boot and bone and
big Dan felled like a lodgepole, you pinned
like a bug to the forest floor.


“Survey Crew” was first published in The Antigonish Review Issue #177

pacific chorus

by lesley-anne evans

June hangs humid, and Spring Peepers 
call their lungs out just beyond 
the pasture fence. They are a wall 
of sound, a wave of mud dwellers 
all spit and polish in a lovestruck serenade
around the neighbour’s pond. 
Pacific Chorus of a thousand perfect pitch
and all for some lithe gal the next field over,
an unsuspecting young thing in a hot chase 
of the more and less suited. She’s empty bellied
and he’s thinking she’s a dish 
best served soon, riparian delight.

She waits at a meadow edge, held by voices 
vying for her and her sisters. All she needs
is a moments peace, hush 
in the dark, to consider if a mass of eggs 
between her legs 
is what she really longs for - with the moon ball 
suspending time, a woodland 
of knowing eyes, skunk cabbage 
unfolding herself, and the pond abuzz 
with fairy moth, mayfly, and water strider.

His green question lingers like eighth notes 
on the stave of her skin,


the repetitious nature of hunger.

and so it goes

by lesley-anne evans

A resident must ensure that no air conditioning units, laundry, flags, clothing, bedding
or other articles are hung or displayed from windows, balconies or other parts
of the building so that they are visible from outside of the building.

Let’s imagine she hauls the basket up the iron steps around back 
and hangs the socks, toe first. Next the shirts, always upside down, 
measuring out the pegs and their double duty, one shirt holding
hands with the next, grasping the next. This pattern 
of one of these things is just like the other, over and over 
along parallel lines, swung over the garden 
where strawberries promise jam in matching jars 
when she gets to it later. Pillowcase and towel flags 
celebrate morning and the sun bleached fresh they’ll share come dark.

“Works and Services” includes highways, sidewalks, boulevards, boulevard
crossings, transit bays, street lighting, wiring, water distribution systems,
fire hydrant systems, sewage collection and disposal systems, drainage collection
and disposal systems and such other infrastructure or systems as may be provided
within the City from time to time.

Let’s say we’re with him in the drive shed tinkering, oil under his nails 
and it won’t wash out. He’s staked the tomatoes, harvest is heavy 
this year. His brother’s coming to take steers from their mothers 
and move them up the east field, their wet noses meet him at the fence 
each morning he puts down alfalfa. They question his intent,
but no use working himself up when the south gate needs mending
and cherries are due for spray. Each day has work enough of its own. 

The Noise Control Bylaw regulates or prohibits the making of
objectionable noise within the City of Kelowna that may disturb the quiet or
enjoyment of other individuals. Objectionable noises include playing radios
and stereos at high volume, or keeping animals or birds which by their noise
unduly disturbs the surrounding neighbourhood.

Let’s picture Sunday afternoon and they’re all there, blankets 
spread on the grass, boy cousins playing stick ball, girls all whispers 
and giggles. He looks at her sitting across from him, remembers
how she planted whips in the fields alongside the men. How her mouth 
is a rose opening, her legs summer gold and capable of carrying them 
well through winter. He bites into his pie, Macintosh, cinnamon,
pastry flakes on his tongue, the flavour of what the land gives
and what it withholds. She leans over, her finger to his mouth 
returns to hers. A taste of him and the pie, that sweetness 
taken in, as she will welcome his body 
in, their harvest in a small house 
by the side of a gravel road.

“Parcel” means any lot, block, or other area in which land is held or into
which land is subdivided, but does not include a Highway.
“Subdivide" or "Subdivision" means:
(a) the division of land into two or more Parcels whether by plan, apt
descriptive words, 
or otherwise;
(b) the consolidation of Parcels into one Parcel by plan; or
(c) the creation of a Highway or a portion of a Highway by plan.

We’ll end it here, say nothing of yellow excavators, fallow fields, 
a sign crudely taped to their white front door. We’ll downplay entirely 
asbestos removals and shattered foundations. We certainly won’t mention 
the grandson’s salvage operation, his pickup and flat bed trailer 
with the old drive shed loaded high, a land barge 
floating long down the lane way, dust clouds in waves,
the field of ripening alfalfa. 

Portions of text taken from the City of Kelowna Civic Bylaws, “intended
to keep Kelowna clean, healthy and safe. City Council enacts bylaws that are
created, interpreted and administered by a number of City divisions and departments.
Bylaw Services promotes, facilitates and enforces general compliance with bylaws
that pertain to the health, safety and welfare of the community.” 


by lesley-anne evans

To walk a vineyard’s long line,
the thrumming rhyme
of post and wire, post and wire,
post and wire. Gnarled stumps
of last year’s growth pruned back hard
to four thin arms, how
everything waits
from the ground up.
Rivers of stone hand gathered
and laid down row by row by row
to warm the waking roots,
this pause, this expectancy,
this too is a prayer.

statement of place: lesley-anne evans

My history with dirt begins as a small child on my grandfather’s two acres, walking barefoot into his vegetable garden I pick a beefsteak tomato big as my hand, and bite down. Juice oozes down my chin and that taste, sun warmed sweetness mixed with earthy undertones, is a marker for how I long for the land and find what feeds me.

I am Belfast, N. Ireland born, with rebel, mystic, and stubborn mule hard wired. My early career as a Landscape Architect in Toronto, Ontario, melds a childhood fluent in Latin plant names, an artistic and no fear of dirt under the nails sensibility, with environmental stewardship. After several years of consulting life I retire West in search of a simpler way. As my creative expressions morph from landscapes to motherhood to words, themes of environment, humanity, and earthy spirituality emerge.

Kelowna, British Columbia, is my home of 22 years, coming full circle from the 1940’s when my grandfather spliced apple whips in Grimsby, Ontario, then shipped them to the Okanagan Valley. The agriculturally rich and vital Okanagan landscape is my contentment and inspiration. Although wilderness is here, I borrow wild views and stay on tamed edges where I lose myself in thought without danger of being eaten. Spaces that feed my creative spirit are Okanagan Lake beaches in off season, cut alfalfa fields, apple orchards, cemeteries, greenways, and South East Kelowna rural roads. I find my place here and learn to flourish.

My wildly creative Landscape Architect/land developer spouse challenges me to see how great project design can sometimes warrant uprooting orchards and leveling farmsteads. It’s not easy for me to accept this. I often write poetry as record and witness to what was. I imagine a way of life where we sustain ourselves yet save vernacular and wild beauty, all the while knowing I live a contradiction of railing against what puts bread on my table. This too feeds my creative process.

icebergs near twillingate

by edward harkness

From this bluff on the coast of Newfoundland,
hulks appear like a ghostly armada.
Near one, a sight-seeing ship vanishes
as it passes behind a steepled mass—
a sudden lesson in size, scale, distance
and the shape of things to come.
Bergs, I learn, wander a mile a week,
bearing cargoes of blue light.
Notre Dames of ice, their buttresses crack,
spires break, topple, un-architected
by the warming Atlantic.
I picture myself on a pier
when one of the bergs arrives,
awash, smaller than a dinghy, enroute
to nothingness, a glass gargoyle, last one
of its kind, bobbing next to a piling.


by edward harkness

I’ve spent entire days lost in the warehouses
of dust, searching the archives, imagining my ancestors
boarding ships for America, leaving the coal mines
of Cornwall, only to end in Wright County, Iowa,
in an untended graveyard wedged between a corn field
and the Union Pacific line, their stones toppled,
their names scrubbed by a hundred fifty winters
to an indecipherable blur.

I leave them in their moldering beds to stroll the garden,
drawn by a rufous hummingbird needling the feeder,
his head a burst of copper in the angled morning light.
I love how he bobs among the squash blossoms,
barging into one yellow mansion, then another,
insatiable, as I am, at times, impatient to say
the unsayable, wondering what difference it makes
to the purple finches bickering in the laurel hedge.

I go out again at dusk. He’s still there, levitating,
hovering among the beans, seeking a droplet
from each white beaker. Then he’s gone,
leaving me with my ancestors and their beards,
bonnets and gold time pieces. Farms failed.
Over in Illinois, the Averys upped stakes,
arriving by train at Puget Sound, dumbstruck by the girth
of doug firs and hemlocks bejeweled by April rain.

William, Josie and the new baby, Birdy, trundled toward
a logging camp near Bremerton, bouncing in a wagon
to the end of a mud-gummed road. Might they not have
passed thickets of wild rose? Might they not have seen
those same flashes of copper, startled by the furious
whir of hundreds of rufous hummers, themselves
migrants from Mexico? I want to think so.
I want to think Josie, exhausted from the journey,

said to her baby, Look, sweetheart, at all the wildflowers,
as their buckboard came within hearing
of the rasp of whipsaws, the scream of a steam whistle
and the crash of a felled cedar in this, their new home.

something has been reading the fireroots

by brenda hillman

aw aw: crows’ eyebrows… 
The termites have hastily married—soon  
they’ll drop veined wings—  till their vows 
                          are outside!  In the woods,
a shaman moment… tries a cure:
pleiades of sun,   a thrush  [Catharus guttatus] 
     brings spots to you, a seedful anarchist—

              The magicks are merging.
 Lambs swell in the bellies of the ewes;
the great dead approach,
       famished for winter berries…
     What is the enigma 
you carry halfway to equinox, 
your soul feeling his own princely skin
               in the back seat?

Origins of expression— in the caves, 
the fury of nations, 
the handmade stars of lovers’ cries,
     the abstract stroke—; stop telling us 
        what to do, Indo-European languages!
everything has been eating the fireroots, 
    its fluffy hatchlings scratch along— 
it says to itself:
we are on loan from a seamless realm
   —in the pledge, dot-dot,
   —in the syllable of the clause 
              (You’re just making that up)
Am not. 	(Are too.)
Am not.


“Something Has Been Reading the Fireroots” was first published in Seasonal Works With Letters on Fire, Wesleyan University Press, 2013

practical water

by brenda hillman

What does it mean to live a moral life

It is nearly impossible to think about this

We went down to the creek
The sides were filled 
    with tiny watery activities

The mind was split & mended
Each perception divided into more

& there were in the hearts of the water molecules
    little branches perpendicular to thought

Had lobbied the Congress but it was dead
Had written to the Committee on Understanding
Had written to the middle  
    middle of the middle
    class but it was drinking
Had voted in cafes with shoplifters &
    beekeepers stirring tea made of water
    hitched to the green arc

An ethics occurs at the edge 
of what we know

The creek goes underground about here
The spirits offer us a world of origins    
Owl takes its call from the drawer of the sky

Unusually warm global warming day out

A tiny droplet shines 
    on a leaf & there your creek is found
It has borrowed something to
    link itself to others

We carry ourselves through the days in code
DNA like Raskolnikov’s staircase neither
    good nor bad in itself

Lower frequencies are the mind
What happened to the creek 
    is what happened
    to the sentence in the twentieth century 
It got social underground

You should make yourself uncomfortable 
If not you who

Thrush comes out from the cottony 
   coyote bush glink-a-glink 
           chunk  drink 
   turns a golden eyebrow to the ground

We run past the plant that smells like taco sauce

Recite words for water 
    weeter wader weetar vatn
    watn voda 
[insert all languages here]

Poor Rimbaud didn’t know how to live 
    but knew how to act
Red-legged frog in the pond sounds like him

Uncomfortable & say a spell: 
blossom knit & heel affix
fiddle fern in the neck of the sun

It’s hard to be water
    to fall from faucets with fangs
    to lie under trawlers as horizons 
    but you must

Your species can’t say it
You have to do spells & tag them
Uncomfortable & act like you mean it
Go to the world
Where is it
Go there


“Practical Water” was previously published in Practical Water (Wesleyan University Press, 2009)


by robert wrigley

— for Paul

The only words that exist here
are mine. Well, mine and Paul’s,
who carved his name and a date
twelve years ago in this log
by the fire ring. Let me revise:
the only words that are spoken here
are mine, though they are infrequent.

Unless I am mistaken, all I’ve said
aloud today is “Good morning”
to a cedar waxwing, and “Thank you”
to the wind, for blowing the horde
of mosquitoes away for a while.
Also “Shit,” when I dropped my spoon
in the dirt at breakfast this morning.

At the top of the peak I walked up
earlier, I said “Yes,” peculiarly affirming
the sweat and rigor of the walk. Also the view.
On the way down, entering the trees again,
I saw a bear’s excavation at the base
of a slope of scree and started singing,
for some reason, “When I’m Sixty-Four.”

Because I love places without people,
some people conclude I do not love them.
That I prefer the company of trees.
But by tomorrow, the third day of near wordlessness,
I will be a garrulous fool, addressing the lake
and greeting a single small, white cloud
like an old and very dear friend passing through.

