Dr. Who, Season 9, Episodes 5 and 6

Doctor Who, Season 9, episode 5, “The Girl Who Died,” written by Jamie Mathieson and Steven Moffat and directed by Ed Bazalgette and episode 6, “The Woman Who Lived,” written by Catherine Tregenna  and directed by Ed Bazalgette, originally aired October 17 and 24, 2015.

Reviewed by Usha Vishnuvajjala (uvishnuv@indiana.edu)

 “The Girl Who Died” and “The Woman Who Lived” form a two-episode story arc which centers on a Viking girl named Ashildr, played by Maisie Williams of Game of Thrones fame. This second foray into the Middle Ages in fourteen months is notable; since its reboot in 2005, Doctor Who has given the Middle Ages a wide berth. During the first seven seasons, showrunners set episodes in Pompeii, in Shakespeare’s London, and in a twenty-second-century acid-pumping factory located in a revamped fourteenth-century castle, but not a single episode in any part of the Middle Ages. That changed last year, with the episode “Robot of Sherwood,” set in in “1190-ish,” and this season, various medievalisms were sprinkled throughout the first four episodes, leading to “The Girl Who Died,” the fifth of the season.

In “The Girl Who Died,” visions of Odin appear in the sky, telling villagers what to do. The Doctor and his travelling companion Clara see them too, and soon discover that they are created by an alien spaceship from the future which is harvesting fighters from the village. This is a recurring treatment of history and legend for Doctor Who; historical people really do see Odin, Robin Hood, the eruption at Pompeii, witches in Shakespeare’s London, Agatha Christie’s disappearance, and so on, but the Doctor uncovers the driving forces behind such apparitions and events, which always turn out to be extraterrestrial. In the case of “The Girl Who Died,” this has the effect of allowing two versions of history to exist simultaneously: the experience of the people inhabiting the Viking village is consistent with a version of mythology, while the Doctor’s cynical view of such beliefs is also supported by the apparatus behind such experience.

The Doctor and Clara find themselves on the outskirts of a Viking village—time and place unspecified, but revealed in the following episode to be the 9th century—when the Doctor lands the TARDIS to wipe the remnants of a space-spider off his boot in the grass. As often happens, the TARDIS has taken them to a place where their intervention is needed to prevent an alien massacre of humans. On being ambushed by a group of Viking soldiers with swords, the Doctor is irritated, shouting, “No, no, not Vikings. I’m not in the mood for Vikings!” suggesting that he has had plenty of interactions with the Middle Ages off-screen (also suggested earlier this season when he believed himself to be dying and went to the twelfth century for a final weeks-long party). When he and Clara are brought, in chains, to the Vikings’ village, the Doctor tries to escape by claiming to be Odin in human form, only to be interrupted by Odin’s face appearing in the sky. Clara and Ashildr, the daughter of one of the soldiers, are among those beamed up to “Valhalla,” which is actually a spaceship in which Vikings are vaporized by a laser so their energy can be harnessed and drunk by the extraterrestrial “Odin.”

When the Doctor’s creative low-tech method for helping the Vikings defeat the alien spaceship goes slightly awry and leads to Ashildr’s death, the Doctor uses a small device to bring her back to life, which has the side effect of making her immortal. After giving her a second device for the companion of her choice, the Doctor and Clara leave the village. When the Doctor encounters her again in “The Woman Who Lived,” it is 1651 and she is a highway robber known as “The Knightmare” who calls herself “Me,” and doesn’t recognize the name Ashildr when the Doctor uses it.

This second episode, despite its postmedieval setting, contains more interesting commentary on the medieval period. “The Girl Who Died” is much more a vehicle for furthering or revisiting various parts of Doctor Who history and mythology (with plenty of inside jokes for longtime fans), while “The Woman Who Lived” is as much about Ashildr’s long life through the Middle Ages as it is about who she has become by 1651. This is poignantly foreshadowed by the final shot of “The Girl Who Died,” in which Ashildr is depicted standing on a cliff as a camera circles her slowly and shows the passage of time in the movement of stars, constellations, and the mountains behind her. The camera begins its circle on her contented face, and ends on her troubled one.

