1. I don’t want to say, “This is called . . .” when I’m the one who called it this. 2. I don’t want to explain a poem to people. I want them to explain it to me. 3. I don’t want to pull rabbits out of top hats. But I’d love to hold a…
Nicky licks my eyelids. He pins me down and licks my eyelids. You should hear what boys call me always looking for the tongue in my mouth because my lips are the only place on me with any fat like maybe once they got bit. I’m a small town so up go my fists and…
Maxine Kumin, Always Beginning: On a Life in Poetry, essays: The Pulitzer Prize winner engagingly describes the marriage of her lives as writer, farmer, mother, wife, and comrade, including a moving remembrance of her friendship with Anne Sexton. (Copper Canyon) Inside the Halo and Beyond: The Anatomy of Recovery, nonfiction: Kumin, a lifelong equestrian,…
Ann Mikolowski, 1940–1999 dead/as in center or right Goya titled his paintings of war things like Shouting’s No Good and Nobody Could Help Them Gaundi hung weights to visualize and actualize his works upside down and now strange hands have forced on a brutality that Gaundi never meant no fluidity in somebody’s else’s…
The first thing she finds is a hand. In the beginning, she thinks it’s a tangle of sheet or a wadded sock caught between the mattress cover and the mattress, a bump the size of a walnut but softer, more yielding. She feels it as she’s lying, lazing, in bed. Often, lately, her body keeps…
Jayne Anne Phillips, Motherkind, a novel: With radiant prose, Phillips’s long-awaited new novel portrays thirty-year-old Kate Tateman as she cares for her dying Appalachian mother in Boston while Kate bumps through the birth of her first child and her new marriage. In a single year, she must reconcile profound beginnings and endings. (Knopf)
I’ve wished that I were born a Soviet, so that my presence in America would cause as greatly dignified regret as leads to literary coups d’état— but I am merely Cuban, dark and small as any from a hundred nations which exist for other’s domination. All I say is colonized, if not by rich “protectors,”…
Thank you, beautiful,” I said as my six-year-old daughter, Maude, came skipping over from the swings to hand me a warm, wilted bouquet of dandelions. Dandelions, the only flowers no one cares if you pick. Maude smiled at me, then turned and ran screaming back to the playground. “Stop,” she called as she ran, her…
Lloyd Schwartz, Cairo Traffic, poems: Schwartz extends his exploration of the intersections of character and language, of the places where common speech mysteriously transforms itself into poetry, into a series of extraordinary and compelling narratives-funny and frightening, seductive and moving. Includes several translations of contemporary Brazilian poems. (Chicago)
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