SR Pod/Vod Series: Poet Christopher Munde

Each Tuesday we feature audio or video of an SR Contributor reading their work. Today we’re proud to feature a podcast by Christopher Munde.

Christopher MundeChristopher Munde’s poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Beloit Poetry Journal, Blackbird, The Hollins Critic, Hunger Mountain, Massachusetts Review, Phoebe, Third Coast, and elsewhere.  He completed his MFA at the University of Houston in 2008, and was awarded an Academy of American Poets/Brazos Bookstore Prize in the same year.  Presently, he lives in western NY, where he teaches as an adjunct instructor at Jamestown Community College.

You can listen to the podcast on our iTunes Channel.

You can read along with the work in Superstition Review.

SR Pod/Vod Series: Writer Gabrielle Burton

Each Tuesday we feature audio or video of an SR Contributor reading their work. Today we’re proud to feature a podcast by Gabrielle Burton.

Gabrielle BurtonGabrielle Burton is a writer and filmmaker. She won the Thomas A. Wilhelmus award from Southern Indiana Review for best non-fiction essay “East of East” about the giant turtles of Malaysia (released December 2013). She also won 2013 Ohio Arts Council’s Individual Excellence Award. Gabrielle has a poem in the current Los Angeles Review and three in The Burden of Light. After Harvard and Berklee, she won a Rotary to study film in France, then founded FIVE SISTERS PRODUCTIONS with her sisters ( Burton’s current film is a documentary on drag; and she recently gave a TedxTalk on gender (

You can listen to the podcast on our iTunes Channel.

You can read along with the work in Superstition Review.

SR Pod/Vod Series: Writer Nicholas Larche

Each Tuesday we feature audio or video of an SR Contributor reading their work. Today we’re proud to feature a podcast by Nicholas Larche.

Nicholas LarcheNicholas Larche is a Juris Doctor Candidate at the University of Detroit Mercy School of Law. While native to Rochester, New York and a current resident of the greater Detroit metropolitan area, Larche has set his eyes westward and will be relocating to Colorado this May. An adept researcher, Larche has recently accepted an offer for publication with the Seton Hall Legislative Journal for his work involving an interstate comparison of sex trafficking laws. His poetry and fiction has been published or is forthcoming in The Literary Hatchet, From the Depths, Penny Ante Feud, and Drunk Monkeys.

You can listen to the podcast on our iTunes Channel.

You can read along with the work in Superstition Review.

SR Pod/Vod Series: Writer Kelle Groom

Each Tuesday we feature audio or video of an SR Contributor reading their work. Today we’re proud to feature a podcast by Kelle Groom.

Kelle GroomKelle Groom’s memoir, I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl (Simon & Schuster), is a Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers selection, New York Times Book Review Editor’s Choice, Library Journal Best Memoir, Oprah O Magazine selection, and Oxford American Editor’s Pick. The author of three poetry collections, most recently, Five Kingdoms (Anhinga), her work has appeared in Agni, The New Yorker, New York Times, Ploughshares, and Best American Poetry. A 2014 National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellow in Prose, Groom is on faculty of the low-residency MFA Program at Sierra Nevada College, Lake Tahoe.

You can listen to the podcast on our iTunes Channel.

You can read along with the work in Superstition Review.

Guest Post, Gray Lyons: Accidents

Gray LyonsWhen I deliver an artist lecture, I spend most of my time talking about accidents. While the finished piece hanging on the gallery wall has weight and formality to it, the process of making a cyanotype might best be described as a cross between a three-ring circus and a four-alarm fire. No matter how carefully I have sketched out my plan and laid out my materials, the moment I begin the exposure, things are frantic, dirty, sweaty, and overwrought. After I coat and dry the light-sensitive paper, I store it in light-tight bags until I’m ready to make the image. Once I take the paper out of the bag, I have fifteen seconds to arrange my body and any other materials on top of the paper, and the next twenty minutes of the exposure to contemplate all the ways that things have already gone wrong.