By the time we encounter her in the following episode, Ashildr has lived so long that she sometimes reads her own diaries for entertainment, because she has “had 800 years of adventure” and cannot remember most of what has happened to her. This provides the opportunity for the Doctor and, therefore, the viewer, to learn about her life in the Middle Ages, including founding a leper colony, becoming a medieval queen and faking her own death to hide her immortality, recovering from the Black Death but losing her children to it and swearing never to have any more, and curing an entire village of scarlet fever and narrowly escaping being drowned as a witch by “ungrateful peasants” as a result. In a flashback reminiscent of Virgina Woolf’s Orlando, Ashildr is shown fighting in the battle of Agincourt, which she describes as “my first stint as a man,” with “The Knightmare” being the most recent.

These flashbacks, and Ashildr’s narration of them from her vantage point in 1651, offer an account of the Middle Ages as impossibly long and varied. Ashildr has experienced wealth and power, but also poverty and loss; she has both killed and saved more people than she can remember; she has lived as both a man and a woman. The village that she once loved so much that she chose to stay there and die rather than leave “the sky, the hills, the sea, [and] the people” has become so distant that she is taken aback when the Doctor mentions it by name. Although Doctor Who is generally more invested in the experience and philosophy of the time-traveler than in the specific attributes of the times and places the Doctor visits, it is always concerned with shifting perceptions of history—both the fictional time-traveler’s and the viewers’. As with last season’s “Robot of Sherwood,” the long arc of “The Girl Who Died” and “The Woman Who Lived” push back against the idea of a singular medieval period. Instead, they depict Ashildr’s Middle Ages as a long period of change, development, and variation, so long that the ninth century is unrecognizable by the seventeenth, even to a woman who lived through it.

Usha Vishnuvajjala

Indiana University 

Knight: Reading Robin Hood

Stephen Knight, Reading Robin Hood, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2015.

Reviewed by Sabina Rahman (srah2881@uni.sydney.edu.au)

Reading Robin Hood stands as Stephen Knight’s third book devoted to the outlaw hero, preceded by Robin Hood: A Complete Study of the English Outlaw (1994) and Robin Hood: a Mythic Biography (2003), and demonstrates some deviation from these earlier works by containing a stronger theoretical focus. While A Complete Study was a wonderfully detailed overview of the myth and A Mythic Biography traced the manner in which the myth changed and evolved and how it operated politically, this book situates itself much more in the Greenwood gloaming as it attempts to address points of unclarity in the outlaw tradition and associated scholarship. In his usual meticulous style, Knight draws together disparate threads of scholarship within this rhizomatic field of study, his distinct voice containing not only the attention to detail that one has come to expect from him but also a clear and unabashed enthusiasm for the subject matter. Though the book weaves in and out of eras and discussions, because the nature of the texts and discussions cannot be neatly constrained by either of those features, it is split into eight discrete chapters.

The first three chapters focus on what Knight refers to as the 'enigmas of uncertainty arising from the early materials' (p. 8), with the first chapter discussing the nature of the early ballads. Beginning with an analysis of works by H. J. Chaytor, Clanchy, Walter Ong, Marianna Boerch (amongst others), Knight builds a foundation for examining oral traditions and cultures, a scholarly approach which he argues tends towards an oversimplification of a complex cultural field as ‘writing [was] a version of speaking’ in medieval times (p. 15). The discussion encompasses the fetishisation of literacy and literary products in scholarship, with David C. Fowler’s claim of orality being a frayed and decayed form of literacy. Knight uses Richard Green and his work to demonstrate the surviving powers of oral material, and continues to posit the Robin Hood material as an exemplar of an alternative model as they are from their earliest incarnations  ‘both oral and literary, and maintain that complexity to the present, with varying intensities of an instrumental and context-driven kind’ (p. 16). The discussion that Robin Hood stories are grounded in songs and chants, and a compelling argument for the popular and even usual orality of the Robin Hood texts through the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries (the tales being told via song or performance of some sort, and the capability of the broadside ballads being sung) all lead Knight to the conclusion that the printing of the material did not silence the oral and performative tendency of these tales (p. 25). Indeed, there is a dialectical interrelationship of orality and literacy at the core of the Robin Hood material.