That night I’ll speak my praise to the fire
and say a few poems by heart to the dark.
Then, as the flames begin to settle to coals,
I’ll speak to Paul himself, almost as though
he were here with me, and promise him,
though I disapprove of what he has done,
that I’ll get his name, at least, into a poem.

written in a journal, while sitting on a rock, in the frank church river of no return, august, 2008

by robert wrigley

Very early gray-lit morning. I’m shivering
in my boxers, barefoot in sparse high country grass,
pissing, when I see on the lake’s opposite shore,
a solitary wolf, making its way wherever it is
it’s going, half an hour or so before sunrise.
It may be that it senses my shivering before it sees me,
or hears the spatter of my piss, but now there is no doubt
I am something it would rather not see nor especially be seen by.
It picks up its pace and moves back into the trees.
It stops now and then to be sure I haven’t moved,
then at last breaks into an actual run, and disappears
among boulders along an ancient glacier’s terminal moraine.
I do not ordinarily rise so early to relieve myself,
but through the tent flap I could see mist rising
from the cold surface of the lake, still
and dimpled everywhere by feeding trout.
They were feeding, and still are, on mosquitoes,
which are now everywhere on me and likewise feeding,
but I’m still standing here, shivering, knowing
when the sun comes out it will awaken the wind,
and the wind will ruck the surface of the water
to a thousand tiny, soundless waves, and knowing also
that if I stay where I am, motionless, I might yet see
the wolf again, though I do not, and at last
I do a kind of spasmodic dance to shake away
the mosquitoes, and head back to my tent,
when I note, along the way, the massive canine tracks
of a wolf all around the fire ring, all across
the worn campsite ground to within no more
than a foot from the head of my tent
and around the tents of my still-sleeping compatriots too,
which I will point out to them when they awaken,
after I’ve put on my clothes and built the morning fire,
after I’ve lowered the food bags from the tree limb
we hoisted them to last night, and brewed
a pot of coffee, and sat myself on rock,
and slathered bug dope abundantly over
all my exposed flesh, as I wait for the sun to rise,
for the wind to roughen the surface of the lake,
for them to join me here, where I will point out the tracks
and tell them, in great detail, what it is I have seen.

statement of place: robert wrigley

I have lived most of my adult life in Idaho, and I spend as much time as I can out in the woods and the river canyons. The immensity of Idaho’s wild lands is why I continue to live here. My wife (the writer Kim Barnes) and I spend, on average, a month of nights each summer, camped on one or another of Idaho’s rivers, fly fishing. I love fishing because it’s the only thing I’ve found that’s nearly as difficult, and rewarding, as writing. Since I’m a ways into my sixties, I don’t backpack as often as I used to, but I still get myself into the wilderness for at least one trip each summer. I have heard and twice even seen wolves out there, for which I feel blessed.

country mice

by amber dawn

crickets, monarchs, paints and sparrows
frenchman river, sweet grass sky holds still
out here everything stops
for the wind

— “everything holds still for the wind,” Leah Horlick

We find each other
in the cosmopolitan squint, polished
concrete, smoked chrome rooms.
She’s hard to peg at first
lace dress chic, prosecco cocktail
starry in her hand. She’s been
chin-upped by the west. Tested
by an incomprehensible horizon
and passed, but for her pose and bend.
For the wind

that sweeps the wide-open
motherland has left her
with a slant stance, sideways
as corn bowed to a storm.
I too am made
from orchard and axe, crop
and scythe, harvest born
humble earth miles and years
behind me. It’s all rock
out here. Everything stops

making sense in the seam
of mountains and million
dollar condos, high-rise residential
more density, more gravel, more glass, more.
Where I come from elevators
are for nursing homes or sawmills.
She sees the soiled knees of my jeans
knows I kneel to a once-was prayer
late waterways, bygone wells
forgotten river. Sweet grass sky holds still

during these vigils, holds space
for choked swamp, cedar stump
tributaries split from the ocean
Vancouver’s bloodstone—step forward.
My home is a backwards stamp, like hers.
parched-lawn green, forever level.
Now we find each other turned by urban obstacles.
The far-removed markers we share and seek
chokecherries, ink caps, chorus frogs, golden yarrow
crickets, monarchs, paints and sparrows


“Country Mice” was previously published in Where the Words End and My Body Begins (Arsenal Pulp Press, Spring 2015)

coyotes on the edge of town

by sean arthur joyce

— New Denver, BC, March, 2014

Crisp March night
under half-moon sky.
Coyotes on the edge of town
throating the song of the forest—
fluted, wild as an icy crag,
flawless ease
of ancient lore,
all the dogs silent.

What shivers
is the sub-zero night.
Moon-carved shoulder
of Goat Mountain
an eerie resonator.
Cobalt blue of winter sky
brilliant—stark against fir
steeped in black.
One thing is sure
amongst so much doubt—
a voice
calling out mastery
from the dark

roots dancing

by susan mccaslin

You could say roots
             squidged as they are
between dark heaps of soil
             shivering and soaked
don’t dance
                          but you’d be wrong

for in that dry, wet
                          wondering dark
they curiously minuet
                          drawing near                and apart
wiggle-stepping             spreading
                                       corkscrewing    around stones

weaving lateral-vertical designs
delving, snaking
                                                                                                          spiraling wide
clasping and unclasping 
                                                    in the dark ground

Roots are chords
                                                     (cords)             fluent thrummings
drawing water
                                                    from dance’s core

while trees                                 their lanky siblings
                                                                                             thrust themselves skyward

Yes, you’d be wrong
                                                    about roots 
                                                                               not dancing
simply sitting shivering                                                                 and soaked
                                                    between dark clods of soil
hunching together


exhibit: in the woods, outside duncan, british columbia

by renée sarojini saklikar

That a bomb is made. That is known.
That the bomb is set off, that is known, in the woods, outside Duncan, cousin-town
                        to the village Paldi.


Of all the locations in Empire, real and imagined, past and present,
                        It is here: June 1985, 
there are no straight lines— 

if there is a man, he is making detonation—
                        Time loads up incident.
                        In recounting there is implication. 
                        Describe all particulars.

                        Piney scented,
                                    the woods.                    Where is
the past 
                                    also present

we never speak of it


“Exhibit: in the woods, outside Duncan, British Columbia” was previously published in children of air india, un/authorized exhibits and interjections, (Nightwood Editions, 2013)

the poet visits

by eugenia hepworth petty

Itinerant in the Northwest each summer
he plays  sevillanas on the porch
and argues about the use of language 
to describe the rap-poets' hubris

He lives twenty feet above the San Lorenzo
high in the watershed	
where the water runs narrow and shallow
between the banks

At night, roosters, doves and guinea pigs 
sleep in cages in the safety of the house
            the ferret passed away in the spring
miniature horses entertain the children 
of Indian families in Sunnyvale 
on  Ratha Yatra and Diwali 

He recalls the story of when he was 86'd 
from the artist complex in Santa Cruz
"I wasn't being belligerent
 I was being a poet," he says
pacing back and forth

statement of place: eugenia hepworth petty

I have only lived in central Washington for the past few years yet have felt an affinity with the landscape that surprised me, though in truth it makes perfect sense. As a child, I spent many winter and summer holidays in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado and on the plains of southern Kansas, and these landscapes never left me, particularly my love of flowing mountain streams and the changing of the seasons. I was born in Texas, but spent most of my life living near the Pacific Ocean on the central coast of California, between Santa Cruz and the East Bay. I earned a bachelor of arts in English from Mills College in Oakland, and a master of arts in Poetics from New College of California in San Francisco before serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer in a rural village in Western Ukraine. My experiences in Eastern Europe, in landscapes more akin to central Washington than the California coast, inform much of my art today, so to be back among snow, sunflowers, and koza feels like a homecoming to me. I am cherishing the fields and hills of my new home: mist rising off marshland in autumn; herons watching from cattails and iris; raptors sitting atop craggy trees like sentries guarding a mystical underworld. I still have much to explore in Cascadia and the Pacific Northwest but am grateful to be in, as David McCloskey stated, “a land of falling waters.”

the lost man leaves a will

by jennifer boyden

To the wind, the fullness of my mouth, juice
of my openness. To gnawing things, the osseous fists
of my bones’ rebinding. I want the earth
to accept my head. I have wanted to be held
by something my entire life, something that demands
all of me to answer back with holding.

To my gone children, all I cannot say without
my tongue. I call you in silence. You answer
in kind, and are counted. To birds, a nest of hair
and threads for the wobble-necked and pink-bodied.

I give the trust of grass to bear and raccoon,
to the crepuscular world who pauses before taking,
whose staring eyes give back the light of cars
as if to fix the breakage of air
before the great coming down upon them.
I have been broken. I
have been broken.

My walk from one place to this did not leave
a trail: I walked my route only once, and once-
forward is not enough to be remembered by grass.
My path is where I column into my own shape.
I give space to air with my leaving.
I give space to flying with my leaving.

I ask for nothing in return. I have received more
than I asked for, and worse: the world afloat; answers
at once and for nearly everything; animal bellies
untethered and dragging.

To the leaf, serration of my teeth.
To water, ice of my witnessing. It will need it.
To deer, asking and then emptiness before slaughter.
The grass should take my memory. But to the trails worn
by the escaping many, the mud of unknowing.

Here is what I know for now: worms,
I have loved you rightly
since I learned that dirt holds secrets blind and dependent
on whatever mercies we are willing to gift. I gave you names.
I counted your rings, measured your body-yawns

toward darkness. Worms, you are better than stars
because you are here.

Do you remember
how my mother stitched her people’s names
to my cuffs and then disappeared? The birds left
before the people did, but you, you worms, you stayed.

To the worms, my thanks. I ask you to make me rich
within yourselves: you stayed. While the earth
was fleeing itself, I named you, and you answered
to the place of my naming, and remain.

“The Lost Man Leaves a Will” was first published in The Declarable Future, © 2013, by the Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System. Reprinted by permission of The University of Wisconsin Press.

statement of place: jennifer boyden

I used to climb a pine tree just to have a quiet place to read, and I looked forward to the Minnesota winters because the snow makes the world so intimately silent: You can hear your heart, see your breath pushed out just in front of yourself, and then walk through it into another breath. Growing up with many siblings and a small house put me on an early path of pursuing silence and privacy, those places where I can hear the rhythms of my mind and feel word shapes take form, build, connect, and become ideas. I need a fair amount of space and quiet for this to happen. Living in the inland northwest at the edge of the Blue Mountains for the past fifteen years has provided plenty of such spaces: rolling Palouse wheat fields, thick forests, scrubland, and a river with its many tributaries. Oh, the river: I grew up in water, and so it has always been a companion that shares a need for both the hidden and the surface flash. I have lived too many very different places to say with any kind of authority where I am from (Wichita, Kansas; Boston, Massachusetts; southern Oregon, China, etc . . .). But I know what I am from: Lynch Lake, Mill Creek, apple and oak and pine trees, granite and basalt, and grasses . . . . I believe I can claim the what of place more than the where, making my homes among those things where there is potential for recognition of a mutual residence within.

david on the phone

by jennifer boyden

David sober says to feed the bear
who’s eating the birdseed in our front yard.
Says we must, for him, feed it so we’ll earn a badge
under the god he’s wearing lately. God with eyes.
God who sleeps a lot when David needs him most,
and whose waking patience is thin
as the bear’s winter cells. This God of tallying
and disappearances is called upon by David most
in the time of morning vapor when it’s hardest
for David sober to believe: whole day stretched
in front of him like paint thinner, each cup a cup
which is to be used for coffee only. Feed the bear,
David says sober though alone at his end of the hour
when god might wake for him. David says
it would go well for all of us if we pour milk over bread,
honey over meat, and then carry out the bowl.
But lock the door when you’re done, David says
sober, because the source is always sweeter
than the meal. He says the bear’s salvation will be heard,
and might speak for him at the end of his need.

And with what sweetness on the tongue
will it urge the god of that single cup awake?
And with what honeyed breath will it seek
us out again, small gods terrified of the asking?


“David on the Phone” was first published in The Declarable Future, © 2013, by the Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System. Reprinted by permission of The University of Wisconsin Press.

the apt black of crow flight

by ted jean

Crow stumbles into
the open air
after a rough night
of bad rabbit
road kill
and concussive
ice storm
out of the east.

His yawp is forced,
at first, the usual
rehearsal of unrepentance,
that bends toward bliss
as he approaches the arc
of the frozen river.


“The Apt Black of Crow Flight” is from Crow Sonnets.


by ted jean

Marsha throws on her jacket,
jumps the fence where it is bent

          the december field is bare

she stalks the erstwhile rye
beside the dogwood brush and hazelnut

          pheasants startle the ditches

stubble and mud require care,
to get precisely nowhere

          our girl bestrides the only stump

field Marsha: cows astonished,
the crow crowd loud with scandal

way off, the lights of Ashland
rise on the solstice

circles she back, black, to the dark house


“Crow” is from Crow Sonnets.

pushcart prize anthology nominations

Cascadia Review is excited to announce its nominations for the 2016 Pushcart Prize Anthology. Those nominations are as follows:

  • David Biespiel, “Looking out the Window”
  • Daniel Butterworth, “Cropduster”
  • Amy Miller, “The Jockey of Model Horses”
  • Catherine Owen, “You Make Me Ache River with Your—Let Me Say It”
  • Annette Spaulding-Convy, “In a Shack on Mud Lake”
  • Ingrid Wendt, “In Lieu of a Christmas Letter”

Congratulations to all the nominees. Please take a moment to click on the links above and read their fine work.

hwy 38 along the umpqua near rainrock

by ted jean

High crow and low crow
ply the light above the river,
rising and falling against the neon backdrop alder.

One seems the shadow of the other,
disjunct in their dithering
as a fish with its refraction on a riffled pond.

Are they husband and wife crow?
Where do they go?
Some farcical mission, doubtless,
as they are, after all, crows.

We are driving upriver the opposite way,
Amy staring off into the spruce shadow
and sunlight strobe, possibly deep in thought.
Or not. We will never know.


“Hwy 38 Along the Umpqua Near Rainrock” is from Crow Sonnets.

statement of place: ted jean

Even natives complain of the Oregon rain. Not me. The low gray sky, the sifting drizzle. I get a sense of enclosure, calm, quiet. Along a November trail, the brushy bank of dripping hazelnut and thimbleberry thrums with drowsy satisfaction. The streets of downtown Portland reflect puddled light from welcoming shops. Frogs sing in the weeds with all their little green hearts. Golf course coyote regards me urbanely over her dewy shoulder. Beyond her, the firs recede into a pewter mist. Raised in the hot, dry sun of Northern California, I have converted to a better, wet religion.

a cockeyed optimism

by judith skillman

I’ve risen like the day moon
into a sky entirely azure. I’m a venture,
the angels will invest in me.

Little by little I trained myself
on  wine—now I can put away
half a bottle. I’ll fill the gaps
in all your conversations. Nothing
stagnant will grow, no rest marks,
no space between notes of this allegro.

I’ve no room for any silence
except the one I make when I pick up
my needles to knit—when
from the circular needles 
Joseph’s coat grows in cabled stitches
you’ll wear when winter freezes
the machines idling now between
chops at gratuitous trees, those 
that keep sun from infecting rooftops.

I’ve risen like Jesus from the dead
and no one can hold me down,
not the stone, nor the women who’d nag
a Roman soldier till he caved. 

                                    I’ll limp
along beside you, lenticular as a cloud,
undeniable as a mountain, and you
won’t know what hit you—whether
it happened in Prague or Paris,
Venice or Rome, only that love’s
an old woman with a tear in her eye
from laughing, and death’s a cliché
holding its sides, ribs broken, the whole
carapace crumbling like the Parthenon
when time was at its best

and still had a chance to affect 
what I built sidewise in order for you
to learn to lean—but nobly, akin to the tower 
of Pisa, into your own shadows.

sea smoke

by judith skillman

As far as winter
stretches, I am alone
on this cliff
staring down at what
could be fog or steam or mist.

