a synonym for living


my first book of poetry is now available for pre-order from yesyes books

from YesYes Books: 

About Meet Me Here At Dawn

Eroticism tinged with elegy, gratitude knit with doubt;Meet Me Here At Dawn contains an unmistakably open voice. Sophie Klahr’s debut poetry collection careens from hunger to hunger. With lyric energy and narrative determination, the poems are missives sent back from a threshold, chronicling disease, the unspoken pains of family, the fabric of an extra-marital affair. “What aperture makes a woman?” Klahr asks in “One Slaughter.” In Meet Me Here At Dawn, even the unanswerable is unfaltering, every question brightly wrought and necessary.

“As this marvelous debut blurs the boundary between taboo and convention, secrecy and privacy, I kept thinking of Edward Hopper’s 1959 painting Excursion Into Philosophy, the way the lovers there impart a mix of longing and regret. Like Hopper, Sophie Klahr troubles the line between isolation and intimacy. The results are mature and unflinching. Meet Me Here At Dawn is bittersweet, sensual, and brilliant.”

—Terrance Hayes

“Sophie Klahr moves through the chambers of the mind and heart like an expert escape artist, keys hidden in the body’s coverts are revealed in a ‘rush of knowing,’ the body’s ‘first breaking and entering’ that feels both clandestine and disclosive. This is poetry of immense vulnerability and fierce mettle; determined, convincing and heroically alive with courage of every kind.”

—D.A.  Powell




read carrie zhang’s poem: home


read aidan forster’s poem: cistern


read ben read’s poem: barium


read margaret zhang’s poem: straw theory 


read talia flores’ poem: soil


read brad trumpfheller’s scene from a western

read more about teen sequins, an annual celebration of teen poets

hosted by gigantic sequins &

curated by me and robby auld

the book of paid rooms, volumes 1, 2, and 3 in the california journal of poetics 

some notes on shadows in boaat 



my poem in the current issue of mid-american review. another one that will be in my book meet me here at dawn… 

From an Atlas of the Difficult World


I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains’ enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

–Adrienne Rich, from An Atlas of the Difficult World


song: dear-to-me thinker singer musician writer maker cass mccombs has a new album – MANGY LOVE – coming out tomorrow : here. the new york times calls him beckett as a cranky singer-songwriter which is silly / endearing / accurate. cass has many more articulations of creative light than the world has seen yet. i’ll stay mum for now, but hope soon i can tell you about some more mediums his work will appear in. in the meantime, enjoy the album.

act: i dance a lot these days, & have somehow despite total shyness come to speak to those i dance with, which turns out to be a joy. my friend gregory barnett is a beautiful dancer and maker and here is a blog he did for the getty about crafting costumes for the dance artist taisha paggett, on the occasion of her performance mountain, fire, holding still.

word: the poet max ritvo has passed after a long struggle with cancer. i didn’t know him, but i know that he was 25, and used his time brilliantly. i recommend taking some time to yourself with the body of work he’s left.


take care of one another. be honest. sing, make, dance, speak.


there is no glossary not for this

bluedrape.georgeshaw——by the artist george shaw

 2 poems from my forthcoming book MEET ME HERE AT DAWN in Public Pool 

geologicatlasofthemoon1965– from a geological atlas of the moon, 1965


every man should pull a boat over a mountain once in his life

shotRemember_Fitzcarraldo10 jpg

& if


1 self-portrait, 1 moving gift, 1 song