The second chapter traces some Scottish connections to the tradition, identifying a significant gap in the scholarship field where, though there is an acknowledged recurrent element of Scottish involvement with the tradition, there is almost no critical engagement in the area. In an interesting move, Knight uses post-colonial critical discourse to engage with the texts, despite Scotland not being a colony but rather a negotiated ally and federate, and discusses how colonial implants may interact with native traditions, and how they may ‘in turn, and in return, influence the culture of the colonising power itself’ (p. 37). The chapter examines Robin Hood in Scotland and Rabbie Hood in England, noting that the nature of this traffic is not one way,  and that there is indeed evidence of an interrelationship in these outlaw myths. There are some keen observations in the Scottish relocation of the Robin Hood myth through play-games in that region, and his appropriation as the date and season of the play-games change from the traditional May in England to a winter’s December day in Scotland, thus changing the figure in question by ‘detaching him [...] from the strong natural symbolism of the English Whitsun practices [...] and making him a figure of year-round urban harmony‘ (p. 40). The significance of Robin Hood changes as he is entwined with the Rabbie Hood myth, the Scottish reading of the character differing greatly from the English, especially in terms of national significance, a point that Knight traces in some depth with the available texts.

The final chapter in this section addresses the sources and avatars of “A Gest of Robin Hood”, and argues that the Gest draws substantially on the late medieval tradition of sub-chivalric romance, especially as this is found in Sir Launfal, Gamelyn, and the ‘King and Subject’ ballads, and there is some significant space given to the argument that the “Gest” relies on the narrative of Fulk Fitz-Warren. The discussion necessitates a re-ordering of the conventional time lines of the plays and the ballads, suggesting that “Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne” and the plays “Robin Hood and the Potter” and “Robin Hood and the Friar” all predate “Gest”, thus using the narratives of these texts to glean greater understanding of the older texts. The argument for the alternate chronology is highly plausible, the evidence sound; however, as Knight concedes, there is room for scholarly dispute on the matter.

The second section of the book attempts to address the lack of clarity in structures and interrelationships of a considerable number of texts, beginning with an analysis of the broadside ballads, their dates, types and sociopolitical meanings.  The broadside ballads are an aspect of Robin Hood studies that were once considered central but have lacked any significant critical work in the last few decades, and this chapter is steeped in a desire to regenerate interest in this area. Knight creates a framework for a revival of these studies by loosely placing them in two categories: anti authority and celebratory, where the outlaws’ skills and traditions are celebrated. There is also a meticulous attempt to sort the broadsides chronologically, creating a valuable tool for those future scholars. This chapter blends seamlessly into the fifth with a continuation of these intricacies of the broadside ballads in a more Romantic setting, and discusses also the garland traditions thriving in the eighteenth century. Knight also unearths evidence of the old play tradition showing signs of survival in festivals in high summer, a displacement of the early summer festivals which had featured Robin Hood play-games. This chapter also contains a discussion of Joseph Ritson, his history and his works, acknowledging the vast impact he had on this field, though he does not participate in nor comment upon the reconstruction of Robin Hood as a Romantic figure. For him, Robin ‘displayed a spirit of freedom and independence’ (p. 108). Knight also neatly pulls together the Romantic Robin from his appearances in works by John Keats, John Hamilton Reynolds and Leigh Hunt before analysing Thomas Love Peacock’s Maid Marian novella which maintains and adds to this Romantic discourse while adding political elements through satire. This Romantic Robin Hood remains an ‘available and potent part of the outlaw repertoire’ (p. 139) and has thrived and flourished to current depictions from these roots, which Knight traces further in the sixth chapter, and the re-formation of Robin Hood in poetry and prose in the nineteenth century. This chapter sees Robin settling into the ‘patriotic, masculine, leaderly role of the mid-Victorian popular novel’ (p. 143) through a study of Robin Hood: A Tale of Olden Time (anonymous), Ivanhoe (Walter Scott) and the Maid Marian novella mentioned above (Peacock). There is also an exploration of Robin Hood being brought to mainstream audiences, the first evidence of which is cited as Pierce Egan the Younger’s serialised rendition of the tales, and the lasting influence of Howard Pyle as the impact and importance of his work ‘was to a large degree visual’ (p. 179). Robin Hood had not been a popular subject for artists, not as much as Arthur and the medieval knights, so the illustrations in these books led to a revival in artistic interest, a discussion which Knight engages in.

