On Friday, 15th of February 2019, the amazing Tara Skurtu will visit the Uni-Verse on her tour all over Vienna.

Even though we’re still a very young society and couldn’t offer her much, Tara generously agreed to give our members the priceless opportunity to learn from a master of her craft. Tara will also bring signed limited edition copies of her poetry book, „The Amoeba Game“, which attendees can purchase at the workshop.

Who is Tara Skurtu? An American poet, creative writing coach, and public speaker based in Bucharest. A two-time U.S. Fulbright grantee and recipient of two Academy of American Poets prizes and a Robert Pinsky Global Fellowship in Poetry, her poems are published internationally and translated into seven languages. Tara is the author of the chapbook Skurtu, Romania and the full poetry collection The Amoeba Game.

Tara’s „The Amoeba Game“

Tara has worked at the Edmond J. Safra Center for Ethics at Harvard University and taught at Boston University, where she was a lecturer in creative writing and taught composition to incarcerated students through BU’s Prison Education Program. At present, she works as a game writer and creative design consultant, and she leads creativity seminars and writing workshops for individuals, small groups, and companies.

Tara Skurtu, by Cătălin Georgescu

Tara’s online nesting places:

Appetizers:

7:32 AM
(originally published here)

I drive below the speed limit
past businesses not yet open,

a house with only one lit room,
pastures of Black Angus grazing.

I roll down the window, rest
my elbow, lean my face

against my palm. Realize
I haven’t eaten. Right now

Gramma would’ve been fixing
breakfast. Weekends at her house

I’d wake while she poached eggs,
halved a grapefruit, filled

my bowl with stale corn flakes
and raisin bran, overripe star fruit—

the shuffle of her plastic-
bottomed slippers on the tile,

gurgle and drip of the coffee
maker, the kitchen radio playing

soft and easy hits from the past.

Biter
(originally published here)

Before you knew words, you’d toddle
open-mouthed, chomp down on the leg

of a table, couch arm, seated ass
of a grown-up. In a memory that isn’t

quite mine, you took a chunk
of my cheek between your square

milk teeth. I bit back, and Mom snapped
a close-up. On my right cheek, an imperfect

Morse of dashes shapes your open mouth—
and on your left, my more perfected bite.

Pictures from the workshop:

(We still live in a pre-Tara timespace, but once that has been remedied, this is where you’ll be able to find visual snippets)