August 20 is the deadline to sign up for the online open mic August 23.
Poetry
October 24, 2020
The West Tisbury Library presents an online poetry reading with local poet Amarylis Douglas, Wednesday at 5 p.m.
November 10, 2020
The online reading is scheduled for Nov. 22 and all are welcome to listen and take part, according to an announcement from the West Tisbury Library.
April 6, 2021
Island poets are invited to take part in the April 25 reading.
2013
August 1, 2013
Throughout her life, Fanny Howe has consistently chosen to do what she loves most, never expecting to be compensated, much less be read or appreciated. She has lived a life of letters, writing poetry for her own enjoyment and inspiring others to do the same.
June 27, 2013
In the Wampanoag language, the word “noepe” means, according to one interpretation, a still place among the currents. The Wampanoag people gave the name Noepe to this Island to indicate that it was a piece of dry land among opposing tidal currents.
In downtown Edgartown, a still place exists at the intersection of three roads. It is a refuge of sorts, which has for years provided shelter and peace of mind to visiting artists.
April 11, 2013
The Cleaveland House Poetry Group was founded over 40 years ago by Dionis Coffin Riggs, its name arising from her house in West Tisbury where the meetings are held. It is the longest running writers group on Martha’s Vineyard, hosting bi-weekly meetings, year-round. Today Dionis’ daughter, Cynthia Riggs, presides over the group, and the meetings are still held at the same location.
2012
August 16, 2012
When most guests sit down to a dinner at Beetlebung Farm in Chilmark, they usually glance at the menu and then set it down again, absentmindedly imprinting it with grease and wine stains. But the more discerning will notice that the seemingly disposable item is actually a work of art — the design is innovative, the words have been selected for sound and form, and the ink has been elegantly fused with the paper.
July 26, 2012
Dipping our bread in oil tins
we talked of morning peeling
open our rooms to a moment
of almonds, olives and wind
when we did not yet know what we were.
The days in Mallorca were alike:
footprints down goat-paths
from the beds we had left,
at night the stars locked to darkness.
At that time we were learning
to dance, take our clothes
in our fingers and open
ourselves to their hands.
The veranera was with us.
July 16, 2012
I found the tendrils of your fingers
wound around mine like prayers
woven into the clothing of prayer.
and fled with you in my arms
along the highway of snakes,
concealing you from streetlights
and stars, from dogs barking in alleys.
Because nothing should speak of this
because no one would believe me—
they’d shut me away
in a room without views—
