A reminder to writers: publishing takes time. This idea came to me in 2023. I wrote the essay over time, submitted it to The Newarker in February, and now, 6 months later, here it is. That timeline is worth sharing because it’s so easy to look at a published piece and imagine it happened quickly. Usually, it didn’t. Keep writing. Keep revising. Keep submitting. Be patient with your work. Woo!

And one more thing for writers: do not sleep on your local zines, magazines, newspapers, and literary sites. I love submitting to New Jersey-based publications, and local outlets can be a great way to get your work in front of readers who already care about the places and communities you’re writing about.

ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWARK (Excerpt)

You don’t orient yourself toward something insignificant. You don’t measure distance from a place that doesn’t matter. Newark remains a reference point, whether people realize it or not.

No matter where I am in New Jersey, and often well beyond it, there is always a sign pointing me home.

Literally. Sometimes it’s small, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. Sometimes it’s massive, hovering over lanes of traffic in reflective white letters: NEWARK. Five miles away or a hundred, I always find a Newark sign. I often say it out loud, half joking, half certain: I’ll never get lost. I’ll always get home. Again, literally. Even without a GPS, even without a plan, I trust that the signs will do their job.

My family’s roots in Newark run deep enough that directions feel inherited. My father was born and raised in the Ironbound, Brill Street. My mother grew up in the North Ward, anchored by the Cathedral and Branch Brook Park. The Newark Fire Department has been a constant in my family, less an institution than a throughline, a reminder that some forms of service and commitment endure across generations.

I lived in the Ironbound myself for many years, first by Krug’s and then a few feet from Nasto’s, before buying the North Ward home my mother grew up in, after the last relative who had lived there passed away. I’ve been in the house for more than ten years now. My mother often comments when she visits, “I even think the house is happy.” I don’t talk about it as settling down; it feels more like settling in. I have no real intention of leaving.

Every single day, I pass through Branch Brook Park. The park changes constantly—bare branches, green canopies, falling leaves—every season is my favorite. For about three weeks each spring (Cherry Blossom Season), I joke that everyone suddenly wants to visit Newark. The traffic in my neighborhood swells in a way I usually associate with shore towns in July. Out-of-town cars crawl along Lake Street, Heller Parkway, and Park Ave. Visitors wander, wide-eyed, as if surprised by beauty they weren’t expecting to find here. Then the blossoms fall, the crowds thin, and the park returns to those of us who never left…continue reading in The Newarker.

Listen Now

and I talked about poetry, of course. We talked about process and ego, about where poems come from and what happens after they are publicly consumed. But we also talked about death, survivor’s guilt and human suffering, death planning in families, community, and existing in physical and digital spaces. I give all the advice I could think of!

Inevitably, we talked about artificial intelligence. One of the things I find most interesting right now is the strange overlap between people who plagiarize and people who use generative AI. They aren’t identical things, obviously. But there is a shared question underneath both: What do you believe you are entitled to take from another person’s work without acknowledging the person who made it?

We talk art, authorship, and attention. Something we kept chatting about in different ways was community, because I don’t think writers get where they get alone. This is something I feel more strongly the longer I am in this world. Whatever success I have had as a writer is due to other people. Other people gave my books a chance, reviewed, and recommended my books to friends. Other people invited me into rooms… for example, I wouldn’t have been able to publish on the HuffPost regularly for over a year, 10 years ago, if a stranger who believed in me hadn’t pitched me to her editor!

So, yeah, the mythology of the solitary writer has always seemed a little strange to me. We live in a time when some writers who have enormous audiences barely interact with the people who made their careers possible.

I’ve never really understood that. If someone invests in my work, I want to know that person exists. That doesn’t mean a writer owes everyone access or that boundaries aren’t always necessary. And that led to a larger question running underneath this entire conversation: How do we remain people while making things for public consumption? Especially when the internet often encourages us to turn ourselves into brands instead of allowing ourselves to remain complicated, private, contradictory human beings.

The conversation gets into all of this, but it also gets into the much more ordinary questions of what it actually means to be a writer: Why do we write? What are we trying to make? What do we owe the people who read us? What do we owe the people whose stories, suffering, experiences, and language inevitably become part of the material we work with? What happens to the ego when the work becomes bigger than the person who made it?

If you’ve ever wondered about the machinery behind a poem, the ego behind a career, the community behind an “individual” success story, or why grief is forever, I think you’ll find something in this hour-long conversation.

