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About this poet

Julie Carr was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She attended Barnard College, and though interested in becoming a writer, she focused on dance. After graduating with a B.A. in 1988, she danced for ten years in New York with local companies and choreographers. In 1995, she went to New York University for an M.F.A. in poetry, and, a year later, with the birth of her first child, poetry became her main focus. She received her Ph.D. from the University of California, Berkeley in 2006.

Her first collection of poetry, Mead: An Epithalamion (University of Georgia Press, 2004) was selected by Cole Swensen for the University of Georgia Contemporary Poetry Prize. Her other collections include Sarah — of Fragments and Lines (Coffee House Press, 2010), a National Poetry Series winner; 100 Notes on Violence (Ahsahta Press, 2010), selected by Rae Armantrout for the 2009 Sawtooth Poetry Prize; and Equivocal (Alice James Books, 2007). She is also the author of Surface Tension: Ruptural Time and the Poetics of Desire in Late Victorian Poetry (Dalkey Archive, 2013).

In 2011 Carr received a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. She currently serves as an Associate Professor of English at the University of Colorado, Boulder. She is the copublisher, alongside her husband, Tim Roberts, of Counterpath Press. She lives in Denver, Colorado and has three children.

100 Notes on Violence [1] (audio only)

 

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Julie Carr

Julie Carr

Born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Julie Carr was selected by Cole Swensen for the University of Georgia Contemporary Poetry Prize for her debut collection Mead: An Epithalamion.

by this poet

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poem
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First: The blinding of the citizens

Second: The common plague of worms

(like lute strings, they must be plucked and the wounds spread with fresh butter)

Then: 


This amorousness



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Old woman cried and was fed her peas—

a worm in mud finding its way around my roots—

or deeply asleep and thus
poem

I’ll keep explaining—because maybe you still don’t get it
Those children in California (substitute any state), dead from gunfire—
Let me begin again in a little roof garden with my friend
A perverse reader, he listens to my stories as if they were TV
I mean he mocks me lovingly on the roof and

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