The final section of the book works across all materials, from thematic viewpoints, content, form and reception, and discusses the multiplicity of portrayals of Maid Marian, and her changing role in millennial modernity. The chapter traces the history of Marian in the tradition, from Robin et Marion c. 1283, which, as Knight previously notes, is not really part of the outlaw cycle at all despite the tantalising similarities in name and date. However there are some links to the blending of the two traditions within the play-games, and this is explored briefly. There is also some discussion of the eighteenth century opera with the uninspired title of Robin Hood: An Opera, and other plays during that time in which Marian began to emerge as a standard character, though as Knight states, ‘in general, the eighteenth-century did not find Marian an inspiring figure’ (p. 198). It is in the nineteenth century that Marian begins to take a larger role, even given the title of a Robin Hood story for the first time (the aforementioned Maid Marian by Peacock) and there is an emerging recognition of her as a partner of Robin, an element that grew stronger in twentieth-century film and TV. Knight traces this figure through the twentieth century, examining her evolution on the screen, particularly in line with feminist thought, adding that surging interest in the role of women will give Marian ‘renewed power’ (p. 198).

This final section also provides the model of a rhizomatic structure as a way of understanding a tradition which has ‘been opposed to, even ostracised by, canonical tradition which is linear, uniform or, in their terms, arboreal’ (p. 9). The usual model of canonisation of literature, Knight argues, does not work with Robin Hood: ‘it has long been established that there is a different formation in this long-loved and highly dynamic cultural myth’ (p. 229).  This chapter, possibly my favourite of the book, addresses pedagogical issues and triumphs that Knight encountered with Robin Hood and his surprising and perplexing avoidance of being pinned down. There is large array of material here and Knight bounces from one to another like a pinball, his excitement palpable with every new encounter. With the excitement, there is also confusion, maybe even frustration, at the nature of this hero, this myth, whose ‘multiformed nature is rooted in the contextual ground itself’ (p. 254). It is due to this that Knight concludes with the caution that commentators will need a ‘volatile capacity to comprehend - meaning both understand and hold onto - the continuing rhizomaticity of Robin Hood’ (p. 254).

This book could, perhaps, be read as a call to arms. Knight begins by addressing the idea that the Robin Hood tradition is remarkably open to new materials and ideas in a way that seemingly comparable medieval legends, such as King Arthur, and Tristan and Isolde for instance, are not (p. 1). There is an uncertain and anarchic nature to the myth, bred perhaps from the manner in which Robin Hood material was not culturally treasured and did not undergo the venerative process of literary criticism of seemingly comparable medieval material that began around the turn of the twentieth century. While Joseph Ritson began this process in 1795 when he published his edition of the ballads and Francis James  Child provided the 'finest piece of early outlaw scholarship' (p. 3), Reading Robin Hood makes it clear that the process has not yet scratched a considerable surface. 

Scholars and interested parties may notice some slight overlap in the material. The chapter on the Scottish myth is essentially “Rabbie Hood: The Development of the English Outlaw Myth in Scotland”, published out of conference proceedings in Bandit Territories.[1]  The inclusion of the chapter is appropriate here too, however, as some repetition of material is necessary in order to tie the threads of the book’s thesis together, to demonstrate the fertility of the scholarly lands available.

This is not a book of answers. This book is said to be Knight’s final book on Robin Hood and in keeping with the volatile, evolving nature of the myth on which he writes, Knight does not provide the final word on the subject matter. Rather, he has, via a neat trilogy of books, provided future scholars the means by which to descend into the forest and see the trees.

Sabina Rahman

University of Sydney

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[1] Helen Phillips (ed.), Bandit Territories: British Outlaw Traditions, Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2008.

Seki: The Rhetoric of Retelling Old Romances

Yoshiko Seki. The Rhetoric of Retelling Old Romances: Medievalist Poetry by Alfred Tennyson and William Morris.  Japan: EIHŌSHA, 2015.

