Nominated by Rose Alley Press
Tatyana Mishel lives in Seattle, where she writes, edits, mentors, and gives occasional workshops when not contracting at a technology empire. The “opposite-side-of-the-poet’s-coin” is a passion for sports: trail running, swimming, skiing, triathlons, and body surfing when she gets to an ocean. Her forthcoming chapbook, Good Girl, Bad Alchemy, will be published by Pudding House Press. Tatyana also edits the online journal In Posse Review.
Rose Alley Press primarily publishes books featuring rhymed metrical poetry and an annually updated booklet about writing and publishing. Their poets offer frequent public performances.
They nominated Tatyana because: “She writes about romance, love, and sex with poignant candor. Her vivid descriptions, often within a sonnet or villanelle, reveal narrators at once lusty, vulnerable, hopeful, and lonely. Whether bawdy or reflective, her work links deepest authenticity with the concision and precision of poetic craft. Tatyana’s work continues to evolve, and she writes skillfully and provocatively about all manner of subject. I particularly value her honesty about romance. She deglamorizes but does not disdain it. She reminds us the desire for love outlives disappointment and remains at the core of our emotions.”
I'd like to promote poetry as an equal opportunity employer—accessible to anyone at any age and from any background, something that can be experienced as kick-in-the-pants fun to a life saver. I?d host events that invite people to join me and write their own poems in open forum workshops to prove you don?t have to be a "writer" or a "poet" to write and love poetry.
Waiting For The Ex To Call
Alone in the car do you know there are others,
pressing their feet onto the windows of back seats,
ironing crunchy leather with bones & ribs.
Across our thick state I stare at the phone,
crawl through rooms, waiting and waiting as
I drain salt from my body over my
body, pleating your departure into my skin.
Is there room for me in your car on a Saturday night?
I saw you speed walking hand-in-hand down
the boulevard so you didn’t lie there is a
daughter. Her chest looked at me like a camera
like she knew it was me who broke the lock
on your garden shed. Why did you leave it open,
with your journal gaping on the table. I made a few corrections:
punctuation, spelling errors, my name.