The whisper of reeds recalls
a wound I barely remember,
a figure who could be . . .

As far as we are apart,
as old as that
and more, our differences,
the complaint you mustered
upon finding heat coalesced
into a lump.

The body, cremated, can be compressed
to diamonds. Stroke of gray
on a gull, prescience,
hull of the boat that might have saved Icarus
when he came of age . . .

As far as the dead are concerned,
the sun is smoke
the moon milk,
stars salt. With seared eyes
the dead see the living,
hunched figures
who find by dreaming
what it is they are looking for.

A glimpse of cloth,
bone of hanger left between a coat
torn from its closet
and the marred dowel
from which hung
garment bags. Mothballs
of ancient Styrofoam,
the insects have eaten
through silk, cashmere, linen,
and more.

Hat that should have been worn
in minus centigrade—
the dead see
our flesh in tatters
and the foreshortened days,


“Sea Smoke” was first published in Heat Lightning New and Selected Poems 1986–2006, reprinted by permission of Silverfish Review Press.

statement of place: allison linville

I spent my entire childhood in Idaho traipsing through the Sawtooth Mountains and the Bruneau Desert with my family. My family also spent summers commercial fishing in Alaska, which meant my sister and I were allowed to explore with more freedom than we would at home. Sometimes we would find ourselves a few miles away from our island camp, narrowly escaping the rising tide.

After graduating from Boise State University, I moved to Montana and began working in the Bob Marshall Wilderness. From my childhood, I felt very connected to the landscape around me. After spending time at a remote fire lookout where my only companions were the landscape and the sky, I now feel connected to the land as though it is my closest friend. In times when I was hiking alone in the wilderness, or almost walked off a cliff in the fog, or saw a grizzly bear a little too close, I was not afraid of the land around me; I trusted it to take care of me, or at least know my place in it, large or small, safe or not.

statement of place: amy miller

I did a lot of traveling in my thirties, when I was making good money and had good cat sitters. And I discovered an interesting thing: I loved pretty much every place I visited. I could see myself living almost anywhere—southern Indiana, the Ozarks, Berlin, Christchurch, Nairobi, Austin.

So I guess it’s no surprise that I love the Northwest, my home for the past ten years. I am gaga over the San Juan Islands, McKenzie Pass feels like my own personal lava bed, and I dream about Warm Springs’ strange rockpile fenceposts and the frogs singing in La Conner. I am from a family of transplants, itinerate ranch hands and train conductors and builders whose only constant was constant moving. Having grown up on two coasts and the Rockies, I always struggle with the concept of “home.” But I know what it is to love a place.

This time of year, Ashland, Oregon, makes its quick-change from summer to winter, the dry Cascade foothills to the north readying for snow and the steep, green Siskiyous to the south pulling what rain they can get into their deep carpet. And Ashland always in between, sun-snow-sun-snow-sun.

driftwood blanched

by allison linville

Bristle tea and rosehip teacups.  
                           Visions include walking among stalks of vegetables.  
                                                     Stalks that grow down, stalks that grow up.  

                                        Growing lemonade, are you?  

Today, thimbleberries widen 
              in the cracks of tables, 
                           the cracks of watered down wood.  

Eating gardens of gardens of gardens and your mother never called you back.  

                                        Set your latest whipping almonds aside 
                                        for future garnishes; 
                                        you have so many beads 
                                        already, darling.  

              You never want 
                           your celeries to be lavish or cold.  
                                                     Running on apricots.  

Would you ever have thought our letters 
              would spontaneously grow themselves?  

              Hurry over now, you say, 
              you don’t want to be reading to yourself.   

Someday, you will have a child of thorns, you hear.

twenty seven

by allison linville

Driving from the big sky to the desert 
                                        sky is impossibly grand for this life.  

I have never thought that everything starts 
             when people say it does.  

It starts now 
it seems 
ends soon 
I can feel it, and 
I will go ahead and 
restart it after that.  

There was snow and in the kitchen, we could talk. 

Tomato soup.  
The art of nice; 
             the brevity of low.  

In April, the desert welcomed 
                           us with its warm, 
                                         dry nights and we heated 
                                         and walked and learned the 
                                                                                value of sunrise.  

Sunrises away, sunrises over lakes.  

I never knew it would be so heavy 
                           to run.  

And despite your unending effort, 
             we still moved south 

                           and it hurts, and it hurts.


by allison linville

I am unwittingly cold 
                                        every night you have a hold on the doorknob. 
             Lamps offer light 
from propane, 
wood convects to add warmth. 
                                        I cannot explain to you the morning,
                                                     in the morning.  
             Where emptiness of air 
                                        is the only thing that could fill you up.  

Required distance 
             descendent of thunder 
                           wearing bolts of fabric. 

I do not record that which I love.  

Rain splatters down the fry pan 
                           you exhale abruptly at the sparks.  

Flowers puff into fire; 	
              a new way to fold paper. 
                           Static blows through treetops.  

We are so accompanied by our worries.  	
                                                                  Wooden spoons hit bottom.   
                           So that your fingernail might cover the place you wish to be.


by allison linville

Frigid pots, 
lonely itches 
under rugs and 
end tables tipping 
sadly over.  

Long before 
              you went home, 
                           waiting for things to get longer but 
                                                     you really couldn’t wait.  

Not for buses or ripening 
              lemons on the tiny tree or the sun 
                           to rise earlier or the hay to dry 
                                        or the empty box car to stop right in front of where you stood.  

                                        You know the smell when you open it?  Let that slide.  

All the juice, all the juice, all the juice.  
                                                                  This is clementine.  

Slowly glide toward citrus fruits from earlier years, 
              joining up!  

Left behind a steaming
              jade plant, followed by 
                                        the ocean’s best seaweed and 
                                                                  the old insulation puffing out.  

                                                                  Creased buttercream.
You say:  pies are only made in the daylight, 
              when your eyes are roughed up and your floor 
                                        walks in front of you.  
                                        So much to tell, to tell, to tell.

postcards to cascadia: eileen walsh duncan

Duncan Postcard One Back 3


There Be Fiends: Dear Mom, / You gave me your truth, warnings / that skitter out of my satchel, / zing my spine. / If I’d known anything, / I would have asked for tools, / and ditched the dress, the lipstick, / all edible markings. / Tools I collected out here: / When cornered, / do not meet their gaze, they / thirst for your retina’s quiver. / Watch the shoulders, they / presage the strike. / To be invisible, / synchronize / each intake of breath. — Eileen Walsh Duncan

View postcard image: The Wizard of Oz

postcards to cascadia: m.r. smith

Smith Postcard One Back 2

From Lewiston: Whatever room still held / in the heart is filled / by all that remains frontier. / The rocky breaks in the hills / frame the shoulders and hips / of recumbent plainsmen, arrayed / under coarse blankets of endless / grain draping dull ground in full. / The Clearwater drains innocent blood / to later pool in the Pacific under a night sky / taut as a banner pierced by bullets. — M.R. Smith

View postcard image: Cowgirls at the Triangle Ranch Rodeo (Doubleday)

best of the net 2014 nominations

Cascadia Review is excited to announce its nominations for the 2014 Best of the Net anthology. Those nominations are as follows:

  • Polly Buckingham, “Driving Home”
  • Chris Dahl, “Elegy in Shadow and Light”
  • Kathleen Flenniken, “Lilacs”
  • Michael Hanner, “All My Sadness This Road”
  • Alan Hill, “The Three Ships”
  • Beth Myhr, “June Bracken Waist High Under Birch”

Please join us in congratulating each of our nominees. Over the next few days, we will share links to the nominated poems so our readers can revisit these fine poems.

issue six (spring season) contributor index

Faith Allington
Allington is a Washington resident originally from California. Her poems have appeared in Aroostook Review, Pontoon, DMQ Review, King County Poetry on Buses, and Floating Bridge Review. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Judith Barrington
Barrington has published three poetry collections, most recently Horses and the Human Soul and two chapbooks, Postcard from the Bottom of the Sea and Lost Lands (winner of the Robin Becker Chapbook Award). She was the winner of the 2012 Gregory O’Donoghue Poetry Prize (Cork International Poetry Festival). Her memoir, Lifesaving, won the Lambda Book Award and was a finalist for the PEN/Martha Albrand Award. She has been on the faculty of the master of fine arts program at the University of Alaska and teaches classes and workshops in the Unites States; England; and Almàssera, Valencia, Spain. (Work | Statement of Place | Website | Map)

Daniel Butterworth
Butterworth’s poems have appeared in magazines such as Cream City Review, The Wisconsin Review, The Louisville Review, The Portland Review, The Alaska Quarterly Review, The Santa Clara Review, The Midwest Quarterly Review, The Windless Orchard, Plainsongs, Flyway, Amoskeag, The Rockhurst Review, Poet Lore, The Seattle Review, Willow Springs, and other journals. Algonquin Books published his nonfiction book, Waiting for Rain, and Lost Horse Press published his poetry book, The Radium Watch Dial Painters, which was a finalist for the Washington State Book Awards. He teaches writing and literature at Gonzaga University. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Susan J. Falk
Falk has a wide reputation with work in public and private collections. She is inspired by the surroundings of the natural ponds and forests of her ten-acre studio South Langley location, which is of course home to her many pets, including her horses. Falk’s works have gained kudos from reviewers and commentators for her gallery exhibitions. She was recently recognized as the winner of the 2013 Langley Environmental Hero Award in the individual category for keeping local residents and others aware of the need to protect McLellan Forest East, Langley’s old growth forest in Glen Valley. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Ann Batchelor Hursey
Hursey’s work has appeared in Seattle Review, Crab Creek Review, Chrysanthemum, and Pontoon, among others. Her poem “Wetland,” published as part of the Poetry and Art on the Busses Project (Seattle, Washington), is the official Shel Sheb Estuary poem. She has been awarded writing residencies at Hypatia-in-the-Woods (Shelton, Washington) and Soapstone: A Writing Retreat for Women (Oregon). Born and raised in Ohio, she now calls Washington State home. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Tricia Knoll
Knoll lives in Portland, Oregon, where she writes both haiku and poetry. Recent publications include Windfall: A Journal of Poetry of Place, About Place Journal, and many other journals. This is her first publication in Cascadia Review. In May 2014, Finishing Line Press releases her first chapbook, Urban Wild, poetry about the intersection of wild creatures and theoretically tame beings in an urban environment. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Lauren Lockhart
Originally from Colorado, Lockhart has spent the last three years between her home there and the West Coast. Now settled in Seattle, Washington, to study community acupuncture and herbal medicine, she hopes to cultivate a strong presence in the music and poetry communities there. Her writing has appeared in several publications, including Minerva Rising and Canary (a Hip Pocket Press production). She also self-publishes her work on a continuous basis, contributes weekly to the online magazine Apple Snacks, and is producing an experimental collaborative art and literature zine, The Year of the Plum. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Elizabeth McLagan
McLagan’s poems have been published in many journals, such as Poetry Northwest, 32 Poems, Beloit Poetry Journal, American Literary Review, Fine Madness, Grove Review, Hunger Mountain, SLAB, Iron Horse Literary Review, Southeast Review, Third Coast, Willow Springs, Zone 3, and on the website Verse Daily. The autumn 2009 issue of The Bitter Oleander featured her poems and an interview. “Some Life” was selected for the 2001 AWP Intro Awards. “A Feather Falls from the Wing of Light” won the 2006 Frances Locke Memorial Award from The Bitter Oleander Press. “All Alien Spirits Rest the Spirit” won the Bellingham Review’s 49th Parallel Award for 2009. Her collection of poems, In The White Room, is just out from CW Books. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Paulann Petersen
Petersen, Oregon’s sixth Poet Laureate, has six full-length books of poetry, most recently Understory, from Lost Horse Press in 2013. Her poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Poetry, The New Republic, Prairie Schooner, Willow Springs, Calyx, and the Internet’s Poetry Daily. She was a Stegner Fellow at Stanford University, and the recipient of the 2006 Holbrook Award from Oregon Literary Arts. She serves on the board of Friends of William Stafford, organizing the January Stafford Birthday Events. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Frank Rossini
Rossini grew up in New York City and moved to Eugene, Oregon, in 1972. He taught at the University of Oregon and Lane Community College until retiring in 2010. His poems have appeared in various journals, including Mas Tequila Review, Seattle Review, and Wisconsin Review. His chapbook, sparking the rain, was published by Silverfish Review Press. sight/for /sight books published a collection of his poems, midnight the blues, in 2013. (Work | Statement of Place | Website | Map)

Annette Spaulding-Convy
Spaulding-Convy’s full length collection, In Broken Latin, is published by the University of Arkansas Press as a finalist for the Miller Williams Poetry Prize. Her chapbook, In The Convent We Become Clouds, won the 2006 Floating Bridge Press Chapbook Award and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, North American Review, and in the International Feminist Journal of Politics, among others. She is co-editor of the literary journal Crab Creek Review, and is co-founder of Two Sylvias Press, which has published the first eBook anthology of contemporary women’s poetry, Fire on Her Tongue. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Scott T. Starbuck
Scott T. Starbuck was a 2013 Artsmith Fellow on Orcas Island who feels destruction of Earth’s ecosystems is closely related to spiritual illness and widespread urban destruction of human consciousness. A former charter captain and commercial fisherman turned creative writing professor, his newest book The Other History, published by FutureCycle, is at, and will be reviewed in the June 2014 issue of Amsterdam Quarterly. He has eco-poetry blog posts at South 85, Miriam’s Well: Poetry, Land Art, and Beyond, forthcoming at Alaskan writer Marybeth Holleman’s Art and Nature blog, and on his blog, Trees, Fish, and Dreams. Starbuck lives on Whidbey Island and in San Diego. (Work | Statement of Place | Website | Map)

