Philip Levine recommends Skirts and Slacks, poems by W. S. Di Piero: “In his new book, the poet W. S. Di Piero manages to place the reader in specific places at particular times with such ease and authority that after a single reading I felt close to lives I’d known nothing about and cared nothing…
I loved one person do you see the evergreen there in fog one by one I was taught to withdraw first from him do you want to know how the mind works under extreme cold ice forming on the eyelid or wind thrown at me I felt every needle felt every breath…
You meet at most four archbishops in a lifetime. You have at most one lifetime. You sing when in pain and expect to be heard. You see the outline of holy figures, their windows and blinds. You want to kiss the gold of the coat and you want it to come off on your lips….
Gary Soto recommends Star Apocrypha, poems by Christopher Buckley: “Buckley has been the master of nostalgia in his previous eight collections, and once again he has distinguished himself with a sorrow for the Santa Barbara of his childhood, for music, for his late friend and inspiration Larry Levis, and-this is scary-for the middle age moving…
for Taha Muhammad Ali and for Aaron Shabtai From nothing but his fear, and kiss her cunning brows Who braves the risen salar, daughter’s bursting ripeness Moaning through the sash, he marries to a settler The crown sits on his head, to hold her as he wants For him the dead king’s wife, in a…
Where would I be if not for your wild heart? I ask this not from love, but selfishly— How could I live? How could I make my art? Questions I wouldn’t ask if I was smart. Take the whole thing on faith. Blind eyes can see where I would be if not for your wild…
DeWitt Henry, The Marriage of Anna Maye Potts, a novel: This incisive novel heartbreakingly portrays Anna Maye Potts, whose life is upended by her widowed father’s death and by her younger sister’s subsequent attempt to take possession of the family house. The first winner of the Peter Taylor Prize for the Novel. (Tennessee)
The shame of an idea is in its seriousness, a conqueror’s seriousness, shameful the way it surveys the landscape of remains, laying claim to the vast ruined view and each surviving privacy alike, claiming its own pure force as the origin of things, seizing even the moonlight on the leaves of half a…
That summer I saw you as a bird, a whitethroat singing O Sweet Canada Canada but a strange sooty color, then as the dwarf peach that had never borne ruddy with hanging fruit, actually bedecked like a Christmas tree. Everything promised transformation, day into night, stars unrolling like an opera score for owls, crickets, and…
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