Devreaux Baker

February 7, 2020

It has been my pleasure since about 2007 to know Mendocino poet Devreaux Baker. She is the author of five full-length collections of poetry, including Hungry Ghosts; out of the bones of earth; Red Willow People; Beyond the Circumstance of Sight; and Light at the Edge. She also co-edited, with Sharon Doubiago and Susan Maeder, Wood, Water, Air and Fire, The Anthology of Mendocino Women Poets.

Baker is the recipient of numerous awards and grants, including the 2017 Joe Gouveia Outermost National Poetry Prize, the 2014 Barbara Mandigo Kelly Peace Poetry Prize from the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation, the 2012 Hawaii Council on Humanities International Poetry Prize, the 2011 PEN/Oakland Josephine Miles Poetry Award, and the 2010 Women’s Global Leadership Poetry Prize. She is a Fellow at the MacDowell Colony, the Hawthornden Castle and the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation. She lives on the magnificent Mendocino Coast in Northern California.

I hope you’ll treat yourself now to two poems by Devreaux, the first from out of the bones of earth (Wild Ocean Press, 2015); the second from her most recent collection, Hungry Ghosts (Wild Ocean Press, 2018). Please send any comments or questions you have about the work to me at kfhastings (at sign) mac (dot) com.


It began with a tin roof

sounds like silver sticks

falling from air

a dash of bird feet

despair or love at all the edges

It began with a car

gleaming bumpers

wind shield wipers forming a pattern

of lost and found

the truth of the seen versus

the unseen

It began with a picnic

wicker basket of fruit

grass still dazed from a sudden


It was spring

or was it fall

the brush of winter

woven into scarves

It arrived in the blue smell

at the base of clouds

became a dark thought

fell in torrents

released us from ourselves

It began with a mattress

on the cabin floor

the smell of wet pines

redwoods singing

in hidden groves

It came in a rush

unfolded wet knees

a vertebrae of desire

It began with your body

in the afternoon

the smell of rain

conjuring memories

silver sticks falling across

our shoulders

A dash of bird feet

on all the rooftops

of the world


My mother came for a visit

even though she died last spring.

She was standing by the foot of my bed

releasing vowels from the afterlife

smelling of moss and spring rain

on the tarmac.

Here we go again, old recipes and lectures,

I thought, stumbling out the door into the back yard

while the history of all forgotten things

was leaking out of her apron pockets

like the Andromeda strain or the Milky

Way filled with impossible features of dead stars.

All she really wanted was for me to follow

her lead in this shuffle-foot shim-sham, this

millennial foxtrot of flesh turning into

stardust, that long unwinding road

pale as beer made from wheat where

we all crowd into a room and wait for

the unmarked bus to transport us into the highlands

of the forever lands.  This is the way it feels

when she presses her hand against the small of my back.

The valley gorge that rests between my hips and heart

wakes up and smiles and even the smallest bones

like the swing when she says anything is possible

and I want to answer her but am lifted off my feet

shucking the chrysalis of my life, resurrecting the

boogie-woogie, dancing in the midnight arms

of her Stardust Lounge.

Responses to Charles Cote and Learning the Blog Biz

As I mentioned in my first entry last month, I’m new at blogging and will learn as I go. Hopefully, it won’t take too long before I can at least fake my way into something that looks like its supposed to look. “Just LOOK intelligent,” my mother told me as a child. I’ll try.

Responses to Charles Cote’s Poems

A few days ago, I posted three poems from I Play His Red Guitar by Rochester poet Charles Cote. If you read them and would like to send me a short response, please send it to kfhastings (at sign) mac (dot) com. Meanwhile, here are partial comments I received from two California poets, Gregory Randall and David Beckman. (Our cross-country conversations have begun!)