Caitlin Elizabeth Thomson
Thomson resides in the Chuckanuts, and three deer have been known to live above her garage. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous places, including Radar, The Literary Review of Canada, The Liner, Echolocation, and the anthology Mermaids in the Basement. Her second chapbook, Incident Reports, is forthcoming in 2014 from Hyacinth Girl Press. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Pepper Trail
Trail’s poems have appeared in Windfall, Cirque, Comstock Review, Atlanta Review, Kyoto Journal, and other publications, including the recent anthology What the River Brings: Oregon River Poems. His essays appear regularly in High Country News and Jefferson Monthly, the magazine of Jefferson Public Radio. He lives in Ashland, Oregon, where he works as a biologist with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Diane Tucker
Vancouver, British Columbia, native Diane Tucker has published three poetry books (God on His Haunches, Nightwood Editions, 1996, shortlisted for the League of Canadian Poets’ 1997 Gerald Lampert Memorial Award; Bright Scarves of Hours, Palimpsest Press, 2007; and Bonsai Love, Harbour Publishing, 2014) and a young adult novel (His Sweet Favour, Thistledown Press, 2009). Her poems have appeared in numerous anthologies and in over sixty literary journals in Canada and abroad. She lives in Burnaby. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Ingrid Wendt
Wendt has recently returned from a three-month writing residency in Mexico. She is the author of five books of poems, one chapbook, and a teaching guide. Co-editor of In Her Own Image: Women Working in the Arts and the Oregon poetry anthology From Here We Speak, and the recipient of numerous awards, she performs with the Motet Singers, a women’s a cappella ensemble of 13. Her most recent book is Evensong. (Work | Statement of Place | Map

Tim Whitsel
Whitsel lives on a one hundred-year floodplain northeast of Springfield, Oregon. He is passionate about gardening, jazz, Western rivers, soccer, bicycling, and wine. He has visited these obsessions in his poems. For six years, he hosted Windfall, a monthly reading series for the Eugene Public Library and the Lane Literary Guild. We Say Ourselves, a 2012 chapbook from Traprock Books, is his first collection. His poem “Mudflat Allure” won first place at the 2013 Northwest Poets’ Concord. The elegy “On The Day You Are Dying” appeared in June 2013 in Construction, an online magazine. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

low tide

by diane tucker

low tide, and everything hidden
is now uncovered: the black weed, certainly
but also the upright fields of barnacles fighting
for space with the black mussels, these
gathered like a thousand shiny goat hooves
tied up and down the oily piles

the air is not their native habitat
in the breeze they clamp tight shut
nothing moist and pulsing
must be open to the sunlight

and we admire their defense, breathe
in sweetly their walls’ salt smell

when the tide lowers around our own
wet hearts there is no shield to slam
no doors we can clap closed around it
like the lid covers the glittering slick eyeball

no dreaming in briny bone-cells
for our washed up, low tide hearts

while the sun shines, they must lie
still in it, let their tissue-thin skin crack
and curl open, gasping in the open air

tides change
turn and return
barnacles and mussels, even the black
weed crunched in the sand, know
the tide will miss them and come back

our hearts, baking in their cracked-up
hides, lose all knowing, can breathe only
shallowly for reasons they cannot remember
trying not to lose what’s left of slippery life

“Low Tide” was first published in Bonsai Love, by Diane Tucker (Harbour Publishing, 2014, and is shared here with permission.

blue melodica

by diane tucker

The wet-felt overcast air packed
into the August afternoon is scattered,
cooled by your melodica and your voice
in old French song.

The humidity gathers itself
into raindrops and rushes to you.
It throws you all its tiny silver coins.

All the damp sweaty scurriers,
tourists and shoppers, be damned.
You are going to sing.

Thank you for your blue-boxed breath,
your thin paisley dress dripping
bohemian beside designers’ doors.

At the rushing hour of the afternoon
you pull harried ears to the curb,
bring into focus the waiting bench
and the fresh tree. Your song’s
momentum speeds us into stillness.

vancouver dry-dock

by diane tucker

The gulls’ shadows, temporary crows,
rush up the dock’s rust-stained sides,
meeting their white-as-angel selves at its lip,
all under the gaze of two yellow
tyrannosaur cranes on their bee-striped feet.

Some of the black bird-shapes are real crows
and the rest are seagulls’ shadows, wider,
their wings narrower and knife-shaped, gulls
trying to paint themselves up the vast grey
building’s side. But the image never sticks
and they fly by again: living, rising brushes.

The crows are smaller and smug in the distance,
racing up and meeting their shadow-selves
in the sky. But they can’t streak it either, great
horizontal slab a block long, metal tunnel
disgorging ships, wall of wind gathered and pressed
flat and swung up perpendicular to the water.

Into this both crows and gulls slam their shadows,
scrape them up its sides, sweep them back down
again, day after day of invisible avian ink making
time itself the paint against the wall, a streaked
and graven web of swift calligraphy.

morning meditation

by ingrid wendt

Tiny as an infant’s fist, a yellow-bellied Banana
            Quit is flitting all over this 
                        simultaneously blooming and 

fruit-bearing palm, right next to
            my rooftop terrace: first one
                        I’ve seen in the two whole blessed

months I’ve been here.  Too fast 
            for me to snap 
                        a photo, it lands 

on a frond, looks around, 
            is off again. 
                        Just like my mind.

Meanwhile the Great-Tailed Grackle lords it
            over the jungle from whatever high peak 
                        he’s found. 

            the Mockingbird pours out its whole long
                        repertoire to the deaf, rising sun.

Twelve years after her death I put it together, what
            I have known, all along, this morning remembering
                         (I saw a little birdie go hop, hop, hop)

one more song 
            my mother taught me
                        (Kommt ein Vogel geflogen)
before things got tough between us.
             (Now the sun is in the West, and the birds
                        have found their nest. 	

Twelve years.  
            “We must say our prayers,” they say,” “thank our
                        Father for this day.”)

Three songs, 
            three birds.  My mother’s lap.
                        And God.

a valentine for akumal

by ingrid wendt

Verde, que te quiero verde
— Federico García Lorca

Oh, how I love your ever-green jungle, everything blooming
Or bearing or ready to be born, sometimes all three at once
On the same delirious plants: your coconut palms, for instance,
Under ever-sashaying fronds, five or six clusters of fruits

And flowers in all stages of production, year-round. How much
I learn from them. And from your birds. I love their constant mating
Ballets. How do they keep at it all day? Every day? Waiting
For them to cease and desist would be like waiting for the sun

To eclipse the moon. Your cocoa brown doves do it
On the one bare branch in all that berry-filled tree next to my
Balcony, shamelessly. Oh, so much fertility! My eyes
Have died and gone to Heaven, and that’s not even to begin

Naming what’s in your Eden under the sea. Look, Valentine,
See? I’m blossoming, I’m bearing, even as I speak. Be mine.

statement of place: ingrid wendt

Born in Aurora, Illinois, of a father born and raised in Valparaiso, Chile (into a German-speaking household) and a mother born and raised on a fruit farm in southwest Michigan (into a German–speaking household), I moved to Eugene, Oregon, more than forty years ago, to pursue my master of fine arts, not speaking a word of German (though I do possess school-learned, conversational Spanish). I have lived here ever since. (And have, by now, acquired conversational German, as well.)

With the surname Wendt, meaning “nomad, wanderer,” I fully expected, from earliest childhood, to do what my parents had done; my destiny, like theirs, was to some day make my life somewhere else. Two of the main themes, then, that weave throughout all of my work are my search for the meaning of home and the clash between our human need for roots and our American sense of “manifest destiny,” with all of its noble as well as ugly manifestations. This theme first appears, though in its infancy, in my first book of poems, Moving the House (chosen for BOA Editions by William Stafford, 1980), its title intended to work both as an understated metaphor for our “American condition” as well as a reference to an actual event: my husband’s and my buying from MacDonald’s Hamburgers, in 1972, an old bungalow scheduled for demolition, and moving it to a vacant lot halfway across Eugene.

Another main theme in my work—the result of values instilled in my early years in the Midwest, which matured, as I matured into adulthood, in Oregon, as well as during considerable travel over the years, including brief periods of living and teaching, as a visiting writer, in other states in the American West as well as in Europe—is of the countless ways our lives here at home connect to a larger, global, infinitely fragile, human community. My next four books—Singing the Mozart Requiem (Brietenbush Books, Winner of the 1987 Oregon Book Award), The Angle of Sharpest Ascending (Word Press, winner of the 2003 Yellowglen Award), Surgeonfish (WordTech Editions, winner of the 2004 Editions Prize), and Evensong (Truman State University Press, 2011, nominated for the Pulitzer Prize)—each contain poems set in Oregon, as well as other states in the American West and/or in Europe.

There is yet one other way I have, for many years, related to the place I live and the places I have visited: as an observer of the delicate environmental balance that exists, wherever I am, and of the ways in which it is threatened.

Not all of my work of “place,” however, carries these overarching themes. As in some of the poems I submit today, I often find myself, when living or visiting places new to me, responding in a wholly subjective way to what I find there, be it glorious or despicable or something in between.

in muir woods

by susan falk

susan falk in muir woods
:: “In Muir Woods,” oil on canvas, 36″ X 18″, poetry by Christopher Levenson

Text: Strange   how we become   silent / in the presence   of tall trees   almost / as if they were   ancestors   and we / granted an audience:   in their leaves, needles,   in their cool / distances we strain   for messages,  sealed

guardian pine

by susan falk

susan falk guardian pine
:: “Guardian Pine,” oil on canvas, 36″ X 18″, poetry by Pam Galloway

Poem Excerpt: I have listened to the chatter / of souls in the snap-snap of seeds / breaking from its cones in spring. / Now, winter’s deep and silent well / has me submerged and I turn, / entreat that dark-eyed spirit / watch over me.

statement of place: susan falk

I just recently returned from a trip to Japan and, before that, France. A combination of both work and pleasure or, in the case of being the artist that I am, “pleasurable work.” I love the fact that I can work anytime, anywhere. Inspiration comes to me from my surroundings. I don’t sit and wait, though, for it to come; I prefer to chase after it with blinding faith and my box of colours.

I was born and raised in Vancouver, British Columbia, a city girl with a backyard that hosted beautiful cedar trees. I lived with those cedar trees for twenty-three years before I moved to a new life living on farms with horses and wonderful green fields that went on forever. Growing up, there were always two things that I was very sure about: my passion for art-making and horses. I knew I was very fortunate to know what I wanted to do with my life at a very young age. The voice in my head would always say “paint, just paint.” It still does.

My work has led me in many different directions over the years—from subject matter to painting techniques—always challenging, whether it be landscapes or figurative work. Collaborating with various organizations and having them involved with my art shows is always a welcome experience. Working with “WOLF: Watchers of Langley Forests” and collaborating with twelve poets for my “Written in the Forest” show achieved results that were certainly hoped for: a small group of determined people, a big idea and a box of colours.

“Written in the Forest” came to me when I joined in a call for public support through poet Susan McCaslin inviting artists, poets and musicians to help bring an awareness to save twenty-five acres of mature coniferous and deciduous old trees in Glen Valley just outside Fort Langley, British Columbia. More than two hundred poets contributed to the Han Shan Poetry Initiative to raise awareness about the forest. In December 2012, poems inspired by Han Han, an ancient Chinese poet who suspended his poems from trees, were hung in the trees in Glen Valley for several months. I was so inspired by what I experienced watching and listening to the poets that I approached Susan McCaslin and asked if she could help me select twelve poets and invite them to be part of my next art exhibition. I selected phrases from each poem to express how I felt while painting impressions of McLellan Forest East and West.

where the water is

by lauren lockhart

men with their mile counting and their maps
            maps with their measurement and

a curious violence.

the Aspen bends where she wishes, stooping

to touch a white rock
I am surprised to find that she touches me first

and the Hackberry tree advises
that I follow the bird.

I know which one she means,
the one that fits inside my eye

which means
go where the water is

which means
name your daughter before the men begin to measure her.

anatomy of the profit

by lauren lockhart

one day
while I was floating inside her
my mother gave me a story

with her blood she gave it to me—
a transfused history which has removed my marrow
and replaced it with

fibers from a Douglas Fir.

born from one womb to enter the next—
Earth wounds me and heals me in the same breath.

her story opens
with a perverted momentum—
acres of clear-cutting
which is unlike the cycled fires,

and I do not want to trade my blood.
our infections are each a gift but I can trade my name
as a prelude to forgiveness.

when I am spine down on the ground outside,
I am home.

and I can hear my body’s wooden voice
which is her voice
which is the voice of this place, still

I cannot decide whether to sleep
outside with a spade
or in the basement with the mold.

medicine moves down

by lauren lockhart

the water drained from hawk’s belly
rolls down,

sweet like
milk in the sun

the stream collides with all three parts of my
mind and lulls the inflammation there into a

weighted peace.

It begins with the center-

my heart knows it is my organ
and my nest
it knows it is a borrowed comfort

like a sudden breeze through the window

amber liquorish root
shining in the glass

the malingerer

by stephen page

The gaucho who has not worked
For three months because of a nail
In his ankle, who has not lived
On the estancia since I became patrón,
Hobbled in behind me on one of my walking
Rounds. He hopped the front gate after I
Passed, limped and crouched along a high weed ditch, kept to
The shadows of the trees until I was safely away
From my ranchhouse and on my way
Out of the casco and on to paddock eight before he exposed
Himself and shuffle-skipped across my yard to knock
On the back door and ask my wife for his pay.

The Tattler says he never worked, laid animal traps,
Cut down Teresa’s lemon tree.

the horse thief

by stephen page

You left on vacation the day we threw the Rustler
off the ranch, your taillights brandishing out
the front gates, and for ten days peace settled
upon the ranch, the mockingbirds nestling inside
the casco, the cows cudding, the bulls feeding
on lot #10, even the sheep not baa-ing, and except
for two of your mongrels loosing themselves from
their tethers and breaking into the henhouse, the sun settled
red and rose yellow; even the weekend rain plithed softly
into the soil, regreening by Monday the dormant
winter grass.

You are the Accomplice, the one who the Tattler told us
helped the Rustler, the one who lives near the back gate,
the one who sleeps all day and nightly visits the neighbor
riding roan horses that no longer exist.