Listen Now

PS. I will be signing books in Livingston, NJ, on August 23.

I’ve been invited to be part of the opening month celebration for the brand-new Barnes & Noble in Livingston, NJ!

On Sunday, August 23, from 12:00 to 3:00 p.m. ET, I’ll be signing my poetry books and chatting with readers in the store’s awesome new location.

If anyone reading this is in the area, please stop by!

Sunday, August 23
12:00 - 3:00 p.m.
Barnes & Noble
530 W. Mt. Pleasant Ave.
Livingston, NJ

Every time I’m in a bookstore, and I see my books on the shelf, I make a point to thank whoever’s working there for stocking them. And they usually say, “Well, they sell!” or something honest like that.

But I thank them because they absolutely do NOT have to stock my books. I don’t think most people realize how quickly books move through the publishing world. After about a year, a book is generally considered “backlist.” New books are arriving every single week, shelf space is limited, and bookstores have to make weekly difficult decisions about what stays and what goes.

So when I walk into a store and see books I published 10, 7, and 3 years ago still sitting on those shelves, I make sure to say “thank you.”

Independent bookstores and national chains alike are still giving my books precious shelf space. They’re still believing they’re worth discovering. And it’s working for me because I hear from readers quite a bit that they “found my book(s) by accident,” just by looking at a bookshelf.

And then there are the stores that invite me in to sign them! These are not new books! A signing isn’t just, “Hey, your book exists.” It’s, “We think people are still excited enough about your VERY OLD work that we want signed copies on our shelves.”

That is such an incredible vote of confidence, especially years after publication. I will never get used to this. It still feels like I’m watching a dream unfold right in front of me, and I am terrified that I will wake up.

I hope you are all having a wonderful and peaceful summer,

Alicia

The poem began in 2023 after I attended a WGA picket line and spotted a sign that read: “Robots are Scabs.” I snapped a photo, and the poem grew from that moment. Here’s the pic:

A huge thank you to Arcana Poetry Press for publishing the piece as part of their series, Utterly Human: In Defense of the Imperfect, the Embodied, and the Creaturely.

And WRITERS: if you’re looking for a welcoming home for your own work, Arcana is currently accepting submissions for this series through August 26, 2026. They’re a wonderful press to work with, and I wholeheartedly encourage you to send them your writing!

ROBOTS ARE SCABS
By Alicia Cook

During the strike,
the execs spoke about the writers

the way morticians speak of the dead:
already gone.

They alleged the secondhand
thinkers would only “assist.”

As though a murderer
only assists the knife.

And isn’t “scab”
the perfect word for it?

Not only a traitor, but the body’s
own hard response to injury.

Every prompt stuffed into the mouth of AI
should feel like crossing a line.

They do not want art.
Art is slow. Art calls in sick—

misses deadlines grieving her mother,
writes terrible drafts at 2:14 in the morning

then suddenly lands one clever sentence
worth all that human suffering.

The execs say the robots
can impersonate us near perfectly.

But if that were true,
the robots, too, would refuse to work

until every worker beside it
came home fed.

Hiya!

I had totally planned to take a summer break from sending you weekly notes. HOWEVER, I do have some poetry events coming up in the great state of New Jersey that I wanted you to be aware of!

Sunday, June 28 at 3 pm ET: Poetry reading + Book Signing at the Madison Community Arts Center in Madison, NJ (Hosted by Arts by the People). More info.

Saturday, July 11 at 6 pm ET: Mourning Papers reading event at Howling Basset Books in Lambertville, NJ (Hosted by Bury Me in New Jersey). More info.

August Date/Time TBD: More to come on this, but I think I am doing a poetry book signing as part of the new Barnes & Noble opening in Livingston, NJ.

Enjoy the rest of June, everyone!

Alicia

I’ve also spent years bringing blackout poetry into classrooms during National Poetry Month, working with students of all ages to show that poetry can be accessible, playful, surprising, and transformative.

That’s why I’m SO excited to share I’ll be teaching a four-week online course, Blackout Poetry and the Art of Erasure, beginning Wednesday, July 22, 2026. The class meets weekly via Zoom on Wednesdays from 7:00 - 9:00 PM ET.

You can learn more, and even enroll if you want to, here.

Partnering with allows me to expand this work far beyond the schools and communities I’ve traditionally visited and connect with writers from all over. Whether you’re completely new to blackout poetry or looking to sharpen an existing practice, this class is designed to be hands-on, generative, and welcoming.

