This is the first of the ‘in conversation’ pieces that we hope to host on And Other Poems over the coming months and years. The idea is a simple one: two poets talking about poetry. This conversation between Maria Sledmere and Oli Hazzard, which took place via email in June 2025, revolves around the relationship between poetics and dreaming, particularly the ways in which poems might replicate the peculiar logic and movement of dreams. Along the way, they discuss the late American poet Alice Notley, the use of quotation marks, the idea of a telepathic poetics, generative AI, friendship, teaching, ecological crises, time travel, and much more. Maria suggests at one point that writing a poem is like arriving late to something and trying to discover what you’ve missed. Oli, meanwhile, considers the unsettling sense of déjà vu sometimes evoked by poetic refrain. They also discuss Maria’s recently published Midsummer Song (2024), a ‘choose-your-own-adventure’ exploration of creativity and criticism in a time of climate crisis, and Oli’s single-sentence epistolary novel Lorem Ipsum (2021). Their exchange is wide-ranging, thoughtful, provocative and often moving. I hope you enjoy it.
MARIA:
I wanted to start by asking about your relationship with Alice Notley as a poet, especially a poet who writes about and from her dreams?
OLI:
It’s good to have a chance to talk about Notley. When you messaged earlier in the week it was the first I’d heard of her death. I immediately read ‘Poem’ (‘St Mark’s Place caught at night in hot summer’) and then listened to the Buffalo recording of ‘At Night the States’ while my kids ate their tea. I tried to explain to them who she was, and they tolerated it.
Notley has been part of the ambient atmosphere of my domestic life for probably five years or so, and it’s that aspect of her work, its attunedness to the mesh and mess of aesthetics and domesticity, that was important first of all for me. I was astonished that a poet was able to produce these wild, various, hilarious poems in amongst the disarray of normal life with kids, cleaning, bills, work, admin, the material stuff of care and parenting, while also thinking analytically about the gendered aspects of that experience, of the poetic languages available to her to describe it. The early work was especially important for that of course, amazing poems like ‘Songs for the Unborn Second Baby’.
But she’s rare in being both a great poet of the everyday and of dreamlife. I’m interested in how she evokes associational dream states and logics even or especially when the poems don’t self-identify as dream works. This is a general feature of her work, but one small example is through the use of quotation marks in ‘White Phosphorus’ and The Descent of Alette. I’m ambivalent about the textual surface this creates – I find these poems physically very hard to read – but what they certainly do is give these texts the internal relational quality of a dream. That is, they complicate and slow the relation between individual words, and endow the syntax with something of the warped spatial dynamics of dreaming.
Dreams often have really fucked up physics of course: everyone has experienced that peculiar kind of panic that happens when you’re running for the bus that accelerates away, or whatever, and your bodily motions slow down. Geoffrey Hill once described Hopkins’s use of the semicolon as a particularly thin ‘syntactical membrane’; I suppose you could think of that grapheme as at the other end of the scale from the buffering-like experience of Notley’s syntax, which is much thicker, more crabbed and thorny. Maybe Notley is trying to tell us that, when we’re dreaming, we’re trying to move through a thicket of quotation marks; that the dream is in part a tissue of quotations from the phenomenal experience of everyday life, while also and indistinguishably a series of addresses to yourself from the past and the future.
I use quotation marks quite a lot in Sleepers Awake. Sometimes these are instances of quoted text from other writers, so operate conventionally as markers of citation. There are also many more instances in which I use words from others without acknowledging them with quotation marks. But there are also instances in which I place quotation marks around phrases or objects which are not taken from elsewhere. I don’t always know why I do that. I think it partly comes from a general sense of scepticism about the gesture of foregrounding explicitly the citational infrastructure of a poem. I want there to be holes in that structure, as there always are. And maybe, too, I hope it creates localised irregular suspensions of the referential dynamics which govern the other parts of the poems. But then I also feel like all of these quoted things have the status of dream objects, or pop-ups from elsewhere in the ongoing experience of the poem.
MARIA:
In an essay on Literary Hub in 2022, Notley writes about how poetry is ‘an art form based on telepathy’. What is a telepathic poetics? Is there an element of telepathy in how you approach writing?
