Clearing by this afternoon, and I know you just want to have a good time. Okay, I’ll try to work with that. Out here in the field, then, with this frontier we carry around, there’s no difficulty. It can all be explained: We’re here in the scrub with our broken hearts and the insects,…
Jennifer Boyden’s poetry is haunting, empowered by a crisp but lyrical language. It’s quietly thoughtful and emotionally engaging. —Nance Van Winckel, author of four books of poetry and three short story collections. She teaches in the graduate creative writing programs of Vermont College and Eastern Washington University.
A little atomic number on the sale rack. Lots of castles. Lots of knives and forks. Lots of closet skeletons. The fitting room flooded with the strands of the score he left on her answering machine. A drive-in movie screen: their cloud-built bed stuffed with opera lens and whatnots. How they loved to Euro the…
A. H. Gorson, 1872–1933 “The Pittsburgh School,” his colleagues called This way of painting the city—river and mill yard And wharf—massed shapes laid against the light That showered up, impasto, from their midst, The way forms dissolved or were cast into relief Or grew more massive in the general noon. Unlike other tonal painters, he…
Rodney Jack has mastered Dickinson’s imperative: he tells the truth and tells it slant. His poems are marked by a welcome, persuasive, Classical restraint. The poet’s sensibility, and the particulars of his autobiography, smoulder behind all his work, but his gifts for the telling detail, for a moving intimacy of tone, and for a syntax…
Just a glance at the spines of Campbell McGrath’s five full-length collections of poetry—Capitalism, American Noise, Spring Comes to Chicago, Road Atlas, and Florida Poems—suggests both his favorite subject, American culture in all its exasperating, glorious abundance, and his favorite setting, the open road. McGrath’s first book, Capitalism, simultaneously hymned and lampooned 7-11 stores; in…
I am translating the world into mockingbird, into blue jay, into cat-bombing avian obbligato, because I want more noise, more bells, more senseless tintinnabulation, more crow, thunder, squawk, more bird song, more Beethoven, more philharmonic mash notes to the gods. I am translating the world into onyx, into Abyssinian, into pale-blue Visigoth…
"Ancestors" shows the quiet virtues for which he is becoming known as a poet. It has subtle imagery (the wasp, transposed into the ghostly shapes of the ancestors; the loaves of phantom bread); it has narrative momentum without being tediously anecdotal; most of all, it is alive in its various iambic rhythms, never coercively regular…
[postcard text] I am awfully fond of this garden. How pretty are those plants & flowers! There is a grotto in this garden I was afraid to enter as it is too dark there, but at last decided. It is full of passages, the water runs over the walls outside. With best wishes Yours…
No products in the cart.