MM: Carolyn Creedon!  One more win and you’re going to the Final Four!

CC: Wow.

MM: Think about that for a moment. You’re more or less an unknown poet, but you’ve shot, passed, and rebounded yourself into a position to win the Scarriet APR 2011 Title.

CC: I’m honored.

MM: Look at the poets in this tournament: Larkin, Olds, Ashbery, Hall, O’Hara, Lowell, Justice, Bly, Ginsberg, Plath, Sexton, Heaney…

CC: It blows my mind.

MM: No one knows who you are. Would you like to talk a little about your poetry career?

CC: I guess so.

MM: We can talk about Oprah memories we’ll never forget, if you like.

CC:  The cars. When she gave away the cars.

MM: I was kidding.

CC: I know.

MM: Are you nervous?

CC: You seem nervous.

MM: Scarriet is a nervous place.  But a good Muse is always a little edgy.

CC: I like to be calm when I write.

MM: Inspiration requires a certain shudder, even if it’s small, a nervous energy. I inspire. I’m a muse.  Marla Muse.

CC: The tiny hairs might move.

MM: Yes!

CC: Great!

MM: Let’s talk about ‘Litany,’ a poem I love, by the way.  Was his name really Tom?

CC:  No.  But I always liked the name.

MM:  If all poems were as good as ‘Litany,’ poetry would be popular again.

CC:  You flatter me!

MM: No, I’m serious.  But too many others want to publish inferior poetry.

CC: But I love other poets and other poems.

MM: Of course you do!  Carolyn Creedon, I have a feeling you’re going all the way!  Good luck!

CC: Thank you.



  1. Elite Eight support said,

    May 28, 2011 at 11:41 am


    Tom, will you let me love you in your restaurant?
    i will let you make me a sandwich of your invention and i will eat it and call
    it a carolyn sandwich. then you will kiss my lips and taste the mayonnaise and
    that is how you shall love me in my restaurant

    Tom, will you come to my empty beige apartment and help me set up my daybed?
    yes, and i will put the screws in loosely so that when we move on it, later,
    it will rock like a cradle and then you will know you are my baby

    Tom, I am sitting on my dirt bike on the deck. Will you come out from the kitchen and watch the people with me?
    yes, and then we will race to your bedroom. i will win and we will tangle up
    on your comforter while the sweat rains from our stomachs and foreheads

    Tom, the stars are sitting in tonight like gumball gems in a little girl’s
    jewelry box. Later can we walk to the duck pond?
    yes, and we can even go the long way past the jungle gym. i will push you on
    the swing, but promise me you’ll hold tight. if you fall i might disappear

    Tom, can we make a baby together? I want to be a big pregnant woman with a loved face and give you a squalling red daughter.
    no, but i will come inside you and you will be my daughter

    Tom, will you stay the night with me and sleep so close that we are one person?
    no, but i will lay down on your sheets and taste you. there will be feathers
    of you on my tongue and then i will never forget you

    Tom, when we are in line at the convenience store can I put my hands in your back pockets and my lips and nose in your baseball shirt and feel the crook of your shoulder blade?
    no, but later you can lay against me and almost touch me and when i go i will
    leave my shirt for you to sleep in so that always at night you will be pressed
    up against the thought of me

    Tom, if I weep and want to wait until you need me will you promise that someday you will need me?
    no, but i will sit in silence while you rage. you can knock the chairs down
    any mountain. i will always be the same and you will always wait

    Tom, will you climb on top of the dumpster and steal the sun for me? It’s just hanging there and I want it.
    no, it will burn my fingers. no one can have the sun: it’s on loan from god.
    but i will draw a picture of it and send it to you from richmond and then you
    can smooth out the paper and you will have a piece of me as well as the sun

    Tom, it’s so hot here, and I think I’m being born. Will you come back from
    Richmond and baptise me with sex and cool water?
    i will come back from richmond. i will smooth the damp spiky hairs from the
    back of your wet neck and then i will lick the salt off it. then i will leave