OLI:
I do get the sense that one of the reasons I make poems is to assemble a thing that can read my own mind. Like everyone I have the sensation of my ‘mind being read’ increasingly frequently: my desires and moods are anticipated by corporations with increasing accuracy. Bad telepathy. A poem, like a dream, can know things about you, and your relationship with others and the world, which you don’t know yourself. It’s a way of communicating knowledge outside the discursive forms through which knowledge is normally transmitted. Often in dreams that is dramatised through an altered relation with an object or another person: someone who you dislike becomes the object of desire, for example. But the way poems know things is often for me in their phonotext, their melodics, the co-ordinates of sound which often suggest ways of understanding the relations between objects and concepts other than those at work on a semantic level. This is a form of knowledge or thinking which sometimes doesn’t graduate into legible discursive form.
One of the things that I find useful about Notley’s concept of telepathic poetics is that it’s a way of articulating the desire to ‘feel from afar’, which is an ethical impulse of course. Like whether or not you conceive of it as a real phenomenon, telepathy as a willed mode is an attempt at a practical application of empathy. And that’s related to one of the things that Sleepers Awake is preoccupied with, which is different forms of psychic and physical remoteness, made all the more vivid and immediate by the lockdowns of course. How can we be with each other? How can we move closer to one another, without harming each other through proximity? How do remoteness and intimacy interact? One of the other unexpected consequences of the lockdowns was that I felt a kind of proximity to historical figures, dead poets mainly, as a byproduct of that physical isolation from coevals. I was reading a lot of Hopkins and Tennyson aloud in particular. The way those poets from remote historical moments read me to myself, through their sound-structures, felt sort of telepathic.
Can you talk about why you’re so interested in dreams and dream writing? What relation do you see between that interest and the historical moment we’re in?
MARIA:
I also listened to the Buffalo recording of Notley’s ‘At Night the States’ that night. I was walking home from work then ducked into the park to listen. Sat on the hill, closed my eyes. Struck by the lines: ‘I am not doing any- / thing doing this. I / discover I love as I figure’ and ‘I am still with you in that / part of the / park’. If poetry’s ‘this’ is a doing nothing, what is it doing?
In A Thousand Plateaus, Deleuze and Guattari talk about a child walking through darkness who ‘comforts himself by singing under his breath’: ‘Lost, he takes shelter, or orients himself with his little song’. The song ‘is like a rough sketch of a calming and stabilising, calm and stable, centre in the heart of chaos’. Despite this centring effect, ‘the song itself is already a skip’: something on the brink of ‘breaking apart’. I take this to mean something akin to what you say about ‘the way poems know things’ through ‘co-ordinates of sound’. Like their navigational function. So often, reading poetry, I have felt like that child in the dark.
In your poem ‘Progress: Real and Imagined’ the speaker comments reflexively on the poem’s ekphrastic generation from a Nicole Eisenman painting. There is talk of ‘some preparation’, ‘a prior state of necessary dullness from which the act / Of looking at this painting represented a kind of escape hatch, or chute, out of / Or into the present’. The undecidability of that escape (‘out of’ the present or ‘into’ the present) feels vital. It got me thinking about the extent to which dreaming is preparation for writing and vice versa. I wrote my book Midsummer Song partly to stage the impossibility of writing an objective critical monograph about the anthropocene: I wanted to develop a prosimetric form which, in its quotidian textures, could encompass the ‘everything’ of the anthropocene as an intersecting ethical, aesthetic and ecological crisis. Part of the problem is a dreaming one: how to write about something when you are inside it, complicit in it; how to write when perpetually distracted by the very techne and epistemes (their surplus, their intensity) which seemed necessary to do the work. How to write when you are the subject and the object, the person and the world. I needed lyric to navigate the dark, by way of the dead. I had to write the whole book as a kind of song.
To answer your question, I’ll say that my interest in dreams had two beginnings. One was the origin of a friendship: in 2018, Kirsty Dunlop and I met up before a Nap Eyes show at The Hug and Pint and decided we’d keep a shared dream doc. Every morning that summer we shared our dreams and this became a pamphlet, Soft Friction. What was so great about that project was forgetting who dreamt what, discerning the author only by the style of dream recall (not the content itself). There was a virtual dimension to our friendship now formalised in the field of dreams. As all friendships have a cloud of missives remotely exchanged and shared memories, we accelerated the process of intimacy through this document. I think in recording your dreams you learn a lot about how you dream but also how you think. Everyone who writes down their dreams or tells their dreams to others has a poetics.