Over four weeks, we’ll explore things like:

• The history and evolution of blackout and erasure poetry
• Craft techniques that create strong poems under constraint
• Self-erasure as a radical revision tool
• The ethics of working with source material
• How public speeches, personal writing, and found texts can be transformed into new art

By the end of the course, participants will leave with a portfolio of original work, a repeatable creative process, and practical tools for incorporating erasure techniques into future projects.

Blackout poetry is so much more than just crossing out words with a Sharpie! It’s an act of discovery and a reminder that sometimes what we remove can be just as powerful as what we choose to keep.

Just a quick note about an upcoming poetry event!

On Sunday, June 28, I’ll be one of four writers featured by Arts by the People at the Madison Community Arts Center.

I’ll be joined by Jin Cordaro, Michael T. Young, and Gary J. Whitehead for this quarterly in-person series celebrating local writers through readings and conversation.

I’ll be reading from and discussing my newest poetry collection, More Stuff I’ve Been Feeling Lately, and reflecting on how it connects to Stuff I’ve Been Feeling Lately as that book marks its tenth anniversary.

Entry is free. There will be a reading, Q&A, and book signing. It begins at 3:00 p.m. ET. I’d love to see you there!

Special shout-out to my poet friend and fellow Jersey Girl, Alise Versella, for getting me involved in this series!

My debut poetry collection, Stuff I’ve Been Feeling Lately, is celebrating its tenth anniversary throughout 2026. It’s surreal to think this book has spent a decade out in the world. What feels even stranger is realizing how much writing from that same era never made it onto the page at all.

To celebrate ten years of Stuff, I released MORE Stuff I’ve Been Feeling Lately, a collection of poems I wrote during that time but never published. Looking back now, some of my favorite lines live in these pages, which is wild considering they almost stayed hidden forever.

I often tell emerging writers, or anyone asking for tips and tricks, to never delete work. Save it for a rainy day. What you can’t crack today may be a part of your breakthrough days, weeks, months, or years from now!

For funsies, I want to share ten lines from More Stuff that I love with you all, with no context. If you want, you can grab the entire collection for just $10.99.

10 Lines from More Stuff I’ve Been Feeling Lately:

1: “Certain things wake you, 
and keep waking you,”
I respond.
“Like birds. Like grief.”

2: I never had a reason to believe in Heaven,
or any other plane of existence,
until all my favorite people started leaving.

3: Bad news doesn’t always sneak in 
in the middle of the night. 
Sometimes your heart is broken 
in beautiful, direct sunlight. 

4: I’d rather bleed-out from a truth than drip-feed a persona. 

5: I try to recall the last time we raised our glasses to “the good life” instead of drinking away our bad news.

6: If I close my eyes tightly enough, I can still conjure up the muffled co-existence and the soft thud of my own childhood running down the hall on Christmas morning.

7: I deleted MySpace once I realized
half of my Top 8 were dead.

8: But I am not shallow and sick.
I am depth and durability.
Maybe that’s why all of my exes
are still a little bit in love with me.

9: My mother told me
I loved an unlovable person
for as long as I could.

10: If you ask me if I’m lonely,
we must be strangers.

In 2021, during Mental Health Awareness Month, I delivered a commencement address at Georgian Court University in New Jersey. My parents still praise my remarks and listen to the recording, and recently, a handful of GCU alums came to my book signing to talk about that day from 5 years ago.

I’m a 2008 alumna of Georgian Court and I was the University’s 2020 Distinguished Alumna of the Year. Since 2021, I’ve also been on GCU’s Board. I spoke at the first of the four in-person commencements the Institution held during the pandemic.

I used my 8 minutes up on stage (I was given way more than that, but chose to be succinct) not to speak about my own accomplishments, but to address the mental health issues many young adults are facing, after spending 14+ months living through a global pandemic. I said, “Unprecedented times make for unprecedented minds.” I encouraged graduates to keep going, even when they don’t think they can.

“You don’t have to be at your best to achieve greatness, but you do have to keep going. So even on days when I don’t want to get out of bed, on days I feel like there is no point, I still get out of that bed, I still do the pointless things…Because trying is progress,” I shared. “The great secret of continuing on even when you don’t want to, or don’t think you can, is that you’ll always be grateful that you never gave up on yourself. You’ll always be grateful that you kept going. You’ll never regret it.”