A thunderstorm rivered the road on the night of your
return, preventing you from driving out the main
gate at your leisure, and when we locked the back
gate, it disallowed cowardly exit. The new working
hours I set confined your family’s laughter to
the kitchen, which, by the second day was locked inside
a corner cupboard, becoming cobweb. You stood outside
my casco at predawn and belligerently questioned
my order of the day, unhorsing you. You threatened
to quit, which I granted permission, which pressed
your lips together and skulked you toward the firewood
piled next to the barn, where you picked up an ax, glanced
at me, then turned and stared beyond your unsaddled horse
at the new calves watching you from within
the Santa Ana fenceline.

statement of place: stephen page

I often ran barefoot through Michigan woodlands as I was growing up. I climbed trees, leapt over fallen trunks, and sludged through swamps. I learned to swim very young, so I easily forded rivers and swam across large lakes. My Aunt Dee and Uncle John instilled in me reverence for nature and respect for the land. They also taught me how to hunt, trap, and fish—but only for sustenance, not for sport. As an adult, after randomly wandering the globe and vocationing myself in numerous noble and not-so-noble positions, I found myself in South America, ranching and farming. I always ensured that a respectable portion of the land was kept fallow as a refuge for the local flora and fauna—equally as a morale obligation to the earth’s environment and its populace.

sketch of a fig tree

by kelli russell agodon

Halfway through the day with the sun like a halo
over my neighbor’s house, I think about God
and time and if it’s possible to feed my soul with a pen
and ink drawing I saw at a museum by an artist
whose name I didn’t recognize.

Somewhere across the country my house is falling apart,
or maybe it did years ago, returning to my old neighborhood
to realize the streets were never as big as I thought
and the house I lived in was not as nice
as the house down the road, but I was never allowed
to walk that far.

I’m older now and what’s falling apart is the sunset
I try to watch from my office window
where I’m surrounded by books
and it doesn’t matter how much the fog moves in
or if there’s a neighborhood where kids fight

about the color of poppies. I think back to the fig tree
that grew in my yard and how the leaves always reminded me
of being somewhere else or in the middle of a Rousseau painting
where the jungle was a prayer and everything I needed
was above me and all I had to do was reach up,
all I had to do was open my hands.

writing studio d: a retrospective in spring

by kelli russell agodon

— Port Townsend, Washington

Imagine this: it’s the day before Easter
            and beautiful if you love sun 

and birdsong and egg hunts, but not 
            if you’re wishing for rain, if you think Jesus 

is a distraction from real life and birdsong 
            is the unexpected alarm now waking you 

before 6 a.m. But it is, beautiful, the day before 
            Easter and you have to drive forty-five minutes

to watch your daughter at a two-minute Easter egg
            hunt, but that is three hours from now

and right now, you’re in a room typing a poem.
            Imagine this: It’s the week before Easter

and you’ve planned a writing retreat with friends, 
            to go to a haunted apartment to write

for five full days, five full days, because there is
            nothing more you want to do 

than lose yourself in your words. But you’ve 
            learned to stop saying “retreat” and use 

the term “residency” because others
            think you’re on vacation, some sort of

girl’s weekend with wine and pedicures. No, 
            this is where they’ve become confused.

This is where a friend says, It’s so nice 
            your husband can watch your daughter

as if he’s not related to her, as if he’s not 
            responsible for her care. And there was

this week I found myself
            annoyed because my daughter’s teacher 

wrote me after my husband went
            on a field trip with her class:

Your husband was a wonderful chaperone.
            Thank you for sharing 

him with us. And I wanted to hit
      reply say, Dads get points 

just for showing up. Imagine 
      the teacher ever writing 

my husband to say, Thanks for sharing 
      your wife with us. Thank you 

for not only being a dad who showed up, 
      but also a Filipino dad, 

you’ve added so much diversity 
      to this busload of white kids. 

Imagine this: It’s the day before
      Easter and I’m beautiful 

and not bitter that my generation is still
      stuck between women who live

for their men and the girls who expect 
      more. Maybe they will resent 

their husbands for caring too much
      about hairstyles, for using product.

There’s an Easter Egg hunt in less than 
      three hours and I’m frothing 

about relationships, about already having drank 
      my first cup of coffee and it’s empty, 

instead of realizing I’m still here, in this
      room looking out to a forest 

of blackberry bramble, of trees with moss
      on the north side, just like

in the Camp Fire Girl book I had as a child
      when I believed that good deeds

created beads and patches and I could rename
      myself Kekoa because it meant

Brave One, because I would grow up
      to be thankful for my ability to start

fires when the other girls fumbled with their flint.
      And while in this town, Jesus is a distraction

because he’s walking up the street in a tiny toga
      with an Elvis in wings

singing, Hunka-hunka burning love during the Easter
      parade because it’s hippie-dippie here.

I know where I reside best and how I can leave 
      last minute from a beautiful day-before-

Easter-morning to arrive back into my life of family 
      members who forget to drag the garbage 

down to the corner and be thankful I only start fires
      because someone needs warmth

but otherwise, I can leave the flint in my pocket and
      no longer create spark just to prove I’m the best.

in praise of staying married

by kelli russell agodon

In perfect middleness,
in the winter of waxwings
and imperfect feathers, lost

we are not leaving
our nest. Like others

who aren’t entwined
in the honeysuckle, in the blackberry
vines, we stay knotted.

Like clouds refusing to be part
of the mushroom, we rained.
We loved our curves

and our appetite
for showers. Don’t get me wrong,
our mistakes have flooded

the valley, flooded
our blue farmhouse until
the living room was underwater.

Praise the trees and chairs
we climbed to stay dry,
not the wings

that might have brought us here,
but the round bellies
of birds hopping through

puddles, not beautiful,
but full, complete
with their berry-stained beaks.


by kathleen flenniken

As though we could string pearls into a necklace

of only good moments, between knots of waxed

string. Tonight, a month after the last lilac bloomed,

I finally noticed, and no hothouse could make the bushes

flower again late, early, whatever you call the period

after you’ve lost everything. Still, cells replicate,

shed skin is replaced. We are not who we were.

I’d seen the lilacs, gone through the motions

of breathing in, swirled the scent in the goblet

of my brain but I wasn’t listening until

this evening, after the first warm day in June

when I considered how fine a bunch of lilacs

would be, enough to fill my arms, to hide my face

in their tender, sweet nostalgia for ordinary life.

1960s tv

by kathleen flenniken

Blue beacon of the evening, formulaic, reassuring, half-witted, half-
cocked. We half-watched the clock to gauge our excitement, passive
as our heroes bounded toward danger—

then the ads for Geritol, Noxzema, Salems, and Kools. No danger
of changing channels—the TV was half
a room away, NBC and CBS our only choices. The best shows were past

our bedtime anyway. We passed
our happy childhoods lit by a flickering screen as dangerous
as quicksand, as a girl with a palm-sized gun, as Simon Bar Sinister in half-

hour predicaments. Now we half-believe that fictional past. Danger, Will Robinson.

from a classroom

by kathleen flenniken

— after Richard Shelton

Thirty-two students stare in rows.
In their private minds
pink dahlias bloom, swans fan their wings,
a dog barks behind a barbed-wire fence.
No one raises a hand or answers the question.

Thirty-two pink dahlias bloom in rows.
Students raise a barbed-wire fence.
No one questions the barking dog.
Swans stare behind their fans.

A dahlia stares. Pink hands
fence private minds. Questions
raise their rows of wings.
The swans answer thirty-two.

A pink dahlia answers a barbed-wire stare.
No one raises the question.
Thirty-two students bloom
behind their wings.

lessons from you, father

by patricia wixon

It was July when you closed the front door
carrying your fishing rod and creel, angled hat
banded with dry flies, eager to fly to the mountain
lakes. Soon you’d be edging your way out in waders
so glazed with fish oil they could stand alone.

That night you’d fight to stay alive, not burned
and broken like your copilot, but in shock as your
organs consumed each other. You told the medic
what to give each child. For me, your bamboo pole
but it had already turned to ash.

In those childhood years, you’d bring home a creel
of cutthroat and fry their pink skins crisp.
Sometimes we’d peel sheets of sunburn from your
back, work to sunset in our Victory Garden,
help save tin foil wrappers for the War.

Now I cast a fly at a glint between the rocks, hear
your lessons as I watch the shadows, feel when
a strike sends line singing, feed, wind back a steady
take up. Leaves floating on the water collapse
like ash, linger, then slip beneath the surface.


by allen braden

— for Kevin Miller

Ice in a riverbed: a word
In your mouth: each remembers

The other. Your joy only
One reflection: the way grease

From a boy’s palm darkens
A page. Each time perishable

Freight thunders by, he feels
Hopeful: The girl he’ll leave

Flexes her calves deliberately
Every rung up a picker’s ladder

In Coup’s orchard by the river.
How can anyone make a living

Of departures: when crossing
The line can mean nothing

But distance, a vanishing point
Beyond which light won’t enter?

I mean when the river’s iced over
Horses, a few then hundreds,

Surge across: like one current
Over another: liquid and solid.

Come spring, quick thaw spells out
Sacrament: Or is that sacrifice?


“Juxtaposition” first appeared in Poetry International.

bird city

by allen braden

— for Jacob Green

Where sweetness is
The only nourishment.
Not a peaceable kingdom
For there is conflict here,
There is pain. But the bad
Inevitably are punished,
The good inevitably blessed.
Their stories, I suppose,
Have a storybook quality:
Peopled not with angels,
Not with true birds either
But rather creatures gifted
With a human fluency
And feathers apt as hands.
The magpie tending bar
Can wipe away troubles;
A seagull begging change
Is not really as down
On his feathery luck
As he’d have you believe;
Osprey redirect the flow
Of traffic for a parade.
Vendors give away candy
Shaped like children
And rich as ice cream.
Along these avenues
To the imagination,
The stacks of nests rise
Like columns of smoke
From ancient sacrifice,
Where any misery is given
The promise of flight
And where any broken
Wing may heal.


“Bird City” first appeared in The Colorado Review.

best of the net 2013 nominations

We are thrilled to announce that we have nominated four poems for the 2013 Best of the Net anthology. It was an exceedingly difficult decision because we have received so many outstanding poems since the journal’s inception. In the end, we selected the following:

  • Christopher Howell’s “The Life Boat Dream
  • Tammy Robacker’s “Owen Beach Aubade
  • Judith Skillman’s “Starlings” and “Watercress

remembering precious landscape, but with an elegy in mind

by allen braden

Nevertheless the front yard, even the hawthorn,
flourished. Various roses built a windbreak,
all the catalpa petals splayed themselves open
and pollen splotched the limbs in gold profusion.

Suppose a woman lived there, a young wife,
her tanned arms dappled from whitewashing,
beautifying the wagon-wheel fence assembled
out of last century’s rumbling west for a better life.

Say years later, while kneeling in her rose and iris bed,
she happened to gaze toward the east forty
and witness the men in her family, at a distance,
circling and swinging their long-handled shovels.

They could’ve been mistaken, a hundred years earlier,
for threshers slapping chaff from the harvest.
They were in fact clubbing a wounded badger,
winnowing its blood into the furrows of stubble.

Now suppose that the iris have grown
wooden, their blues and lavenders blackened.
Razed down to the quick, her roses
promise to return. Prolific. Invasive.


“Remembering Precious Landscape, but with an Elegy in Mind” was first published in Elegy in the Passive Voice.

the venison book

by allen braden

1. Dressing

Once a practice handed down,
sticking its throat now frowned

upon by most sportsmen. Blood
will take care of itself. Just aft
of the breastbone with a blade
three whetted inches or more,

cut and continue as if unzipping
the abdomen which splits open
like a satchel packed neatly
with the contents of a lifetime.

From the unexpected profile
of a liver came Roman prophecy.
Imagine your own portents.
To empty the cavity with ease,

you may tip the carcass downhill.
Take care though not to nick any offal.
Into the next tiny room, carve a portal
when servicing the lungs, the heart

which loves to spoil if left intact.
Sever arteries and windpipe. Remove.
Let the buck’s antlers alone,
they’ll work as handles later

or tie a rope over the skull’s base,
a half-hitch around the snout.
Now get your rope or chain out,
hoist over a nearby branch or rafter.

Like a lover’s stockings, the hide
tugs off. No need for a knife.
Missed point to call this woods-
dressing undressing, instead of

hog-dressing, rough-dressing,
to gut, disembowel, eviscerate.
At last you may separate
the liceless cape and head

from the body if you wish
or saw the crown off its skull.


2. Deconstructing

With sinews and veins stripped
naked of such supple buckskin,

with a hatchet or cleaver,
split sternum, lengthwise,
in two. Pelvic girdle likewise.
Call this the H-bone and crack it

smack-dab down the center
to invent your own alphabet
for dialogue between the dead
and living. What does a blade

whisper to flesh but appetite?
Along a line envisioning the spine,
a hacksaw answers. Other bones
prove easy, especially the hinges

where hooves are defined
from each limb’s articulation.
With dead weight, the gantry
squawks. Never you mind

any sound but your own deliberate
breath. Quarter what remains
into shoulders, saddle, haunches.
Identify the use and cut of each:

neck and chuck, flank and shank,
the meaning drained away returns.
Next, wrap each with foil tight
for flavor then paper against frost.

Cold or salt or smoke cures most
kinds of impermanence for a time.
Treat with an iota of respect.
Collect what you’ve broken apart

and spoken into being. On thick white
butcher’s paper, mark your name.