From Gregory Randall: I can see why you appreciate his work — it feels…graceful, felt, propulsive, no superfluous words and a rehabilitating of old forms to new needs. I’m eager to read more NY poets…It must take an incredibly evolved nature to turn the terrible and horrific into a poetry that can be shared and can endure (Mandelstam, Akhmatova, Hernandez…). And so, I re-read Charles Cote’s poems and realize how generous he must be to toil so hard on behalf of us, his readers, to turn his journey through loss into a journey we can all share.

From David Beckman: “I Curse You, Melanoma, Curse” is a controlled outburst of pain, driven by the courage to make of a poem a sieve through which pain is washed. For Cote, technique and vocabulary are in the service of life deeply lived and the white anger of its loss. “Tin Man Villanellle,” is a thrumming meditation on fear that both contains it and, if anything, deepens its hold…”Ultimately, these are poems that deliver what we yearn for: awe at the human spirit struggling under pressure and relief for its strength.

Other News

Congratulations, Gwynn O’Gara!

Sonoma County, California poet Gwynn O’Gara‘s new collection, Clio’s Daughter With Head on Fire has placed as a finalist in the Faulkner Society Poetry Collection contest and has won the Shirley Holden Helberg grant of $1,000 from the National League of American Pen Women, judged by Upstate New York poet Philip Memmer.

News from Jane Hirshfield

Jane Hirshfield tells me that her new book, Ledger, will be published by Penguin Random House with a publication date of March 10, 2020. Her first reading from the book will be held at the 92nd Street Y in New York City. More on this book soon.

January 25, 2020

Introducing: Charles Cote

One of the pleasures of moving to a new state has been the opportunity to hear and meet poets I had not been aware of in my old Northern California stomping grounds.  One of these poets is Charles Cote.  A few months ago, I had the pleasure of sitting with him in a Rochester café where we shared stories and work.  It gives me great satisfaction now to introduce him to you.  I’ll begin with a statement from Cote himself about his remarkable collection, I Play His Red Guitar, followed by a few poems from the book. 

Gregory Orr writes that “poetry is the thread that leads us out of the labyrinth of despair and into the light.” Poems that emerge from crisis have the power to heal and re-stabilize us. That’s what I set out to do with this collection, to fashion a container for the chaos and grief of losing a son to cancer. Kim Addonizio in Ordinary Genius writes about Eckhart Tolle’s concept of the pain body, how our despair can be seductive, a perverse drama, and that art is a creative response, a way to transcend pain and come into the light. Rumi said, Become the light. So hopefully, the poems in I Play His Red Guitar sing toward the light. Not surprisingly, I’m teaching myself to play George Harrison’s Here Comes the Sun on my son’s red guitar, and I’d say it’s all right. My intention is to help others who are grieving a terrible loss to find some solace and light in the art of poetry and any form of creative writing, to share my book with bereavement groups across the country. David Whyte talks about how poetry initiates us into a conversation with profound silence which is a kind of liberation, the place we reconnect with our most authentic self so we don’t get lost in the chaos of everyday confusion. For me, that’s essential and why I write these kind of poems.

                                                                        — Charles Cote

I Curse You, Melanoma, Curse

your humidity and bitter taste,

your fattened spiders spoiling

in metastatic corners, curse


your rotting cinders and peeling paint,

walls that bear no weight,

curse your pumps and wasted gates,


the scourge of putrid shapes,

forsaken stink in Gehenna, blackened

moles and pock-marked face.


May you drown in the bile

of your clogging drains,

choke in coagulate bags,


die with tumors that gorge

and fester, wracked

by relentless spasms


and unbearable break-through

pain, over-medicated, rotting

in a vat of tasteless radon.


Tin Man Villanelle

Fear’s the tail that wags the beast,

the scarecrow skitters in the straw.

Oz never did give nothing?  Please.


As famine trumps the wedding feast,

a wife will find a husband’s flaws.

Fear the tail that wags the beast,


the bit of leaven that bloats the yeast.

A swollen tongue.  A rusty jaw.

Oz never gives nothing, see?


He’s the one who would be last but never least,

who wouldn’t know his license from the law.