The second origin for my dream interest was The Dream Turbine (2021), a digital installation I took part in with A+E Collective and The New Bridge Project. We wanted to offer renewable forms of collectivity in times of personal and political stasis around issues of ecological collapse and energy crisis. In addition to curating a library of dream sources, we opened a ‘Dream Vault’ where members of the public could contribute anonymously their dreams. We would tell them ‘thank you for contributing to our ecological unconscious’.
I’m interested at once in the intense privacy of the dream and its potential for sharing as a risky one, like sharing the dream may be too boring, weird or revealing. I’m also interested in the emotional tail-off: how you wake up to the feeling of the dream but a few hours or weeks later it’s hard to recall that precise intensity, even if you wrote it down. Maybe it recurs diluted as a flashback. One of my favourite dreams from the Dream Vault recalls something Bernadette Mayer said in a poetry reading about how ‘dreams are the recycled trash of the everyday’ (which resonates with your idea of the dream as a ‘tissue’ of quotidian citations). The dreamer so artfully concludes: ‘This gives me hope as it might anyone who has experienced broken dreams’. The broken dreams might be those of an insomniac’s fragmentary sleep, or the socio-political breaking of spirit.
Creative-critical dreamwork concerns psychic structures, residue, sociality, affect, worlding, space. In my new book with Ian Macartney, Languishing, cute, there’s this poem ‘Seventh Generation Infinite Loop’ which begins with the sentence ‘I wanna go back to sleep for the rest of my life is the first sentence, the endless aureate refreshment’. I wonder if dreams could be a form of replenishment in the midst of inertia and draining energy? In Carceral Capitalism (2018), Jackie Wang writes about how the impetus towards acquiring ‘“marketable skills”’ will ‘make it impossible to explore, wander, create, invent, learn (as opposed to “acquiring skills”), relax, form non-instrumentalised social bonds, loaf, and daydream?’ As the AI Industrial Complex comes to dominate culture, economy and education, I’ve been thinking more and more about how capitalism makes us increasingly dependent on tools which claim to instrumentalise and simplify life but in fact increase our daily frictions, making it harder and harder to do the good things Wang mentions above.
Many students now rely on the quick fix of Generative-AI tools to automate thought, partly because of complex personal and socioeconomic circumstances which make it difficult to complete assignments on time. I wonder how as teachers we can nurture creative thinking and ‘process’ as a reward in itself, despite the structural challenges posed to education?
You write a bit about pedagogical techniques in your novel Lorem Ipsum. Does any notion of ‘dream’ come into your approach to teaching poetry?
OLI:
Yes, I occasionally do stuff with dreaming. In practical terms, I’ll do the classic one and ask students to set an alarm for 3.44am, write whatever they think of, then go back to sleep. I often feel bad about disrupting their sleep patterns with that task, but the students seem to enjoy it, or at least say they do… I know for myself that when I write during the night, which I did a lot when my children were babies, I’ve always enjoyed the slightly elated delirium of tiredness the next day, because you know you’ve woken up to do something deliberate and pleasurable and surprising, rather than because you’ve sat bolt upright after another stress dream about work. And for the students it’s useful, I believe, because it takes away both the anxiety about being responsible for their writing – they can blame anything they don’t like on their unconscious – and the anxiety about beginning writing: it shows them they have already written. I do a similar-feeling exercise where I ask them to make a poem out of their text messages; they realise they already have a style, a poetics, in the way they address their friends. In that sense, I totally agree with the idea that dreaming is a kind of preparation for writing. And that both dream-writing and the ‘cloud of missives’ that is the textual atmosphere of a friendship are both productive kinds of waste text, or by-products of life.
Both these discursive modes were important to Lorem Ipsum, which assumes the form of an epistolary address to another, only ever identified as the letter A. The almost total absence of a recognisable plot in the novel is of course a kind of signal of its affiliation with dream narratives; but also with the hypersocial discursive style particular to friendship. Like, when I’m writing yet another chatty aimless email to a friend, I like having the thought: what is the point of this? As in, I suppose, what is the plot of friendship? At this point in my life friendship feels almost illicit, something with as little apparent instrumental utility as dreaming. Maybe you could say friendship is a kind of social dreaming, in part because it’s a form of replenishment, a retuning of attention and sensing, as you beautifully put it, but also because of the bewildering unstable plasticity common to both those experiences. As Emerson put it in ‘Friendship’, a friend is ‘a beautiful enemy, untameable, devoutly revered, and not a trivial conveniency to be soon outgrown and cast aside’; maybe friends are transformational objects?