I practice each pose repeatedly on the ground beforehand, getting up and lying down, trying to shave a few seconds off the time it takes me to get into position. Even so, it’s not uncommon for me to miss the spot where one of my limbs was intended to rest, changing the image in small but significant ways.

I learned to make cyanotypes in a lab. It was quiet, cool, and dark. I could arrange, remove and rearrange objects at leisure until I felt confident about the image. Then I’d carry the paper over to an ultraviolet light unit, where I could set a timer for a perfect exposure. Working in these conditions, any meticulous practitioner could count on ideal results. Making large-scale exposures outside, using the sun as an exposure unit, I’ve had to adapt to the uncertainty of real-life conditions. I check the weather forecast for hot, sunny, windless days, and plan to make images on those days. Even so, a sudden gust of wind has sent panels of paper flying across the backyard, ruined. I’ve been caught in rainstorms, thunderstorms and once, a siren-screeching tornado warning. I’ve discovered pairs of robins enthusiastically bathing in my rinse trays, on top of my freshly completed works. I’ve accidentally made an exposure on an anthill, and had to lie motionless while the ants crawled all over me.  Bees, flies and spiders have all made appearances in some of the images.

Although I try to work in seclusion, I’ve had bystanders cross the grass, open the fence gate and come into my yard to ask me what I’m doing. During a recent exposure, a group of three neighbor children came over with their Chihuahua to ask why I was lying on the ground in my nightgown, covered in confetti. I had no answer to give them. Years ago, when a FedEx delivery man came to drop off a box and checked the backyard to see if anyone was home, he found myself and a model wearing nothing but roller skates, limbs entangled, sprawled across a length of doubleweight canvas. With eight minutes remaining in the exposure, all we could do was wait in immobile, horrified silence for him to leave.

I make more mistakes than I achieve successes. Each time, I’m convinced that I have ruined everything forever. Each time, though, something can be saved.  A fierce wind that flipped over all of my props taught me that moving an object partway through an exposure can create of depth in the image. A rain shower during a period of sun can create a stippled pattern across the image, something I’ve learned to hope for.  Ruinous errors have led me to better images than I could have made on my own.

When the cyanotypes are hanging in the gallery and I get dressed up to give my lecture, I tell myself not to recount any stories about bugs or thunderstorms or Chihuahuas or the FedEx man (especially not the FedEx man!). I tell myself to act like a grown-up, like a serious artist, and yet nearly every time someone asks me how I made something, I find myself answering, “It was an accident.”

SR Pod/Vod Series: Writer Vic Sizemore

Each Tuesday we feature audio or video of an SR Contributor reading their work. Today we’re proud to feature a podcast by Vic Sizemore.

Vic SizemoreVic Sizemore’s short stories are published or forthcoming in StoryQuarterly, Southern Humanities Review, Connecticut Review, Portland Review, Blue Mesa Review, Sou’wester, Silk Road Review, Atticus Review, PANK Magazine Fiction Fix, Vol.1 Brooklyn, Conclave, and elsewhere. Excerpts from his novel The Calling are published in Connecticut Review, Portland Review, Prick of the Spindle, Burrow Press Review, and elsewhere. His fiction has won the New Millennium Writings Award for Fiction, and been nominated for Best American Nonrequired Reading and a Pushcart Prize. You can find Vic at

You can listen to the podcast on our iTunes Channel.

You can read along with the work in Superstition Review.

Guest Post, Dara Wier: On and During and While and After



Because we crave to use those parts of us by which we read.

We read for our brains to do what they can.

We read so that marks make themselves into what they were not before we were reading them.

We read for everyone’s sake.

We read while we think we are reading and we are not.

We read backwards and forwards and up and down. We read into over and above.

We think we are reading and maybe we are.

We read because it is the only way into some things.

We read so as to know some things we couldn’t know otherwise.