Reviewed by Nicole Lobdell (nicole.lobdell@lmc.gatech.edu)

Yoshiko Seki’s The Rhetoric of Retelling Old Romances: Medievalist Poetry by Alfred Tennyson and William Morris offers readers a focused consideration of the rhetoric that canonical Victorian poets Tennyson and Morris developed in their later medievalist poetry. In her introduction, Seki introduces two concepts, medievalism and Victorianism, that underpin her study, and argues that Victorianists cannot “simply [assume] that the mid-nineteenth century was congenial for the medievalists even if it is also true that medievalism and the Arthurian revival were a genuine cultural phenomenon” (10). To complicate her initial premise further, Seki also points to Victorian complaints that the age was “unpoetical,” implicating the Victorian age’s perceived affinity for prose over poetry. So, why in an age that is both anti-medievalist and unpoetical would two major poets such as Tennyson and Morris turn to medievalist themes and Arthurian legends for inspiration, and how did these poets retell such legends in the nineteenth century? These questions drive Seki’s work, and at the initial outset of her study, they are compelling questions to ask.

The structure of Seki’s monograph retains markers of a dissertation project completed before 2010, namely the choice of authors, division of chapters, and the lack of recent research criticism and secondary sources from the last five years. In the acknowledgements, Seki owns that the project has taken eight years to complete; in reading the study, however, it becomes apparent that most of her critical research ends in approximately 2008, with little to no discussion of research published after 2010. There were surges of scholarly interest in Victorian medievalism in the 1960s-70s and again in the 1990s, and it is from these decades that Seki draws the bulk of her secondary sources. Although the premise of her study is compelling, its lack of engagement with current research is disappointing, and one senses there are missed opportunities to expand the argument in new and interesting directions. Her study would make a useful overview of secondary materials and how medievalism and Victorianism came together at two different periods of the twentieth century, and perhaps her work indicates that we are fast approaching a renewal of such interests.

Four of the chapters were published previously in 2005, 2007, and 2008, respectively, as articles in journals such as the Osaka Literary Review. Three of the Morris chapters are comprised of these articles, and, incidentally, it is these chapters that are the more tightly constructed, more tenacious, and more daring in their assertions. The chapters devoted to Tennyson are less evolved and less exacting; the writing is less demanding and less precise than that of the Morris chapters. Perhaps this stems from the sheer volume of Tennyson materials that Seki endeavors to cover in those devoted chapters.

The Tennyson portion of the study is divided into three compositional moments of the idylls: 1859, 1869, and 1885. The author’s purpose is to examine how the idylls “took on different ‘glancing colours’ in every iteration through successive publication” and in what ways the poet changed his plans for composition as the result of outside influences including reviewers’ and readers’ responses and his nomination as Poet Laureate (46-8). This observation, however, is not new. In 1872, Swinburne sneeringly, and famously, renamed “The Morte d’Arthur” (1833), Tennyson’s poem on the death of Arthur, as “The Morte d’Albert, or Idylls of the Prince Consort,” a comment on Tennyson’s position as Poet Laureate to Queen Victoria. Seki further divides the chapters devoted to Tennyson into three smaller sections: “the cultural climate in which Victorian poets wrote their works … their process of composition, and the reception of their works by contemporary critics and the reading public” (13).

Seki’s plan is ambitious, and her choice of Tennyson’s Idylls is a compelling one. Generally, the Idylls are not the preferred choice of scholars interested in Tennyson’s medievalist poetry; they are frequently passed over for the more popular poems such as “The Lady of Shalott.” Additionally, the complicated composition and publication history of the Idylls contributes to their overall incoherence as a unified set of poems. In 1855-56, for example, Tennyson composed “Enid,” which he published privately in 1857 and then published publicly in 1859 as “Enid.” In 1869, he expanded it and retitled it “Geraint and Enid”; in 1873, he divided it into two poems, which received their final titles as “The Marriage of Geraint” and “Geraint and Enid” in 1888. To help readers maneuver this history, Seki includes a detailed set of date charts in the appendix, which demonstrate Tennyson returning and revising works he composed decades earlier. The chronological, linear argument, which Seki relies upon, is enticing but ultimately a false one that goes against the point she attempts to argue – namely, Tennyson’s construction of a plural present. Not interested in the past or the future of Camelot, Tennyson is concerned solely with iterating it in the present moment. Unlike Malory, Tennyson returns to the Arthurian romances in order to project moments of great social and cultural change in Victorian England. In effect, Tennyson produces a world of Camelots that exist simultaneously together in the present moment – a plural present.