    Tom, Richmond is so far away. How will I know how you love me?
    i have left you. that is how you will know

    Carolyn Creedon

  2. Elite Eight support said,

    May 28, 2011 at 11:47 am

    Pub Poem

    If I hold my breath for a million years, little oyster
    waiting my tables, fighting the tide, swimming to hope
    and still I can’t open you up, love
    I’ll marry the fat red tomato
    I got from an infatuated farmer who waits pleasantly
    with knife and fork, to eat me.
    I’ll marry the warm brown York, where naked swimming
    is like breathing, a priority, and only as dangerous
    as the softshell crabs slipping away on the sandy floor of the river.
    I’ll marry my worn work shirt, stained with Corona and crabcake
    and sweat and a little smear of cocktail sauce like a margin.
    I’ll marry each lonely marine I wait on,
    he and I will picture a possible me, painting my toenails
    bloodred in a trailer, waiting for him,
    for the slippery click of the lock,
    knowing it now, we look away.
    I’ll marry the teasing moon whose bright vowels dance on the water
    like the Yorktown Slut, promising everything
    sighing, before she slips away
    what if, what if
    I’ll engage my boss on his boat in thoughts of brastraps
    and panties and other wistful trappings
    which become, like breathing, a priority.
    I’ll marry each barnacle I scrub
    bare, barely staying afloat,
    while the bass slip away past the rockabye boat and the wave whisper
    dive under, dive under, seduction is rare,
    seduction is hope.
    I’ll marry the Pub, and slop icecold mugs of beer
    onto men whose eyes seem to say that I too, am replaceable.
    My sneakered feet will slip, I’ll wed the salted floor that way —
    slide into the sun and marry the day.
    I’ll marry the bent mirror in the back
    where I pin up my marmalade hair
    and stare at lips as red as cocktail sauce
    the round everpresent planet of mouth
    and fragile freckled arms who miss the man who slipped away.
    I’ll marry my beautiful brown teacher whose letters,
    which say angst is my downfall, I read on the sneak
    on a Budweiser box amongst the dead clams and unconsummated lemons
    in the back of the Pub, I’ll marry my downfall.
    And if I fall down a hole as big as the Chesapeake Bay, big as my whole
    yummy heart, today’s Special of the Day,
    I’ll marry it.

    Carolyn Creedon

  3. September 13, 2011 at 11:51 pm

    I never gave this interview! If only… Carolyn Creedon

  4. September 14, 2011 at 12:08 am

    Who won?

    • thomasbrady said,

      September 14, 2011 at 6:52 pm


      Bowing to popular pressure, the Scarriet Poetry March Madness Committee ended the 2011 American Poetry Review Competition with the Final Four, leaving us with four winners:

      you, (“litany”)
      Eileen Myles, (“Eileen’s Vision”)
      Philip Larkin (“Aubade”)
      and Stephen Dunn (“What They Wanted”).

      Many of our readers (and a former adminstrator of Scarriet) have expressed contempt for the whole notion of competitive poetry. (I don’t see any problem with it.)

      2010 was our first year, and we used all the Best American Poetry volumes to produce 64 poems, and that Final Four was:

      Billy Collins (“Composed Over Three Thousand Miles From Tintern Abbey”)
      Reb Livingston (“That’s Not Butter”)
      William Kulik (“The Triumph of Narcissus and Aphrodite”)
      Janet Bowdan (“The Year”)


      • September 14, 2011 at 7:19 pm

        Wow. That’s awesome Tom. Competitive poetry is so subjective. I have spent a lot on manuscript contests and nobody wants my poems, soo… I also have to give a shout out to Frank O’Hara who changed my dissociative life with Mayakovsky. Anyway thanks for the thrill.

  5. Meghan D'Zmura said,

    September 20, 2012 at 10:01 pm

    I love you, Carolyn!

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