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  Alice Kociemba, Director of Calliope

Telephone           Alice Kociemba        508-566-1090

E-mail                  Alice Kociemba


Using humor and memory to celebrate people and place, Alice Kociemba is the author of the chapbook Death of Teaticket Hardware, the title poem of which won an International Merit Award from the Atlanta Review.  She is a member of Jamaica Pond Poets, a weekly collaborative workshop and is the founding director of Calliope – Poetry Readings at West Falmouth Library, a monthly poetry series. .    

 When asked, “How did you get interested in poetry?” Alice credits Emily Dickinson with saving her sanity after she suffered a severe head injury in 1986 and couldn’t read, drive or work for six months.  Shortly thereafter, Alice wrote her first poem, seizure, about her experience.  Her first poetry collection, Bourne Bridge, is forthcoming from Turning Point (the narrative imprint of WordTech) in March 2016. She was a featured poet in the Aurorean and her poems have also appeared in the Atlanta Review, Main Street Rag, Off the Coast, Plainsongs, Slant,  Roanoke Review, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Comstock Review,  International Psychoanalysis, Salamander and in the anthology, Like A Girl: Perspectives on Feminine Identity.  

A frequently featured poet, she been described as “the best storyteller I have ever heard”.  She has read at Chapter and Verse, opened for Robert Pinsky at the Brookline Poetry Series, and was a panelist and featured poet at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival.  She facilitates a monthly Poetry Discussion Group at the Falmouth Public Library, an outgrowth of “Falmouth Reads Together,” the Favorite Poems Project. Having grown up in Jamaica Plain, Alice now lives in a home overlooking wetlands and works as a psychotherapist in Falmouth, MA.    

Following is a sample of her work:

Bourne Bridge

Not the hard rain
the rivers crave
not the downpour
to quench the forest floor,
just a light mist,
on almost empty roads,
as I’m entombed in grey,
the only sound—
an intermittent shush—
wipers clearing windshield;
this quiet is pleasing,
a monochromatic alone,
when suddenly the overcast
lightens from charcoal to dove,
then splits into strands
of mauve, salmon, rose,
and the bridge ahead, luminous,
wrapped in a pale blue shawl,
each rain drop clings,
glistening in pure light
that’s always there
even when hidden,
I’ve come home.




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