(digital) Faunalia, by Alice Fulmer
Poems from Alice Fulmer
Release Date: 1 May, 2023
“…Run me past the aqueducts,
of misery waft me, sift me, calibrate the
portions of my soul unmotherseen.
Prepare me for a harvest of nines
and nones and kneed in me those
moments in meadows and prices
Of pearls. Craft me into a homily
of the Earth and its green spots.”
From Alice Fulmer comes a collection of poems lushly vulnerable and soul-shakingly sensual. As with the best magical realism, her poems reveal just past arid city streets a sudden swell of verdant life.
“In that golden aged year, I learned that Grief is
a place you go, where you hang out with
dryads with tall tales, dripping off their boughs,
just to fill Apollo’s birdbaths with coins at the bottom.”
Poems from Alice Fulmer
Release Date: 1 May, 2023
“…Run me past the aqueducts,
of misery waft me, sift me, calibrate the
portions of my soul unmotherseen.
Prepare me for a harvest of nines
and nones and kneed in me those
moments in meadows and prices
Of pearls. Craft me into a homily
of the Earth and its green spots.”
From Alice Fulmer comes a collection of poems lushly vulnerable and soul-shakingly sensual. As with the best magical realism, her poems reveal just past arid city streets a sudden swell of verdant life.
“In that golden aged year, I learned that Grief is
a place you go, where you hang out with
dryads with tall tales, dripping off their boughs,
just to fill Apollo’s birdbaths with coins at the bottom.”
Poems from Alice Fulmer
Release Date: 1 May, 2023
“…Run me past the aqueducts,
of misery waft me, sift me, calibrate the
portions of my soul unmotherseen.
Prepare me for a harvest of nines
and nones and kneed in me those
moments in meadows and prices
Of pearls. Craft me into a homily
of the Earth and its green spots.”
From Alice Fulmer comes a collection of poems lushly vulnerable and soul-shakingly sensual. As with the best magical realism, her poems reveal just past arid city streets a sudden swell of verdant life.
“In that golden aged year, I learned that Grief is
a place you go, where you hang out with
dryads with tall tales, dripping off their boughs,
just to fill Apollo’s birdbaths with coins at the bottom.”