Once I watched the recording, I could see that graduates were paying attention as I spoke, with very few students looking down at their phones. A win! In my remarks, I acknowledged the harsh uniqueness of the graduates’ experiences and expressed condolences for all they had to forego during that time.

I said, “Every single person here today is living a life they never saw coming and has had to make sacrifices and postpone things and has had to grieve something or someone over the last year. If we all tried to count how many versions of ourselves were sacrificed in exchange for the people we are today, we would quickly lose count. What matters is your resiliency bubbled to the surface, and you are here today, accomplishing this monumental achievement.”

I neared the end of my remarks with a call to action: “You, class of 2021, are the architects for a better world. We need you. You very well might have a once-in-a-generation opportunity to rebuild this planet, starting at the studs. I know you’ll make it a more compassionate, respectful, empathetic, just, and kind place to live. Go out and do good.”

So why am I sharing this? Well, it’s once again Mental Health Awareness Month, which always happens in May, the same month that higher ed institutions hold commencements. College commencements have been in the news lately, mostly for AI screw-ups and speakers talking out of school. I think a lot of commencement speakers forget that the day is not about them, it’s about the grads. You can check out my full commencement address if you want!

PS. It’s still on my bucket list to receive an honorary degree! Being a speaker during the pandemic didn’t warrant me one, I guess! So, if you are on a higher ed Board and looking for people to nominate next year, think of me!

Hey, everyone,

My poem “Springtime in New Jersey Cemeteries” has been published in Mourning Papers, a literary magazine about grief, joy, resistance, and New Jersey. It’s put out twice a year by Bury Me in New Jersey.

I originally wrote this poem in 2017, and a version of it appears in my poetry book, I Hope My Voice Doesn’t Skip. When I saw the Mourning Papers accepted previously published work, I knew I had to submit this one.

I did revise it a bit to make it more specific to Jersey. Which was fun! I hope you enjoy it!

Springtime in New Jersey Cemeteries

I.

It is 1996. I am a child, holding my great grandmother’s hand in Holy Cross Cemetery as we weave between the tombstones. I free myself and begin walking very close to the graves of strangers.

“Do not walk directly on top of them,” she warns. “Do not disrespect the dead like that.”

II.

Three years later, I sit at my great grandmother’s funeral in that same cemetery. My younger siblings play hide and seek behind the stones and trees.

“Don’t disrespect the dead like that,” I repeat, not totally sure at the time what that means.

III.

Many years later, a toddler holds my hand in Gates of Heaven as we follow the procession to the tent. “Where are we?” he asks. “We are at a park,” I lie, instead of explaining mortality.

“But people don’t cry in parks,” he says back.

IV.

Not long after that, my very alive parents learn their cemetery is developing new land and decide now’s the time to purchase their plots. They buy a few extra in case my husband and I decide we want to rest there, too.

“Sure. Bury me in New Jersey,” I declare, indifferent to the details beyond that.


V. 

My father returns to Belleville with East Hanover graveyard dirt under his nails.
He tells me, “It’s not really Easter until you visit your dead.”

National Poetry Month arrives, and suddenly I’m in classrooms, libraries, auditoriums, and cafeterias, moving between worlds that are wildly different on paper but remarkably similar in spirit. This year alone, I was welcomed into a ton of schools, totaling 11 different visits from me, speaking to HUNDREDS of students between 7th and 12th grade. Public schools, private schools; suburban districts and city campuses.

Sometimes I’m there to read poems. Sometimes I’m asked to talk about the intersection of creativity and mental health. Other times, I’m guiding students through blackout poetry workshops, or speaking candidly about addiction and the way writing and my advocacy added light to my life at a time when I had little hope to cling to.

Across all the school visits this year, the conversations tended to converge. Educators in the room kept asking me two things:

1) “What do you think about AI?” (That’s a longer conversation for another day.)

2) “Should the arts be cut from schools in an effort to balance the budget?”

Across the country, when school systems face financial strain, arts programs are often the first to be reduced or eliminated. Music, theater, visual arts, and creative writing are frequently framed as “extras,” as enrichment rather than essential. According to national education data, schools serving higher percentages of low-income students are significantly more likely to lack access to robust arts programming altogether. In some districts, students may go years without a single dedicated arts class. UGH.