“The Venison Book” was first published in A Wreath of Down and Drops of Blood.

issue three (spring season) contributor index

Jennifer Bullis
Originally from Reno, Nevada, Bullis holds a doctorate in English from the University of California-Davis and taught college English in Bellingham, Washington, for fourteen years. Her poems appear in Iron Horse Literary Review, Conversations Across Borders, Natural Bridge, Comstock Review, and Floating Bridge Review. She has won The Pitch contest at Poetry Northwest and received Honorable Mention in the Tupelo Press Poetry Project. Her first book of poems, Impossible Lessons, is forthcoming from MoonPath Press in May 2013. (Work | Statement of Place | Website | Map)

Beth Cavener Stichter
Stichter is currently a full-time professional studio artist working in the state of Washington. She received her bachelor of arts in sculpture from Haverford College and her master of fine arts from Ohio State University. She was awarded a USArists Project Grant in 2012, the Artist Trust Fellowship in 2009, the Jean Griffith Foundation Fellowship in 2006, the Virginia A. Groot Foundation Grant and an Individual Artist Fellowship from the Ohio Arts Council in 2005, and the American Craft Council’s Emerging Artist Fellowship in 2004. She has also been an artist-in-residence at the Clay Studio in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and the Archie Bray Foundation in Helena, Montana. She has exhibited nationally (at such institutions as the Smithsonian Museum) and internationally and has taught numerous workshops across the country. She is currently represented by the Claire Oliver Gallery in New York. (Work | Statement of Place | Website | Map)

T. Clear
Clear’s work has appeared in many journals and magazine, including Poetry Northwest, Seattle Review, Atlanta Review, and Crab Creek Review. Her first full-length manuscript, Dusk, is forthcoming from Floating Bridge Press. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Jeff Encke
Encke’s poetry has appeared in American Poetry Review, Barrow Street, Black Warrior Review, Colorado Review, Fence, Kenyon Review Online, Salt Hill, Typo, and elsewhere. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Jeremy Halinen
Halinen is co-founder and editor-at-large of Knockout Literary Magazine. His first full-length collection of poems, What Other Choice, was selected by Washington State Poet Laureate Kathleen Flenniken as winner of the 2010 Exquisite Disarray First Book Poetry Contest. Other poems of his appear or will in such journals as Cimarron Review, Court Green, Crab Creek Review, the Los Angeles Review, Poet Lore, and Sentence. He resides in Seattle, Washington. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Ann Howard
Howard, a journalism school graduate from 1964, left a career in advertising to raise her family. In 1987, she followed a call to ministry and worked as a chaplain in hospital and hospice settings. Now that she is retired, she is finally making time for poetry again. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Christopher Howell
Howell is the author of ten poetry collections, including Gaze. Born in Portland, he has received three Pushcart Prizes and two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, among many other honors. He teaches at Eastern Washington University’s Inland NW Center for Writers in Spokane, where he is director and principal editor for Lynx House Press. (Work | Map)

Peter Keefer
Keefer received a bachelor of fine arts from the California College of Arts and Crafts in Oakland in 1958. His interest in printmaking developed shortly afterward, and he continued his training with graduate students at California State University at Northridge, where he was awarded a master of fine arts in printmaking in 1970. During the next ten years, he developed the highly identifiable style which has remained characteristic of his work: earth colors modulated against harsher tones which charge his images with a sense of time and place. (Work | Map)

Stella Latwinski
Latwinski is a self-taught artist and illustrator who comes to Montana after a childhood of playing in the lakes and forests of Pennsylvania. She has been drawing since she could pick up a pencil, but it was not until 2007 that she began to share her work with the public. Primarily working with ink and colored pencil on wooden panels, her illustrations have been described as both sweet and unsettling as she strives to create a fairy tale land that is inspired by nature, travel, and dreams—sometimes dark, other times full of whimsy. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Jerry D. Mathes II
Jerry D. Mathes II is a Jack Kent Cooke Scholar alumnus, author of The Journal West: Poems and an essay collection, Fever and Guts: A Symphony. He has fought wildfire and taught the Southernmost Writers Workshop in the World at Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station, Antarctica during the 2009–2010 and 2011–2012 Austral summer seasons. He loves his two daughters very much. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Tammy Robacker
Robacker is a 2009–10 TAIP Grant award winner for poetry, a 2011 Hedgebrook writer-in-residence, and the author of the poetry collection The Vicissitudes (Pearle Publications, 2009). Robacker received her bachelor of arts in poetry from The Evergreen State College in 1993. She will begin her master of fine arts in poetry at Pacific Lutheran University this fall. In 2009, she co-edited an anthology of Tacoma poetry titled In Tahoma’s Shadow. Her poetry has appeared in Columbia Magazine, Plazm, Floating Bridge Review: Pontoon, Wild Goose Poetry Review, and Allegheny Review. Robacker’s poetry manuscript, We Ate Our Mothers, Girls, was a finalist in the 2009 Floating Bridge Press chapbook contest. Currently, Tammy is working on her second book of poetry, Villain Song. (Work | Statement of Place | Map)

Judith Skillman
Skillman’s forthcoming books are The Phoenix—New & Selected Poems 2007 – 2013 (Dream Horse Press, 2013) and Broken Lines—The Art & Craft of Poetry (Lummox Press, 2014). Her poems and collaborative translations have appeared in Poetry, Cimarron Review, FIELD, Ezra, Seneca Review, The Iowa Review, and others. Recipient of an award from the Academy of American Poets for Storm (Blue Begonia Press), two of her collections have been finalists for the Washington State Book Award. Judith also writes fiction, and is a Seattle Jack Straw Writer in that genre for 2013. She strives for a minimalist approach in both poetry and prose. (Work | Statement of Place | Website | Map)

statement of place: tammy robacker

Currently, I live, work, and write in Washington State and have called it home since I moved here at twelve years old. My connection to the natural realm and climactic nuances of this area in the south Sound is a constant source for inspiration and poetry. The ever-present rain; the locality and accessibility of the Puget Sound; the epic, oceanic beachheads; the damp, lush landscapes; and green, rustic foliage are a constant mirroring of my own meandering poet’s mind and my observant, deep, and concerned moods that change like the weather. For me, living in Washington is like looking into a lake every day. You see yourself reflected back, but it’s always through the fluid, changing water.

owen beach aubade

by tammy robacker

— For Tim

Much like the greatest sea treasures
we set out to comb, you arrive to me
broken. An old green wine bottle that
no longer remembers what filled it before
or how its vintage was spoken; it chooses now
to be repurposed. To be tossed in tide violence.
To be knocked silly by indifference. To be left
alone. Then, woken up polished as a trinket.
Divined amidst wet rockweed and foul wrack
and renamed mine and fit to my hand.
It is much like love at our middle age,
how the turned out jellyfish does not amaze us
because it was once beautiful or swam. We recognize it
now because it stings. Because high tide pulled out
hours ago, and there it shines. Alive and bubbling
on the pebbled beach. That moony clear bell
still continues to beat, plump and smooth
as a young heart, braving the brackish shore.

new collection from scott t. starbuck

Cascadia Review contributor Scott T. Starbuck’s new book, River Walker, is now available from Mountains and Rivers Press. This poetry collection details his adventures and misadventures from the Rogue River in southern Oregon to the Tanana River in Alaska.

Thomas Rain Crowe says Starbuck’s collection “… takes us to his secret fishing holes, introduces us to river mermaids, teaches us river etiquette, and how to fish the wind. A true bioregional fisher-of-salmon-and-of-men in the tradition of Snyder and Jeffers, his stories and cultural memories are as good as it gets. His relationship to the rivers and the river people of the northwest coast is profound. Amidst hidden haikus and as if writing on water, when he writes lines like ‘A thought sprouts like a golden chanterelle, / whatever they offer you to live away from here / is not enough,’ we, the readers, are the lucky fishermen for having caught his words.”

In addition to being available at Mountains and Rivers Press, River Walker is at Powell’s Books in Portland, Oregon; The Sausage Kitchen in Gladstone, Oregon; Solstice in Bingen, Washington; the Newport Public Library in Newport, Oregon; the Sno-Isle Library System in the Snohomish and Island counties of Washington; the Whatcom Community College Library in Bellingham, Washington; and the Fraser Valley Regional Library System in British Columbia, Canada.

crossing bone river

by jed myers

The bay widens and welcomes
more light onto the road.
It’s all silver, and then
back into the conifer greens and blues,
the silt-brown rain-swollen creeks,
moss-mottled alders, windless
ponds and their nibbling geese.

And the memory of arriving,
driving in the other direction, toward
the city where the kids would be born.
I’m not leaving—I’m returning,
to the beginning of who I’ve become,
the beginning of this long rainy season,
its leaks in the roof and walls,

mist-walking in the mud of the creek
in the shadows of the ravine, small hands
in my hands. Those young
who arrived through the body of the one
woman I married, they’ve flown
out of the rain. I’m still arriving.
The bay is quiet over the oysters . . . .

egg poems: an english languacultural history of china

by changming yuan

1/ Ancient China

They used to drink tea
Wear silk
Eat from china
Think in terms of zen
And practice Confucianism

Only—is it true?


2/ Semi-Colonial China

Wearing cheongsam
These poor coolies arrived here
On sampans
Always ready to kowtow
To a tycoon
Who lived in Shangri-La
Eating dim sum
Drinking oolong
Playing mahjong
Gambling in a casino every day
Though reluctant to give cumshaw


3/ Mandarin China

Led by dao
A yin
Running dog
Wearing qipao
Is fighting against a yang
Paper tiger
With wushu
After getting brainwashed
Through maotai
Like a taikongnaut
At a fengshui spot
Dominated by qi


A word (or person) with a Chinese origin living in the West is often called an “egg,” which is white-skinned but yellow-hearted.

interview with kathleen flenniken

by dana guthrie martin

Kathleen Flenniken, a resident of Seattle, Washington, is currently serving a two-year term as Poet Laureate for the state of Washington. Her two poetry collections are Famous and Plume. Plume deals with her experiences growing up in Richland, Washington, and working as an engineer at the Hanford site, as contextualized by research and time, and the perspective both afford. The collection centers on her relationship with her childhood friend Carolyn, whose father died from radiation illness. The book was seven years in the making.

The main interview took place in August 2012 near Flenniken’s home, with a follow-up conversation by way of email.

DGM: Tell me how you came to write this collection. What was your process? How did you know the time was right for this undertaking?

KF: In 1988 when we were in our late twenties, my childhood friend Carolyn lost her father to a radiation illness. That was well before I began writing. (I started writing poetry in my 30s, about five years later.) His death was a huge challenge to my understanding of the site and perhaps the first chink in my solid Richland identity.

Writing the poems came many years later, after my parents were gone. That is, I couldn’t even have conceived of writing them while they were still living. My loyalty to my parents and their generation of friends who gave their careers and lives to Hanford was too inhibiting. And I had to attain a certain skill as a poet. When I was first writing poems, I wasn’t good enough to take on the subject matter of Hanford.

My first Hanford poem, “Bedroom Community,” was written (mostly) in 2005. I was casting about looking for new subjects. (I felt I was rewriting the same poems I’d written in Famous and I remembered the old adage, “Write the poems you’re afraid to write.”) So, those first few were memoir poems and poems to my friend Carolyn. Then I started reading about and researching the site, which led to poems based on my research. At that point I thought I was done. It took me a couple of years and misfires to recognize that I needed to write a few more poems in first person, set in the present. That last dozen or so changed the tone of the collection and deepened it.

DGM: How difficult was it to add those first-person poems to the collection? Or did they come easily once you knew you needed to bring the present and the present perspective into the work?

KF: It was all I could manage. I had to figure out what I thought about all of it. There needed to be some kind of shift in understanding, and therefore I ought to be wise about the whole thing. Except I couldn’t just be wise. I wrote a number of angry poems, taking my cue from lots of people who asked me, “Aren’t you angry?” and after looking at poems by Bill Witherup who had written so passionately and angrily about Hanford for decades. But I ended up taking those poems out. It was borrowed anger. In the end, what I felt was deep sadness and confusion. Confusion doesn’t really feel like it should be a terminal emotion—I’m not even sure it is an emotion. Nevertheless, I belonged to both sides and neither side and so I invited that confusion in. And I allowed myself to feel protective of my community while still trying to be factual. The last three poems were the museum poems (“Museum of Doubt” and “Museum of a Lost America”) and the final poem in the collection, “If You Can Read This.” They’re as dispassionate as I knew how to make them—imagining myself confronting my past as though I were in a museum (which actually happened to me, at the Smithsonian Museum of American History) or reading a sign at the site, 10,000 years in the future.

DGM: The personal and scientific come together here in a very strong way. Did you feel those elements were working together in the creation of the poems for this collection, or was one or the other ever an impediment or hindrance?

KF: The science came in when I started writing poems based in research—which was completely new for me. A poem about testing the water at Richland Dock, for example, or retelling the details of The Green Run. My engineering training and Hanford indoctrination kicked in, and I knew my poems must never exaggerate or play fast and loose with facts. “Lies that tell the truth” is all well and good in art, but in this particular circumstance, the truth had to be scientifically and historically accurate. I used a variety of poetic forms throughout and I suppose I thought of scientific accuracy as part of the “form” I had chosen to follow. So I never saw it as an impediment. It was a constraint.

DGM: Tell me about the redactions in the book and why you presented them the way you did.

KF: I lifted three powerful quotations, two from the Atomic Energy Commission and one from J. Robert Oppenheimer, out of Michele Gerber’s amazing environmental history of the Hanford Site, On the Home Front. All three were warnings that Hanford was too secretive about their operations, that their closed communication actually compromised good science. I was thinking about the way Hanford management so often heard what they wanted to hear or twisted information to align it with their beliefs. It came to me suddenly that Hanford obsessively controlled the message by censoring it. What better way to control criticism than redact the parts you don’t like? So I redacted the quotations so that they said something very different—in one case that “fear could end a critical scientific program”—that is, that free access to information would result in panic and would endanger their mission and our country’s safety.

DGM: Did you ever feel afraid about writing the collection, as if you were divulging things you shouldn’t make public?

KF: I never felt afraid, but I definitely felt I was breaking a taboo—revealing the way we truly thought about our lives and our town and our relationship to the country, the secrecy that was ingrained in our culture, the suspicious health problems and messages from the government. There’s been plenty of “Who do you think you are?” and “Who died and made you the expert?” and that’s just inside my head.

DGM: What about outside your head? Have you had any similar feedback from others who aren’t pleased about what you’ve documented and shared?

KF: Not yet. I’ve had next to no feedback from Richland, other than words from friends. Though I hear from many ex-pats living in other parts of the Northwest. I keep waiting for confrontation and am not quite sure how to interpret silence. Even the Tri-City Herald has stonewalled me. No review or mention, though several other sizeable newspapers in the Northwest have reviewed or featured the book at this point.

DGM: You’ve talk about the Richland identity, the mindset of the city in the past and in the present with regard to the Hanford site. You’ve specifically talked about people not understanding that identity and about having times that you feel angry about that lack of understanding, the complexity of the entire situation. Can you talk about that identity and your feelings around it in more detail?

KF: Richlanders have been—by and large, and for years—tone-deaf. It’s not that we aim to offend and scandalize the rest of the world by choosing an atomic bomb as our high school mascot; we just don’t see why we shouldn’t be proud of our history (and I’m using “we” because I was part of this culture, though I long ago recognized the inappropriateness of the Bomber mushroom cloud).

The Richland identity is based in pride. Richlanders still take pride in their Manhattan Project and Cold War successes. We had a job to do and we did it, not matter how dirty. We kept our country safe and “ended the war.” Whether or not you agree with the use of the bomb at Hiroshima or Nagasaki, whether or not you think we were safer for the 60,000 nuclear warheads Hanford helped fuel, it’s difficult not to admire the sheer ingenuity of the engineers and scientists and workers that kept the plants going for decades beyond their original life expectancy.