Now I think about it, while I’ve often used proper names in poems, I’ve never actually written one to a specific, real friend. I’ve also never written a poem which identifies itself explicitly as a dream poem. My suspicion or superstition is that if you call something a dream it immediately loses some of its dream-like qualities, wakes you up to it in a way that dissipates its power; I wonder if the same might be true for poems that explicitly address other people? Like one of the reasons Frank O’Hara’s ‘For Grace, After a Party’ is such a beautiful poem is because it is about and for both the person and the abstraction, the way we toggle between those categories in our encounters with others.
There’s a tree that comes up every so often in my poem ‘Progress’. It’s in Pollok Park not too far from the Burrell Collection. Like many other trees there it is overlaid with initials people have scratched into it over the years. You can date the initials not just by the accompanying timestamps, but by how deep or shallow the markings are; the bark grows back into the text. I spent a bunch of time there during the lockdowns and got that weird sense again of sharing a space with people with whom you’ll never coincide. You rhyme with these people you’ll never meet. A lot of my poems seem to be about the experience of transhistorical friendship, or maybe companionship (which is often anonymised or where identity is partially disfigured); that is, a form of non-physical co-presence with people who aren’t there. I have this poem for example called ‘Graig Syfyrddin, or Edmund’s Tump’, which is about this hill I used to walk up routinely when I lived on a farm in Wales. It’s partly made up of my own notes, and partly of the textual record of ‘hill-baggers’ who posted their often highly compressed and elliptical accounts of walking the hill on an online forum. I never met anyone on the hill; no one ever seems to meet there, except in text. I suppose in that instance I wanted to offer an account of the choral sensation of layered temporalities which certain places can induce.
This sensation of becoming coeval with historically remote people is also produced, perhaps most intensely, by looking at works of art. There is a radical lateralisation of temporal difference; when you look at ‘Landscape with the Fall of Icarus’, you’re looking with Auden and Williams and many others. But I suppose it’s different when you’re seeing a work of contemporary art, where there’s a rawness and freshness to the encounter because it doesn’t have that accreted cultural overlay, that veneer on the surface of the experience. Of course there will be a scaffold of institutional paratexts mediating it, but compared to the thicket of quotation-marks around Botticelli or Cezanne or whoever it’s a very thin membrane.
But you mentioned the prosimetrical form of Midsummer Song. What differences do you see between the prose sections and the lineated ones? What associative or argumentative modes are activated or foreclosed when you choose how to format your thinking in one way or another?
MARIA:
It’s so interesting to hear about your teaching practice with dreams. I also find that when you give students a prompt that is also a constraint, this enables them to focus more on process than product. I like having students write in class because it might nurture a level of contingency and discovery they need to make time for by having these little moments of their own. I also like how it feels to be in a room where everyone is either writing a poem or pretending to write a poem — the tension is almost unbearable and you have to learn to almost disavow your inner critic right there in the moment and just be open to what happens on the page, even if it sucks.
One of the first times I realised that art had the power to elicit time travel, at least in our hearts, was as a child in the National Gallery. We would visit once a year or so because I had family near London. After preliminary browsing, we would show up at Titian’s Portrait of a Young Man, which my mum had become obsessed with. In fact, she claimed she was in love with him, the man in the portrait. She was utterly serious about this. One time, the painting was on loan elsewhere and she was so upset I think she even cried when there was just this blank wall in the gallery. What was it about this painted man? Was it the man or the painting? She maybe tried to theorise it as someone she had shared a past life with.
I think these residues of experience from elsewhere are beautiful because often they don’t have a material form. Just the emotion itself (a line of flight) which then someone tries to find a form for: crying, writing, drawing, fighting. With the ceaseless availability of any image you could possibly want to generate with AI, we have not so much a ‘decay of the aura’, in the Benjaminian sense, but the erosion of auratic ozones all over our culture.
To address your question about the differences between prose and lineated sections in Midsummer Song. Notley again, this time on poetry versus prose: ‘I, for one, wanted the line, with the white space around’. I wanted that too, like the silhouettes of trees in winter. When we are given the line, given into lineation, we follow breath; we think deeper, faster, ‘with music’ (Notley). Some of this bleeds into the prose. Poetry throws the paragraph into sensual relief. I think of my prose as running through forestry. Hypercritique is to fly through the trees. It took a lot of lashes to the face, a lot of thorns and nettle stings to write this. The whole book got tangled in my hair.