As a product of a poorly funded public school system myself (from K-10), I truly believe that cutting the arts is a disservice. In fact, it’s downright harmful. Because it was during those years that I really started to believe I could be a writer. And it was thanks, in large part, to my English teachers and arts education teachers.

We don’t question the place of athletics in schools, even in times of financial stress. We understand, almost instinctively, that sports offer more than competition. They build discipline, teamwork, resilience, and a sense of belonging. They keep students engaged, connected, and often, in school. The “powers that be” really believe that getting someone into sports can “get them” to bigger stages, like, say, college.

BUT, I am living proof that the arts do the same!

In every school I visited, I watched students who might not otherwise raise their hands find a way in. A blackout poem becomes a low-stakes entry point for a student who’s hesitant to write from scratch. A discussion about lyrics opens the door for critical thinking about language, tone, and intention. A conversation about mental health shifts when students are given creative tools to articulate what they’re experiencing rather than just name it.

Study after study has shown that students engaged in the arts demonstrate stronger academic outcomes, improved attendance, and increased graduation rates. Just like athletics. They develop sharper critical thinking skills, stronger communication abilities, and greater emotional intelligence. Arts education has also been linked to reduced anxiety and improved overall mental health. The mental health of it all is something educators are acutely aware is no longer a peripheral concern, but a central one.

But beyond the data, there’s something harder to quantify and just as important. The arts give students a sense of agency. A sense of BELONGING.

Students always wait to talk to me one-on-one after the group clears out. They confide in me, they share their own art with me. One student this month told me, after a presentation, “I didn’t know I was allowed to write about that.” That sentence alone is reason enough to keep the arts exactly where they are… hey, expand them while we are at it.

Cutting the arts means removing one of the few places in a school day where students are invited to process, imagine, question, and connect. We’re narrowing the definition of what learning looks like at a moment when we should be broadening it.

So when educators ask me whether the arts should be cut, my answer is an anthemic “NO!” Not because every student will become a poet or a musician or an actor, but because every student benefits from the skills those disciplines cultivate. Because creativity is not separate from learning; it is a form of it. Even if I didn’t “make it” in my industry, I would still be creating.

So, the question isn’t whether we can afford to keep the arts in schools. It’s whether we can afford not to.

And I am here to tell you that we can’t afford that loss, we just can’t.

If you’re not familiar, wildscape is a newer online literary and art magazine publishing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and visual art. They publish quarterly issues that are free and accessible to everyone, which feels especially meaningful in a time when access to art can feel increasingly gated.

I’m honored to have this poem included among such vibrant, emotionally resonant work.

A sincere thank you to Ophelia Monet for including me and for building a space that champions emerging and established voices alike with such care and intention.

If you have a moment, I’d love for you to read it. And please please please click through the new issue!

You Tell Me It’s Just Weather
by Alicia Cook

I say the air
is raining gasoline,
that the sky
has traded its blue
for bruised clouds
the color of old blood.

You tell me, “It’s just weather.”
That the wind is carrying smoke
from somewhere else,
not here.
Never here.

But I can’t unsee
the rooftops alight in a false dawn,
the chimneys coughing black shadows,
the river boiling, spitting up
the bones of fish.

You laugh—claim
sunsets have always
looked like this.
Artificial. 

I keep pointing out the obvious;
the red smolder of shingles,
the crooked bridge sagging
like the spine of a tired beast.

You fold your arms,
close your eyes,
shake your head,
blame my paranoid imagination.

But these days
silence 
is an accelerant. 
Your apathy
tastes of cinders. 

And when the last house
is only an ember,
and everything we’ve ever had
is burned to the ground—
you’ll ask me why
I never warned you.

As always, thank you for being here, for reading, for continuing to make space for poetry in your life.

Xx,

Alicia

April 1986: Gail and Alicia Cook in Branch Brook Park

I was born in April
but I was due in May.
My mother says I arrived early
thanks to the steps
of the three-story walkup 
she had to trudge up 
and down every day.
I was born in April
inside the hospital 
I still pass every day.
I was born in April
and my father says
the cherry blossoms
clung to their branches
longer than usual that year
because they wanted to meet me.

This poem is from my book, The Music Was Just Getting Good.

In that same park recently.

I wanted to share this episode of the PBS documentary Here’s the Story that I was recently part of. You can watch it here.

The episode brings together 4 writers whose work appeared in the literary mag Beach Badge. Thanks go to Patrick Tandy, who built something that could hold all of these voices at once, first on the page and now on screen.

