Katerina Canyon

There is a mistake on the 30/30 Project site today. The wrong poem was accidentally published for Day 7. I am sure it will be fixed as soon as the U.S. work day begins, but I did not want to let the day pass without sharing the correct poem here. The poem for today is called “Hungry.” Thank you to Callie Tolman for donating. That gift means a great deal to me. I am now halfway toward my goal, and I am grateful for every person who has read, shared, encouraged, or donated duri

I made it to Yogyakarta safe and sound and then proceeded to sleep for twelve hours. Now it is 4:00 in the morning, and I have lost all concept of time. I have been trying to write a short blog post each day about the poem appearing in the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project, but somewhere between Jakarta, Yogyakarta, airplanes, hotels, and twelve hours of sleep, I managed to lose track of the sequence. Yesterday’s poem was “Tap a Vein.” I wrote it because Beverly asked me to write a

I am writing this from Jakarta, only a few hours after landing, with that strange airport feeling still in my body. The trip has crossed time zones, cities, weather, memory, and grief. About 24 hours ago, I was sitting in the Minneapolis airport waiting for my flight to Incheon. I was tired. I was between places. I was thinking about Minneapolis, a city I mostly knew through television until history forced me to know it differently. That is where this poem came from. Airports

Some poems arrive like a wave. They do not ask permission. They strike the body first, then leave their meaning behind like salt on the skin. Today’s 30/30 Project poem, “Message in a Bottle,” is one of those poems. It begins at the ocean’s edge, with tar between toes and the body moving through water, sand, kelp, and sound. By the end, the speaker has turned a scream into a note, placed it inside a bottle, and given it to the waves. This poem was written in response to a don

Some writing days arrive like a knock at the door. Others arrive like a reflection you were not expecting to see. Today’s poem for Tupelo Press’s 30/30 Project is called “Mirror.” The title felt simple at first, almost too simple. Then the poem began to ask what mirrors usually ask when we are willing to stand still: What are you looking at? What are you avoiding? What has changed while you were busy calling yourself the same? I’m sharing the poem below, along with a note of