By Katch Campbell
As an artist, I struggle to maintain the edges of things. Tables leave bruises on my thighs.
Eyeliner extends to Nefertiti lengths. And I always tap out a reply text when I wanted to
just stay silent. My relationships both relish and fear this edgelessness—my absolute
obsession with peeking over and beyond the tail of Hale-Bopp–the need to know
differently and be known as different.
I argue that great art comes from a place without edges, and that the unwillingness to
accept a given answer as definition is the work of dream chasers. As such, I must explore
all dimensions: color and taste, time and ego. I must follow all of my whims until they
are reclassified into something new and extraordinary and never consider the edge until
I’ve plunged in and can glance back.
Poetry is edgelessness and provides a horizon, a connecting line, between art forms.
Poetry turns text into sound, and creates new images to describe what is already formed.
From prion to Peshawar, poets codify aural, visual, and linguistic qualities, and our
edgelessness creates a series of stepped experimentations for those who prefer the gap
Katch Campbell is a poet and triathlete who lives in the woods outside of Philadelphia. She is currently an MFA candidate at the Vermont College of Fine Arts in poetry.