And I keep coming back to Steve Rogers, the executive producer of Here’s the Story, who I first worked with 10 years ago on another episode of Here’s the Story. It is not often in life that you get to return to something, to a person or a project that knew you in a different time and in a different version of yourself, and find that the thread is still there, steady and intact.

When I watched the episode, I realized that Steve had woven 10-year-old footage from that first appearance into it. I did not know it was coming. That 2016 episode was filmed at a time when I was marking 10 years since my cousin Jess died, and so much of what I was writing then was rooted in grief and in the attempt to make something livable out of it.

Ten years have passed again since then. Holy crap. How?

And then, suddenly, there I was on the screen, the 29-year-old I was then, alongside the woman I am now. Over the b-roll, my present-day voice was reading an essay that laid bare how long I had been fighting against myself. Seeing those two versions of me side by side was jarring, not going to lie. I teared up, not because it was sad, exactly, but because it held who I was then and who I am now in the same emotional frame. And my, how much healthier I am today.

The whole episode is worth the watch, but you can watch what I am talking about around minute mark 21:48.

To see your life like that, even briefly, is to understand how quickly it moves, how much it carries, and how little of it we get to hold onto in any fixed way. This life, my friends, is fleeting.

I am grateful to have been included in this episode, and grateful for the chance to keep doing this work in whatever form it takes.

If you are in New Jersey, you can watch it on NJ PBS on Saturday at 6:30 p.m. or Sunday at 10:30 a.m. ET And if you are elsewhere, you can stream it at the link above.

Some fun news! I’m part of an upcoming episode of Here’s the Story on NJ PBS titled “Ya Got Your Beach Badge?”, airing April 22 at 8 pm ET.

About 10 years ago, I appeared in an earlier episode of this garden state documentary series (that ep was called “A Family Disease”), so returning to work again with Steve Rogers felt full circle. A decade is both a short time and a long time, depending…

This time, I’m a small part of this literary episode, which follows four writers reflecting on their relationship to writing. Each of us reads from work that appeared in Beach Badge, a New Jersey literary magazine rooted in the shoreline.

I think the episode itself is interested in place and craft, and in how certain physical places (and nostalgia) hold language.

As NJ PBS puts it: “In this episode of Here’s the Story, producer Steve Rogers embarks on a literary journey along the Jersey shore to explore how one man’s passion for the coast became a celebration of its stories. Through the pages of ‘Beach Badge,’ publisher Patrick Tandy has created a home for evocative reflections from writers, up and down the shoreline.”

Even though I share essay work in the episode, it still feels aligned with Poetry Month to me because it’s really about attention, and voice, and shaping experience into something that can be held and shared.

If you’re in New Jersey, I hope you’ll consider watching it live on your local NJ PBS channel; supporting public media in real time matters!! And if you’re elsewhere (or just prefer to stream), you can watch it here.

Hi! If you’re looking to spend Poetry Month inside a book (or 12), here are some collections that I personally recommend that I have read over the last few years. In no particular order!

Poetry Books I Personally Recommend:

: Honeybee
Oldie but goodie. Tender, aching, and deeply accessible, this collection explores love, identity, and healing in a voice that meets you where you are emotionally. Mateer has a way of making vulnerability feel like strength. Here is my very short but honest review of this book.

: Maenads of the 21st Century
Rooted in feminine rage and power, this collection reimagines the myth of the maenads in a modern world. It’s for readers drawn to poetry that is both mythic and contemporary, where desire, defiance, and voice refuse to be contained. Here is my review of this book.

: my father’s eyes, my mother’s rage
This is a poetry book I’ve recommended before, especially for someone looking for poetry on generational, childhood, and family trauma. Here is my review of her newest book, too!

Central Avenue Poetry Prize 2026 (Anthology)
Anthologies are perfect for discovering new voices and styles without committing to just one. You’re almost guaranteed to find at least a few poets you’ll want to follow immediately.

: Paper Girl and the Knives That Made Her
This one is heavy but so necessary. It’s about survival, transformation, and the ways we carry what’s tried to break us. Readers who appreciate visceral, image-driven poetry will appreciate this book. Here is my review of this book.

Warsan Shire: Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth
A modern classic for a reason. Shire’s work is deeply rooted in diaspora, womanhood, and generational pain, yet it feels incredibly personal. Her language is both delicate and devastating. I’ve been a fan for many, many years.