Fear’s the tail that wags that beast


as far as west is west and east is east,

as cooked is good and bad is raw:

Oz never did give nothing.  Please,


your gold is lead, your wallet fleeced.

Your house is cold.  The pipes won’t thaw.

Fear’s the tail that wags the beast.

Oz never did give nothing?  Please.


My Body

takes the shape of graves in church yards, of blossoms

falling off the tree, the roots of rhododendron

on backdoor paths.  I press its hunger


into the osprey’s nest, a branch curled

toward heaven, rapt beaks and claws, an ache

in every soft belly.  My body hangs


between a sycamore and black walnut,

between shale defining the shore, wind chimes

bright in the rafters.  It spills


out to the marsh, to the heron’s grace

in the current’s meditation, lazing open

to the sea.  My body, a diamond lair, a gaslit


labyrinth, a timbered kingdom that takes

the shape of flame before match strikes flint,

that listens to catbirds mewling for space


in flits and calls, brother to cardinals and crows,

gathering what it can of this spoken world.


All poems shared with the permission of the author. 


You can order I Play My Red Guitar by going to

Please send your reactions, comments or questions about this work to me at kfhastings (at sign) mac (dot) com.


“Yet you shall sometimes find the lotus flowering

In the mortal mind’s so narrow room..”

— Babette Deutsch, “The Lotus”

January 18, 2020


As you know from reading the introductory page, this website has, as just one of its purposes, a desire to bring together the work of poets from New York and California. When you walk to the poetry section of your local bookstore you are certain to see works by Emily Dickinson, Pablo Neruda, Mary Oliver, Walt Whitman and a few others. But unless you are in a store like City Lights in San Francisco, you may not have a clue as to the hundreds of other poets who have books out that might also call to you.

Because we left Northern California for Upstate New York, in part, as a result of the October 2017 wildfires in Sonoma County, I’m going to start this blog off with a poem by Santa Rosa poet, Jodi Hottel. It appears in her chapbook Out of the Ashes, a collection she dedicates to the 42 people killed in the fires and to the first responders who put their lives on the line.


First, came orange incandescence

            from beyond the hills.

Then wind and embers, clearing the way

            for a roaring flame-river.

When it passed — ash-fall,

            sigh of silence.


Second came the uncertain waiting

            for the gut punch or the guilt of relief,

the ghostly images sent by satellite

            where red means green

and white means gone.


The visits to a changed-same landscape

            of black spires and brick monuments,

parked skeletons, sad sifters, searchers for felines.

            then the flood of insurers and law firms

clamoring to be first.


Third came a deluge of videos, each a blow

            to the brain, vision of hellfire

that blew through our neighborhood.

            And the telling of tales —

each devastating or heartening but singular.


Soon came the saws, falling redwoods

            and ancient oaks, the stumps.

Shiny guardrails replacing

            charred, twisted ones.

Then a held breath.


Later, hazmat suits of white,

            blue tents, floodlights, trucks

roaming a moonscape.  Close behind,

            the front-loaders, breaking earth

and silence.  Coyote howls.


Then came sprouts of promise,

            earth resilience, responding to

the lure of rain, beacon of velvet hills

            trimmed with singed-oak lace,

hooped straw-wattles.


Backhoe-clangs, tractor-trailer deluge,

            night and day, weeks and weeks,

leaving cleared lots, for-sale signs.

            Vacancy awaits the inevitable —

contractors, architects, surveyors.


I hunger for a poured foundation,

            fresh lumber, barrage of hammers.

My eyes search for leaf-sprout, yellow

            peeping from deeply buried bulbs,

spot Canada geese on their return journey.


Jodi Hottel’s previous chapbooks are Voyeur from WordTech Press (2017); Heart Mountain, winner of the 2012 Blue Light Press Poetry Prize, and Through a New Lens, 2015. She lives in the Larkfield neighborhood of Santa Rosa, CA.