For Seki, these moments of great change included the publication of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species (1859) and the changing roles of women in society. “In the first four Idylls [1859],” she writes, “[Tennyson] focused on the heroines of the romance so as to deal with the question of women’s roles in society. He handled the conflict between science and religion in the next Holy Grail and Other Poems” (91). Seki contrasts the female characters in Tennyson’s earlier poems with those of the later Idylls: “While the ladies in the early poems are isolated from their society and are found in a melancholic condition, the four heroines in the Idylls are actively involved in the world around them by the use of their own voice” (61). Seki bases some of her reasoning on the fact that in 1850, Tennyson had succeeded Wordsworth as Poet Laureate, and that perhaps this shift in portrayals of women was due to his new role. This interpretation is certainly a possibility, and Seki suggests that Tennyson, compelled by his reviewers, was attempting to respond to the cultural moment regarding women’s rights. She argues that Guenevere’s “self-defensive monologue shows us her mentality, where she struggles to build a medieval world by recounting an allegorical story and by recalling her cherished memories of earlier days” (119). So, even though Guenevere’s dramatic monologue does not follow the traditional rules of Victorian dramatic monologues, it creates an alternate, independent world within the Arthurian legend for Guenevere.

The argument over gender and poetic form is one of the strengths of Seki’s volume. One wishes, however, that Seki had engaged more fully the feminist reading at which she hints. A fuller discussion of Tennyson’s female-centric medievalist poetry alongside other Victorian poets, namely female Victorian poets such as Elizabeth Barrett Browning who composed at the same cultural moments as Tennyson and Morris and incorporated similar medieval and Arthurian imagery, themes, and characters into her poetry, would be a welcome addition to the study. The choice to focus on Tennyson and Morris, two prolific and canonical Victorian poets, is never justified beyond the facts that they both wrote long narrative poems, had widespread readerships, were interested in the Arthurian romances, attempted grand epics, and had similar dates for composition. One feels that Seki is constantly scratching at the surface, attempting to cover an expansive argument rather than delving into specific depths, a fact reflected in the brevity of the volume.

In the second half of the volume, Seki turns to William Morris’s poetry and aesthetics. She argues that Morris’s early poems on Arthurian motifs, ranging from lyric, narrative, soliloquy, and verse drama, are his etude pieces that reflect the influences of Tennyson and Browning on Morris’s evolution as a poet. To support her claim, she offers a comparative reading of Tennyson’s “Sir Galahad” (1842), Browning’s “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came” (1855), and Morris’s Galahad poems from The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems (1858), arguing that Morris blends the secular version of Galahad from Browning’s poem with the “iconographical figure” from Tennyson’s portrayal (125). Her research demonstrates that Morris “created a new Galahad … by blending medieval romance with the medieval drama cycle” (125).

The final two chapters examine Morris’s poetics as laid out in his epic poem The Earthly Paradise, which appeared a decade following The Defence of Guenevere and offered retellings of popular myths and legends. Modern critics including F. R. Leavis and T. S. Eliot criticized Morris’s romanticism and influenced Morris scholarship for decades, downplaying Morris’s poetry as escapism. Following Jerome McGann’s lead, Seki argues for a reevaluation of Morris’s poetics within the “original context of Victorian poetics” (139). Seki reconstructs that context by considering Morris’s original plans for an illustrated edition of The Earthly Paradise, with the physical housing of the poem mirroring its poetic scaffolding. Although such an edition never came to fruition, Morris’s aesthetics influenced other writers including Walter Pater.

The concluding chapters of The Rhetoric of Retelling Old Romances position William Morris as a lynch pin connecting Tennyson’s medievalist poetry to Pater’s aesthetics. One of Seki’s strengths is her ability to generate promising, new connections through big claims, such as those proposed in the chapters devoted to Morris’s poetry. One of the weaknesses, however, is the lack of specific and thorough follow through that takes the established criticism in new and unexpected directions. At times, the author’s heavy reliance on summaries of earlier criticisms can make her distinct, original contributions to the field difficult to discern. The volume has problems with organization and cohesion of the different critical threads, but these may stem from the fragmented nature of the material (as Seki demonstrates in her discussion of composition and publication histories) compounded by the critical disagreements between scholars over the past century. Readers of this volume will find it a useful distillation of the complex and nuanced critical arguments that surround Tennyson’s and Morris’s medievalist poetry.

Nicole Lobdell

Georgia Institute of Technology