: Black Girl, Call Home
This collection explores identity, race, and belonging. Mans writes with a spoken-word energy that translates powerfully onto the page. Watch Jasmine’s spoken word videos on social media or YouTube. Thank me later!

Alicia Cook: The Music Was Just Getting Good
I have to include myself here! lol. I chose this book because so many people are connecting to my grief poems on social media right now, and this collection is deeply rooted in grief. If you’re navigating loss in any form, this book was written with you in mind.

Sylvia Plath: The Colossus or Ariel: The Restored Edition
Gotta give you two from the GOAT. These are two recs if you want Plath as close to her own voice as possible (and by that I mean with minimal or no editorial influence from Ted Hughes (YAY!)). The Colossus shows her early brilliance, while the restored Ariel offers a version truer to her original vision. Both are electric and haunting. UGH.

Anne Sexton: The Complete Poems
I am currently reading this big collection. Immersive and intense, Sexton’s work dives headfirst into mental health, motherhood, and mortality.

: Great Goddesses: Life Lessons from Myths and Monsters
I loved this book immediately, and probably read it three times. Mythology reimagined through a feminist, poetic lens. Nikita’s voice is one of the most fearless ones out there right now, so read all her work. Here is my review of another one of her poetry books.

: Bellyache
Soft and reflective, this collection leans into healing. It’s a good entry point for newer poetry readers while still offering depth. You can read my review of the book here.

Bonus: Add to Your TBR (Upcoming Releases):

TJ McGowan: A Funeral of Strangers Gathered Over a Body of Thought
I know this is gonna be good. That’s why he’s the only solo-dude on the list. The title alone promises something cerebral and haunting. I can’t wait to read it.

: Set the Bone
I had the privilege of reading an early copy. Stacia’s poems are sharp and musical, full of impressive alliteration and imagery. One of my favorite couplets in the collection captures that balance perfectly: “Breathe in butterflies, breathe out beetles.” It’s delicate and unsettling at once, much like the emotional terrain the book travels. You can read my full review here.

For the most part, being a writer means being alone. I’ve always understood that as part of the deal. My introverted spirit loves the autonomy, the ability to disappear into the process of writing.

But over the years, and especially in the last two, I’ve found myself in more collaborative spaces—working with musicians, songwriters, and most recently, a composer and an opera singer who have adapted my debut poetry book into an operatic song cycle.

From the very beginning of that project, I kept saying the same thing to them, “I’m just happy to be here!”

And I meant it in the most literal sense. Because collaboration, at least the way I’ve experienced it, isn’t about constantly contributing or proving your value in the room. It’s about just being in the room, period.

Writers don’t get a lot of “rooms” like that. We get the long stretch of making something out of nothing, and then, if we’re lucky, we hand it off. The life of the work usually unfolds somewhere else, without us, in readers’ hands.

But, with collaboration, even when your part is technically done, you stay. Or you should stay, at least.

For example, there were days throughout the song cycle collaboration where I wasn’t actively doing anything new that felt urgent or necessary. Most days, actually, lol. The source material they were working with was words I had written over 10 years ago! But Evan Mack (the composer) and Meg Marino (mezzo-soprano) would be actively working through sections (again and again), making choices I never had to consider when the work was still just words.

And I was there for all of it. Sometimes, sitting up and listening closely. Sometimes offering a thought. And a LOT of the time (like the picture above), just stretched out on a couch.

It’s funny, that image. It looks like I’m not working. But I was there…and I think that might be the work.

To stay present in a process that isn’t centered on you. To resist the instinct to disappear once your role feels “complete.” To witness the evolution of something you made without trying to control it.

Because another thing collaboration does is totally loosen your grip!

These are words I wrote over ten years ago. They belonged to a different version of me, living a different life, trying to understand something in the only way I knew how. And now they’re being sung. Interpreted.

They’re not mine in the same way anymore. They are part Evan’s, part Meg’s. And I am here for that.

I’ve learned more than I expected just by being in those rooms. Not in a formal, sit-down-and-teach-me way, but in the underlying accumulation that happens when you’re paying attention even a little bit. Almost like an apprenticeship. I’ve learned mic technique from a star opera singer just because I was there. And then there’s the composer who doesn’t just write straightforward music, but annotates emotion into the score in a way that feels almost literary.