We read for the sake of leaving ourselves behind.

For the sake of taking leave of our senses.

We read for god’s sake.

We read in a boat.

We read in a chair.

We read with no comprehension.

We read what we can’t understand because to learn to live with not understanding is one of the best things we can do for ourselves.

It astonishes us.

We read past ourselves.

We read for someone we love more than we love ourselves.

We read because lonesome requires companions.

We read because to be solitary requires attention.

We read because we are in love.

We read before we sleep.

We read by flashlight and moonlight, in sunlight, by torch and by firelight.

We read at the speed of sound.

We read at lightning speed.

We read because we are alive.

We read outloud in unison but I hate that.

We read because there are too many of us around.

We read because there is no one else around.

We read to be alone.

We make sense of what it is we are doing when we are reading.

We understand some of what we read.

I think to read and read to breathe.

We hope to get something out of what we read.

People ask us when you are reading what do you take away.

We read to think about what it is there to be read.

To think what reading can do is lead me through away from what was on my mind.

To read beyond what my mind was already thinking.

We get it in bits and pieces, what we read.

We read because to read is to be in touch with what is other than us.

We read to forget, to remember, to forget, to remember, to forget.

We remember who it was we first saw read.

We remember who it was who first read to us.

We remember a book someone gave us to read.

Who read to us memorably.

We read to know more or less what has come to or leaves us.

We read to know how we don’t know, can’t know, won’t know.

We read to know what we shouldn’t know.

We read to know how much.

To know how many and how few.

We read past what’s there.

We read to know what’s no longer there.

We read into something because we are human.

We read as ourselves and not as anyone else.

We read at varying speeds.

We read at the speed of light.

We read here to read there, to be reading and not disappearing.

We read for the sake of our ancestors.

We read for the sake of our children.

We are read to if we are lucky before we can make sense of the marks of the words on a page, on a wall, on a board, on the sky, in water, in smoke, in air.

We read something that is burning away in a fire.

We read what’s dissolving in water.

We read in water.

While we’re falling asleep we are reading.

We read in abject humility with knowledge of our lack of knowing much about what we are reading.

We read while we know we can never and never will read enough.

We read some more and we begin to want to know what happens next.

We read because reading uses our brains for something it is good at doing.

We read more because it adds to our understanding something we had not before known or understood.

We have endless understandings of understanding.

We read with trepidation. We read with caution. We read with fear.

We read as skeptics, as if reading were a competition.

We read as the faithful, as if our lives depended on what we are reading.

Some times what we are reading determines the rest of our lives.

With abandon we lose ourselves in what we read.

We read counter-intuitively.

We read respectfully, gratefully, introspectively, innocently.

We read so thoroughly, we are so thoroughly reading we forget where we are and what it is we are doing.

We read ourselves into forgetting ourselves. We forget who we are.

We stop reading and no longer know who we are.

We look up from reading and recognize nothing.

We read with pity for our kind.

We read while we are 30,000 feet above ground.

We read beneath sea level.

We read on horseback.

We read while we speed at speeds approaching the speed of sound.

We read while someone dies under the same roof sheltering our reading.

We think we had not known something before.

We read because without reading words would not have so much to do.

We read because words are all around us and let us read them.

We read because sometimes when we read we are not being stupid any more.

We read today to live tomorrow.

We read because someone gives us something to read.

We read because someone wrote what we’re reading.

We read because someone says here read this.

We read because we see someone else reading.

We read because we want to read what someone else says they are reading.

We read what someone else reads to feel our mind is feeling something like their mind is feeling. Or we pretend it might be.

We read in the mirror.

We read on a train.

We read on a ferry.

We read for money. We read for time. We read for love.

We read by fire. We read by flame and flare. We read by what our eyes and fingers provide.

Because we can we read what we’ve provided for reading’s sake.

And sometimes something comes of it. We read from when we can to when we no longer can. And after that someone else reads where we left off.