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The John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation has awarded Fellowships to a diverse group of 181 scholars, artists, and scientists in its eighty-eighth annual competition for the United States and Canada. Appointed on the basis of prior achievement and exceptional promise, the successful candidates were chosen from a group of almost 3,000 applicants.
Follow this link for a list of 2012 Fellows in the United States and Canada
Follow this link for a list of 2012 Fellows by field in the United States and Canada
Follow this link to view a short video of Edward Hirsch, President of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation, discussing the announcement of the 2012 Guggenheim Fellowship Recipients in the United States and Canada.
Read the Press Release
View the PDF list of 2012 Fellows in the United States and Canada
View the PDF list of 2012 Fellows by field in the United States and Canada
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I'm far behind in my NaPo'ing. Mostly, life happened as I had previously mentioned. Looks like weekends are kind of out when it comes to the drafting of poems. My third son is using my office as a sleeping area and the only time I've had to write was in the evenings, so more or less I've gotten booted from my work space. Can't wait for my exterior office to get finished . . .
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Plate 359—Eadward Muybridge
The man with the gun must be thinking, out there
is the center of his purpose. The grains of the gun's wood
snug against the hip-bone. Left arm cradling the long barrel
so that the tip with the affixed blade tilts upward. Heart-level.
Purpose breathes its long kiss into his ear. A breathless kiss
held so that the man's stomach cinches into a concave sack.
Love falls where the wind carries his body—in short
asthmatic huffs as the man's legs move him forward, left
right, left. All the while, the butt of the rifle presses against
his flesh. Spring air let into the studio pulls the dark velvet
curtains from their rods as the coffee cools. Just as casually
a knife, raised up against the black backdrop says "look."
The man's shadow shakes in the new light as his bayonet
halves the air, fits itself into the fissures of an imagined breastbone.
Purpose as close to the edge of the picture frame as an arm. Purpose
to fill the wound, half bloodied and hot. The urge of the rifle
slaps against his thigh. Purpose as far as a country
where no memory can drive itself as deep as the hilt.
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