Evan’s compositions are instructions for how to exist inside a moment. I’ve watched him revise in real time, not just adjusting melody or timing, but the emotional architecture of a line. Adding markings like outburst, reticent, SHOUT, or an inaudible, triggered thought, and tenderly and a tad slower. Other times: grumble more than pitch, stunned, becoming too self-aware.

Collaboration has given me a new way to experience my own OLD work. Because by sitting there, watching that translation happen, I started to understand my work differently. Writing will always be, for me, a largely solitary act. That’s where the work begins. But it doesn’t have to end there!

There’s something so very rare and special about sitting in a room where creation is happening in real time, where other people’s talents and instincts are shaping something you recognize but don’t fully own anymore.

And that’s why, whenever I could, I reminded them that “I’m just happy to be here.”

Today, the anthology holding my poem and others is here!

Check it Out

I highly recommend this anthology to any poetry lover. It’s a wonderful way to discover new voices and connect with a diverse range of poets.

“The Squirrel Made His Way” is a departure from my usual style. I was re-reading a LOT of Sylvia Plath at the time and thought, whimsically, “I could write like this.” Since I am pretty sure squirrels have once again found their way into the walls of my home…the timing of this release is very funny to me.

April is poetry month, and I’m lucky to be booked and busy! Join me at any of my public events this month:

• April 2, 7:00 p.m. ET: Free Workshop: “Publishing Paths & Practical Advice for Writers,” Noble Quills, Easton, PA

• April 6: Private school visit for poetry month

• April 11, 1:00 p.m. ET: Poetry Reading/Book Signing alongside Brianna Pastor, Chapter One Books, Mendham, NJ

• April 14: Private school visit for poetry month

• April 15: Private school visit for poetry month

• April 19, 1:00 p.m. - 3:00 p.m. ET*: Book signing, Barnes and Noble, Brick, NJ

• April 20, 6:30 - 8:30 p.m. ET*: Book signing, Barnes and Noble, Paramus, NJ

• April 22: Private school visit for poetry month

• April 22, 8:00 p.m. ET: A new episode of the NJ-based documentary series “Here’s the Story” will air this day. I am on the episode!! Tune in on NJ PBS! More details.

• April 23, 7:00 p.m. ET: I will be speaking, sharing poetry, and signing books at “A Space to Create: The Art of Becoming” in Dover, NJ. More details forthcoming.

• April 24 - April 30: Out of Office, see you in May!

*At the Barnes and Noble events: I am gifting a *free copy* of my *new* poetry book to the first 10 readers at each signing who buy any of my books at the store!

Hey, there,

You know me, I share my rejections and the reality that rejection is always a part of publishing work.

But this month, 9 of my poems were accepted across 4 literary journals and magazines.

After publishing my full-length poetry book, The Music Was Just Getting Good, in 2024, I set goals in 2025 and 2026 to get individual poems in reputable writing spaces, such as Rattle. Rejection has been the majority of the outcome, which makes March so rewarding.

As the publications roll out, I will share these poems with you. They are mostly new! Written over the last year and a half, maybe. Mostly focused on grief. But here are the titles and where they will be:

• Lessons from the Grief Police: If There’s Anything I Can Do, an upcoming anthology from Melia Stern

• Departed Dreams: If There’s Anything I Can Do, an upcoming anthology from Melia Stern

• Maybe Maybe Maybe Maybe Maybe: If There’s Anything I Can Do, an upcoming anthology from Melia Stern

• Half Anticipating You to Flinch: Unfinished Conversations, an upcoming anthology from Quillkeepers Press

• Little Universes: Unfinished Conversations, an upcoming anthology from Quillkeepers Press

• The Injustice of It: Unfinished Conversations, an upcoming anthology from Quillkeepers Press

• Is it July Where You Are?: Unfinished Conversations, an upcoming anthology from Quillkeepers Press

• Springtime in New Jersey Cemeteries: Mourning Papers Vol. 2 from Bury Me in New Jersey

• You Tell Me it’s Just Weather: Wildscape Literary Journal

PS. You might remember me sharing the news a long time ago that my poem, The Squirrel Made His Way, won the 2026 Central Avenue Poetry Prize. I am SO CLOSE to finally sharing this poem that I first wrote way back in April 2024. The anthology with the poem comes out March 31, and I plan on sharing the text of the poem soon after!

PPS. I was also rejected this month. By Barrow Street and Beyond Words Magazine!