Now Hanford is embroiled in the largest environmental cleanup in the world and it’s an inglorious and stultifyingly difficult task. It’s one long exercise in shame—cost overruns and unpleasant discoveries of new contamination and technical issues too difficult to solve. So I don’t think it’s very surprising that the community—even three and four generations beyond that original Manhattan Project generation—takes refuge in “Bomber” pride, no matter how unearned.

I also think it is far too easy to demonize Hanford workers, who were after all my neighbors and friends. I know some of those original workers—they were my parents’ friends and peers and they were often remarkable, incredibly intelligent, socially responsible, ethical, often spiritual people. Over and over again they did the right thing. And yet terrible lies were perpetrated, the public was betrayed, secrets protected the institution of Hanford over the lives of its workers and the innocents downstream. I feel very protective and defensive about the people from my hometown. These were not evil people; they were good people who made tragic errors with the best intentions. This is a human story, and it’s going to happen again and in your town, though maybe not with the same long-term consequences.

DGM: Your President Obama quote at the beginning of the book is amazing, and not in a good way. Why do you think more people, including the leader of our country, don’t know about Hanford—both what went on there and the continued effort to deal with the repercussions of what went on there?

KF: The difficulties at Hanford are technical and complicated and mired in decades of cultural and political history. It’s impossible to summarize them in a sentence or two. This isn’t just a problem for poets and politicians. Hanford has a terrible time attracting young workers to take on this tragedy of highly contaminated waste sites, many of which were insufficiently documented. And anti-Hanford activists are having an equally hard time passing their work down to the next generation. Most young people are turned off by Cold War politics, and then add in radioactive waste. Is it any wonder I’m worried sick that this whole site will be written off and forgotten?

The secrecy ingrained in the Hanford community has come back to haunt them. Hanford supporters never wanted anybody talking about the site that didn’t understand it (which they thought was everybody). Now the Hanford story is rarely even taught in Washington State history—which boggles my mind. We need to educate the next generation of citizens who will, after all, be paying and paying for radioactive waste cleanup for the rest of their lives.

DGM: A poet in my writing group read Plume. She’s lived in Walla Walla for a long time. She was part of the protests of the white trains when they were coming through. She was one of the first people, perhaps one of the only people, from Walla Walla who was involved in protests and discussions about nuclear energy and nuclear waste. She was involved in hearings at Hanford and wrote for the local paper about issues related to the site. Her overriding question after reading your collection is, “How do you cope with being a poet of place, a poet of witness, and balance reality and action without falling into despair or insanity?”

KF: I’ve always approached the poems in Plume as deeply personal explorations of my story—my history, my country, my neighbors and friends. This project was autobiographical. That meant I didn’t need to be an expert that represented the whole Hanford community—which I could never be. Instead, my biggest challenge was to make Hanford interesting for a reader who might be new to the story.

I don’t think of myself as a poet of place or witness. I think my role is to tell a story about the place I grew up. Maybe that’s a fine line between the two, but I really think of those poems as very personal, and that’s the only way that I could write them—to think of them as personal poems.

I never tried to make a political statement. I never thought of the poems as activism. I have never sought to make change. It’s not that I’m not hungry for a changing attitude at Hanford. It’s just that I could never place that kind of pressure on the poems; it would have been deadly and I never could have completed the project. Making these poems about me relieved me of feeling responsible for fixing the situation—which would have been, absolutely, a recipe for despair.

I wrote these poems in large part to try to figure out what I thought about all of it.

DGM: And where did you land? How do you feel in the end, after writing the book, and how is that different from how you felt before? What do you think about all of it?

KF: In some ways, I feel closer to the place than I ever did. I think when you see a place, warts and all, and still feel it, it’s a very honest connection. You see how deeply connected you really are. It would be easy to push away or deny it, but on many levels, I still love my hometown; I love the people that I grew up with; and I still think they did the best they could, but it just wasn’t good enough—and I think that’s really more a story of the human condition than it is of the people there. It’s just being human, and maybe being American.

I’m not as defensive about Hanford as I used to be. I think I’m more open to some of the violent distrust and dislike. I can hear that better now than I used to be able to. In some ways, I feel more porous to the whole subject. I feel like it goes through me and I hear it but I don’t have to take it on the way I did for so long.

DGM: Did you know about the protests that were happening? The kinds of things my friend was involved in, either at the time or as you were doing your research?

KF: The white train is something I’ve heard of, but I’m not sure I know exactly when/what that was.

Here’s a window into my mind: I have always disassociated Hanford with bomb-making and bomb distribution. I know Hanford created the fuel, but somehow I have put the weapons into a separate category. Though I have always conceded that nuclear waste usually reappears at Hanford. So I’m not surprised that I’ve blocked the white trains out of my mind. It’s consistent with my coping mechanisms.

DGM: The trains aren’t specifically Hanford-related, but they did involve the transport of missile heads and waste from those missiles making their way across the country into places like Washington State. The train cars were initially painted white out of fear that they might detonate if they got too hot. They were easy to spot, so protestors could organize and stage protests as the cars moved along the tracks.

KF: So when you were talking earlier, before the interview, about the Cascadia independence movement, which pushes for Cascadia to become a separate country, I was thinking that we’ve been the dumping ground for so long, you can see why people have this desire to cast off the colonial power, right? We’ve been a colony for the East Coast for so long, you can see where that separatist movement comes from.

DGM: At the same time, we’d have to clean up the mess alone, even though we didn’t make it alone. We’ve been the victim of so many endeavors that are aspirational in nature, at least in part, but they have outcomes we don’t anticipate—so something tragic or atrocious comes out of those endeavors. As you mentioned before the interview, Hanford is an extreme example of “disastrous consequences.” It’s one thing to do something knowing the outcomes and another to stumble into those outcomes, ones we aren’t at all prepared for.

KF: And even asking for the waste. People have been so hungry for jobs there for so long, they’re in the habit of asking for anything. “Make us your waste site.” They wanted to be the waste site. It’s jobs. It’s money.

DGM: Look at Roosevelt Regional Landfill in eastern Washington, one of the largest landfills in the country, which is importing trash from other states. Or take Hermiston, Ore., where a new horse rendering plant is going to be built and slaughter 25,000 horses a year. Now we’ve got a paper mill, a horse rendering plant, a landfill, the Hanford site. What other dirty, messy industry do you want to bring to what you still seem to consider “nowhere”?

KF: Right. Where there’s “nothing.” It seems late in the game to think that way, doesn’t it? It’s time to rethink that. It’s so interesting that we have this idea that certain landscapes are more beautiful and therefore more valuable and others are less beautiful and so it doesn’t really matter what we do to them.

And yet, in that Hanford landscape, they’ve discovered all kinds of plants that are medicinal, and there’s that ecosystem that turns out to be quite well-preserved in Hanford because they haven’t done a lot to it, and it’s really an amazingly varied and interesting place for all these plants. And you think, “There are no plants there; it’s just desert.” Well, there are lots of plants; it’s just our eyes becoming more intelligent about what we are seeing. It took us a long, long time to figure that out because it’s not green doesn’t mean it’s not “pretty”; it’s just not pretty in the traditional sense.

Yes, like you were talking about, it’s a hierarchy of regions—that one is a “better” place and one is a “worse” place, and so the people here are more important and those there less important or less intelligent—it’s a mindset that can prevail and cause damage to the people and the place.

DGM: When I was driving here today from eastern Washington, I passed Richland and started thinking about your poem “Coyote.” That poem is powerful because you do physically feel a shift between eastern and western Washington as you move into and out of it along I-90. If you’ve lived on both sides of the Cascades, you feel a difference.

When you say you still think the people in Richland did the best they could, and that you’re less defensive now than you have been, that all seems to speak to both individual identity and group identity, which I think is so nicely expressed in “Coyote.” Who am I? Who have I been? How do I move between these two spaces and states?

Your book invites us to move with you between those spaces and states, to come on that journey with you and move along the same lines of inquiry. There’s a kind of dual lens at work. I don’t know if you would use the term insider-outsider, but that’s what comes to mind for me. How do you grapple with that dual identity?

KF: At heart I will always be of Eastern Washington—the friendly, easy interchanges with strangers, the less prettified, more practical and more egalitarian community, the sky. And I will always feel the landscape and weather of Western Washington in my bones, and be grateful for the open-mindedness I find in Seattle.

When I travel to Eastern Washington I feel in some very basic way like I’m among my people. Which is ironic, since I think most Eastern Washington communities disowned Richland long ago as some kind of social experiment gone wrong. But mostly what I feel is solidarity with the whole Pacific Northwest in all its forms. I am a die-hard PNWer, daughter of Oregonians—and you never, ever get that out of your blood.

But to the point of “Coyote”—being from Richland means a very strong “us” and “them” mentality—an insider/outsider frame of reference. Scoop Jackson was always part of the “us” even though he never lived in the Tri-Cities, because he was a supporter and worked hard to bring jobs and status to Hanford. Mostly though, the “us’s” have come from Richland/Hanford. I think I surrendered my “insider/us” badge when I wrote these poems.

But I don’t think about grappling with it. I’m just confused most of the time. Where do I belong? But I know I belong in this landscape. The trees and the water and the rain. I feel as if I am rooted here in some way because of that landscape. But I feel such a loyalty to the people I grew up with.

DGM: So when you say “here,” do you mean west of the Cascades?

KF: This side. Yes.

DGM: That leads to the question: Do you see Cascadia as a place, or are the two sides of the Cascades so distinct that they feel like they aren’t part of the same place?

KF: My parents preached to me about how superior Oregon was to any other place in the world. Washington was, for them, a mere shadow of Oregon. And of course then I was very protective of Washington because that’s my home. So I’ve always had this sense that I am from the Northwest and I will always be of the Northwest. I can’t ever imagine being of any other place. I feel protective of it, defensive about it, proud of it—and that includes the high desert, and it includes the ocean, and includes all the places that I think of as being “my place,” my Northwest.

DGM: So you see a conjunction then, not a disjunction between the western side of the bioregion and the eastern side?

KF: I do. I absolutely do. I see the connection, and I’ve driven through it so many times. I just love that trip over the mountains, where you can see, tree by tree, it’s changing from firs to pines and then to the shrubs and then going across the state, and then at the very end, seeing the pines coming back in Spokane. I love seeing that.

DGM: You said something earlier about this place being treated like a colony. If you look at the Oregon territory, it’s very similar to the outline of Cascadia. It’s almost like we were left as a wild place for so long because we weren’t reachable by settlers. But once settled, we’ve in some ways suffered because of our wildness. But we’ve also grown out of and around that wildness.

KF: In high school as part of a church group, we traveled up into British Columbia and got to stay in people’s homes. I remember the host in Victoria talked about how people in British Columbia so much more identified with the Pacific Northwest in the United States than with the rest of Canada. “We’re one of you” was her attitude. I thought that was really interesting. I think that goes to the landscape. I think we’re more of our landscape here than probably most places. Or maybe that’s just pride speaking.

DGM: My last question is based on your earlier response of not feeling like a poet of place or witness. What do you consider a poet of place or witness to be?

KF: I think the mantle of “poet of place” or “poet of witness” is bestowed by others. I suppose even obvious poets of witness like Carolyn Forché don’t set out to write Poems of Witness, they just write the poems they need to write. I’m responding in good measure to my own worries: What if readers think I’m claiming to be the official witness to and voice of the Hanford story? That would misrepresent my intentions and my relationship with Richland and its history. I was only writing the (very personal) poems I know how to write. If those poems are rooted in place (and they are) and if they give witness to an era and a mindset (and I think they do, though I’m not sure how universally), that’s all I can do and that has to be enough.


by joannie stangeland

1. Water stares back

Here, a thicket
of Nootka rose,
salal clouding low.

Here, a stand of alders.
Each tree a moment.

The forest stories,
writing on the ground,
sound puddled.

The pond opens, a door.
Sudden gold surfaces.

A sunlight knife.

2. The knife writes

The hand signs its name.
Two cup for water.

Sunlight streaks the knuckles.

A palm, a psalm,
another dusk.
My kingdom for a thumb.

In the hand, a glass,
wine darker than blood.

Hands carve the soil, 
plant calendula, 
tomatoes, peppers, kale.

Sun on dirt.
Iron residue.

3. Far from Ypsilanti

Noise for the eyes,
the wind clapping,
slim shivers.

Each leaf shimmers its notes
without sound.

I write around the pool’s verge,
stack my little words
like a city built of toothpicks,

empty matchbooks.
Without light.

I leave out
the hard parts,
but I do not leave.

Each silence glints, another knife.
Each cut mutes and opens,
a bad mouth gulping.

Syllables chuck
in my throat, in mud,
on brambles.

Empty pockets.

I want to give you a white horse,
a slap on its rump,
a clear path out of here.

I want to give you a glass of wine,
fish and spinach.

I don’t want to watch you 
through that door.

Ciara Shuttleworth’s poems have previously appeared or are forthcoming in Los Angeles Review, The New Yorker, Weber: the Contemporary West, and The Norton Introduction to Literature, 11/e. Her artwork has been featured in Rattle and is in collections across the country. Shuttleworth is a native of San Francisco but grew up in Nebraska, Nevada, and Washington State. She currently lives and works in Moscow, Idaho.

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postcards to cascadia: heidi greco

Through the Shallows: The floppy-eared pachyderm swings / his heavy legs / tossing up the salty spray to / cool his thick skin. / He’s chosen himself a pair / of pale companions, / has trained them to carry / his satchel of peanuts, / even his twelve-pack of beer, / conditioned them / to stroll by his side, / leash-free and smiling. — Heidi Greco

View postcard image: Beautiful Tribune Bay, Hornby Island, B.C.

down the road toward tekoa

by kathryn rantala

Something for a moment
further on

or windward
gulch or photographic hills

and in the creek
or wash
the furred the feathered dead

on or on past
Pedersen and Garn
names so certain
as to write on posts

as I am
on these rolled mounds
the worn away
in seams
with plastic

What the guidebook says to bring
may be extinguished

and sometimes that is hope

from here
the signs say


“Down The Road Toward Tekoa” initially appeared on the JB Stillwater site.

of cascadia

by sam hamill

I came here nearly forty years ago,
broke and half broken, having chosen
the mud, the dirt road, alder pollen and
a hundred avenues of gray across the sky
to be my teachers and my muses.
I chose a temple made of words and made a vow.