OLI:
We were talking the other day about how you spend your time in Glasgow but also in the Bay Area. Can you talk a bit about jet lag, or lag more generally, on whatever scale? How does it affect how you dream? Is poetry a salutary form of desynchronosis?
MARIA:
I guess my life now has an extended emotional geography thanks to a long-distance relationship. When I look at this on google maps – a big red line between two continents – my heart lurches like someone seeing the Earth from outside. Love, I think, really knows no scale. And what receptacle for such a relationship? My phone is a khora, holding time zones. There’s always a part of me sliding eight hours behind.
In lockdown, I started going to poetry readings and other literary events around the world, staying up until 2am sometimes. Even before that, I felt out of step with a general dailiness. Partly this was my attempt to gain back personal time lost to work and other commitments: revenge bedtime procrastination, something I have fallen into the habit of since childhood. Maybe there’s some explanation here about how I struggle with conventional ideas of narrative because my whole sense of sequencing feels ‘patchy’. Poetry’s accretive and fragmentary tendencies became the organic form of my chronodiversity. Essentially, all literature is a temporal experiment. Different forms have different durations.
As for lag, I’ve been thinking a lot about belatedness lately. I like being in another time zone, I like being a chunk of day behind my other life. I quote David Berman in the ‘Our Amazing Bed is the Future Garden’ chapter of Midsummer Song: ‘Instead of time there will be lateness’. My mother’s late-stage cancer diagnosis. Late-stage capitalism. The anthropocene itself as a belated term, arriving too late to diagnose what has already happened, catastrophically, for centuries, and now one which itself feels outmoded – the term was officially rejected by an international scientific committee in February 2024. Writing something into your ‘late twenties’ and emerging in your early thirties. Some era to show up late to. When I write in ‘Midsummer Song’, ‘But aren’t you so late / to be reading?’ I’m as much talking to the problem of literature itself in the time of climate emergency as I am talking to the eight-year-old who sat reading novels at the top of the stairs at midnight.
In a recent workshop, Ariana Reines asked us what writing a poem feels like. For me, it is arriving late to something. Trying to discover what you’ve missed. The poem was there first. I was interested in Midsummer Song on applying that also to critique so that the traditionally ‘reflective’ or ‘responsive’ mode of criticism could also be a reparative, ana-lyrical one of ‘assent’ or moving towards and from its object — up, back and again. I found that very difficult to do within the propelling motion of the thesis statement and instead wanted to push the poly-directionality of a wayward essaying. I wanted to retain the sense of process: the idea that the text is the book and the preparation for the book. Notes towards…and away from. The book’s ‘choose your own adventure’ structure makes then a poethical point about play: it kind of asks you to dream with it, to swerve and drift. That is the mode of reading I needed to think through impossibility and the anthropocene, so I tried to foster it for others.
Having said that, it can still be read in a linear way. Like you could go on the journey of one idea after another, but the density perhaps invites deferral, or return. I’m curious how, as a poet, you approached the narrative of your novel Lorem Ipsum? Is there something about that unbundling of one long sentence, its epistolary address, that relates to dream? And is the intertextuality of your prose and poetic works, the way they digest each other, in any way symptomatic of a dreamlike experience? The sense of unplaceable duplicity that comes, for example, with déjà vu?
OLI:
The image I had in mind when I was writing Lorem Ipsum was that I was inflating a big balloon. Every time I added a set of clauses to the sentence the surface area increased, but everything beyond the present moment also dipped steeply out of view beyond the curve of the sphere. I also had a clear sense that when I reached a certain predetermined point – 50k words – then it would pop. But in more practical terms I wrote it in an aimless, associative way, really just for pleasure and out of curiosity about what would happen if I followed where it led, ‘followed the brush’, without the constraints of plot and structure. It was easy and frictionless to write, certainly compared to the poems I was writing at the same time, in part because for a long time I had no idea what I was doing and it was a kind of trance space to enter and explore. I wrote the first 5000 words in one sitting, one evening in Williamsburg VA, after reading a middling later Javier Marías novel,Berta Isla I think. His syntactic style was something I was deliberately aping at first, but as hypnotic as his writing is, it’s too distinctively mannered to imitate for long.
