May 2013
3 posts
April 2013
21 posts
1 tag
The Runners / IRVING FELDMAN
Here or there hundreds of them, phantom-like, bobbing in place at street corners, then lifting their knees suddenly and leaping into the densest, loudest traffic (of briefest trajectories, of shortest views), in transit yet at ease, breathing, loping, like bearers of distance and pure direction, darting half naked out of nowhere and where, where in the world are they running to? swift and...
Robert Ostrom on "To His Nephew"
To His Nephew
In my bureau is a matchbox. I am not going to make this easy for you. In the box there are two cloves, a snip of lavender, and a piece of ribbon. Inside the ribbon, a girl walks tiptoe with outstretched arms past the living room. She is my grandmother. In her pocket, a cinnamon quill and kitchen shears; in the bend of her arm, kith and kin: her grandfather carefully opens a...
March 2013
7 posts
Your Invitation to a Modest Breakfast / ...
It’s too cold to smoke outside, but if you come over, I’ll keep my hands to myself, or won’t I. I would like to tell you about the wall eaten up by the climbing plant—it was so beautiful. Various things have been happening to me, all of them sexual. The man on the bus took off his pants so I could see him better. Another man said, “Ignore him darlin’. Just sit on my...
February 2013
14 posts
Molly Brodak on "The Flood"
The Flood Panic, because suddenly everything signifies, a kind of net of sunlight, pulling all directions at once; the background’s flaw is that it beckons: the poodle’s boat, Noah’s palm, the dove-magnet: a barbarity! A flame at the vanishing point! Where things trace back to one man’s wanting, which is often the wrong thing for him altogether. So people drowned. Their...
Take note Southern Poets
New Southern Voices poetry book prize
Judge: D.A. Powell
Prize: $1000 and publication by Hub City Press in 2014.
Submit
Open to all poets who have either never published a full-length collection of poetry, or who have only published one full-length collection, and who currently reside in and have had residency in one or more of the following states for a minimum of 24 consecutive months:...
Megan Kaminski on "My syntax shift
My syntax shift
My presence on the winter boat contradicted all prescience on the matter of drowning far into the Atlantic. Further west near the Hudson, autumnal blankets whisper over mountains and through resurrectionless forests. Imagine flying from boats to biplanes, sprinkling dust and dawn along the way. The undoing of summer made my syntax shift and examine your listing out center the...
Questions of Faith with Nick Flynn
“I grew up in a town that was predominately Irish Catholic, yet I was raised Protestant, Congregationalist. I went to church until I decided I didn’t want to go anymore, which was when I was about eight. I liked that we got new shoes on Easter, but being in the shadow of a dominant religion put me in the role of the outsider, which is probably best for an artist.” Read more.
January 2013
14 posts
On "Old Green America Says I Grew a Law Last...
The truth is I had gotten obsessed with Laura Ingalls Wilder books. Why are these considered girls’ books? People are building log cabins! They’re digging wells! They’re getting chased by panthers and dying of starvation and eating the curliest part of the pig, the tail! They’re sucking horehound, the most lawless candy! Territories are declaring statehood. People are...
Open Letter to Alexandra Petri by John Deming
I am writing in response to your attack on American poetry in your Washington Post blog today. Throughout your piece, you forward assumptions based on your own lack of exposure and allow these to stand as truth. I know it is just an opinion blog, but people have been convinced by less, and despite your “blog voice,” I sense you might really believe what you are saying. I will also assume you are...
Ben Mirov "A Kiss on the Purplish Light"
I wanted to impress her with my kissing ability and so placed my hand on her cheek. It scared me, but I touched it gently.
My eyes were shut. My mind began to wander. I thought of a deer spooked by his shadow on the rime. I thought about Papa who died half-naked with a mouthful of mushroom soup. I thought of the universe expanding in its bowl and of the breaking of the bowl and the spilling...