I scratched a life in hardpan. If I cried
for mercy or cried out in delight,
it was because I was a man choosing
carefully his way and his words, growing
as slowly as the trunks of cedars
in the sunlit garden.

Let the ferns and the moss remember
all that I have lost or loved, for I carry
no regrets, no ambition to live it
all again. I can’t make it better
than it’s been or will be again
as the seasons turn and an old man’s heart

turns nostalgic as he drinks alone.
I have lived in Cascadia, no paradise
nor any hell, but both at once and made,
as Elytis said, of the same material.
A poor poet, I studied war and love.
But Cascadia is what I’m of.

interview with michael mcgriff

by ciara shuttleworth

All last week, Cascadia Review featured poems from Michael McGriff’s collections Dismantling the Hills and Home Burial. This week, we’re featuring an interview I conducted with McGriff on his work, his thoughts about poetry, and his connection with his home in the Cascadia bioregion.

CS: Will you please speak to the importance of place in your work, and how memory shapes that, and how objects (the hip bones of a deer in “New Season,” for example) take on greater meaning?

MM: It would take me a lifetime to answer this question with any clarity—and even then I probably wouldn’t get it right or come any closer to knowing how to answer it. In the simplest terms, I find meaning in the place where I’m from (a rural logging town on the Oregon Coast called Coos Bay)—the people and the landscape seem to be soaked in meaning. I just keep coming back to the same images, the images that haunt me. Charles Simic said somewhere that we all have a set of our own “epic images.” That idea rings true for me. One fact of my life is that I spent my first 21 years in the same town and didn’t really travel much. My imagination was born and ran wild there. I fell in love with writing there. And I suppose my mind just flies back there when I sit down to write.

CS: There are writers whose work builds and shares a family mythology. In many (most) of your poems, you seem to be weaving the actual into a mythology of Coos Bay, of place and its people–both in poems about a specific location (e.g., building, cafe, mill) in Coos Bay, and in poems like “Invocation” where the place is less specific. There is even “My Family History As Explained by the South Fork of the River,” which is a family mythology. There is a mixture of beautiful images molded out of desolate scenes, the speaker half in the moment he lives in now and looking back . . . the other half still there, ghosting the old roads (and, consistently enough, a porch or porches), trying to make sense of it all. Do you feel you are building a mythology of the Coos Bay you grew up in? If so, is this so that it might continue to exist as Coos Bay changes in industry and with the influx of people in and out?

MM: I think that myth-making, at least for me, is the unintended byproduct of writing about the same landscape over and over. The more you write about the same place, the more you have to examine it from new and different angles. I’ve lived in different towns and cities, and I’ve spent time outside the United States, yet I’ve never been compelled to write about any of them. I just wouldn’t feel truthful if I wrote about the great mountain ranges in Utah or the Golden Gate Bridge or pickled Baltic herring. I envy poets who can roam about in their work, writing about wherever the hell they please. I wish I could do that!—but it’s simply not an impulse. I love art that captures the essence of a specific region. I’m absolutely obsessed with Frank Stanford’s poetry, for example. But I also love poetry that’s seemingly placeless, even private—like Vasko Popa’s “The Little Box.” I used to feel more partisan about concrete/personal vs. abstract/private. But I don’t have those feelings anymore—these days, partisan attitudes about poetry bore me. And to answer the second part of your question: No, I haven’t really thought about writing about Coos Bay as a cultural or social preservation project. Really, it’s just that I keep returning to that image source.

CS: Stanford’s life was too short for us to know what he was capable of . . . how he would write and what he would write about as he traveled . . . . Do you feel that limits you—or will eventually limit you—as a poet: only having one place you feel truthful writing about?

MM: Yes, Frank Stanford’s life was tragically short, yet he wrote so much, and so much of it was stunning and transcendent. The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You is one of the finest books on my bookshelf. It’s amazing. There’s no telling what he would have done or where he would have gone had he chosen to keep living. As far as limits go, I don’t feel limited, at least not in a stifling way; I feel obsessed with one locale, and I just keep following that obsession. But I like the idea of “limits”—I think we all have them, and we are all forced to operate under them. It’s where the art comes from.

CS: The speaker in your poems (or you, whichever you prefer) is often alone or in solitude (even when around others), and yet the introspective moments are weighted with people, with experiences and second-hand experiences simply told, without judgment. Can you speak to this?

MM: I’m not sure I have too much to say—I find virtually everyone to be immensely complicated, contradictory, and inherently interesting. These elements seem worth writing about. And as for being alone, I suppose that, too, harkens back to growing up in the boonies. I spent a lot of time by myself in the woods, traipsing around, following old logging roads. I guess it’s a default setting.

CS: By “default setting,” do you mean setting as a place of solitude?

MM: Yeah, I suppose so. Now that I think more on it, I guess this aloneness and solitude has a great deal to do with writing for myself. That is to say, I’m not writing poems for a community or an audience or with a political agenda in mind; I’m writing poems for myself, in a way that I find interesting. Even though my poems are tempered by social and political concerns, I’m definitely writing for an audience of one. I especially feel this is true for Home Burial. It feels different to me than Dismantling the Hills—the poems in this new book feel more private and inward, more meditative and impulsive.

CS: Perhaps that is why Home Burial hit me with such force, and is why I’ve continued to read it again and again over the summer (and will continue to read it over and over) . . . that I am getting away with something by reading it—or that I am one of the lucky ones who is allowed to, even though it is a book everyone should read. Most writers don’t write with the honesty you do . . . . I think this is why I’ve shied away from asking questions about specific poems . . . that you’ve already given enough and shouldn’t be asked to explain further since you’ve already pulled back enough flesh . . .

MM: That’s nice of you to say.

CS: “Buying and Selling” appeared in The Missouri Review with a number of other poems–and this issue is the only place I’ve seen you use forward slashes. What drove the decision to use them at the time?

MM: I did? I honestly can’t remember why I did that. For a while, I was writing all of these poems using only colons—I was under the spell of A. R. Ammons, whose work I deeply admire. At the time of The Missouri Review‘s publication, I was trying to write a book-length sequential poem. I wrote a whole book manuscript that was really bad called Fog. Then Fog turned into this other book-length thing called Landscape with Origins. Then eventually Home Burial was borne out of the ashes of those two duds. It’s great to have honest friends around to tell you that what you’re writing feels forced and lame.

CS: They may have been colons rather than forward slashes . . . . My copy wandered off some time ago . . . so I didn’t verify—I just remembered some oddity in form I haven’t seen in your work other places. Do a lot of your revisions occur as you are shaping poems into a book?

MM: I don’t really have a method for revision. I just keep hammering on the poems until they reach some kind of completion. Some poems don’t comply, and they just float off into the ether. With both Dismantling the Hills and Home Burial, the poems sort of came together. I didn’t sit down with the thought of writing either of those books—that is to say, I didn’t map them out or have a concept for what might make a book. When you get a stack of poems, certain of them start talking to each other, and others seem like permanent loners. This was the process for both books—just putting poems side by side to see which ones fit together. God, it’s a mystery!

CS: Although Barry McKinnon, Franz Wright, and a few others have been using exploded form for decades, it seems to be very popular among young writers now–I see all different formats of exploded form every time I open a literary journal. Abstractions also seem to be more popular in contemporary poetry than ever before. What has kept you writing solid stanzas and using plain-spoken, image-driven language?

MM: To answer the last part of your question first: I love images. James Wright, John Haines, Pablo Neruda, Tomas Tranströmer, Frank Stanford, Don Domanski, Larry Levis (and so many others). These are some of my personal supergods. I go back to these poets over and over. I love the way they represent deep ideas and emotions through the use of the image. I love Bly’s essay / treatise Leaping Poetry, the idea that the stuff of the world is soaked in the unconscious, that to use the image of, say, a leaf, allows you to tap into something way more complex and meaningful—that the stuff of the universe has inherent meaning! It’s a sentiment bordering on the religious, and for me it holds water. I love film for this reason—one image heaped onto another until you get a whole universe. As far as form or the placement of text on the page, I try to follow my impulses. You can tell when someone is faking it—whether one’s poems are running all over the page or in tight verse stanzas. I think form and sincerity have a lot to do with one another.

CS: Freud’s term, “scopophilia,” that was picked up by the film critics in the 1970s to describe the gaze (or the “male gaze,” since the idea of a separate “female gaze” is still forming) as being an unabashed and childlike voyeurism that the camera gives the watcher/viewer—would you say that your work has an element of that where you, the poet, are the camera?

MM: I don’t think so. As I understand it, the so-called male gaze is the idea that the subject(s) of one’s art become unfairly mythologized, marginalized, or exploited. The idea of the artist as one in power or in a position of dominance isn’t one that holds much water for me. I think of art—of any art—as the manifestation of an individual’s vision. There are artworks I loathe and find distasteful—but even then I’m convinced that the makers of those artworks are engaged in a fundamentally democratic practice.

CS: The poems in Choke were in different form (by and large) when published in Dismantling the Hills, the most significant of which (meaning: beyond cutting/tightening/polishing) was “The Last Temptation of Christ.” While there is consistently an undercurrent of spirituality and religious questioning in your work, the Choke version of this poem is directed at “You” as in God, while the newer version is “you” seemingly as in self or reader. Why the switch? (It dramatically changes the poem.)

MM: Yeah, the work in Choke is definitely an earlier and inferior version of what ended up in Dismantling the Hills—or at least I’d like to think so. I changed the “You” to the more general “you” to address the idea that pops up in both the film and book, that the “last temptation” is simply to exist as a normal, general “you,” a person who goes about their life, makes mistakes, and, for good or ill, does the best they can.

CS: But the man—the other self—is changed by the end of the poem . . . or perhaps realizes his inadequacies . . . but nonetheless is changed. Is “the last temptation” for him then to go back to his life and be happy with it?

MM: You know, I’m not really sure. That’s something I love about the film and the book—this paradox of being both self and other. Are we meant to strive for the normal and fallible life, or are we meant to strive for a selfless and sacrificial life? Which is better, which is worse? I like this idea that we have both things swimming inside us—that our lives constantly change because we struggle with trying to live two lives at the same time.

CS: The strength of place in your work is the muscle and flesh of people, of yourself (or former self), as much as place is driven by the machines, the mill industry, and the bay. These are a people of hard living and hard work. Does this determine the language you use? And the structure/format/form of your poems?

MM: Well, my poems are full of things like choker setters and green chain and crummies. I grew up with these terms and assumed they were universal. I didn’t realize that not all people knew what a slash pile was until I left home and moved to a bigger town. I love writing that’s crammed full of details, so I use the details from my life—these “epic images” Charles Simic talks about. As far as structure and form, I really don’t know where those things come from. I learn by reading other poets, trying out their moves and seeing what feels right. I’m a product of my home library just as much as I am my home town.

CS: And do you find that who you read then from your hometown library still resonates for you today?

MM: The poets and poems I read when I first got interested in writing still excite me. I had a great teacher—John Noland—when I attended community college in Coos Bay. The first poets I read were Charles Simic, Pablo Neruda, César Vallejo, John Logan, Li Po (Pound’s translation), James Dickey, Richard Hugo, Theodore Roethke, Sharon Olds, Mary Oliver, and so many more. Also a lot of sound-based, absurdist performance poetry. It was a really exciting and inviting class, and it’s what got me interested in poetry. Especially the surreal and opaque stuff. Poetry as pure adventure and invention. Neruda’s “Walking Around” is what sold me.

CS: How do spirituality and religion influence your work? What about superstition? (I’m thinking of things like the foxgloves and dead crow hung above the door in “Dead Man’s Bells, Witches’ Gloves” and the horse skull above the door in “Year of the Rat” re: superstition.)

MM: I’m not a religious or superstitious person in any way, or at least not in an institutional way. I didn’t grow up going to church and I don’t have any ties to the superstitious side of my cultural roots or family background (Irish and Swedish). I’m pretty sure we turn into potting soil after it’s all said and done. Carl Sagan is my deity of choice. He has this wonderful line in Cosmos, something along the lines of: “We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.” It’s such a lovely statement. That said, religion—or at least the figure of God—enters my work from all sorts of angles. You can’t be alive and not think about God. Religion deals in great abstractions and tries to find a language for those abstractions—in this way, religion in made for poets. I think of my poem “Invocation” as being addressed to God.

CS: Interesting! I read “Invocation” as a poem about/to a loved one, perhaps one that was dying . . .

MM: I suppose I’m using the word “invocation” in the traditional, religious sense—as a direct address to a higher power.

CS: How has translating Tomas Tranströmer and your work to build Tavern Books informed or detracted from your own work?

MM: Translating Tranströmer has been one of the most transformative events in my life as a poet. He’s one of my poetry heroes, and it’s been a great honor to have gotten to know him and his family, and to have spent hundreds of hours trying to figure out how to bring a voice from one language to another. The same has been true for my work with Tavern Books—it’s been an amazing experience and a privilege to have reintroduced these lost books of poetry to the reading public. Publishing and translating poetry keeps me close to poetry—I’m working on something poetry-related all the time. It keeps the wheels greased.

CS: My painting teacher, Bruce McGaw, used to say, “Painters paint every day. If they cannot paint, they should hold a brush. If they cannot hold a brush, they should be painting in their head.” It seems to me your immersion in poetry is this way. Are you ever able to take a day off from poetry—reading, writing, thinking about, etc.—or is it a part of every day?

MM: It’s definitely a part of my everyday life. I’ve gone through long spells of writing nothing, but it’s never stressed me out. For me it’s about having an active and engaged reading life. If I’m not reading anything exciting then I’m in no mood to write. My life definitely centers on the writing of others. As for my own work, when it comes I’m grateful.

about the journal

Launching in fall 2012, Cascadia Review is an online literary collection designed to highlight the work of those in the Cascadia bioregion.

Publication in Cascadia Review requires current or former residency in the region, which includes all or part of California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, British Columbia and Alaska, along with fragments of Nevada, Wyoming and Yukon. See the FAQ page for more information. For the purposes of this publication, residency is defined as living, working, volunteering or studying in the region.

To learn more, please see the About, FAQ and Submissions pages.