I soon realised that in the absence of a plot I needed to confect an addressee and an occasion. I’d seen Clarice Lispector do that live in Água Viva, and thought why not. So at some point I introduced this addressee, A, who is really a super-addressee in the Bakhtinian sense. I rinsed it through the epistolary novel, and also a little counterintuitively through the tradition of the zuihitsu, which is much more private, anti-social kind of writing (though still gossipy and observational), and which crucially is intensely hostile to its own history and its unstable narrative conventions. For all its sprezzatura qualities, its apparent informality and artlessness, the zuihitsu is really a very severe compositional mode. The only acceptable way to identify a contemporary zuihitsu, as far as I understand it, is to assert that it deviates from any precedent. This traditional anti-traditional posture, its reverence of irreverence, is one of the ways the genre has stayed alive and intact for a thousand years; and this is also, to answer your question in part, what for me connects it to the continuously self-refreshing now of the lyric. So I ended up feeling my way backward into some relatively marginal prose genres that had ingrained within them some of the features that I value about lyric poetry.
It’s so interesting to hear how you conceive of Midsummer as readable in mutually responsive ways: both linear and non-linear, argumentative and non-teleological, workful and playful (?), final text and its preparation, poem and prose. I think I was preoccupied with something similar, wanting to find a form hospitable to different reading practices, which conceived of itself sometimes as a temporally linear experience and sometimes as governed by patterning which seemed more spatial. Thematically it’s certainly most explicitly preoccupied with different types of temporal experience—the temporalities of childhood, parenthood, dreaming, dementia, protest, lyric, late capitalism, being stoned—but from a compositional perspective I came to think of it as a spatial object that I was putting together, the big balloon, or at other times just a big block of text, like the big Duplo tower I describe building with my son at one point.
There is something dreamlike about the epistolary form for sure. In a basic way all dreams are epistolary. Of course historically that’s how they have been considered by many cultures, as messages from God or from the future; then more recently as addresses to yourself from yourself, from the culture at large mediated through the prism of your own psychology. There’s a parallel and related history in poetry from Caedmon onwards. What is the language using me for? All my writing uses other bits of my writing in one way or another, and in this way the pieces address one another from different generic vantages and moments in time. It’s partly just like – how does this idea or phrase or feeling change when it’s in this context and form or moment, or this one? And there’s certainly something dreamlike about seeing an object repeat in a new place; there’s 1000 words of Lorem Ipsum dropped in the middle of ‘Progress’ for example, and it seems very different there to me at least – awkwardly, excessively explanatory – compared to how it feels when encountered as part of the tissue of a much larger single sentence, in which explanation is the dominant mode. But this practice of repetition usually happens in fragments and phrases, the motifs and autocompletes I come back to for whatever reason. I think déjà vu is a productively neutral term for thinking about poetic refrains in fact. We know why Tennyson repeats the name ‘Oriana’ so much in his ballad; less saturated, much emptier and eerier, is W.S. Graham’s ‘very gently struck / the quay night bell’ in ‘The Nightfishing’.
Last night I had a dream I’ve never had before. I was angry with a child, and slapped him on the side of his head. A crack ran along his cheek. I pulled at it, and a whole chunk of his head, including the ear, came away in my hand. I don’t know what that arose from. I woke up and wiped the sensation immediately by looking at my phone, the news of the National Guard still in LA, Israel bombing Iran, the miracle of the guy who survived that Air India crash. Up until right now I had no intention of telling anyone about any of it, but here I am telling you.
This conversation was published on August 25th, 2025.
Oli Hazzard is the author of three books of poems, including Sleepers Awake (Carcanet, 2024; Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2025), and a novel, Lorem Ipsum (Prototype, 2021). He runs a small publisher with Sophie Collins, called Mouse Press. He lives in Glasgow and teaches at the University of St Andrews.
Maria Sledmere is a poet, editor and lecturer in English & Creative Writing at the University of Strathclyde. Her books include Languishing, cute – with Ian Macartney (Tapsalteerie, 2025), Midsummer Song (Hypercritique) (Tenement Press, 2024), Cinders (Krupskaya Books, 2024), An Aura of Plasma Around the Sun (Hem Press, 2023), Cocoa and Nothing – with Colin Herd (SPAM Press, 2023), Visions & Feed (HVTN Press, 2022), The Luna Erratum (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2021) and the weird folds: everyday poems from the anthropocene – edited with Rhian Williams (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2020). She is managing editor of SPAM Press and one half of the performance duo Project Somnolence.
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