On April 30, as the spring semester neared its end, creative writing students, faculty, and friends gathered in the Groos Family Atrium in Klarman Hall for the fourth in a series of semesterly readings featuring undergraduate writers. The Ammons Reading Series, which was launched in the fall of 2023, is named in memory of Goldwin Smith Professor of Poetry A. R. Ammons (1926-2001), author of many acclaimed volumes, including Corsons Inlet (1965), Sphere (1975), and Garbage (1994).
Ammons was a regular attendee at student readings held in the Temple of Zeus, then located in Goldwin Smith Hall. Generously sponsored by Ammons’s student Beverly Tanenhaus (BA ’70), the series is meant to revive the spirit of those old readings, which fostered a lively sense of community among creative writers.
Readers are recruited from all levels of creative writing classes, including both fiction and poetry. Every participant receives a book by Ammons as a parting gift. This year the book was Ammons’ 1965 Tape for the Turn of the Year, typed on a single unbroken roll of adding machine tape. Readers also received rolls of tape, on which they were encouraged to write their own masterpieces.
Left to right: Beverly Tanenhaus (BA ’70) shares memories; Anita Liu (BA ‘25) delivers their poem; Prof. Roger Gilbert opens the reading, gesturing towards the current Temple of Zeus Café where the former facade of Goldwin Smith Hall opens into the Groos Family Atrium; Ammons listening to a student read at one of the original Temple of Zeus events
This year’s reading was introduced by Beverly Tanenhaus and another former student of Ammons, Ingrid Arnesen (BA ’76). Both shared warm memories of their beloved teacher and mentor, who was famous for spending hours in his office with the door open, waiting for students to drop in.
Among the students who read was graduating senior Anita Liu (BA ‘25), who shared a poem expressing gratitude for her home these last four years:
to: ithaca
from: anita
the first time i stepped foot on your soil,
late summer kissed my face —
a fading breeze,
thick with anticipation,
humming with the hush of beginnings.
ten pre-freshmen with wide eyes
and early mornings —
appel breakfast at 7 am,
groggy, giggling,
hungry for more than food.
we wandered:
chickens clucking,
vines curling like questions,
cayuga cradling our picnic.
then came fall — the plunge.
classes began.
gen chem hit like a wave,
but trauma-bonding made it bearable —
there, i found my people.
sleepless nights,
cramming facts and writing labs,
scribbling madly under fluorescent lights.
we watched gothic films in the lounge,
fell fast, fell hard,
then fell apart.
next semester — python,
its logic illogical.
winter crept in —
stretching its fingers, slow and sharp.
just when we thought we’d break,
break arrived —
a soft release.
a bomb threat kept us inside,
but we danced through the silence,
vibing in fear.
another cs class —
tears with every deadline.
there went the minor.
physics was… physics.
that’s when i entered
my unicycling phase —
never quite moving forward,
but spinning, always.
slept through stats,
sorry, melissa.
then, spring teased us —
the groundhog lied.
we waited for blossoms,
but the sky had other plans —
a snowstorm instead,
a final reminder
of your unpredictable heart.
arabic —
a song i no longer sing.
brief,
but beautiful.
when summer finally came,
it arrived soft and slow.
sunlight returned
to whisper to the water,
my toes baptized in streambeds.
weekends laced with hikes,
mocktails fizzing like laughter,
and cicadas chirping riddles
i never quite solved.
and now, my final year —
another fall,
and finally,
i am returning to myself.
illuminations —
a family in motion,
lifting, spinning.
our choreographer taught us to turn —
not twist.
yet i twisted, turned,
and arched into someone new.
taekwondo team —
where sweat turned to laughter,
and strangers became friends.
where i met a curly-haired boy,
who now walks beside me,
hand in hand,
our footsteps tracing
the quiet edge of beebe lake.
now, i step once more
into the waiting breeze —
not the girl who arrived,
but the woman who grew.
ithaca,
you kissed me hello.
and now,
you kiss me goodbye.
